Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

162 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Kim Foote
A man in a green shirt and slacks stands by the altar, serving as a
kyeame, or linguist. He announces that libations haven’t been poured
here for a few years because of an unresolved family conflict. A young
man who looks like a brown Brad Pitt with small vertical cut marks on
his cheeks helps another man lead a black, straight-haired sheep to the
altar. Mr. Mensah tells me that though the family ended the dispute
long ago they must sacrifice the sheep and sprinkle its blood on the
altar to settle it spiritually. I draw back from the animal.
“Are you afraid?” he asks me, with a chuckle.
I’m not a “save the animals” advocate, but I don’t want to see the
thing get its throat slit two inches away from me! I was traumatized
enough visiting the meat shed of the outdoor market in nearby Cape
Coast. The stench of old blood was discernable long before I’d reached it.
Half of a dead goat greeted me at the entrance. Inside the shed, shirtless,
muscular, sweating men swung butcher knives at animal parts atop
humongous tree stumps. Some of it splattered onto waiting customers.
The whole ordeal was almost enough to make me a vegetarian.
I breathe with relief when I learn that the sheep will be sacrificed
elsewhere. Brown Brad Pitt winks at me as he and his partner lift the
sheep and tap it to the ground three times. Mr. Mensah leans over to
say that this symbolizes that they’re offering it to the ancestors.
As the elder begins to pray in Fante and pour libations, I notice
that he uses a glass mug instead of the traditional coconut-shell cone.
I’m also surprised to see him pouring orange-flavored Fanta soda
instead of the usual Schnapps or gin. I nudge Mr. Mensah and ask if
it’s because a particular ancestor liked to drink Fanta.
Mr. Mensah grumbles, “Because some Ghanaians are Christians,
they are completely altering our traditions.”
I glance at one of the relatives, who appears to be Westerneducated.
His rigid posture, frown, and eyes that dart around behind
thick glasses strikes me that he’s here out of obligation. Mr. Mensah
follows my gaze and sucks his teeth. He whispers, “Okay, so perhaps
we need to adapt some of our traditions to fit the times.”
I nod eagerly because I’ve just thought the same thing: with
increasing scientific and spiritual knowledge, as well as advances in
development, change is inevitable.
“But if Christians do not agree with the way we do things,” Mr.
Mensah continues, “they should not even involve themselves.”
After the Fanta, the elder pours what looks to be rum and gin.
The kyeame comes around with a cup to give everyone a sip of the