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

Kim Foote
Omanhen—state leader. A group of young men dance and play drums
covered with black-and-red checkered cloth. GTV reporters and their
cameramen mill about, recording them.
Mr. Sikayεfi has left me in the care of Mr. Mensah, who points
out the Omanhen, one of the last to arrive for the parade. He wears
amulets tied around his arms and a small straw cap, in addition to his
kente and royal sandals. One of his attendants bounces and twirls a
giant, velvety king’s umbrella above his head.
Having seen traditional entourages before, it doesn’t seem all
that spectacular to me. What catches my attention is the grey-haired
white couple who emerge from an air-conditioned SUV, along with a
Ghanaian man. They greet the Nananom.
I whisper to Mr. Mensah, “Who’re they?”
He tells me it’s the Dutch ambassador to Ghana and his wife.
The man accompanying them is the Komenda-Edina-Eguafo-Abrem
District Assemblyman. He tells me that the Dutch ambassador has
participated in Bronya for a long time. I ask him why.
“It is a testimony to the three hundred-year friendship between
Elmina and the Netherlands.”
I’m so taken aback that I can’t respond. Friendship? But why
would Elminans call it that? To me, the Dutch are less friends and
more a reminder of my enslaved African ancestors’ suffering.
The drumming picks up, and the queen mothers of the royal
entourages lead the procession. They’re accompanied by women
wearing colored kente and dancing the subtle movements of adowa.
At the middle of the parade is the Omanhen, surrounded by three
or four divisional rulers. They walk beneath the dancing umbrella.
Long talking drums—carried on the heads of young boys—rear up
the procession. I vaguely wonder how their heads must feel. The
drummers pound so hard that muscles bulge in their arms. A young
boy follows them with a pile of spare sticks, which he continuously
passes to the drummers as theirs break.
I’m still puzzling over the Elmina-Dutch friendship as Mr.
Mensah and I join the parade along with a few Ghanaian guests of
the Nananom. Elminans wave and cheer from the roadside and from
their windows and balconies. We pass the home of the family we
observed Bronya with, and the elder who I photographed waves his
handkerchief cheerfully when he spots me.
Groups of young men join the parade to dance and sing ecstatically
near the drummers. Mr. Mensah tells me they’re songs of the asafo,
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