The rainy season was supposed to have been finished on this late November evening, but a torrential Ghanaian downpour decended from the sky with a vengeance. Lying in bed under our mosquito net, somewhat ill at ease hearing the thunder and lightening, but enjoying the unaccustomed coolness in the air, I think of people living in houses much less sturdy than ours - dirt floors and mud huts constructed with materials very likely to collapse under the heavy drenching of rain.
Then, BOOM!!! A deafening explosion much too close for comfort. Within minutes, Abdulai, our night watchman, runs into the house screaming in Dagbani to get out (no translation necessary from the level of panic in his voice)! Smelling smoke, enveloped in darkness, and having been sleeping "au naturel," Jim pulls me from the bedroom, through the hall, into the living room and towards the front door. As I plead to no avail for some clothes, and Abdulai and the watchman from next door are yelling at us to get outside, we jump into the driving rain.
The decrepit looking electrical meter box on the exterior wall of our house is the culprit. It now hangs limply in its disintegrated form.
Someone hands me Abdulai's old, gray sweatshirt to hold in front of me as we slip and slide hopping over the muddy gravel in our front yard to seek shelter in the house next door. There, Jim and I are given some clothes, a glass of juice and a bed for the night. Power is out, but we are alive and well and all the better after a few good laughs.
Then, BOOM!!! A deafening explosion much too close for comfort. Within minutes, Abdulai, our night watchman, runs into the house screaming in Dagbani to get out (no translation necessary from the level of panic in his voice)! Smelling smoke, enveloped in darkness, and having been sleeping "au naturel," Jim pulls me from the bedroom, through the hall, into the living room and towards the front door. As I plead to no avail for some clothes, and Abdulai and the watchman from next door are yelling at us to get outside, we jump into the driving rain.
The decrepit looking electrical meter box on the exterior wall of our house is the culprit. It now hangs limply in its disintegrated form.
Someone hands me Abdulai's old, gray sweatshirt to hold in front of me as we slip and slide hopping over the muddy gravel in our front yard to seek shelter in the house next door. There, Jim and I are given some clothes, a glass of juice and a bed for the night. Power is out, but we are alive and well and all the better after a few good laughs.
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