The Palm Wine Drinkard

Roaming around a village in Ghana, I encountered a palm-wine drinkard. A little wiry guy, who, dress in a T-shirt and shorts, looked permanently stoned. He approached me as soon as I came into his eye sight, for his left eye had a fixed gaze. Motioning me towards him, he droned on, in pigin' English, about needing just a few cedis for some palm wine. I gave him the few notes I had in my pocket and he was off like a deer into the forest, disappearing immediately behind the lush emerald camouflage. Just when I thought I'd see the last of him, and my money, he came bounding out from behind some leaves with a jug of palm wine in his hand.

We sat drinking the milky nectar, which tasted faintly like ginger beer. The Palm-Wine Drinkard lamented to me about the hardships of life in Ghana, caused by corrupt politicians and the police who kept all the jobs for themselves. He used to be a saw man, working the tall timbers, but had fallen badly and broken his leg. He never got it properly set resulting in deformity. Unable to find work, he became a palm wine drinkard. I sat with him for hours talking and shading under a mango tree, sipping palm wine and dreaming of staying in this luxuriant world. Unfortunately, my host, Mr.Jumba returned, and dragged me away from this ‘bad man’ and into the gathering darkness of his house.

That night it rained heavy, as only a tropical rain can. The cracks of thunder lifted pots and pans off the table. The patches of black sky exploded with light as streaks of electricity filled the heavens. When the rain came its pounding force blanketed everything. The tin roof clattered tremulously. The large drooping leaves plodded a bassoon sound, and the creek that ran through the compound overflowed and leaped up onto the porch.

The morning mist was thick and impenetrable. The force of the downpour had flattened plants and crops. Trees struggled to hold onto fractured branches. The pungent smell of rotting crops mingled with the freshness of washed yards stimulating my nose and senses.

As the sun began to spray its rays over the tree-tops, the damp chilly air quickly warmed up and the mist lifted. I looked around the valley that the village rested in, and was seized with a desire to stay on and work there. My palm wine drinkard was at my side offering me a jug of palm wine, and the world felt good. But just then, Mr. Jumba arrived on the scene.

“You must not drink palm wine so early in the morning”, he remonstrated. “Palm wine is for the gods and fools, and you are neither!”

So, with a break in the weather, I bid Mr.Jumba and the palm-wine drinkard farewell, carrying in my heart the sweet nectar of gods and fools, as I headed down the road to Accra.