Another Blog about Death

In some long-ago post I talked about my Ghanaian love life, or lack thereof. I talked about my quasi-date with Ataa, the cocktail waitress. I wrote about how I demured under the insistent cellular pressure of an aspiring girlfriend. I don't think I ever wrote about what happened after that.

The answer is: not much. I decided that our limited ability to communicate couldn't surmount the cultural gap between us. Still, I admit, that I have been guilty of sending mixed messages, as I continued to be flirty when I saw her at the bar, but did nothing to pursue her and consciously took ample time to return her frequent calls.

Once, at the bar, she handed me her phone. On the other end was her twin sister.
"Do you like my sister?"
"Yes. I like her very much. I think she is very nice."
"Do you want my sister to be your girlfriend?"
"Ummmm. In the US we do things a little differently -- you don't just say someone is you girlfriend..."
"Okay."

Note the change of subject, allowing me to avoid providing the real answer to her question: Not really. Also note that the "Okay" is an affirmation that lacks any real understanding of what I just said (or it's evasive implications).

At some point later, Ataa called me herself, and we had essentially the same conversation -- "In America, we do things a little differently. It's more complicated than just deciding that someone is your girlfriend." Which I suppose was my way of saying: actions speak louder than words --- please pay attention to my actions.

Ataa died last night. She drank herself to death. Apparently someone bet her that she could not drink an entire bottle of Pusher (Ghanaian Whiskey). I have never seen her drink more than 2 beers. I think she was 23, but I can't remember.

I was with my friends Bright and Abeca when we heard. They also know her, although they have never interacted with her when she wasn't working, as I have. Abeca had heard a report about the death on the radio this morning, but had assumed it was another Ataa (the casual name given all female twins), as he could never remember seeing her drink.

We drove to her bar. It wasn't open yet, but a woman working in a food stand nearby confirmed the story.

We wandered for a bit.

Bright and Abeca didn't seem to sense the irony in going for a drink in her memory. The irony was not lost on me. Still, I had tried NOT drinking, and that wasn't working, so I figured I'd give it a shot. We had a beer at a grassy outdoor bar boasting, on this particular evening, a live band and a lawn sparsely peppered with dancers, each displaying abandon wholly comparable to that of yesterday and likely to be indistinguishable from that of tomorrow. That wasn't right either. I declined a second round.

We went back to Ataa's bar. It was open now, and boasting a large crowd for the early hour. Someone had a picture of her, dead, on their cellphone. It was thrust into unready faces, including my own. A friend had made the pre-dawn trip to meet her at the hospital. He checked her pulse. He took a picture. I'm told that the she had still not been seen by a doctor.

Prince, the owner of the bar, was vomiting in the gutter when we arrived. I've never seen him drink. I'm not sure whether tonight was an exception or whether he proved sensitive to the thrusting of a picture. He loped through the crowd with a gate that bespoke alcoholic mourning, but visited my table and spoke with sober grief.

I'm unsure what I feel, and as much what I should. I think I feel that I should feel more--that the ambiguity of my feelings is inappropriate.

I'm not religious. I have abstruse philosophical beliefs about the world, that I sometimes express in a way compatible with the spiritual. But if you asked me pointed questions about classic western religion, and kept me from dissembling, my answers would be largely negative.

So what of death? I think death is nothing. Neither good nor bad. Just not. It's not scary. But if you like this whole living thing, then you should avoid it.

So what, then, of mourning? for whom am I mourning? for whom do loss and death still exist?

Had this happened a week from today, as I were on my way to Accra and New York, for me her life would have been bounded only by the dissolution of my memory.

She called me two days ago. I hadn't returned the calls. That was the last thing I ever did to her.