After a few days of weakness, I am feeling much better now.

It wasn’t malaria after all and I don’t need ‘coartem’. The expert in tropical diseases was right. It was the cold temperatures that shook my bones a little and made me feel sick. Now, I know what it really means to be “under the weather”. After taking a few capsules of aspirin and vitamin ‘C’, I can say that I am as fit as a fiddle.

But I have a problem. I need some food.

That’s not to say that my German hosts have been starving me. Far from it. I’ve been served with some of the best cuisines this country has to offer – and they have mostly been three course meals with a couple of buffets thrown in for good measure.

Since I am all in favour inter-cultural exchange, getting to know other people and all, I have eaten every meal I’ve been served with relish. Some have been so sumptuous my taste buds couldn’t help but ask for more. But others have not been so kind to my African palate.

It just occurred to me, however, that I have been chewing on too many plants and leaves. And suddenly, I get the feeling that if I don’t replace the leaves with a heavy bowl of ‘fufu’ and ‘aponkye nkrakraa’, I will turn into a goat.

Initially, I thought I’d turn into a German goat. But I’ve just learnt that I don’t have the necessary immigration clearance and so even if I turn into a goat, I’d still be a Ghanaian goat, stranded in Berlin and chewing on asparagus, instead of ‘Acheampong’ leaves. That would be terrible – even for the goat.

The thought of it is making me sick all over again. This time, I don’t need an expert in tropical diseases to conduct tests on my blood to determine what’s wrong with me. I already know.

I am homesick.

I can’t wait to be back in Ghana. As wretched and backward as it is, I miss my country. I miss the black outs. I miss the traffic chaos. I even miss President Mills and his effeminate gesture. I miss General Mosquito and his rampaging band of NDC footsoldiers. I miss the dirt and the stench of Accra. I miss the rickety trotros and taxis. I miss the ranting on radio. I miss the sunshine.

Simply put, I miss home. And even if I turn into a goat, I can’t wait to be back where I belong. It’s hell. But it’s my hell and I miss it.


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