I’m preparing for my first trip to Ghana.

Ghana, I need a fresh bracelet. There’s a place up the street in Rosebank Mall. Foreigners have little kiosks there and they make personalised bracelets for you. The Saturday just before the day of my departure I rush up to the Mall and meet Mike. Mike’s accent is West African, maybe Liberia, the Congo, Cote de I’voire or Burkina Faso (the land of the upright people). “Where are you from” I ask Mike. “I’m from Ghana” Mike replies with an overwhelming smile on his face. “How can I spoil you today my brother” Mike gets into business. My mind freezes at the knowledge of this man being a Ghanaian – I’m going to Ghana tomorrow.

I make a habit of studying my next country of visit before I leave, and was quick to react with “Ghana means Warrior King, right” . “Yes my brother we are the warriors”. I show him my worn out bracelets on my right arm, wave over his collection with my eyes and ask for something authentic, new for my left arm, because “I’m going to Ghana” I said. “I’ll make you one. I’ll make you one that says “AFRICA”. “You know what my brother, I have a brother in Accra, he’s doing the same things I’m doing, but Ghana is tough, That’s why I am here”.

Knowing this would be my first trip to Ghana, I spot an opportunity to get the number of a Ghanaian who I can call should I get lost or need something specific when I’m over there. Mike give me his number, and I leave with a sporting new “AFRICA” bracelet on my left arm.

I’m exited and can’t wait to land in Accra, the capitol of Ghana. Ghana is hot they said. This hot was not what I expected when I disembarked from the plane. It was a hammer blow of hot and humid right between the eyes – sweltering hot. It is obvious, the first thing to do now is to get to a pub for some typical Ghana Django Lager.  From my hotel room – late in the evening – I wonder off into the streets to find the Django.

In a narrow street, around the corner, I find it. A typical local pub with tables, chairs, terrible music and ……. a little kiosk with throngs of pitch black locals floating around. Some with dreadlocks, some with bald heads. The man behind the table of bracelets is huge, bald, and grippingly sweaty. Let me blend in. I approach the bald guy and tell him about “my friend Mike” from South Africa. His joyful mood turns into an awestruck dark blue glaze on his face, looking at me for what seemed to be hours. “What did you say his name was brother”. “Mike” I said, my calf muscles shivering. “I have a brother in South Africa, his name is Mike”, the big guy said. “Ya, ya the Mike I’m talking about works in Johburg, he has a shop like this” – waving with an open palm over his table. The huge figured bald man destroys most of his table of memorabilia on his way over to me. “That is my brother, brother………Mike is my brother, I am Mark”

Not entirely sure what to expect when Mark eventually reaches me, I thought this would be the time to utter the fact that I have Mike’s telephone number. “You have” – now right on top of me. “Ya, ya let’s call him” – at this stage still extremely anxious and confused – I said. I dial Mike on my Blackberry, and Mike pics up on the other side. Thank God. I shoved the phone into Mark’s sweaty hands. The English accent transforms into a confusing slang of West African French English when Mark’s already shiny wet face dilutes with the most honest tears I’ve ever seen in my entire life. The two of them talk and talk, Mark waving his arms, shaking his head, stepping back and forth away and towards me, every time he faces me, his eyes are bloodshot, teary and deeply appreciative.

The conversation ends, Mark spoke to his brother for the first time in ages. The most truthful African kisses rain all over my face, while Mark clutched me with his huge, sobbing wet, musky body. What are the chances my brother ……………………….?