Sometimes you have to root against your own country

TEFLE, Ghana — Cross-cultural exchanges are about mutual sharing and understanding. They’re not about picking sides, choosing between your native and host cultures. Not, of course, until you find yourself in the Ghanaian village of Tefle as Ghana prepares to take on the U.S. in the World Cup.

For me, the choice wasn’t difficult — I would cheer for the country that was so graciously allowing me to spend my summer in its midst (even though the other country has been my home for the past 24 years.) After clarifying that my fellow Americans and I would be supporting

Ghana, a young woman from Accra in a Black Stars jersey painted our faces with gold, red and green stripes, and we began our walk down one of Tefle’s dirt roads, lined with baby goats and young children — Tefle is teeming with new life. 

The men and women we passed were amused to find that we would be cheering for Ghana, and together we predicted the outcome of the game. 

“2-0,” declared a man of about 35 from the side of the road. “Ghana will score once in the first half and then again in the second half.” I told him I hoped he was right.

We passed children wearing T-shirts of the Ghanaian flag and women with red, gold, green and black head scarves, many with water pots or bundles of sticks resting on them. Some boys and men paraded the flag while others were already blowing plastic horns in anticipation of Ghana’s impending victory.

We arrived to find a group of about 20 villagers on wooden benches in front of a TV the size of a desktop computer monitor outside a hut made of thin, dried tree trunks. Someone appeared with two more benches for us and we sat down.

The group regarded us with interest for a moment and then all eyes returned to the game, which was about to start. The crowd slowly began to grow, and included men, women and children of all ages. Some women wore kente and dyed cloth dresses and skirts in every color while others wore jean shorts and halter tops. The men wore jester-like hats and wrapped Ghana’s flag around their waists, shoulders and heads. 

The children began surrounding me, fascinated by my pale skin and my camera. I snapped a photo of a little girl of about 6, and before I knew it I was swarmed by even more children hoping to have their pictures taken, bursting into peels of laughter when I’d show them the result.

This is why I didn’t see Ghana score the first goal and why I found myself flat on the ground as everyone leapt up from my bench while I remained weighing down the end. Everyone jumped and cheered, men blew horns and people danced. Even the children, who hadn’t seen the goal and perhaps didn’t know what a goal meant, were yelling and jumping, practically gyrating. The TV displaying depressed-looking U.S. fans with the American flag painted across their bare chests produced hoots of laughter.

Suddenly the man from the roadside reappeared, breathlessly yelling at me, “Didn’t I tell you! Ghana will score once in the first half and again in the next!” Someone else assured me they would settle for 1-0.

But as quickly as the victory celebration had begun, again it was quiet. Aside from the men making the occasional comment in Ewe and the children pleading for more photos, the villagers watched seriously and intently, some probably praying — faith is strong in Ghana. Even when the U.S. scored in the second half, the audience remained quiet, mournful yet silently willing Ghana to again unlevel the playing field. 

At halftime, the small bar beside us, painted blue with white stenciled letters spelling “Only God,” blared music and everyone — everyone — danced. Together and separately, they rhythmically moved every part of their bodies. And when the final victory came, the energy could no longer be contained and broke through like water from a burst dam. 

The dirt streets were flooded with people on foot, bicycle and motorbike, and the sounds of horns echoed against the huts and roadside produce stands. I joined the crowd wholeheartedly in their victory party, momentarily forgetting that my country had just been defeated and ousted from the World Cup. 

As our hosts ushered us through the swelling crowd, I could hear my fortune-telling friend announcing authoritatively to anyone listening that Ghana will take the Cup. And again, I hope he is right.