A day in the life of Grace

So you want to know what it’s like to be poor?

I lie here on my straw mat, staring up into the darkness. My baby lies beside me, snuffling in her sleep. And over there on the mud floor my four other living children, all curled up together. Out in the yard, in their graves, the two dead ones. My firstborn died when she was three, and the youngest boy last year. How I cried when I buried them.

I lie here thinking about my problems. First, my husband. A good man. He works hard, and is always thinking of ways to make our lives better. Two months ago he went to Kumasi to find work. ‘We will buy a goat with the money’ he said, ‘and send the eldest boy to primary school.’ But I have had no message from him. He could be ill, or in trouble.

And the farm. The rains were poor last season. Out in our tiny field the millet is dry and stunted. Enough to feed us for two months, perhaps. What then? In the darkness I can feel my savings, tied in the corner of my cloth. Nineteen thousand cedis. If any of the children fall ill, it won’t even be enough for medicine.

I could sell something – but what? You could count our possessions in seconds. Three enamel bowls. Two metal plates. The cooking pot. The water bucket. The kerosene lamp made from a bottle.  The wooden pestle for pounding the millet. One machete. One hoe. Two small knives. A fork. A torch with no bulb.  And a few bundles of worn clothing.

But today is a new day. Soon I will rise and slip out to the clump of bushes behind the huts, which is the village toilet. Like the other women I go when it is still dark, for privacy.  And at daybreak I will set off to get water. The river is nearly dry now, so the water will be very muddy and dangerous. It killed my children. But what can I do?

It takes me over an hour to get to the river, and longer to get back with my heavy bucket. I will give the children a little water to drink.  I will breastfeed the baby. Then I will go to the farm to tend the millet and pick what’s ready. And all day long

I will hope that someone from the village will come running with a message from my husband.

While I’m away my eldest daughter will pound millet.  The eldest boy will go looking for firewod – every day a little further. Towards dusk we will eat our one main meal for the day: millet porridge. At 6 it will get dark, as usual. I want to save the little kerosene that’s left. So we will go to bed early, as usual – and, as usual, still hungry.

So, this is poverty. It takes all my energy to cope with it. But we will survive, and I will find a way to create a better future for my children.