I’ve been working on a series of essays about my family for the last few years. Last night, I read a slightly shorter version of this piece at SAWCC’s fundraiser “An Evening of Short Readings.” I thought I’d post the complete essay here, and continue my series of “Family Ruminations.”
Children of a Coup
On June 4, 1979, just a few days before scheduled elections in Ghana, the Armed Forces Revolutionary Council overthrew the government. This was the fourth coup in the nascent democracy since 1957, when Ghana became the first sub-Saharan African nation to achieve independence from colonial rule. At the time, I was five.
Those were turbulent days. The government’s body fell apart and violence replaced peaceable discomfort. Lines at gas stations grew long, schools were closed more often than they were open, and SPAM and Baked Beans came close to gaining the status of staple foods.
In their homes, people were afraid. People hid their gold jewelry in their pillowcases and slept with it under their heads. They double bolted their doors and paid to have watchmen guard the gates of their bungalows at night. Even with the added security, more and more homes were broken into. Men in army fatigue and skull caps banged down doors with rifles and sickles. They tied up the women and forced the men to show them where they kept their money and valuables.
In tough times, foreigners become easy targets. The Indian population in Ghana in 1979, consisting primarily of Sindhi entrepreneurs, felt vulnerable. My family was no exception. Fear seeped into my grandparents and parents and they began asking themselves the difficult question: Should we stay or should we go back to India?
At night, Dada and Papa would huddle together in the dark verandah surrounded by the sounds of croaking frogs and chirping crickets. They would sip on Johnnie Walker Black Label—Winston Churchill’s favorite Scotch—while discussing their options in hushed tones.
Ultimately, economics won the debate. Dada had left India too long ago to think of starting life there all over again and the family business was too well-established and lucrative to be shut down. It just didn’t make sense to just leave.
Papa and Mama remained worried, especially for us, the children and began trying to come up with a solution. India seemed like the best option for us. There, we could get a solid an uninterrupted education—and live with my maternal grandmother and aunt.
This is how I ended up in Pune at age 6, separated from my parents for the next five years. Mama used to visit for longer stretches of time but for Papa, it was difficult to get away from work for more than a few weeks, once or twice a year. He made up for his absence through regular letters.
When the khakhi-clad postman would ring our doorbell, my sister and I would eagerly wrestle for the envelope inked with the words “Air Mail†and plastered with red and green stamps. For us, these letters were warm embraces that had traveled over miles and oceans. We couldn’t wait to open them.
Papa was a natural storyteller. His letters were mini fables that brought to us the details of his world. There is one letter that I will never forget:
Dear Girls,
How are you both? Are you studying hard and obeying your Aunty’s instructions? Are you respecting your grandmother and your elders? I hope that you are being good girls and making your Mama and Papa proud of you.
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a clipping of Anna Quindlen’s Jan 22, ’07 “The Last Word” column in Newsweek: 
se that holds the letters I’ve received from friends (and chosen to keep) since I was 11 years old. I was clearing out my stuff last weekend and opened the drawer. I thought that I would get out a big garbage bag and start sorting through the piles of paper in order of most important, least important, or maybe “who I’m still friends with,” “who I want to remember,” and “who i definitely want to forget.” But, I found that I couldn’t. Every letter in that drawer remained – and I told myself that I would come back and organize them by year.
