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The Same River Twice - Every soul longs for a father's love

By Mark Medley

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Beating blades and a shifting slipstream of air shook James Merritt, body and soul in equal measure, as he flew over the West African plains into the next chapter of his life.
Had anything ever looked so beautiful or smelled so bad? James stared out the window of the transport helicopter and pushed back nausea, brought on by the acrid smell of aircraft fuel and the sweat of long-gone soldiers. And that deafening roar of the engine. Yet below him, the sun-sparkled Ghanaian plain stretched out, lush and living, in layers of greens and yellows.
“You okay?” A leathery voice projected from the uniformed African pilot. “You look a bit peaked.”
“I’ll be all right.” James loved to travel, but this trip had already been too long. Now his final flight was taking him past the sandy lowlands of the Accra coastline and over the belt of tropical forest. “How much longer?”
“About half an hour,” the pilot said. He had agreed to fly north of their destination of Kintampo, lingering over the Black Volta to get an aerial view of this river that was so crucial to the water project. They would circle back to land at Kintampo, then James would travel northwest by all-terrain vehicle to the base camp in the village of Tsanga, arriving by nightfall.
The late afternoon September sun unveiled the plain in a dozen shades of green—emerald, sage, olive—like a patchwork against the rising tawny-brown heights to the distant west. James squinted, lost in thought, staring out the dirty window at the lowlands of the Volta River valley. The river snaked its way east, then west, as if it couldn’t make up its mind, meandering through the forested lowland. It was a portrait of James’s life and his new default mode of second-guessing himself.
“Lake Volta is one of the largest artificial bodies of water in the world,” the pilot, a large, commanding figure, boomed in a thick accent, traces of French and native African spicing his English.
Probably Ivorian, James figured, since the WorldAid pilots were often mercenaries from other countries, basically whoever was available.
“The entire Volta valley drains into it.”
James nodded. He knew these facts. He’d studied this area, along with three other locations, for years in preparation for this engineering and humanitarian project. But he had no interest in chatting. He closed his eyes, letting the roar of the engine drown out his thoughts.
What forty-eight-year-old man would leave his comfortable, middle-class suburb of Seattle, Washington, to board this helicopter and come to this place? An award-winning designer, an engineer with a knack for assessing problems and finding answers, he’d been at the peak of his career when everything melted down.
“So you’re in the Ghanaian bush for how long?”
James slit open his eyes. To be left alone was all he wanted. The pilot motioned for him to put on the headset which would enable them to talk to one another without shouting. James conceded.
“I’ll bet you miss your family,” the pilot persisted.
James turned his head and squared eyes with the pilot. “My wife, Lauren, died eight months ago. Cancer. Kids are dispersed. No one is waiting for me.”
The pilot’s face softened. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
A tinge of guilt made James look away. He ran his fingers through his hair. The man was simply trying to make conversation.
“No, it’s okay. I’m just reeling from the loss.”
The loss was all but unbearable. His advancing career, his blossoming wife—the artist and fitness coach—their life together as empty nesters after raising Ryan and Amy. All of that had been shattered by the doctor’s words. That day, two and a half years ago now, had altered him in ways he was only now discovering.
“I can’t imagine.” The pilot checked his gauges.
James sat a moment in silence. Perhaps because he was bone-tired and because this man was a stranger he would likely never see again, he let go of his reticence. He sat up and leaned in, deciding to open up to this unlikely counselor.
“I’m trying to find my bearings. I went back to work, but that seemed like the most unimportant thing in the world.”
The pilot nodded.
James lifted an eyebrow and stared blankly ahead. He’d petitioned for a two-year leave of absence from work. Bart Allen, his boss at Emerson Solutions, had balked at the thought of losing the creativity and productivity James brought to the company, but he eventually gave in. Two years without James was better than losing him forever. James quickly formed his own corporation, Merritt Innovations, and set his face toward making this drawn-out dream a reality.
“So now you are on the journey of a lifetime to help others less fortunate than yourself.” The pilot said the words as if he had heard the story before.
James realized how trite this might have sounded. As a worker for WorldAid, a nongovernmental organization that operated in dozens of countries worldwide, the pilot must have seen many do-gooders come and go. James let the comment pass.
“No… I needed a change. Grief is its own kind of cancer. It was spreading…sucking the life out of me. Lauren wouldn’t have wanted that. I had to shake it off, and Seattle was not the place to do that—too many memories.”
Memories that flashed inside his head, a slide show that played periodically without warning. Her face that had once lit up the room now grimacing with pain; cancer eating away at his wife and his family; the children newly married and moved away, leaving him alone to care for Lauren.
James shook his head and refocused. “And this is a chance to finish a project I’ve been planning for over a dozen years. It could change the lives of millions of people around the world in a positive way. If it works.”
“The Tsanga Valley Project?” The man seemed pleased that the inventor of this project was in his charge. “Around here they call it the water wheel.”
“Well, it’s a bit more than that.”
The man laughed from his belly and motioned with his hand to the view out the window. “Well, my friend, I hope you find all that you are looking for in wonderful West Africa.”
A sudden back thrust of the aircraft jolted James.
“Now slide back in your seat, sir. We are preparing to land in Kintampo.” 
They descended, the dust whipped up by the helicopter adding to the confusion on the ground as bodies scurried to clear a landing spot. James glanced over at the pilot. Turned out his heart was as big as his frame.
“Thanks for talking.”
“No problem.” The pilot smiled. “Now go save the world.”
On the ground, James grabbed his bags, stepped down, and stooped low until he cleared the blades. He spotted a transport vehicle with the WorldAid logo on the door and walked toward it.
From nowhere, a tall, muscular African stepped in front of him. Standing nose to nose, James saw a broad scar that ran from the man’s right brow down the length of his face and felt his glowering gaze that was clearly meant to intimidate.
And it was working.
The African breathed heavily from a contorted face, pushing into him until their chests touched and their eyes were inches apart. James stiffened, not daring to flinch. He kept eye contact, hoping a security officer might intervene, and clenched his jaw as he waited for the man to say something. He waffled between standing his ground and turning aside, when a mustached man wearing a WorldAid shirt approached from behind the intimidator.
“James Merritt?”
James turned his head toward the voice. “Yes. I’m James.” The African doubled down, pushing James back a step.
“I’m Ian McPherson.”
Ian forced his body between the two men, facing the African. He spoke a string of strong-sounding words in a native language, then swung around and shouldered James’s duffel bag. “I’m very glad to meet you, sir. Please come with me.”
Not as glad as I am to meet you.
James skirted the aggressor, who barked out what sounded like a threat in that language, and followed his rescuer as they made their way through the disorder of the curious makeshift market that surrounded the landing area. Clutching his backpack with his essential papers and personal items inside, he reached the WorldAid Hummer. They pulled away from the market and began their journey through the streets of Kintampo.
How different from moments before. Soaring above, the land had looked peaceful, even welcoming, but when his feet hit the ground—what kind of welcome was this?

The town was alive with the bustle of Friday afternoon traffic. As the only town of any size in this region of the country, Kintampo was a center of trade, and Friday was the day many made the journey from the outlying areas.
James took in the ruby reds and dijon yellows, the rainbow hues of the market, the fresh mangoes and pineapples stacked in bins, bananas hung from hooks, grains and dried fish spread in the sun, and yams a half meter long. People dressed in bright-patterned kente cloths and varied headwear styles pressed in around the street vendors. This earthy, exotic beauty made his skin tingle.
Traffic had slowed to a crawl at a major intersection. James looked over at his guide. The dark-haired Ian seemed to be a few years younger than him.
“McPherson…so you’re from Scotland?” He had an accent, but was it Scottish?
“My ancestors were, but I hail from South Africa. My parents made the trek there in the 1980s, during the Apartheid era. Activists, they were—that’s where I came in contact with WorldAid.”
A loud, indistinct voice blared from speakers hung on makeshift poles near the street, calling worshipers to evening prayer at a mosque. James knew there were Muslims farther north but hadn’t expected them here. The African rhythms in nearby music and the underlying banter of people bartering in the market were accompanied by the stench of dried fish and open sewers.
The Hummer pushed past the intersection and snaked through pocked backstreets toward the main thoroughfare. Ian maneuvered the vehicle onto a one-lane bridge approach, paused, then gunned it and raced across the bridge. “First fender has the right of way, so one must be on his toes whilst crossing the bridges.”
“So you’ve worked with WorldAid…”
“For thirteen years. In six different African countries, but here in Ghana for the last seven years. I find it works better if one bases in a single country—gets to know the culture, makes the contacts. It helps to gain the trust of the people.”
James nodded. He felt easier knowing his guide was well versed in Ghanaian culture. It would make it less complicated to establish a bond with the Suti, the tribe in the immediate vicinity where his project was being implemented.
“What was the deal with the intimidator back there?”
“I apologize for the not-so-warm reception, Mr. Merritt. He was most likely an operative of the Kaleo tribe. We have to travel through their territory in order to get to Tsanga. It seems he’s following us at a distance as we speak.”
James craned his neck to look back while Ian continued. “There’s a land dispute between the Kaleo and Suti tribes. The Kaleon leader’s name is Gyata. He's a hard man. He uses whatever resources he finds to build his own little kingdom here in the region. It looks like you got a little initiation into his domain.”
“Seems so.” James was surprised any Ghanaian leader knew about his trip here. “How did he find out about me?”
“Oh, Gyata knows about you, Mr. Merritt. He knows all about you and Merritt Innovations. He’s thoroughly versed in the Tri-Hydra project. He knows the purpose and scope of the project and the resources needed. He even took it upon himself to procure ownership of some of the factories that will be supplying many of the materials you’ll need. In fact, I’d say he quite thinks this is his project.”
Ian reached around to the back floorboard and handed James a bottle of water. “Here, you need to stay hydrated in this heat.”
James drew a long drink. What had he gotten in the middle of? His research was correct in that there were no official political uprisings in Ghana. He had not, however, taken into consideration unofficial ones.
The trek to Tsanga was not long, but the condition of the road made it seem much longer. On the way, Ian acquainted James with the particulars of Tsanga—the important people, the protocol of relating to the Suti tribal leaders, and the culture of the region. It was Suti 101, a primer in how to adjust, function, and be inoffensive in this new culture. James was glad to have a tutor like Ian, straightforward, who said it just like he saw it.
The road traced the outline of the river, which brought plants and wildlife to the otherwise sparse plain. So this was the mighty Volta and its tributaries. Let’s see if we can’t tame you and put you to work for this tribe. And if it works here, it’ll work anywhere.
“It looks like we are in for another reception ahead,” Ian said, slowing the vehicle. A hundred meters or so in front were two military vehicles with an armed man signaling for the Hummer to stop. The person who followed them pulled over some distance behind them. “It’ll be best if you keep quiet and let me handle it.”
No problem there. James scooted his backpack under the front seat. They came to a halt, and four militia men dressed in gray camouflage fatigues and black berets appeared from the parked vehicles. The armed man held his gun loosely in the direction of James and Ian. Two others opened up the Hummer, inspecting its contents including James’s backpack and duffel. The other, who seemed to be in charge of the squad, spoke to Ian in a native tongue.
The conversation grew heated, but Ian stood his ground. James wiped sweat—a product of both outward heat and inward stress—from his face. He wished he knew what was being said, but in this case, ignorance just might be bliss. He had the feeling the men knew him, or knew of him somehow, as if they’d been expecting him. They peered at him through squinting eyes.
After twenty minutes of interrogation, a thorough search of the vehicle, and the men poring over their official papers, James and Ian were off again.
“Kaleon?” James asked as he double-checked his backpack to see that everything was there. He wasn’t about to give all those years of work away to some thug on the road.
“I hate their tactics,” Ian hissed. “They’ll stop anyone or anything that might help the Ghanaian people…or loosen Gyata’s control.”
The remainder of the journey to Tsanga was spent mostly in silence. James took in the sprawling mango trees, oil palms, and solitary baobab trees planted like massive pillars here and there against the backdrop of the approaching mountains. Directly, Ian motioned toward a pass in the ridges.
“Just coming into Suti land now.”
As they neared the village, the unusual topography of the area became apparent through the glow of twilight. In contrast to the mostly low-lying plains, at the entry to the village two sharp, natural elevations rose abruptly from the surrounding ground. The heights extended around both sides of the village for several kilometers. Carving through the ridge was the Volta—a large, rambling ribbon of water creating the great fertile cove that held the village of Tsanga. The waning sun glistened over the western peak.
“This is Tsanga, Mr. Merritt,” Ian said. “And this is the boundary between the Kaleo and Suti lands. You can see now why this area is so well suited to your project.”
James was silenced by the sight. Though darkness began to veil the river, his eyes moved back and forth as his engineer’s brain shrugged off the fatigue and kicked into gear. It was as if someone had contrived and created this terrain precisely for his project. He had studied topography maps and internet images of this area for years, but now he saw how ideal it was. He was already strategizing, visualizing how to adapt his plan to the physical features of the land before him.
The vehicle followed the river road through the gap between the ridges and into the village. As the Hummer slowed to a stop, a gaggle of noisy children emerged and surrounded it. Most of them were young, some of them shirtless, and all of them shoeless. The youngsters peered into the vehicle, likely spying out the situation for any treats that might come their way from the newcomer. Spontaneously they burst into song.
“It’s a traditional welcome song,” Ian said as he lifted James’s duffel from the back of the vehicle.
“I’ve never felt more welcome anywhere.” James smiled at the innocence of the children.
The crack of a gunshot pierced the night air, silencing the celebration. The shriek of a male voice echoed through the village as the mood went from festive to fear in an instant. James pushed the vehicle door open and brushed past the children. His mind cautioned him, but his body began to run. He caught up with Ian, who had made the first move, and the two ran through a passage between the row houses, into a dirt alley, toward the agonizing cries. Three teenage boys crouched around another young man, no more than twenty, writhing on the ground.
“Boateng! Boateng is shot!” the boys cried out.
“Step back.” James waved his hands as they approached the boys. Ian began to question the boys, who shouted at one another, pacing back and forth as their friend lay in agony on the ground. James spotted a small caliber pistol in the dirt and blood pouring from a wound in the boy’s leg. He knelt by the young man.
“It looks like it may have struck an artery from the amount of blood,” James said. He searched frantically for something to use as a tourniquet. From nowhere a hand stretched toward him, thrusting forward a woven belt. James looked up to see the outline of a female face in the faint glow of the village lights. Neatly dressed in western clothes, maybe in her late thirties, the woman stared intently at the boy, calmly speaking in a language James didn’t understand.
“I’ll try to slow the bleedin’—you tighten this around his leg.” She placed her hand directly on the wound and applied pressure while James tightened the belt a few inches above.
“That’s it. The flow has stopped. He’ll be all right,” the woman said to James and then continued consoling the victim. Just like that, the two had stabilized him until a medical team could arrive.
Ian took the boys away from the gathering crowd to question them further. Medical workers with the WorldAid logo on their shirts arrived and helped carry the injured boy to a nearby facility, leaving James alone with the woman, his partner in rescue.
“Difficult circumstances to meet under, ma’am. My name is James Merritt.”
“Kathryn O’Bryan,” she answered in a brisk Irish brogue. She took a scarf offered to her by an onlooker and wiped the boy’s blood from her hands. Her wavy, copper-colored hair streaked across her face, which glistened with perspiration in the dim light.
What on earth was she doing here? A Caucasian in a Ghanaian village was rare enough, and there was no indication that she worked with WorldAid.
“Thank you, Mr. Merritt, for your help. We may have saved a life tonight—or at least prolonged one.” Her deep blue eyes, at once full of fire and compassion, spoke louder than her words. “For that, I’m very grateful.” She sighed. “I’m sorry your first night in Tsanga turned out like this. I hope it’ll not scare you off. Good night.”
“Good night.”
As quickly as she had come, she disappeared. Darkness had fallen, and smoke from nearby fires filled the air. James breathed a deep sigh and was walking back toward the vehicle when—“My backpack!”
When the shot had rung out, he’d forgotten all about it. His life was in that bag—his computer, his passport, his visa, his money, digital copies of the blueprints for the project. He couldn’t lose them! His chest tightened as he ran back to the vehicle. 
There, standing alone in the shadows, was a boy, maybe ten years old, clad in a blue Chicago Cubs jersey two sizes too big, holding up his backpack.
“Please, sir, your bag,” the boy said respectfully. “I found it lying beside the car.”
James breathed a sigh of relief, almost unbelief, wondering that this boy had protected his valuables and waited for him.
“Thank you…” He looked at the boy, brow furrowed. “Thank you.”
The boy handed the bag over, his eyes staring straight into James’s. “Good night, sir.”
Exhausted, James dragged himself down the dirt alley back to Ian who led him to the guesthouse which was to be his home for the foreseeable future. The two men said goodnight. James untied his boots and checked his bag to make sure everything was there. He sank into the cot and looped the strap of his backpack around his leg to secure it close to his body.
But sleep wouldn’t come. He lay there haunted by the thought. There were others who wanted what he had brought to the Tsanga Valley.

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