Our meeting with the Asikuma village elders was set for 10 am, but everyone expressed the importance of arriving early — a rare departure from the Ghanaian culture of starting late. The chief should not be kept waiting. In nervous obedience, we arrived at the meeting point just after 9 am and began the preparation. This involved drafting questions, discussing customs, and fetching two bottles of Oris London Dry Gin as a gift. This last piece is non-negotiable. You will not get a meeting without it.

When the time came we filed into what I later learned was the royal palace. We sat outside on plastic chairs as goats, chickens, and kittens roamed around us. One by one the elders arrived until all ten of them were there. Sitting across the concrete patio, I was struck by how normal they all looked. Car keys dangled from their hands. One was wearing double knee denim shorts and a polo. Another, decades younger than the others, wore a pink cut off and answered texts from a phone with a Chicago phone case. Their presence felt approachable, but it was clear they held sway. It was also clear who was most important. Seven chairs sat on their side and when a more senior person arrived, a junior attendee would quickly vacate their seat to make room.

The meeting followed their formal customs. We introduced ourselves and formally requested a council. They approved quickly. We were there to talk about safe water — a topic that weighs heavily on their minds. It was at this point that we learned each of their roles. The men across the floor introduced themselves as chief, chief regent, youth leader, linguist, and war lord, or which there were two. Meeting with local war lords was unexpected, but seeing as the area is remarkably peaceful, there was no cause for concern. The youth leader lived up to the title by immediately offering me a wife if I was willing to stay. In fewer words, I told him I signed a two year lease and had a good thing going on back home. He seemed to understand, but left the door open. I never got to meet the lucky bride to be, but I have a sneaking suspicion she would not have been age appropriate.

When we began asking questions, through a Twi translator, they answered with candor. The responses were eye-opening. They painted a picture of a years long water crisis in the area. The government supply stopped one day and was never restored. An NGO dug them a well, but the salty water faded their clothes, hurt their skin, and was undrinkable. Next, they turned to a road side drainage ditch. People got sick, developed ulcers, and had frequent headaches. Nurses and teachers were hesitant to move there because word had spread about the lack of water. Then, our NGO brought safe water to their homes. Illnesses faded away, children missed less school, investors brought new business, and critical professions began to move in. The economy of the community shifted. One of the war lords spoke for the first time. He said things were 95% better, and they were eager to reach 100%. His hope was for every household to have a water tap in their home. That made it clear how much we take for granted. His dream for the village is something we treat as the bare minimum.

With that vision established, the meeting came to a close after more than an hour. We had to formally request their permission to end the meeting. Then, the gin came out. The palace linguist cracked the seal and filled a small glass to toast to our partnership, which he attempted to hand to the chief regent, but it dropped and shattered across the patio. While he swept it up with a flip flop, the chief stormed off in frustration. Someone fetched a new glass and the regent said a prayer in their native language. With each sentence, he splashed gin onto the concrete as an offering to the ancestors. When the glass was empty and the ancestors had had their fill, the linguist grabbed back the glass and walked towards me. He handed me the refilled glass and gave a set of instructions in Twi. When I stared at him blankly, he repeated in English, “drink a small sip, then pour.” I obliged and the taste of my breakfast was replaced by the stinging of gin. Collegiate instincts kicked in and I kept a straight face as I poured the rest on the ground for the ancestors who had sat there before. Each attendee repeated this act, with some of the local men stretching the “small sip” instruction by drinking the entire glass. With the ancestors sufficiently drunk, we shook hands and gave a final thanks and goodbye to them and my mystery bride.