From bubble baths to bucket baths...

I can honestly say that in my 21 year odyssey of pointless tests, sexual awkwardness, eventual puberty, and a ton of mind numbing music, there is nothing more sobering or sincere than washing my 180-pound frame with a bucket of frigid water and a tiny square of a rag.
No, this hasn’t been an everyday thing, and I wouldn’t want to give an impression that UG is the land of the waterless (though it may be in other areas), but when the water went out on that hot Thursday afternoon I had a mind altering experience. When I turned that jagged faucet attachment clockwise to hear nothing but a loud gurgle of dryness it panicked my soul. But then something, namely my better judgment, told me that this situation faces many brothers and sisters on the Dark Continent. Many look to their faucets, their parents, their leaders, and their government, but no matter how badly they want water, change, education, freedom and justice, they are forced to confront the realities of disappointment and survival.
So, with a plastic bucket I purchased from a crusty Ghanaian brother at the market, I marched over to that ground floor spigot and I turned that knob, not caring what kind of liquid came out. The cold fluid filled that bucket and it filled my morale along with it. After all, I was doing what I had to do to take a shower, I was surviving.
And with some Dial soap (which is my favorite) I had the coldest and most refreshing baptism, a baptism that welcomed me to reality, that welcomed me to Ghana, that welcomed me to Africa.