DURING my visit in 1985, I had met the management staff at the plantation in Ghana. The one I remember most was Al Doku.
He was the chief accountant, about 45 years old, working for the managing director, Bill Morrison.
At the meeting in Morrison’s office, he could remember the figures well, and I was impressed. It was just that he was quiet for most of the time, and I could see that his eyes were sad.
At that time, there were many reasons to feel that way. The cedi was devaluing every week, and to go for dinner in town was a major decision for it would involve bringing your money in big wads to pay for it.
This is despite the income from gold that Ghana was blessed with as well as cocoa, which has a flavour that commands a premium. The country also produces shea nut, the fruit of massive trees that grow in the north. The oil is like cocoa butter.
However, that year the food shortage was bad, even potatoes were hard to find. They had to be imported.
Morrison had helped with giving breakfast to the workers, and they would line up for the palm oil, tapioca and fish cooked in large pots in front of them before they started work for the day.
Due to the shortage of hard currency, the plantation too had to make do without many things, and building of workers’ houses was one of them as no imported material was used.
At the housing project for workers, I had no time to ask about Al Doku.
I watched Bill giving instructions to the building supervisor. He was using earth to make a thick wall to build a house, and when it was dry after a few days, he added another level, until the building had a coat of cement and more walls for the rooms. I had not seen a building made in that way before. Bill was thorough.
“Saves a lot of money,” he said, as we had breakfast back in his bungalow. I had fried eggs and a lot of tapioca done very well that they looked like baked potatoes.
I knew that in London Leslie Davidson had advocated using raw materials for buildings, and even for expatriates, he said they could save by eating what is available in the local market and eat like what the locals do, but as usual Bill did not do anything by halves.
“We should be leaving soon to see the country, first to the slave castle at Cape Coast.”
It was in the car that he talked about Al Doku.
“He is going to London on a course that I had arranged for him. But the other reason is it gives him a chance to take his daughter there for treatment. She is losing her eyesight and probably it could be saved by the doctors there.”
“Let him know that I will be in London. I will take him to my house and have lunch with him. He impresses me.”
At the slave castle in Cape Coast, Bill had paid a guide to take us through the full tour. I saw the high white walls and the dark cellars made for the incarceration of human captives. The guide said they were standing in human waste until the time the ship arrived, and they were whipped and pushed through a small exit that all would call the “door of no return”.
We climbed into bright sunlight again to the chapel and the quarters of the commandant. The castle had been fought over by the Swedes, the Norwegians, the Danes and the Dutch before it fell to the English. They traded the slaves in the New World, coming home with cotton and sugar, and out again with cloth and guns to the Gold Coast, and the cycle went on for years.
I was tired after the tour. Bill said to me: “Now I will take you to Elmina castle.”
I did not expect that. It was more or less the same, tiring, as I walked on the hot open yard with rusted cannons lined over the thick stone walls facing the Atlantic below. Coconut trees leaned by the shore where lazy waves lapped away at the sand.
But where our car was parked, we were stopped by many hawkers, who made a brisk business selling handicraft, and what interested me most was the colourful cloth weaved in bright red, yellow and green that I knew was the work of skilled people. The pattern attracted me.
“Fine kente cloth, but tourist prices,” Bill said.
“Can you ask Al Doku if he can bring back a piece and I will pay him in London.”
That was how Al Doku met me again and on a weekend. I invited him for lunch with my family in Surrey and he brought the piece of cloth. It must have cost him a lot of money, and I did not mind paying him a premium for his effort, and it was very beautiful, and probably fit for a minor chief to wear in Ghana.
His daughter was getting medical treatment at a hospital.
I did not hear of Al Doku for many years after I left Unilever, but I still thought of his visit and the lunch like it was yesterday. I had always wondered how he got on after all these years. I remembered him warmly.
By chance, I met him again when he was attending an oil palm conference in Kuala Lumpur. It was just before the conference dinner. I was delighted to see him again and hugged him. I felt a glow of old friendship.
“But I don’t remember you,” he said.
I drew back and explained that he was my guest for lunch in England, and I had bought the kente cloth. I asked him how his daughter was.
But he still could not remember me. Long years had passed but surely he could not have forgotten.
I was told by then he was the managing director of the plantation business. I was upset through the courses of the dinner.
It was at the dessert stage that Al Doku walked up to my table and said with a smile.
“I am so sorry I could not remember you. I think I can remember you now.”
He tried to smile again.
“That’s all right,” I said returning to my dessert.
He tried to be nice to me but the glow of friendship was gone.
The writer has extensive experience in the management of oil palm plantations. Comments: letters@thesundaily.com
