Homecoming

When I first met the woman in this image, I was struck by how much she looked like..ME. Or like she could be one of my sisters. We had the same nose, and the same smile. And the same cheekbones. Then she told me her name was Stella. That was my mother's mother's name!

My meeting Stella Addy was probably fated. At the time, she was a struggling young reporter at a local radio station in Accra, one of a couple dozen guinea pigs who sat through my very first reporting workshop on the African continent. Hell, I had no earthly idea what I was doing, and I agonized every step of the way. But from the first day, Stella clung to me. She told me I reminded her of her mother, who lived in Lincoln, Nebraska, and whom she hadn't seen for a very long time.

Me being the maternally-inclined sucker that I am, I took the bait. I probably worked a bit more closely with Stella, listening intently to her stories about the challenges for a young African female reporter. I even visited her radio station, to observe her working conditions. I don't remember details, but I'm pretty sure I was appalled.

The day before my first African voyage ended, Stella insisted on being my guide through Makola Market, the first of many such shopping excursions in different countries. I know I must have stood there with my mouth hanging open when we first arrived, absolutely flabbergasted by the vast sea of vendors and stalls, the oppressive heat, and the smells. Stella hooked her arm through mine, kept a close eye on my purse and bags, and negotiated the best prices. Come to think of it, that was where my reputation as an absolutely ruthless, bottom line bargainer began, watching Stella haggle.

There was lots of drama trying to leave Accra the next day. I arrived at the airport for a 7 PM flight at 5:15 on a Sunday, and was told that check-in closed at 5, and to come back on Tuesday when the next US flight left. I won't go into details, but I spent the next hour showing my Ugly American ass until they reopened that counter and checked me in, and everybody else who had showed up after me. Stella was nearby during that sideshow, and in hindsight, I'm surprised she didn't just slink off without looking back at my obnoxious behavior.

Instead, just before I headed to the gate, Stella flung herself into my arms and started crying. Sobbing. She wailed because she might never see me again, and told me she loved me so much. To keep myself from losing it, I was appropriately comforting, but concluded it was probably just an act, one Stella used with every American visitor to try and keep a steady stream of money and gifts flowing back across the Atlantic.

But it moved me. And that one short week convinced me there were a lot of young journalists in African countries who were desperate for the kind of support and mentoring I could offer. Meeting Stella was also the first time my maternal instincts had been ignited that way by an adult, a grown professional who I could have also given birth to. I pictured hundreds, thousands of young African women like her striving for a vision of their future that included so many things I took for granted: a voice, a forum, the confidence to look their colleagues in the eye, an opinion they didn't have to apologize for or negate, goals they didn't have to use sex to achieve.

So when I knew I was heading back to Accra, I sent an email to the last address I had for Stella, to try and reconnect. Truth be told, I almost hoped I wouldn't hear anything, rather than learn some horrible, depressing truth about her life that would overwhelm me with guilt over losing touch. So when I opened my hotel room door yesterday and saw her standing there with two adorable children, I was incredibly happy!

Stella is just fine! And she married the handsome young man named Frank who she was dating when I met her. He's a marketing manager for a mobile phone company, and Stella is finishing up her Master's Degree in Public Health. And you know, at this point, it doesn't even really matter whether I inspired her or not. It just felt like coming home, especially when Stella reminded me of something she swears she told me 7 years ago.

Her father is Ghanaian, but her mother is Ugandan. And her grandmother lives in Gulu.