KWABENA'S HUNT

The young man glowed with pride as he stood beside the antelope hanging outside his house. He was clad only in cutoffs and sandals. Young muscles rippling, he aimed his rifle at his prize and snarled fiercely. I took his picture and he grinned.

I was visiting the village of my wife's uncle. When the young man had returned from his hunt I was called to record the event on film. Everyone always wanted his picture taken.

Kwabena stood beside me now, eyes downcast, brow furrowed with thought. His wife Ama was speaking to the boy's mother and plainly envious of her. There would be red meat in that family's pot tonight while we had eaten only chicken and fish since my arrival. When I looked around again Kwabena had slunk away.

We were the same age but Kwabena appeared older. We had become friends at once although we were not able to communicate except through an interpreter. He had no English at all and my Twi was limited to "Good morning" and "Thank you".

My young nephew Kwaku appeared as we were on the path back. "Uncle Kwabena says to get ready. You are going to the forest." I hurried to the house to put on boots and get the rest of my camera equipment. I had been looking forward to this opportunity.

Carrying the heavy camera bag, I was drenched with sweat long before we reached the forest. The heat and high humidity were oppressive even though the path through the cocoa plantation was shaded. The sweet odor of cocoa in flower and rotting vegetation was almost overpowering.

Beside me strode Kwabena. He was dressed in sneakers, a pair of slacks which were more patches and tears than anything else, and a short-sleeved shirt which had lost its buttons and collar. Over his shoulder was an ancient percussion-cap muzzle-loader and around his neck hung a pouch with packets of powder, shot and caps. At his belt hung a large knife. A small, sinewy man, his stride was shorter than mine and I had to slow my pace to remain beside him.

Finally we reached the edge of the forest and a path leading into it but Kwabena began to turn aside. By hand signals to supplement the English which I knew he didn't understand, I made known that I wanted to enter the forest to take pictures. Reluctantly he led the way.

The path was more of a tunnel with vegetation close on both sides and overhead. I had to stoop to walk along behind Uncle Kwabena. He gazed apprehensively in all directions, rifle held at the ready. Twice he halted and motioned to return along the path the way he had come. The third time he refused to continue, edged around me in the narrow passage and began retracing our steps. I was disappointed. It was too dark for photography, even if I could have seen anything in the dense growth. But I could see clearly that Kwabena was uncomfortable in the forest.


A cocoa farmer, not a hunter, he was more at ease when we regained the edge of the plantation. Walking along the border between the forest and the groves, Kwabena constantly looked up into the forest canopy. What could he be watching for, I wondered. Panther, I guessed, but I had no idea of the local wildlife.

Suddenly he stopped and pointed into a tree with a finger to his lips. He raised and aimed his rifle in a most unusual manner. Rather than hold the stock against his shoulder he braced it against the heel of his left hand and held the grip with his right. As he squeezed the trigger there was a resounding boom and a billow of smoke.

It was plain he had missed. His smile disappeared and his head hung. Again, by signs, I asked what he had shot at, and he managed to convey a squirrel. The way he pantomimed the bushy tail would have made me laugh if he had not been looking so dejected.

We had come quite a distance from the path so Kwabena cut through the groves towards home. I felt sad for my usually happy friend as I followed him between the trees. His shoulders slumped and his eyes were on the ground. The rifle trailed casually from his hand. I would have liked to console him, but without a common language it was impossible.

Suddenly he was happy again, grinning and pointing, and talking rapidly in Twi. There under a cocoa tree was the largest mushroom I had ever seen. The crown, fluted like a fancy parasol, was about a foot in diameter. Kwabena seemed overjoyed although I couldn't understand why. First he used his knife to cut a forked branch, then carefully cut through the mushroom's stalk which was as thick as my ankle. Handing me the rifle, he mounted the huge fungus on his stick and hoisted it to his shoulder. Of course he wanted his picture taken.

We returned to the village in a triumphal procession, Kwabena striding proudly with his find. As we neared his house the children joined us. One ran ahead to tell Ama. As we entered the compound she came forward and accepted it from him, smiling broadly. Young Kwaku informed me that this species of mushroom was prized for its good flavor and its medicinal qualities. One this large was extremely rare. Our soup would be flavored with a portion of it this evening.

It was amazing to see the change in Kwabena. He seemed as happy and proud as the boy with the antelope. Everyone in the village had to come see the mushroom and congratulate him. And Ama was soon seen returning with a shoulder of antelope received in trade for half of the mushroom.

That evening around the fire Kwabena recounted the tale of his hunt for one and all and Kwaku translated for me. I did not dispute the many differences from the trip I had experienced. It was enough that my friend had no shame now, and that we would have red meat in our pot tomorrow.