The Day of the Crocodile or, Flooded Out in Northern Ghana
The vivid accounts of the flooding in Perth-Andover, having reached me by chance in far-off Ludwigsburg, Germany, have brought back memories of my own flood experience years ago in the West African nation of Ghana. That’s the way floods are. Provided you survive, you do get over them. But you never forget what you and others experienced during those moments of dire need and sheer panic.
On the morning of August 25, 1989, my flood took the town of Tamale, where I was living with my family and working as a minister with the Presbyterian Church of Ghana, completely by surprise. The fact that Tamale, then a town of approximately 150.000 inhabitants in the northern, semi-arid part of Ghana, went from basking in the sunshine to deep down under in the course of an hour or so was largely due human error. There had been heavy rains in the days preceding, and a local reservoir had filled to the limit. Moreover, the earthen walls of that reservoir had been severely weakened in recent years by untold people treading up and down, collecting water in large containers carried on their heads. But mostly, it was just the sheer weight of all that water pushing against that earthen dam wall. There was a spillway, which should have been opened days before to let all that excess water flow out and on down through the town, but the engineers couldn’t activate the mechanism. So they sat on their hands, fervently hoping that the rains would soon stop, which they didn’t. The net effect was that on the morning of August 25, the dam slowly gave way, first just a bit, then more, then more and more, until it suddenly just crumbled away, so that a huge river was unleashed to suddenly shoot through the center of town.
For better or worse, I had a great view of this unfolding tragedy from the front porch of my house, as the flood swept right through our compound, catching my pick-up and sweeping it downstream, but leaving the house itself untouched. Swept along as well were household goods of all kinds, innumerable dead and dying sheep, goats and chickens and more than a few people who had been unable to get out of the way in time. It was truly a sickening sight. The water rushed on for hours, and as time went by, a huge crowd of spectators gathered on both sides of the raging river, shouting, screaming, and crying, but also scavenging at great risk anything of value that suddenly came floating their way.
As the reservoir slowly emptied and the water abated, I set about the difficult business of salvaging my pick-up, which was now standing on its tailgate in several feet of murky, still fast-moving water. The sight of a “whiteman” daring to set foot in the waters sent the crowd into spasms of emotional outburst, some rooting for me, others screaming and even pleading that I abandon the truck to its fate and keep myself in safety. I well remember a policeman leaning out over the bank to tell me to get out of the water, then suddenly losing his balance and falling into the water, soaking his clothes and losing his hat in the process. The crowd roared with laughter, the policeman climbed back out and disappeared, probably going to look for some dry clothes. Later on, a friend of mine came by to take pictures and saw me down in the water trying to shore up my truck. He had a winch on his car, which he brought into proper position, hooked the line to my bumper and slowly pulled me out, assisted by untold and forever unnamed helpers who jumped into the water to push.
Having recovered my own losses, I was then able to turn to the much more important, and much more difficult task of assisting the many who were facing tragedies of far greater magnitude, having lost homes, livestock, and often also their loved ones. Flood recovery went on for a year or so, but all in all, people recovered remarkably well. There were untold acts of kindness. One I remember particularly well was a child, orphaned by the flood, who was adopted almost at once by his neighbors, though they themselves had lost their home and most of their belongings.
For me as a minister, however, the most fascinating aspect of the flood were its religious interpretations. Ghanaians are people of deep faith, drawing largely either on traditional African religion, Christianity or Islam for their own life-understanding. Accordingly, virtually everyone understood the flood in religious terms. Christians generally described it as a test of faith, God having sent the flood to see whose faith would be strong enough to withstand such a catastrophe. Many of those who had survived gave special “Thanksgiving Offerings” in the following weeks. I announced them week for week from the pulpit, generally with the words: “A member of our church who wishes to remain anonymous has presented to me an offering in the amount of ???, thanking God for having saved his life in the flood.” I sometimes wearied of these announcements, thinking that if the engineers had only managed to open the spillway, everyone would have been saved, as there would have been no flood to begin with. Nonetheless, I could not help but be impressed by the sincerity of those who brought me such offerings. Muslims were more reticent, ascribing to God a more passive role: “The flood is our fate, and our fate is in the hands of Allah.” In some ways, though, their reactions were quite comparable. As giving alms to the poor is a tenet of Islam, they too brought many offerings to their religions leaders.
Absolutely fascinating, however, was the theological explanation for the flood given by the local soothsayers. They claimed that prior to the flood, the reservoir had been inhabited by a large crocodile. An evil spirit appeared and attempted to drive the crocodile away. A huge struggle ensued, accompanied by heavy rain, thunder and lightning. In the end, the crocodile was defeated. In his ignominy, he said to the spirit: “You will now own the reservoir, but the water will be for me.” With his mighty tail, he struck the earthen wall of the reservoir again and again, finally crumbling it. He then swam downstream, taking all the water with him.
Probable? Not really. But the thought of an angry crocodile does conjure up in my mind something of the fear we felt on that day even now, more than twenty years later. In fact, as I look back on that event, I still refer to it as the “Day of the Crocodile”.
I wish all of you in Andover-Perth a speedy recovery from your own tragedy, which seems to be as much of a mix of Godly power and human error as was that flood in West Africa these many years ago.
Rev. Riley Edwards-Raudonat
American-born Riley Edwards-Raudonat emigrated to Germany in 1975, where he now works as Africa Secretary for the “Evangelical Mission in Solidarity” (www.ems-online.org), whose offices are located in Stuttgart.
Riley is an old and dear friend of mine who sent me this essay after I apprised him of our flood situation. Stephanie
