Stories of Origin. In Ghana, if you come into the world a she, acquire the habit of praying. And master it. Because you will need it, desperately, as old age pursues you [ If, on top of this, your children, waging a desperate war of their own for economic survival, find themselves having too little time for you, count you among the forsaken and forgotten; [ In Drobo, storefronts of petty traders and hairdressers line the packed-mud streets of orangish hue.
On one such street, under a tree that provides just a little shade, a group of about three dozen women have assembled. Some with small babies, many with fake designer bags, all with a story. They break out into smaller groups and gather to exchange their war stories.
Some of the women look impossibly young, to have put in three to four years of work abroad already. The Bono region is not only where a large chunk of Ghanaian migrants hail from, but it is also a transit point for traffickers from neighbouring countries [see part II ].
The group gathered here is a microcosm of the wider migration environment. As they open up, a pattern emerges. Many of the women were told they were being taken to the Gulf or to Kurdistan, and ended up in Iraq.
And for those who went to the place they were promised, they knew little of where they were situated. Viv, who spent three years in Iraq from , says she had no idea she would end up in Iraq. Conny was expecting to go to Dubai, but in Addis Ababa where she was transiting, she was told she would go to Lebanon. Erika knew she was going to Saudi, but had no clue which part of the Kingdom she was going to. But no matter where they ended up, the stories are similar.
