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I didn’t sleep well the night before I went to the center of the world.
At 3 a.m., I found myself wide awake at my parents’ house in Accra. My parents have spent more than half of my life slowly building this house. Tonight was the first time in over 10 years that we all slept under the same roof in Ghana.
The frog in the courtyard was croaking. Jet lag clung to me like an itchy blanket.
Obviously, one cannot actually go to the iron center of this planet. And the Earth’s surface actually has no “center.” That’s not how the ball works. But centuries of collaboration between a motley crew of explorers and astronomers eventually produced longitude, an imaginary vertical line that radiates from north to south around the Earth. .
That is, there is actually a precise location where 0 degrees longitude intersects 0 degrees latitude. The center of the world, if you will.
But unlike the equator (0 degrees latitude), which is equidistant from the north and south poles, there is no natural basis for 0 degrees longitude. You can place it anywhere you like. And people did. Countries around the world have established their own prime meridian, which often passes through their capital. Greenwich is a borough of the British capital, hence the Greenwich meridian, which was adopted internationally in 1884.
The line runs from London through the English Channel, across continental Europe, across the Balearic Sea, through northwest Africa to the Ghanaian port city of Tema, and then into the Gulf of Guinea.
The actual point where the prime meridian meets the equator is in the Atlantic Ocean. But the closest city in the world to that water landmark is Tema, Ghana, where my mother grew up.
Tema was also my home from the time I was one until I moved to New Jersey the summer I was five. A few days before my 2 week visit to Ghana, I was scrolling through the internet and found out about that serendipitous place. I had just quit a hard job and had no concrete plans for what was next.
How likely are you to come across this fact right before a long-awaited trip, with a bag full of gifts for your family and half-hearted questions about how to rebuild your life?
My enthusiasm was not well received by my relatives based in Tema. “Will Meridian fix the streets?” one of the cousins asked. fair enough.
My mother, who called three countries home, was the only one who garnered enthusiasm. Whether it was for my own benefit (as when I cheer on a toddler who proudly holds out a piece of lint) or because, as an immigrant, I know the delicate task of telling others where I come from. I still don’t know if that’s the case. In language they understand.
My girlfriend and I left Accra for Tema on a Sunday afternoon under an unrelenting sun. The streets, usually bustling with food vendors and pedestrians avoiding cars, were quiet. We first stopped at my aunt’s house. It’s a few doors down from the house where my aunt and her mother grew up.
From there, we took a laughably short ride (because my mom’s knees were acting up) to Old Meridian Church, named for the line that cuts through the property. Along the way, we gained a younger cousin who was mustachioed, lanky, and soft-spoken. Although his expression is basically gloomy, his laughter reveals the little boy who will continue to live in my heart.
In the car, my mother called her old friend Uncle Charles (no relation), who owned a guesthouse across the street from the church. He had been designated to guide us.
Uncle Charles has a friendly smile and a warm, reassuring demeanor that welcomes the lodgers he makes his living with. When he got out of his car, he and his mother greeted each other in Ga. I think Ga is the most interesting language for my mother.
Her English is quite interesting, and I don’t understand her other languages well enough to judge her wit, but most of the conversations I overheard of her were in Ga (the lingua franca of the city when she was a girl). I assert that it is used in Within minutes it turns into a belly-pounding laugh. Maybe it’s just my mom, but I like to imagine the center of the world filled with laughter.
As we approached the church gate, we saw a man dozing in the guardhouse. Uncle Charles woke him up and told him that he could see the Greenwich meridian across the garden.
A heated conversation ensued. The security guard insisted that we were not allowed to walk more than 30 feet in front of us without explicit permission from church officials. And they all went home, so we were out of luck.
That’s ridiculous, Uncle Charles protested. He had walked there countless times without obtaining such permission.
The guards, perhaps not expecting any resistance, swelled with dubious authority and insisted they would not let us through.
Disappointment pooled beneath my feet. I never expected to be transformed when I touched that vague sacred ground. But I was tormented by the thought that this stubborn little man would interrupt me just as I could see my destination.
There was no need to worry. When gentle reasoning failed, we decided to just walk outdoors and across the unobstructed garden. If it was a really serious violation, Uncle Charles would take the blame. The guard was clearly unhappy that his authority had been violated, but it was unclear what else he could do other than tackle us.
The Greenwich meridian is marked by a stone runway. The outer layer is lined with dusty bricks, followed by tan rock, with a thin band of mottled mauve on the inside. At its base stands a white stone slab in the shape of a tall spire, and you can imagine the button above the zipper unlocking the whole world.
I had no idea exactly what I wanted to do with this small piece of land. It could be a moment of meditation. Imagine moving forward along this line and projecting yourself into the Gulf of Guinea, where it meets the equator.
I tried to keep in mind the cosmic and cultural meaninglessness of this patch of land, along with the irresistible temptation to wring some meaning out of it – because how else could I? Can you make a mark on your life?
My mom insisted that I take a photo in front of the marker, breaking my thoughts. “No, Mom!” With the special zeal of a grown child, I belatedly began to resist.
Undeterred, she took up her position at the foot of the marker and began taking selfie videos. “Here I am, standing on the prime meridian!” she said. I think we all created meaning in our own ways.
Or maybe it wasn’t.
My cousin stood to the side and pointed to the church behind us.
“what is that?” I asked him.
“I went to elementary school here,” he said. “The church ran my elementary school. I didn’t know this line was here again.”
He spoke clearly without being flashy. I couldn’t read anything from his expression.
“You don’t seem to care much,” I said.
He started making gestures of genuine confusion into the space behind me.
“no,” he said. “I don’t really care.”
Emefa Addo Agaw, a former producer of “The Ezra Klein Show,” writes for publications such as The Washington Post and Vox.
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