The Betty Crocker of Buli Village

By Lane Hartill

BULI VILLAGE, Ghana — Let me tell you about Ambomkur Kon-e.

The divorced mother of four wakes up every morning with the same problem: How to feed her boys, Tiama, the little one burbling on her lap, and Engadoba, who's gumming a roasted ear of corn and playing with an old bicycle rim. Ambom, as her friends call her, is living in a friend's mud compound. There's no electricity or running water. When nature calls, they head to the field. It's free range, as they say here.

Ambom's only source of income is pito, an alcoholic brew that many men here adore.

Drive by most villages in northern Ghana and you will see them, sitting under trees, having a good chin wag, the conversation greased by the gasoline-colored alcohol that they slurp from gourds.

Pito's a blessing for Ambom. She earns $1.50 to $2.00 a day from it, just enough to feed Tiama and Engadoba.

This is the paradox of pito. The brew is deeply ingrained in the lives and culture of many here. While it's abused by some, it's also many women's only source of income. Both men and women couldn't live without it.

Ambom uses the money from pito to feed her boys meat three times a week, usually goat. Many children here have never tasted one of Ghana's famous dishes — goat soup. It's a luxury far out of their reach.

For many families, eating meat, or even nutritious food, is rare. And in the harsh climate and poverty of northern Ghana, it's not enough for mothers just to feed their children. They have to feed them the right food. But that means going against the grain of long-held traditions. Some think feeding their kids eggs will delay speech or make them thieves, while others believe women who prepare special food for their babies are bad mothers.

Mothers often head to work in the field and leave their children to fend for themselves. Breakfast and lunch is what's left in the pot from last night's dinner: cold TZ (pronounced tea-ZED) — a fermented corn paste with the consistency of warm brie. It's swallowed with sauce. That's where the protein is supposed to come in.

Some families, though, are so poor they can't afford fish for the sauce, one of the principal ingredients. They can only afford fish scales, which they add for flavor. Dry okra, pepper and salt round out the dish. It's a bland meal with little nutritional value.

Even for poor mothers, simply not overcooking the stew or adding vitamin-packed leaves from nearby trees may mean the difference in their children's health. In Buli village, some 30 percent of children between 6 months and 3 years old are malnourished.

That's where Catholic Relief Services comes in.

Mothers Teaching Mothers

In six communities in this region, CRS is helping mothers learn from their peers. It's called positive deviance — using mothers who have healthy kids to teach mothers who don't the importance of healthy food preparation. The United Nations is providing funds for the project.

Ambom was tapped to teach. She's the Betty Crocker of the 200 moms in Buli, the go-to gal when it comes to cooking. She gave a cooking class in the village not long ago and mothers were asking her for her secrets. Ambom, who is illiterate, doesn't need a culinary degree to teach other mothers. "I'm proud of my cooking," she says, simply.

But it's not always mothers who are the problem, says Idrissou Bandu, the health assistant at a nearby clinic in Wechiau, a few miles from the Burkina Faso border. He says men also play a role.

"The men — excuse me for saying this — are useless," he says. During community health meetings, Bandu says he "always backs the women and then starts blasting the men."

Their problem: pito. The money that should be going toward feeding their children a proper diet is going down the men's throats in the form of alcohol, says Idrissou. He says that in this part of northwestern Ghana, husbands believe their wives should provide food for the children — often with little financial help from themselves.

For Ambom, not having a man around the compound is no big deal. She manages just fine by herself, thank you very much. She learned to make her famous sauce from her mom, who still lives with her. Ambom's secret ingredient: The leaves from baobab and moringa trees.

Every day, Ambom kicks off her flip-flops, climbs 15 feet straight up the baobab tree growing behind her house and pulls the tender leaves. Nutritionists have found baobab leaves are rich in calcium, iron, potassium and zinc. She doesn't know this. But she knows they help keep her boys healthy.

Some mothers in Buli know that the tree's leaves are nutritious, Ambom says, but they tend to boil them too long, sapping them of nutrients.

To her famous sauce, she adds "keta schoolboys": small herring — heads and all, dawa dawa, a kind of locust bean, and some peppers. She grinds this into a paste.

Ambom's kitchen management would make a home economics teacher proud. She ties Tiama on her back as Engadoba stands in a washtub. She lathers him head to toe while keeping an eye on the sauce. She uses the local soap, djinsamenay, made from the ash of a baobab tree.

Lunch Is Served

When the kids are bathed, she rubs them down with shea butter. They shine like end tables. Then she grabs a pail of hot water from the stove and disappears behind a crumbling mud wall to sponge the morning sweat off herself.

After her shower, Ambom ties Tiama onto her back again, picks up the porridge and sauce, and heads to the shade of the mango tree. Lunch is served.

Her boys, in fresh clothes, glow in comparison to the kids who hover around them. They are covered in dirt, their clothes filthy. One has a leaking cut on his leg. Not all have shoes. Everyone stares at the hot food as a crowd starts to gather.

A little girl wearing only beads around her waist, tiny hoop earrings and a frown arrives on the hip of her sister. Her umbilical cord — like those of many children in Africa — was improperly tied, and she now has a blunt navel that sticks out of her like a protruding cucumber. Nobody is sure how old she is. She looks 3 months old, but with stunting, she could be over a year.

Ambom starts feeding her boys, and the girl starts to howl. Her older sister says their mother went to the field in the morning and left them TZ. Chances are the sauce was lukewarm and bland. Ambom quickly realizes the baby's hunger. Her distended belly and thin arms tell Ambom this isn't the first time.

Her sister places her in the dirt in front of the porridge. She sits cross-legged as Ambom pinches off a glop, wipes it in the green sticky stew, and lets the girl suck it off her fingers. She's famished.

After lunch, the little girl and her sister wander away but soon come back. Full, she now sleeps on her sister's hip. Ambom doesn't notice, though. She is too busy snuggling with Tiama: kissing his nose, nibbling his chin.

Before I leave, I ask her what makes her happy. She smiles, adjusts Tiama on her lap, and says: "I'm happy if I can afford going to the market so the boys have food three times a day."

This single mom doesn't want sympathy.

Just food for her boys.

Three times a day.

Lane Hartill is the West Africa regional information officer for Catholic Relief Services. He has visited CRS programs in Burkina Faso, Ghana, Liberia, Nigeria and Sierra Leone. Lane is based in Dakar, Senegal.