Dialing for Dollars and Euros; Relatives and friends peddle sob stories

“How much are you sending today, Moses?” asked Madam Elizabeth, the owner of Heritage Distributors Inc., a Ghanaian retail food store in Newark, New Jersey. Her question was an obvious giveaway that I had used her money transfer services in the past.

“Just fifty dollars,” I responded. She looked up my name among a long list of names on a laptop, yet another indication that her money transfer service is quite popular. She raised her head and asked for the name of the recipient. Sam Hamza Dagomba, I muttered. “Spell it, I mean, the last two names,” she barked. I wrote the name on a piece of paper and handed it to her.

The transaction complete, I walked out and immediately called Sam. I can see him now, pacing up and down the veranda of the Agric. Development Bank at Aboabo in Tamale nervously wringing his near emaciated hands in anticipation of a windfall.

Earlier in the day, at precisely 10 a.m., a phone call from across the Atlantic jarred me awake; it was long, shrill and discomforting. It was definitely not what I had expected at that time of the day when I was still in the throes of a deep slumber.

Having worked all night long---hauling freight (commercial goods) between New Jersey and New York on the traffic clogged roads and highways takes a toll on the body, particularly so if you are no longer the brawny youth you once were---I returned home in the morning physically drained and eager to devour a hearty breakfast and jump into the comfort of my bed. But the phone call scuttled my elaborate plan.

Six years ago, I shelved my journalism and teaching credentials, dusted up my commercial driving license and hit the road in an 18-wheeler (tractor-trailer) where there is no editor breathing down my neck to meet a deadline, and no petulant students to make my life hellish with their taunts and mischief. The only hazard on the highway is the ever-present small car, recklessly cutting in front of a tractor-trailer and zooming in and out of traffic with no regard for other road users. With the U.S. economy in the doldrums, any job that slices my mound of debts is gratifyingly welcomed and warmly appreciated, old age be damned---

The voice at the other end of the call was vaguely familiar.“Who are you?” I asked irritatingly. “Hi Moses, this is Sam,” he answered. Oh, him again, I murmured under my breath and began the painful process of sitting through a five-minute deluge of requests.

Sam had called before. Just two days ago. And each time the message was the same. “You promised to send me money, what happened?” he asked. He was a friend from yesteryears, who resurfaced in 2010 during one of my sporadic visits home. I lost track of him in the 1980s and concluded he had joined the huge migration overseas.

We chatted heartily that hot November day, reminiscing about the good old days in Tamale when the Legion Dance Hall, Rivoli Cinema and Warders Canteen reigned supreme. Sam looked tired and forlorn. I asked why he was so dejected and he responded that he hadn't worked in years and literally had zero job prospects as employers these days require some level of education. “So, I am looking up to you, added.

Little did I know that Sam's tall tale was a prelude to something sinister. Before parting company, he managed to extract from me money and my cell phone number.Somebody warned, “Sam is a serial caller, be prepared.”

My experience with Sam is a snapshot of a wider and fast growing problem “afflicting” Ghanaian diaspora communities around the world. From the cold pavements of Europe and North America to the hot, remote recesses of the Saudi, Libyan, and Kuwaiti deserts, the story is the same; Ghanaians are dealing with floods of requests for money from an assortment of family members, long, lost relatives and friends.

“I have to pay my son's school fees” or “we have to perform your grandfather's final funeral rites and we need some money” are some of the sob stories peddle by our friends and relatives. They throw the bait and we seek our teeth into it.

Dear reader. I know like you do, that helping relatives and friends is the morally right thing to do: it is a social contract, a solemn duty we commit ourselves to, our financial circumstances notwithstanding. From the Ghanaian working a minimum wage job to the Ghanaian banker on Wall Street, there is always the nudging feeling that whatever is earned here, some must be sent home.

Thus every week they make their way into Heritage, Western Union or a similar establishment and remit. Honestly, this is an “obligation” we would rather scurry from given our hydra-headed financial obligations….mortgage, rent, vehicle loans, student loans, credit card bills, etc. But we hate being guilt-ridden, so we grudgingly dip into our bank accounts and dole out what we can.

In seeking to do good, have we become suckers, have we inadvertently exposed ourselves to scams and thievery, hoodwinked by scheming sisters, brothers, uncles and friends into parting away with bucket-loads of our hard-earned money?

There is little argument that we succumb easily to the charms and sweet talks of our family members and pals. Stories abound about Ghanaians who have been taken to “the cleaners” by unscrupulous relatives and friends: thousands of dollars, euros, dinars and yen squandered by heartless family members and friends. Meanwhile, the mansion you planned and saved for stands uncompleted, naked and exposed to the vagaries of the harsh Ghanaian weather.

Remember the $5000 your mother's uncle's wife managed to squeeze out of you ostensibly to start a business selling soap and other provisions and promised to pay you back? Ten years later, you are still waiting for the payment that is not forthcoming. You are then told the business just fizzled.

Relationships with family members and friends can be complex and tenuous; we are afraid to offend them least we incur their wrath. We strive to satisfy their every whim, dot on their children and shower them with gifts, all calculated to win their love and approval. And we wonder why the pestering phone calls for money continue endlessly. We are wholly responsible; we have indeed been generous to a fault.

We needn't be reminded that we are duty bound to help our relatives. It is part of our DNA. However, extending a helping hand is strewn with pitfalls. Relatives can be highly ungrateful, doubly insincere, and unfailingly devious. The concept of a financial meltdown is alien to them, or worse, they pretend not to know what it means; they assume erroneously that living and working overseas inoculates us from economic hardships and financial ruin. Reject a request for help and suddenly you are the scoundrel, the pariah, the tight-fisted bastard.

Relatives and friends ought to be told the cold, hard truth. While we would love to continue the generosity, life in the rich world has changed dramatically; it isn't the same anymore. Their economies have tanked. Our fortunes have declined precipitously. We have lost jobs, homes and vehicles. And to make matters worse, there is scant evidence that recovery from this economic and financial gloom will be anytime soon. It is going to be a long, hard wait..

The author is a freelance journalist and a columnist for Zaa Radio,Tamale