“Sarah doesn’t just accept students,” Yaya said. She obviously thought highly of her.
“At all, only four of those people out there are under training. The rest I have hired to do small, small things around the shop and might select one person from among them after my next student graduates. I’m very selective because I like to devote time to training my students who, you should know, are all graduates who learned to sew before or after the university. My good friend here,” she said, tapping Yaya’s thigh, “says you’re very good so I’m happy to make an exception and take you on.”
“Thank you,” I said. Was I supposed to make a decision now?
“We are going to see a few other places and will get back to you after that,” Yaya told her before I could decide on what to say.
Sarah nodded in understanding, her jowls jiggling. But I still didn’t see her neck.
Back in the car, I didn’t share my disappointment in the setup with Yaya. They were obviously friends and I didn’t want to risk offending either of them. But I had imagined a glass building with high-ceilinged rooms painted white in which designers decked in all-black bent over work tables with sewing chalk and scissors in hand. The next place we visited fit that description almost perfectly. It was in Ridge and was run by an older male designer whose name I had known even before I started sewing. But his works, which were displayed on mannequins in glass cases along a narrow corridor, were not as remarkable as Sarah’s and his demeanor was even less appealing. He kept us waiting for an hour and a half and then when he finally called us into his office, it was for four minutes. He stood behind a large work table in a Chairman Mao–inspired suit, sketching, and even as he spoke to us he remained hunched over the table, eyes trained on the sheet of paper before him. When he did lift up his head, he spoke only to Yaya. After telling her that he was “Ghana’s king of fashion,” he directed her to his assistant for any other information that she might need and went back to his sketching.
Yaya sucked her teeth as we walked out of his office. “That one is such a diva,” she said. I raised my eyebrows in question because I had only heard female singers referred to as divas. I didn’t know that a man could be one too. Anyway, we both agreed that his wasn’t the place for me. The next two schools we visited fell somewhere between Sarah’s and the diva’s. By the time we went for lunch, we had both agreed that Sarah’s would be best for me.
“And it’s close to the flat,” Yaya said over a plate of pasta. She had insisted that I order the pasta because it was the best dish on the menu and I had agreed even though I would have preferred jollof or fried rice. Now as she spoke, I struggled to get the pasta, which I had only known as macaroni before that day, to stay on my fork long enough for me to put the fork in my mouth. She pretended like she wasn’t seeing the doughy strings sliding off my fork and landing with a plop in the plate. If I were at home I would have eaten this with my fingers. Around us, all of the other patrons appeared to have control of their food.
“When will I start with Sarah?” I asked Yaya.
“Anytime. You can even start tomorrow if you want.”
“That’s good. Thank you so much.
I picked up the fork again and tried to imitate Yaya by twisting it in the plate until there was a roll of pasta on it. This time I was able to get most of the food into my mouth.
“Are you also in the fashion business?” I asked her. I wouldn’t have been so bold in Ho, but now as we both faced each other in the restaurant, I felt comfortable enough to ask her that question.
“No,” she said laughing. “I manage my mother’s distribution centers in Accra and Tema and I also help my brothers.” She didn’t seem bothered by my question so I continued.
“Do you live around us?”
“I’m quite close by, in East Legon, near Fo Eli’s . . .” She paused abruptly and looked down at her plate as though something of interest, besides the pasta, had suddenly appeared on it. “I’m about fifteen minutes away from your flat,” she finally said, her eyes trained on a spot beyond my head. We both fell silent after that.
So, Eli lived only fifteen minutes away from me.
My mother was waiting for me when I arrived home. I imagined that she had been sitting in the same spot since that morning, glaring at the door, ready to pounce. She didn’t even say “Woede” when I walked in. Instead she narrowed her eyes and said, “Be careful, Afi, be careful.”
“What have I done this time?” I dared to ask her. I sat in one of the dining room chairs instead of beside her in the sitting room; the farther away the better.
“I am your mother and I know what is best for you. You are not smarter than me.”
“Yoo, I’ve heard.” I was taking off my shoes as she spoke.
“Don’t think that you now know everything because a big man has married you and you have come to live in this palace in Accra.”
“Yoo, I’ve heard.”
“I am warning you.”
“Yoo, I’ve heard.” I stood up and began walking to my bedroom, desperate to escape her lecture. But I was not lucky this time around because she followed me and for the next hour, railed about how my stubbornness would only create problems for me, for all of us.
It was a phone call from Eli, who wanted to know how my day with Yaya went, that brought an end to her talking. That night as I lay in bed, I thought of the peace of mind I would have when she left and also about how it would feel to live by myself. I also thought of how good it would feel to have someone by my side at that moment. I imagined Richard with his secret girlfriend next door. How I envied them.
While I did not have what Richard and his girlfriend had, I didn’t have to wait long for my mother to leave. Aunty came to Accra on Saturday and my mother went back to Ho with her. As I had expected, she delivered another lecture on the morning of her departure; a lecture that I did not listen to, despite my constant nodding. At least Aunty seemed happy with me. She did not blame me for Eli’s failure to return to the flat. She told us that once again, the problem was the Liberian woman. She had finally decided to return to Ghana with their daughter Ivy and had been fighting with Eli since she heard about our marriage. Not only had she vowed not to move out of Eli’s house, out of our house, but she was doing everything she could to prevent him from coming to see me.
“She has started following Eli around town in her car and has paid people to spy on him. She also threatened to run away with Ivy if he comes to see you. She has even threatened to harm herself!” Aunty told us. We were standing around the dining table, which I had set for lunch. The irony of it all, a girlfriend, in fact, an ex-girlfriend stopping a husband from seeing his wife!
“But what kind of problem is this?” my mother asked, seemingly more worried than Aunty.
Aunty only shook her head; we all knew the kind of problem it was.
I wanted to ask her why Eli didn’t simply take Ivy and send the woman to live in America or one of those other countries she enjoyed visiting. After all, it was his child and she was an unfit mother. From what I had heard, Ivy would be better off separated from her. And what could she possibly do to Eli if he took the girl away? No judge would side with her if she decided to take the matter to court. And even if one tried to, Eli would only have to slip him a wad of cash for a favorable ruling. There was no reason for this situation to drag on. And all that talk of harming herself was just bluff; that woman enjoyed spending Eli’s money too much to take her own life. But I knew better than to say any of this to Aunty, a woman who still saw me as a child. So instead, I promised her that I would continue to do my best. A promise that was for me as much as it was for her.
“You are already doing a lot, my dear. And don’t lose heart, this is all temporary. The end is coming for that woman,” Aunty assured me. Her words lessened the anxiety that I had been feeling. I had all along been thinking that the woman was still abroad, but now she was back and at it again. Well, at least now my mother would stop berating me for driving Eli away.<
br />
I began at Sarah’s the next week, almost one month after I moved to Accra, and immediately immersed myself in my training, which was to last for one year. Her workshop and the showroom at the front of the house, which I had not seen on my first visit, made up Sarah L Creations. She told me that her parents had given her the house after they retired and moved back to their hometown. She was constructing a multistory building nearby, to which she planned to transfer her workshop, and promised to show it to me when she had the time. From my first day, Sarah treated me differently from the other students. Even though I called her Sister Sarah, she regularly invited me to join her for lunch in her office and chatted freely with me. The other students—three men and a woman—only got instructions and directions out of her. Still, they were all smiles and welcomed me into their midst. As the days went by, we became friendlier and I would even give a couple of them lifts home in the evenings. Their reception was a relief because I was insecure about working with people who had university degrees and likely knew much more than what Sister Lizzie had taught me. I didn’t want to embarrass Yaya, who had personally vouched for me, and I definitely didn’t want to disappoint Eli who seemed invested in my training.
My driver, Mensah, who lived a thirty-minute trotro ride away, was waiting for me downstairs every morning at seven. When I sat in the car, he would say a quick prayer under his breath, switch on the radio, and then we would set off. Even though the workshop was about seven kilometers away from King’s Court, it always took us more than thirty minutes to arrive. Rush hour traffic in Accra was like nothing I had ever seen. Cars so close together that bumpers touched, people looking for shortcuts so that they drove on sidewalks and in illegal lanes such that a one-lane road suddenly had two lines of cars and no one, not even the police officers stationed at these choke points, could figure out which lane was the approved one. The trotro drivers, who were the worst offenders, wreaked havoc. In a bid to easily pick up passengers, they drove on the shoulders of the road and displaced pedestrians in the process, not caring that getting out of the way meant falling into an open gutter. When they attempted to force their way back into the regular lane, there were ear-splitting honks, scratches, dents, broken side mirrors, and smashed tail lights. And, of course, obscenities from all sides. It didn’t help that Mensah also sometimes drove like a trotro driver and never allowed them to cut in front of him. On many days, I held my breath, gripped the door handle, and prayed that I arrived at work with the Camry intact.
Sarah expected us to be at the workshop at eight. I usually got there at least twenty minutes before, giving me enough time to buy Hausa koko and sugar bread from a woman a few houses down. Unlike Sister Lizzie, Sarah did not expect her trainees to sweep, mop, fetch water, and run errands before the start of work. The other workers did those things; all I had to do was come up with designs, cut, and sew. Sarah didn’t treat us like apprentices, she treated us like employees. We didn’t wear a uniform and even though her kitchen was a few feet away from where we worked, she never asked us to cook for her. Her professionalism was such that when work began at 8:00 a.m., and we always began at 8:00 a.m., it was as though we were in a glass-paneled multi-story building with high-ceilinged offices.
I occasionally brought lunch from home but I usually bought lunch from a food stall nearby that was owned by the koko seller’s sister. By the end of March, Eli had twice sent over his driver with an envelope of cash, which I had begun to think of as my monthly allowance. I kept most of this money wrapped in a plastic bag in one of my suitcases but had enough left over to see to my daily needs, send money to my mother and once to Mawusi, and to shop in the boutiques near my flat if I wanted. On most days, I bought lunch for Mensah too. In the beginning, I would send him home and tell him to come back for me at five but Richard later told me to have him wait for me until I finished work.
“But what will he be doing for nine hours?” I asked Richard, alarmed.
“He’s a professional driver, he knows what to do.” he said. “What if you need to go somewhere in the middle of the day and he’s not there?”
But where did I have to go? My life consisted of going to school and coming home. Thanks to the traffic, it was always almost dark when we drove through the gates of King’s Court. The only variation in this routine was on the weekends. On Saturdays Mensah drove me to the market, the Madina market, not the one near me with the inflated prices. There I did my shopping for the week with a kayayo by my side, balancing my purchases in a basin on her head for a small fee. I was always happy to leave the market with its throng of people, all of whom seemed to be going everywhere and nowhere at the same time. I bumped into someone every time I twitched. Sellers incessantly called out “Madam” to passing shoppers so that I soon learned not to turn my head, no matter how persistent the call. Many of them had set their tables in the pathway meant for shoppers and motorists so that when vehicles drove into the market, everyone, buyers and sellers alike, had to scamper out of the way, goods in hand. No one moved fast enough for the drivers who drove with one hand on the horn and the other on the wheel. Their persistent honks combined with the cries of the market women and the shouts of the shoppers as they were crushed against pickup trucks loaded with goods and livestock.
All of this was made worse when it rained. Black mud, combined with filth, flew from under the spinning tires of cars and tried to swallow up sandals or slippers. All of this happened in a pungent cloud of raw meat, fish, and rotting fruits and vegetables. The chaos was unlike anything I had seen in Ho. Our big market, even on market days, had far fewer people and was so much cleaner. I always immediately hopped into the shower and then took a nap when I returned home. With my mother gone, there was no one to tell me that women didn’t sleep in the afternoon or that fish should be descaled and gutted before being placed in the freezer. The remainder of my Saturdays was spent watching films and reading books and magazines I borrowed from Sarah. On Sunday mornings, I went to the Catholic church in Adenta, taking a taxi because Sunday was Mensah’s day off. I then cooked enough food for the week when I returned home. I would have liked to cook for Eli too but he had clearly told me not to do so, unless he called to say he was coming.
I spoke with Mawusi every day. She had promised to come visit in June during the long vacation, before she began her semester abroad. I also spoke with Eli every day. He made sure to call me during lunchtime or after work. In the first few days, our conversations never lasted beyond one minute and consisted mainly of him asking me how I was and me telling him that I was fine. But they grew longer as the days passed. I soon found myself discussing minute details of my life with him—what I had for lunch, something funny Sarah said at work, something I’d seen on TV. He too began to open up, mostly telling me about his projects, his business partners and employees, and his many travels. Those conversations were the highlight of my day and I always waited eagerly for his number to appear on my screen. The only topic that was never on the table when we spoke was the other woman. He quickly made it clear that he had no desire to talk about that other part of his life. Not with me. He would briefly say something about Ivy, especially when she wasn’t feeling well and when he was worried about her health, but he never mentioned her mother.
When I asked when I would next see him, he was noncommittal: “Soon, I will come soon.” As much as I enjoyed and looked forward to his calls, and felt like I was getting to know him, I was unhappy about his absence; phone calls, no matter how long, how friendly, and occasionally bordering on the romantic they were, couldn’t make up for the fact that I hadn’t seen him since he first visited. Worse still, the phone calls made me long to be with him in person; if I enjoyed speaking to him on the phone so much, imagine how much I would enjoy his company. I found some consolation in Aunty’s promise that the situation was temporary: The woman was behaving erratically, Eli feared for his child, he wanted to decisively end one relationship before beginning another, she told my mother. These messages, when relayed to
me, made it a bit easier for me not to dwell too much on the fact that I was a married woman, who since her wedding day more than two months ago, had only seen her husband, who lived fifteen minutes away, once.
“They are working on it. Aunty, Fo Richard, Fo Fred, everybody, they are all working on it so don’t worry,” my mother assured me after three weeks of only phone calls from Eli.
“This Liberian woman must be truly powerful if all these people are needed to get rid of her,” I said, half jokingly.
“I have told you that this thing is spiritual. Do you think that it is natural for a man to defy his whole family, even the elders, for the sake of a woman, especially that kind of woman? You have to be patient and as you wait, call on the Lord to open your husband’s eyes and cause him to come to himself.”
“Okay,” I said, even though I didn’t need her to tell me to pray. I had been praying about almost nothing but this since the day she told me that I would be marrying Eli. But the prayers were no longer giving me as much hope. I began to panic by the sixth week after our one meeting; I had been married for almost eight weeks and there was still no husband by my side! How in the world was I going to turn things around when I wasn’t even being given the chance? And how much longer were the Ganyos going to accept me as a wife who couldn’t perform my duties? Would they eventually tire of my failure and ask me to pack my things and go back to Ho? Would I be able to show my face in Ho after all of this?
During this time, Yaya invited me to go out with her often. I think she felt sorry for me. One Friday after work we went to the cinema. I normally wouldn’t have enjoyed the film because it did not have a happy ending, but the experience of seeing it on a large screen, while I ate warm, buttered popcorn, made the ending bearable. Afterward, we spilled out of the theatre with the crowd of mainly young couples and headed to the parking lot. But instead of taking me home, Yaya drove to a house in West Airport where one of her friends was hosting a party. I would have said no if she had first asked me if I wanted to go. I had only begun to be a bit comfortable in her presence; I didn’t need the stress of spending time with her posh friends.
His Only Wife Page 8