The God Child

by Nana Oforiatta Ayim

  On RTL 4, chubby teenage boys ran around beaches, Benny Hill-style, trying rapidly, with accompanying music, to sleep with as many girls as they could.

  On ARD, a close-up of the face of a beautiful woman, black and white, the wind tussling her blonde hair as she stood on a gorse-scattered cliff. I watched her beauty, the movement of her body, and looked down at my breasts that were beginning to make mounds under my T-shirt.

  I went to the bathroom and filled the tub with hot water, lay in it until the skin on the tips of my fingers paled and webbed, filling and refilling the water; savouring the endless efficient flow of German heat; driving out memories of British finiteness, cold-running baths, early-morning hockey practice, holey cashmere jumpers that signified wealth and abandon, self-inflicted stoic suffering, Kojo, my mother. I got dressed and walked to the same marketplace I had walked to hours before. In the telephone kiosk, I dialled her number. I was not meant to give her our number at home, so she would not bother him, my father said.

  There was no need for hellos or how are yous. ‘Call me, Mummy. I’ll be home in ten minutes.’

  ‘Darling, what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh-ho, I can hear it. Have you eaten?’ she asked; eternal concern which posited that everything, even a sore heart, might be mended by a meal.

  But I knew that there were some things that could not; some things I could not explain to her.

  In England, my mother had brought over Kwame, one of the many cousins she took into to our homes: in Germany, in England, later in Ghana; arranged passports, visas, flights, clothes. Some stayed weeks, some months, some even years, though it was only Kojo who really became one of her own, her god child, her protected one. Kwame, arrived in Michael Jackson tendrils, white vests, a leather jacket, a cross around his neck, a burn on his hand from a childhood accident and a deep, Barry White-like, almost sarcastic, laugh. He began working at McDonald’s and, in the evenings when my mother stayed late at the lab, looked after me with television, crisps and Coca-Cola. It was one evening like this I lay next to him on my mother’s bed. He put his hand down his trousers and with the other touched me, held me closer and closer to him until I could no longer breathe, until it stopped. He moved away soon after, and I dreamt the dream of forgetting, but the wound in my stomach grew so that my skin hurt from breathing. I hugged myself in to contain it, bit on my tongue to stop it from seeping, drowning me out.

  I walked home, heard the phone ring even before I had unlocked the door.

  I told her of a friend whom I loved, who had tried, for reasons I could not explain, to take something away that I loved, and how it hurt.

  ‘Darling,’ my mother said, in a voice that was calmer, lower, than the one I knew, ‘what God has given to you, no one can take away.’

  I nodded and held the phone next to my cheek even after she was gone, so that the sound, which came from behind the closed front door, broke into silence.

  I got up and opened it quickly so as not to be afraid of what lay beyond.

  My father and I were both surprised to be standing, suddenly, face to face.

  He, with a look of intent listening; his eyes deep with hurt and betrayal.

  I, trying to blink away the confusion that flushed my body hot.

  17

  I managed to avoid Zinaida for days, missing classes we were meant to be in together by feigning illness, pretending not to hear her when she spoke.

  But still she came into my room as I lay on the bed with my uncle’s book, holding a gift wrapped in crumpled tissue paper. I hesitated, holding in my head the story of pride that forever cast her asunder, then reached out and took it.

  We grinned widely, stupidly, for a few minutes and even though I had other friends, Zinaida was always in my mind the first. It was not just that we coordinated our clothes or were so elated in each other’s company that our voices were often a chorus of high-pitched rush, breathlessness and laughter; or that we had an elaborate handshake that was ours alone. I had had friends like that before and would after. It was that in her refusal to let me go she created a home that was forever mine.

  She leant over and whispered to me, even though there was no one else in the room. She had asked for an exeat. She was going to meet Max. She had referred to him before as a boyfriend, but he was always away at boarding school, and I had never met him. She would arrange it so that I could come and Max would bring Sebastian and we would all have so much fun.

  She seemed to have forgotten already her former affection for Sebastian, and wished him on me wholeheartedly.

  I had promised Kojo that I would soon be finished with the book. He was right, it was one only of personal defeat. What we needed was a book of victories.

  What would we do with our story once it was written? I asked Kojo again and again. Rewriting was only the first step.

  ‘Wait and see,’ Kojo always said, as if he were centuries older, ‘wait and see.’

  The boys picked us up outside the heavy door of the back Pforte.

  Max was tall and lanky and spotty. She ran to him, jumped up and wrapped her legs around him, like a Monchichi. Her lips stuck to his and he tussled her hair like in one of the frisky films they showed late at night on TV, emulating people in love.

  I did not look at Sebastian though I could feel the heat of his energy radiating towards me.

  We walked around the town for hours, stopped for ice cream and McDonald’s, until it was time to go back. We stood outside the door he had picked me up at; he in a large hoodie that swamped his frame, and green jeans, and I wondered if the boys dyed theirs together like we did, or whether they did it at home alone. He wore the Vans trainers they all did, and there was a chain around his neck. He looked only half himself, without his skateboard in his hand.

  ‘Goodnight then,’ I said. I could see in his eyes a mixture of anxiety and excitement that filtered back into my own.

  He leant towards me, until his body was hard against mine.

  My heart beat in my throat.

  His lips were dry.

  Back at school, the phone rang almost as soon as I reached the top of the stairs.

  Someone called out my name.

  When I picked up the receiver, it was his voice, already, on the other end.

  ‘Just a minute.’ I called Zinaida. I cradled the phone between the two of us so she could hear.

  He was stuttering something.

  We both began giggling, silently.

  There was a pause. ‘Is someone else there?’

  I had my hand over my laughing mouth, gesticulated for her to take the receiver.

  She opened her mouth. Laughter spilled out. She held her stomach. ‘He’s hung up.’

  I kept laughing, as loudly as I could, imitating the cadence of hers, hoping she would not see through the hollow tone.

  When the phone rang for me again, I thought it might be him – like her, not willing to give up – but it was not.

  ‘Hello?’ Instead it was my father’s voice, cautious.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘I trusted you,’ he said. ‘I told you not to give her our number. I know what I am doing.’

  ‘She is my mother. I am still only a child.’

  He paused. ‘Something has happened with Kojo. He has gone missing from school. Your mother is on a flight. I will go and pick her up from the airport.’

  ‘Kojo’s gone? Gone where?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘What happened? Are you going to pick me up too?’

  My mind was still ringing with the feeling that had opened up between my legs.

  I had neglected Kojo for Zinaida, had skipped pages in the book, had not paid enough attention.

  I sat, paralysed by the knowledge that it was all somehow my fault.

  18

  My father and I did not speak on the way to the airport.

  Once there, I stood watching the planes arrive, as he stood at the gate.

  I heard my mother
’s voice before I saw her.

  ‘Is this my daughter? Aaa! What is she wearing? Is this how she has grown? In these jeans? Aaa! And her hair?’

  Hello Mother, I said in my head, not looking at all the German people looking at me.

  She put her hand through my hair; I pushed it away. She smelt of Chanel perfume, powdery and sweet. She had gold bracelets on her wrist and a gold watch with diamonds. She was wearing a black-and-white chequered suit with patent black flat shoes and gold buckles. Even now, she somehow trapped the sun beneath her skin.

  In the car, my father showed my mother Kojo’s report. I took it from her.

  Despite the fact that Kojo’s group tutor, housemaster and subject tutors have done their very best this term to persuade and coerce him to work, their efforts have been in vain and he has made minimal progress. This is a summary of the present situation:

  English, O level – comprehension good, essays spoiled by careless spelling and punctuation. He could pass but is likely to get a D.

  Mathematics, CSE – very easily distracted. Has made some effort in the last few weeks.

  Physics – far too casual.

  Art – lacks concentration.

  Engineering – has potential but will not use it.

  Electronics – does the minimum of work necessary to keep out of trouble.

  There is the faint possibility that through revision during the holidays, followed by great and consistent efforts next term, he may partially redeem the situation, but I do not feel optimistic.

  In view of this I feel that I must repeat the statement that I made at our last meeting.

  Kojo has failed to take advantage of the academic, sporting or social opportunities of the school and, as there are no signs of a radical change of heart on his part, his future here must be limited.

  It would be a wise move on your part, therefore, to give written notice of your intention to withdraw Kojo from the school at the end of the spring term.

  I have talked to our Careers Adviser about his possible future. Like me, they feel that there is little point in continuing with Kojo’s education in view of his present attitude, for no progress will be made until he realises the necessity of education and hard work.

  We would suggest, therefore, that you should put Kojo out to work in a rather lowly capacity, which is all he is at present fitted for, under the supervision of someone you can trust, and being paid the appropriate salary, in the hope that this rather harsh treatment will bring him to his senses and force him to realise that it is up to him to make the most of his undoubted abilities to undertake courses of further education of a definite vocational nature.

  If he were to realise this in the next year, it would not be too late for him to make a fresh start at a new establishment.

  I regret having to write this letter, but assume that under the circumstances you will wish to send the customary term’s notice and make the appropriate arrangements for Kojo’s future.

  ‘Is this why he disappeared?’ I asked.

  My father shook his head; it was because one of the assistant teachers had slapped him, and he had slapped her back.

  ‘Too right,’ my mother said.

  I looked at her.

  We arrived at the Catholic boys’ boarding school that was also a monastery. There were llamas grazing in the field outside and the sky was dark as octopus ink. Kojo was already back in his room, where cards of NASA astronauts plastered the wall.

  ‘No child of mine is going to work in – what do you call it? – a lowly capacity. Pack your things.’

  They had already been packed.

  At home, there were now everywhere suitcases of clothes, the yams and plantains and snails she had brought from home. I lay on the sofa amidst half-empty pots of cream foundation and face powder, blunt eye pencils and skin-brightening creams.

  I took the book from my bag and opened it almost at the end.

  There was a black and white photograph of Kojo inside.

  He was with his sisters, and smiling with all his teeth, as well as his eyes.

  It was so different from the picture of him I had seen at his school, shoulders hunched in his uniform as if to guard from the cold, or some even bigger threat.

  I heard through the closed door the sound of my parents’ raised, syncopated voices.

  I finished the last paragraphs and went into Kojo’s room.

  ‘Why are you always getting into trouble?’ I slammed the door.

  ‘Why are you?’

  ‘At least I’m going back to school.’

  ‘I want to go home,’ he said.

  ‘You are home.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’m not. Will you come with me?’

  In my mind I shook my head; I was not ready. ‘Do you think we’ve done enough?’

  ‘I think so,’ he whispered. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Where?’ I snuck the book with the pages of my rewrite under the mattress.

  He held up my mother’s car keys. We had both thought her story a fairy tale until she bought a BMW on the day before her birthday.

  We put on our coats.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

  Outside he unlocked her new car.

  We got in.

  He turned the ignition.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  He stop-started the car down the road. ‘Which way?’

  ‘Straight,’ I said, praying we could drive away and not come back.

  ‘Let’s go and get some sweets.’

  The car was jumping ahead. There were no other cars.

  ‘We should go back, Kojo.’

  ‘We’re almost there.’

  ‘We should go back. I don’t have a good feeling.’

  He looked at me, then started reversing the car in the middle of the road.

  It stopped.

  He started it again.

  It sped backwards – flattening a fence – into a neatly planted flowery garden, almost hitting the house.

  He put the car back into gear with both hands.

  We stop-started again towards the apartment.

  We left the car in the car park and went back up in silence.

  Upstairs he lay on the bed, playing Dungeons and Dragons.

  I looked at his hair, his head, his hands.

  I looked at the loose pages of the book sticking out from under the mattress.

  I looked out of the window, not really looking, so that even though I saw the blue lights flashing through the glass and into the room, it was not until the siren stopped that I realised what it was, and the panic that was now constant in me, the scream that was a lake that was the feeling that we were only just surviving, widened up to take me over.

  PART FOUR

  19

  I lay on my bed as the anaemic London sun shone through the red and gold sari cloth I had hung for a curtain. I looked at the books stacked in piles around the room, the pastel drawings and magazine cut-outs on the walls, newspaper fragments listing jobs, aborted attempts at essays spread out over the large wooden desk; the rail at the end of the bed, hung with printed, patterned, knitted, gold-threaded clothes, bought with the proceeds of my mother’s borrowed dreams.

  It was not so long ago that I had looked at my clothes with the excitement of an artist choosing the right palette, or like the Black Barbie doll someone once called me. Now I lay still as a corpse on display, the teak of my arms against the creased white of my sheets. The zebra-patterned bag I had carried my belongings in from flat to flat when I first arrived in the city lay crumpled on the floor by the clothes rail. My mother and I had bought the bag in a small shop near Harrods, where wealthy ladies went to sell hordes of brand-new, still tagged, clothes to make room for more.

  The shop was close to one of the apartments in Knightsbridge or Mayfair, which she rented in the school holidays, all with the same anonymity of opulent rented spaces, that rose
higher on the gradient of grandeur as my mother and Nii Tetteh flew back and forth from Switzerland to the Caymans to Ghana; from hotel rooms to banks to Ghanaian courts, fighting for the release of the money they were adamant was locked in their vaults, as investors poured money into the promise of endless returns.

  Kojo and I had made sure the book was found, then stopped talking about it, even amongst ourselves, as if its provenance had nothing to do with us.

  It was now a mythic story of a kingdom, a nation that rose, smoothly, united, despite the things that tore at it, and in which the future was foretold as one of glory and global dominion. Whole extracts were dedicated to the objects Kojo knew had been stolen, vanished or sold. We had not held back, but amplified each impression, every goal, just as my mother did not hold back in her enthusiasm, manifesting at each turn the billions that would soon be hers.

  There were several missed calls from Kojo.

  I dialled his number in Accra.

  ‘You do not have enough credit to make this call,’ a helpful woman intoned.

  I got out of bed and looked through the pockets of my dark pink suede swing coat. I emptied the zebra bag, put my hand through a hole in the quilted gold lining, went into the small kitchen, its yellow walls warming the incoming rays of the sun. I emptied the pot of change by the gas cooker: one pound thirty-six pence. Three pounds and sixty-four pence more and I could call Kojo back.

  I sat down at the small wooden kitchen table and picked up the packet of Marlboro Reds that Zinaida had left.

  The day before, I had gone to the cinema on my own, used my last money to watch Antonioni caress Monica Vitti on the screen, needing to escape the constant fullness of my head, the emptiness of my stomach.

  I had imagined another life for university, a search for meanings beyond words, long conversations about Plato and Tolstoy and truth and art, but had found it a conveyor belt of hollow pretence, until Zinaida appeared in London, wearing a leopard-skin coat, bright red lipstick, and alligator-skin high-heeled boots that made her walk fast and at a bit of a stoop, as if slowing down would make her fall. She looked now like a young Cruella de Vil. Mirroring, as she had before, whichever boy she was dating. She had gone to live on an island in Goa before university, started following the precepts of the Indian guru Osho, had taken an HIV test on arrival, slept with fourteen other people in the spirit of elevated love, posed as a nude model for extra money, and lay in flotation tanks in the gaps between lectures for balance and serenity. We coordinated outfits, running down daffodil-covered hills in North London to watch silent films like Man with a Movie Camera and reading Chekhov to each other in Café Rouge, laughing at our own pretension.