‘Please, madam. Oheneba. Please, calm yourself.’
My mother fell into the doctor’s arms. She was shaking. The doctor tried to lift her back on to her feet.
‘I will come. Please … wait.’
The receptionist reappeared.
‘Please wake Dr Nketia up,’ he said to her. ‘Tell him I will be back soon. I will get my case.’
‘Hurry,’ my mother said. ‘Oh God. It is not time for him to go. Deliver him.’
At the house, Kojo was still on the bed. The choirmaster was holding his hand.
‘Awurade. My son.’ My mother held her stomach when she saw him.
‘Please wait outside.’ The doctor closed the door.
My mother walked up and down the courtyard. ‘Ha ba la sha ka fa sa ta re di ka re fa la sha mi ka sip o ta ra ke si me fa sha bi do ke ra mi so la ki ra bo la shi fa la so.’
I could not normally take her seriously when she spoke in tongues – her pacing and delivery were too dramatic for my own more muted idea of the sacred – but I paced too, focusing my energy on her supplications as she fell down on her knees with surprising dexterity, her arms skywards. ‘Jesus,’ she said, ‘save my son. Jesus, it is not time for him to go. Jesus, you have said that by your covenant all my children are protected. He is no son of my womb, Jesus, but he is a son of my heart. Protect him, heal him, save him.’
I walked out onto the street and looked at the palm trees my grandfather had planted. ‘Make him all right, Grandfather. Who else will carry on your fight?’ I touched a tree trunk and closed my eyes.
There were voices behind me. It was the doctor speaking to my mother.
I ran to where they stood.
‘You must take him back to Accra. He has suffered some kind of nervous attack. He is very agitated. He needs rest now. I have given him a sedative. Please—’ He beckoned towards the room.
My mother went in first. ‘Don’t worry … God is with you.’ She put her hand on Kojo’s damp forehead and began to pray.
‘Madam, one more thing,’ the doctor called into the room. She followed him out.
Kojo held his hand up towards me, and I knelt by the bed.
‘I am so scared, Maya. I am so afraid.’
‘What are you so afraid of?’
‘I was attacked, in my sleep, by three people – two women and a man. He had a gun. He shot at me. My heart stopped.’
I had never seen Kojo look frightened before; the fear that laced his eyes shook into me.
‘Do you believe me, Maya?’
‘Of course I believe you.’ I held his hand, which was dry and hard. ‘But you’re all right now. Nothing will happen to you. You have to rest.’
He lay back. ‘I have so much to do. This evening I must drive to Kwahu. Will you come with me?’
‘I don’t think you should go tonight. Rest.’
‘I must. In the next election I stand for MP. You will support me, won’t you?’
‘You know I will always be your biggest cheerleader.’
He smiled. ‘Yes, I know. We must go on with our project now before they try and stop us.’
‘Who will stop us…?’
Before he could answer my mother came in, shouting orders at the driver to collect all our things and put them in the car.
I sat next to Kojo in the back of the Terrano jeep as we drove along the windy roads to Accra. He had his eyes closed. The mist over the mountains was beginning to clear. He opened them when we drove through the town where the ceremony had taken place, as if he had been tracking our path unconsciously, and told the story of being shot in his dream to my mother.
‘This is what comes of going to all these juju ceremonies. Your head fills with nonsense.’ She held tightly to the handle above the car window, then turned and said with the tone of wisdom that sometimes coated her words, ‘They cannot harm you, Kojo. You are protected.’
‘You of all people call them juju ceremonies when you know of their importance? You wonder why misfortune rains on us when our ceremonies are neglected? We are all running, towards a time that will never stand still, as if it has not all been before. And our souls are covered in dirt, but we will not stop to wash them.’
‘It is all in God’s hands, Kojo,’ my mother said quietly.
‘Your God that serves whose purpose?’ Kojo replied, looking out of the window.
The trees were growing denser now. Their different shapes and sizes stepped up the mountains like green curtains; above them hung the clouds that signalled the beginning of the rainy season. I put my head on the shoulder that I had known and loved since girlhood.
I woke up outside the yellow-painted bungalow that was Kojo’s house.
The blond dogs slowly circled the car. Dogs always kept their distance from people in this country where they were never treated with the care reserved for humans.
Kojo’s wife Araba came out. She straightened her hair against her head and retied the crumpled wrapper covering her kaba and slit.
Behind her came Yaw, pushing at her mother’s calves, and Abena, quiet, with the same deep eyes as her father.
Kojo opened the door. ‘You have been sleeping in the day again? You good-for-nothing woman. Take my things out of the car. Hurry up.’ He waved the dogs away.
‘Good morning,’ my mother said, looking Araba up and down. ‘How can you greet your husband like this? Just because you are married does not mean you must lay waste to yourself. Aah. Look after him.’ She patted her on the cheek through the open car window. ‘He has had an attack. We will pass by after church.’ She turned to Kojo. ‘As for you, I advise you not to do anything foolish or hasty in this house. I will come after church to see you both.’
‘We’re going to church, Mum?’
My mother ignored me.
‘What’s going on with Kojo and his wife?’
‘He wants to throw her out of the house, because of that small girl he is running around with. Araba is a foolish woman – she lost money for one of his businesses – but she is his children’s mother.’
‘I’m sure Kojo has his reasons,’ I said, and crossed my arms. I always defended Kojo, even if his behaviour towards women was inexcusable in anyone else. I remembered now the young woman, with the skin colour they called red and the large Afro wig, whom I saw him disappear with at the ceremony. I only caught her from afar, but from her shape and walk she was probably in her early twenties. ‘Is she nice, Mummy?’
‘The last one was better,’ my mother said, meaning the last girlfriend had fawned over her and this one did not. She took out a hairbrush from her bag, turned to the back seat, and started pulling at my hair.
‘Ouch. What are you doing?’
‘You cannot enter the church looking like that. It’s shame enough that you have not had your bath this morning.’
‘I don’t have to go.’
‘We have to pray for Kojo. If you knew how serious this was, you would not be smiling from the side of your mouth like that.’
‘I wasn’t smiling,’ I said, and took the hairbrush. I gently pulled at my hair with it and looked out of the window as we drove past the open shacks that sold plumbing goods and soft drinks. Women wearing white lace and kente were walking to and from church, and young children ran in the street through the traffic-locked cars. We pulled up to the large half-finished building. It looked more like a stadium than a church. The sign above it read ‘Christ the Mission International Gospel Church’. The congregation were waving their white handkerchiefs and swaying to the slightly off-key band. ‘Efi sɛ, oh yeah,’ they sang as a man on the podium waved his handkerchief above his head.
It was the man from the billboard, wearing a white Mao-style shirt and black suit jacket. He was singing with his eyes closed and was short, like the Wizard of Oz.
My mother stepped, in her gold-slippered feet, across the red earth. Gold shimmered in her long sheer coat as she walked through the crowd towards the pulpit, parting the sea of common worshippers, just like Jesus
himself. She walked with her chin jutting out, her lips curved downwards at the edges, her gold-coloured handbag jammed in the crook of her arm. She waved at people as she went, and they waved their handkerchiefs at her in time with the music. When she reached the pulpit, the band had stopped. I bowed and hid behind her just as the priest bent down to lay his hand on my mother’s head.
‘Jee-sus, let your daughter grace us with her blessings. Let your spirit move in her. Jee-sus.’
Before he had time to start speaking in tongues, she opened her golden purse and laid out the notes in his hand. Not Ghana cedis, but crisp new American dollars.
With every note, the priest prayed more fervently, ‘Mabalakatasatema.’
The congregation waved their handkerchiefs higher, like groupies waving their mobile phones at a rock concert.
He held the white-and-green notes above his head. ‘Be-hold,’ he shouted in a high-pitched voice, ‘the spirit is moving within us.’
‘Amen,’ the congregation shouted back.
My mother danced as the drums and guitar began their high-pitched serenade.
Two men in suits, and a woman with the face of the priest printed onto her kaba and slit, rushed to get two empty chairs.
‘Anyone bringing dollars for offering, come and receive your blessings,’ the priest was shouting. ‘Let the Holy Spirit take control.’
My mother opened her bag and gave me a note.
‘No, Mummy,’ I said, but she pushed me forward.
She nodded to the front, and was beginning to look embarrassed.
I joined the line of dancing people before the pulpit.
When I went to hand over the note, the priest bent forward.
‘Habaklashatimakafalasakabramkatosi,’ he began. ‘Jee-sus,’ he put his hand on my forehead, ‘Holy Spirit. Enter your child. Jee-sus.’
I could feel the laughter rising inside me. I pressed my lips together as the priest pushed his hand harder and harder against my forehead.
‘Jeeeee-sus,’ he shouted loudly.
I covered my mouth to stop from laughing out loud, but the priest had already opened his eyes with a look of surprise. I turned around and walked back towards my mother. She shook her head. I buried my head in her arm. The priest now prayed for a large woman in a long lime-green dress. She fell onto the floor as soon as he touched her forehead. Two suited men ran up to catch her and held her as she flung herself across the ground, covering her green lace with red earth, like someone in the throes of an epileptic fit. The band played even louder and the man next to us started jogging up and down in tune with the rhythm. I looked over at my mother. She had her eyes closed and was dancing to the music, mumbling prayers under her breath. I swayed with her, closed my eyes and prayed silently. ‘Please God. Let Kojo be all right.’
After the priest had asked the congregation to come up for their hierarchy of blessings, we went to his office. The waiting room was crowded with people, queuing for more absolution. My mother marched straight to the door, and opened it.
‘Oheneba, princess.’ The priest stood up as she walked in.
The person who had been sitting in front of the desk also stood, and waved my mother into his seat. I sat down next to her. There was a gold-framed picture of the priest with his wife and two children on his desk, and a glass-covered bookshelf, with books on business and scripture, behind him. On the wall hung framed certificates commemorating the priest’s international achievements.
‘Papa, you know of my brother’s son Kojo, the politician. He is not well. He has had a spiritual attack and I need him to be covered with the blood of Jesus.’
The priest nodded. ‘Let us pray.’
We got up and held hands with the priest as he prayed forcefully for Kojo’s soul, and this time I did not laugh.
When we got home, I lay down on the bed and must have slept into the night, because it was dark when I opened my eyes, and I was still wearing my pink dress. I did not know at first what had woken me.
‘Maya. We must go now,’ the voice was saying. ‘It is Kojo.’
I sat up. ‘What is it?’
It was Araba, Kojo’s wife. ‘There has been an accident. Your mother is waiting downstairs.’
I put on the platform shoes I had discarded earlier and ran down to the car.
‘What happened?’ I asked my mother.
‘Your mother came to the house earlier,’ Araba answered. ‘After she went, Kojo left for Kwahu, he had an accident on the way.’
‘Is he all right?’ I asked.
‘We have no information.’
We drove back the way we had come earlier that day. I held my breath, tried to contract my heart, silently repeating the mantra, ‘Please God, let him be all right,’ doing my best to empty my brain of all but its power. Even though there was pain, there was no emotion in me. We drove until we reached the blue-and-white police station on the road to Kaba.
It was still dark.
My mother went inside.
We waited on the side of the road.
I held Araba’s hand.
A policeman came out with my mother.
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Is he all right?’
‘Where are the men?’ He looked at us.
‘He is all right, isn’t he?’ I asked the policeman again, just as my mother smashed to the floor, like a stack of gilt-framed mirrors.
I ran to her and bent down. ‘Wake up, Mummy, he’s all right. Wake up,’ I said, my voice coming from a strange place in the back of my throat.
My mother opened her eyes and let out a wail.
‘Don’t cry, Mummy,’ I said. ‘Please don’t cry.’ I held her close to my expanding, hurting heart, looked at the gold slipper that had come off her foot and now lay abandoned on the mud-coloured earth.
The police said nothing, until the men came.
It was Uncle Kwabena, who had said libation at Michael’s wedding, and Uncle Kwame Asiamah, the old withered man, who came.
Even after it had been said, I still closed my eyes, imagined Kojo well.
We got into Uncle Kwabena’s car and drove to the scene of the accident.
I watched calmly, as if it all were happening in a story somewhere far removed from my core.
Kojo’s Terrano jeep was on the side of the road.
It was upside down.
It no longer resembled a car, but a squashed soft-drinks can, or sardine tin.
All its innards – the seats, the steering wheel, the engine – were visible.
My uncle was holding my mother, who suddenly looked very old and very weak. Even her hands had aged.
We stood by the wreck.
The day was dawning.
There were bits of debris splayed all around the car: his brown dusty leather sandals, the white-and-black cloth he had worn to the Odwira the day before, his gold-rimmed glasses, yesterday’s newspaper and, in the grass, a woman’s curly Afro wig.
He was overtaking a car.
A lorry came from the other side, and neither he nor the lorry driver pulled back.
The impact had dragged them ten metres down the road, before they came off it.
The lorry was undamaged.
We drove to the mortuary.
I stood outside for a long time before I could go in.
I could hear my mother’s screams from inside.
It was a bare white-painted room with a stone floor.
He and the young woman were laid side by side.
Kojo’s body had shrunk.
He too had been squashed.
His arms and legs and chest were criss-crossed with cuts and slashes, so that his red flesh pushed out of them.
I remembered how the old man had told me about the dream of the lion attacking him.
The top of his head was open and a dark grey substance was visible within it.
Bits of it were on the floor.
Uncle Kwame Asiamah picked a piece up and put it in his pocket. He rested his hands on the metal bed where K
ojo lay. He stemmed his spindly legs into the floor. Silent sobs rose up, and his withered body succumbed to them.
I felt as if emptiness had entered and was lifting me off the ground.
I swayed.
There was a pressure in my ears.
I held my hands over them.
I began to scream, but could not hear myself.
The inside of my skin was cold.
I screamed and screamed, until my mother came and put her arms around me and led me away.
A tide was coming from the town, wailing and screaming and singing. A chorus of pain. There were women, old and young, beating their chests, holding their heads, running up and down. Some of them knelt on the floor when they got to the mortuary and cried into the dusty ground. Some sang Kojo’s name. Adɛn? They sang again and again. Adɛn? Why? The men cried too, but wet, quiet tears.
One woman, a cousin, rolled round and round in the red earth, crying out as if someone were pressing irons against her skin, beating herself on the chest and face. I watched as the tears fell down her face. I wanted to join her. I wanted to cover myself with the red earth. To roll and roll and beat myself, until it all went away. Until it had never happened. Until he was standing next to me with his gold-rimmed glasses and his ever-kind eyes and smile, asking if I was all right. Until he was happy. Until he was putting his arm around me, saying, ‘Sister, all will be well.’ I wanted it to stop.
22
When I went home again, my mother had grown so weak that she had collapsed on the one-year anniversary of Kojo’s death, I had not been there.
Kojo’s death had made her need stretch out over its edges, encompassing every space in which she was and which she was not. Nii Tetteh died a few months after Kojo. By now, the case had become so fractious, and they had quarrelled so much, that I did not know which version of her truths to believe.
She was adamant that the billions, so far-fetched, were still within her reach; that until his death, despite the headline stories that he wed another, Nii Tetteh was still close to marrying her; but her tone was now full of hysteria, full of shout.
She picked me up from the airport. Her glasses sat askew on her face, the buttons on her dress were done up wrong. The curtains in her new house were raggedy. She had done nothing to do it up.
The God Child Page 14