by Adwoa Badoe
I realized that something had stirred up within me. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was a sense of responsibility. My father once told me about his optimism at the time of Ghana’s independence — the sense that as a nation they could accomplish anything and earn their place among the developed countries of the world. Everyone had felt it then.
A moment of silence passed. Then my course mates responded with a burst of applause.
At eight-thirty the meeting came to a close. Dr. Ampem asked us to wait while he locked up, and then we all walked back to the student residences in groups of two and three, still engaged in discussions.
The night was still clear, the moon was bold and a few streetlights were shining as we walked down the road.
Dr. Ampem wanted to know what I thought of the meeting.
“Frankly, sir, there was no way to expect a discussion on politics,” I said.
“I know. Forgive me. I feared that you would shy away from such a group if I asked directly. And I like to test people. I can tell already that you’re courageous and smart. You’ve seen what we do now. And if you liked this session, then please come again. You, too, Sylvia. Women have so much to offer.”
Dr. Ampem hadn’t brought a car, which meant he would have to walk farther than all of us, if he lived on Ridge, Okodee or Buroburo Road, where most of the lecturers lived. But he was in good spirits. Even when we parted from the others at the intersection, I could hear his laughter in the still night air.
“Wonders will never cease,” said Sylvia.
‹•›
Before we knew it, term-end exams were hovering on the horizon. What I liked about Mary was her commitment to her studies, even though she was very serious about Mr. Opoku. I tried to copy her work habit, but waking up at midnight and studying till three in the morning was not at all easy to do.
Meanwhile the guys continued to troop to the eighth floor in spite of pending exams. There were times we abandoned our room to them. It seemed mean, but Mary said it was wiser to focus on our priorities. Juaben and Sylvia learned to do the same.
Then, just when I thought party time was over, there was a buzz on campus about Joe Menzie’s Christmas jazz jam. Everyone said it was the party of the season, exclusively by invitation for only the coolest people.
Tall and handsome Joe Menzie was the undisputed best DJ on campus.
I was very excited to get an invitation. Young professionals were driving down from Accra, and there were four DJs for the night.
Sylvia, Juaben and I arrived around midnight. The party was already in full gear with couples scattered around the dance floor. Lampshades were wrapped in crepe paper to mute and tint the light, casting shadows in the corners of the room.
“People have gone to a lot of care to create a romantic atmosphere,” said Sylvia. She turned and winked at me.
Joe Menzie was spinning. We found a table and watched people dancing. I was interested in learning new dance moves. I sipped ginger ale through a straw and laughed when Juaben pointed out a guy who had no rhythm at all.
Then I noticed Banahene leaning against the DJ’s booth.
Banahene looked up and our eyes met. He came over and gave me a high-five. Then he and I danced together nice and slow to “Give Me the Night” by George Benson.
Banahene had been invited along as a guest DJ, so I went with him to the makeshift cubicle. The set-up consisted of two CD players perched on top of an amplifier and equalizer. A tiny fan was furiously blowing air to dissipate the heat from the machinery. Banahene explained that overheating could blow the amplifier.
Banahene held a headset over his left ear while he cued the follow-up song. Everyone enjoyed his selections from Chuck Mangione and Al Jarreau.
When he was satisfied that things were going well, he pulled me to my feet for a dance. I laid my head on his chest. With every breath, a hint of Brut.
And when nobody was looking, he kissed me full on the mouth.
I swallowed my surprise and let him kiss me. The kiss brought me close to tears, a strange emotion that took a while to settle.
Banahene didn’t say anything before he kissed me, and he didn’t say anything after. Right then, I knew that he had made a mistake, and that I wouldn’t tell anyone — especially not Mary. We were just friends.
‹•›
I was still recovering from the night-long party when Asare returned from his business trip to the UK. He’d been away for about a week. He was looking so sharp in a black golf shirt and gray trousers. I asked him if I could get him a drink. We had a bottle of Nkulenu orange juice in Mary’s fridge — the kind one diluted in a glass of water.
“I just want a hug,” he replied.
He looked a little different. It was his haircut — a high fade at the sides and back, and lined up very nicely at the front.
But there was something else, too — softness in the eyes. I looked at him a moment longer, then I gave him a hug. He brushed his lips against my cheek.
I laughed as I pulled away.
“You didn’t ask for a kiss,” I said.
“How you make me laugh, Charlotte. No wonder I missed you so.”
“Me, too,” I said. What else was one to say?
“I have something for you in my car, and then we can have a meal,” he said.
Indeed, suppertime was approaching and hunger was beginning to nag at my belly. I was so pleased that we would get something good to eat in town. I perked right up.
“Okay. I’ll get ready quickly, and then you can tell me everything about your trip to the UK,” I said, realizing that he was the first businessman that I could call my personal friend.
I left him with Mary while I dashed to the bathroom for a shower. It would take about half an hour to get myself all fresh and changed next door. Sylvia styled my hair, oiling each curl with Ultra Sheen hair pomade until it shone. It was what I liked about relaxed hair — one could wear it straight, wavy or curled. And afro-curls were the newest craze.
I borrowed Sylvia’s lilac shirt and Juaben’s brown pedal pushers. I wore my brown peep-toe sandals, and Sylvia helped me with my makeup.
Sylvia said that I was deliciously pretty for the evening.
“Wow, baby,” said Asare.
And I walked proudly by his side, all the way down the stairs to his car.
I settled into the coziness of The Witch. The lights on the ebony dashboard flashed as cool music wrapped around me. The AC came on, but it would be a little while before cool air chased out the humidity. I sat back and rested while Asare put the car in gear. Then we were off to the purring of the big cat BMW.
Just before we turned the corner, I saw Banahene walking towards Africa Hall. I don’t know why I felt sorry for him.
We drove through Kumasi, leaving the main road for the narrow roads that looked like they had been carved out after the houses had been built. We passed by large two- and three-story houses encircled by closely hugging walls and old rusted gates. Such family houses had apartments for siblings, cousins, uncles and aunties often related to one matriarch.
Asare pointed out the boroughs of Kumasi as we left one for another. I would not be able to find my way back to campus by myself, I thought.
After a while, he said, “This is Oburonikrom.”
Then he slowed down at the end of one street and turned towards a locked black gate. He honked his horn twice. I heard the sound of running feet and the jingling of a chain and then a man opened the gate, allowing Asare to drive in.
“This is my house,” he said.
Unlike the huge houses we had passed on the way that took up entire plots, Asare had a large garden in front of his house.
“Come on. I just want to show you where I live. I also want to change.”
“You look fine to me,” I said.
He chuckled. We got out of the car and walked up
the driveway.
It was a large yellow house, big and boxlike, and the windows were covered with silver burglar proofing. The garden on either side of the drive was well cultivated with flowering plants and leafy shrubs.
“I love gardens,” I said.
“Let’s walk around then, before we go inside. No rush, eh?”
It was on the tip of my tongue to remind him that my exams were near, but I hadn’t seen him in a while. He took my hand and we went around the garden. I had always loved the hibiscus bush for its amazing red flowers and the tongue-like stamens hanging out, teasing for a kiss. I picked a flower and pushed it in my hair just above my left ear.
In the middle of the garden was my favorite childhood tree, a frangipani, shedding soft white and yellow flowers all around it. I stopped to sniff the air.
“I loved climbing that tree as a child,” I said. “I could twist and turn like a gymnast on its branches.”
“Tomboy, eh?” said Asare.
“Once I fell and bumped my head. I had a swelling the size of an egg just above my right eye. After that I stopped swinging on tree branches.”
“Good thing!”
“Look at this one, Asare. We used to pull the tiny red flowers out like this, and suck the nectar out from the bottom.”
“That’s the ixora. But this yellow allamanda is poisonous, so please don’t suck nectar or eat anything from it — leaf or petal.”
“I’m not a child,” I retorted. Although once upon a time, I might have sucked the white sap from allamanda leaves to make chewing gum. Nobody had ever said it was poisonous. Thank God I lived to know that!
“Now at last, one garden by which Kumasi can claim to be the Garden City and not the dusty city. And an owner who really knows his plants,” I said.
“Hwɛ yie,” warned Asare, but he reached for my hand and squeezed it.
We both laughed, and I relaxed. It was easy to like Asare, and I loved his garden. There were flower beds sculpted here and there into the grassy lawn, and a guava tree grew close to a pawpaw tree. At the back of the garden, Asare had arranged some lawn chairs and a table, and a bougainvillea bush draped itself carelessly over the wall.
“Paradise,” I said. In my home we did not grow flowers — only vegetables for food.
Asare opened a side door and led me to a formal room. The furniture was gilded, and the chairs were thickly upholstered in purple, as one would expect to find in a palace. The carpet was burgundy, thick and soft.
“Sit down, please,” said Asare. “Thomas, bring the lady some drinks.”
I settled down into the sofa, and Thomas came bearing Star beer, Muscatella, Fanta and Coca-Cola on a tray. He also had an ice bucket, and some plantain chips and groundnut mix.
“Thank you, Thomas. I think I’ll have a shandy,” I said.
Deft hands found the bottle opener and snapped off bottle tops with precision. Then, tilting my glass, he filled it almost halfway with Fanta and topped it with beer.
He settled my glass beside the plate of mixed snacks on my side table. Then he left. Asare, too, excused himself and disappeared through a doorway.
Left to myself, I took little sips of my refreshment, a little worried that I might spoil my appetite for real food. I was enjoying the chase so far, but I knew that sooner or later Asare would push for me to make a commitment to him.
He came down minutes later. Surprisingly, he had changed into a white cloth. He looked very regal, down to his sturdy black Ahenemma sandals.
“Aren’t we going out to dinner?” I asked.
“Why, Charlotte? Is it wrong to dine in Adinkra cloth?”
“Traditional cloth reminds me of Sunday church services and funerals,” I replied. “Still, you look good. Cloth befits you really well, Prince Asare.”
“The evening feels a little different to me, Charlotte,” he said when he sat down. “Thomas has informed me that my mother sent apɔnkye-kakra and fufu while I’ve been with you at Tech. I would like to share her cooking with you, so I have asked Thomas to lay the table. If you don’t mind, let us spend the evening here. We can listen to music, watch a movie or talk. I really want to chat with you.”
His smile seemed genuine, even a little vulnerable as he waited for my answer.
Perhaps my face expressed doubts for he said again, “Don’t worry. I am not going to be naughty.”
I felt my resistance die in my throat as I took in the new Asare — chock-filled with traditional dignity. I was so reminded of my father. It was in the thick handwoven cloth, the half-bared chest, the gold neck-chain and the shiny black Ahenemma sandals. It was those snow-white shorts peeking out where the cloth parted at his every step. I was mesmerized.
Pat Thomas, Ben Brako and George Darko followed one another on a mixed popular highlife tape while we nursed our drinks. Asare told me about his trip. He had traveled to the UK and Germany on petroleum business. Although he was understated about it, I could tell it was big business.
“Is business booming for you?” I asked, trying to sound mature.
“It’s a difficult business. One has to deal with corrupt government officials, shady middlemen, fierce competition and harsh OPEC conditions. It’s a battle on every front.
“But you’re helping Ghana through our petrol difficulties. There is no progress without power. Everything grinds to a halt when petrol is scarce,” I said.
“It’s not only about petrol. Kerosene is the fuel for many small mills as well as light for areas which have no electricity.”
“Are there kerosene shortages?”
“Yes. Ghana’s government slacks on payments, and that’s the reason gas becomes scarce. Such shortages lead to speculation and inflated prices. Yet there’s only so much you can borrow before creditors demand payment. I wish it was easier,” he said.
“But I’m sure you’re good at it,” I said.
He smiled. “I have more trips coming up over Christmas. Would you like to go to the UK with me?”
“Me? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Just for a week or so,” he said.
“I don’t have a passport, and my dad would never let me go,” I said.
“Never say never, Charlotte. And I can help you get a passport, no problem.”
I put my glass down slowly. Getting a passport in Ghana was a big deal, and suddenly here was somebody just offering it. And not only a passport, but a trip overseas.
I had never traveled overseas. Air travel was simply too expensive for Ghana’s narrow middle class, which concentrated all its efforts on affording private preparatory schools for their children.
Just like that, all the things that seemed impossible were tantalizingly within reach.
Soon we were settled at the table, which was set with delicate gilt-edged china. Asare’s mother’s soup was piping hot and fragrant, and the fufu was pounded so soft as to almost melt in my mouth.
Thomas waited on us until Asare permitted him to leave. Then it was just the two of us, eating intimately like a man and his wife. Asare asked me to dish him some more soup, and I did so, just like I’d seen my mother do countless times for my father.
“This reminds me of home when Mama serves Dad his dinner,” I said.
Asare laughed, flashing fine teeth.
“I can see you as my wife, Charlotte. It wouldn’t be so bad, eh, beautiful?”
His comment sent a rush of warmth from my head to my belly. And I laughed to hide the impact of his words on me.
“Seriously, Charlotte, be my lady. It would be to me a high honor.”
To my surprise, I wanted to say yes. But I couldn’t. And I didn’t know how to manage the silence that started right after his unexpected semi-proposal.
“It’s too fast, Asare. I don’t really know you at all,” I stammered.
“What’s to know, beautiful? He
re I am. You may ask me whatever you like, and whatever else you need to know, you will find out in time.”
It sounded fair, but I held back.
“Is there someone else?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But I’m not sure I’m ready.”
“Okay, we’ll take it slow. But don’t keep me waiting too long.”
I felt myself relax over supper. And then we watched a movie on VHS. Asare sat close to me on the sofa, and every now and then I felt the intensity of his gaze on me.
At ten o’clock, I asked to return to my residence. Asare stood up and drew me into his arms. I felt his warm breath on my neck. We stood for a long moment as he looked deeply into my eyes. He brought me close and brushed his lips on my cheeks. He kissed me on the lips.
Sighing, he said, “Let’s go, before I lose control.”
I let loose a small tinny laugh and picked up my bag and followed him to the door. We spoke little until we arrived at Africa Hall.
“Thank you very much for a lovely evening,” I said, and I was surprised by the trembling in my voice.
“Didn’t I say I had a gift for you?” He grabbed a shopping bag off the back seat. It was olive green and it had Harrods written across it in gold. “This is for you,” he said.
“Thank you,” I whispered, overcome with emotion. I leaned over and brushed his cheek with my lips. I would open it in the privacy of my room.
“See you soon, baby,” he said.
I stepped out of the car and shut the door softly. I took steady steps towards the hall. I wasn’t going to look back until I got to the door of Africa Hall. But I didn’t have a chance to wave because The Witch sprang to life. And with a powerful roar, Asare sped away, tires hard against the gravel.
6
The following week, only a few people showed up for Dr. Ampem’s Tuesday night discussion. Bangla Mensah was irritable — something about the corruption of the current government. He was exactly as I remembered him when he had argued for the student allowance at the SRC meeting — a bulldog in a fight.
“Fat party cats are stealing what remains of the wealth of this country. The shops are completely empty and everything in the market is exorbitant. To buy a common tin of evaporated milk, one needs to know the manager,” he complained.