by Adwoa Badoe
Our songs dried up along the way. We arrived on campus exhausted.
Mary had stayed behind. I was sorry that she had missed out on such a historic event.
“I just don’t like the craziness of public demonstrations. Anything could have happened,” she said.
“But Mary, we were so united and so powerful together. It was beautiful,” I said.
I couldn’t believe that we had done this without damage to civilian property, and without clashing with the police.
God was truly on our side.
‹•›
A group of ladies were talking in the foyer at breakfast time. They gave me a loud cheer when they saw me. I just waved back, too shy to take the credit for what we had all achieved.
“Charlotte, you are strong-o,” said Mr. Afriyie from the porter’s lodge. Then he showed me the newspaper he was reading. There, plastered over the front page, was a picture of me with my fist in a power salute and a megaphone to my mouth. And the reporter had published my name alongside the brief interview I gave.
My excitement lasted for just a moment. Suddenly, I realized that all over the country, people would be reading this piece. I could imagine Dad’s face when he saw mine on the first page of the paper. He would shout for my mother, wag his finger prophetically and say, “Tell your daughter Charlotte to be very, very careful — wɔn hwɛ yie paa!
Once more, I was glad for the distance between Kumasi and Accra.
‹•›
Although we were very involved in student affairs together, my hope was fading for a more intimate relationship with Banahene. I couldn’t help thinking how paradoxical it was that the more we worked together, the less we connected emotionally.
It didn’t make sense that I was losing Banahene. How could Asare affect us so deeply when he was so far away?
I was lying on my bed just thinking those thoughts when I heard the shouting. Then Mary came running from the fifth floor, where she had been visiting with her mates. Everyone was standing out on the landing, looking over the balustrade.
A bus had parked on the road behind Block A, exactly where we had started out on aluta just two days before. We saw men with sticks climbing out of the bus and walking towards our hall.
“Miners,” said Mary, just as I recognized the words Obuasi Gold Mine painted on the side of the bus. “What are they here for?”
The miners seemed a little unsure of what to do, as they milled around the hall entrance.
I shouted down to the men below, “What do you want?”
“Shut up over there, you mouf-mouf girl. We’ll teach you sense,” said one man in a red hat, waving a stick.
And just like that we were perched on the brink of panic.
From the eighth floor, I shouted to my hall mates, “Those of you who play hockey, go and get your hockey sticks! We may have to defend ourselves.”
The girls began to shout at the men. Down below, the men with sticks also got much rowdier. I feared that they might soon charge indoors, but the porter had sneaked up to the door and locked it.
Still, they could easily climb up our latticed wall onto the top of the lower roof. From there it was easy to reach the first floor. This was what we did when we came back to a locked hall after hours of partying. I feared for any girl who might be walking back to the hall, so we kept a lookout and shouted people away long before they got to the danger zone.
All that shouting must have worked, because all of a sudden we heard chanting, and then I saw boys jogging down our driveway holding sticks, hockey sticks and stones. I saw Banahene in the charge.
The battle was one of shouts and threats. And the enemy, seeing scores of excited young men charging down the driveway, retreated swiftly to their bus. It was all over in minutes, as the Obuasi Mine bus screeched away at top speed, while our men hurled stones after them.
We went downstairs and pressed the porters to open the doors to the boys. We met them with triumphant cheers and draped our admiration all over them. In the foyer there were hugs and kisses for the chivalrous Republic Hall fighters.
“Thanks, guys,” I said, giving a few of them high fives.
Then I got to Banahene. For a few moments I just looked at him, hoping he could see my heartfelt thanks. I didn’t hug him.
“Is this it, or will they be back?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said Banahene, still breathless from excitement.
“It was too easy,” I said.
“I agree. Tonight we’ll set a guard near Africa Hall. Tell the girls to collect stones and sticks just in case the attackers return.”
The day began to feel much brighter as the distance eased between Banahene and me. Laughter came easily as we talked about recent events. And we took the longer route to Republic Hall.
“It’s time to publish an open letter to Ghanaian workers about their Workers’ Defence Committees. They don’t realize they’re just tools of manipulation by the government,” I said.
“None of the big papers would publish our letters. They are all state owned,” said Banahene.
“What about the smaller privately owned papers? People read them, too.”
“It would take more than one letter to make a dent in public perception. Workers have been taught to hate students who come with their freshly earned degrees to earn higher salaries overnight.”
“I don’t think they love to hate us. We must get our voices heard,” I said.
“Make these suggestions when we go to Accra for the NUGS meeting. Perhaps we could come up with a great campaign for the nation,” said Banahene.
“Why are we having the meeting in Accra? Is it safer?”
“It’s more central,” said Banahene.
We kept walking, and along the way he took my hand.
“Charlotte, I’m sorry for my behavior this past week. Can you forgive me?”
“I forgive you,” I said, and I gave his fingers a tight squeeze. Like him, I didn’t want to say much more about it.
‹•›
The night passed peacefully. And I soon learned that it didn’t matter that the miners had lost the battle, because the state apparatus still had control of the newspapers. Mr. Afriyie showed me his newspaper and I read how we had been punished by the miners until we begged for mercy. I laughed about it with Mary and Juaben, but it irked that they had the power to make their lies stick.
After that, our rooms became small armories of stones and sticks. I placed two stones beneath Mary’s bunk, and a hockey stick on the balcony. Mr. Opoku brought us two batons, which we slid beneath the bookshelf.
“This government is proving very clever. Some of their members were student leaders back when General Acheampong released soldiers against us,” said Mr. Opoku. “They know they’ll lose favor if soldiers attack students, so they used the miners to simulate a grassroots response.”
“We have nothing to fear if they don’t use soldiers. Blow for blow, we can stand up to anyone, unless guns are brought in,” I said.
Banahene was more cautious. “I think they’ll use soldiers if they have to. They are showing some restraint because Ghanaians are appalled at them for the killing of the judges. They have to show tolerance while they deny their part in the murders. But trust me, they are ruthless.”
Still, the fact that they had not used soldiers to attack us gave me some confidence. In Ghana, there was nothing really to fear except soldiers with guns.
In the next few days we returned to our routines, only more watchful than ever before. The next day we heard that students at the University of Ghana, Legon, had demonstrated. They were chased out of the university by workers organized by the WDC. Banahene feared that the universities could be summarily closed.
‹•›
Someone pinned a note on the hall notice board: Degrees Are Forever.
Exa
ms were drawing nigh, and in the midst of all these happenings we still had papers to submit. Banahene and I were making up for lost time so we took to studying together. Because he had a single room, that meant we had our privacy.
My whole world seemed to revolve around Banahene and the SRC, and Mary often complained about my absence from our room.
Republic Hall was a rowdy place, but when it came time to study in the evenings, the noise died down.
I had worked for two hours one night and was tired, so I lay down to rest a while. I even dozed off. When I awakened, I checked my watch. It was quite late.
“Stay. What’s the point of going back to Africa Hall when the porter would likely not answer you at the door? You take the bed. I have papers to write anyway,” said Banahene.
I drew the covers over me and closed my eyes. I had become so tender in my heart. Sure, I had rested on Banahene’s bed before and even snoozed for an hour or so, but this felt different. I closed my eyes and slept.
I awakened later as I felt him close by. He was sitting on the bed and I knew he had been staring at me. He kissed me and brought my body slowly to life. I kissed him back.
We began to touch each other and raise fires that were hard to snuff out. It was all the excitement and the anxiety of almost losing each other. We just kept going until we made love. It was my first time.
I felt I had crossed a threshold from which neither of us could return. I tried not to think that I had done anything wrong. We needed healing, and I was so in love.
‹•›
On Tuesday Banahene brought newspapers to the SRC office. The front pages were full of pictures of law students demonstrating in Accra. Apparently they had come into direct conflict with police, and a few of the students were hurt by flailing police batons. Thank God nobody had been shot.
“What will happen when the Cape Coast students demonstrate in the next few days? Let’s hope Sharon and her mates fare better than the Legon students,” said Banahene.
“Maybe they will send fishermen after them,” said Jordan, chuckling. And I imagined hundreds of them being chased into the sea by angry Fanti fishermen wielding paddles and nets.
We discussed the meeting that NUGS was convening in Accra. A recent communiqué was marked Confidential, and it had the meeting date and place. All student councils were expected to attend.
There were things I wanted to share at the meeting. I also wanted to reconnect with Sharon. Jordan felt it would be too important a meeting to miss, and so we decided we would all go.
Everything was to be done in confidence. I couldn’t even tell Mary or Juaben about it. Jordan feared that we might easily be recognized in a team, and so he insisted that we travel to Accra on different buses.
I would be the first to board an STC bus for Accra. Banahene would board a private bus, and Jordan would hitch a ride with a friend from Kumasi town. We planned to connect on the day of the meeting at the address we had been given in Madina.
“Don’t carry the address with you. Memorize it and destroy the memo,” said Banahene.
“Is it really that dangerous?” I asked.
“This is what the NUGS president told me to do,” said Banahene.
“This sounds like Mission Impossible. This message is about to self-destruct,” I said, but nobody laughed.
‹•›
We left Jordan at Queen’s Hall after the meeting, and our plan was to study in Banahene’s room. But last night’s memories were on my mind, making it hard to concentrate. Then Banahene said it was time to eat. I watched as he mixed lightly soaked gari and corned beef together in a bowl with shitor and ketchup. Then we ate with naked fingers from the same bowl, and Earl Klugh’s music in the background.
Afterwards we washed our dishes together, pouring water on each other’s hands. Then we talked. We remembered how we had fallen in love in the cool shadow of the Kwahu Hills. We remembered the fearsome boneshaker rides and laughed. We kissed.
Banahene teased my blouse off my shoulders, and then his shirt followed. My skirt was riding high about my waist. I felt the intrusion of guilt but I muffled it as Banahene’s lips seized mine in a passionate kiss. His caresses were urgent, on my face and my neck and down my shoulder — a blazing trail. And bit by bit my desire matched his until at last we came, our legs intertwined in a strange embrace.
19
Dawn was a kaleidoscope of sounds — a cock crowing close by and the sound of cars driving away in the distance. I lay there for some moments until I remembered I was at home in Accra. Instead of my narrow bunkbed in Room 803, I had spent the night alone in a queen-sized bed with a ceiling fan whirring far above me. My sister Sarah was away at boarding school.
My journey to Accra had gone smoothly, and my dreams had been full of love. I lay there for half an hour, thinking about Banahene. Actually I was worried, because now that we’d had sex twice, I wondered what would make us stop. I had never thought of contraceptives before, and I balked at the idea of entering deeply into a sexual relationship while I was unmarried and still in school. It didn’t feel right to just keep going even if one was prepared for it. I’d have to broach the subject with him once we returned to school.
I waited until I heard my dad’s car start. He was always early to school, but I knew he would have a lecture planned for me sometime after work.
Outside, the day was moist and gray. To help my mother, I fed the chickens in their coop. Then I washed quickly and dressed up in a brown skirt and a red checked blouse. I borrowed my mother’s low-heeled brown sandals and joined her for breakfast in the dining room. I loved my mother’s rice-water, and I was happy for warm teabread with a bit of melted Blue Band margarine. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed home.
Mama took the morning off from work. She wanted to spend some time with me as I was leaving the next day for school. I told her I had missed home and her cooking. I especially needed a bottle of her shrimp-rich shitor to last for the rest of the term.
“Any excuse is a good one if it brings you home, Charlotte. We saw your photograph in the newspaper. Your father was very concerned. These soldiers are bad. You shouldn’t go and play in their yard. Just the other day, Mr. Samson who lives near the golf course was driving home from work. You know the traffic at Circle at five o’clock, and how everyone needs a lot of patience to get around it. Well, some soldiers forced their way through the traffic and scraped his car. When he complained, they bundled him into their Pajero and got one soldier to drive his car away. Do you know that they shaved his head with a broken bottle, cutting him all over his scalp? And he has never found his car since. Charlotte, be careful with these people. You have no idea what they are capable of doing.”
“Yes, Mama,” I said. “I am very careful these days. I’ll make sure I’m not in the news again. That was silly of me.”
I told Mama that I was going to town to deliver a message to Juaben’s parents. It was a necessary lie. I couldn’t very well tell her I was attending a secret NUGS meeting.
“Don’t be too long,” she said.
Outside, the sun had come out and the dew had long since disappeared. I flagged down a taxi at the junction. It was ten o’clock, and our meeting was scheduled for eleven. I would take two more taxis just to get to my destination. It was safer to travel this way — hustling from point to point.
We were to meet at a home in Madina, a nondescript place tucked away from the public eye. I had memorized the directions and destroyed the memo. There was a little knot of anxiety in my belly. Someone had said that courage existed not because of the lack of fear, but by the actions one takes in spite of fear.
Slowly, the taxi driver edged the car into the flow of traffic and I settled down for the trip.
Up ahead, a solitary soldier flagged us down. Drop-in taxis were frowned upon in the revolution, and taxi sharing was common. He opened the back door and sat down, s
lamming the door shut. The taxi driver started the car again.
“Gondar Barracks,” ordered the soldier behind us.
Normally, all taxis were registered only for particular routes. Soldiers were the exception to all rules so I knew our driver would have to change direction. Still, it was unusual for an officer to commandeer a vehicle with others in it.
I wasn’t going to argue with him, and so I asked the driver to kindly let me off at the next junction.
“Keep driving,” ordered the officer as the driver slowed the car down. I was about to protest when he said harshly, “Charlotte Adom, we request your help with our current investigations.”
My heart dropped into my belly at the sound of my name.
“What investigations? You have the wrong Charlotte Adom. I live at Achimota School. My father teaches biology,” I said, hoping the taxi driver would remember my name. He was the only witness to my capture.
“Shut up!” roared the man from behind me.
“Where are you taking me, sir?”
“Drive!” shouted the officer to the driver. He never told me his name, his rank, or his unit.
The taxi driver stepped hard on the gas, and all I could think of was the name Gondar Barracks, ringing in my ears.
‹•›
The officer gave directions to the taxi driver as we went along, and it didn’t seem to me that we were headed for Gondar Barracks. There were so many turns, this way and that, until I lost my bearings.
At last we entered a driveway. The taxi stopped and the soldier hustled me out of the car into a waiting white Pajero, which had two other men in it. He pushed me between them and locked the car. He went round to the front and slammed the door. Someone started the car, and we backed out so forcefully that I was sure we would hit the wall.
I began to wonder if this was what had happened to the judges. My heart raced uncontrollably and fear almost blinded me.