Mistress of the Game

by Asabea Ashun

  Chapter 2 Accra, Ghana

  Everyone seemed wide-awake this Thursday morning and with the crowds and the chaos on the streets, it would seem that this was a special market day. Not so. Accra was such a busy metropolis that every day looked like a special market day. The Ga tribe who had specific days for market, others for worshiping gods and ancestors and still others on which you couldn’t fish, were once the main occupants of Accra. For almost a hundred years though, it had welcomed so many other tribes that it was not unusual to hear at least four or five different languages spoken in a trotro bus from one end of the city to the other. Of course, in the course of said ride, the trotro bus, replete with boxes and animals strapped to the very tenuous roof would stop several times in traffic due to a malfunction of some sort. If passengers were lucky, they’d be asked to remain on the bus while the driver and his assistant fiddled around with a few electrical wires near the engine. It was not unusual to find them still fiddling under the hood while passengers took matters into their own hands – removing squawking chickens from their tied perches on the roof of the bus or strapping bales of cloth to their backs or their heads. If they were lucky, the next empty trotro they saw would be slightly more roadworthy but at one cedi a ride – the equivalent of almost an American dollar – it was a miracle that any trotro moved at all. These days, a busted trotro was the least of anyone’s worries. Gone were the days when there were interminable queues for everything from toothpaste to water. Even gasoline was flowing freely and the long line-ups that defined the nineties and early part of the 21st century seemed to be a thing of the past. Oil, long suspected of lurking somewhere along the coastline had been discovered and much to everyone’s relief, some changes were being observed in the economy. Already, the Western Region’s capital city of Takoradi, previously primarily a port city and therefore used to a certain level of hustle and bustle was fast outpacing Accra in terms of commercial activity and manufacturing. Of course along with this economic activity had arisen concern about the oil agreements that had been made with foreign companies and the fact that the signed contracts were not eventually going to benefit the country.

  Accra traffic was legendary; second only – it was said by savvy travelers - to that of Lagos, the commercial capital of Nigeria. One could stand in amazement on the sidewalk and wonder why anyone bothered to put lines on the roads to indicate lanes because no one stayed in their lane. Horns honked several times a second and street hawkers would fly in and out of lanes, narrowly missing the hood of a car but finding themselves almost crushed against the trunk of another. It was chaos personified which made it all the more stunning when you saw the faces of drivers and pedestrians; most looked like they’d not have it any other way.

  The white SUV careened off and on the road, causing the driver and his lone passenger to whip and turn at every surge. In the backseat sat Margaret, a tall handsome woman with distinguished written all over her. She folded her Daily Graphic newspaper and sighed heavily. These days, there was much to learn from the newspaper – there were twenty pages of it ! - and she wondered if the Ghana Institute of Journalism was just doing a better job training journalists, or that there was just a lot of news to report. She pondered over what she’d read, wondering if Ghana would be able to keep heading towards the Millennium development goals with all the oil money about to flow. There was a still a big gap between rich and poor but even America was like that wasn’t it? As she pondered this, she looked over the head of Mensah, her driver. He sat ramrod stiff, wearing a uniform he had himself chosen; he liked to create the impression that being and looking professional was more important to him than it was to his boss! . Mensah was wizened, with very dark brown features. His eyes tended to dart feverishly from one place to the next, like he was looking for a way out, but he had proven a reliable and consistent driver so she kept him in her employ despite his furtive glances. His wife Baaba was Margaret’s cook, and along with their two daughters, they occupied the two bed roomed bungalow they called the ‘boys quarters’. Auntie Maggie liked him though; he talked little, observed much, proffered little, obeyed much. She looked up from her newspaper.

  “Mensah, did you know China has quietly invested 38.8 billion US dollars in overseas oil fields, in countries such as Argentina, Sudan, Nigeria and Iraq?” She hardly spoke to him when he was driving but this was way too important. She needed to tell someone. Even her driver would do.

  “Yes Madam.” He knew?

  “What do you know about the oil business, Mensah?”

  “That the United States, has the third largest reserves of oil after Saudi Arabia and Russia but seem to be running out. Since 1970 they’ve been importing it for products as varied as the obvious Gasoline, Diesel, Fuel oil, Propane, Ethane, Kerosene, Liquid petroleum gas and Lubricants but also for Heating oil, asphalt, bitumen, Plastic, bags, toys, candles (paraffin), clothing (polyester, nylon), cosmetics, petroleum jelly, perfume, dish-washing liquids, ink, bubble gums and car tires”

  Auntie Maggie’s jaws fell open! Mensah could read? She wanted him to go on.

  “So you know about OPEC?”

  “ Yes Madam. There were fourteen nations, most of them in the Middle East but it now includes two African countries – Angola and Nigeria.”

  Wonders will never cease, thought Maggie. Here was Mensah, driver to the rich, showing her that he was well aware of world issues. She must watch the man; he could be dangerous. She turned her head to look through the window.

  As he climbed a particularly high curb, almost falling into a gutter at the popular roundabout known as Circle, she marveled at how alike America and Ghana were. Of course she knew no one in America would believe that assertion and definitely no one in Ghana would like to believe her. She remembered a trip to Buffalo, New York one summer when she visited her daughter and her son-in-law in Toronto. It had been a warm day; for someone living in the Northern Hemisphere and just coming out of Winter, twelve degrees Celsius was usually cause for a celebration – so they decided to drive down to Buffalo to do some shopping at the Galleria Mall. A city of about a million people just south of the border at Niagara Falls, Buffalo used to be a bustling city and went through a very deadening period sometime in the early twentieth century. Driving on the I-90, it wasn’t hard to see the effects of that very long depression. It was a relief to see the Walden Galleria and to be assured that Buffalo was not all about the East Side, replete with run down vinyl sided houses, trash heaped sidewalks and alley way cats. Same with Accra – if any visitor went through Chorkor without ever going through Cantonments or East Legon, they’d do the city a disservice by describing it as dirty and smelly.

  “Hey, Mensah, call that street hawker for me,” she shouted to her driver.

  This was not an unusual thing to do on the streets of Accra. Right in the middle of traffic, street hawkers would be begging automobile passengers to purchase their goods. These goods ranged from dog chains to mentos candies, bananas and deep-fried Chofi, the latter a mouth watering but artery clogging, fried turkey tail; one could literally go grocery shopping in the backseat of a car in Accra traffic.

  After purchasing an eclectic bunch of items from the street hawkers – shoe polish, plantains, yams, spinach leaves, tomatoes, a gallon of oil, a table cloth and mosquito coils to fill the backseat of the SUV, she stretched her ample frame, tall and fit for someone her age – at the backseat and sipped the juices from the fresh coconut that they’d purchased earlier at Kokompe junction. Suddenly, she felt a vibration in her bag and instinctively reached for it.

  “Hello?”

  “Maggie, is that you?”

  “Yes oh…is this Belinda?”

  She and Belinda went way back - to high school in the town of Berekuso. Now in their mid fifties, the ‘girls’ – as they liked to call themselves much to the chagrin of their husbands – caught up at least once a week, usually at the ultra modern hair salon Changes, in the heart of the most exclusive neighbourhood in Accra – Creation Hills.
Belinda was married to the Minister of Energy and Natural Resources, Kwasi Prah, previously an Oil executive with British Petroleum in Houston, Texas. After the current government won the elections, Kwasi Prah was called back home to ‘give something back’. He did so, while hopelessly watching as his wife ‘took everything back’ with her indiscriminate spending, late night gossip sessions with old school friends and lavish trips to Dubai and Honolulu under the pretense of sourcing out new business outlets for the country’s fledgling export industry. Belinda Prah had never exported anything in her life.

  “So what are we doing this weekend?” Margaret asked.

  “I’m busy ohhhhh… the NGO I was volunteering at has just finished building the school in Asamankese so I am fundraising all week to help pay for the cost of training the teachers. We just got a major grant from the Chinese government you know? We asked for $10,000 and they gave us $20,000 – I wish I’d asked for $40,000!” Belinda laughed at her own joke. “Kwasi is entertaining some dignitaries from some country - I don’t even know where from but lately, there’s been a steady stream of all kinds of people. You know this oil thing is going to be big eh?

  “So I hear, but of course, you’re closer to the action so you tell me!”

  They both laughed raucously. Belinda always seemed to be at the center of everything that happened and made Maggie feel very inadequate. She did have one thing over her though – Belinda had never had children and in a Ghanaian society that measured you by how many children you had and how successful they were when grown up, Maggie was not surprised that Belinda filled her aching moments with trips to Dubai.

  “Well, there’s the wedding this weekend.”

  “Yes I remember that one. What time do we have to be at the bride’s house since we’re a part of her support crew?” Maggie asked

  “Have you had your gele tied already?” Belinda asked.

  “Why are we wearing geles? The Nigerians have moved in – and I admit they’ve kindled our previously lazy attitude to business but they’ve bought our banks, filled our universities and have started marrying our women because they have more money and now we have to wear their gele’s to our weddings? Whatever happened to us just tying our own traditional Ghanaian head gear or wearing a beautiful British hat like the queen? Ahhhh, who knows, maybe with this oil coming, we too will be able to wear our own head gears instead of following everything Nigeria does!”

  “O Margaret! You’re making such a big deal about nothing! The gele is just different and isn’t that the whole point? To look different but good? Listen, I have a Nigerian friend – Tokumbo – she will tie it for you so stop stressing out. I’ve already purchased them so no need to go looking for the fabric – just make sure you are wearing your white lace kaba and sleet and leave the rest to Tokumbo, you hear?”

  Margaret snorted. She was not amused at all. The typical Ghanaian wedding was rife with all sorts of exaggerations anyway and now they had to add a Nigerian tradition to it? She reluctantly agreed with Belinda.

  “Ok…oh, hold on, I hear another call coming on…hold on while I see who it is okay?”

  She removed the phone from her ear and pressed the flash key.

  “Hello?”

  There was a buzzing sound but no voice responded.

  “Hello?”

  Again, no response. This time there was no buzzing sound but a hollow one. She sucked in her teeth, as only – it seems black people are wont to do.

  “Tschew! These Ghana phone lines are so bad! It’s no wonder people have three or four SIM cards for one phone! – I hate missing long distance calls and this one could have been from Sarah!”

  She switched back to Belinda.

  “Bel, I’m going to have to call you back okay? I think that was Sarah and we haven’t spoken at all this week.”

  “Ei – tell her that her favourite Auntie misses her. And to look after that white man of hers ohhhhh….good men are hard to find and she has a white one too!”

  Margaret laughed.

  “Oh, before I forget, I need a maid oh? The last one I had got pregnant with the manservant across the street!”

  “No worries. I have just the perfect girl actually…”

  “No, no, no! No more girls – they can’t seem to keep their legs together and I can’t handle any more pregnancies. I want someone who will do what he’s been asked to do,” Maggie begged.

  “I know Maggie. Trust me. This girl is almost eleven and she doesn’t speak. Can you believe that? Apparently, she stopped talking after school one day and no one seems to know why. She can’t go to school so her parents are looking for a good home for her to serve in. She comes from Takoradi.”

  Maggie yawned with exaggerated boredom.

  “I’ll think about it. Let me get off this phone in case Sarah is trying me again ok?”

  Margaret hung up the call and waited.

  “Na wa oh!” Margaret vented out loud to no one in particular while looking at the phone in her hand, willing it to call back. She didn’t realize that in her frustration, she’d used a Nigerian phrase – ‘na wa oh - such is life’! Mensah shifted uneasily in the drivers seat.

  “Madam, may I respectfully ask you to turn it off and on again? I’ve heard that sometimes this helps with the phone connection.”

  Mensah could be painfully polite, to the point of morbid humility. She looked at him and thought she’d try his suggestion. And then she waited.

  Just as they drew up to the front gate of their house in the gated community of Akwaaba Spring Hills, the phone rang. Margaret stepped out of the car and virtually screamed into the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Ma?”

  “Yes darling, how are you?” Margaret yelled into the phone.

  There was no response so Margaret pulled the phone from her ear, looked at it again, shook it and proceeded to yell again.

  “Hello…Hello… Hello?”

  “Yes Ma, I can hear you. How are you?” Sarah asked with laughter in her voice. Her mother could be such a contradiction. One moment she’d be yelling in twi like a street hawker in the sleaziest part of Accra and the next, she could be addressing the UN General Assembly as the British representative!

  “I’m well by God’s grace and you? Is Philip taking the medicine I sent him? Make him drink ohhhhh…..you know white people don’t trust our medicine but its been curing people for generations!”

  Sarah laughed feebly. She desperately wanted to share her week with Margaret - the growing doubts about her marriage, Philip’s ongoing illness, her unresolved infertility…everything.

  “My dear, you don’t sound well. Have you been doing more tests?”

  By the time Margaret had started this line of conversation, she was safely in her bedroom with the door shut. She sat on the edge of her king size bed and propped up a few pillows behind her. Kicking her high-heeled shoes off, she made herself comfortable so she could talk to her only daughter.

  “Not really Ma. We’ve decided to wait a while because these fertility tests cost so much money and Philip and I are running out of cash. The last test gave us a 30% chance so we’re not quite sure of what to do next. Sometimes I just want to give up but I know I have to keep trying because…”

  “Hey, don’t say that”, Margaret quickly interjected. “You know the devil takes words from our mouths and makes them happen so don’t say anything that will feed his wicked plans. You will have a baby, I promise you that…we just have to be patient and keep trying. Tell me, is there any infertility on Philip’s side of the family, you know, genetically?”

  “Not that I know of Ma. Both his sisters have children and his brother…well he isn’t married so I don’t know…. so I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, there’s got to be a reason for having tried for over ten years to conceive and still coming up short,” Margaret suggested.

  “Yes I know Ma, but its not like I have nothing to contribute by way of blame. I’ve often wondered…”


  “Wonder nothing my dear. It’s in the past and that’s where it should stay. When you keep bringing it up, nothing good comes of it and instead, you should be thinking of the wonderful marriage you have, how much he loves you and how beautiful your children will look.”

  Sarah sighed a sigh so deep that it traveled the creaky phone lines and made Margaret uncomfortable.

  “Sarah sweetheart, is everything ok? I’ve told you that these things take time haven’t I? Are you beginning to lose faith?”

  There was no response so Margaret looked quizzically at the phone. Had the call dropped? After the third ‘hello’, she gave up, hung up the call and curled like a fetus on her bed.

  Something was very wrong in Canada and she had to find out what it was. She smiled as she realized that she knew just the right person to call.