by Asabea Ashun
Chapter 4
June 26, Toronto
Sarah sighed as she watched the CBC television coverage of the G20 summit. The evening temperature had dropped to a chilly two degrees Celsius and she rushed around her small kitchen, trying to cook something delicious yet healthy for Philip. Since the episode at the doctor’s office, they had avoided lengthy conversations, choosing instead to invite friends over to cover the void that was screaming to be filled. Philip was animated whenever someone came over but especially now, with something to hide, it became especially imperative that they be seen to be even more charming, even more put together, even more accessible; the perfect couple, Sarah’s friend Jane had called them. This evening was their most boisterous so far in the past few weeks despite the fact that there was only one extra person in the tiny one-bedroom condominium. Aunty Ceci had arrived.
Aunty Ceci sat on the futon with her arms flailing and her voice rising with every sentence that came out of her full African lips. Sarah sat across from her, too shocked to respond to everything Aunty Ceci said.
“So Aunty, tell me why you are considering moving to Toronto.”
“Haven’t you heard enough? Didn’t I tell you of the numerous times I’ve been held at gunpoint by those crazy area boys? Aunty Ceci said vehemently. She shifted slightly and pulled her leopard print wraparound skirt around her legs.
“Yes, I’ve heard Aunty”, Sarah soothingly responded. “But you have a business in Lagos, Uncle Ola and the girls are in Lagos and that’s all you’ve ever known in your adult life. Besides you’re in your fifties and I’m just worried that you’ll be disappointed with all that you have to go through as a new immigrant in Canada.”
Aunty Ceci sucked in her teeth and gave her the look…as if Sarah was too young to know any better - and in her strong Nigerian accent:
“Said like a child Sarah! Tell me what you would do if this happened to you; you’re coming home from work, it’s been a long day and you are slumped over in the backseat of your Volvo, driven by your driver…lets call him Salifu. You get to Madobo Street, a usually decent street that sees a bit of traffic during rush hour but this time….this time…the cars aren’t moving at all. As the honking around you increases, you lift your head slightly to see if anything around you will give an indication of why you’re stuck, only to hear a shattering noise as pieces of your window are scattered in your direction with the force of something that feels like an earthquake. You shudder in fear, screaming out the driver’s name as you fall face flat as far down as you can go in the car. Glass tears into your back as the assassins continue smashing the window in, yelling out obscenities and dragging your handbag – and it seems your arm – out of the car. You no longer feel like there is a voice in you and realize this is one of those armed robbery attacks you keep hearing on JOY FM…you know…those ones that seem to happen to other people. Oddly enough, you hear no other noise around you, just the assassins, hissing and snarling like snakes that have lost their way. But…But…you remember seeing other cars. Where are they all?”
“Yes, where were they all? Didn’t anyone help?” Sarah whispered.
“And risk their lives?” Aunty Ceci asked incredulously.
“Well…then…how about 911…the police?” Sarah sheepishly added.
Aunty Ceci’s laughter rang throughout the apartment, causing her to convulse on the pull out futon that her ample behind had almost taken over. It took her a full three minutes to regain her composure and with tears streaming down her face while she continued to shake with laughter, she ran as fast as her legs would go to the washroom.
“I dey disgrace myself ohhh…look, make you no make me laugh like so ohhhhhh!”, she said from the washroom. “911? The police? Obviously you’ve been gone from Africa…the worst part mind you…for way too long. There are lots of good parts, infact more than the bad but you know how it is when one bad thing happens to you? Makes it look like the whole thing is bad no? The police won’t come. Infact, they’ll tell you to call them back when the robbers are gone….they don’t want to lose their lives and the guns they have access to, were bought at Independence from the British…in the 1960’s. The robbers on the other hand have guns shipped from America or Russia literally yesterday. These days, even Al Qaeda is looking for help so they will give you some weapons too if you can speak Arabic. If you were the police, would you answer such a call especially as you officially make less than fifty dollars a month?”
Sarah sat still on the sofa, looking very pensive.
Suddenly sounding like she’d had a brainwave, she shouted across the hallway to Aunty Ceci who was now wiping her face of the laughter tears, adjusting her long print wrap around skirt and walking back towards the living room.
“But Aunty, how have you been able to survive this long? Didn’t you know it was like that when you got married to Uncle Ola and left Ghana for Nigeria?”
“Well, it wasn’t always like that you know? It seemed bad then but now, its unbearable and anyone who can, is trying to get out. With the money we’ve made from our businesses, we can apply for the business immigrant category, invest the half a million dollars required in some kind of business here and try to live lives devoid of strangulation and armed robbery!”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Listen; when you’ve lived as long as I have, you no longer sit there waiting for things to happen to you. You make them happen you hear? You know…its funny…”
She paused
“Yes…what’s funny?” Sarah prompted
“Well, in all of this, the scariest thing for me is that Kehinde and Abeni won’t find African men to marry. What am I talking about – look at you …you’re happy…right?”
Sarah shifted uncomfortably.
“… look how well your lives have turned out. I’m so afraid they’ll have to marry people who are different from us…who won’t understand where we come from.”
“And what’s wrong with that Aunty Ceci?”
“Well, I know your situation is different. You found a white man who loves you so much, he is learning your language, he tries his best to eat your kind of food…mind you, I’m sure he’s sick of that thing that looks like worms eh?”
She laughed at her own joke.
“You mean spaghetti?” Sarah asked with a giggle.
“Stop using big words! You know what I mean. I just want them to be happy but when you are from different places…ahhh….it can create problems ohhhh?”
Sarah smiled at her Aunt who was genuinely concerned for her daughters.
“But Aunty, you married Uncle Ola didn’t you? And if I remember the gossip well…you ended up running away from home to marry him because when his family came to present the kola nuts for the traditional pre-marriage ceremony, Grandpa and Grandma refused to meet them because they couldn’t stand the thought of you marrying a Nigerian.”
“Yes but…”
“Yes but what?” Sarah pushed.
Aunty began to laugh softly.
“I know… I know. Isn’t funny how easily we show our bias? It’s as if we stereotype because we were stereotyped isn’t it? I remember all the cruel things that were said about Ola – how he’d leave me, how he was likely to have armed robbers for relatives and how tight with money he was likely to be. Amazing that none of that seemed to matter to me and now look at us…twenty years and still going strong.”
“So what’s the next step then?”
“First I’ve got to let your Uncle Ola know that Canada isn’t that cold – he’s heard all these stories about it being so cold that people’s tongues stick to windows and such!”
They laughed and hugged as only relatives who love each other do. Aunty Ceci was of medium height and as she got up from the futon to go to the kitchen, Sarah marveled at how genes get carried from one generation to the next. Her grandma Ama Adobea was also of medium height and her two children – Sarah’s mother Margaret and her Aunty Ceci had the trade
mark large nose and a full head of thick black hair coupled with the requisite full body. Sarah consciously looked down at her own frame, wondering if the age-old adage was true: that you become your mother when you grow old. That wouldn’t be such a bad idea actually since Margaret looked good for her age and if you didn’t know it, you’d think Aunty Ceci was older than her much older sister. She smiled at the thought. No sagging breasts and loose skin for her…she’d do all she could to keep her body fine and firm. She got up abruptly and went to the medicine cabinet in her bathroom. She shoved one bottle here, another there, until she found what she was looking for. Lately, she’d been having these incredible headaches coupled with a hot feeling all around her face. Her first thought was that she was having hot flushes and then she perished the thought. Women in their thirties didn’t have hot flushes. Maybe it was just pseudo pregnancy blues and if she had anything to do with it, she was going to hold off on another fertility treatment for a long long time. She’d meant to talk to Philip about that but of course, events had overtaken them and there seemed to be nothing to talk about. She found an Advil container and popped two in her mouth. As she walked out of the bathroom, she bumped into Philip who’d just walked in. They both said sorry and brushed past each other.
Aunty Ceci quickly averted her gaze as Sarah struggled to find something to do with her body and her hands. She knew Aunty Ceci had noticed everything that had happened in the last two minutes.
Maggie called Ceci’s Nigerian cell phone number and had to leave a message; she was probably turning off her phone since she’d be charged for cell phone roaming while in Canada. She tried the Holiday Inn in Mississauga where her sister was staying for her two-week immigration fact-finding trip to Canada.
“Hello?” said a white voice. Must be the receptionist at the Front Desk.
Margaret put on her best British accent.
“Yes, Hallo. I was wondering if you could put me through to Rm 202…Cecilia Akinyemi, spelled A-K-I-N-Y-E-M-I.”
“Please hold.”
She did and the front desk put her through to Ceci’s room. After the sixth ring, just as she was about to hang up, Ceci took the call.
“Hello?”
Margaret reverted to her Ghanaian accented English with all its ooms, aahs, ei’s and ohhh’s.
“Ei, what are you doing that you can’t pick up your phone eh?”
“I was in the bathroom. These days, when I laugh small, things start coming out of me,” Ceci replied laughing.
“Hmmm….ei, call me back ohhh, I don’t have money to be calling you long distance in the white man’s land. You’re the one spending dollars there so call me right back. I have something serious to discuss with you.”
Maggie hung up without waiting for Ceci’s response.
Aunty Ceci took out her fat phone book and as she opened the pages, a dozen and one loose pages came undone along with a pen, a hairpin, some receipts from the African Caribbean grocery store and a toothpick. She sucked in her teeth in exasperation, ignored the errant items and proceeded to dial the number on her phone. As she did so, she recited the number loudly, like someone else needed to hear to whom she was making the call.
“011 233 245 987 3254”
And then she waited.
“Hello?”
A voice on the other end came on, excited.
“Ceci?”
“Yes, it’s me. So how are you Maggie?”
“We’re good ohhh…everyone is fine. You know, the rains have been very bad this year…they’ve hardly fallen so yams and plantains are very expensive now.”
“Ahhhh…this is why I want to move to Canada and you don’t agree eh? See – here, food prices don’t go up or down just because it snowed too much or it didn’t snow at all. Here, there is something called taxes and that’s what makes food prices go up!”
“Shut your big mouth you impudent child.” Maggie joked.
“Ok, I’ll shut up…but you are the one who said I should call to discuss something with you. I have some news… that’s why I’m glad you called. But if you’re going to do paa paa, then I will hang up. I have plenty of important things to do with my time ohhhh!”
They bantered back and forth like this but it was typical. The two sisters, despite being four years apart had so much in common and still genuinely enjoyed each other’s company. They spoke every couple of days when Ceci was in Nigeria but since coming to Canada to spend the summer scouting around for immigration opportunities, their conversations had had to be more spaced apart. Coupled with the bad phone lines in Ghana, conversations about important topics tended to be relegated to a time when Maggie would be in an office and could rely on the stability of the Ghanaian landlines.
“So, you have news for me?” Maggie inquired.
“I don’t know if you want to hear it ohhh.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to hear it?” Maggie asked apprehensively.
“Well, how shall I put this…it seems something is wrong in Sarah and Philip’s marriage.” Ceci said cautiously.
“Wrong? In the marriage? What do you think it is? Is it because of the baby they can’t have? Or is one of them having an affair?”
“I don’t know.” Ceci said softly.
“What do you mean you don’t know? Find out so we can help them!” Maggie pressed.
“But what if they don’t want our help eh?”
“What kind of foolish talk is that? How can they not want our help? Have you forgotten where we come from? We gave them our blessing for their marriage and this means we are part of it. If something goes wrong inside the marriage, it is our duty to help them fix it.”
There was silence as Ceci tried to digest what her older sister was saying.
“I understand what you are saying but Maggie, you have to realize it’s not the same thing as if Sarah had married a Ghanaian. Have you forgotten that Philip is white?”
“And what does that have to do with anything? Have you seen him eat fufu with his fingers? Have you seen him wear traditional cloth, wrapping it around his loins as if he is going to sit in front of a set of talking drums? Have you seen him greet elders? My sister… that man may look white on the outside but I tell you his soul is African. And I explained to him very strongly, at the wedding, that this is how Africans are. We will be in your business now that you are family so this way of keeping to oneself…what do they call it in the West – individualism – that is practiced so religiously where he comes from will not fly with us.”
Another big sigh from Ceci who felt that she was losing the battle.
“Then let us give them some time first ok? Something has definitely happened that they are dealing with, so we have to give them the space. Hopefully, they will have the courage to share and then we can help”.
“I’m booking a flight to Toronto,” Margaret declared to her sister’s astonishment.
“You’re booking a flight where?”
“You heard me. I said I’m coming over there. You’ve only been there a week and listen to you! All your normal sensibilities have flown out the window…I’m going to have to come and give you some – you’ve lost all of yours!”
Ceci gave up and decided to talk about something else.
“Maggie, guess what?”
“You’re trying to change the subject aren’t you? Doesn’t matter, tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I went to watch something called ice hockey,” Ceci said laughingly.
“Yes I know hockey…but since when did they start playing it on ice?”
“I have no idea but it seems it’s very popular here and even very little children wake up at five in the morning to go and practice eh?”
“Heaven help them – they have so much food to eat and clothes to wear that they have to wake up that early to go and slide on ice?”
Ceci laughed so hard she started convulsing, tears coursing down her face.
“Philip is a coach for one of those teams so we
went to watch a championship game. That man is really good with children eh?”
Maggie grunted.
“That’s why we have to step in. A man that good cannot be left alone. Sarah needs to be reminded how to treat a man well and her mother is just the right person to do that reminding. Expect me by the end of the month!”
With that, she hung up.
The tall stately gait belonged to that woman with the chemically treated hair, the one who spoke English like a white woman and who came to the Ghanaian village of KwasiKrom only at Festival Time. It was the second week of May and this being the feast of yams, she had come from the capital city of Accra to donate a truckload of yams to the villagers and for the many who did not know her, she smiled even more broadly, acknowledging their blessings but refusing to answer their questions.
“God bless you my daughter. Which house do you come from”?
“May your womb be forever fertile, O daughter of KwasiKrom. Who is your father?”
“Has the God of Plenty visited us through you, O blessed one? If so, tell us your ancestral home so we may pay our respects”.
She never succumbed to the questioning, however subtle. All she did all day, for the full week of the festival was smile, nod politely, ask after members of the family whom she happened to be giving the yams to and then in the evening, she would be driven another twenty miles to her secluded second home, away from prying eyes. This lone building on the outskirts of Kwasikrom had little else in sight except for six feet tall anthills, tall and majestic but dangerous inside; she identified with these structures. She would curl up on her raffia mat, in the corner of the only room, mid size and square shaped with only one window, listening to night time sounds outside her window, especially the chirping of grasshoppers somewhere in the bedroom. Every so often, she would feel a small gecko run across her foot but because the bedroom was just mildly illuminated by a kerosene lantern, she could never see the gecko before it tickled her. The door was slightly ajar, allowing a cool breeze to periodically touch her cloth, which was loosely tied at the waist and extended to her ankles.
Only her driver, asleep in the outhouse, knew she was here. Only he knew her story. And like a suicide bomber, intent on following instructions because of a bigger prize in the hereafter, he kept everything hidden in his head.
“Onua!” she called out to him. Onua meant friend.
“Yes Madam”.
He came in running, as if for his life. She motioned for him to sit down and once he’d done so, she stood up. Someone had told her, that one of the ways of putting fear in a suspected opponent was to look at him from a higher vantage point. She added to this information, the need to circle him as she spoke. She could tell that this had the added effect of unnerving him. She slowly began, in measured tones to tell him a story.
“One day the lion, the wolf and the fox went out hunting together. They caught a wild ass, a gazelle and a hare. The lion spoke to the wolf, ‘Mr. Wolf, you may divide the venison for us today’. The wolf said, ‘I would have thought it best, Sire, that you should have the ass and my friend the fox should take the hare; as for me, I shall be content to take only the gazelle’. On hearing this, the lion was furious. He raised his mighty paw and struck the wolf on the head. The wolf's skull was cracked, so he died. Whereupon the lion spoke to the fox, ‘Now you may try and divide our meal better’. The fox spoke solemnly, ‘The ass will be your dinner, Sire and the gazelle will be your Majesty's supper. Your majesty will then have the hare for your breakfast tomorrow morning’. Surprised, the lion asked him, ‘And nothing for you? Tell me, when did you learn so much wisdom?’ The fox smiled slyly, pausing to better enunciate his response to the lion. ‘When I heard the wolf's skull cracking’.”
The woman let the words sink in and then with a haughty flick of her hand, she dismissed the frightened man from her dimly lit room. The sound of his very fast footsteps slowly faded and was replaced by the thick night air.
She sighed meaningfully. Calling him ‘onua’, the twi word for ‘friend’ was to make him feel comfortable. He was too important to do away with. And yet he was too dangerous to keep close without establishing her superiority over him. The woman had a lot of thinking to do and what better place, away from her own family, than a remote village, three hours from Accra where the biggest tourist attraction was a forested prayer camp? Here, lepers, the paralyzed, the insane, blind, deaf and mute mingled with those filled with demonic spirits. The woman was none of these but for this, her very important cause, she could be.
She could fit right in.