From Pasta to Pigfoot

by Frances Mensah Williams

  Faye went into the bathroom and took off the paint-stained shirt. She washed her hands, scrubbing at the obstinate specks of black oil paint. As soon as she emerged, Amma bundled her off with a quick farewell to Baaba who, too tired to even walk them to the door, waved languidly at them from where she sat.

  It was now almost two o’clock and the heat and humidity were intense. Amma’s car, which had been parked on the street, felt like an oven. The steering wheel was so hot to the touch that she was forced to open the car windows for several minutes to let some of the stifling air escape before starting the engine.

  ‘What do you feel like eating?’ Amma asked, as she pulled out into the road, grasping the warm wheel as lightly as she dared.

  ‘Anything,’ said Faye. ‘I’m starving after all that work!’

  Amma drove quickly through some quiet back roads before turning into a busy single-lane road. The cars were bumper to bumper, honking furiously as they inched along slowly.

  Faye pushed her hair back from her face and flapped her hand in front of her in an effort to cool down. Her skin felt sticky and she longed for a cool drink to soothe her parched throat.

  She stared in fascination at the activity taking place on the street, forgetting her hunger for a moment, when a skinny beggar approached their car, which was almost stationary in the busy traffic, with outstretched hand, only to turn away sorrowfully at Amma’s dismissive gesture of impatience.

  A boy carrying a large metal bowl of fish walked alongside their car for several minutes, intent on making a sale and completely unperturbed at Amma’s look of disgust as he lifted the dead fish up to her window.

  ‘Madam, the fish dey very good,’ he said confidently, keeping pace with their slow moving vehicle. Amma ignored him and concentrated on keeping up with the traffic. The young man ducked his head to look across at Faye.‘Madam, I say, make you buy my fish, eh?’ His grin was wide as he made his cheeky plea. Unable to resist it, she smiled, giving him renewed hope of a sale, even as the strong smell from the metal bowl wafted into the hot car.

  ‘Madam, you see de fish? I swear, it dey make good stew or you go make fry ‘um well well plus kenkey.’ Undaunted by Amma’s glare, he kept up the patter until eventually, after several minutes of fruitless advertising, he finally conceded defeat and ran to the car behind them to relaunch his sales pitch.

  ‘This is our famous Oxford Street,’ Amma explained, blowing the horn stridently while at the same time skilfully swerving to avoid a taxi that had pulled out from a side road and almost hit the side of their car. ‘This road is always busy, but there are quite a few fast food restaurants here so we can stop and get something to eat.’

  Looking round, Faye was immediately struck by the contrast between the luxurious saloon cars and four wheel drive vehicles on the street and the endless stream of hawkers who appeared to have set up an alternative market along the side of the road, selling everything from dog chains to lurid wall clocks. As their car crawled along, the young entrepreneurs would tap on the car windows, grinning broadly while energetically displaying their wares. A number of women, some with children tied firmly on their backs with cloths, seemingly oblivious to the heat, walked in the dust along the side of the road with large bowls on their heads full of items for sale. Some bowls were piled high with bananas, while others were filled with yams, green plantains and even washing up sponges.

  Still on Oxford Street, they drove past banks, petrol stations, small boutiques displaying designer clothes and expensive handbags, restaurants and even a large hospital. A neon sign, its lights temporarily switched off, identified a casino set back on a side road.

  ‘This road seems to have every kind of business and every type of person,’ Faye remarked, her nose almost pressed against her window.

  Amma honked her horn in irritation at a street hawker who had run out in front of their car in pursuit of a white backpacker showing no desire to buy the framed photograph of three fluffy white kittens the hawker was trying to sell.

  ‘It’s madness here sometimes,’ she muttered, looking around for a parking space in front of what appeared to be a very popular restaurant, judging by the number of cars crammed into the small parking lot. Luckily, a car was reversing out, allowing Amma to pull in expertly into the vacated space.

  Entering the building, they climbed up a flight of stairs to the restaurant where they were shown to an empty table by the window. From there, they had a clear view of the activity taking place on the street below. A smiling waiter handed them two menus and took their order for drinks. A few minutes later, he reappeared and placed their drinks carefully on the table.

  ‘Ah, waiter, what is this?’ Amma frowned and pointed to the bottle he had just placed in front of her.’

  ‘Please, it is Pepsi, madam,’ the waiter replied, beaming widely at her with sparkling white teeth.

  ‘I didn’t order Pepsi,’ Amma said, her frown deepening. ‘I ordered Coca-Cola.’

  The waiter’s smile was, if possible, even wider.

  ‘Yes, madam,’ he agreed happily.

  Amma sighed deeply and tried again.

  ‘So, why have you brought me Pepsi if you know I ordered Coca-Cola?’ She spoke slowly and with exaggerated patience.

  His smile unwavering in the face of the clear hostility directed at him, the waiter replied. ‘Please, madam, it is all the same.’

  Faye had started sipping on her Pepsi and choked on the drink as she burst into laughter. Amma, who had been on the verge of losing her temper, suddenly saw the funny side and started laughing. The waiter joined in the general hilarity for a few moments until he received a warning glare from a fast-sobering Amma and scuttled back to the kitchen.

  After their meal, they drove out of the hectic atmosphere of Oxford Street and headed off to Amma’s dressmaker who, she explained, lived in an area called Ridge. The difference between Oxford Street and Ridge could not have been greater. Lined with tall leafy trees, the roads in Ridge were almost empty of traffic, with only the occasional car and a few desultory pedestrians to be seen. The houses were, without exception, very large and situated in huge plots of land. Although some appeared well tended, they passed many that seemed to be badly in need of a facelift.

  ‘This is the area where a lot of the British officials lived during colonial times,’ Amma said, as they drove along a tree-lined avenue. ‘The houses look big but some of them are deceptively small inside. In the old days, many of the colonial civil servants left their families behind in Britain when they were posted to Africa.’

  As she finished speaking, she came to a stop in front of a pair of brown gates and tooted the car horn twice. The gate was quickly opened by a young man of about seventeen, who saluted in greeting and stood back as they drove in. The house was fairly large but the grounds, although spacious, lacked the well-tended quality of the Asante’s home.

  Amma parked in the gravelled driveway and led the way up a short flight of steps leading to the front door. She gave a loud knock at the door and as they walked inside, Faye was struck by the contrast with the airy brightness of the Asante’s house.

  I wouldn’t mind giving this place a makeover, was her first thought as she took in the dark panelled walls and drab brown paintwork. They were shown into a large living room and waited on a brown velour sofa covered in stiff clear plastic that was so old it was cracking at the corners. Most of the furniture in the room was in a matching shade of brown, while gilt-framed family photographs perched on almost every surface. Large battered legal books filled the shelves of a heavy bookcase set back against the wall, their titles stamped in gilt lettering on worn hard spines. A hefty black bible sat on a teak centre table, as did a smattering of religious pamphlets and a pile of yellowing newspapers that partially obscured from view a red glass vase filled with faded artificial flowers.

  Amma, who was perched next to Faye on the uncomfortable sofa, cast a wary look around before speaking.

  ‘My dressmaker’s husband is a re
tired judge,’ she whispered. ‘He’s usually drunk, so let’s hope he doesn’t show up.’

  Faye stifled a giggle and shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. She had to sit forward to prevent her exposed back from sticking to the plastic covers. Although the room was fairly cool, the old books gave it a musty and oppressive atmosphere and she silently prayed for Amma to finish her business quickly.

  Her prayer was answered by the arrival of a small middle-aged woman carrying some clothing over one arm. With greying hair and twinkling eyes behind wire bifocals, she immediately reminded Faye of Miss Campbell.

  Both girls stood up and Amma quickly introduced Faye. The dressmaker stared at Faye’s clothing dubiously and introduced herself as Mrs Appiah.

  ‘Can I offer you something to drink?’ she asked, her eyes travelling down to the slit in Faye’s skirt in an exact replay of Martha’s reaction that morning.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Amma said quickly. ‘We’ve just had lunch.’

  Mrs Appiah tore her eyes away from Faye’s outfit and turning to Amma, she draped the garments she was carrying over the back of the sofa and held up each item in turn.

  ‘I’ve made the adjustments on your other clothes too, Amma,’ she said. ‘The skirt should fit properly now.’

  She retrieved a plastic bag from behind the sofa and quickly emptied the contents onto the table before folding the clothes and popping them in. Amma handed over a large wad of notes, which Mrs Appiah counted, nodding in satisfaction when she’d finished.

  ‘Thank you very much, my dear,’ she said. ‘And how is your mother? Please give her my regards when you get home.’

  Amma nodded with a polite smile and closed her handbag.

  ‘I know you will look wonderful in the boubou at your friend’s engagement ceremony.’ Mrs Appiah nudged Amma gently in the ribs with a sly smile. ‘And you know, my dear, with God’s help it will be your turn to marry soon. You just wait and see.’

  Amma sighed as she picked up the plastic bag full of clothes. ‘I hope so, Auntie,’ she said. ‘But my boyfriend doesn’t seem to be in a hurry and my mother is more interested in me getting a good job than getting married.’

  Mrs Appiah shook her head vigorously, her tone earnest. ‘Eh! My dear, as for this one, listen to me,’ she said. ‘The most important thing is that you must pray! Pray all the time, never stop – and the Good Lord will find you a husband. And Amma, I’ve told you before, come to my church! We have plenty of God-fearing young men who are looking for a wife. So, if this boyfriend of yours is not ready, you come! As for finding you a husband, it’s not a problem, eh, you hear?’

  She pushed the wad of notes securely into the pocket of her skirt. ‘Don’t make the mistake of going to chase after a career and thinking you have all the time in the world, you hear?’ She wagged her finger solemnly. ‘I tell you, find a good husband and settle down quickly!’

  She pushed her spectacles back on her small shiny nose and frowned at her client. ‘Ah Amma, listen eh? When you die, nobody will ask what you did for a career!’ She spat the word out in disgust. ‘All they will want to know is how many children and grandchildren you left behind.’

  She turned to Faye who had been listening in incredulous silence.

  ‘So, young lady,’ she demanded, ‘do you go to church?’

  Faye nodded meekly. ‘Yes, Mrs Appiah, I’m a Catholic.’

  The older woman sniffed. ‘Well, technically I suppose you are a Christian,’ she conceded, her tone grudging. ‘But all these old churches have lost their way. Until you are born again, you are still a sinner in God’s eyes. You should come to my church and hear the word of God. Of course, you would need to dress modestly,’ she said pointedly, looking down at Faye’s skirt.

  Amma took one look at Faye’s outraged expression and quickly said goodbye to the older woman. Mrs Appiah walked them out to their car, talking non-stop all the way.

  ‘Eh, Amma, that’s a nice car you are driving,’ she said, examining the vehicle critically as they got in. ‘But be careful your young man doesn’t get worried that you are too expensive to marry, eh?’ She wagged her finger again at Amma who, after a swift glance at Faye, was struggling to restrain her giggles.

  ‘Actually, it’s my brother’s car, Mrs Appiah,’ Amma said, her voice slightly unsteady from suppressed laughter. ‘His company gave him a new car so he lets me drive this one.’

  The older lady nodded, mollified by the explanation. Pressing a pamphlet with a black cross on the cover into each of their palms, she finally stepped back from the car.

  ‘Heh, Adamu!’ she shouted, looking around for the watchman. The young man appeared almost immediately.

  ‘Adamu, open the gate for madam!’ As he rushed to obey, she looked at her watch, said a hasty goodbye to the girls and turned around and hurried back inside the house.

  Amma drove off and unable to hold back any longer, they both burst into laughter. Amma was laughing so hard she almost hit the gatepost as she drove through the gates. Gasping with laughter, Faye wagged her finger at Amma.

  ‘Eh, Amma, make sure you don’t drive too well or your young man will think you are too clever and run away,’ she mimicked Mrs Appiah’s reedy voice. ‘No wonder the old judge turned to drink!’ she exclaimed, reverting to her normal voice and rolling her eyes in horror.

  They were both exhausted and Amma headed straight back to Labone. Once at home, she fetched some cold drinks from the kitchen and they collapsed in the living room, still laughing as they took turns impersonating Mrs Appiah.

  A piercing cry suddenly shattered the peaceful atmosphere. Faye and Amma sprang to their feet in panic, but before they could take a step, Auntie Amelia burst into the room. Seizing Faye, she whirled her round and round and then squeezed her in a suffocating hug while a stupefied Amma looked on.

  ‘Mama, what is it?’ she asked in alarm as her mother whooped loudly and kissed Faye soundly on each cheek.

  The sound of a loud cough from the doorway caused everyone to freeze for a second. Rocky stood on the threshold looking at his mother in amazement. He had just arrived home and was still holding his briefcase.

  ‘Ma, what‘s the matter?’ he asked. He looked anxious but, as Faye noted while trying to disentangle herself from her excited aunt, even the worried frown on his face didn’t mar his handsome features. His tie, for once, was slightly askew although his shirt was as white as untouched snow. His caramel-brown eyes narrowed with concern as he watched his mother resume her excited twirling and he moved into the room to stand beside his bemused sister.

  Coming to an abrupt halt, Auntie Amelia smiled reassuringly at the three faces staring at her in stunned silence. Smoothing back her hair, she beamed at Faye before turning to her offspring, breathless in her excitement.

  ‘I’m sorry! Don’t think I’ve gone mad. It’s just that I am so excited by what Faye did to my shop!’ Reaching out to Faye again, she hugged her tightly before releasing her to stroke her cheek softly.

  ‘Whatever made you think you don’t have talent, my dearest child?’ she said gently. ‘What you have created in my shop is absolutely wonderful!’

  Taken aback by the depth of sincerity in the words, Faye’s eyes misted over. Clearing her throat, she smiled a little shakily. ‘I’m glad you liked it – I was worried you might think it was a bit over the top.’

  ‘Over the top? No way,’ Aunt Amelia said. ‘It’s simply beautiful.’ She turned to Rocky. ‘Son, you should see the place now – what she did is so simple and yet so different!’

  Rocky heaved a sigh of relief at his mother’s apparent return to normality, although his expression was still wary as he looked at her.

  ‘Okay, Ma, let me understand this. Faye redecorated your shop,’ he said slowly, his tone cautious. ‘And you like it,’ he went on. Although he didn’t say so, it was clear that he would dearly have loved to add, ‘and, for that, you had to scare us all to death?’

  Amma gave her brother an impatient look and sat down again.
Now that she was sure her mother was not heading for the local asylum, her own euphoria at Faye’s transformation of the shop resurfaced.

  ‘Rocky, you really must go and see the shop,’ she enthused. ‘Faye did a really good job. You wouldn’t believe it was the same place.’

  Rocky tossed his jacket over the back of the sofa before sitting down in one of the leather armchairs and stretching his long muscled legs out in front of him.

  ‘It sounds too good to miss.’ He smiled at Faye, who flushed with embarrassed pride. He made no attempt to break eye contact and she felt her heart pound as a rush of pure joy shot through her. Conscious of Rocky’s open scrutiny of her partially exposed midriff, she sat down on the sofa next to Amma and curled her feet up under her.

  ‘Amma, I’ll definitely go and take a look,’ Rocky said. ‘My only problem is how to get past that man-eating friend of yours.’

  Picturing Rocky’s closely cropped head trapped within Baaba’s menacing cleavage, Faye couldn’t stop laughing. Amma glared at her brother for a moment and then, unable to help herself, also started laughing.

  ‘Don’t say rude things about my friend,’ she said, trying to sound stern. ‘Baaba is very fond of you, you know.’

  ‘A feeling that is not mutual, I can assure you,’ was the unsympathetic reply. ‘She’s terrifying – and as for those tight skirts and blouses…’ his voice tailed away and he pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his collar as if just the thought of Baaba was causing him to suffocate.

  Amma looked curiously at her brother. ‘What are you doing home so early? Did someone burn the bank down?’

  ‘Very funny. What’s so strange about a man coming home after a day at the office?’

  ‘It isn’t strange for normal people. But you?’ Amma scoffed. ‘I can’t remember the last time you’ve been home from work before dinner.’ She paused and her gaze wandered thoughtfully across to Faye before coming back to rest on her brother. With her head cocked to one side, she stared at him hard with narrowed eyes.