From Pasta to Pigfoot

by Frances Mensah Williams

  Faye looked at him blankly, trying to process what he had just said.

  ‘Okay, I quite like kontomire stew – that’s spinach stew, right? I don’t mind fufu and I like banku,’ she said, referring to the popular Ghanaian dishes her father had made for them on occasion. Fufu, a dumpling made from pounded yams, cassava and green plantain, was difficult to make the authentic way in England and her father usually compromised by using potato flour and processed potato flakes. His fufu was always tasty and served in large bowls surrounded by lashings of hot peppery soup. Banku, cornmeal dumplings that were usually served with okro stew or pepper, was another favourite. Faye was clear about one thing, however.

  ‘A big N-O to the soup with pigfoot,’ she shuddered. ‘I don’t think I can ever face that again.’ At his curious expression, she shook her head and said, ‘I’ll explain some other time.’

  She gestured towards the cook waiting impatiently behind the counter, ‘I think we’d better go ahead and order.’

  She settled for what sounded like the easy option. ‘I think I’ll have the mixed grill. What does that include – steak and sausages and stuff?’

  Sonny gave her an odd look and then burst out laughing. He laughed so hard that even the harried cooks had to smile at the handsome young man who was obviously finding something very funny indeed. Faye watched him, completely perplexed.

  Eventually he stopped laughing and wiped his eyes, a broad grin still on his face. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have laughed,’ he apologised. ‘I keep forgetting you haven’t lived here.’

  As she raised one eyebrow in enquiry, he went on, still chuckling as he spoke.

  ‘It isn’t a mixed grill of the posh stuff you’d get in a hotel restaurant,’ he said. ‘This one’s a local soup. It’s called a mixed grill because it’s made with a load of different types of meat and fish – beef, goat, sea fish, river fish, grasscutter – that kind of thing. You have it with fufu.’

  ‘Oh.’ Faye laughed at her mistake and then conscious of the other diners lining up behind them, she quickly ordered banku and tilapia while Sonny chose the fufu and groundnut soup.

  They went back to their table and soon the silent waitress arrived with their food, swiftly depositing the plates and bowls on the bare tabletop before gesturing towards a ceramic sink in the corner where they could wash their hands. They returned to their table to find a large pitcher of iced water and two plastic cups deposited by their plates.

  Faye was ravenous and the seasoned grilled tilapia fish garnished with sliced onions and tomatoes and freshly ground pepper sauce accompanied by a huge steaming ball of banku looked delicious. She gingerly broke off a portion of the banku, blowing on it gently as the heat almost burned her fingers. She dipped it into the pepper sauce before eating it. The sauce was hot but not unbearable and she tucked into the food without further ado.

  Sonny watched her for a couple of minutes and when he was satisfied that she needed no further instruction from him, ate his own food with undisguised enthusiasm. After a few mouthfuls he paused and looked up, his forehead covered in a thin sheen of sweat from the heat of the food.

  ‘So, isn’t this better than all those bourgeois places Amma Asante takes you to?’ His hooded eyes probed her flushed face and she shrugged uncomfortably.

  ‘Well, it’s delicious but it’s also nice for me to see as many different places as possible since I’m only here for a short time,’ she replied, trying to be diplomatic.

  ‘When are you leaving?’ he demanded, wiping his forehead with a crumpled white handkerchief.

  ‘I’ve got just over two weeks left now,’ she said, before popping a piece of the delectable soft white fish into her mouth. ‘Why?’ she asked when she could speak.

  ‘Because you will spend every moment you have left with me,’ he said grandly. The sheer arrogance of his statement left her speechless and she decided to concentrate on her food rather than say anything that would spark a quarrel.

  Sonny finished eating quickly, skilfully scooping up all the soup with his fingers. After grazing over a piece of bone marrow for a few minutes he stood up and with a muttered ‘Excuse me’, went over to the sink to wash his hands. Faye looked regretfully at the rest of her banku but now feeling too full to eat any more, she followed him to the sink. A well-used square of hard yellow soap was perched on the large utility sink and she scrubbed her hands vigorously with it before rinsing them under the single tap. She took one look at the tired-looking towel hanging by the sink and instead shook her hands in the air to dry them.

  Sonny had relaxed in his seat and was drinking his beer when she came back to the table. She picked up her cup and gulped down the contents. After the spiciness of the pepper sauce, the carbonated drink burned her tongue and then soothed her throat as it went down.

  ‘Thanks for the meal, Sonny,’ she sighed with satisfaction. He smiled at her and took her hands in both of his before she could protest.

  ‘You have nice hands,’ he said huskily, stroking them with the ball of his thumb. Holding them firmly to prevent her from pulling away, he looked deep into her eyes.

  ‘You hold my heart in between these beautiful hands of yours. Don’t crush it, please.’

  Feeling very uncomfortable at this unwarranted display of affection in the middle of a busy chop bar, and conscious of the curious eyes watching their little drama, Faye wrenched her hands away in embarrassment. ‘Sonny, I don’t think this is the right place for this conversation. Can we go now, please?’

  If he was offended by her response, he didn’t show it. He simply shrugged and finished off his beer in one gulp before standing up and pulling his wallet out from the back pocket of his jeans. Their waitress came back to their table and proceeded to stack the used dishes onto her empty tray. Sonny removed some worn notes and handed them over to her. She swiftly counted the money and nodded before putting the notes inside her apron pocket and moving off with her tray.

  Faye reached for her bag, which had been hanging on the back of her chair, and stood up, following Sonny out of the chop bar and onto the pavement which was teeming with pedestrians. After walking for a few minutes, dodging in and out of the impatient human traffic, Sonny flagged down a taxi and they climbed in.

  This vehicle was in considerably better shape than the one they had travelled in earlier and the driver had his radio tuned to one of the popular FM stations where a lively phone-in show was taking place. Faye listened in amusement as caller after caller phoned in to make a contribution to the show, most of which involved rants against the government or one of the country’s political parties.

  With her handbag rammed firmly between her and Sonny and with one ear on the radio programme, Faye enjoyed the journey back to Labone and smiled at Sonny with genuine warmth when the taxi stopped outside the Asantes’ house.

  ‘Sonny, thanks so much for lunch,’ she said, relief at making it safely home infusing even more enthusiasm into her words. He followed her out of the car and stood directly in front of her, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on her face.

  ‘So when do I see you again, Faye? I had a great time today.’ His hand, ever mobile, rose and tugged gently at a lock of her hair. Unlike Rocky’s touch earlier, Sonny’s made her feel uncomfortable and as though she had unwittingly released a tiger that now refused to go back into its cage.

  She stepped back awkwardly. ‘If you’re going to Stuart’s party tomorrow night, we can meet up there.’

  ‘But there’ll be a lot of people around and I want to be alone with you,’ he said, his expression mournful.

  Faye was saved by Togo pushing open the gate to see what was going on. She gave Sonny a quick peck on the cheek and waved goodbye, calling out a final thank you before he could react. As soon as she had scampered inside the gates, Togo promptly slammed them shut. With a conspiratorial wink, he whistled happily and sauntered off.

  12

  Cultural Ties

  ‘Just wear something comfortable, Miss Faye,’ Martha sai
d, checking her list for the market a final time.

  Faye had to laugh as she left the kitchen and headed for her room. ‘Something comfortable’ in Martha-speak means don’t wear one of your weird combinations of clothing and show me up, she thought in amusement. However, as Martha had agreed to take her along to the market this Saturday morning, she willingly changed into a plain navy shirt-dress.

  Not even Martha could have a problem with this dress, she thought wryly, giving her appearance a final check before she left her room. I could probably enter a convent with this one.

  She stopped by Amma’s room before going downstairs and found her sitting on her bed, sewing a button onto a beautiful pale blue fabric.

  ‘I’m just leaving now for the market with Martha.’ Faye stood in the doorway and surveyed Amma’s room. It was about the same size as hers but far more cluttered. Clothes were draped over open wardrobe doors and several pairs of shoes were scattered on the floor by the bed.

  Amma glanced quickly at the small black clock on her bedside table and nodded.

  ‘You won’t be long, will you?’ She winced as she pricked her finger with the needle. She sucked hard on the puncture and checked to make sure there was no risk of bloodstains on her outfit. ‘We need to leave here by ten o’clock for the engagement.’

  Faye hastened to reassure her. ‘It’s only seven-thirty. Martha says we’ll be about an hour at the most.’

  ‘What are you going to wear, by the way?’ Amma asked. She finished with her task and bit off the cotton thread. ‘Do you have any traditional outfits?’

  Faye’s blank expression gave Amma her answer. Carefully laying the fabric she was holding onto the bed, Amma walked over to one of the wardrobes and waved Faye over.

  ‘We usually wear something traditional for engagement ceremonies rather than Western clothes,’ she said. ‘I’ve got heaps of traditional cloths and boubous here – you can borrow one, if you like.’

  Faye walked over to the wardrobe and quickly scanned through the clothes draped on wooden hangers. She decided to wear a loosely cut boubou since the traditional cloths were obviously made to fit Amma’s figure, and she settled on one in a pale grey fabric with beautiful silver embroidery at the neck and around the hem of the long wrap-around skirt. A matching embroidered strip of cloth for a headdress completed the ensemble.

  ‘Thanks a million, Amma, this is beautiful!’ she said, lightly stroking the pretty fabric. ‘I’ll take it downstairs now and iron it when I get back. I’d better go before Martha goes off without me.’

  Amma grinned. ‘Sooner you than me. I really don’t know why you’re so keen to go to the market; it’s so crowded and noisy, not to mention the smell!’

  Faye laughed. ‘Actually, I’ve got a lovely painting in my room in London of a Ghanaian market scene and I really want to see the real thing.’

  With a final wave, she ran down to the kitchen where she deposited the boubou on the ironing board and then went outside to the gate where the housekeeper was waiting.

  Martha nodded approvingly at Faye’s appearance and commented on how nice she looked. Faye suppressed a grimace and relieved Martha of one of the two baskets she was holding. Togo was standing outside the gate and flagged down a taxi for them. Martha briefly exchanged words with the driver and then gestured to Faye to get in.

  Once in the car, she read through her list yet again, frowning in concentration as she reviewed the items. ‘I don’t need to buy too many things today, Miss Faye, so we’ll go to the market in Osu. Normally, if I have a lot of shopping to do, I prefer to go to Makola. That is a very big market and you can find almost anything there.’

  The taxi rattled along the main road and down Oxford Street. As it was still early, the shops were shut and the street was relatively quiet. Some roadside vendors had started to set up their stalls and without the usual traffic to contend with, the women reached their destination in less than fifteen minutes. Faye stepped out of the car and looked around, slightly disappointed by the size of the market. Stalls were laid out in tight rows and despite the hour, most of the stall keepers were ready for business. A few were still arranging their wares, stacking dark smoked fish, perfumed spices and freshly washed seasonal vegetables in carefully measured quantities on the wide wooden pallets or table tops that served as stalls.

  Faye fell in behind Martha, who moved purposefully towards a stall halfway down the first row. Recalling Amma’s comment about the smell, she had to admit that all the foodstuffs in such close proximity did give rise to a lot of pungent aromas. Martha stopped in front of a large stall with its pallets groaning from the weight of the produce stacked on them. She greeted the stall keeper, a plump woman wearing a dark pink blouse tucked into a traditional cloth that was wrapped tightly around her ample waist and hips. Martha introduced Faye and the woman grinned widely at her, revealing a row of white teeth with a wide gap in the middle, and greeted Faye in broken English.

  Martha skimmed through her list and called out item after item. Despite her bulk, the stall keeper swiftly packed up fresh garden eggs, ripe red tomatoes, some green okro, a large bunch of bulbous onions, long red chilli peppers and fat round green peppers, as well as the strong-smelling dried salt fish that Martha used for seasoning soups and stews. When the woman did not have a particular item on her stall, she would shout across to another stall keeper who would quickly pack up the requested amount of the missing item and bring it over to them.

  Now that’s what I call service, Faye thought, highly impressed by the collaboration taking place as she witnessed one stall keeper after another bring forth their produce. Wele, the long brown curled tubes of cow hide so popular with Ghanaians, corn dough, with its distinctive sharp smell, used for making banku, small fresh crabs, chopped pink pigfoot and fresh spinach leaves were all neatly packaged in black polythene bags and stacked into Martha’s shopping basket.

  When she had exhausted the items needed from that area, Martha paid the stall keeper and thanked her for her assistance. The older woman nodded and shouted to one of the young girls playing nearby to carry the heavy basket. The girl, who looked about fourteen, quickly rolled up a short piece of cloth and placed it on top of her head. She hefted the basket up with surprisingly strong arms and placed it on top of the rolled cloth. Once she had the basket perfectly balanced on her head, she looked expectantly at Martha.

  Martha again led the way, her plump hips swaying as she moved further into the market. The market was bigger than Faye had initially realised and she looked with interest at the profusion of foodstuffs, provisions and other items for sale. One stall keeper was noisily refilling a huge basket with ripe red palm nuts, used to make the rich palm nut soup Faye enjoyed so much. As they passed another stall, a basket toppled over and several children shrieked and rushed forward to recover the feisty little crabs that had been held captive inside. A peek inside another container revealed some fresh snails moving around in slow circles.

  Almost tripping over a stray chicken, Faye followed Martha to where she was busy examining some large yams before selecting two for her basket. From the same stall, she bought a handful of small green unripened plantains, which she usually boiled and served with spinach stew, as well as some ripe yellow plantains that were delicious when fried.

  Martha took the second basket from Faye and deposited it beside a fruit and vegetable stall. There she bought some oranges, explaining tartly to a protesting Faye that the round green and yellow fruit were indeed oranges and probably far sweeter than the oranges she was used to in England! She motioned to the young girl selling the fruit to add some green runner beans, carrots, cabbage, lettuce and cucumber to the basket.

  Once she had crossed all the items off her list, they retraced their steps back to the front entrance of the market. Wrinkling her nose at the sharp, acrid smell coming from the open gutter, Faye navigated her way through the narrow gaps between the stalls, followed by their young porter with the basket still balanced securely on her head.
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br />   The sun was now high in the sky and the heat was becoming more intense. Almost as soon as they emerged from the market, Martha stopped a taxi that was cruising past and Faye climbed in, relieved to be out of the sun. The young girl dumped the basket into the boot of the car, gratefully snatched the note Martha gave her and ran off triumphantly, waving her booty under the noses of her envious friends.

  They were soon back in Labone and Togo, his skinny arms evidently much stronger than they appeared, lifted the two heavy baskets out of the boot before sending the taxi on its way. Faye gave Martha a quick hug of thanks for including her in the shopping trip and rushed off to find Amma.

  Her friend was in the living room painting her nails when Faye burst in. She looked up briefly from her task and looked meaningfully at Faye’s unusually sober dress.

  ‘I see Martha’s got you dressing like a good Christian girl already,’ she remarked, blowing on the coat of paint she had just applied. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re back because you need to start getting ready.’

  She eyed Faye’s dishevelled hair with a critical eye. ‘You should have gone to the hairdressers instead of the market,’ she said, and then added more charitably, ‘I suppose the head scarf will cover most of your hair, anyway, so you should be okay.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ Faye retorted. Before Amma could say anything else, she added casually, ‘Where is everyone? Are your parents coming to the engagement with us?’

  Amma took a break from blowing on her nails and nodded. ‘Yes, they’re upstairs getting ready. They are real sticklers for being punctual at these things. I don’t know why they bother; Ghanaians are always late for every function and you end up just sitting around for hours if you arrive on time!’

  She giggled as she told Faye about how one of her friends had printed the time on her wedding invitation cards for an hour earlier than the service was really due to start.

  ‘And the church was still only half full when she arrived,’ she added with a resigned sigh. ‘By the way, I’ve ironed the boubou for you; it’s on your bed.’