Moving to the dresser took effort. Once there, she laid Amma’s paragraph on the dresser next to the tray, her notepad, biro and cell phone. She knew she had to do it now: write the eulogy, something straightforward about the girl who had been her friend and her sister. She wanted to write it as Mrs Al-Kawthari told them an essay should be composed, with a perfect thread running from beginning to middle to end; arguing the same case throughout but using a variety of different examples and quotations. It sounded so sensible when Mrs Al-Kawthari put it like that, pointing to a diagram of equally spaced and identically sized rectangles and connecting arrows drawn on the whiteboard to show what she meant. But rather than starting, Belinda fiddled, nearly unpicking some of her fresh cornrows, before caking together the stray crumbs of soil around the spider plant. Eventually, she smoothed down a new page on the pad and clicked the pen’s end, the nib daggering in and out. She found herself drawing a picture like one of Mary’s, making two circles, one bigger than the other, then large triangles beneath these. The triangles grew thin legs and twiggy arms. Those bodies needed eyes, noses and smiles too, so Belinda put those on, then tore out pages and pages, screwing them up, tossing them. She didn’t move for a time. Soon, her beeping Nokia flashed up the sign meaning a reply was coming through. The name under the tiny, spinning envelope was Amma, with a response to Belinda’s last text. Seeing her name and thinking of Amma was a helpful little nudge.
Belinda tried to write a description of the first time she and Mary had met: the date and the place; the length of the journey from when Mary was picked up in Baniekrom to when they both arrived in Daban. Mary’s appearance: the manly oburoni wawu she wore – a checked shirt and black church trousers. On the page, Belinda put down bits of the conversation they’d had: little things Mary had revealed about her interests – singing, stories, eating – and her dislikes – being made to go to bed early, being made to wait. At the end of a snaky arrow that wriggled to the edge of the paper, Belinda made a note to later include compliments because she guessed that was the kind of thing you were supposed to do too. Belinda stopped and rattled the pen’s lid. She picked up Connect 4 counters and photographs and put them down. She looked at the sentences she had managed in the last few minutes.
For Belinda to say something true tomorrow, the kind of words Mary would really like, she would have to take special parts of her time with Mary – the safety of hearing the same whistling snore beside you each night, the calm which came from knowing the specific way to perfectly teach, entertain, care for another person – and let them out into the world for others to have. It was so hard to hand those things over. To strangers, to anyone.
She stood and paced between the bed and windows, crossing and uncrossing her arms, opening the louvres then flipping them shut. She took out her frustration on the scrunched paper, kicking until eventually all the white balls formed a rough pile near the rattan, with the odd one rolling loosely in the corner. Belinda looked at the mess she had made. She thought again about how, after she had left, Mary had had to tidy that vast house by herself. Each and every day. With no one to set exciting challenges and no one to laugh when Mary raided Aunty’s wardrobe and she tried to recreate Aunty’s grandest headdresses. Mary had had no one at all, but she had persisted on. Something like a tremble started spreading across Belinda’s ribs. But it soon stopped.
Belinda returned to the dresser. She picked up the pen to start again. She wanted to see what she was capable of.
41
The room’s grainy darkness was swept aside when the door clicked open early the next morning. Belinda, who had been half-awake, heard that click and rolled over to see someone standing in the light, their shy feet playing with slippers. For a slow, blurred moment she thought it was Mother: there and quietly waiting. The person carried a sharply ironed black kuntunkuni dress. It was patterned all over with red and brown shapes like arrowheads. Its puffed sleeves had little bows tied into them. The neckline was the shape of a love heart and just below it the gold lizard brooch Nana had given to Belinda twinkled. Aunty, at the doorway, offered the dress to Belinda, and Belinda sat up to press the lamp’s switch.
‘Good morning.’
‘Yes. Good morning. I hope you are well. You have perhaps forty-five minutes for showering and so on. If you want to take some drink or even just a little water there is a flask in the dining room for you. And Koko in the pot too. Not as nice as the one you used to make for us, I’m sure, but I prepared it in case.’ Aunty sucked in her lower lip. ‘I leave this one here, eh? This is your morning attires. It will make you look so fine and pretty. I’ve put the others already in the Mercedes boot, for afternoon and then the evening parts, so you not to worry for that. I know you have enough other little jobs to be getting on with. So, here.’
Aunty came in, with her smell of coffee, toothpaste and camphor, with her gentle, little walk. The rubbish in the corner didn’t seem to trouble her, or at least, she didn’t comment on it. She draped the outfit on the rattan chair, patting it down gently then patting the air closest to it. Perhaps because sleep dulled the edges of her senses or because of the murkiness of the dawn, Belinda felt like the old woman was disappearing before her, like smoke being troubled by wind, so that soon the faltering figure yards from her would be rubbed out, leaving nothing in the room but the potpourri, the heavy furniture, the morning chill, the glow around the alarm clock. And even that, in its own time, might fade too. And that was fine, right, even, because none of it mattered any more. None of it. As Aunty headed towards the door, Belinda remembered what Macbeth says when he hears about his Lady’s death: how life is only a walking shadow. She had liked the line very much. Mrs Al-Kawthari had put it up on the OHP and asked for volunteers to talk about it. Robert had said it was about God and the riches awaiting us in Heaven. Belinda had not been afraid to only say she found the sentence complicated, beautiful and true.
Sitting forward now, Belinda watched Aunty stop at the end of her bed suddenly.
‘A child should never mourn for a child. I say a child should not. Is not the order of things. Is not correct? No. No. No.’ Aunty’s head shook, the long tail of her nightscarf whipping back and forth. She pushed until Belinda heard the bed’s frame creak. ‘Sorry, eh. Sorry. You don’t need this at all. Look at me: getting all my emotions. I’m emotional.’
The clarity of the voice woke Belinda more fully. Listening to the sound was like testing a new bruise. It made Belinda’s stomach light and floaty. Belinda wanted to shove the dress at the woman, force her back out into the passageway, turn the lock and hide. But she didn’t do that. She had to practise being a bit braver. So she pulled herself across the mattress and rearranged her nightie politely. At the footboard, she reached out and took Aunty’s hand. Belinda held the small, darker knuckles and the pappy, soft fingers. She looked up at Aunty’s confusion.
‘I will be OK. It will be OK. It just has to be.’ Belinda gently brushed down Aunty’s arms, the silk of the dressing gown cooler than expected. It was rare for them to stand so close. Belinda had almost forgotten how much taller than Aunty she was and how much broader her own shoulders were. And because it was exactly the kind of thing a child would not do, she pushed those shoulders back, lifted her head, pointed her nose and clapped Aunty’s sides twice.
‘So let’s get ourselves going, eh?’ Belinda made busy gestures, scooped up the dress and a towel. ‘Because the sooner we start, means the sooner we finish. Me boa?’
* * *
In the car, on the short trip to the Dabanhene’s huge compound, the three of them barely spoke. Not about the order of service, nor the well-wishers on their way to the water pump who waved from the roadside, nor the clang of the bottles in the boot which came each time the wheels struggled over a small boulder. In the back seat Belinda’s body followed the movements of Uncle’s driving, swinging one way then another, her eyes fixed on the orangey stripes in Aunty’s wig. Near the start of Old Daban, a woman with a lopsided weave and a dirty, fl
uorescent jacket appeared out of the dawn darkness. Over crackling Highlife music, with no concern for any late sleepers, the woman shouted something quick and stuttered through a megaphone, directing them like they were not local.
The building came into view, a pale pink, missing much of its plaster and with leggy watermarks stretching down from the tin roof. Stunted, papery plantains grew around the perimeter in clumps. Though wide and important enough to have perhaps nine bedrooms spread across its one, sprawling storey, the front was unswept so singed grass and bottle-tops did as they liked across the paving. The edges of the windows and the arch they drove through were covered by giant bites – like a monster had feasted. As if it needed making plain, as if she were suddenly concerned, Aunty rotated a bracelet on her wrist and called it a great honour to have a lying-in-state hosted here at the Dabanhene’s house; a great kindness and gift for Daban’s highest chief to extend since Mary was not really from these parts, since Mary lacked her own proper people to do such things. Uncle argued through the window about parking, Aunty took her bracelet off and replaced it with a new one from a small purse and Belinda reached into her bra for the eulogy tightly packed in there. She smoothed it on her lap and concentrated on the bullet points on the page. She let the words fill her until the engine stopped. Outside, a scrappy gang of children fought about who would open the doors to let her, Aunty and Uncle out of the Mercedes. The kids shouted and spat. One boy wrapped his arm round another’s neck and squeezed until a man in a purple joromi pulled the two apart and walked off. Seconds after he had left, the fight started again. Belinda did not wait, did not try to stop them herself. She slid off her seat and into the day. Out there, opening the boot and unloading Schnapps, Gulder and Supermalt, the clouds felt swollen and hung too close to the top of her head.
42
By six thirty, the Dabanhene’s courtyard rang with conversation. The rows and rows of chairs Belinda had helped arrange were full of restless mourners. Shifting black, red and purple were everywhere. Eventually Uncle stood up and started his traditional libation by waving a stick at the crowd. His robe kept falling, bowing out from his shoulder, so Aunty rushed forward with her knees bent to put it back where it needed to go. Tapping her cheekbones, Belinda listened and watched as Uncle accepted a small glass. He poured the first little splash of liquid to the ground, shakily asked heavenly hosts and the ancestors to gather and drink. He asked those who had gone before to protect the little one on her journey, and told the crowd it was their obligation to honour the dead and all that has passed before the moment they existed in. He said in this way they were forever connected, living and dead, present and past, and to break the bonds was a foolish sin. After each demand, the audience hummed agreement and Belinda hummed too: she remembered Pokuaa and Pokuaa’s truth. But then Belinda felt squashed as the crowd hummed, getting louder and louder as Uncle roared. He called for more Schnapps. Belinda rode forward in her seat a little, wondering if his rage was because he too was helpless, ignorant – like all the rest of them. He gave more, messier slops to the greedy spirits until the whole glass emptied again. The audience hummed for the last time and returned to their talking, satisfied, entertained, while Aunty went to Uncle, stroked his bald head, Uncle rubbed a licked thumb across Aunty’s eyebrows, she touched his cheek in gratitude. They seemed so separate from the swirling colours, people, patterns, sounds. Aunty whispered into Uncle’s ear. They nodded at one another and Aunty made herself the right size to slot under his yam-like arm.
Watching those two, Belinda felt little desire to blame them. Despite the noise of all the chatter and one woman demanding mashed banana for her furious baby, Belinda felt a kind of settling; an understanding that, really, Uncle and Aunty needed only each other, had no need for her. Not like Mary, whose needs had been so obvious from the moment Belinda caught sight of the girl’s ashy skinny limbs. Not like Mother, who Belinda pictured entering their old room in Adurubaa, the exhausted woman calling out for Belinda to help her unzip the back of her uniform. Belinda shivered.
Through the clear aisle between the banks of guests, two wiry men marched to the left, heading for the room where Mary had been laid out. A matching pair with exposed, fuzzy nipples, they wore black bands on their foreheads and wrists; bands marked with cowries and battered copper crescents. They pressed blunt ceremonial knives into their palms and brought no blood. Mourners waved programmes at them and Belinda quivered again as those printed, miniaturised Marys swung in the dimness.
Next came a horn player, hard at work, his eyes streaming. He paused to take in more air. The mourners shouted appreciation. He returned to his serious task. Behind him, more men came, all flicking horsehair flyswatters to clear the way for women: the blank Queen Mother with bowed, cropped head; her sisters and their children, whispering amongst themselves and pointing out dignitaries. Drummers entered, striking the instruments slung on their hips with a tumbling rhythm. Their walking was slower than its accompanying music and the contrast annoyed Belinda. The crushed corner of the eulogy dug deeper into her nipple as she watched them all climb up a small flight of steps, approaching that door where Aunty and Uncle waited solemnly.
‘I can’t,’ Belinda whispered to herself. ‘I can’t, can’t. Can’t.’
The horn blowers and drummers stopped. From somewhere, a lone, high voice began singing praises. To help it, the musicians came together, more harmoniously now, to play a tune heavier than the last. Belinda tried to hold herself still.
‘He comes. Look!’ someone shouted.
Underneath a large, fringed parasol that worked up and down, tossing its tassels, the Dabanhene was big and smug and jewelled. The crowd rose and followed him as he padded through.
‘AGOO!’ the Dabanhene shouted as he reached the steps. Magically, the door opened and Belinda heard Aunty groan. Belinda’s ankles tingled as the mourners tutted sympathy and shuffled forward. Belinda leant on the pink balustrade. The queue kept on. Clasping, she folded herself to vomit. Retching produced nothing.
With her wig loose, Aunty emerged to congratulatory pats as she passed through the dark jostle. A glow filled the space she had left in the doorway behind her. As she came closer, Belinda slumped into her. And many propped Belinda up. Arms encased her.
She found herself drifting, being easily led. She was turned in a stiff semi-circle until she stood side on to the bed. Belinda sucked in her tears. Someone like Mary lay there. You could only see the top half of her because peach and cream satin covered the legs. Her hands had been folded onto her chest. The forearms were scrubbed and well oiled. The fingernails had been cut and perhaps someone had used a toothpick to remove the grime usually there. Lace and ruffles exploded at her neck.
Aunty reached out to the child until Uncle forced her to withdraw. The face. Blusher tried to pretty the cheeks. A grown-up’s lipstick wet the mouth so it seemed as though it had eaten recently. White pearls sat on her earlobes. Light gathered on her forehead in a great, smooth pool, broken by the only sign of what had brought them to this: one new scar. Diagonally opposite Belinda, a woman beat her chest and screamed like the scream fought out of her windpipe. Then a great wave hit and pushed Belinda. Tottering around the bed, noises came from the very bottom of her. It had waited and it had her entirely, though she pleaded for it to stop. It rocked Belinda at the hips as she continued round the bed. Her middle disappeared. She tore her headdress off. She spat and phlegm came with it and more screaming but she couldn’t scream loud enough. More mourners piled in, groaning at Mary, speaking in tongues, men crossing themselves, men battling invisible spirits set on getting the resting one. Some passed Belinda as she stumbled round each corner. An oily-eyed elder, breath whiskied, told her she had done well but not to overdo it. She nearly tripped over her skirt with all the jostling, until she faced the bed head on. Mary, fast asleep, while Belinda herself had been up for at least half an hour, reading or cleaning the mildew between the shower’s tiles. Mary, fast asleep, even though the cockerel had announc
ed himself beneath their window. Mary, dreaming, even though a black ring roared around her.
43
After being fetched by screeching, witchy women, after being handed mints, and after she had been pushed up onto the back of the small stage, Belinda found herself in the company of another version of Mary: a huge photo of the girl, surrounded by plastic roses. The picture had been a bad choice. The image’s overexposed glare robbed Mary’s skin of its brown and replaced it with something harsher, bluer. Belinda reached out, grabbing for the microphone’s stand but pulled its cords and wires accidentally. The huge speakers screamed in protest. The whole congregation moaned. Belinda stepped back, her feet tapping the pallets beneath her. She did her best to remind herself what Mrs Mensah had taught her in Declamation – projection and the diaphragm and eye contact – but that schooling seemed so long ago. She had learnt so much more since then.
The long wait to get started was the fault of the local pastor down there: the gum-chewing man meeting mourners, doing grand hugs and slaps to backs. Working along the rows in his silver-buckled crocodile boots, he small-talked with Aunty, Uncle and the others at the front for ages and did the handshake ending with a click. The rest of the crowd twitched more than Belinda. Women angrily patted itchy weaves. A few men with pockmarked arms sucked Fan Ices, careful that the drips missed their big watches.
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