by Adwoa Badoe
“They said they would be away until ten o’clock,” I said.
“Probably even later,” said Bea. “Let’s have a party.” Her slanted eyes were wide and bright.
“Are you crazy?”
Bea laughed, and she did sound a little crazy. But she pushed and prodded until I found every last cedi I had and then we were off to buy kelewele.
I followed her along the driveway up to Bantama Circle. For two hundred yards along the roadside, vendors sat on wooden benches behind tables of large steaming aluminum pots of fried meats, stews, rice, kenkey, plantains and yams.
We put our money together and bought a large amount of kelewele and asked the seller to add roasted groundnuts. She wrapped it all up in old newspaper. Minding the busy street, we walked back to the doctors’ flats.
I wondered what kind of party we would have with just Bea and me and some kelewele.
“So what next?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
Back at the flats, we found Simon and Jima at the carport at F Block, just where the mango tree stood.
“Ei, Bea, see who are here,” I said, surprised.
“Bea told us to meet you here,” said Simon. “Didn’t she tell you? It’s her birthday.”
“Yes, I’m sixteen today,” she said. “And we are going to celebrate.”
It felt strange to do things behind Christine’s back, but it was clear Bea had it all planned out and I could only hope that we would not be discovered.
We walked quickly up the stairs and I prayed I would not bump into anyone I knew. I unlocked the door and in we went. Bea led everyone to the living room.
I served the kelewele and groundnuts in a dish, took out four glasses and filled them with orange drink.
We sang “Happy Birthday” for Bea and she stood beaming through it all. Then I put on the stereo rather low, because I didn’t want anyone telling Christine about loud music from her flat. Bea gave us news from the hospital, and I told them about Dr. Joe and Doyoe’s break-up, but Bea had already heard. Bea got all her information from the nurses at the training college. She knew everyone.
Bea and I showed the boys our choreography for “Push It.” Simon wanted water so I went to fetch him a bottle from the fridge. When I returned to the living room, Bea was sharing the couch with Jima, and Simon was sitting by himself in the armchair.
“Come here,” said Simon. So I went over and sat by him. We watched TV and Simon put his arm around my neck. I could tell that Bea and Jima were kissing, and soon Simon kissed me.
After a while I began to feel uncomfortable. What if Christine opened her door and found us like this? I got up and began to tidy the dishes away.
“Let’s dance,” said Bea.
“I think you’d better all go before I get into trouble.” I was getting worried.
“She’s right,” said Jima.
“Just one dance,” Bea pleaded. “What’s a birthday party without dancing?”
So we danced, all four of us, but my heart was not in it. I really wanted everyone out.
At last the song ended. It was nine-thirty. We heard the sound of a car pulling into the carport. I went to the window to check it out. It wasn’t a car I recognized. Thank God.
“Thank you,” said Bea happily. “You’re a good friend and I have enjoyed my birthday party.”
She tried to hug me. I wriggled free of her arms.
“You have to go now,” I said. “Christine will be home soon.”
It was with much relief that I shut the door behind them. I rushed through the living room cleaning up every trace of their presence. I filled up the water bottle and put the dishes away. I stuffed the kelewele wrappers deep into the rubbish bin. I sprayed air freshener everywhere.
Then my beating heart settled little by little.
• NINE •
Christine liked her new hair extensions. She leaned over the railing and called Julie and Mimi to come up to see them. Dr. Julie said I was avant-garde. She often used terms I had never heard before.
They were talking about hairstyles when the hair braider arrived to do Christine’s hair.
Mimi was leaving that afternoon for Accra, so Christine wrote a note for her mother.
I wondered when Christine would plan a trip to Accra for us. Two months had passed since I had come to Kumasi.
I watched as her pen sped on the notepad, spitting out words between commas and periods.
“Grab me an envelope from my desk,” she said.
When I returned with the envelope, she said, “Glo, write a note to your family. Mimi will give it to my mother and she’ll send it to your house for you. And I could send them some money, too.”
The hair braider was setting up, separating the extensions into smaller thicknesses of artificial hair and arranging them on the arm of the couch. Her fingers moved quickly.
I hesitated. Christine handed me the pen and notepad.
“It will take me a little while,” I said.
“You have up to an hour while I wait for my ride,” said Mimi, taking Christine’s letter. “Bring your letter to me at my apartment.”
I disappeared into my room. I thought hard and wrote to my sister.
Dear Effie,
Does a friend of Sister come to Accra. I writ quik note to say am well and happy and come home vist soon with Sister Cristy.
Yor sister,
Gloria.
I folded the note carefully and put it in an envelope, sealing it carefully with a bit of spit. On the envelope I wrote, Miss Effie Bampo.
“Are you done?” asked Christine.
“Yes, Sistah.”
“Hurry up, go and give the note to Mimi and come and watch Sam,” she said.
When I got back Sam was riding his yellow car around the living room and along the corridor, blowing his horn and shrieking with laughter. I followed him around for a bit. Then I went to start the cooking.
First I allowed the cubes of beef to simmer in their own juices with pureed onions and salt. Then as the red of the meat juices faded into pink and brown, I added a small amount of vegetable oil. Oil made everything taste better. I crushed ripe red plum tomatoes in Christine’s brand new blender. The blender was so much quicker than the grinding stone I used at home. I added the crushed tomatoes to the meat, lowered the heat and sat down to pick the rice clean.
“Gloria, come and split the extensions for Mary, please. She’ll go a lot faster with some help,” Christine called.
“Sistah, let me just add the rice on to cook.”
“What are you cooking?”
“Jolof rice,” I answered.
“Aha, Glo, who is coming for dinner?”
“No one,” I answered. Suddenly I was too shy to say I had Dr. Joe in mind.
Christine laughed. “Are you sure, Glo?”
Sam shouted, “What, what?”
“What” was his new word, and he always turned his hands up the way some people did whenever they said “Why?” He seemed to be amazed by the turning of his own hand.
I washed the rice and scooped it into the pot to cook in the sauce and grated in some nutmeg.
When I cooked, I felt better about things. I relaxed as I stirred the pot. My confidence grew as I measured salt and spices with my eye and mixed them into my cooking.
And the uneasiness of writing that note to my sister faded gradually.
“Glo, are you done? Come and split the hairs for me, please,” Christine shouted once more.
I joined her in the living room and began to split the hairs quickly. Mary’s hands wove the extensions deftly into Christine’s straightened hair. I watched as she picked Christine’s hair at the scalp and wound the extension around them before she parted the hair for braiding. It was an intricate job, but how her hands flew. The finished braids were thin
, smooth and very long.
“What did you say to your sister?” asked Christine as the hour passed.
“Oh, I just said we were all doing well.”
“That was it?”
“I said I was happy and Sam was a good boy,” I lied.
“Didn’t you say anything about Bea and your youth meetings and your band?”
Christine took my silence to mean dismay.
“Why, Glo, do you think I don’t know about your band? You kids think we’re totally blind, eh?” she laughed.
I laughed, too.
“One day your band will have to play for me,” she said.
“Yes, Sistah.”
“Since you’re making jolof, I think I’ll call Doyoe for dinner,” she said.
“How about Dr. Joe?”
“Not tonight,” she said. “Take a note to her for me, please.”
I fetched the notepad and pen I’d used earlier.
“Write, ‘Dear Doyoe.’”
The pen almost flew out of my hand as I realized that I was going to have to write the note. I froze.
“Dear Doyoe,” she repeated, watching me.
I began to sweat on my nose and on my forehead and in my palms. This felt worse than school. I wrote the letter D.
“What’s wrong, Glo? Can’t you write?”
“I don’t spell well,” I stammered.
“Never mind then. It can wait until I’m done.”
I escaped to the kitchen. The jolof was cooking perfectly but I felt no pride. I felt sick. I sliced cabbage and boiled it. Christine was wary of lettuce and other fresh leaves. I covered the dining table with a cloth and laid the table — one place for Christine at the table head and a place for Doyoe beside her. I set Sam’s place by his high chair. This time I set no place for myself. I bustled about with placemats, glasses and forks and knives. I set our white plates in place.
“Your girl is really neat,” I heard Mary say.
And Christine said, “Yes, Gloria is a good girl.”
I stayed in the kitchen and watched the small flames of the gas fire lick the bottom of the cooking pot.
My secret was out, before Christine and a stranger. There was nothing more said until Mary was done. It had taken two and a half hours to put probably a hundred tiny braids in.
“Glo, bring the pen and notepad to the table,” said Christine. She swung Sam about, held him up and kissed him. Sam kissed her back. I stood by the dining table and waited.
“Sit down,” said Christine.
She was still playing with Sam, and Sam was pulling at her brand new extensions, trying to pull them out of the ponytail at the back of her head, but she swung him around, avoiding his small hands. I pulled at the chair closest to me, away from the place settings, and sat down.
“Write, Hi Doyoe.”
I wrote Hi. She sounded out D-o-y-o-e slowly.
“Listen for the sounds of the consonants and the vowels,” she said. She spelled it out for me and I wrote, Gloria has cooked jolof and you must not say no to our invitation. She is to wait and not return unless you come with her. Love, Christine.
Slowly, the words were sounded out and spelled. Perspiration dotted my brow and nose. The pen was slippery between my thumb and finger but I wrote on, feeling like a little child.
“Good,” said Christine when she had read the note. “Now run along and hand it to her.”
Doyoe took twenty minutes to change and make ready for dinner. She was usually very casual but this time when she came out of her room she was dressed up and made up.
She was probably thinking Joe was coming to dinner as well, but I said nothing. I noticed her short jean skirt, her white bareback top and the strappy red sandals on her slender feet.
Doyoe had polished nails. Christine never polished her nails. She said that she washed her hands about three hundred times a day because of hospital work and had no use for nail polish.
My nails were short. I kept them chewed down, a habit that Christine scolded me about. Perhaps if I painted my nails, I’d take better care of them.
Christine had served the dishes up in her best Pyrex bowls, the rectangular ones with pale flowers etched into the sides. The clear glass lids of her bowls were steamed over from the hot rice and cabbage. Cold water from the fridge was served in a glass jug instead of the usual bottles, and fresh orange juice half filled a pitcher. Christine had set an extra place for me.
At first we ate in silence. Sam scattered his rice over the tablecloth and Christine scolded him. They talked about Christine’s ward and Doyoe’s ward. They talked about this boss and then another. Doyoe mentioned Dr. Kotoh, Bea’s father.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” she complained. “He’s asking me the hardest questions all the time and then he tells all the other members in our team that I don’t read over my lecture notes, even though I spend all night reading.”
Evidently it was very hard to become a doctor.
The beef was soft and spicy just the way I liked it, flavored full of ginger and onions. I munched happily, noisily.
Christine looked up at me. She kept looking and not even blinking.
I shut my mouth over my meat and chewed like a lady. It was tough using a fork, but Christine insisted on a fork for rice, not a spoon. And so I struggled to keep a good mouthful of rice on my fork, filling my mouth two or three times before I had enough to chew on.
I wished I could have written all this for Effie to read. Embarrassment flooded over me as I remembered the note, making my ears and cheeks warm. I sipped on my glass of cold water.
Christine wanted to talk to Doyoe privately, so after supper I cleared the table. Then I dished the rest of the jolof into an enamel bowl. I was going to take it to Dr. Joe.
I called for Sam and patted his bottom. His pull-up diaper was light. Sam was getting the message about messes and potties. Soon he would be ready for preschool. I put on his sandals, fetched the small woven basket and covered the bowl with a dishcloth. I shut the door quietly behind us, and then we moved as sure footed and silent as cats in the night.
Dr. Joe was watching TV with two friends when we arrived at his apartment in F Block. The doctor who had asked my name at the clubhouse was there, and they were arguing loudly about soccer and the African Cup of Nations.
“You again,” he said when I greeted them. “You never told me your name.”
“Don’t tell him,” said Joe.
“My name is Gloria,” I said. Then I gave Dr. Joe the basket.
“Is Doyoe still with Christine?” Dr. Joe asked, lifting the lid of the enamel dish.
I nodded. So he knew.
“The food smells good. Tell Christine I said thanks,” he said.
“Please bring the bowl and the basket back later,” I said.
“Gloria?” It was the other man. “Is that your cooking?”
“Yes,” I said proudly.
“I can’t wait to taste it.”
• TEN •
On Monday, Christine came back with books and notebooks. She put them on the table and spread them out. First Aid in English, Student’s Companion, Ladybird Readers and Longman’s Writing Exercises for Grade 2.
“Glo, you’re going to learn to read and write. It’s not enough that you cook well, or sing or sew or whatever. The difference in life is made by literacy.”
I was torn between hope and fear. What was cool about a sixteen-year-old reading grade two books? I could never let Bea or Simon see me with these books. But what if they came by when Christine was teaching me?
“We’ll work in the evenings,” Christine said, as though she could read my mind. “If you work hard you should make fast progress because I’ll be tutoring you one on one. I don’t know what they teach in the public schools. It’s all about lashes for every tiny infraction and
running chores and errands for your teachers, and then they let you pass exams.”
That was only half true. Many of my mates had learned to read regardless of errands and lashes. But it was comforting to know Christine didn’t blame me. I hoped she wouldn’t yell at me for making mistakes. I hoped that this time everything would make sense and I would learn what I hadn’t been able to in ten years of education.
So we began the lessons. Reading was more fun with Sam’s books and read-along tapes. My finger traced a path beneath the words, and I read after the speaker, within the pauses. In time I knew exactly what she was going to say and how she was going to say it. I began to lift the ends of my sentences, imitating the sing-song British accent as I read, “Not me, said the monkey.”
I felt sure I was reading when I recited the whole book without the tape, but Christine said it was all by-heart memorizing. She taught me when she wasn’t busy and she gave me homework for when Sam was taking a nap.
I read and read until I could read everything that Peter and Jane did with the red ball in the Ladybird book. I read through 1A, 1B and 1C and right through to book 3C. This time Christine agreed that I was sounding the words and reading. She gave me spelling tests.
“Here’s where you learn things by heart,” she said. “Sounding does not always do it.”
I no longer spent long hours in the evening talking with Bea, although I continued to go to youth meetings and band meetings. I could tell that I was making progress. Even Sam was pretending to read. It tickled Christine to hear him make up sentences while his finger trailed the words in a book.
“You’re so smart, Sam,” she said.
Simon registered our band for the Anansekrom night at the cultural center. There were several student bands scheduled for the event, and the Prempeh College band, Black Masters, was the most popular. On Thursdays that was all we talked about, especially when the posters appeared in town.
The date was September 3, the end of the long vacation and just before the new school year began.
“Gloria, you’ve never seen Kumasi like this. Town will be so funky,” said Bea.
“Have you asked your sister if you can go?” Simon asked.