by Adwoa Badoe
When I arrived home, Christine was packing up her stuff to go to bed. She had been working on her files. I summoned my courage.
“Sistah, my band is playing at Anansekrom on September 3,” I said. “Can you come? I mean, can I go?”
“Oh, Glo, I was planning our first trip to Accra,” she said. “It’s months since I brought you down here and I have a few days off at last.”
“Oh, no,” I gasped. I had to play this first gig with F Block. I couldn’t miss that, not even for a trip to Accra.
“I have to go to Accra, Glo, but you can stay and perform with your band. I know how much this means to you.”
“Sistah, thank you,” I said, hugging her. Daa had been right about Christine. Not many adults would have cared how much this performance meant to me. But she cared.
We practiced hard every day. Simon made me sing and sing and sing. I had to practice my dances, too. Then we had to plan our clothes. It was an easy choice for me. I was going to wear the jeans Mimi had given me, the yellow blouse and my black shoes.
“Why don’t you buy something new from Jeans-Jeans?” asked Bea.
“I don’t need to.”
“You should buy the red T-shirt with Diva written in silver.”
I remembered the T-shirt hanging on the rack at Jeans-Jeans. It would be perfect for the show, but the yellow blouse was fine, too.
“It’s at least 100,000. That to me is a lot of money.”
Bea shrugged.
“On Saturday we’re going to Faisal’s. I have to make a payment,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll make you a deal you can’t turn down.”
Bea had surprised me. Without fail she made a small payment every weekend and chipped away at the cost of the shoes. She paid so regularly that Faisal allowed her to take the shoes home before she had paid it all off. I wondered how she was doing it, as she never seemed to have money. Even though she told us all the gossip of the hospital quarters, she was close-mouthed about her money.
Simon, Osi and Jima practiced hard. I was surprised at how much improvement they made. They were so tight and I was singing better than ever and hitting some high notes I had never thought possible.
“That’s it, we’re in the groove,” Simon said. “We’re sounding hot, hot, hot!”
We told all our friends we were playing at the concert. Bea and I practiced some intricate dance movements for “Push It,” our funkiest number. It would be good to have my best girlfriend with me on stage.
Saturday came around faster than ever. I had told Christine that I wanted to braid my hair so I left at six-thirty instead of eight in the morning. The birds were in the thick of the morning song. My feet brushed the bushes on the side of the road and came away wet. The day felt new and fresh, full of promises.
I sang as I walked. I could have walked all the way to Kejetia but I took the early tro-tro to make good time. At that time of the morning the roads were free, and we sped off with the tro-tro boy hanging off the back bumper, shouting, “Kejetia! Kejetia!” as if anyone doubted that we were headed for Kejetia.
I had my packet of extensions in my basket and I tried to imagine how I would look with braids dangling to my back. I had put my hair in twists to pull out the tight curls and give me more length. Mary the hair braider had said that it was easier to braid extensions on straightened hair.
I worked my way along narrow alleys and found the hair-braiding center of Kumasi. The stalls were set up to display all kinds of hair in plastic wrap, from synthetic plastic hair to real human hair from Asia. Effie said that in Asia, women grew their hair only to cut it off for money.
Mary’s stall was large, and she had several girls working for her. There were women and girls sitting on stools with their hair half done. I should have started out earlier.
“You came,” she said when I greeted her. She dragged a stool to the entrance of her stall. “Sit down.” She handed me a comb. “Undo your twists.” She pointed to one of her apprentices. “Ayele will braid your hair for you.”
Ayele pulled the strands apart and began to make small partings in my hair. I gritted my teeth as she parted and pulled, combing through my hair.
In spite of her painful fingertips, Ayele was friendly. She chatted as she worked. I found out she was from Accra. Her hands moved swiftly from the back of my head to the front. She had my neck twisted in some strange way to get to the side of my head without changing her position.
When she was done, she untwisted me. My back was stiff, my neck painful and my hair roots were screaming, but when she showed me a mirror, I felt instantly grateful. I could pass for a Somebody, a daddy’s daughter whose father owned a car and whose mother had a maid.
“Now, my dear, go and buy some shadda clothes and you’ll look better than the great Jemali.”
“Oh, Ayele, this is beautiful,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Don’t! Don’t say thank you for hair braiding. It is bad luck! They say we won’t find husbands if we accept thanks for doing hair. But we can accept money,” she said with a wink.
Even Ayele felt I needed new clothes for my new look. I decided to go to Jeans-Jeans after all.
I squeezed past a row of taxis parked by the roadside and arrived at the shop. I went in and looked around for Faisal, but I couldn’t find him. There was the red T-shirt on the wall with DIVA written across it in silver glitter. I looked at it, wondering if I had enough courage to ask to try it on.
Would they let me? I remembered my new look. I beckoned to the attendant.
“Can I try this T-shirt and jeans,” I asked as boldly as I could.
“I’ll get it off the hook for you.” I watched and waited as the T-shirt and its hanger were lowered down on a crook straight into my hands. Next I was given the hip-hugging jeans in size 8.
The changing room was toward the back where Faisal’s office was located. I stepped into the narrow cubicle and took off my skirt and blouse. I felt cold. I realized I had never changed in a shop before. I hung my clothes on a nail on the wall. Then I pulled on the T-shirt and pants quickly. The shirt hung just short of my bellybutton in that new style I had seen on TV.
I would have to cross the short corridor to find the full-length mirror on the wall. I wondered why the mirror was so strangely placed. Possibly it was a matter of store security because the office window was directly opposite the mirror.
As I looked in the mirror admiring myself, my eyes met Faisal’s through the glass.
“Gloria, my friend, you look different. It took me a while to recognize you,” he said.
“I’m just trying this on.”
“But now you must have it,” he said. “It was absolutely made for you.”
His office door was open and he stood against the door frame, arms folded across his chest, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips.
“Come, Gloria, let’s talk,” he said, beckoning me to his office.
I followed him breathlessly. He turned and shut the door. For a moment I panicked. It had to be safe inside a shop.
“Where’s your friend?” he asked.
“I came by myself. I went to have my hair done,” I said, touching my braids.
“Beautiful,” he said.
He reached and touched a braid, too. My belly jumped at his touch. I noticed his eyes for the first time. They were speckled green.
“I like you, Gloria. For you, I’ll give half price for everything,” he said. “You understand?”
He seemed to be searching my face for some response. Bea was right. Faisal really liked me. He reached for a calculator, made some quick calculations and said, “For trousers and top it’s 850,000 but you pay only 400,000 cedis.”
“But I don’t have that.”
“Pay small-small, hmm. Just like your friend Beatrice.”
I was perspiring on my forehead and nose, and I felt
incredibly hot.
“See, I’ve written your name. Gloria?”
“Gloria Bampo.”
“Address?”
“Block D4, Komfo Anokye Doctors’ Flats, Bantama Road.”
Someone knocked on the door. It was the shop assistant who had helped me.
“Someone is looking for you, sah,” he said to Faisal.
Faisal handed me a bag.
“You can put the clothes in this when you change. Next week come and pay something small,” he said. “I wait for you.”
There was something about the way he rolled his r and the look in his eyes that brought the sweat to my armpits. Then he was gone.
I changed back into my regular clothes and left with my new clothes in the bag.
It was on the way that I realized that he had given me all the clothes even without a down payment.
• ELEVEN •
Christine had just started me on the Level Four series. The letters were smaller, and there were at least ten times more words on a page. I struggled to keep my mind from wandering.
My new clothes were hidden at the bottom of my bag, the one with the broken zipper. I had managed to smuggle them in unnoticed, and the bag was stuffed in the corner of the wardrobe where I hung my clothes.
I got up for the twentieth time to take another peek at the T-shirt and jeans. I was going to wear them next Saturday for the concert. Dark glasses would complete the image. Yes!
I heard the theme song for the Osofo Dadzie show through the open door. “We are going…heaven knows where we are going…”
“Go-go,” Sam called. The song was his signal to find me. I loved Osofo Dadzie.
“Glo-glo, are you forgetting Osofo Dadzie?” Christine asked.
“I’m coming, Sistah.”
“Reading fever has come over you, eh?” she said as I sat down in front of the TV. Sam got off his mother and climbed on my knee.
“I really want to know English,” I said.
We watched the TV and laughed together as Super OD destroyed the English language with mispronunciations and poor grammar. We laughed to burst our sides when Kwadwo Kwakye called his dog Barbara Bush.
“In Europe, with a show like this, they would all be millionaires,” said Christine.
“And they can’t even speak English right,” I said.
“English is important. That group would have traveled the world if they could make people laugh the same way in English. As stupid as it sounds, this language makes all the difference in Ghanaian life — who you’ll associate with, which kind of person you’re likely to marry, where you can travel, what kind of opportunities your kids will have. It’s amazing what reading and writing somebody’s language can do for you in this strange world.”
How true, I thought. English was the difference between the Somebodies who lived in the suburbs of the cities and the Nobodies of the many villages between Accra and Kumasi.
Christine was not finished yet.
“Take your friend, Bea. If she goes ahead to achieve her dreams as a doctor and you don’t study anymore, you’ll find yourself calling her Sistah Bea or Auntie Bea.”
“Aaah, I’ll never call her Sistah Bea,” I protested.
“I’m just saying, Glo. I have cousins who are much older than me in my hometown, but when they see me now, they call me Sistah because I’m educated and they are not.”
“I’ll be Somebody, too,” I said.
“Just so you know you have to work at it. It used to be society was divided into royalty and common people, but now the new royalty are the educated.”
I thought about that for a while. There had to be other ways than a read-and-write education to find the good life. I could become a talented singing artist like Jemali, or I could become an exceptional dressmaker who sewed only for the rich people of Accra or Kumasi.
Best of all, I could marry someone wealthy.
“Come, let’s see your hair,” Christine said.
I set Sam on the ground and knelt before Christine. She parted my extensions.
“Shiee, how she pulled on your scalp! This is how people lose their hair. You always have to remind the hair braiders to soften their hold, otherwise you’ll end up with alopecia and you’ll lose your hairline. Does it hurt?”
I nodded.
“Bring the Dax pomade and I’ll oil your scalp for you.”
I sat at Christine’s feet and lay my head on her knee as she began to rub my sore scalp with Dax pomade. Sometimes she stopped as the action on Osofo Dadzie mounted. It was one of those popular TV plays where a poor humble girl becomes rich through meeting a rich man and thereafter becomes incredibly arrogant. Of course we were waiting for the imminent downfall of Baby Nayoka, the star of the show.
“Mamama milk, Go-go milk,” Sam pleaded. “Go-go, milk, milk, milk!” he screamed.
“Sam, don’t keep shouting at Gloria, otherwise she’ll go away,” said Christine.
“Sistah, I never want to go back to my home.”
I wasn’t sure why I said that. Perhaps it was Christine’s soft fingertips against my scalp. Perhaps it was the strength of her legs supporting me while my legs supported Sam. Maybe it was the way my world had opened up ever since I had moved to Kumasi.
“I always want to stay here with you,” I said.
Christine was quiet. Only her fingers worked against my scalp.
At last she said, “Nothing remains the same forever, Glo.”
At the next break in the program, I got up to make Sam’s milk. Suddenly I wanted to confide in Christine about the hidden clothes. I returned with Sam’s bottle.
“Sistah, I — ”
“Glo, next year when Sam goes to preschool I would like you to go back to school to pass your JSS exams.”
Me, go back to school? I didn’t mind learning to read with Christine, but I didn’t want to return to schools and uniforms again.
“Yes, Sistah,” I said politely. And the moment for telling about my new clothes passed.
•
Christine left on Thursday instead of Friday. Joe was going to Accra and offered to drive them in his much larger Camry. Because she left on Thursday, I had to miss youth meeting, which meant I had to miss practice.
I didn’t worry too much. I felt confident about our performance, but I knew Simon would be unhappy. He was bound to come by later just to get me to sing through the songs. He was so particular.
Christine left the house upside down as she hurried to pack everything she might need in Accra. I’d have to tidy things up and separate the dirty things for washing.
“I have asked Mimi to keep an eye on you for the weekend, Glo, so be good,” she said. “She has a bed for you to sleep on. Be as helpful as you can.”
“Yes, Sistah.” I wasn’t afraid to sleep in our apartment by myself, but I guess Christine thought it would be better for me to be supervised.
The car drove off with all my favorite people — Sam, Christine and Dr. Joe, and there was Doyoe in the front seat. Perhaps Doyoe and Joe were solving their problems.
I waved hard and long. I waved until the dust settled on the driveway. Then I returned to our apartment to clean up. I thought I’d tidy the house that night and then go to Mimi’s the next morning, as there was so much to do.
I began in Christine’s bedroom. I folded her clothes and arranged her shoes on the rack. I shut the drawers and dusted the dresser. Then I took the dirty things and stuffed them in the laundry basket. There would be enough time to wash everything.
I opened her jewelry box and replaced her earrings. And the thought occurred to me that I could use her large earrings and her long heavy chain on stage, as well as her large red bangles. And there was her array of lipsticks and blushes on her make-up tray.
I sat on the stool in front of her vanity and began to apply make-up
. First I applied the packed foundation over my face with a piece of foam. I tried to make my eyebrows lush and bold and used the glossiest red lipstick on my lips. I combed my eyelashes through with mascara, making them long and black. I smiled wickedly and made faces at the mirror, trying to look sophisticated, then cute, then coy and sexy. I thought I could pass for twenty or just about, very much like the nurses from the training school who came to the clubhouse with their doctor friends for drinks.
I couldn’t wait to show Effie how much her baby sister had grown. She’d be surprised to see my hair in extensions.
When the doorbell rang, I froze.
It couldn’t be Christine, I thought. She would have opened the door with her own key. I looked through the window to check anyway. I didn’t see Dr. Joe’s car. It was probably only Simon coming to make me practice.
When I opened the door it was Bea.
“Gloria, where is Dr. Christine?” she asked, taking in my new look.
“She’s gone to Accra. I’m only playing with some make-up.”
“Can I try, too?”
I thought for a moment. Christine would not expect me to take Bea to her bedroom. But then she’d never know.
I was feeling silly.
“Come in, young lady. Won’t you have a drink?” I put on what I thought was a good British accent.
“Yes, please, lime cordial, please.” Then she sat down like a lady and crossed her legs. I served her chemicals, yellow for lime, and it was cold and sweet.
Bea did not drink like a lady. She gulped it all down. Then she let out a large burp.
“Can I powder my nose?” she asked.
“Of course, follow me.” I led her to Christine’s room and straight to her vanity table. There I dropped my character and said, “Nsee whee. Don’t mess things up!”
For one hour we tried every look we could imagine, changing eyeshadow colors from red to ice blue and gold. We changed lipstick and applied blush, and Bea styled my braids in different ways. Bea’s hair was schoolgirl short, and there wasn’t much we could do about that. Christine did not wear wigs and so Bea practiced with head ties and combs.
“Bea, I have something to show you, wait here,” I said. I dashed into my room and reached into the far corner of the wardrobe for my bag. I took off my dress and pulled my Diva T-shirt gently over my head. I pulled the slim-fit jeans over my hips. Then I put on my pumps and rushed back.