Keni Ribeiro

Don’t judge me

11:56pm.

It was late and I should have been getting some rest, but I was waiting for her to text me back.

It was not like her to fall asleep without saying goodnight. She was probably busy.

I hated it- the fact that I had become this dependent on her, this clingy. I hated the fact that she knew she had me in her pocket, at her beck and call. I also hated the fact that I couldn’t seem to control it.

I remember when I first met her. It was at Akwele’s traditional marriage ceremony. I hate ceremonies of any kind, but Akwele was never going to forgive me if I didn’t show up. She sat beside me throughout our Biochemistry class in the university and always remembered to buy an extra handout for me just in case my forgetful self walked into class without one. She was family. Never mind the fact that I didn’t like her husband to be. She was happy and I was happy for her; so even if it killed me to listen to the overdramatic okyeame go on and on about the contents of the presents the man came bearing, I would endure it for my dear Akwele.

It was not as terrible as I thought it would be. All of our classmates turned up, which wasn’t surprising- Akwele was everyone’s sweetheart. The food was good and the palm wine was in abundance- not that I expected anything less. It was time for Akwele to be brought out. Half of the ladies on my table got up to take pictures of the bride and her entourage. I got out of my seat to get a better view and also to save myself the misery of the ‘aahs’ and ‘oohs’ about her dress, the makeup, her hair, blah blah. Leaning against one of the bamboo pillars that had been erected for the day, I had a perfect view of the entire thing. Being a 6’4” had its perks after all.

That’s when I saw her. Not Akwele.

Clara.

She was the first person in the procession, probably because she was petite. The first thing I noticed was her daring haircut. I also noticed that her white lace dress was scandalously short, revealing her slightly bowed legs. She was dark brown- same colour as dark chocolate- and she was wearing red lipstick. She was leading the other girls in a dance. It was simply delightful to watch. She turned to speak to the girl behind her, that’s when I saw that she had a gap in her perfectly white teeth. I was smitten.

I spent the rest of the ceremony watching Clara- maybe staring would be a more appropriate word. At one point, our eyes met and she waved at me. When I waved back, she started to make her way to me.

‘Hi! You are very tall’

I laughed, simply because nothing that was going to come out of my mouth would make any sense.

‘You must be Akwele’s friend, coz you are definitely not family. I would have run into you at one of the family reunions.’ Just then one of Akwele’s cousins gestured at her and she sighed. ‘Duty calls, I will be right back!’ It was when she left that I realized how quickly my heart was pounding- like a drum being beaten by a possessed fetish priest.

She was back before I had a chance to recompose. This time, she had taken off her bright red heels and was wearing golden brown sandals. ‘I don’t like weddings’, she announced matter of factly. ‘The whole process is a bit too overbearing for me. Don’t look so shocked. Not every girl is wedding crazy. Besides, I know my secret is safe with you. You look like this is the last place you want to be too.’

‘Not anymore’

I didn’t realize that I had said it out loud until I saw her smiling. At least i had made her smile. Just when my tongue had finally been loosened, she got up to help with the distribution of favours. I seized the opportunity to say a quick hello to Akwele, and take a picture with her and her new husband.

‘Awww Kobby, you made it’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world. You look amazing!’

We made small talk and then I excused myself. It was getting late and I needed to leave. There were still a few things I needed to do before 5pm- pick up my laundry, do some grocery shopping and get a haircut. My eyes searched for Clara to say goodbye, but after waiting for 20 minutes, I decided to leave.

Just when I stepped out of the gate, I heard a voice behind me. Clara’s.

‘Don’t tell me you plan on leaving without taking my number.’ Her eyes twinkled with mischief and she grabbed my hand. After scribbling her number in my palm, she beamed and said, ‘Call me.’

I did. That night and every night after that. Sometimes I let her do all the talking, just because I loved the sound of her voice. She told me everything-why she didn’t like snails, how she wanted to visit space one day, why she decided to cut her hair, how she would never eat ampesi and garden egg stew-not even to save her own life. She was addictive. Her fearlessness drew me to her. It almost felt like I drew strength from her. She soon had my entire family wrapped around her little finger.

When I wasn’t in the lab, I was with her. We watched movies, took long strolls, visited all the places she wanted to see- Wli water falls, Nzulenzu, Mole National Park, tried all the meals she wanted to try. All she had to do was name it, and I would think of how to make it possible. Who could blame me? She was amazing and mindblowingly so. There was one time that we had a flat tyre in the middle of nowhere, with a wobbly spare tyre. Interestingly, the only thing she remembered from that night was that the Good Samaritan who helped me to change the tyre was wearing faded Bugs Bunny boxer shorts.

She called me ‘my giant’ because she had to tiptoe to be able to hear my heart beat, and I called her Clara, simply because nobody else did. The look of indignation on her face gave me too much joy.

‘Can’t you just call me Naa Okailey like everyone else?’

‘Why would I do that, and ruin all the fun?’, I always said in reply.

Her birthday was approaching and I had a whole lot of things lined up for the day. It was our first birthday together and I was determined to make an impression. I picked her up from work that day in a really good mood. After dinner at La Villa Boutique Hotel, I drove to Legon campus and parked behind Commonwealth Hall. It had a perfect view of ‘Accra by night’. After small talk, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a box.

‘Clara, I brought you here because this is the most breathtaking view I know in Accra. It is not even half as breathtaking as you are. You have brought me so much joy over the last 8 months- like a gift that keeps revealing more exciting layers each day. Happy birthday. I love you.’

She was surprisingly quiet and I noticed tears glistening in her eyes. I opened the box to reveal a silver Michael Kors watch, with the inscription, ‘Happy birthday my Clara! You light up my world more than any of the constellations can.’ After reading it to her, I fastened the clasp around her wrist.

‘This love is timeless, Clara. This watch is supposed to remind you of that everyday. I love you and there is nothing you can do about it.’

‘ Kobby, this is too much’, she whispered.

‘Well, it is just the beginning’, I replied with a smile.

‘I need to tell you something, Kobby. The timing has never been right and today I know that it can’t be worse, but I can’t keep lying to you. I-I am married. It sounds crazy, I know. My husband lives in the UK. We have been estranged for some time now. Kobby, you are the one I love. I was just afraid. I thought I would lose you. Please don’t hate me.’

It felt like I was having an out of body experience. Suddenly everything made sense- why Akwele still didn’t know about us, why she kept postponing my meeting her parents, why she was low on PDA when we were out together, why she never picked that +447 call no matter how many times the person called. When I finally found my voice, it was tinged with anger.

‘Clara-‘

‘Kobby, I am sorry’

‘How could you be this selfish? How could you conveniently leave out this detail for 8 good months? How about after the second phone call? You don’t get to make this decision for me. You don’t get to decide what I can handle and what I can’t! Were you waiting until I was done on bended knee to break the news to me?’

She kept staring at her feet.

‘I am going to take you home now. Please don’t call me- you owe me that much. I need space to process this. In the spirit of surprises, is there anything else I need to know? Do you also have children? Are you HIV positive?’ I was out of line but I couldn’t care less. I had never felt this betrayed.

She replied quietly, ‘He is coming back to Accra at the end of this week. His parents want us to try counselling one last time.’

I didn’t say a word the rest of the ride back. Her ‘goodnight Kobby, I am truly sorry’ was met with stony silence. For the first time, I understood what the word ‘heartbreak’ meant. When I was in SS, my dorm mate got a letter from his girlfriend telling him that she had found someone else. We laughed at him because he claimed his heart was aching. That night, I realized that he didn’t mince words. My heart was literally aching.

I avoided her calls and texts for a whole 24 days. I hated the fact that I had to fight the urge to pick up the phone anytime she called. One Tuesday evening, I picked up my phone to see 15 missed calls from a strange number. Just then, the phone rang again.

‘Is this Mr Kobina Owusu-Aboagye? Clara Naa Okailey Bruce has your number on her phone as the last dialed number. She has suffered a sickle cell crisis and has been admitted here, at Lister Hospital.’

Apparently she had saved my number as her emergency contact. They asked me to rush over to the hospital to see her. Every speed rump and traffic light became invisible to me. I drove like a mad man riding a horse. The sight of her frail body in that huge hospital bed broke my heart. I began to torment myself with the thought that all this could have been my fault. I wanted to carry her in my arms and whisper that everything was going to be alright, but the stern look on the face of the night nurse kept me in check. I spent the night on the floor beside her, waking up every time I heard her stir.

I was wallowing in regret when she opened her eyes. With labored breathing, she managed to get a few words out.

‘Do you hate me? You don’t need to answer that. I know it was selfish of me to not tell you. Kobby, I need you. The past few days have been pure torture. I know I don’t deserve it but please forgive me. Don’t leave me alone, Kobby. I don’t want a world without you in it.’

11:56pm.

It was late and I should have been getting some rest, but I was waiting for her to text me back.

It was not like her to fall asleep without saying goodnight. She was probably busy.

I know it doesn’t make sense. I should be keeping my distance. I should be avoiding her calls, especially since she hasn’t sorted out her issues with her husband. I know it is reckless, foolish even, but my heart and my mind want two different things. Don’t judge me…

P.S: The story continues here…

©Maukeni Padiki Kodjo, 2015

Papi

He opened his eyes slowly. The light in the room felt like an intruder, he had gotten used to the darkness behind his eyelids. The sounds were familiar. Nothing had changed since he last opened his eyes. The nurses were still shuffling their feet- there should be a law against that or something- the monitors were still beeping and he could still hear the raspy breathing of his roommate. The room smelt the same- that weird cocktail of over-scrubbed floors, starchy doctors’ coats, sanitizer, urine and medicine- that hospital smell that he hated. He imagined that it had begun to seep into his clothes- the thought alone was horrifying. There was a new smell too- perfume. He turned his head slightly to the left to see who was bringing this welcome change to his nostrils. At first, he wasn’t sure if it was her. But the mere possibility that it could be her filled him with excitement, no, hope. She was sitting in the chair beside his bed, oblivious to the fact that she was being watched. When he spoke, the sound of his own voice startled him.

‘You came’

‘Oh Papi, of course I came!’,

Her eyes welled up with tears and she used the back of her left hand to wipe them. She gingerly touched his arm, a sign that the nurses had told her about the amount of pain he was in. The feel of her warm hand against his skin was so comforting. For the first time in a long time, he smiled as he drifted off to sleep again. Lamisi was back…

November 1987

She was only three months old, and yet she had already learnt that crying got results- every time. She seemed to cry even more loudly when she was left alone with her father. On one of such days, he was at his wit’s ends. He had sung, danced, clapped, tried to feed her, tried to rock her to sleep and played a video for her. Nothing seemed to be working. Exasperated, he put her on his lap and said, ‘ Look, let’s behave like adults. I am not Mummy and I don’t understand baby talk, so you need to be patient with me.’ She cocked her head to the right for about thirty seconds; she appeared to be considering the request. Then slowly, her lips parted to reveal her first pair of teeth. That image of their first agreement would forever remain etched in his memory.

May 1992

She was afraid of the dark. She couldn’t sleep, and she was convinced that there was a rat under her bed who ate little children. The only solution was to lie in bed beside her, each parent on either side, until she fell asleep.

August 1994

She was seven years old. Her auntie asked her what she wanted to be in future. Her reply? ‘Mrs Papi’. She first called him Papi when she was one and for some reason, she never stopped.

June 1997

She was riding her first ‘grown up’ bicycle. She was clearly afraid of losing balance. After a few attempts, she got it right. ‘Papi, Papi, look at me! I did it!’ Never mind that she fell off a few seconds later. His daughter could ride a bike!

April 2005

When she was 18,he took Lamisi and her mother to his hometown, Bawku. Watching her gawk at the people and the animals was endearing.

‘This is where we come from? Awesome! Can I stay?’

‘Well, you have to go back to school on Monday’, her mother answered with a smile.

She was a good woman, Lamisi’s mother. She could have had any other man and yet she chose him. They had the perfect family, and yet that was the last time he saw her smile like that.

In July, a woman came to the house, with two children in tow. She said the children were his, and that wasn’t the worst part- she had another child on the way. As fate would have it, Lamisi was the one who opened the door. Everything else happened pretty fast, but the one thing he couldn’t forget was Lamisi’s eyes. Yes, they were filled with tears, but they were also filled with betrayal and hurt.

He knew he shouldn’t have slept with Konadu, but she was young, pretty and clearly in awe of him. So he kept going back once every week, and somehow the fact that she bore him sons made it difficult to write her off. He had tried to, once. She had threatened to run away with the boys. He knew why she had showed up at his doorstep- he hadn’t been to her place in a month. This was her way of keeping him in line. His mother had warned him about Asante women- they could not be taken for a ride.

Lamisi’s mother left that night, despite his attempts to explain.

‘Is it because I didn’t give you a son? I literally threw my life out of the window just so you could be happy. I cooked, I cleaned, I warmed your bed, I put up with everything! But this- this is too much. One child, I can forgive. But two, a third on the way, that’s unforgivable! I can’t believe I was stupid enough to think that Lamisi and I were enough for you. I love you, why are you ruining our lives?’, her muffled tears punctuating every sentence.

Lamisi stayed, but she never said more than two words to him each day. She was now a woman. She had inherited her father’s good looks and her mother’s gracefulness. After three months of silence, he lost it.

‘Listen, if you are going to stay in this house, you are going to have to speak to me!’

Silence.

‘Lamisi, I am talking to you! Show some respect.’

Silence.

‘Did you know that Mummy fell sick last week? She told me not to tell you or ask you for money. I had to sell my laptop to pay for her bills. You did this to us. Oh, and by the way, respect is earned, not demanded.’

She got up from the breakfast table.

“If you walk out on me, you will pack your things and go to whatever hell hole your mother lives in! I will not be disrespected in my own home!’

She paused at the door and turned to face him.

‘You know what gets to me? You never said sorry. Not once.’

December 2010

He was in the hospital, all alone and too stubborn to admit that he needed anyone. He snapped at the nurses and cleaners’ Christmas greetings.

‘There is nothing merry about this Christmas’, was his reply.

He was old, sick, dying and alone. Most of the time, he pretended that he was fine, but today the aching loss was much more profound. He heard someone humming a Christmas song- ‘Deck the halls with boughs of holly’. It reminded him of Lamisi. When she was a child, she sang every Christmas song from 12th December to 5th January- all day and night! It also reminded him of them sitting together as a family over goat meat jollof and fried plantain. Lamisi liked the flavour of the goat meat but refused to eat it. She always took her time to pick out all the goat meat and hand it over to her dad.

‘I messed up’, he said to nobody in particular. That’s when he decided to write the letter.

Dear Lamisi,

I miss you.

Yours always,

Papi.

It didn’t say that he was dying or that he was sorry, but somehow he knew that she could read between the lines. Writing the letter made him feel better. This had taken him too long. He should have said sorry- both to Lamisi and to her mum a long time ago.

He opened his eyes again. It wasn’t a dream.

‘Lamisi’

‘Papi’

‘Thank you for coming. I am sorry I-‘

‘Shh! It is ok. I shouldn’t have disrespected you.’

‘How is your mother?’

‘Worried about you. We all are.’

‘It took me too long to swallow my pride. I have missed you so much.’

‘I missed you too, Papi. Get some rest, I will be right here..’

©Maukeni Padiki Kodjo, 2015

Married to a cockerel

I am not exactly sure what woke me up – the sound of the rain hitting the aluminium roof or snippets of Emeka and Jackline’s argument wafting through the thin walls. They always pick odd hours for their fights and prayer meetings. I reached for my watch – it was 3:15 am. Who argues about money for garden eggs and plantain at 3:15? Two days ago, Jackline was yelling at the top of her voice at 4 am, accusing her husband of being solely responsible for all her problems. They have been married for four years without any children. Emeka really loves her, but she is so clouded by the insecurity that stems from not being able to give him a child that she is terrified that he will one day leave for work and never come back. When she isn’t yelling at her husband over trivial things, she is praying for God to ‘silence her enemies and give her a child’.

After listening to Jackline spin her ‘you don’t love me anymore’ theory for another fifteen minutes, I got up to place one of our buckets outside so that the rainwater would drip into it. It was chilly outside and I pulled the ends of my cotton nightgown closer, in the hope of feeling a bit warmer. With the exception of Emeka and Jackline, almost everyone was asleep. The wind was blowing aggressively, tossing everything out of its way. Most of the people in our compound house had placed barrels and buckets outside in anticipation of the rain. Just then, the light in Papa Ajako, the landlord’s room came on and I decided to make my way back inside. He was always making lewd comments about my body, while rubbing his potbelly, when he wasn’t reminiscing about his days in Germany as a borga. The thought of being alone with him on a cold morning like this filled me with disgust. My mother was beginning to stir when I entered the room. Ours was a rather small room. We had a small second-hand fridge in one corner of the room, a table with our cooking utensils on it, and three jute bags that contained all our belongings. We slept on mats in the other corner of the room.

My mother and I have always had a complicated relationship. I look exactly like she did when she was 21 years old, but I have a lighter complexion, like my father’s. My father doted on me as a child and I discovered that my mother resented it, believing that it would make me soft. She tried to balance it by being the stern one, but it only resulted in us being estranged. I suspect that she secretly blamed me when Dada left, and I can only imagine the betrayal she must have felt the day she discovered that Dada was still in touch with me. I was too young to understand why he left, so I couldn’t exactly take sides. Mother took it the hard way and refused to accept any help from him and that is how we ended up here. She had vehemently refused to have anything to do with him and turned a blind eye to the tubers of yam that he sent us at the beginning of every month.

She was fully awake now, humming a song under her breath. I got up and grabbed a broom from the corner of the room and mumbled a ‘Good morning’. These days, I could never tell what triggered the shouting. Sometimes, it was the fact that I was still indoors after 6am because ‘every girl who has been brought up well does not lie in bed at 6 am’. Other times, it was because I had forgotten to take the washed clothes off the line. The other day, it was because my ‘Yes Ma’ response sounded rather condescending. I got an earful about how she regretted sweating to take care of me, only for me to think that I was superior to her. This morning, my crime was that I didn’t wait for a response when I said ‘Good Morning’. I sighed inwardly as I waited for the onslaught to end. Somehow she could always tell when my mind was elsewhere and that made her even more upset.

Outside, the day was just beginning. The children were playing in the water puddles that the rain had left behind. Jackline was boiling water on the coal pot for her husband to bath with. Elder Horatius was sitting outside his room, polishing his shoes for work. My mother couldn’t stand him. He was a church elder and also one of the most promiscuous men in our neighbourhood, an epitome of a good paradox. There was a different woman in his room every night – and they were all women from his church! Auntie Christiana, the landlord’s wife, was seated outside her room, sipping tea from a plastic cup, scantily clad in a piece of cloth. She was rather voluptuous and seemed to take pleasure in watching the men squirm uncomfortably in the morning, as they walked past her to the bathroom. The only other thing she enjoyed was taking care of her prized cockerel. It was very beautiful and its feathers looked like they had been combed. She took better care of it than she did of her husband. The other women in the compound house had an inside joke about her being more likely to commit suicide if that cockerel ended up in a pot of boiling soup than if she saw her husband in bed with another woman. There was actually a time when Papa Ajako had come down with a severe case of malaria. She had refused to follow him to the hospital because her cockerel was not yet back from its daily wanderings. She walked throughout the neighbourhood until 9pm, clucking quietly to get its attention, while her husband lay shivering in bed.

I walked towards the bathroom after I had finished sweeping the compound. The pungent smell of urine hit me even before I opened the door. I fetched water from the barrel and poured it over the urine that had been left there overnight. Because of Auntie Christie’s shouts, I never got to scrub the bathroom tiles. She was entangled in a scuffle with Adiza, Jacob’s girlfriend. Jackline quickly filled me in on the details. Jacob lived next door to Emeka and Jackline, a handsome young man who was working in a bank. Apparently, Auntie Christie had passed a comment that implied that she had been inside Jacob’s room a number of times. Adiza assumed that this meant that Jacob had been sleeping around with Auntie Christie as well. She hailed insults on her and that is what resulted in the scuffle.

‘Useless woman! You sit here all day, lusting after other women’s husbands, instead of taking care of your own! If you weren’t such a disgrace to womanhood, you would have taken your eyes off that good-for-nothing cockerel for a few seconds to cook a meal for your husband. Instead, you sit here trying to catch the eye of other women’s husbands. Marry your God-forsaken cockerel!’ Adiza spat out the words in utter derision. People gathered round them. The children had stopped playing. Passersby were peeping through the gate; others actually climbed the wall to watch the spectacle.

In a bid to gain the upper hand, Auntie Christie threw her slipper at Adiza, but it barely missed her and hit Auntie Christie’s cockerel instead. Her bloodcurdling scream made everybody strain to see what had happened. Her beloved cockerel was now limping on one leg. Everybody went silent, waiting to see what would happen next. Papa Ajako started to laugh loudly, his potbelly rumbling away with the rhythm of the laughter. He started singing a song about chicken soup. Auntie Christie? She just sat on the floor and began to sob soulfully, like a woman who had lost her only child.

Borga- a Ghanaian term for a person who returns from an extended stay overseas and constantly refers to his days there.

Photo credit: Google Images

©Maukeni Padiki Kodjo, 2015

Call me Kwesi again..

I’m sorry it has taken so long to write this sequel. Two Kenikodjo readers called me all the way from the US to demand that I finish the story…so this is me being obedient 🙂 If you missed the first part, here you go! Happy reading!!

Denise squinted at the monitor and made a mental note to go see the optician before the end of the month. Determined to finish working on the proposal before lunch time, she took a swig from her water bottle and got to work. Akwele had been giving her grief lately and she was determined to get it right this time. From the corner of her eye, she could see Jonathan sauntering in her direction, intermittently stopping to flirt with every woman he met on his way.

‘I love the colour red on you, Estelle!’

‘Those shoes though!’

‘When are we going on a date, Akua? You can’t pretend you don’t feel the chemistry too!’

‘Eish, that post-pregnancy glow! Your husband is a lucky man, girl!’

Just like that, he had a line for every single woman on the floor, which probably explains why he chose a desk at the farthest corner of the room. Anytime he had to make a photocopy or get water from the dispenser, he had the perfect excuse to ‘work the room’. Even prim and proper Esaaba got her fair share of Jonathan-love.

‘If our daughters grow up to be half as organized as you are, I will know that I have made it in life!’

Seeing that Jonathan had spotted Grace dozing off after her rather heavy meal of kenkey, ground pepper, corned beef, sardines, fried eggs and avocado pear, Denise smiled to herself in anticipation of the mischief-laden episode ahead.He picked up one of Esaaba’s colour coded folders and dropped it on the floor with a bang. The bang jolted Grace out of her nap. She exclaimed, ‘My Lord and my God!’, loud enough to draw the attention of everyone on the floor. The icing on the cake was when Jonathan soothingly rubbed her back and said, ‘Oh darling, I am so sorry. Did I wake you?’ Unable to control herself any longer, Denise burst into laughter and picked up her documents. There was no way she was going to get any work done if she stayed at her desk.

Making her way to the meeting room down the hall, she heard Kwesi laugh. She could recognize his voice even through a rainstorm and yes, her heart rate quickened every time she did. She followed the sound and turned the corner just in time to see Kwesi plant a kiss on a woman’s cheek. The woman beamed, stroked his cheek and started making her way towards Denise. Thankfully, Kwesi had not seen her yet so she didn’t have to put on a fake smile. Feeling her knees go weak, Denise leaned against the wall as the woman walked past her. She was elegant and very well-dressed. She had the air of a woman who knew what she wanted and also knew just how to get it. For a heavy set woman, she had rather nimble feet and she moved gracefully, almost as though she was dancing.

Denise was almost surprised at the overwhelming feeling of covetousness that swelled up in her. Suddenly she wanted to be that woman, to be able to embrace Kwesi without any judgmental looks. She knew she should have sent that text message to him when she had the chance. That text had mistakenly gone to her cousin, Kwekuma, and she had sworn him to secrecy by promising that she would handle it. It wasn’t easy because Kwekuma was particularly fond of Kojo. But when she got to work the next day, she suddenly didn’t have the courage to send it to Kwesi and she definitely wasn’t ready to tell Kojo. Besides, it wasn’t like there was really anything to tell. Things had gone back to normal, infact she had spent the entire weekend with Kojo and his family, making plans for the wedding. So this feeling was strange…it almost felt like an out of body experience.

‘Denise!’

She looked up and saw Kwesi walking towards her, with a smile on his face.

‘Just the woman I wanted to see. I wanted us to go over the numbers for the Hillspurn project. And I have just the book for you- And the mountains echoed by Khaled Hosseini! Lunch?

‘Erm, I need to speak to you, Kwesi.’, she said so softly that she was even surprised that he heard her.

‘Ok, sure. Now or over lunch?’

‘Now. It can’t wait’, she replied curtly.

Pulling him into the meeting room, Denise took a deep breath. ‘I know this is crazy and completely unprofessional, but I’d like to know who that woman is. I know I have no right to ask, but I just felt funny when I saw you together. Felt almost like jealousy, and I know that it will eat me up if I keep it bottled up. I don’t even feel like I have a right to be jealous in the first place.’

‘Laura? That’s my ex-wife. She came to talk to me about-‘

‘You don’t need to explain.’

‘But you asked. Denise, listen…I was hoping we would not get to this point any time soon, though I must admit I knew this day would come. I think you are one of the most beautiful women in this office and your laughter is like music to my ears, and no, I am not just saying that. I mean every word! But I like things the way they are- uncomplicated. What we have going on here is what I call ‘ the forbidden fruit syndrome’. It is exhilarating because it is unrealistic and ‘forbidden’, if you like. But that is all it can ever be- the fling that never was.’

‘I see..’

“Don’t get me wrong. I get that feeling too when I see you laughing with Jonathan and the other guys, but I know it is not my place to feel that way. You belong to another man and I need to respect that.’

‘Maybe I should just keep my distance then. Keeps things in perspective, wouldn’t you agree? It is better to give each other space so that I don’t have to deal with things like this. Funny, I almost sent you a text proposing this a while ago, but I didn’t because I didn’t have the courage to deal with the repercussions. Goodbye Kwesi.’

She walked to the door and then paused, almost as though she was reconsidering her decision. She turned and looked at him, ‘I will send you the numbers via email. Take care of yourself.’

Months passed. It was hard at first, but she got used to walking past him in the hallway without saying hello. She learnt how to keep her eyes away from his when they were in the same room, and now he was no longer Kwesi, just Mr Arhin. She had lunch alone – at her desk. The smell of his perfume no longer triggered palpitations. At the mid-year party, he offered to get her a drink and she politely declined. Her body brushed against his in the hallway once and she flinched unconsciously. Of course, it was only Jonathan who had the nerve to ask about it.

‘What? You and Lover boy broke up? Lemme be your rebound. I’ll treat you right, I promise!’, he teased before wrapping her in a hug. ‘I can tell you from experience that it is going to hurt for a while, but one day, it will be like nothing ever happened. Trust me, I know.’

‘You had an office thing? With which of the women?’

‘You won’t believe it, but Akwele was the one!’

‘You have got to be kidding me! No wonder she can’t stand me! I half expected you to even say Esaaba!’

‘Esaaba? She won’t even let me hold her hand without reaching for her hand sanitizer. Do you honestly see us working out?’

Denise laughed out loud for the first time in a long time. It felt good.

Later that day, she sat in her chair before she saw it. There was a book lying on her desk- Khaled Hosseini’s And the Mountains echoed. That wasn’t all- there was a note in it. In spite of herself, she smiled.

‘My dearest Denise, it is painful to walk past you in the hallway or to avoid your eyes when we are in the same room. But this, I can do without ‘breaking protocol’ and still put a smile on your face. At least reading is something we can do together, even if we are not in the same space. I miss you. Yours always, Kwesi.’

She blinked back the tears and began to read.

Thanks for reading!

Call me Kwesi…

‘Please wait!’, Denise called out just before the doors of the elevator closed. She slid in just in time, mumbling her thanks to the man who kept the door open. ‘Fifth floor, right?’, he asked and for the first time since she got in, she looked up at his face. It was one of the relatively new employees, he was in the Finance Department. ‘Yes please, fifth floor’, she smiled gratefully. The elevator hummed quietly as they went up. He was older, probably in his late forties. He had laugh lines around his eyes and he was carrying a copy of Count of Monte Cristo on top of his newspaper. His hair was slightly curly and he was beginning to grey around his temples. She could tell from his monogrammed shirt and the smell of his perfume that he knew how to take care of himself. It was when he turned slightly that she noticed that he was clean-shaven and he had manicured nails. He looked abruptly from staring at his Blackberry screen, almost like he could feel her staring and said, ‘I am getting off on this floor. Have a nice day, Denise.’ When her lips parted in shock, he smiled and said,’I make it my business to know the name of every beautiful girl in this building.’ Before she could react, he was gone, leaving the lingering smell of his perfume behind.

‘Why are my palms sweaty? And why is my heart racing? He is not even my type; I mean what kind of guy has manicured nails?’, she asked herself as the doors opened on the fifth floor. The cool air from the central air conditioning welcomed her immediately she stepped out of the elevator. Ali, the carpenter, was right in front of her. She smiled and waved. She had learnt very early in her career to befriend the support staff- it made life easier for you. The drivers, cleaners, secretaries and the errand boys- they were all useful allies. Take Jacinta, the Executive Assistant for Project Management for instance. She was loud, aggressive and wore too much perfume, but it took just a ‘How are the kids doing?’ to win her over. She had even covered up for Denise once when she missed her project submission deadline.

Denise made it to her desk just before Esaaba walked in. Prim and proper, holier-than-thou Esaaba. She came to work every day at 7:45, always wore a white long sleeved shirt, a brown skirt and dark brown pumps. She took a 5 minute bathroom break at 9:50 every day, yes every single day! She always ate the same thing for breakfast at 7:50- two slices of brown bread with a cup full of oats- and that was it for the day. You could set your watch by her. She always had her files and pens arranged alphabetically and she never left her desk to chat with the others. She was the last person to ask to cover up for you if you were late- she would give you an entire sermon about principles and commitment to work. She was a little annoying but she was much better than Akwele.

It is said that in every workplace, there are two bosses- the official one and the unofficial one. The unofficial boss was the one who could make and unmake you effortlessly because she had her lips close to the ears of the official boss. Akwele was the unofficial boss and Denise’s sworn enemy. There was no telling what had brought about the bad blood and Denise had to work extra hard to make sure that she didn’t give her reason to complain. Rumour had it that some boy must have picked Denise over Akwele some time back and Akwele still held a grudge. A few weeks ago, she had combed the entire floor looking for a ruler with no success. Rather than ask Denise for her ruler, she went all the way to the supplies office on the second floor.

Denise liked her office. It was a nice building with an interesting mix of people. Grace walked in, sweating profusely. Denise did not need to turn her head to see that Esaaba was probably wrinkling her nose in disgust. Grace always came in late and spent the first two hours chatting on the phone with God knows who, ate a very heavy meal at about 11am and always had a nap immediately afterwards. Her excuse? ‘It is the niggaritis oo..it is not my fault. Africans are programmed to sleep after a heavy meal’. On a day when she had particularly enjoyed her meal, the sleep would be interspersed with quiet grunts and snoring. Somehow, everyone loved Grace, because she remembered everyone’s birthdays and genuinely celebrated people’s successes. True to her nature, Grace unveiled a bowl full of ampesi and kontomire stew shortly after getting seated.

The day was full of meetings, emails to reply and phone calls to return, but Denise found her mind wandering back to the mystery man who got off on the third floor. She had never been an older man person, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him, and how flattered she was when he said that she was beautiful. She had replayed the elevator scene in her head no less than 15 times. It felt like betrayal to Kojo. They were engaged to be married in December. Kojo had always been her friend- dependable, focused, a gentleman, but she had never felt this much excitement around him. Her phone rang. Her boss wanted to see her in his office. She did not expect to see Mystery Guy- it almost felt like a movie scene. Her face must have betrayed her when her eyes met his.

‘Denise, I’d like you to meet Mr. Arhin. You will be assisting him with the Hillspurn Culture project.’

‘We have met, haven’t we, Denise?’ His eyes twinkled, almost as if they were sharing a secret.

‘Yes, we have. I look forward to working with you, Mr. Arhin.’ Her lips curled into a smile without her permission.

‘Please call me Kwesi. I insist.’

‘Very well.’

____________________________

The weeks flew by and Kwesi and Denise became closer. She was drawn to him in a way she didn’t understand. He was witty and well-read. They spent afternoons analysing books over lunch. They had inside jokes and signals. They could have entire conversations with just their eyes – without uttering a word. She had learnt that he was divorced and had two children, one 16 and the other 12. It was like a well-rehearsed dance. They were dancing to the music but they were careful to avoid stepping on each other’s toes. They never talked about the elephant in the room- that they were entertaining feelings for each other. They just avoided the topic and enjoyed each other’s company. Denise thought it was a well-kept secret until the day Jonathan made a joke about it. Jonathan was the blunt guy who made inappropriate jokes about everything, and said the things that everybody else was afraid to say. He was the only one who could openly laugh at Grace for snoring or Jacinta for being too aggressive.

‘Denise, you don’t look for me these days. I understand – I am not 56 years old, with nice perfume and a great sense of humour. Sweedy, you need to take a step back. Office relationships can get messy.’

She was thankful when the phone rang, and used that as a diversion. Later that evening, she sat on her bed, thinking through the whole thing. By morning, she already knew what she had to do. She avoided Kwesi all day, afraid that he might read her eyes. At lunch time, she locked herself into one of the bathroom stalls and began to type her ‘essay’.

‘Kwesi, the last two months have been amazing. I have enjoyed spending time with you and learning from you, but I can’t do this anymore. It is not fair to Kojo. He is a great guy and he doesn’t deserve this. I have given him my word to marry him, and until I close that door, I can’t do this with you. I am afraid that one day, things would become awkward between you and I, and I would hate that. And that is why I am ending this now. I will miss you to bits, but I need to do the right thing.’ She took in a deep breath and pressed the send button.

Ten minutes passed. There was no reply. She could hear him laughing in the hallway.

‘Why hasn’t he replied? Is he ignoring me already? Maybe he hasn’t seen the message’, she thought to herself.

Her phone buzzed. It startled her so much that she almost dropped it on the floor. Her stomach lurched when she saw what was on her phone screen.

‘Denise, what is going on? Who is Kwesi?’

She had sent the message to the wrong man.

The story continues here…

The Street Hawker

The street hawker balances her basket of wares on top of the ‘No Hawking’ sign, while bargaining with a policeman about the price of whatever she is selling. That takes gut!

She skillfully keeps her wares on top of her head, while weaving her way through the torrent of cars and avoiding the motorcycles that speed past them. That is called dexterity.

He weathers the storm. No matter how cold or hot it is, no matter how hard it is pouring or how scorching the sun is, he is there from dawn to dusk until he has sold everything. That takes determination.

She doesn’t have small change for the trotro mate who wants coins for his frantic passengers, and yet she can find change for GHC50 when the man in the Pajero wants to buy a box of tissues. That is prioritization!

Sometimes he doesn’t sell anything all day. Someone will bargain with him until he brings the price to the barest minimum and yet will still not buy his product. Nevertheless, he is there, bright and early, the next morning, waving his wares in people’s faces or calling out in a creative way. That is consistency.

Thanks to them, we can buy literally anything on our way home from work. I inwardly grimace at the thought that one day we will have lingerie being sold in the streets, though.

The street hawker intrigues me…

This was originally posted on the author’s Facebook page.

Photo credit: Google Images

Before We Do

For Akwasi and Mercy..

It is the night before our wedding- the night before the rest of our lives.

It has been a long road. I remember when we first met and how you thought I was a snob. I remember how excited I was at the thought of bumping into you on campus, at the very beginning. I remember when I asked you to take this step of faith with me and the dance I did in my heart when you said yes.

Continue reading “Before We Do”

The Barbershop

Stone was in a good mood. His girlfriend, Jacqueline, had promised to give him the capital to set up his very own barbershop. Well, she was more of a sugar mummy than a girlfriend, but who was keeping score? She was in the habit of outdoing herself to make his life comfortable, but this one just topped the charts. He could already see it- Stone’s Place. This is what he had been waiting for his whole life. It was finally here.

Stone was one of the lucky ones. He loved his job. He woke up every morning at 4am to exercise, after that he would shower, dress up and head to work, only stopping on the way to buy Auntie Adiza’s waakye. He always got the same thing- 3 cedis worth of waakye, 1 piece of wele, 1 unbelievably rock solid piece of meat, 2 eggs, talia, gari and extra shito. Auntie Adiza’s daughter had a soft spot for him and always made sure she was the one to serve him. After breakfast, he would walk up to the shop and wait for his fellow barbers to show up. He had been cutting hair since he was 16, right after his BECE exams, and there was no doubt that he was good at it. He had started in a small kiosk, tucked away in the middle of Amasaman. Alhaji Hussein was the one who gave him this opportunity, but he soon decided that this wasn’t where he wanted to spend his hair cutting days. People didn’t cut their hair often enough and the only source of entertainment was Alhaji’s radio which was often out of tune. His window of opportunity came three years ago when he helped a woman change her flat tyre around the Holy Spirit Cathedral. She ended up introducing him to her cousin who got him the spot at Cut It!

He had always had a charm that won over the ladies. He wasn’t the most handsome guy in the room but he could get a lady to do pretty much anything. That’s why he felt sorry for Jacqueline sometimes. She was a 56 year old woman who dressed like a 27 year old girl, and who believed that having Stone in her life was nature’s way of keeping her young. And yet they both knew he wasn’t going to marry her. They had never talked about it before, but he knew that she knew. She was so good to him regardless. What he didn’t have in looks, he made up for with class. One of his favourite clients, Philip, taught him that people make assumptions about you just by looking at how you carry yourself. He took that lesson seriously and took conscious steps to ensure that he always looked and smelt good. He also listened when his clients were talking and picked up words like unscrupulous and magnanimous, so that people would also be impressed by the way he spoke. This had gotten him places. Just last week, he was taken to the private residence of one of the most powerful men in Ghana to cut his son’s hair, just because of a conversation he had with one of the man’s best friends.

Fridays and Sundays were his busiest days at Cut It! Most people came for a haircut to look good for that wedding, outdooring, funeral, beach party or some other event on Friday nights. On Sundays, the mothers and fathers brought their children for a haircut for school. Saturdays brought in the church goers and football commentators. The barbershop could transform into a stadium in just a few seconds. Most of the football fans never actually cut their hair here, but it was good for business that clients could count on a lively football discussion anytime there was a match. Of the three barbers who had chairs at Cut It!, Stone was easily the clients’ favourite. There were many of them who would prefer to wait or come back later if Stone wasn’t available. He always tried to remedy the situation by recommending the other barbers whenever he was out of town. Sometimes it worked, but clients like Pius Ofori would postpone the haircut until he got back. Pius was an overweight 30 year old man who used too much cologne. Rumour had it that he was bald, hence the sakora look, and yet every week, he would stroll into the shop for a haircut and insist that no one other than Stone touch his hair. Nobody dared to suggest that he didn’t have any hair on his head so it wouldn’t make a difference who touched his hair. It was their own case of the emperor’s new clothes.

By 2pm, it was a full house, which was to be expected, given that there was a match at 5:30pm- Chelsea vrs Manchester City. Most of the stadium guys came in early to get a good spot. His only problem was it made the people who were not football enthusiasts slightly uncomfortable. They were always in a hurry to leave and sometimes they would prefer to come back on another day. Stone always wanted his clients to feel welcome, and that is why he always struck a conversation with whomever was in his chair. He had learnt so much from those ‘in my chair’ conversations- where to get a plot of land at a decent price, what auditors look out for, how to draft a contract, where to get his shoes, which joints were worth the money, all sorts of things. Kuma, one of the ‘area boys’, opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water and said, ‘Stone, I go take the money give you eh’ (Stone, I will give you the money later). Stone knew that he didn’t intend to pay a dime, but he just smiled and nodded. Haruna sat in his chair and turned to Stone, ‘Charle, the usual!’ Just then, a van passed by the shop, with Shatta Wale’s voice booming out of the speakers. ‘Charle, I can’t marry a girl who listens to Shatta Wale oo!’, Haruna said. Everyone burst out laughing in the shop so Haruna had to raise his voice above the noise to make his point. ‘No, guys, I make serious!’ (loosely translated to mean ‘no, guys, I am serious!’). Reggie, one of the other barbers asked him why. ‘Ma guy, if my wife listens to Shatta Wale, there will be no positive future prospects for my children. I mean, just listen to the guy. I don’t see how anyone can call this music and even enjoy it. There is no crime in enjoying his songs, just don’t expect my ring on your finger!’

Stone could feel Fiifi’s eyes on him. He was an adorable five year old boy who took to Stone after he had told him a story so that he would not be afraid of the buzzing sound the clipper made the very first time he came to cut his hair. Today, Fiifi’s attention was on the fade haircut that Stone was giving Haruna. His bewildered eyes followed Stone’s every move and when he finally wiped Haruna’s head with a towel from the towel sanitizer, he heard Fiifi whisper loudly, ‘ Wow, magic!’ It was Fiifi’s turn to sit in the chair and it was endearing to see him get lost in the barber cape. Stone whispered to him, ‘Close your eyes and count to 90. By the time you finish, I would also have finished.’

‘Uncle Stone, I am going to recite a poem at church so make it extra special.’

‘Is that so? If you count loud enough, I am sure the haircut would be just perfect’

‘Ok! 1,2,3,4,5,6,….’

After one and half minutes, Fiifi asked, ‘What comes after 79?’

’80’

‘Ok! 80, 81, 82……..90!’

‘All done!’ Stone replied. He dusted Fiifi’s neck with talcum powder and helped him off the chair. ‘Mummy, when I grow up, I want to be a barber like Uncle Stone!’, Fiifi announced triumphantly. ‘God forbid!’, his mother quickly retorted. Fiifi looked bewildered and asked innocently, ‘Oh why?’ The laughter erupted throughout the barbershop as his mother hurriedly stuffed his barbering kit into her bag and mumbled an apology to Stone. Stone was more amused than offended- he could imagine that Fiifi’s mother genuinely wanted more for him than just a barbering shop. Fiifi waved and smiled a two-front-teeth-missing smile at Stone and everyone else in the barbershop.

Jacqueline would make a great mum, he thought to himself. He just wasn’t sure if he wanted a child out of wedlock. The match was about to start and all the hushed conversations had ceased. Pius and Haruna were the leading Chelsea supporters and they were already boasting about how they planned to celebrate their victory. Just then, Mr. Addoteye walked in proudly with a slim scantily clad girl on his arm. Everyone knew she was not his daughter- all his children were below the age of 13. To make matters worse, she sat in his lap and draped her arm over her shoulder, dangling her anklet in the air and toying with his earlobe. The disapproval hung thick in the air and Stone smiled to himself.

There was an unwritten rule in the shop, two actually. The first one was that nobody should use foul language when there are children in the shop. The second one was that nobody should bring side chicks to main chick zones. Mr Addoteye had clearly flouted the second rule, because everyone knew his wife. She accompanied her children to cut their hair every Sunday. The fact that she was a quick tempered, aggressive woman made his move even more daring. Kuma declared that he would pay GHC 100 to whomever was willing to bet, if Chelsea lost. Haruna retorted and asked him to pay for his water first. After everyone had had a good laugh, Kuma insisted once again that he was willing to bet. Kwesi, one of the attendants in the shop next door, agreed to the wager. Then the match began.

Shortly after the match started, James one of his regular customers and good friends, walked in for a haircut. He was uncharacteristically not interested in the match. Stone quietly asked him if everything was ok. James told him that his mother had passed away two weeks after his girlfriend broke up with him. Stone was dumbfounded. He told him that it was tough but he also knew that James could rise above it. He offered to help in any way that he could and refused to let him pay for the haircut. ‘Charle, thanks waa!’, James said. ‘What are friends for?’, he replied. James was one of the people who taught him subject-verb agreement when he first came to Cut It! He owed him a whole lot. The boys yelled- Drogba had nearly scored the first goal for the day.

At half time, nobody had scored and both the groups were getting agitated. Almost as if she were on cue, Mrs Addoteye marched into the barbershop- every bit of her 240 pound body ready to fight. She had seen her husband’s car in the driveway and had apparently been tipped off by the Hausa koko seller across the street. She yanked the girl off her husband’s lap and flung her in the opposite direction. ‘Look at you, disgraceful man! If you are going to cheat on me, ensure that you do not get caught. And of all people- no, all things, with this broomstick that has lost weight! And you’, turning her attention to the girl who was now cowering behind the fridge, ‘if I ever smell you anywhere near my husband, I will beat this residue you call a body and make your face unrecognizable. Look at her! Didn’t your seamstress tell you that the cloth wasn’t sufficient for this style? I am giving you 5 seconds to leave this place. Don’t mess with a Ga woman- if I say I will do it, trust me, I can!’

Almost as though nothing had happened, she turned to Stone and asked how he was doing. She ignored her husband and walked out of the barbershop with a satisfied look on her face. Mr Addoteye squirmed uncomfortably as Kuma jumped to his heels to reenact the drama that had just played out. Stone began to tidy up the place- he swept the hair strands into one corner, rearranged all the gadgets on the counter and pushed the towels into the washing machine. The match was almost over and nobody has scored yet.

If Kuma was white, the blood would have literally drained from his face as Sergio Agüero slid in a final goal in the last but one minute. Seconds later, the referee blew the whistle and the thundering cheers from the Man City guys made Stone smile. Kwesi was especially elated because he was GHC100 richer. Stone knew he was going to miss this when he moved to his own barbershop, but for now, while it lasted, he planned to enjoy every second of it.