Thank you for staying with us the whole year through! Well, technically it is just two months, but who is keeping count? Thanks for reading and sharing! Here is to even better stories in 2015!
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,900 times in 2014. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 4 trips to carry that many people.
Author’s note: You can catch up on the first part of this story right here!
Sedinam’s eyes were fixed on the fishermen who were mending their nets. ‘I wish it was that easy to fix this mess’, she thought to herself wistfully. She had been sitting at the seashore all day, watching the waves battle with one another, thinking and crying- mostly crying. Every time she thought about the look on Nii Nortey’s face that day, she felt queasy. The wind blew again, forcing her to readjust her shawl around her shoulders. She took off her sunglasses and looked at her watch. It was time to leave and she still had no idea what she was going to do.
September 2009, Tarkwa.
Kwansima was seething with anger. She had had it! Her father was becoming more and more unbearable to live with, with every passing day. Yes, she was 28 but she didn’t need him to remind her everyday that she needed to get married soon. For the third time this week, he had threatened to kick her out of the house for her to find somewhere else to live. Papa hadn’t always been like this- Mama losing the battle with breast cancer had left him bitter and easily irritable.
She walked down the dusty road, lost in thought. The noise from the cock fight nearby startled her. People had gathered around the two cocks and they were shouting their approval for one cock or the other. Cock fights scared her a little. They were a little too intense for her liking. It didn’t even make sense to her that human beings could bet on the outcome of such a fight. Well, to be fair, most of them were miners who had been laid off, they had a lot more time on their hands-they were either drinking or betting on cock fights.
Kwansima didn’t realize there was a boulder in her way until she tripped over it. She landed on her knees and even before she saw it, she knew that she had probably scarred her legs once again. She could almost hear Papa’s voice already, ‘How do you expect to get a decent man to marry you, if you keep scarring your legs?’ A voice interrupted her thoughts, ‘Are you alright?’ His voice was so deep that it made Komla Dumor’s voice seem like a mere mezzo soprano.
‘Yes, I am fine, thanks’. He helped her to her feet. His name was Nurudeen, he was a miner. He had soft hands for a miner. He was dark no, scratch that- he was black and imposingly tall. His colour made his smile even more dazzling. Never had tribal marks complimented a person’s face so well. He was a twin- his sister was called Nurath. Kwansima did a little dance in her head when he offered to walk her home. Even the fact that he was a year younger than she was didn’t dim her enthusiasm. She couldn’t wait to see her father’s reaction when she eventually introduced Nurudeen to him. She imagined that he would be very unhappy that she couldn’t find anyone from their hometown to marry, but then again, who asked him to frustrate her emotionally? Who does that to his only daughter? Serves him right- it was like sweet revenge. She smiled quietly to herself.
November 2014, Kokomlemle.
Kwansima opened her eyes to find Nurath poring over her, like a protective lioness over her newly born cubs. She tried to smile but her lips were bruised. She looked around at the now-familiar decor in the Dua Clinic Emergency Ward. Nurath asked quietly, ‘Were you ever going to tell me?’ Memories from last night hit Kwansima, each one more painful to remember than the last. Nurudeen coming home drunk, she complaining, his reply two slaps, she landing on the floor and asking him if that made him feel better. The rest was hazy, but he kept hitting her until she passed out. The last thing she remembered before passing out was him looming over her and telling her, ‘That ought to teach you to respect your husband.’
Kwansima turned her head to face the wall and began to cry softly. Pregnant silence followed Nurath’s question. She continued when she realized she wasn’t going to get an answer, ‘The doctors say you come here on the regular, and that you always have a new story about falling off one thing or the other. I saw the scars, Kwansima. Some of your wounds are not even completely healed. You can’t keep covering up for him. He is my brother but this cannot continue. This time you lost your baby and we don’t even know if you can still have babies, the next time you could lose your life.’ Kwansima spoke for the first time, ‘My baby? I didn’t even know I was pregnant. He took that away from me too?’ The sobs shook her body- it was a cocktail of pain, anger and sorrow.
When she married Nurudeen four years ago, she never pictured this as part of their happily ever after. Maybe she should have seen it coming- he had quite the temper. The first time he hit her was in Tarkwa, just two weeks to their wedding. They were arguing about how many of his friends to invite to the wedding- she thought the number was unreasonable. He apologized severally and promised that it would never happen again. She should have taken to her heels then, now it was too late. The beatings got worse when he was laid off by the company he was working for and they had to move back to Accra. He had taken to heavy drinking and she literally had to tiptoe around him to ensure that she didn’t say anything to upset him.
She had tried to make it work. She made an effort to say very little, to serve his food on time, to avoid any form of confrontation. She had to make it work. Papa had passed away six months after their wedding- she had nowhere else to go. Besides, she loved him. No, it didn’t make any sense but she loved him. And he always apologized anytime he hit her- but this, this definitely crossed the line. He had destroyed her chance of being a mother- the doctors said there was a problem with her uterus.
The day she was released from the hospital, Nurath went home with her. Nurudeen was walking around bare chested and she instantly knew that this was his apology. He knew that she loved it when he was bare chested, but he couldn’t stand being bare chested for more than 5 minutes. This had to be his way of saying sorry. ‘Unfortunately, it is not good enough’, she thought to herself grimly. That night, she sat in one corner of the bedroom for about 3 hours, just staring at him. The hatred that was swelling up in her heart overwhelmed her. ‘God, please help me otherwise I will kill him’, she whispered. There was no reply, just the chirping of crickets and Nurudeen’s quiet, rhythmic snoring. By 4am, she had made her decision.
‘I am leaving you, Nurudeen. I can’t continue to live like this’, she said calmly the next morning. She kept her eyes fixed on the pattern on the bedsheet. She couldn’t dare look him in the face. He responded the only way he knew how- violently. He hit the side of the bed and exclaimed, ‘You are not going anywhere!’
‘Nurudeen, when did you become this monster? Can’t you see that I am miserable? There is nothing else to live for. I can’t even be a mother. You took even that away from me! I am tired of the gossip and the sympathetic looks. They even say you have a son elsewhere’ Her heart was racing and she silently prayed that he wouldn’t lift his hand.
‘I married you and saved you from your nagging father. You should be grateful to me. Besides, where are you going to do? You are stuck with me. Wherever you go, I will find you’, he practically snarled at her.
‘If you married me to do me a favour, then I am better off being alone.’ With that, she got up and started to pack her things into a suitcase. He reached for his belt and was just about to fling it at her, when she jumped out of the way. They scuffled for a few minutes, Kwansima determined not to be beaten for the last time. He knocked the mirror to the ground in the process and it was shattered into several pieces. In her attempt to run out of the room, she shoved him backwards with all her might and he fell to the ground with a loud thud. She ran into the room she had intended to raise her children in and locked herself in the wardrobe. She was afraid that her panting would give her away. After crouching in one corner for what seemed like eternity and listening for his footsteps, she opened the door slightly and stealthily stepped out of the room.
The sight of Nurudeen lying in his own blood made her nauseous. She quickly checked for a pulse- there was none. His head had landed on one of the broken mirror pieces when he fell down. The alarm went off at 7am, as it usually did. Usually that was the cue for her to jump up and prepare his breakfast. Today, the alarm brought a new feeling- freedom. It was finally over.
©Maukeni Padiki Kodjo, 2014
Abeiku Hagan wasn’t at his productive best today. He had been lost in deep thought all day. There was no way he could focus on the quarterly report he had to prepare for his partners. And who could blame him? He was going to be best man for a wedding in a month’s time and he was in love with the bride.
Author’s note: Hi there!If you missed the first part of the story, here is your chance to catch up!
‘I am pregnant with his baby’, the words hung in the air and I looked ahead blankly. I didn’t need to turn my head to see the concern in my mother’s face metamorphose into shock. ‘Oh my child, I am so sorry’ and then we both broke into tears. The last two weeks had been like that- we had synchronized our crying timetable. She cradled me in her arms like a baby- I wished I could be a baby again, with no worries, no anxieties, without this pain that seemed so deep, like a bottomless abyss.
I pushed the fried fish around in my plate. Even the fish’s eyes were full of pity. I didn’t have an appetite. Patrick had always said I was a picky eater, and he didn’t mind helping himself to whatever was left of my meal. Oh Patrick! I still kept hope alive that he would call me and say he was coming home, or that he would be sitting in the study, reading a book, or that I would hear him laugh or even call my name. The other night, I woke up at dawn and instinctively reached over to the other side of the bed. He wasn’t there, it was just me and the darkness- and the deafening silence…
The day of the funeral was drawing nearer. My baby bump was now rather visible and it was drawing just as much attention as the news of my being a widow was. I always pretended not to hear the whispers, ‘She is finally pregnant and the man has left her so tragically. Poor girl’. My doctor had advised me to avoid stressing myself out to avoid complications during delivery..so I ignored the whispers, smiled politely and tried not to cry too often. Except this one time! One of Patrick’s sisters, Cynthia, had not seen me since the pregnancy started showing. The day she did, she sneered at me and said ‘So you have managed to get yourself pregnant after all, and you waited until you had killed my brother. We would have to perform a paternity test to ensure that it is not your boy toy who-‘. She never got to finish that sentence, I gave her the slap of her lifetime and asked her to leave my house. The poor thing didn’t know I had it in me. She looked so bewildered as she walked out. That was the only time I disobeyed the doctor, but you would agree with me that she had it coming, didn’t she?
I had decided that I wasn’t going to write a tribute, because I didn’t want anyone else to read it on my behalf and I didn’t think I had the strength to read it myself either. Besides what I had to say was really for his ears only and he would never get to hear it. What was I going to say? ‘Today, our baby kicked when I put in your favourite jazz CD. Something tells me he or she will be quite the dancer. I really wish you were here so you could experience all of this with me. It is not fair that you had to leave just when the baby got here, it is not fair that I never got to tell you, that you never got to know on earth that you had made the Daddy team. By the way, I slapped your sister and it felt really good. Trust me, she had it coming. Anytime soon, our baby will be here. I still don’t know if it is a boy or a girl. If it is a boy, I pray he looks and acts like you. If it is a girl, I promise to dote on her like you doted on me. The house is empty without you and I miss you- all day everyday’. See? I couldn’t see myself reading this without breaking down.
On the day of the funeral, I woke up at 2am with a pit in my tummy. I was going to see his face again after all this while. I was worried that he would look different, that I might not be able to recognize him, that I would not be able to hold myself together. I wished I could go with him. Why did we have to part- and so soon? Ekow was the one who had seen his body and he was the one going to accompany the body to the church. I got there early with my mum and Esi, to see the body before everyone else got there. The church was so quiet, save the chirping of two birds from the ceiling. Ekow, Esi and Mummy stepped back as I walked to the coffin. The pit in my tummy got deeper. There he was- in his navy blue suit, my favourite suit. He didn’t look different, he looked like he was asleep. Apart from a scar right above his left eye, you could not even tell that he had been in an accident. His hair was still wavy, just the way I liked it. My hand trembled as I reached out to touch him. I really wished he would wake up, or that he would at least hold my hand and tell me that everything will be okay, that I won’t be all alone.
I don’t remember when I started to cry- maybe it was when I saw his face, or when I whispered hi, or when I reached out to adjust his pocket square, or maybe when I touched him. My heart was literally aching and my breathing was laboured. My brother embraced me and whispered that everything was going to be ok. I stood there for a long time, as if I wanted to engrain his image in my memory forever. And then I walked to my seat. My mother and Esi were seated on either side of me throughout the funeral. Ekow was basically the chief mourner, running around to make sure everything was under control. People from all walks of life were at the funeral- people I had never seen, people I barely knew, and our family and friends. Patrick was always such a people person.
I cried a lot at the funeral. Somehow I felt like it was ok to cry, to let it all out. The tribute from the children in the orphanage had everyone reaching for their handkerchief. Just before they closed the coffin, I walked up, planted a kiss on Patrick’s forehead and then I put the ultrasound scan picture in his breast pocket. His mother was wailing loudly, she also got up abruptly and embraced me. The tenderness of the moment was almost ruined because I almost burst out laughing when I saw Cynthia glaring at me. Ekow and five of the adolescent orphan boys carried the coffin to the graveyard. I wasn’t allowed to go to the graveyard- doctor’s orders. I stood at a distance, watching them shovel the sand over my husband’s body, my Patrick, and the pit in my tummy deepened even more. I whispered more to myself than to anyone else, ‘Goodbye my love’.
Two weeks after the funeral, we were all seated in my living room, eating my mother’s fufu and palmnut soup. Ekow had just shared a hilarious joke and we were all beside ourselves with laughter. I felt liquid on my thigh and I even thought it was urine as a result of laughing so hard. I looked down and realized it wasn’t urine. I grabbed my mother’s arm and whispered ‘my water just broke’. Our baby couldn’t have chosen a better day to be born- it was our meetaversary (the anniversary of the day Patrick and I met). Esi sprang into action mode and got me into the back of her black Mazda car. That car had been there throughout our time on campus- it had history. And now yet another phase of history was about to begin. I kept breathing in and out, and praying to God to preserve both my and my baby’s lives.
I brushed aside the beads of sweat on my forehead and pulled myself together. It was time. The doctor kept talking to me in a soft voice. I rallied all my strength together and pushed- for Patrick’s sake. It felt like forever before I heard the shrill cry of my baby- our baby. I smiled to myself because Patrick would have said the baby had opera singing potential if he were here. And he was here-at least in my mind’s eye. Mummy, Ekow and Esi were also right there beside me the entire time.
The nurse put my baby in my arms. So little, so precious. ‘It is a boy!’, the nurse announced with satisfaction. He wrapped his tiny fingers around my smallest finger and looked up sleepily at me. He had his father’s eyes and his wavy hair- I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I smiled down at him and said, ‘Hi! Your name is Patrick- Patrick Adabla Jnr, and your dad and mum love you very much.’
©Maukeni Padiki Kodjo, 2014
I kept staring at the wall clock as if that would somehow bring him back. The seconds turned into minutes, and then an hour. When three hours had passed, three hours of just sitting there in disbelief, I picked my phone and called my brother. ‘Ekow, he is dead. My husband is dead’. And with those words, the nightmare became a reality.
Then everything else happened so quickly. Ekow came to my office to pick me up and drove me home. On the way, he told me that he had called everyone- my mum, my best friend, Patrick’s family and his friends. I silently thanked him in my head- Ekow had always been dependable. He knew I didn’t want to have to deal with breaking the news to anyone else. He took my phone from me and answered all the calls as and when they came in.
Me? I was just in shock. Patrick was gone. Just like that- no warning signs, no chance to say goodbye. Just like that, my life as I knew it was over. The people began to pour in. I just sat there- numb, oblivious to the wailing, the faceless people who kept trooping in to offer their condolences. My mother brought food- rice with kontonmire stew. Normally I would devour it but today, I didn’t have an appetite.
Patrick’s mum was sobbing and her two daughters were seated on either side of her. They were single handedly responsible for making me miserable for the first two years of my marriage. They had made it clear in rather subtle ways that I was not welcome into their family. They thought I was too young for him- he was twelve years older than me- and that I would run off someday with a younger man. I kept it from him, only because I wanted to rise above the in-law friction.
He caught me crying in the bathroom one day and slowly pulled the story out of me. He made me sit in his lap and cry my heart out, and then made me promise never to keep anything from him again. I don’t know what he said to them, but the antagonism stopped- just like that. He was a wise man- and not just because he was twelve years older. He had a way of putting people at ease.
The first thing he said when we met was ‘My name is Patrick Adabla and I am going to marry you’. Just like that, and our whirlwind of a romance started. Anytime we had an argument and I was sulking, he would tickle me until I surrendered. It was hard to be angry at him for more than an hour, because he knew how to make me laugh. He always had this twinkle in his eye when he was up to no good. On our second date, he took me to an orphanage. The children ran out to meet him, and what pulled at the strings of my heart was that he knew every one of those 56 children by name. That’s when I knew I would marry him.
We had been through so much together. I had had two miscarriages, both just before the third month, and each time he had been so supportive. Even my mum didn’t know about those miscarriages. He always told everyone that he was in no hurry to have kids, something which upset his mum every single time. I knew he wanted kids, I also knew that it was just his way of putting me at ease.
He treated me like a queen- his queen. How could he be dead? Just like that! I wish there were some sign, some sort of signal to prepare me for this. This morning, we had had breakfast- Earl Grey tea, with toasted bread and orange marmalade from England- just the way he liked it. Patrick was too bourgeois for his own good. We had talked about when to pay the gardener for the work he was doing on our front lawn. He had kissed me on the forehead and told me to have a good day. And that was the last I saw of him.
Why was my husband dead? Why didn’t I feel that something would go wrong? Why didn’t I sense it? People say they knew something was wrong the day someone they loved died, that they could sense it. But not me, I didn’t feel anything. It was a normal day until the phone rang at 11:42. They said it was an accident- that the truck driver slammed on his brakes too late, that Patrick died on the spot, that they needed someone to ID the body. That’s all I remember.
The house was getting empty. The well wishers were leaving. Patrick’s mother was lying down in the guest room. Esi, my best friend, was going to spend the night here with me. My mum promised to move in the next day. Ekow had to go and pick up his kids from school. He squatted in front of me and asked if I needed to be alone. When I asked why, he said, ‘You haven’t shed a tear yet. I think it is bottled up inside.’
I walked into our bedroom, yes it was still ours. I could still smell the woody effect of his perfume- Calvin Klein’s Eternity for Men. I bought that for his 50th birthday. 50! He was too full of life to just stop living. I ran my fingers against the lapel of his suit. It was my favourite- a navy blue suit with a gold pocket square. He always looked so dashing in it. He was going to wear it on Saturday for our seventh anniversary dinner.
I was particularly excited about this year’s anniversary because I had some news to share. That’s why I didn’t get him a present. I am pregnant-with Patrick’s baby. We had made it past the three month safety limit. A picture of the ultrasound was tucked away in an envelope, with the inscription: Guess who is going to be a Daddy?
‘Till death do us part’ came too quickly. That’s when the tears finally began to fall..
The story continues here..
©Maukeni Padiki Kodjo, 2014
He watched his mother as she adjusted his tie for the millionth time since they got here. This time, her eyes welled up with tears and if he was not standing so close to her, his ear would not have caught the ‘I am so proud of you’ that tumbled out of her mouth. ‘Trust Mummy to make this a soap opera moment’, he thought to himself. But then again, to be fair, this was worth a soap opera moment. Her only son was graduating today!
Continue reading “Campus romance”
Yes, trotro mates have rights too!
I sleep in the back seat of my master’s trotro, so I would obviously be grumpy when I wake up. You think the trotro seats are uncomfortable to sit on? Try sleeping a whole night on one, coupled with the interference of those disrespectful mosquitoes.
I don’t have the luxury of a bathroom, so I wash my face and rinse my mouth with a sachet of water. Come rain or shine, dawn or dusk, my job is to yell at the top of my lungs until the car is full.
Those in the stations have it easy. At least, over there, people know where to find which car. My domain is the bus stop and I have to wrestle with about five other cars going in the same direction. After that, some self-appointed bus stop warden will come and bully me for small change.
My main problem is with you, the passengers. I don’t understand those of you who give me 50 cedi notes for a 1 cedi journey early in the morning. And when the fuel prices go up, and the transport prices along with them, don’t argue with me about what to charge. I am not the problem here, Mahama is!
Don’t complain when I hound you for your money. A number of people have run away without paying the fare, I don’t intend to have that experience again.
Don’t act as if it is my duty to hold your bag, carry your child or adjust your iron rods when you are alighting, and yell indignantly when I don’t. My contract with you is to get you from one place to another.
Helping you is out of courtesy, it is not my duty. And when I call out the bus stops, respond in time!
I am an island. I don’t really have anyone on my side.
I am the one who gets attacked when the trotro roof is leaking. I am the one who is jostled by the passengers when the car breaks down. I am the one the station masters pick on. I am the one who has to stand in the rain or the scorching sun to look for passengers.
And yet, nobody fights for me.
When the passengers are attacking me for change or about the increase in the fare, the driver is silent, even though I am the one who begs the other drivers to allow us to turn when there is traffic. When the driver is yelling at me for not shouting ‘Circ-Odorkor’ loudly enough, the passengers don’t defend me.
I have rights!
Signed Nii Ashie,
Trotro Mate since April 2006.
Keni Ribeiro