No Sweetness Here and Other Stories

by Ama Ata Aidoo

  ‘We are here.’

  ‘Don’t let’s get out. Let’s just sit inside and talk.’

  ‘Talk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay. But what is it, my darling?’

  ‘I have told my sister about you.’

  ‘Good God. Why?’

  ‘But I had to. I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer.’

  ‘Childish. It was not necessary at all. She is not your mother.’

  ‘No. But she is all I have. And she has been very good to me.’

  ‘Well, it was her duty.’

  ‘Then it is my duty to tell her about something like this. I may get into trouble.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said, ‘I normally take good care of my girl-friends.’

  ‘I see,’ she said and for the first time in the one month since she agreed to be this man’s lover, the tears which suddenly rose into her eyes were not forced.

  ‘And you promised you wouldn’t tell her.’ It was father’s voice now.

  ‘Don’t be angry. After all, people talk so much, as you said a little while ago. She was bound to hear it one day.’

  ‘My darling, you are too wise. What did she say?’

  ‘She was pained.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Find out something she wants very much but cannot get in this country because of the import restrictions.’

  ‘I know for sure she wants an electric motor for her sewing machine.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s what I know of.’

  ‘Mm. I am going to London next week on some delegation, so if you bring me the details on the make of the machine, I shall get her the motor.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What else is worrying my Black Beauty?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And by the way, let me know as soon as you want to leave your sister’s place. I have got you one of the government estate houses.’

  ‘Oh . . . oh,’ she said, pleased, contented for the first time since this typically ghastly day had begun, at half-past six in the morning.

  Dear little child came back from the playground with her toe bruised. Shall we just blow cold air from our mouth on it or put on a salve? Nothing matters really. Just see that she does not feel unattended. And the old sea roars on. This is a calm sea, generally. Too calm in fact, this Gulf of Guinea. The natives sacrifice to him on Tuesdays and once a year celebrate him. They might save their chickens, their eggs and their yams. And as for the feast once a year, he doesn’t pay much attention to it either. They are always celebrating one thing or another and they surely don’t need him for an excuse to celebrate one day more. He has seen things happen along these beaches. Different things. Contradictory things. Or just repetitions of old patterns. He never interferes in their affairs. Why should he? Except in places like Keta where he eats houses away because they leave him no choice. Otherwise he never allows them to see his passions. People are worms, and even the God who created them is immensely bored with their antics. Here is a fifty-year-old ‘big man’ who thinks he is somebody. And a twenty-three-year-old child who chooses a silly way to conquer unconquerable problems. Well, what did one expect of human beings? And so as those two settled on the back seat of the car to play with each other’s bodies, he, the Gulf of Guinea, shut his eyes with boredom. It is right. He could sleep, no? He spread himself and moved further ashore. But the car was parked at a very safe distance and the rising tides could not wet its tyres.

  James has come home late. But then he has been coming back late for the past few weeks. Connie is crying and he knows it as soon as he enters the bedroom. He hates tears, for like so many men, he knows it is one of the most potent weapons in women’s bitchy and inexhaustible arsenal. She speaks first.

  ‘James.’

  ‘Oh, you are still awake?’ He always tries to deal with these nightly funeral parlour doings by pretending not to know what they are about.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘What is wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  So he moves quickly and sits beside her.

  ‘Connie, what is the matter? You have been crying again.’

  ‘You are very late again.’

  ‘Is that why you are crying? Or is there something else?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes to what?’

  ‘James, where were you?’

  ‘Connie, I have warned you about what I shall do if you don’t stop examining me, as though I were your prisoner, every time I am a little late.’

  She sat up.

  ‘A little late! It is nearly two o’clock.’

  ‘Anyway, you won’t believe me if I told you the truth, so why do you want me to waste my breath?’

  ‘Oh well.’ She lies down again and turns her face to the wall. He stands up but does not walk away. He looks down at her. So she remembers every night: they have agreed, after many arguments, that she should sleep like this. During her first pregnancy, he kept saying after the third month or so that the sight of her tummy the last thing before he slept always gave him nightmares. Now he regrets all this. The bed creaks as he throws himself down by her.

  ‘James.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There is something much more serious.’

  ‘You have heard about my newest affair?’

  ‘Yes, but that is not what I am referring to.’

  ‘Jesus, is it possible that there is anything more important than that?’

  And as they laugh they know that something has happened. One of those things which, with luck, will keep them together for some time to come.

  ‘He teases me on top of everything.’

  ‘What else can one do to you but tease when you are in this state?’

  ‘James! How profane!’

  ‘It is your dirty mind which gave my statement its shocking meaning.’

  ‘Okay! But what shall I do?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Mercy. Listen, she is having an affair with Mensar-Arthur.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  She sits up and he sits up.

  ‘James, we must do something about it. It is very serious.’

  ‘Is that why you were crying?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t she?’

  ‘But it is wrong. And she is ruining herself.’

  ‘Since every other girl she knows has ruined herself prosperously, why shouldn’t she? Just forget for once that you are a teacher. Or at least, remember she is not your pupil.’

  ‘I don’t like your answers.’

  ‘What would you like me to say? Every morning her friends who don’t earn any more than she does wear new dresses, shoes, wigs and what-have-you to work. What would you have her do?’

  ‘The fact that other girls do it does not mean that Mercy should do it too.’

  ‘You are being very silly. If I were Mercy, I am sure that’s exactly what I would do. And you know I mean it too.’

  James is cruel. He is terrible and mean. Connie breaks into fresh tears and James comforts her. There is one point he must drive home though.

  ‘In fact, encourage her. He may be able to intercede with the Ministry for you so that after the baby is born they will not transfer you from here for some time.’

  ‘James, you want me to use my sister!’

  ‘She is using herself, remember.’

  ‘James, you are wicked.’

  ‘And maybe he would even agree to get us a new car from abroad. I shall pay for everything. That would be better than paying a fortune for that old thing I was thinking of buying. Think of that.’

  ‘You will ride in it alone.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  That was a few months before the coup. Mensar-Arthur did go to London for a conference and bought something for all his wives and girl-friends, including Mercy. He even remembered the motor for Connie’s machine. When Mercy took it to her she was quite confused. She had wanted this thing for
a long time, and it would make everything so much easier, like the clothes for the new baby. And yet one side of her said that accepting it was a betrayal. Of what, she wasn’t even sure. She and Mercy could never bring the whole business into the open and discuss it. And there was always James supporting Mercy, to Connie’s bewilderment. She took the motor with thanks and sold even her right to dissent. In a short while, Mercy left the house to go and live in the estate house Mensar-Arthur had procured for her. Then, a couple of weeks later, the coup. Mercy left her new place before anyone could evict her. James never got his car. Connie’s new baby was born. Of the three, the one who greeted the new order with undisguised relief was Connie. She is not really a demonstrative person but it was obvious from her eyes that she was happy. As far as she was concerned, the old order as symbolised by Mensar-Arthur was a threat to her sister and therefore to her own peace of mind. With it gone, things could return to normal. Mercy would move back to the house, perhaps start to date someone more – ordinary, let’s say. Eventually, she would get married and then the nightmare of those past weeks would be forgotten. God being so good, he brought the coup early before the news of the affair could spread and brand her sister. . . .

  The arrival of the new baby has magically waved away the difficulties between James and Connie. He is that kind of man, and she that kind of woman. Mercy has not been seen for many days. Connie is beginning to get worried. . . .

  James heard the baby yelling – a familiar noise, by now – the moment he opened the front gate. He ran in, clutching to his chest the few things he had bought on his way home.

  ‘We are in here.’

  ‘I certainly could hear you. If there is anything people of this country have, it is a big mouth.’

  ‘Don’t I agree? But on the whole, we are well. He is eating normally and everything. You?’

  ‘Nothing new. Same routine. More stories about the overthrown politicians.’

  ‘What do you mean, nothing new? Look at the excellent job the soldiers have done, cleaning up the country of all that dirt. I feel free already and I am dying to get out and enjoy it.’

  James laughed mirthlessly.

  ‘All I know is that Mensar-Arthur is in jail. No use. And I am not getting my car. Rough deal.’

  ‘I never took you seriously on that car business.’

  ‘Honestly, if this were in the ancient days, I could brand you a witch. You don’t want me, your husband, to prosper?’

  ‘Not out of my sister’s ruin.’

  ‘Ruin, ruin, ruin! Christ! See Connie, the funny thing is that I am sure you are the only person who thought it was a disaster to have a sister who was the girl-friend of a big man.’

  ‘Okay; now all is over, and don’t let’s quarrel.’

  ‘I bet the coup could have succeeded on your prayers alone.’

  And Connie wondered why he said that with so much bitterness. She wondered if . . .

  ‘Has Mercy been here?’

  ‘Not yet, later, maybe. Mm. I had hoped she would move back here and start all over again.’

  ‘I am not surprised she hasn’t. In fact, if I were her, I wouldn’t come back here either. Not to your nagging, no thank you, big sister.’

  And as the argument progressed, as always, each was forced into a more aggressive defensive stand.

  ‘Well, just say what pleases you, I am very glad about the soldiers. Mercy is my only sister, brother; everything. I can’t sit and see her life going wrong without feeling it. I am grateful to whatever forces there are which put a stop to that. What pains me now is that she should be so vague about where she is living at the moment. She makes mention of a girl-friend but I am not sure that I know her.’

  ‘If I were you, I would stop worrying because it seems Mercy can look after herself quite well.’

  ‘Hmm,’ was all she tried to say.

  Who heard something like the sound of a car pulling into the drive? Ah, but the footsteps are unmistakably Mercy’s. Are those shoes the old pair which were new a couple of months ago? Or are they the newest pair? And here she is herself, the pretty one. A gay Mercy.

  ‘Hello, hello, my clan!’ and she makes a lot of her nephew.

  ‘Dow-dah-dee-day! And how is my dear young man today? My lord, grow up fast and come to take care of Auntie Mercy.’

  Both Connie and James cannot take their eyes off her. Connie says, ‘He says to Auntie Mercy he is fine.’

  Still they watch her, horrified, fascinated and wondering what it’s all about. Because they both know it is about something.’

  ‘Listen people, I brought a friend to meet you. A man.’

  ‘Where is he?’ from James.

  ‘Bring him in,’ from Connie.

  ‘You know, Sissie, you are a new mother. I thought I’d come and ask you if it’s all right.’

  ‘Of course,’ say James and Connie, and for some reason they are both very nervous.

  ‘He is Captain Ashey.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘How many do you know?’

  James still thinks it is impossible. ‘Eh . . . do you mean the officer who has been appointed the . . . the . . .’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a picture in The Crystal over the week-end about his daughter’s wedding? And another one of him with his wife and children and grandchildren?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he is heading a commission to investigate something or other?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Connie just sits there with her mouth open that wide. . . .

  The Late Bud

  ‘The good child who willingly goes on errands eats the food of peace.’ This was a favourite saying in the house. Maami, Aunt Efua, Aunt Araba . . . oh, they all said it, especially when they had prepared something delicious like cocoyam porridge and seasoned beef. You know how it is.

  First, as they stirred it with the ladle, its scent rose from the pot and became a little cloud hanging over the hearth. Gradually, it spread through the courtyard and entered the inner and outer rooms of the women’s apartments. This was the first scent that greeted the afternoon sleeper. She stretched herself luxuriously, inhaled a large quantity of the sweet scent, cried ‘Mm’ and either fell back again to sleep or got up to be about her business. The aroma did not stay. It rolled into the next house and the next, until it filled the whole neighbourhood. And Yaaba would sniff it.

  As usual, she would be playing with her friends by the Big Trunk. She would suddenly throw down her pebbles even if it was her turn, jump up, shake her cloth free of sand and announce, ‘I am going home.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Yaaba, why?’

  But the questions of her amazed companions would reach her faintly like whispers. She was flying home. Having crossed the threshold, she then slunk by the wall. But there would be none for her.

  Yaaba never stayed at home to go on an errand. Even when she was around, she never would fetch water to save a dying soul. How could she then eat the food of peace? Oh, if it was a formal meal, like in the morning or evening, that was a different matter. Of that, even Yaaba got her lawful share. . . . But not this sweet-sweet porridge. ‘Nsia, Antobam, Naabanyin, Adwoa, come for some porridge.’ And the other children trooped in with their little plates and bowls. But not the figure by the wall. They chattered as they came and the mother teased as she dished out their titbits.

  ‘Is yours alright, Adwoa? . . . and yours, Tawia? . . . yours is certainly sufficient, Antobam. . . . But my child, this is only a titbit for us, the deserving. Other people,’ and she would squint at Yaaba, ‘who have not worked will not get the tiniest bit.’ She then started eating hers. If Yaaba felt that the joke was being carried too far, she coughed. ‘Oh,’ the mother would cry out, ‘people should be careful about their throats. Even if they coughed until they spat blood none of this porridge would touch their mouths.’

  But it was not things and incidents like these which worried Yaaba. For inevitably, a mother’s womb cried out
for a lonely figure by a wall and she would be given some porridge. Even when her mother could be bile-bellied enough to look at her and dish out all the porridge, Yaaba could run into the doorway and ambush some child and rob him of the greater part of his share. No, it was not such things that worried her. Every mother might call her a bad girl. She enjoyed playing by the Big Trunk, for instance. Since to be a good girl, one had to stay by the hearth and not by the Big Trunk throwing pebbles, but with one’s hands folded quietly on one’s lap, waiting to be sent everywhere by all the mothers, Yaaba let people like Adwoa who wanted to be called ‘good’ be good. Thank you, she was not interested.

  But there was something which disturbed Yaaba. No one knew it did, but it did. She used to wonder why, every time Maami called Adwoa, she called her ‘My child Adwoa’, while she was always merely called ‘Yaaba’.

  ‘My child Adwoa, pick me the drinking can. . . . My child you have done well. . . .’

  Oh, it is so always. Am I not my mother’s child?

  ‘Yaaba, come for your food.’ She always wished in her heart that she could ask somebody about it. . . . Paapa . . . Maami . . . Nana, am I not Maami’s daughter? Who was my mother?

  But you see, one does not go round asking elders such questions. Take the day Antobam asked her grandmother where her own mother was. The grandmother also asked Antobam whether she was not being looked after well, and then started weeping and saying things. Other mothers joined in the weeping. Then some more women came over from the neighbourhood and her aunts and uncles came too and there was more weeping and there was also drinking and libation-pouring. At the end of it all, they gave Antobam a stiff talking-to.