The parties I attended in Ho usually had limited soft drinks and beers, which guests who arrived early enough had to grab straight from the crate or from ice chests; they also had limited food—usually fried or jollof rice with a single piece of chicken or beef—served in Styrofoam containers to the eldest, the first to arrive, and the most persistent, while music boomed from loudspeakers that could be heard blocks away. But our parties had a lot of dancing. Dancing until clothes were wet with sweat, until palm wine was served to the revelers to energize them because the few bottles of beer that they had snatched from the crates and ice chests might as well have been water. Dancing until fatigue set in, or inebriation took over, the kind that caused people to stagger to the music and wake up from deep sleep the next morning, still on the dance floor. Unlike those parties, this rich-people party did not have any of this kind of dancing. Instead, guests stood around in small groups chatting and swaying to the music. I stayed close by Yaya’s side and smiled each time she introduced me to someone new, including the hostess, who was a tall woman with thick locks that grazed the small of her back and bangles that tinkled with every movement of her slender hands.
I marveled at how almost every person at the party, male and female, resembled a piece of artwork; colors mated with patterns and cuts and produced styles that I couldn’t put names to. Necks, wrists, and fingers were decorated with gold ornaments that were interspaced with strands of beads, some of which glittered under the glow of the room’s recessed lights.
I sighed audibly when I looked down at my faded boot-cut jeans and striped three-quarter sleeve button-down shirt. I had five of those secretary-appropriate tops, and before that evening had always considered them dressy. I had believed myself to be very lucky when I found them, almost brand new, in a pile of clothes that a second-hand clothing dealer had for sale. I didn’t feel so lucky now and wished I could just become invisible.
“Why don’t you go and get something to eat; I’m going to the bathroom,” Yaya whispered to me.
“I will wait for you,” I said, involuntarily pressing my back into the wall behind me.
“Don’t wait for me, get some food and mingle,” she urged, pointing to a long table on which were spread dishes that didn’t resemble anything I was used to seeing or eating.
“Okay,” I said so quietly that she probably didn’t even hear me.
At the table, I picked up a plate and looked around for the stern-faced individual who would stop me from taking too much by latching onto the serving spoon and dishing the food onto my plate. But there was no such person; it was serve yourself. The item closest to me looked like raw octopus! I almost ran past it; I had no intention of eating that slimly looking thing. The next item was some kind of soup, but nothing like what I was used to, so I bypassed it as well. I paused when I came to white doughy balls. I picked one of them up with a tong and began to bring it up to my plate but then changed my mind midway and set it back down. No need to embarrass myself.
“Those dumplings are really good,” a man standing next to me said in an accent that was not Ghanaian. He was heaping some of the octopus onto his plate.
“Oh, okay,” I said and put one dumpling onto my plate.
“Only one?” he asked. He was now standing directly opposite me, on the other side of the table.
“No,” I said quickly and put another dumpling on my plate. Maybe dumplings were like fried yam or plantain; no one eats only one at a sitting.
I placed the tong back into the dish and looked up at him expectantly. I wondered where he was from. Thanks to the Nigerian movies that were broadcast on every Ghanaian TV station, and now on my twenty-four-hour African movie channel, I knew he was not Nigerian. He looked to be a few years older than me but had a bald head, which needed to be wiped to get rid of the shine.
“The rice is also good, try it with the shrimp sauce,” he said with a smile.
I felt my facial muscles relax when I heard “rice,” and skipped several unfamiliar dishes until a dish that had the color of fried rice but had no vegetables in it was in front of me. I scooped several spoonsful onto my plate and followed that with the shrimp sauce. Across from me, the bald man stood watching, still smiling as though we shared a happy secret.
“What’s your name?” he asked me as I picked up a fork and a knife, which were wrapped in a white cloth napkin.
“Afi,” I said, finally smiling with him. I was happy to have him by my side because I didn’t know what to do now that I had the plate of food in my hand. I couldn’t see Yaya and without her, I would have to stand in a corner and eat because I could not imagine inserting myself into any of the groups of people who were standing or sitting together and eating.
“My name is Abraham.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
“Join us outside,” he said and began walking through a pair of sliding doors, as though confident that I would follow.
I scanned the room for a second time but still did not see Yaya, so I followed Abraham onto the patio.
“Everyone, this is Afi,” he said as he sat down at a table with five other people.
A couple of them nodded at me, and a woman with a ring in her nose said, “Hey.” If my mother had been there she would have whispered to me, “Why, is she a goat?” I said, “Good evening,” and sat in a chair beside Abraham.
“I’m Uchenna,” the woman with the nose ring said, even though I had not so much as glanced her way. “I manage Ghana Online,” she continued, determined to answer questions I had not asked. “Have you heard of us?” she asked, forcing me to look directly at her nose ring, which seemed like such an uncomfortable adornment.
“No, I haven’t,” I told her.
“We are the largest online retailer in Ghana; you can get anything, and I mean anything, from our online store,” she said, and then handed me a flyer from a small stack on the table. I thanked her and placed the glossy paper in my bag without looking at it.
“I hope you will visit us,” she said with a glint in her eye.
I nodded, even though it had been more than a year since I last went on the internet. That time it had been to open a Facebook account because Mawusi insisted that I had to have one, and there was nothing drawing me back there. Besides, I wasn’t even sure how one went about purchasing an item off the internet.
“Uche never stops working, always trying to sell something, always hustling,” Abraham said to me with a familiar laugh. His gaze lingered on my face and then traveled down my body, as though he was appraising an item that was up for sale. I knew that look; I’d been receiving it from men since my breasts started growing when I was about eleven.
“I beg O, Abe, I’m only introducing myself, which is the polite thing to do,” she replied, also with a smile. “In fact, let me introduce her to everyone else,” she said. “This is Tina and this is Hajiratu; they are doctors at the military hospital,” she said, pointing to two women who didn’t look a year older than me. They both nodded and returned to their conversation. “And this is K.K. and Akuba. K.K. works with the World Bank and Akuba you might know from the evening news on ZTV,” Uchenna said of the other two people at the table, who smiled. “And Abe, you already know. So tell me, what do you do?” she asked, her chin resting on her interlocked fingers, her eyes expectant.
“Nothing,” I whispered to my own surprise and quickly shoved a forkful of rice into my mouth; maybe she would leave me alone if I started eating. Where had this lie even come from? As I chewed, I realized that I was embarrassed to tell these people, these managers, and doctors, and World Bankers, and whatever Abraham was, that I was a seamstress’s apprentice and had only begun fashion school. I had always been comfortable with what I did; in fact, I had been proud that I was training with Sarah, a woman who had studied fashion design in London and sewed for the First Lady. But these people’s accomplishments made mine seem insignificant, even laughable, and I suddenly felt small. If I told them what I did, they would immediately know, if my c
lothes hadn’t already made it clear, that I was not one of them, that I didn’t belong.
“Are you a student? she persisted.
“No.”
“Ok, then,” she said, then turned to Abraham who had been following our exchange with interest and asked, “When do you leave for Peru?”
“Who’s going to Peru?” the World Banker piped in.
“I am, I leave on Wednesday; we’re in talks with a company over there,” Abraham answered, his gaze moving away from me for the first time since we sat down.
“No way! I’ll be there on Saturday,” the World Banker said.
“If either of you is traveling on British Airways, let me know; I have miles that are about to expire and I need to give them out,” one of the doctors offered.
“You can only transfer miles to relatives, and I don’t even think they expire,” Uchenna, the manager, said and rolled her eyes.
I put more rice into my mouth as the conversation shifted to airline travel, and miles, and priority boarding and then to how expensive the London Underground was in comparison to the New York subway. By this time, both Uchenna and Abraham seemed to have forgotten that I was there, and I was happy for that. I feared that anything I said would reveal my ignorance of the matters they were discussing. After a while, I looked down at my plate and saw that it was empty; I had been shoveling food into my mouth like a robot.
“Ready for dessert?” Abraham asked me during a lull in their conversation.
“I’m okay,” I told him, my arms folded across my torso. I didn’t want to have to go back to the table and try to figure out what I could put on my plate. I had eaten and enjoyed the dumplings but that was enough adventure for the evening.
“You sure? Come on, they have ice cream,” he persisted.
“Okay,” I said, the offer of ice cream proving to be very persuasive. I stood up and spotted Yaya as soon as I walked through the glass doors; she was chatting with a white man whose hair flowed in shiny waves down his back and could vanquish my weave in a silkiness competition.
“I was about to come looking for you,” she said when she saw me.
“I was outside,” I told her. If she had been someone else, maybe Mawusi, I would have asked her why she hadn’t come earlier. How long did it take her to use the toilet?
I noticed that she was staring at Abraham. I took two steps away from him.
“Hi,” he said. “I met Afi at the buffet table and we are on our way back there for dessert,” he continued and stretched out his hand for a shake.
Yaya shook his hand and gave him a close-mouthed smile. I exhaled quietly.
“Okay, well I was about to leave but why don’t you get dessert first?” she said to me.
“Oh, that’s okay, I’m ready,” I told her and then turned to Abraham and did my best to apologize to him with my eyes.
He got the message and wished us goodnight.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” Yaya asked in the car.
“Yes,” I said, though I had enjoyed the clothes, not so much the company. I felt out of place with these people.
“You’ll get used to it,” she said.
I smiled.
“Was Abraham good company?”
“Oh, you know him?”
“I’ve seen him around at these things. Accra is smaller than it looks.”
“He was nice; he introduced me to some people outside.”
“Well that’s good, it helps to know these people.”
I nodded, even though I was fine knowing only the people I had left behind in Ho.
It was past midnight when she dropped me off at King’s Court. I paused briefly to chat with the young man at the front desk before walking toward the lift. As I waited for the door to open, a woman came to stand beside me.
“Good evening,” I said, taking in her tight dress that showed off every curve of her body.
“Good evening,” she lifted her eyes from her phone before we stepped into the lift. She stood nearest the doors and pressed the button to the fifth floor, her fingernails blood red.
“You are going to my floor,” I said, taken aback; apart from Richard and my mother, I’d never had anyone get off on my floor with me.
She stared at me for a couple of seconds and said, “Afi?”
“Yes,” I answered, and then before I could stop myself, said, “Evelyn?”
She nodded and flashed a smile as the doors opened onto our floor.
“I’ve been meaning to come over since you moved in, but I always get home so late and don’t want to disturb you,” she said. I had not expected her to be friendly. The glimpses of her through the peephole had led me to paint a picture of a sophisticated woman. If there was one thing I knew, it was that sophistication was often accompanied by haughtiness and hubris.
“Richard told me about you; I’m his girlfriend,” she said, misinterpreting my silence.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, surprised at how freely she revealed her connection with Richard when he had not bothered to tell me she existed.
“Why don’t you come over tomorrow?” she asked me as she searched for her keys in her woven clutch.
“I will be going to the market,” I told her.
The even arch of her eyebrows shot up and she asked me, “All day?”
“No,” I said and frowned. Why would she think that I would spend all day in the market?
“I’m only joking,” she said after letting out an airy chuckle. “I’ll be home until about nine so come by any time before then.”
I nodded and we said goodnight. My brows remained furrowed as I entered my flat; I didn’t know what to make of this Evelyn.
Six
After the market the next day, I asked Mensah to drive me to a hair salon that one of my fellow trainees had recommended. It was one of those posh ones where the air conditioner blew nonstop, the equipment still carried the factory shine, and the latest issues of fashion magazines were neatly stacked on glass tabletops. There I paid (more than I ever had) to have my weave removed and my new growth retouched. I had changed my weave the week after Eli came to visit. Today, when the hairdresser was done, I admired my reflection in the mirror, pleased with how much my hair had grown since the wedding. The soft black waves, the tips full and even after being trimmed, fell slightly below my shoulders and were almost as thick as the weave I had worn. The hairdresser barely used any pomade, unlike the one in Ho who oiled my hair until it was limp, and instead had used a spray that left my hair bouncy. She even asked to take a picture of me for the salon’s album when I was about to leave.
I knew my mother would have been happy to see how good I looked. I called her as soon as Mensah drove me home, and I described to her how my natural hair was so thick and long that it looked unnatural. She asked me to send her a picture and made me promise not to allow the hairdresser to trim my hair the next time I went for a touch-up. She also had much to say about the family. One of my cousins, Uncle Excellent’s oldest son, was getting married to a girl I had attended primary school with, and my father’s people, led by Tɔgã Pious, were preparing for the wedding. According to my mother, there had been a disagreement about the number of items on the list; the family was asking for too much (they even wanted a flat-screen TV) and Tɔgã Pious was having none of that, but the matter had been resolved, with the intervention of Father Wisdom. How my uncle loved to receive but not give! He hadn’t protested when the Ganyos were handing out fat envelopes at my wedding and brought extras of everything. After laughing at my uncle’s antics, my mother and I moved on to discussing the Ganyos. My mother reported that there was no news from them, although Aunty inquired about me daily.
“She asks for you every morning, even after church on Sundays,” she said with satisfaction, as though that alone was enough, as though it was all that I deserved as a wife.
She’s my mother-in-law. Why doesn’t she just call me? I wanted to ask, but didn’t to avoid angering my mother. This was one of the more pleasant conve
rsations that we had had lately and I didn’t want to ruin it. Some evenings after I had eaten and bathed and ceased busying myself, I missed her. Before hanging up I promised to call her the next day.
I called Mawusi after that and we brought each other up to date on our lives. She was eager to be done with school and to settle down with Yao, although the two were practically married already. Their halls on campus were less than five minutes apart and they ate supper together every day. Lately, she had been talking less about her relationship with Yao. I knew that it was because she didn’t want to make me feel worse about my situation.
“Has he come?” she asked.
“Eli?”
“Yes.”
“Hmmm. He still hasn’t come. Only phone calls, everyday phone calls. That’s all I get.”
“Ah, has he traveled?”
“Traveled? He’s right here in Accra with me, breathing the same air, but almost two whole months and nothing. I really don’t know how long I can continue like this.”
“Maybe you should go to his house.”
“Ehn?”
“Yes, didn’t Yaya say that he lives close by? Just go there.”
“Go there and then what? When he asks who told me to come there, what will I say? And when he goes complaining to his mother, what will I do? Please, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Then all you can do is wait for him to come to you.”
I mentioned to her that I would be going to Evelyn’s later and she advised me to be careful about what I revealed to the woman.
“You don’t know the kind of person she is; I have heard that the family doesn’t like her.”
“When did you hear this? Who told you?”
“Yao is friends with one of her cousins; they were classmates. Why do you think she wasn’t at your wedding? Wasn’t Fred’s wife there?”
“Well, thank God I’m not going over to her flat to marry her,” I said laughing. Mawusi laughed too. I appreciated my cousin’s advice but I didn’t need it; I hadn’t discussed my life with anyone since I came to Accra, not even Sarah or the other trainees at the school. If there was one thing I agreed with my mother on, it was that one could never be sure about a person’s intentions, no matter how kind that person seemed.
His Only Wife Page 9
