“Yes, Ma.”
“With you in your room?” she probed.
“Yes, we were together,” I said impatiently. My mother and I had never talked about sex before; she had always pretended that it was something that I would never do. Now she couldn’t bring herself to ask me if Eli and I had sex.
“Together?”
“Yes, together. We did it,” I blurted out, desperate for these questions to end.
“Good, very good,” she said. “I will tell Aunty.”
“Ah, Ma, why?”
“What do you mean by why? Aunty has to know.”
I fell backward onto the bed with the phone in my hand. Now the whole Ganyo family was going to discuss what I did in my bedroom and would applaud me for it. I wouldn’t be surprised if Richard showed up, clapped me on the shoulder, and congratulated me for finally sleeping with his brother.
Eli left after breakfast and to my delight returned in the evening, with a traveling bag that held clothes and toiletries. I met him at the door and offered to carry the bag to the bedroom but he refused. He would do it himself. He also brought food. Rice and pork, chicken and chips, akple and tilapia, in aluminum take-out containers.
“For dinner,” he said as he set the two plastic bags of food on the kitchen counter.
“Thank you, but there’s food here,” I said, disappointed. This tendency of his not to allow me to be a woman, to be a wife, was troubling. Clearing the table after meals, washing dishes, cooking breakfast—next he would be washing my clothes and sweeping. That is not how things were supposed to be.
“You need to rest,” he said and placed a hand on my belly. I shivered at his touch. “How are you feeling?” he asked, misinterpreting the slight movement of my body.
“Better,” I said.
“Good, I also bought you a hot water bottle,” he said and turned to fish the bottle out of his traveling bag.
Hot water bottle! This is what lying had gotten me. Now I would have to lie in bed like an invalid while needlessly burning my stomach. As I had feared, we only cuddled that night. He wouldn’t do anything more, no matter how much I pressed my backside into him. I could have tried harder, done more, but then it would have been obvious that I wanted sex. I fell asleep with a frown on my face.
Over the next few weeks, Eli and I settled into a routine. I woke up early and made breakfast while he showered. We ate breakfast together and then he left for work while Mensah drove me to school. I usually got home before him and prepared supper, which we often ate in front of the TV. We chatted a little after that, usually about his work or my school or about something we had seen on the news or read in the newspaper. He then turned his attention to work, reading, approving project plans, emailing partners and employees. Some evenings he disappeared into one of the bedrooms to answer calls. After that we bathed, sometimes together, and then retired to bed. We went out on the weekends. In the first month, he took me to a Highlife music show at the National Theatre and then to a jazz night at a club in Osu.
“Some of my friends will be there,” he told me on Thursday, the day before we went to the jazz club.
“Which friends?” I asked. He had told me a bit about some of the people he knew.
“Mainly people I’ve met through work. Fred and Cecelia will also be there.”
“What should I wear?” I asked Mawusi later that day. I wanted to make a good impression on his friends and his brother and sister-in-law.
“Wear something nice, something stylish.”
“Like what?”
“Wear a dress and high heels. Don’t wear African print and don’t wear jeans. Some of these rich people’s clubs won’t let you in if you’re wearing jeans.”
“I don’t have any nice dresses that aren’t made with African print.”
“How about the silver one, the short one you wore to the New Year’s party at the hotel in Ho last year? Don’t you have it with you? Everybody liked that dress, don’t you remember?”
The dress in question was strapless, sat mid-thigh, and was so tight that I couldn’t eat a proper meal while wearing it. Everybody had indeed liked it, some a bit too much. It had caused a fight between a couple; the woman hadn’t been happy with her man’s wandering eye.
“That dress is too short and tight.”
“It’s sexy. Wear it with your black strappy sandals, the ones with the pencil heel. It will drive him crazy.”
“He’s already crazy for me,” I said proudly.
“Well, you want it to remain that way.”
I tried on the dress while Eli was in the bathroom and it fit just as snugly as when I had last worn it. All I needed to do was polish the sandals, wash and style my hair, and I would be ready to go.
He was unable to stop staring at me when I walked into the sitting room. He was dressed in a blue blazer, black shirt, and black jeans with black suede loafers.
I asked him if he liked my outfit. I was still a bit shy to be speaking to him like this.
“You look beautiful,” he said, before hugging and kissing me. I had to reapply my lipstick.
We left in a silver Mercedes that matched my dress, a car I hadn’t seen before. The club was in Osu, on a lane with several other nightspots. Even though it was almost midnight, the street was congested as though it was midday. Revelers were everywhere and had turned the entire street into a pedestrian walkway, blocking all vehicular traffic. We had to park several blocks away in a bank parking lot, and Eli gave the security guard money to keep an eye on the car. I leaned on Eli for support because I could only walk comfortably in my shoes for a few minutes before my ankles began to ache and I began to wobble. The club was already packed when we got there and there was a long line of people waiting outside. But the bouncer, who knew Eli, let us in, ahead of those in line. We then made our way across the dimly lit room to the table where our party was seated. Everyone at the table stood and began speaking at the same time when they saw Eli, even Fred. “Eli! Good to see you, man! You made it! Welcome, big boss! Looking sharp as always, man! Eli, Eli!” They each reached out to shake his hand and then mine.
“This is my wife, Afi,” Eli said when he introduced me to the four people I was meeting for the first time.
“Nice to meet you. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
There were three couples around the table, including Fred and Cecelia. The first couple seemed to be in their early thirties. The man, like Eli, had on a blazer, and the woman wore a white silk blouse with a silver necklace. Her hair was held back in a bun. Next to them was a Lebanese couple, the man in a linen shirt and the woman in a black dress without any visible jewelry. Fred also wore a blazer and Cecelia had on an African print dress that looked like something Sarah would sew. No one was wearing a sparkling silver dress that fit like a bandage and rode up every time they twitched in their seat. I drew nearer to the table to hide my bare thighs and then turned to Eli to see if he had noticed the difference between me and the other women. He was busy talking to the couple in their thirties.
Cecelia hugged me. “We finally get to see you,” she said. She was seated closest to me.
“How are you doing, Afi?” Fred asked. He was seated next to Cecelia. I didn’t think I could ever feel completely at ease in his presence.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Eli said you’re training to be a fashion designer,” Cecelia said.
“Yes, I am,” I said, speaking carefully, not wanting to say the wrong thing.
“How do you like it?” she asked.
“I like it very much. I’m working with Sarah, at Dzorwulu.”
“Yes, I know Sarah; my seamstress copied this design from her,” Cecelia said and then laughed. “Please don’t tell her,” she added, still laughing.
“Oh, no, I won’t . . .” I began before Eli gently tapped my arm. I turned to him.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Can I have a Coke?”
“A Coke? You cannot come out with
me and only have a Coke,” he said, teasing.
“Try the cosmo, it’s what I’m having,” Cecelia said.
“Or do you not drink alcohol?” he asked, in a low enough voice that Fred and Cecelia did not hear him.
“I do, but nothing too strong.”
“Ok, then try the cosmopolitan, and if you don’t like it you can try something else.”
As soon as he placed the drink order the band started playing and the conversation died down around our table. I knew nothing about jazz but even I could tell the band was good. My drink came before they finished the first number and I had drunk the entire thing before they finished the third. Why didn’t we drink cosmopolitans in Ho? This drink was good!
“You like it,” Eli said when he noticed my empty glass. I nodded and then giggled. He smiled and lightly kissed me, right there in front of his important friends and his brother and sister-in-law. I leaned my head on his shoulder and he put his arm around me before ordering another drink for me and for himself. He had a gin and tonic while I had a red harmattan.
“It’s better than a cosmopolitan,” he said when he saw my look of disappointment when the drink arrived. And he was right. The red harmattan was fruitier and tasted like it had no alcohol in it, but I was tipsy before my glass was even empty. I leaned my head onto Eli’s shoulder, slipped my hands into his, and allowed myself to be carried away by the rhythms of the saxophone and the bass; it felt like the band was playing just for the two of us. Later, I chatted with Cecelia some more, and with the other two couples. Cecelia showed me pictures of their daughters on her phone and regaled me with tales of their travels. They had just returned from a safari in Botswana and found the desert beautiful. I had never thought of the desert as beautiful, but they actually made me want to visit.
The band started up again and Eli ordered another red harmattan for me. We left soon after I had finished this drink; Eli had to fly to Tamale early the next morning. The brothers were building a shea butter processing factory there and he was going with Richard to inspect the project.
The ride home was so smooth that I dozed off and only woke up when we reached King’s Court.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
I nodded and took off my shoes, which I then passed to him, along with my purse. He held my hand as we entered the building, and the lift, and then the flat, only letting me go when I was on the sofa.
“Did you have a good time?” he asked. He poured a glass of water for each of us.
“Yes, but you should have told me not to wear this dress.” My words were a bit slurred.
“What is wrong with it?” He was standing in front of me, smiling and looking at the dress.
“What is wrong with it?”
“Yes, what is wrong with it?” he said, kneeling on the couch so that I was between his legs.
“Didn’t you see what the other women were wearing?” I said, giggling. His breath against my neck was ticklish.
“Who cares about what they were wearing? I only care about what you have on,” he said, now nibbling on my neck.
“It’s too tight, too revealing.”
“It’s perfect, you’re perfect,” he said while tugging on my dress until the elastic was no longer above my chest.
We went to Baobab, a popular club, the following Friday, this time only joined by Fred and Cecelia. There was a DJ spinning; the dance floor, which was really the sidewalk outside, was packed with foreigners, most of whom had no respect for the beat. This time I was appropriately dressed. I’d gone shopping with Shamima, one of the girls from my school, and had picked up several outfits that I could wear for evening outings and to special events. I had no intention of repeating the silver dress debacle, regardless of what Eli said. This evening I had on skinny jeans and a cropped blouse that showed about an inch of my stomach.
“I love this,” Eli had said when he saw me. He wasn’t the only one. He had drawn his chair closer to mine when he noticed a group of young men at another table gawking.
We were seated around oil drums that served as tables. Because the club had spilled into the street, cars drove slowly on the other half of the road that hadn’t been taken over. This time I knew what to order and felt less nervous talking to Cecelia. We went to another place after that. Here too the bouncer knew Eli and let us in after saluting him. We had barely taken our seat in a cordoned-off booth when Fred and Cecelia disappeared onto the club’s smoky dance floor. Eli turned to me, indicating he wanted to dance. When I hesitated, he held my hand and I had to follow him. He didn’t dance like the younger men I’d dated. He didn’t seem to know the latest moves, there was no azonto. Instead, he mostly held me close, even when the music was fast, and when he pulled away, it was to show off some Highlife moves. We couldn’t help smiling as we danced and we were still smiling when we arrived home. We were so happy together.
We visited Fred and Cecelia’s for lunch the next day. They were friendly and made me feel at home, but the talk around the table was all about politics. Cecelia was thinking about running for office now that their daughters were getting older. She wanted to be a member of parliament for our district in Ho and was thinking about kick-starting her campaign in time for the next national elections.
“Have you ever thought about politics?” Fred asked me.
“Never. It’s not for me.”
He laughed. “That’s what Cecelia used to say and now here we are.”
“We’ll give her a few more years,” Eli said, smiling at me.
The conversation went on for so long that we ended up staying for dinner. They made me promise to visit again soon, with or without Eli.
Mawusi came to visit the next week and I had so much fun with her. Sarah agreed that I could work half-days and so I took my cousin to all of the places that Yaya and Eli had taken me before. We went to the cinema, ate at Red Oasis, and shopped at the Accra mall.
“I can’t wait to be done with school and to have a proper job, so that I can afford to do all of this,” she said. We were at a newly opened lounge that required a reservation to get in and charged as if people didn’t have to work for money. Some of the entrees on the menu cost more than my mother made in a month.
“Have you started applying?”
“There are no jobs to apply for in this country. Nothing! You have to know someone and even then, you’re not guaranteed a good one. My friend who started working last year with an ad agency on High Street spends almost half of her salary on transportation. Can you believe it? Half of her salary goes to taking trotro and taxis. The pay is not good at all. I need something better than that. And Yao too. And we need to start saving for the wedding.”
“Find the job first before you start worrying about the wedding. I hope you’re not planning anything big.”
“Me? Big? Please. I have better things to do with my money. I want the wedding to be small but nice, classy. I will have to spend some money, but not too much. I’m not going to be like those people who are going into debt to pay for their wedding.”
“Well, like I said, find the job first.”
“I know, you don’t have to tell me.”
We went somewhere new every day and Eli joined us most evenings and on Friday took us to a rooftop hookah bar. He taught us how to inhale the vapor and then let it out in a minty cloud. Only a coughing fit caused me to take a break from the pipe but then I started up again as soon as it died down. Mawusi giggled through the entire evening; her alcohol tolerance was even lower than mine. When she first arrived, she had been nervous around Eli, but by the third day, she was clinking glasses with him and joining in our after-dinner conversations, offering Eli public relations advice that he appeared to be taking seriously. On her last evening with us, she asked if he could help her get a job and he promised to ask around on her behalf.
“You’re so lucky,” she said when he went into the bedroom to make some calls.
“I know.” I was grinning.
“This is like a fairytale.�
��
“Fairytale? Really?” My cousin was too much of a romantic.
“Well, almost. Has he said anything about moving?”
“No, but I’m sure it will happen soon.”
I gave Mawusi some money and rode with Mensah to drop her off at Tema Station. We waited for her bus to get full before driving away. I immediately began to miss her. She was going to spend a few weeks in Ho before leaving for her semester in Côte d’Ivoire.
The next weekend, Eli and I stayed at a hotel that overlooked a golf course and the weekend after that we went to a members-only riverfront resort in Kpong. I met more of his friends, among them, Chris and Ade, his business partners visiting from Nigeria. It was obvious that he had spoken to them about me before because there was no look of surprise on their face as they shook my hand and asked how I was. They were very friendly, especially Ade, who joked that I was too beautiful for Eli and asked why Eli hadn’t told them he was married to Miss Ghana. After questions about how I was and how I was enjoying the resort, they sent me off to join the wives who were relaxing by the river, their bodies coated in mosquito repellent spray, their eyes curious. Chris’s wife was Emefa, and Ade’s was Vimbai. Both women had that monied look that I was becoming used to: silky hair, perfectly arched brows, skin without a single blemish, French manicures, an assortment of gold jewelry and authentic beads—not that fake stuff from China—large leather totes with designer logos embossed onto them, sunglasses with gold letterings on the sides, and dresses that would most likely reveal designer logos when turned inside out. They both spoke with a polished accent that is easily mistaken for a proper English accent by those who, like me, had never been to England. Like their husbands, they were friendly, but they did not hide their curiosity. They wanted to know everything about my life with Eli and I told them as little as I could without seeming unfriendly.
“How are you enjoying married life?” Vimbai asked. We were relaxing on three chaise lounges, with me in the middle one.
“It’s fine, I’m enjoying it.”
“That’s good. Do you get to see a lot of Elikem? He’s so very busy, isn’t he? With his finger in so many pies,” Emefa said.
His Only Wife Page 12
