Ghana Must Go

by Taiye Selasi

  “It’s disgusting what you’ve done!” In a single dramatic gesture Niké shook out the bedsheet, a white fitted sheet with a small reddish stain. Taiwo and Kehinde both stared in confusion. Niké continued, shouting, “I know what you’ve done! The houseboys have told me that you sleep in one bedroom, and now we can see what you do in there, ehn?” She pointed at Kehinde, eyes slit. “She’s your sister. Your very own twin. You are a sinner, my friend.”

  Kehinde sat blinking with shock. “I-I-I’m sorry?”

  A question, not an apology, but Niké raged on, “It’s a sin what you’ve done, ehn? ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t good enough! You tell me what happened. You tell me right now.”

  “We don’t understand, Auntie,” said Taiwo very calmly, though it was beginning now to dawn on her, what had happened with this sheet: not a week ago she’d woken up bleeding, just a little bit; her first period, she knew, from sex ed class last year. She’d informed the youngest houseboy, Babatunde, the nicest, who’d returned hours later with tampons and pads, a huge bag, unceremoniously. Had thus “become a woman.” That was the phrase that their teacher had used. Becoming a woman. Taiwo didn’t feel womanly. She felt irritable and uncomfortable (perhaps how womanhood felt?). Now here was Niké with this sheet with this bloodstain, which Taiwo hadn’t noticed at the time, fair enough. Easy to explain that she’d gotten her period. Harder to explain why they slept in one bed. Heretofore it hadn’t seemed odd, much less “disgusting,” but now as she started to speak, she had doubts.

  Two memories returned, the one faint in its details, a bit like a dream recollected at dusk: of some morning, one of many she had woken beside Kehinde, a month ago, longer, maybe months, she didn’t know. All she remembered was waking from dreaming, very early, before sunrise, eyes blurred, still half-sleeping, and feeling something firm against the back of one thigh as she rolled from her back to her side, away from Kehinde. Eyes closed, barely conscious, she thought it’s his foot and reached down, mumbling, “Move, man,” to push it away. The feel of the erection in her palm was so foreign—so hard and so warm, yet so fleshy, so soft—that she didn’t for a moment fully process what she was holding. Her brother stirred, snoring. Alarmed, she let go. She lay there beside him, eyes open, heart pounding, afraid for some reason, of what she didn’t know. Maybe she thought she was dreaming, had dreamed it? She fell back asleep. Only remembered it now.

  And the other, not a memory. A habit. “Disgusting.” The thing she started doing when they got out of school, when they started spending days in the apartment, lazy hours, floating idly in the swimming pool or watching cartoons. The one day she’d come from the pool to the bedroom to shower and change, leaving Kehinde afloat. She’d pulled off her bathing suit and was looking for a towel when she found the one book she had brought here from home. A massive encyclopedia of gods and mythology, a gift from their father the Christmas before. She’d become obsessed with the Muses that winter in Classics; he’d inserted a leather bookmark at the chapter on Calliope. Some conspiratorial houseboy had placed the large volume in the last dresser drawer where they hid stolen snacks. There with the three-packs of biscuits and towels was the book she’d assumed to be stolen or lost. Delighted to find it, she’d flopped down at once on the bed that she shared with her brother to read. And was lying there naked with her stomach on a pillow when she flipped to an illustration of “The Rape of Persephone,” a pink-fleshy picture of plump-breasted girls in a meadow of flowers with the accompanying text:

  Persephone was gathering flowers in a meadow with her companions Artemis and Athena. There she was attracted to an exceptionally beautiful narcissus with one hundred blossoms. When she reached out to pick it, the ground split open and from deep within the earth, Hades came forth in a golden chariot pulled by black horses. He raped Persephone and took her to the underworld. She screamed for help from her father Zeus but he gave her no help.

  Demeter also heard Persephone’s cries and rushed to find her. Carrying burning torches, she searched for nine days and nine nights over land and sea for her abducted daughter. She never stopped to eat, sleep or bathe in her frantic search. On the tenth day Helios, God of the Sun, told Demeter that Hades had kidnapped Persephone. Furthermore, he said that the abduction and rape of Persephone had been sanctioned by Zeus.

  Standard fare. What came as a surprise was what she felt as she read, staring repeatedly at the image of Hades’s hand on the breast: a tingling pressure between her legs where the sheet was bunched up, which grew stronger and sharper until she peed on herself. She leapt up, alarmed and embarrassed, shut the book. She stared at the sheets, first ashamed, then confused. There was no spreading wet spot from where she had urinated. She patted her thighs, also dry. She hadn’t peed. Squinting at the sheet, she saw the little damp spot and the liquid, almost slimy, like a drop of egg white. This is what had come from her body, not urine. She wiped it away with the towel, and showered.

  But began to do this daily, after swimming, before showering: ritually peeling off her suit, then to bed with the book, always the one-page description of the Rape of Persephone, with the sheets in a ball between her legs as before, always squeezing her thighs, always listening for Kehinde, always losing her breath when the egg white slipped out. And now wondering—mashing Weetabix, Niké repeating, “It’s disgusting!”—why it pleasured her to do this, did she want him to walk in? She knew she wouldn’t hear him if he slipped up to their doorway in the pointy-toed ninja red leather babouches. He was Kehinde. He could do that. Appear without warning. And still she would lie there, nude, wet, while he swam.

  She put down her spoon, feeling heat in her fingers. Kehinde turned to look at her, chewing his lip. Whatever she was sensing was apparent in his expression. Niké chortled, “Look at him!” Suspicions confirmed. “There are other stains, too,” she sneered, holding up the sheet again. “You think I don’t know what these white splotches are?”

  Kehinde was staring at Taiwo. “What is it?” It was a question for his twin, who was looking away.

  Assuming he was mocking her, Niké dropped the sheet and slapped Kehinde so hard that he fell from his chair. Before she could stop herself, Taiwo leapt up and pushed the woman, just once, screaming, “Leave him alone!” But Niké lost her balance, reeling backward in her slippers, fluffy, pom-pom–bearing slippers, landing splayed on her back. The dressing gown, parting, exposed her fat thighs to the houseboy who, entering, dropped his glass tray. Taiwo grabbed Kehinde and pulled him toward her, suddenly aware of their vulnerability, their defenselessness here. Something had broken. The casing around them. The distance between fourth floor and second had closed.

  How Niké started screaming:

  bloody murder. A madwoman. How she dragged them to the elevator and up to the lounge where they’d come on arrival, last seen in late August, that mishmash of marble and zebra and velour. Their uncle was reclining in his underwear and a bathrobe, Babatunde the little houseboy cutting a line on the table. Uncle Femi stroked the back of his neck as he worked, almost idly, as one strokes a pet at one’s side. Two older boys, teens, were standing guard at the doorway, in white sailor uniforms, like costumes from a play. But with guns. Slender rifles, which they clutched to their chests, neither moving nor speaking as Niké stormed in.

  “Well, good morning,” Uncle Femi said softly, always softly.

  His wife pushed the twins toward the chaise where he lay. Babatunde looked up, very briefly, then down, back to work, knowing better than to make his presence known. Taiwo and Kehinde looked blankly at their uncle, their aunt at their backs, seething, “Tell him yourselves.”

  “Tell me what?” Uncle Femi asked, smiling, genuinely interested. He considered the twins as if he saw them every day, as if just yesterday they’d been chatting about the weather in Lagos, as if he hadn’t been missing for almost a year. Babatunde, finished, moved away from the table. Uncle Femi leaned forward and snorted the line. “E se,” he said to Ba
batunde, sniffing, smiling. The boy nodded, bowed, and rushed out of the room.

  “Your uncle asked a question. They think that we’re stupid. And this one. She thinks she can strike me. Odé.” Niké pushed Taiwo, not gently, between the shoulders. Taiwo stumbled forward, caught her balance, straightened up.

  “Don’t touch her,” Uncle Femi said. “The boy doesn’t like it.” Now he lit a cigarette. “Isn’t that what you said?” He gestured to Kehinde, brows raised, smiling brightly. “Isn’t that what you told me? ‘Don’t touch her’? Am I wrong?”

  “No, sir,” said Kehinde.

  “I’m sorry? I didn’t hear you.”

  “No, Uncle,” repeated Kehinde, a tremor in his voice.

  “Very well then. What happened?” Uncle Femi looked at Niké, then back at the twins in their nightclothes and socks.

  Niké cleared her throat as if preparing to orate, but answered, very briefly, “They were caught having sex. The houseboys discovered her blood on the sheet, and the stains from his . . . climax. I can show you the sheet.”

  “You’re lying!” cried Taiwo, on instinct. “We didn’t!” This time the blow made her fall to the ground. Niké, from behind her, halfway shoving, halfway slapping her.

  “Are you calling me a liar?!” Niké shouted. “I have proof!”

  Taiwo remained kneeling on the floor where she’d fallen, her ear burning sharply, too stunned to stand up. More shocking than painful, the way Niké struck her suggested more violence might follow, and soon. Their parents never hit them, never shouted, never threatened; all their punishment was issued with calm, as in court. She found it insulting to be hit by a grown-up, and trembled with anger, hands balled into fists. Intuiting her intention, Kehinde knelt down beside her.

  “Don’t touch her,” Uncle Femi mocked, leaning down toward them. The voice remained soft but had darkened, or hardened, the sound of his laughter too steely, too sharp. A weapon.

  Eyes welling with fear and with anger, Taiwo turned to look up at their uncle’s blunt nose. She grabbed Kehinde’s T-shirt. “Come on,” she whispered nervously, pulling him up by the shirt as she rose to her feet. They stood pressed together, now facing their uncle, much closer to his body than they’d been until now. The smell of him—sweat and cologne and tobacco—was overpowering now, as was the heat from his gaze. Kehinde reached over and took Taiwo’s hand, without thinking, and squeezed, fingers shaking.

  “You see! You see how they stand so. You see how he holds her.” Niké sucked her teeth, a low, long-lasting tssssssssst.

  “Enough,” Uncle Femi said. “Thank you for informing me. You’re welcome to leave. I can take it from here.”

  Surprised and affronted, Niké turned and left them standing there, the guards nodding stiffly as she stormed out the door. Taiwo felt her heart sink as the double doors swung softly shut. Baffling as it was, she wished that Niké wouldn’t go. The woman was volatile and violent and dramatic, quite likely insane, but familiar by then. Their uncle was foreign and frightening, a stranger. Too calm, too controlled, and too cold.

  How it happened:

  “Omokehindegbegbon!” said Uncle Femi to Kehinde. “So only you can touch her, ehn? Another little princess.” He gestured with his cigarette to the portrait of their grandmother. “A precious little princess, ehn?” He stood up from the chaise. He came to where the twins were and stood just behind them. He cupped Taiwo’s chin in his hands, turned her head. He held her like this, so she was looking at the portrait. “Look at her. Precious Somayina,” he breathed. He stroked Taiwo’s hair. She could feel Kehinde stiffen, his hand in her hand still, could feel his breath stop. She stood without moving, without looking, her eyes closed, could smell Uncle Femi’s odd sweetness, his soap. “Open your eyes,” he said, touching her chin again, bending beside her, his lips near her ear. “Look at her. Look at her. Looks just like you, no? Like you. Precious princess, that no one can touch.” He took a step over so he was standing behind Kehinde. He touched Kehinde’s cheek as he’d stroked Taiwo’s hair. “Except you, little boy. Only you. You can touch her.” He squeezed both their shoulders. “Show your uncle what you do.”

  One of the teens at the door cleared his throat. Uncle Femi looked up. “Lock the door, please,” he said. The boys began leaving. “From the inside, you idiots. You two stay here.” They obeyed. “There we are.” Uncle Femi turned to Taiwo now. “My little Somayina.” He patted the chaise, smiling warmly. “Come here.”

  Taiwo took a step toward Kehinde. “Uncle, please. We didn’t do what she said we did.”

  “You’re lying.” Not loudly. He smiled again, patting the chaise. “Come lie here.” She squeezed Kehinde’s hand, shook her head, a small movement. He laughed, closed his eyes, and then bellowed, “LIE HERE!” The sound of a voice at this volume was so unexpected, so jarring, she dropped Kehinde’s hand. A bit like a robot, she went to the chaise and sat down. “There. That’s better. Now lie on your back.” He placed a cold hand on her neck, pushing backward. Surprised at the force, at the touch, she lay back.

  Kehinde stepped forward. “Please, Uncle. Don’t touch her,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “Don’t you worry. I won’t.” Uncle Femi stepped back, considering Taiwo on the chaise, with her arms at her side, body stiffened with fear. Still trembling from shock at his touch, and his shouting, she stared at him back, at the black, red-rimmed eyes. He looked like the drawing of Hades, the “rapist,” a word that she’d heard but never seen written down. Rape. Flesh and flowers, golden chariot, black horses, a girl carried off. “I’m not a pedophile,” he sneered.

  Pedophile, pedophile, pedophile, thought Taiwo, now starting to cry. For she’d gotten it wrong. A man who loved children? Who loved his own children? Wrong. Who had left them, had left her, like Zeus. And where was Demeter? On the hunt for her daughter? Torches blazing, frantic searching? With Sadie at home.

  The feel of defeat was a wave washing over. She felt herself slacken, her legs going loose. The tears ran out mutely from the side of her eyes to the floral upholstery beneath her neat braids. She felt her chest cave, giving in, under the nightdress, the Minnie Mouse nightdress she’d had since the man brought them proudly to Disney World, more excited than they were by this, the most American Family Tradition on earth. She felt her fists melt, fingers weaken, unclenching. She felt herself die to the hope of escape. If she tried to run now, the school-play soldiers would stop her. Her uncle would overpower her if she tried to resist. Whatever was happening would happen, she knew; there was no one to stop it. There was no one but them. She and her brother alone in his room with this uncle.

  A pedophile.

  “You touch her,” he said. He gestured from Kehinde, who was standing there dumbstruck, to Taiwo laid out on the chaise like a cake. “She’s too pretty for me.” He took a drag. “Ehn, now, touch her.” He clapped his hands, impatient. “Jo, jo, jo.” Hurry up.

  Pedophile, pedophile, pedophile, thought Taiwo.

  “I don’t . . . understand,” Kehinde said.

  “Touch the girl.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kehinde repeated, eyes filling.

  Uncle Femi sucked his teeth. “Then I’ll show you. You, come.” He gestured to the guards by the door, who hurried forward. “Just one of you.” The older one approached with his gun. “Put down the rifle,” he said. “It’ll scare her.” The young man set his weapon on the table. “Touch the girl.” Cigarette dangling, Uncle Femi moved the boy like a puppet into position at the end of the chaise, then made himself comfortable in the armchair across, as to watch a live show, his legs crossed, his eyes bright.

  “Sa?” asked the guard.

  “Touch the girl. Lift her nightdress. The boy here won’t do it. Unbuckle your belt.”

  The guard looked at Taiwo, then at Kehinde behind him. Taiwo squeezed her eyes shut, still crying without sound. With a glance at his employer, the
guard unzipped his trousers.

  “Stop,” Kehinde said. Barely audible. “Please stop.”

  “If you won’t do it, he will,” Uncle Femi said calmly. To the guard, “Use your fingers.”

  “I will,” Kehinde said.

  Uncle Femi started clapping. “I thought so,” he chuckled. He gestured to the guard, who returned to the door. With the rifle on the table. Like a coffee cup. Just sitting there. A token of the absurdity of the world in which they were. Kehinde stepped forward, looked down at his sister, his knees near her feet at the end of the chaise. Tears in her eyes, and his eyes, the same eyes. With the third pair, the portrait-eyes, watching from the wall. She looked at her brother and thought he was bluffing, perhaps that he’d hatched some sly plan for escape? She stared at him, desperately trying to read his expression. Saw nothing. His eyes had gone vacant and dark. He looked angry. She had never seen her brother looking angry. He wiped his eyes quickly with the back of one hand.

  “Touch her like you do in the bedroom downstairs.” Uncle Femi looked joyful. “Pretend I’m not here.” At Kehinde’s hesitation, he added, “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your mother what your auntie told me.”

  How it happened:

  how her uncle gave her brother instructions from his armchair, a director, the guards looking on. How her brother, not speaking, with his eyes saying nothing, removed her weekday panties, set them neatly on the floor. Put his finger inside her. The baffling sensation, less painful than uncomfortable. An opening, a tear. “Harder! Harder! Harder!” said Uncle Femi. “Faster! Faster!” With glee in his voice. Kehinde’s finger, with force.