Aluta

by Adwoa Badoe

  My dad had made similar comments over the years. Things had gone worse throughout the seventies with a severe lack of food and even famine. As a young teenager, I had been sent to queue for hours for bread, milk, flour and tins of sardines and corned beef. Fuel had been scarce, and Dad could spend an entire day queueing for a gallon of gas. There had been coup d’états, and the last one in 1979 which had brought Jerry Rawlings and the Armed Forces Revolutionary Council to power was particularly violent.

  Mensah continued his rant. “This government claims to be socialist yet it has lost all the former gains of the AFRC. They do not engage with the people.”

  This was my third meeting. I hadn’t said much thus far. I didn’t even think of myself as politically engaged, but I had a particular dislike for the AFRC.

  So I spoke up. I told them about Mr. Denu, my father’s schoolmate who had been abused by AFRC cadres at his workplace.

  “They beat him and threw him into a cell at Gondar Barracks because he dared to drive to an appointment when they had called for a clean-up campaign. He suffered a head injury from which he has never completely recovered. And for what?” I said.

  There was a moment of silence. I guess we were getting to know where each of us stood on Ghana’s political spectrum.

  Suddenly I saw it. The first divide in our politics was between the families who thought Dr. Nkrumah was a messiah and those who considered him a tyrant. Then there were those who prospered under military rule — mainly soldiers. Sometimes those belonging to the first two groups hated each other so much, they rejoiced at a military takeover.

  “We can’t throw the baby out with the bathwater, Charlotte. Those grassroots committees did more good than harm. Every revolution has some amount of collateral damage,” said Mensah.

  I didn’t like his dismissive attitude. Moreover, certain schoolmates in my secondary school had lost their fathers to revolutionary firing squads.

  “I heard stories of what those AFRC cadres did in the villages. Some used their positions to get their own back on people they’d had quarrels with — even robbing and murdering those seen to be more prosperous than them. If I ever enter politics it will be to protect our citizens from such abuse,” I said.

  “The elite always complain about the few sporadic errors of organized grassroots. They forget that poor people die because national resources never get to them,” said Mensah.

  I felt the heat in my face as he twirled his pen around and around, smug as a magistrate.

  “What you call grassroots politics is just clever people stirring up the working class only to hijack their power and manipulate them. Just bullies wielding cheap influence for filthy wealth. They don’t fool me,” I shot back.

  “Charlotte, there is a real need to actively involve the grassroots in nation building. They cannot be ignored in young democracies such as ours. Dr. Nkrumah did this by means of community animators in every village and town. And they did not oppress people while doing so,” said Dr. Ampem.

  “Dr. Nkrumah turned Ghana from a multi-party democracy to a one-party state. He passed laws that detained his political opponents without charge,” I said, sounding just like my dad.

  Dr. Ampen looked directly at me. “It was the bomb threats against Dr. Nkrumah’s life that led him to enforce a one-party state. It could have been a stopgap until he had gained control over the security problem. His achievements in technology and education in the few short years he governed Ghana are so remarkable. Nobody else has achieved that anywhere else in Africa.”

  I marveled that an astute man like Dr. Ampem was willing to make excuses for Dr. Nkrumah in spite of his abuse of democracy. But I was learning that Nkrumah had that effect on many people.

  On the way back to the hall, Sylvia said, “You are good at arguing, Charlotte.”

  “I didn’t know all these things were inside me. I guess I am my dad’s daughter after all,” I replied.

  7

  Africa Hall was particularly busy when I returned from the library the next evening. I picked my way through a crowd of people hanging around the porter’s lodge and made for the stairs. I promised myself that I would find a room on the fifth floor next year and spare my leg muscles the hundred plus steps it took to get to the top floor.

  Banahene was talking to Sylvia and Juaben on the eighth floor, and he followed me to my room. I threw my bag on the table and turned on the tape player, but “Get Down On It,” hardly seemed appropriate for an early-evening conversation.

  “I should get you some jazz,” said Banahene.

  He rummaged through the small tape collection we kept in a shoebox. He found another tape and inserted it, filling our space with the sound of instrumental music.

  It was so easy to be around Banahene. My mind returned to that one kiss that night at the party. Perhaps in some strange way, he had needed to get that out of the way to continue on with our friendship.

  I told Banahene about my meeting with Dr. Ampem’s group. I was giving a blow-by-blow account of the verbal sparring with Bangla Mensah when I heard the key turn in the lock. Mary was home.

  “Roomie, are you decent? Guess who’s here?” Mary called out cheerfully as she pushed the door open.

  Asare came in right after her, knocking my guesses right out of my mouth.

  “Whassup, baby?” Asare said.

  I winced. That accent continued to be the one thing that embarrassed me about him.

  Before I could respond, he saw Banahene. Asare’s lips tightened, killing his smile. I expected Banahene to crack one of his jokes to ease the awkwardness, but he didn’t. Instead he seemed to spread himself a little wider, as he placed his arms squarely on the wooden arms of the chair.

  I looked from one to the other. Asare stood upright and taut except for the car keys he twirled round and round on his index finger. I felt the heat climbing up my neck.

  Thankfully, Mary recovered quickly and made the introductions.

  “Asare, meet my cousin Banahene.”

  Asare’s eyes narrowed, but he greeted Banahene politely.

  Banahene neither stood up nor offered his hand when he replied. This made things even more awkward. I gave my chair to Asare and went and sat by Mary on the lower bunk. It felt crowded in the room.

  Asare declined a drink. Banahene accepted one, and Mary and I kept up the chatter like two skilled tennis players keeping a ball in play.

  Thankfully, ten minutes later, Asare said he was leaving. So I walked him down the stairs, leaving Banahene with Mary.

  Asare was a little shaken.

  “Charlotte, I just thought I’d surprise you, you know. So I jumped at the chance to drop Mary off for Opoku. Sorry if I disturbed you.”

  “You didn’t disturb me. Banahene is Mary’s cousin,” I replied.

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” I said emphatically.

  “That boy could have fooled me. He was acting like your boyfriend,” Asare insisted.

  “How?”

  “Just the way he sat there with some authority. Small-boy like him,” scoffed Asare.

  “It’s just his way,” I said.

  “Dwɛɛ!”

  I laughed. “Banahene is Ashanti, full of brash bravado, just like you.”

  Asare’s raised eyebrow meant he didn’t believe me one bit. We lingered at the lobby. Then he took my hand in his as we strolled out towards his car.

  “I actually wanted to take you out for a little while, because I kind of hijacked that last date,” he said. And the memory of that evening flooded me to my toes with warmth. My heart quickened.

  “We can do that another time. I haven’t even showered,” I said softly.

  “How about I come back in an hour?” he pressed, eyes fixed intently on me. Even his keys lay still in his hand.

  I realized that he wanted to prove something — that h
e could carry off the prize of the night. There was something I liked about that.

  “Okay, I’ll be ready in an hour. Don’t come up to get me. I’ll be waiting downstairs,” I said at last.

  A smile lit up his face. “Thanks for saving me from those stairs. And, baby, wear the dress I bought you,” he whispered.

  “Not tonight,” I replied.

  “Why do you have so much fire in you?”

  “Why do you want to douse it?”

  “Not at all, baby. I just want to share it. I like you just the way you are.”

  ‹•›

  No sooner did I get back to my room than Banahene stood up on his feet.

  “I’m off now, ladies,” he announced brightly.

  “I’m not walking down those stairs again,” I said.

  “Come off it, Charlotte. You never see me off beyond the verandah,” he said.

  Quietly, he let himself out of our room and the door clicked shut behind him. We listened as his footsteps faded away.

  “I’ve never seen Banahene like that. Is there something going on between you two?” Mary asked.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that we had kissed. It felt like a betrayal to share it. Then I had to hurry along because Asare was coming back to fetch me in an hour.

  “Girl, you should have let him climb back again to prove his love. You’ve got to let guys sweat in the chase, because after that it’s plain sailing for them all the way,” said Mary.

  But I knew she was pleased that Asare was coming back. Mary preferred established men.

  Thankfully, the shower was working and I was in and out in ten minutes. I was running out of clever combinations to wear.

  I thought about Asare’s gift. In the Harrods bag was a pretty dress and a bottle of perfume — Chanel No. 5. The dress was a crinkly, red and blue floral polyester — sleeveless and simple but sophisticated. I had tried it on once but it felt awkward to wear a dress that a man other than my dad had bought for me. I did not want to give him the impression that I was all his, just yet.

  So I wore my beloved Huggers jeans again, with a simple black shirt. I did my makeup carefully, applying lipgloss over a dark purple lipstick. A dab of Chanel was my only concession.

  “What do you think?” I asked Mary.

  “Beautiful,” she replied, and set my heart at ease.

  The challenge was to walk down all those stairs in high heels. I was so concentrated on placing my feet right that I didn’t notice the person coming down behind me.

  “Charlotte,” he said.

  I froze. It was Banahene, again.

  “Going out?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, holding tightly onto the banister.

  “I went to collect my textbook from Rosemary,” he said.

  “Have you got something going on with Rosemary?” I asked.

  “What?” he said.

  We continued in silence down three flights of stairs, my heels clicking uneasily against the concrete.

  “Have fun,” he said when we got to the lobby.

  “Thanks,” I replied. Then I sat on the stone bench beside the latticed wall of the lobby and watched as Banahene left the hall.

  Why did I feel so guilty?

  A few minutes later, I was washed in the glare of bright headlights. Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a BMW coming to a halt.

  There was Asare, right on time.

  ‹•›

  We went to City Hotel, and I ordered the club sandwich with fries. It was the easiest thing to do in my state of mind.

  “Make that two and a Star beer,” said Asare.

  “Muscatella for me,” I said.

  Asare was different — a little subdued, and I was feeling low from the evening’s confrontations.

  I looked around me. Same old weathered curtains and wobbly tables in the dining room, and a scratchy highlife record playing. Someone had shut off the air conditioner, and a standing fan stood in the corner blasting warm air.

  I had to try to make some conversation to save the date.

  “I’m in this discussion group, and we’re kind of political,” I said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  And so I told Asare about Dr. Ampem, Mensah and the others.

  “I know Ampem. Socialist,” snorted Asare. “He had some connections to the AFRC government, and I’m sure he’s still converting students to his beliefs. Be careful.”

  “You don’t like socialists?”

  “I’m a businessman. We do all this work raising capital against collateral. We design supply chain processes and implement them. We employ people and pay taxes. We want our profits.”

  I wanted to ask him more about his political views — what he thought about the poor and underserviced. But I didn’t want to stress the evening further.

  “Tell me more about your business. Do you own gas stations in Ghana?”

  “We don’t own gas stations. Primo Oil and Gas buys and sells petroleum products, natural gas and natural gas liquids. It’s a midstream industry so we deal with storage and transportation of petroleum products from product source to certain countries. The upstream industry finds and produces crude oil and natural gas, and the downstream industries are involved with distribution and retail.”

  “You’re a middleman,” I said. In Ghana middlemen were associated with kalabule, the illegal hiking of prices.

  “You look disappointed. People like me are responsible for sourcing and shipping gas to Ghana even before Shell, BP and GOIL make it available at the pumps. What we do is crucial. We deal with the government, mainly.”

  “Do you make a lot of money?” I asked.

  Asare laughed. “It depends on what you think a lot of money looks like. But I want to eat with you and not talk business,” he said.

  The waiter had appeared with our food and so we ate. Afterwards we returned to the car. Asare put the key in the switch and turned to me.

  “You should have worn the dress I bought you.”

  “Another time,” I said.

  “Charlotte. Don’t you like me?”

  “I do.”

  “But I love you.”

  He reached for me and pulled me close to him. He began to kiss me. It was a bit uncomfortable in a car with such low seats, but I kissed him back.

  “Be my girlfriend, darling. I promise you, it will be good.”

  “Just give me till the end of the term to decide, please. Everything is very new right now,” I said.

  “Till the end of the term, Charlotte. Choose me and you’ll never regret it,” he said, tracing a line across my lip with his index finger.

  ‹•›

  December brought mixed feelings. I was excited at the thought of the Christmas holidays, but one had to get through the end of term to get to the holidays. With pocket money gone and food stores depleted, our student allowance just wouldn’t stretch to cover the fortnight for which it was allocated. If Bangla Mensah had brought his motion to the SRC in December, it would have passed without a doubt.

  Exams were very close. I had less than two weeks to cram all the term’s work before exams. I had gone to all the parties and received the boys who came night after night to Dɔ-me-a-bra — where people go for love — the nickname for Africa Hall.

  Now my afternoons were all about the library, where I competed with others to find the right books to study. But my joy at finding a book would soon turn into despair, when I discovered chunks of chapters ripped out by selfish students.

  I stayed out late at the library and missed Asare’s goodbye visit before he left again for Europe. He had left a package for me at the porter’s lodge. Inside the large brown envelope were passport forms, an airline ticket from Kumasi to Accra, some money, as well as a note.

  My darling Charlotte, fill th
e passport forms today and let Willie have them. I have a trip planned for us in the New Year. Since I won’t be there to take you home when school ends, take the flight from Kumasi airport. The hassle with STC buses is dreadful at this time of the year. I should be back on the 3rd of January. Too bad I’m going to miss celebrating the holidays with you. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms.

  It ended: I love you, Charlotte. Remember that. Asare.

  I was overwhelmed. What I felt for him could only be love, and the money was the cure-all for my end-of-term blues.

  I was ready to become Asare’s girlfriend. He so easily made me feel good. I wondered if people might think I was with him because he was rich. But when it was all said and done, Asare was a really nice guy. And we got on fabulously.

  ‹•›

  Exam week. Mr. Opoku gave Mary a break from his visits and Banahene stayed away, engrossed in his own work. The porters smiled more, happy that we were connecting with our purpose and not flaunting the high life in their faces.

  “Good luck,” Mr. Afriyie would say to me each time I left the hall with the stress of exams etched in my eyes. In the meantime, general food shortages strengthened our friendships and interdependence on the eighth floor. In Room 803, between Mr. Opoku and Asare, we were very well supplied. I followed Mary’s example of generosity and shared what we had with everyone.

  The days passed and I finished paper after paper. Sometimes I was elated, other times deflated. I was always short of sleep. My political science papers were okay. One English paper was very difficult.

  I could imagine my dad saying, “What? A weak mark in English. Didn’t you go to Achimota School?”

  I discussed the English paper with Sylvia, and felt worse than before.

  Mary said, “Never discuss a paper that’s behind you.”

  Then slowly, as the term drew to an end, I felt the pressure lift off. Christmas was near.

  8

  School closed for the Christmas holidays, and Sylvia and Juaben caught the STC bus in town for Accra. They had to leave campus before 4 a.m. to get a good spot in the queue.