by Adwoa Badoe
Mary’s trip home was the easiest. She packed her bags and drove to Nhyiaeso with Mr. Opoku. Mr. Opoku returned for me that afternoon and dropped me off at the airport.
I was excited about flying for the first time. I even considered wearing the dress Asare gave me, but in the end I wore my trusted jeans because I didn’t want my mother asking questions.
I felt the shaking as the engines came alive. Then the plane rushed down the runway and lifted us off the ground. My eyes followed the clutter of buildings which became smaller and more distant until they gave way to the green of the forest and the little villages that huddled in them. We climbed until we overtook the clouds.
“Expect turbulence,” the pilot warned five minutes into the flight. And I held on to my belly when it somersaulted between my chest and my knees.
Thirty minutes later, we were touching down in Accra to the sound of rushing wind.
“Thank you, Asare,” I whispered.
‹•›
We sat around the old dining table which Sarah had laid for dinner. Mama’s checkered square cloth had been spread diagonally on the table leaving some of the wood exposed. It was her way of making do with a small tablecloth.
To welcome me home, Mama had cooked Jollof rice, and she heaped my bowl to the brim.
“Tell me about university,” said Dad between mouthfuls of spicy orange rice.
I told him about my lectures and lecturers. I told him about my exams and a little bit about my girlfriends. But I didn’t say anything about the guys. And I was not going to tell my parents about flying home on Asare’s ticket. That would have been disastrous.
“Your hair, Charlotte. You look pretty,” said Mama, brushing my hair with her hand.
Dad said nothing, and Sarah winked at me.
All I wanted was for my parents to acknowledge that I was old enough to have some privileges — the kind that gave me access to some night life in Accra.
Later on, Sarah and I lay side by side on the bed we’d shared for years. We talked deep into the night. She wanted to hear about varsity — my friends, the parties and the ponding. I swore her to secrecy and told her about flying home in an airplane.
That made her eyes pop.
‹•›
Christmas Day came five days later. In Accra, it was mainly about festive feasting. Mama fetched our tired artificial tree and dressed it up with tinsel. I got a pair of navy blue pumps and a ready-made dress for presents, and nobody pretended it was from Father Christmas. I wore the dress to Mass. We lit candles and sang the old carols.
Afterwards we came home, received guests and ate. We visited uncles, aunties and good friends, and we ate the same things in each house — Huntley and Palmers Gem Biscuits, bottles of Fanta and Coca-Cola, Mama’s chicken light soup with fufu, Jollof rice with beef, and custard and cake.
The rest of the week was a blur of visits, visitors, good will and peace on earth.
I had a plan for the 31st of December. Sylvia, Juaben and I had invitations to two parties — one at the Airport Residential Area, and the other at Ringway Estates, Osu.
The only hurdle that stood between me and a good time was my dad.
‹•›
Dad was writing at his desk. I couldn’t think of any other way to do it so I went up to him, one adult to another, and just told him my plan.
He looked at me over his reading glasses, and the lines on his forehead were deeper than ever.
“New Year’s Eve should be given to contemplation and prayers for the coming year. It isn’t a good night to be out. There will be many drunk drivers on the road, tempting fate,” he said.
He returned to the notepad he’d been writing on, and I heard him mumble something under his breath.
“Dad, I’m a big girl. I am not going driving with drunken people.”
“Charlotte, I am saying no! Don’t you have any respect for me?”
I realized he was working himself up to an explosive blow-out that would take days to settle.
Finally, I said, “What’s the point, Dad? You don’t live with me on my campus in Kumasi. Even if we stick to your rules when I’m home, what can you do about me when I’m in Kumasi?”
My boldness stunned him into momentary silence. Then he found his voice again.
“I should hope you appreciate the good morals taught you in this house, Charlotte Adom.”
“Yes, Dad, that’s about it. You can only hope,” I replied softly.
Something made Dad swallow his next words. I watched as his tense shoulders went slack and frown lines faded from his face.
Right then, I knew I had won my right to go out on New Year’s Eve.
‹•›
What I did not expect was sickness. After lunch nausea crept over me like a shadow and rested in my chest. I felt a whisper of pain in my belly. The pain increased in waves until sweat bathed me from head to toe.
I couldn’t tell Dad or Mama. That would have been the end of my plans.
I was crouched on the bed when Sarah found me.
“Are you sick?” she asked.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I whispered.
“Is it your period?”
“Tummy ache — maybe indigestion.”
“If you can throw up, you’ll be fine,” said Sarah.
I was willing to try anything, so Sarah got two eggs from the fridge and whipped them up with a full tin of Ideal milk.
“This will make you vomit,” she said, thrusting a cup into my hand.
I pinched my nostrils and swallowed. I gagged as it forced its way down my throat.
“Let’s go to the bathroom. Then you can stick a finger down your throat,” said Sarah authoritatively.
“But they’ll hear me,” I whined.
“Don’t worry. I’ll shut the door and put the radio on loud.”
We took the radio to the bathroom and turned it on. I bent over the toilet and stuck my forefinger down far enough. I retched but nothing came up.
I was about to try again, when the music on GBC 2 stopped abruptly.
“This is Flight Lieutenant Jerry John Rawlings. Fellow citizens of Ghana, as you would have noticed we are not playing the national anthem. In other words this is not a coup. I ask for nothing less than a revolution, something that would transform the social and economic order of this country. There is no justice in this society and so long as there is no justice, I would dare say let there be no peace.”
I retched, then, and vomited.
Just like that, the PNP government of Dr. Limann was overthrown. There would be no parties that night in the beloved country.
‹•›
At eighteen years old, I had already experienced four coup d’états in my lifetime. I was too young to remember anything about February 24, 1966, when Dr. Nkrumah’s government was ousted, but I could still remember January 13, 1972, when Colonel Acheampong booted Dr. Busia’s Progress Party from power. My memory was clear only because my parents had never ceased to bemoan the sudden turn of events, for they’d had such hope in Dr. Busia. At that time my mother’s cousin — the most influential person in her family — lost his job as a director of the Cocoa Marketing Company of Ghana. He never recovered, and an early stroke sent him heaven bound. At ten and a half years old, I understood that a coup d’état was a sudden swift change that cast people at the top of the social ladder headlong to the bottom, establishing a new order.
But it was June 4, 1979, that I remembered most clearly — the first time Rawlings came to power. Our former national leaders, all military men, were tried in quickly convened military courts and executed by firing squad. General Acheampong and General Utuka were the first to be executed, and then the others followed. I was schoolmates with the children of a number of those who were killed in those days of terror. Consequently, I developed a distaste for military ta
keovers.
So now I wondered what would happen in these new days of revolution. My parents’ jobs as teachers were unlikely to get them any attention. It was mainly the important people in high positions and wealthy businessmen who attracted persecution.
But my dad was worried.
“Anyone can become a target with these bloodthirsty soldiers. Two years ago anything could bring on a beating or a shooting. You just needed to cross one of them on a bad day. Say somebody did not like the price of a shirt, a piece of fabric, or a bowl of koko. That could turn very ugly in moments.”
Mama said, “All it took was for a complaint to be made to a soldier — and there were often several walking about town. He would arrive, cock his gun at the offender and perhaps shoot it. The best outcome would be a beating with the butt of the gun. This was happening in the small towns and villages as well as the cities. But the press hardly reported anything from the villages.”
So there was no joy or peace, even when we wished each other a Happy New Year.
Days passed. Dad was torn between keeping me at home and sending me back to school. He was never out of earshot of his radio, whether he was out in the yard tending chickens or sitting at the table eating lunch. I could hear the murmurings of the radio, intermittently eclipsed by high-pitched static. And I could hear him muttering beneath his breath, “Dɛn asɛm ni — what trouble! How did we sleep, unconcerned, until the return of this wretched man?”
The wretched man was Jerry Rawlings. But this time around, his government was called the Provisional National Defence Council.
Each day, people made their way cautiously to work and back. They formed polite queues at the taxi stations. There was no cheating and no hustling. Easily given apologies were the order of the day if one was accused of any transgression. It was as if eyes were watching. This is what my mother said as she returned daily from the primary school where she taught.
A week passed. It appeared that the times were not as dangerous as two years previously, when Rawlings’ AFRC had come into power. Perhaps the army was showing more restraint this time.
I kept my ears peeled for news of our university’s reopening. I talked to some friends who lived nearby and who attended the University of Ghana at Legon. There were no announcements about closing colleges.
So on the 10th of January, as soon as the 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. curfew lifted, Dad drove me to the STC station to catch a bus to Kumasi.
Dad was a cautious driver on an ordinary day. Now I feared that we might be stopped for crawling like a caterpillar on the road.
There wasn’t much traffic that early in the morning. Here and there, soldiers in their olive green uniforms and police in their black uniforms stood in small groups, just watching.
There were no street hawkers at the lights; not even beggars hustling. We had passed by only two mad men in tattered clothing with dirty matted hair. Perhaps mad men were the only ones who feared nothing in the new revolution.
Dad let out a sigh of relief as we turned into the station. It was sad to see him so afraid.
He parked his Peugeot 404 at the dusty carpark which was ravaged by potholes. He helped me to the ticket booths with my luggage. He carried my suitcase while I carried my sports bag. It was the first time I was going away to school without a box of tinned foods — milk, sardines or corned beef — nonperishable food that students depended on for those long months away from home.
“A sign of the times,” my mother had said.
But Dad gave me some money, and it was reassuring to bump into some Tech students at the station.
Dad was reluctant to leave me there.
“I’ll be okay, Dad. Mama will be wondering where you are.”
He knew I was right. I watched him as he headed for the carpark. I saw him hovering around his car and waved him away.
“Just go, Dad. The ticket booth is open and we’ll leave soon,” I said.
As if on cue, two green-and-white buses entered the loading bay, and I rushed with the others to join the queue at the booth.
A commotion started near the front of the line. A man was called out by some soldiers for trying to jump the queue. It was hard to watch as he received ear-stopping slaps. Thankfully they let him go, and he rejoined the queue at the tail end. Nobody said anything. These were days of revolution.
I was so glad Dad had left already. He might have changed his mind and returned me home after that violent incident.
I saw Sylvia up ahead in the queue. If we could get tickets for the same bus perhaps we’d be able to sit together.
Finally at 8 a.m. we boarded the bus. We sat comfortably, one person to a seat — not crammed in like sardines as we used to travel before the revolution.
Just on the outskirts of Accra a barrier had been mounted by armed soldiers. One of the soldiers flagged our coach down and demanded to search the hold.
For a while it seemed as if we would all have to dismount and open our bags for a search. But our driver went to see the commander in the booth. He paid a bribe and soon we were on our way.
Our driver told us they were looking for suspicious citizens who were fleeing the country. One did not have to be corrupt to flee. The kangaroo courts of 1979 were still fresh in our memories for sending members of the old government to their deaths.
I remembered how my dad had grieved over the mistreatment of his hometown’s best-known entrepreneur, Mr. Siaw of Tata Brewery, who lost all his business assets to state confiscation. Then there was Mr. B. A. Mensah who had suffered several arrests leading to the seizure of his tobacco company.
Our driver had to stop at every barrier on the road. Passengers grumbled among themselves as the journey dragged on. Sylvia was on the bus, but sitting up ahead. So in keeping with my dad’s advice, I didn’t engage in any conversations with strangers. I just closed my eyes and allowed my mind to wander. Was Asare back yet? Mary would know. I couldn’t wait to see my friends in Africa Hall.
At the truck stop at Nkawkaw, Sylvia and I shared hot fried yam and pepper sauce, and a bottle of Fanta. She told me that the 31st night party-makers had fled the country.
“Imagine if we had been out jamming when the coup occurred,” she said. “The army may have rounded us all up.”
We found a table in the gloomy cafeteria. Next to us, a group of men were talking over a shared bowl of banku and okro stew.
“J. J. must be a lucky fellow. I swear — the man must have some strong juju!”
“Strong-o! How many people go from facing death to two-time head of state,” said the other man, after gulping down some beer.
An older man passing between our tables paused long enough to add a thought. “Certainly, he is luckier than all the previous heads of state. Three of them lie dead by the firing squads of his AFRC.”
9
Kumasi was quieter than Accra. I was happy to see Mary, and couldn’t wait to trade stories. She told me Asare was still overseas.
Calls by bush telephone were incessant as Africa Hall filled over the weekend. We were checking on one another as though one among us might be missing. Juaben’s bus had been delayed for a full hour at the Accra barrier, and soldiers had arrested a man on their wanted list.
Out there, life was crazy. But the university was our world, and we began to settle down once our lectures started.
On Mr. Opoku’s first visit to see Mary, he brought me a package in a brown envelope.
It was my brand new passport. It had been given to him by Asare’s contact just before Christmas. I opened the passport and rifled through the pages. I wished the picture were more complimentary, but it was still me and my details were correct.
Just like that, I owned a passport, and it was now possible for Asare to take me overseas. My heart skipped a beat. Dad would never allow that — not unless I sneaked out of the country while I was supposed to be in school.
> I thought about it, and suddenly I knew I could do it.
“Thank you, Mr. Opoku,” I said.
“Asare is a man of good intentions,” he said.
“Yes, but when is he coming back?”
“Aha, you miss him. Tell the truth now,” said Mr. Opoku, beaming. “He’s going to wait in the UK for things to settle down here. Give him a month. His business is the kind that always comes under much scrutiny. He’s lucky the coup happened while he was away. There are people who would wish him harm.”
“What about you? Are you safe?” I asked Mr. Opoku.
“As safe as the next person,” he replied.
I was curious about Asare’s enemies, but Mr. Opoku wouldn’t say much. I could not get any information beyond what I already knew. Asare basically shipped petroleum to Ghana. He had talked about corrupt government officials. He had hinted that petroleum could be dangerous business.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said Mary, watching Mr. Opoku. A sudden faraway look had entered his eyes.
“It’s wise to say very little right now. Kumasi is a very unhealthy town,” said Mr. Opoku softly.
“What do you mean? I thought it was quieter here than Accra,” I said.
“Many businesses are on lockdown until the mood of the revolution calms down. Ordinary people are reporting on their neighbors out of sheer jealousy. Soldiers have their eyes on people’s properties. If you have a little more than your neighbor you’re in trouble. I have parked my Mercedes-Benz and am using my mother’s Golf. Hmm, Kumasi!” said Mr. Opoku.
I remembered the flight I had taken home for the Christmas holidays. It had taken only thirty-five minutes from Kumasi to Accra. My recent trip by road was seven hours long. Nobody would dare use the airports now for internal flights. It had become a curse to appear prosperous in Ghana.
“We’ve got to be careful, even on campus. You know the saying. Walls have ears,” said Mary.
“Campus is still safer than town,” I insisted.
“But nobody knows for how long. Please, just don’t join any alutas,” said Mr. Opoku. University students in Ghana were known for demonstrations whenever they felt they had a cause.
