by Adwoa Badoe
“This is too sweet for a man. I’ll save it for the children,” he said, wrapping the bar up again. He shook hands with the four of us, rearranged his cloth over his shoulders and left at a modest pace.
My grandfather had been a farmer, and my father had grown up helping him to grow cocoa. This would have been my life if my dad had not received a scholarship to study to become a secondary-school teacher.
I began to understand how privileged I was to be able to study at a tertiary institution, when I compared myself to those farmers who actually grew our cash crops. They worked the hardest to supply most of our country’s foreign exchange, yet they didn’t harvest those benefits of education, healthcare or even running water and electricity.
These were the things we talked about when our little group met in the evenings.
I loved the group, New Student Democrats. But I liked it better when Banahene and I escaped from the others to be a twosome. We would kiss until the whole world was nothing but a blur of sweet nerve endings — a fire in my belly.
For the first time, I truly recognized love. To think cocoa evacuation had made this possible!
‹•›
In three weeks, students scattered all over the rainforest areas of Ghana accomplished all that it took to bring Ghana’s cash crop to the ports. Dagadu announced on Wednesday that the following Friday would be the last day of our project at the Kwahu cocoa station.
The end was bittersweet. Sweet because we wanted to get back to school and bitter because we were leaving new friends behind. I had grown to love Sharon and Derek almost as much as my eighth-floor crew.
So, that Friday, four of us celebrated by going into Obo town to eat fufu and apɔnkye-kakra.
I could smell the chop bar from afar. I swallowed saliva in anticipation. There was no stronger flavor for soup than the meat of goats.
Afterwards we walked down to the town square, and the drum ensemble was playing Sikyi songs. There were six drummers in all, seated behind their drums playing with sticks or hands. There were two bell players as well.
The master drummer, who was dressed in a short smock, was standing with his drum on the slant. He beat the drum call with two crooks and sang in a bold tenor while the people echoed the song.
“Come on, let’s dance,” said Banahene. And he pulled me to the center of the clearing.
People cheered as they made way for us. They knew we were strangers. Banahene seemed to know what to do and so I followed his steps. Soon other dancers joined us.
After a while, Sharon and Derek left. A palm-wine seller arrived with the remains of the day’s pot of wine. I sipped from Banahene’s calabash. Then we walked back to the school, a little tipsy.
We made our way to our favorite place by the assembly hall. It was where Banahene had kissed me and told me he loved me.
Once more we were all alone and silence slipped between us. Banahene’s hand came up on my shoulders and settled on the side of my neck. The hand trembled where it lay, and I held my breath for another moment.
I looked up at him and he smiled.
“We’re leaving tomorrow, Charlotte. Will you be my girlfriend?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
Then he bent his head and kissed me.
The next morning we were bused back to Accra along lonely roads to await the opening of our universities.
‹•›
Monday came, and it was great to be back in comfortable surroundings, even though I missed Banahene. My father, mother and I watched the TV in our living room. At seven o’clock, the national anthem played while the national coat of arms was displayed on our television sets. Then our thirty-four-year-old mulatto revolutionary head of state appeared behind a desk, dressed in his army fatigues, ready to read his speech.
In spite of my mother’s reservations about the coup d’état, she found him handsome and rather liked his affected accent when he spoke English. These observations were met with scorn from my dad. I was only interested in what he had to say about the universities.
Soon enough, he congratulated the students, making it almost sound as if we had organized ourselves to go and rescue the cocoa export of the nation.
This time I didn’t join my dad when he scoffed at our self-imposed leader. Cocoa evacuation had been more meaningful than I’d anticipated. Immediately after, as if to score points with the students, Rawlings announced the reopening of our universities on Friday. This meant that we would have an entire weekend to settle in.
“Hurray,” I shouted, but my dad was unimpressed.
Poor Dad, our head of state irked him beyond what was reasonable. It was when I mentioned this that Dad confessed that he had taught him a long time ago at Achimota School. Dad said he had always been rebellious.
‹•›
Mama and I went to the market but there was only so much we could find. We bought a bag of gari, and some shrimp and dried pepper to make a bottle of shitor. In the past, our contacts at our local store helped us to buy a dozen tins of Ideal milk and a dozen tins of sardines. But in these days of revolution we were all too afraid to use our privileges. I ended up with only six tins of milk and four tins of sardines.
“Don’t worry, Charlotte. I’ll give you money to buy a crate of eggs. Eggs are good for protein,” said Mama.
“See why I wanted you to go to Legon? You could have taken eggs straight from home,” Dad complained.
“Go and see what the children of soldiers will have in their boxes. Nothing less than two dozen each of milk or sardines or even corned beef,” said Mama bitterly.
“You’re right. Revolutions simply turn our world on its head. Nothing much changes, except the few who benefit at the top,” said my dad. “The rest of us have to suffer. This is what it means to be middle class — stuck.”
Sometimes I felt sorry for Dad because he was so cynical. But I knew he had seen enough in the twenty-five years of our independence. It occurred to me that I might have been angry, too, if I was not deep in love.
12
On the eighth floor everyone had returned by Sunday night except for Sylvia. We heard that a couple of students had been sent abroad to school by their parents and would not be coming back. I wondered if Sylvia was one of them.
Banahene came to see me as soon as he arrived on campus. The days apart had made me miss him more than ever. My heart beat fast just at the thought of him. And whenever I actually saw him, my belly did complete somersaults. I was left breathless by the force of my feelings.
He brought newspapers for me to read. I copied his ways. I started my day listening to BBC’s Voice of Africa. In the afternoon we tuned the radio to GBC 2, where we heard Ghanaian highlife songs, the news on the hour, and political rhetoric.
One night, after Banahene had left, I changed into my nightdress and got ready for bed. Mary was still up reading on the lower bunk when I returned my toothbrush to its holder. My mouth was tingly and I felt refreshed as Diana Ross and Lionel Richie sang the duet, “Endless Love.” I placed one hand over my racing heart as I thought of Banahene’s goodnight kiss.
“I have something to tell you,” I said, sitting on Mary’s bed.
“I can keep a secret,” she replied.
“So long as you can tell Mr. Opoku, huh?” I joked.
“I don’t tell Willie everything,” she said defensively.
“Well, you can tell him this. Banahene is my boyfriend!”
“Charlotte, I knew that already. Anyone can tell by the way you have become so political — just like him. And you have this look in your eyes when he speaks, as if you’re just waiting to eat his words. Even Willie knows, but he’s sure Asare will come back and sweep you off your feet,” said Mary.
“It’s too late for that. I really love Banahene.”
“Then he owes me, big time,” said Mary with a laugh.
‹
•›
Our room was the womb of many conversations, perhaps because Mary was such a great cook. One afternoon she had me panting for her specialty — green plantain chips which she was frying on the balcony. I think the entire floor could smell it. I knew it was meant for Mr. Opoku, and so I was very glad when she decided to share the delicacy.
Banahene, Juaben and I were eating the chips with peanuts while the news blasted away on the radio. The news included a clip of Flight Lieutenant Rawlings’ speech.
We listened as his voice was drowned by the cheers of his fans as he tried to speak Twi.
Mary said, “Oh, Ghanaians! They don’t even care what is being said. They’re so impressed by an oburoni speaking Twi.”
“It’s his wishy-washy not-British-not-American accent that impresses people. All he has to do is keep them entertained with the usual divisive arguments — turning one group against the other,” I said.
“It’s really hard to understand the mystery of this man. It’s not just his accent, though. People are caught up in his personality. He has charisma,” said Juaben.
“Do you think J. J.’s fame rides on an artifact of imperialism — fair skin?” asked Banahene.
“With so much blood on his hands, I don’t know why people should care about his color, accent or charisma,” said Mary.
“Those things always matter,” said Banahene.
“It’s the truth that matters. It isn’t educated people who have run the country down. It is inept politicians and greedy leaders, and for the most part they have been soldiers,” said Mary.
“Don’t let the Ghanaian intelligentsia off so easily. They have looked out only for themselves. Nobody looks out for the poor. Don’t blame the poor now that they have power on their side. That’s what happens when a country allows education to open up a huge class gap between the haves and have-nots,” said Banahene.
I loved these discussions, especially when we could laugh about some things and enjoy Mary’s delicious offerings at the same time. I felt like I had grown so much in a short time. I knew what I liked and didn’t like in a government.
Mary served us her homemade pineapple-ginger drink. Juaben sipped hers like a lady, but I could barely set mine down between sips.
As for Banahene, he drained the juice down to the dregs and let out a soft burp.
“Excuse you,” I said, somewhat embarrassed.
“To air is human,” said Banahene.
“What?” I said.
“That’s what my semi-literate uncle says whenever he lets out a giant burp.”
“Uncle is full of malapropisms,” said Mary, as she refilled our glasses.
It was good to be back in school.
‹•›
Dr. Ampem did not surface during that first week of school, and someone said a new lecturer would start with us on Thursday.
Sylvia finally arrived on Sunday afternoon, but all we saw of her were the boxes she dropped off. I connected with her at the English lecture the next day. Afterwards, Juaben, Sylvia and I walked back to the hall together.
I asked Sylvia where she had been overnight. Her answer was nothing more than a giggle, and Juaben whispered, “Awoɔshia!”
We let the matter rest. Love was a private thing.
There was something different about Sylvia. It wasn’t her new clothes or hairstyle of woven cornrows. Her makeup was much louder, and when she spoke she waved her hands as though she was in charge of everyone.
It soon became clear to us that her sympathies now lay completely with the government.
“Doesn’t it feel good to do a selfless act for the benefit of everyone? We’re better people for it.”
“What selfless act?” I asked.
“The cocoa project. We have earned much foreign exchange for the country already. This government will make a real difference. Ghana will be saved,” said Sylvia.
“Saved?” I said.
And she merely shrugged her shoulders when I asked what she thought about the killing of the policewoman and the pastor in Kumasi.
Sylvia had changed.
“These people have held power before under a different name, and they murdered people. Some people I know lost their fathers to firing-squad bullets,” I said.
“Charlotte, you have to separate the former revolution from this one. Even then, it was the fervor of revolution that brought on the excesses, and there was very little Rawlings could do about it,” she said.
“Propaganda shit! He is the one who wrote the word accountability in blood. They held all our former leaders responsible for the financial losses that had occurred under their watch. They killed them. And now he wishes to pass the buck on to his soldiers?”
Sylvia avoided my eyes. “The thing is this. We have a chance now to help build up a fallen nation. We should try to let bygones be bygones.”
“A leopard never changes its spots, and Ghanaians will never forget the killings of the 1979 coup. Ghanaians may be silent now because they are afraid, but they can see the same abuses emerging even now,” I said.
“Sylvia, where did you go for the cocoa exercise?” asked Juaben, and I knew she was trying to reset the conversation.
“I was in Accra,” she said.
“Accra? Were you hiding there, or what?” I asked incredulously.
“No. I was attached to head office,” Sylvia replied.
“Where is head office?” I had never heard of a head office for the cocoa exercise.
“The National Service Secretariat,” said Sylvia.
“What did you do there?” I asked.
“A group of us coordinated the program. We also did evaluations,” said Sylvia.
“I don’t get it. So while the rest of us were sweating it out, you lived a cushy life in Accra?” I asked.
“It wasn’t cushy. We even traveled to parts of the Eastern Region to check on the work,” said Sylvia defensively.
“And how did you get selected?” I asked.
“Mensah told me they were looking for people to run the operations. He asked me if I was interested,” said Sylvia.
“I suppose Mensah also worked from headquarters. Maybe he was the boss,” I said sarcastically.
“What’s your problem?” Sylvia retorted angrily.
“You people disgust me. You go on and on about laboring with the common man. And at the very first instance of real work, you go and find cushy jobs doing nothing. You can tell Mensah I said that.”
“What about you, Charlotte? Aren’t you blindly following Banahene? You used to be Dr. Ampem’s protégé. What happened to you?” said Sylvia, and she stomped off angrily.
I took Juaben’s hand to prevent her from rushing after Sylvia.
“Don’t mind her. Banahene was right about their lies. Already newspapers have reported that students voted to go out and recover the cocoa. They are using our compliance as a show of support for the government. Worse still, they refer to the cocoa exercise as an example of their capacity to get things done. Aah!” I said.
“I don’t like this at all,” said Juaben. “I have relatives who used to be very close. Now they are at loggerheads because one family supports the new government, whereas the other family suffered at the hands of the former AFRC.”
“Disagreements are not a bad thing, you know. It’s better than being quiet and swallowing what you dislike. Sylvia is not my enemy, but I won’t pretend to agree with her just to be friends. My only regret is taking her to Dr. Ampem’s meetings. It is the reason she met Mensah, and why she has turned into one of them,” I said.
“Don’t blame yourself, Charlotte. Sylvia is not the only one who has changed. Love is a strange animal. You should know that.”
‹•›
The next couple of days were very hot. On Wednesday afternoon I walked back to the hall with Banahene aft
er lectures. We said goodbye in the lobby. All I wanted was my bed and a nap. I went upstairs, tied back the curtains and opened the louvers to let in as much air as possible. I wished I could have opened the door, but that would have been the end of privacy and a restful sleep. I had stripped down to a skimpy tube top and shorts while I blasted the table-top fan at full speed. I lay there on top of my covers with my eyes closed.
A shadow fell across my window. A moment later there was a tentative knock on my door. I slipped off my bed and opened the door.
At the door stood a man I had never met before. Simply dressed in a light brown political suit, he was slight with graying hair and a small moustache. I thought he was possibly lost.
“Good afternoon, miss. Are you Charlotte Adom?” he asked. I nodded in surprise.
“I am Samuel Duah, Asare’s cousin,” he said as he extended his hand and shook mine.
After my initial surprise, I remembered my manners and asked the man in.
Suddenly I was embarrassed to be in my tube top and shorts. It was too much skin in a tiny space with a stranger.
Mr. Duah sat down in our armchair. I offered him a drink of water, and then I sat by the desk. He opened his bag and pulled out a letter. He said that Asare had instructed him to deliver the letter to me personally.
“How is Asare?” I asked.
“He is well,” said Mr. Duah, and a little smile played at his lips.
I took the letter and opened it. Inside it was some money in pounds sterling. But there was also a note. I read it quickly, recognizing Asare’s fine cursive.
My darling Charlotte,
Life itself has turned upon its head and I am still trying to pick myself up. It isn’t safe for me to return to Ghana as most of my colleagues in the petroleum business have either been harassed or confined. It is very hard for me to manage my affairs from here, but I am making the most of it by way of trusted friends and family, such as Samuel. I wanted you to meet him. I wanted someone in my family to know about you and my intentions for you. I want you to have someone who can help you if ever you are in need. Samuel isn’t just my cousin. He also knows much about my business. You are in my mind and in my heart so don’t let me go. Don’t forget me. I would like you to visit me during the holidays, now that you have a passport. Samuel can help you make the necessary arrangements. Here’s a small sum of money to enjoy. Please accept it. And do write to me.
