by Adwoa Badoe
Love always,
Asare.
I finished reading the note, folded it carefully and returned it to the envelope. I knew I’d read it again.
“Mr. Samuel Duah, thank you for bringing me this letter. Asare sent me some money but I am afraid I can’t accept it. I would like to give that back to you, please.”
“Oh, no, sister. Don’t do that. The money is nothing, just Asare’s gift to a friend. I can’t accept it, either, so please don’t embarrass me by returning it. I won’t know what to say to Asare. And he did not inform me about money.”
I realized I had embarrassed us both and apologized. I asked Samuel if he knew Mr. William Opoku.
“I know Willie very well,” he said. “You can send a message to me through him, if you need anything. My wife and I live in Oforikrom. You can come for lunch at our home anytime.”
I wasn’t interested in starting up with Asare again, but I wanted things to go well for him. Why was he shrouded in so much mystery? But Samuel Duah was guarded.
“This government is giving us some problems but time will tell,” he said. “We have seen such things before. It may blow over before long. However, if you wish to write a reply to Asare, I can post it for you. I shall be happy to do that.”
13
I knew about field hockey from secondary school. In the first year we had studied game rules from a book. For the next four years, we practiced the skills of hitting, dribbling and pushing during gym period. I had even played for a term on my junior house team.
And so I agreed to try out for the women’s team Banahene was coaching.
I hadn’t run since June when my A-Level exams were done, and I was out of shape. My heart was pounding in my ears as I practiced passing on the run. My T-shirt clung to my back and I felt giddy from the heat.
After the practice, we stopped at Republic Hall for a 7 Up — Banahene’s treat.
The man at the till knew Banahene. “Dr. Ampem has been made the new minister for education. It was announced this afternoon,” he said.
“We have friends in high places,” said Banahene, winking at me.
“I wonder what he’s going to do. Maybe he will abolish private elementary schools or extend free education to cover every child in every region, not just the Northern and Upper Regions. That would be something,” I said.
I had dropped out of Ampem’s group since our return from the cocoa exercise, but I still remembered the debates we’d had on education.
“Do you think he’s still in touch with Mensah and the others?” I asked.
Banahene shrugged. “Ask Sylvia.”
But Sylvia no longer talked to me about their meetings. In fact, she hardly spoke to me at all and never came to my room.
“Sharon wrote to me,” I said, fishing for the letter in my bag. “Derek is standing for the position of hall representative. She wants to know if any of us would contest for the NUGS leadership.”
“Not the NUGS. This is the first time we are seeking office,” said Banahene.
“SRC, then?” I asked.
“I think so,” said Banahene. “It should be easier for us to represent students in our own university rather than students all over the nation.”
“It still won’t be easy,” I said. “Apparently campus socialists are very tight with the government. There are rumors about trips to Accra to consult with members of the government.”
“No smoke without fire, Charlotte. I can easily imagine Mensah and Sylvia calling on Dr. Ampem at the ministry of education. I bet you can, too.”
He put his glass to his lips and didn’t stop until he had swallowed the last fizzy drop of soda.
‹•›
Mr. Opoku brought Mary and me fried rice and chicken from Score Board, a restaurant at the stadium. It was only after we had finished it all off that he talked about Asare.
“I have his address if you want to write to him,” he said.
I had been procrastinating — unwilling to tell Asare to forget about me as I was in a relationship with Banahene. Asare had suffered many losses and I didn’t want to add to them, especially as he had been so generous to me.
Later that night, I forced myself to write. It was hard to find the words.
Dear Asare,
I have been quite concerned for you. Therefore I was very glad when you sent me a note through Mr. Samuel Duah. I would like to thank you for the passport as well as the air ticket you gave me for my trip to Accra for the Christmas break. You are very generous. I hope things will calm down soon, so you can come home peacefully. I’m not sure what the challenges are but I hope you can overcome them. We’re all looking for a better Ghana.
I also wanted to let you know that I have a boyfriend now. I am sorry things didn’t work out for us. However, I would like us to remain friends. And if there is something I can do for you, please don’t hesitate to ask.
Take care,
Charlotte
P.S. Thank you for the money.
I folded the letter into an envelope. I would post it the next day at the university plaza. I knew there would be no free tickets to England or anywhere else. But it didn’t matter. My heart only wanted Banahene.
‹•›
Banahene’s friend was standing for NUGS president. To gain experience, Banahene and I volunteered to help him. I also roped in Jordan. We pinned posters on notice boards that said, Get involved! It is your life.
As the weeks went by, I became bolder and knocked on all the doors in Africa Hall to plead for votes. I got into many discussions and I learned about the power of university students. Most of us were single with no dependents. We were also smart enough to know what we wanted, and passionate enough to demand it.
We watched our candidates sweep the elections to become the new NUGS representatives. My first taste of political victory felt like walking on air.
Banahene called a meeting at Queen’s cafeteria. It was a few minutes after seven when I got there. Three bottles of Supermalt were sweating on the table, and Banahene and Jordan were deep in conversation.
Banahene opened my bottle and dropped in a straw. I drew a long mouthful.
“Guys, I’m writing to tell Sharon and Derek what we have accomplished with NUGS,” I said.
“Tell Sharon and Derek that we are going to stand for the SRC leadership,” said Banahene.
“Banahene will stand for president,” said Jordan. “He is the most experienced. What do you prefer, Charlotte, secretary or treasurer?”
“I don’t want to contest as a candidate,” I said.
“You’re popular, Charlotte. You understand the issues and you speak well,” said Banahene.
“Come on, Charlotte. We can’t do it without you. You are the inspiration for women, especially,” said Jordan.
“I have to think about it,” I said. I could imagine my dad’s displeasure. He wouldn’t want me involved in anything other than my studies.
“You know you can do this, Charlotte,” said Banahene.
“Say yes, Charlotte. Join our ticket. Help us win,” said Jordan.
“Okay,” I said at last.
‹•›
We began to plan a campaign right away. There was some way to go before the SRC elections, and we could only hope that the momentum we had attained during the NUGS campaign would hold out for us.
We established our base at Republic Hall. Someone had started selling chocolate-ice there and Banahene and I loved them. Chocolate also reminded me of the farmer we had met at Obo during the cocoa exercise.
I sat in Banahene’s room, sucking hard on the narrow piece of plastic which contained the icy treat. And I was careful not to dribble chocolate on my shirt, from the leaks which appeared spontaneously in the poorly manufactured plastic.
Banahene waved an envelope at me.
“My
dad wrote something curious in his last letter, and it has got me thinking,” he said.
I never wrote home, and I marveled that Banahene could discuss his activism with his parents. I kept my parents in the dark about my activities in student politics. It was simpler that way. I knew my dad would say, “Charlotte, you are at that university to get a degree. So mind your own business, and stop playing politics.”
“What did your dad say?” I asked.
“You are not as invincible as you think,” Banahene read aloud.
“What do you think he means?” I asked.
“I guess he means we could still lose even with the momentum in our favor,” Banahene replied.
“He just doesn’t want you to take things for granted. We’ve got to work till we get past the post,” I said.
Banahene made much of the fact that the decision to send us out to evacuate cocoa had never been put to the vote — not that most students would have attended an SRC meeting either way. Still, the lie irked, along with the sense that we had been controlled by other students in collusion with the rebel government.
‹•›
I could sense the increase in momentum as we entered the last week of the campaign. Even my lecturers knew I was standing for elections. And people I didn’t know would stop on campus to encourage me.
I did not know what to do about being so visible. On the one hand it was terribly exciting, but it also made me feel vulnerable.
We were counting heavily on Jordan to bring us the Christian Fellowship vote. For the campaign, I found my rosary and discovered the Catholic church on campus. I soaked in the sweetness of the gentle Sunday homily.
A few days before the vote, I went with Juaben to a prayer meeting. There I received prayer for success in the elections. Prayer by such a large congregation was very comforting. These prayers were drenched in scripture, voiced out loudly and convincingly with exuberant cries of Amen. Juaben said the people praying were prayer warriors — an apt name, I thought.
“You’re going to win. I saw it in a vision,” Juaben said afterwards. And her eyes were shining. She said it was her very first vision.
14
I had gone through my speech at least ten times for the SRC manifesto night. There were even portions I had memorized. I felt good reading it out loud, pausing at the right places to hit my punch lines.
This was the night to seal the campaign. Voting was scheduled for the next day.
Backstage, I listened first to Banahene and then to Jordan as they rehearsed their speeches. We had arrived early enough to see our opposition as they came in. They were all guys and everyone was well dressed, favoring white shirts and dark pants. Only one man wore his Batakari and rubber tire shoes with pride. Banahene had on a red, yellow and green tie to represent Ghana.
“You’re a fine gentleman,” I said, straightening the knot on his tie.
“I was thinking of wearing a bow tie and a three-piece suit,” he said with a grin.
Mensah came in with Sylvia. It seemed as though Sylvia would walk right past, as she avoided eye contact with me. But I was feeling quite pumped so I said hello too loudly to be ignored.
“Hi,” Sylvia muttered. But Mensah shook hands with us.
“She’s the moral support,” I whispered to Banahene.
“You’re more powerful,” he said.
Mensah looked more imposing with his height and wide shoulders. But he could not match Banahene’s baby-faced charm. Mensah was too quarrelsome to be charming. Still, he was formidable in his own way.
Noises from the auditorium told me the Great Hall was filling fast, and I calmed myself down with slow steady breaths. It was best to relax before the competition, before one let loose on a charge of adrenaline.
Our strength lay in the unity of our team — all for one and one for all, just like the Three Musketeers. Instead of running individual campaigns, we had been able to share our strengths. Each of us had roped in friends, floormates and even the friends of friends. Our hope was that if one of us could get a voter onside, then the others would be assured of that voter’s vote. One of our slogans was “Unity is strength!” As a unit we could change university life for the better, and change the nation, too.
“Tonight is about guarding our support and convincing undecided voters. We may even steal some socialists to our side. I think we’re ready,” said Banahene.
The buzz in the large hall dissipated as we were ushered in. There were eight of us competing for three offices. I glanced at our opponents as we took our seats on the stage. Mensah reminded me of a crouching lion — composed and yet tense.
All eyes were on the outgoing SRC president as he began to address the audience. In just a few minutes he described the order we were to approach the podium to deliver our speeches. A spattering of applause welcomed the first candidate who was standing for the position of treasurer, and then we were on a roll.
I tried hard to listen to what each candidate was saying. I clapped politely after each turn at the microphone. I hoped my supporters were listening hard. I had designated certain members of my team to make notes when my competition spoke, so they could frame questions to destabilize them. There was something in me that liked this kind of intellectual wickedness. It was part of my strategy.
I was the fourth to go, and the only woman to speak. I wavered between pride and nervousness. I had on the blue dress with yellow flowers that I had worn for matriculation, but this time there were no flowers in my hair.
“When you’re seeking votes, you should be stylish without being too fabulous. You should look smart and not vain,” Mary had said when I piled on the accessories.
So I took off the bangles and changed my funky bead necklace for a small chain. I wanted to attract both guys and ladies to my side.
By the time I was done with my speech, I was perspiring on my nose and forehead with the stress of it all. I could have sworn that I had received the best applause, though.
Then it was Mensah’s turn. And his fans gave him very loud cheers. In return, he gave the power salute, which made the crowd roar. Mensah knew how to play the game, and he spoke confidently.
“My fellow students, I know your needs. I have the know-how to be your president. I will work with the administration for an enriching student experience. And we shall work with the government for a better Ghana. Together we can do this. So tomorrow exercise your best choice and vote for me.”
When he raised the issue of our allowance, the audience yelled his nickname, Bangla Mensah, and the hall thundered with the cheering.
Could Banahene top that?
Banahene was the last to speak. He spoke clearly and passionately.
“If I win, I promise to represent you and not speak for you. I promise to open up SRC meetings and encourage discussions and the vote. I will respect your opinion on matters relating to our campus as well as the country. I can promise that you will not wake up one morning and find yourselves working on a railroad in Tarkwa, wondering how you got there!”
I could tell Banahene had captured the hearts of the students, even if Mensah was more charismatic. Certainly all of Africa Hall was in support of him. Women loved a handsome man.
The moderator opened for questions from the audience. To my surprise, several of the questions came to me, and I answered them to thunderous applause. I was amazed at how much I enjoyed the limelight, and even more the butting of wits. In a way it reminded me of the debates I had with my dad.
Then the president announced the final round of questions from the floor, and I could not believe the night was nearly over.
From the back, a man walked right down the center aisle and up to the podium. His heels clicked deliberately against the terrazzo floor. He was wearing a light blue T-shirt over blue jeans, and he had a jaunty strut to his walk.
He took his time to set up his question, fiddl
ing with the microphone and clearing his throat. His was the last question, and he directed it to me.
“Madam Charlotte, can you as a lady represent real student needs? You see, I have it from reliable sources that you have a rich businessman boyfriend who supports you. Are you going to help us all to find the same kind of benevolence, or do you have real solutions for students?”
I was too shocked to answer, and then a grand swell of protest arose from the floor — the same booing that I had endured on the bus to Kwahu. It took the moderator a few minutes to calm the assembly down. He said the question was in poor taste and was to be disregarded.
But it was too late.
I tried to act confidently while the moderator summed the evening up with final words of thanks. Then I hung around with our supporters until the last of them left. I could only hope that my smile looked genuine as I received congratulations. Jordan took off to his hall, and I was left with Banahene.
I deflated like a punctured car tire. All I wanted was to go and hide. Banahene put an arm around me and drew me close.
“I feel so humiliated,” I said, catching a sob before it formed.
“You did well, Charlotte. I think you did the best of us all. Perhaps you should have stood for president,” said Banahene as we walked back from the Great Hall.
“Don’t lie, Banahene.”
“Politics is dirty, and that guy is one of those who hits below the belt. I think most people would realize that he was just a mischief-maker. Don’t let him get to you,” said Banahene.
But I wondered if Banahene was thinking about Asare and me.
Gloom, like a blanket, wrapped itself around me. In the end, we just hugged each other when we parted. We didn’t kiss. I wasn’t feeling that way.
15
“Charlotte, today is your big day. Get up, get up, get up! The entire floor is going with you down the stairs, and we’re going to make noise all the way to the ballot boxes,” said Mary.
