by Adwoa Badoe
I wiped the sleep from my eyes. The day had indeed come, but I hadn’t expected my floormates to make a fuss about it. Mary had always been especially cool about the election. But here she was now, very excited.
“What’s the plan?” I asked, stretching down to the tips of my toes.
“We’re marching down at 9 a.m. to vote. Wear this red shirt and jeans,” she said, giving me her own T-shirt.
Promptly at 8:55, Juaben came to get us. All the eighth-floor girls were ready with a loud cheer as I stepped out of my room. Everyone was there except Sylvia, and they were all in red T-shirts.
A rush of excitement hit me as one of my neighbors began a popular athletics cheering song.
“On my way, I will remember Charlotte.”
Singing the echo, we went downstairs, drawing more people to join our party. The cheering got louder when I cast my vote. Then we went off, a happy group to breakfast.
By ten o’clock I was seated among my friends, swallowing mouthfuls of Hausa koko and munching on sugarbread. People came over just to say hello or give me a high five. Emily, my old schoolmate, came down with her roommate and joined us.
“Do you remember that first night here when we met at the dining hall?” she asked.
I nodded. I had been so anxious about roommates, fitting in and just getting along in university.
“Look at you now,” she said. And there was admiration in her eyes.
‹•›
Africa Hall votes were counted in our common room at 6 p.m. The electoral commissioner of Africa Hall then announced the results by bush telephone from the lower roof. I made my way to the Great Hall with my friends, but none of them could take my anxiety away. As I was the only contestant from Africa Hall, it wasn’t surprising that I’d won there. But what about the other halls full of men?
Everything was going so fast. Mary made jokes. Juaben squeezed my hand and gave me hugs, but all I felt was my heart beating frantically.
In every hall they were counting votes. Then we would all meet at the Great Hall for the tally at 8 p.m. What if I lost? What if I was the only one to lose in our team? What if our team lost in the end? My world was in a tailspin.
I could hear groups of people singing victory songs in the darkness.
“Don’t worry. You’re going to win,” said Mary.
I realized in that moment that I could survive anything with the support of my friends.
I made my way to the front of the hall where Jordan was standing quietly beside Banahene. The other contestants were huddling there in groups — everyone with bated breath, waiting.
The sound system crackled and came alive. The SRC electoral commissioner was ready to announce the results. I held my breath until I heard Jordan’s name and tally. He won by a mile.
Moments later, my numbers were called. It was close but I had won. I might have fainted if Banahene hadn’t held me.
At last, Banahene’s name was announced as the president. He had beaten Mensah by three hundred votes.
With a shout, he pumped his fist upwards. Yes!
People were cheering wildly, crowding us. Banahene’s contest had been the fiercest, yet here we were, all three of us in victory.
People started shouting, “Speech, speech!”
Somehow we made it to the stage. Gathering around the podium, Banahene gave his acceptance address. It was gracious and full of sincerity, extending gratitude to include even his opponents.
Jordan thanked the voters in his speech. We hugged each other and raised our hands in the victory sign.
Then it was time to give my speech. But nobody would listen because they were too happy to be quiet. And we were the focus of this wild jubilation. In a flash I caught a glimpse of power, and why people held on to it as if it was their own possession. It felt good to bask in the adoration of one’s peers.
Perhaps this was why Rawlings and his cohort had returned themselves to power.
Then the crowd, as one, picked up Banahene and raised him shoulder high. Singing at the top of our voices, we left the Great Hall for Republic Hall, where Banahene had to give another speech.
He was only in the middle of it when a group of six guys charged the podium. The crowd began to cheer. They carried Banahene to the pond in the center of the courtyard and dropped him in, unceremoniously, to swim with the fish.
It was my turn to laugh as he climbed out soaked to the bone.
“We’re even,” I said, as he dripped all the way up the stairs to his room.
‹•›
The vice chancellor invited us to tea the day after our victory. As Banahene, Jordan and I sat on his plush settee, sipping tea from dainty china cups, our VC shared his expectations.
“Your most important duty is to keep me informed of student needs. Work with me, and I promise to lend a listening ear. Don’t stir up the students to discontent. Remember, the military is in charge so don’t get carried away. Another unscheduled break will jeopardize the school year.”
“Yes, sir,” we chorused.
I couldn’t help thinking of my dad as he said in parting, “Do not forget that your first priority is to get good degrees. Student leadership is for a year but a degree is for a lifetime. Time slips away like sand in the hand.”
Our office was very different from the vice chancellor’s. I looked around me. The old SRC executives had left the room tidy but the walls were in need of paint. There was an old yellow curtain hanging over the only window, and a dirty white fan stood in the corner beside a banged-up filing cabinet.
Banahene took the old swivel chair behind the desk. I took the wooden chair by the file cabinet and Jordan sat on the chair opposite Banahene.
“Here’s to the new improved SRC,” I said.
Jordan gave me a high five. Then he touched fists with Banahene in a macho salute.
“We will be the best SRC this university has ever had,” he said.
The night before, Banahene and I had talked about our roles in the SRC and especially about how we would manage our love for each other.
“We’re going to have to be very professional with SRC business,” he’d said.
I agreed. That meant no touching during meetings.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Our first meeting begins. The secretary takes minutes,” said Banahene.
So I wrote as the others spoke.
Our priorities included a definition of our executive vision, the organization of our financial papers and plans for maintaining student engagement.
“Don’t write this down, Charlotte,” said Banhene in a quieter voice. “I’ve been contacted by leaders of the Ghana Bar Association and the Ghana National Association of Teachers. They would like to work with us.”
“Add to that the Christian Council. I have also been contacted by a leading independent pastor in Kumasi,” said Jordan.
Nobody had contacted me.
“I think we should be careful of agenda other than our own. We do not want to be played as pawns by other interests,” I said.
“But we did say to our fellow students that we would stand for democracy in Ghana. If we’re to be effective we shall have to work with other like-minded groups,” said Banahene.
“So long as we do things our way,” I insisted.
‹•›
We called it a new era, but our meetings were hardly different from past meetings. There were more people in attendance, but they continued to complain about mundane things like dining-hall food, allowances, student loans and running water. Juaben and Mary came to the meetings for my sake.
Mensah was now too dignified to make brash arguments about bangla, but others had taken his place while he became a general critic of all our executive decisions. He sometimes sat with Sylvia in the front row where he could easily interrupt the meeting.
In some ways student politics was disappointing, but I learned that one had to plow through boring issues to get to the vision. We had promised to keep the students well informed and to seek their votes on matters that concerned them. We had also promised accountability, transparency and trust.
“I thought we were going to change the world. Instead it’s one stupid motion after another,” I said to Banahene and Jordan after a particularly annoying meeting.
“There will always be those who are stuck on feeding allowances,” said Jordan, amused.
“These people are the ones who will keep us on our toes,” said Banahene.
I stifled a sigh.
‹•›
Even if student politics was boring, my relationship with Banahene was blossoming. I had made the cut on the hockey team. I was feeling healthier than ever. Mary and Mr. Opoku were making plans for their marriage by Akan traditional custom in August. They would save the church wedding until next year. Jordan seemed to be interested in Juaben, but he hadn’t yet stirred up the courage to ask her out formally.
I got a letter from Sharon. She had won her bid to become the SRC treasurer at Cape Coast University. I couldn’t wait to meet up with her during the holidays.
I felt like I had everything — love, friends and influence.
June was hurrying towards July, and it started to get intense with course work. Essays were due. Between my social life and the SRC, I tried to remember that I was in school to get a degree.
I searched through my photo album and found a picture of my dad. He was smiling. I peeled the photo off the sticky page and pinned it on my notice board. Then I found a piece of paper and a red marker. I wrote words I could imagine him speaking: “Charlotte, you have been sent to university purposefully to get a degree. Don’t forget that!”
Even if he wasn’t the carrot, my dad was the helpful end of the stick.
Our visitors laughed whenever they saw the note, but it worked for me. It probably worked for them, too.
I spent an entire evening writing a paper on the Bond of 1844. The only references I could find for my work could not be checked out of the library. So I had to sit there, chewing the end of my pencil and making copious notes. There was much to read, and I forgot the time until the night librarian said the library was closing.
I packed my books immediately. At that time of the night the library road was deserted.
In the distance, I saw the lights of a car come on, and then the car began to move up the road.
Suddenly it was upon me. I jumped off the road and landed on my bottom. The car screeched past. It was a Pajero.
I picked myself up and brushed the dirt off my clothes. My heart was thumping in my chest. Even if I had strayed onto the road, the driver could have honked his horn instead of driving me into the bushes.
I thought of Banahene when I saw the Republic Hall lights. I would tell him about my narrow escape tomorrow. I crossed the road to connect with the Africa Hall driveway. The road was very dark.
I had only gone a few feet on the driveway when I was suddenly bathed in light. A car came to life with a cough. As I drew close to it I realized it was a Pajero. A window came down and I saw a man with a black cap pulled down low over his forehead.
Even in the darkness he wore dark glasses.
He said, “Charlotte Adom, be very careful. The revolution will not tolerate upstarts like you.”
I ran all the way to the hall.
16
That same night, June 30th, 1982, while I was sleeping, three high court judges and one army officer were kidnapped from their homes. Shockwaves rattled the entire country as we discussed what might be the advent of a reign of terror. I could imagine my dad saying, “Oyiwa — agenda exposed!”
We were now face to face with the underlying anxiety that I had sensed in my parents and their friends on the night of the coup d’état.
There was an outcry led by the Ghana Bar Association. Not even the fear of the military could tone them down. That evening, Banahene summoned Jordan and me to a meeting. It turned out that he had received an invitation for our SRC to attend a meeting in town. Fear raised goosebumps on my skin.
We took a taxi to Amakom. Then we took another one which wound us through the neighborhood roads.
Getting off beside a school, we walked the rest of the way to the house of the Anglican bishop of Kumasi. That was how cautious we were.
A young man ushered us into a large square room furnished with four overstuffed armchairs and two large sofas. I followed the pattern of Adinkra symbols on the upholstery. There was the ram’s horn for strength, the two-headed crocodile for unity in diversity and the Adinkrahene — the coil that represented the unknowable God in life and nature.
Two men in suits stood in one corner of the room talking. A third man dressed in a minister’s collar was seated by the window.
The doorbell rang again. It was the NUGS president and secretary from our university. I wondered if they had chosen a roundabout way to arrive as we had.
Just then, the bishop came in. He was casually dressed in an African print shirt and black trousers.
“Hello,” he said, as he went around the room shaking hands.
He was a small man with a seemingly mild manner. His eyes smiled at the corners — kind eyes in a powerful man.
“Sit down, please,” he said, pointing us to the seats. We introduced ourselves to each other. The two men who had been deep in conversation were lawyers.
Mr. Tevie was more vocal than the other lawyer. He explained that one of the kidnapped judges was connected with lawsuits regarding divestitures of certain state-owned properties. The other two had reversed judgments passed by the makeshift courts of the former AFRC government. The bar association now had people searching the records to discover all they could about those cases. Everyone feared the worst for the judges.
“The lady justice was a breastfeeding mother,” Mr. Tevie whispered. And the bishop covered his mouth with one hand as if to stop a groan.
My tears came unbidden and I brushed them away. I’d heard her name mentioned more than once at home. My mother would remind us that Justice Cecilia Koranteng-Addow was her schoolmate. She’d held her up like a role model, hoping that I would choose that same path someday. Women high court judges in Ghana could be counted on one hand. She was a national treasure.
“If we keep silent, this may become the beginning of an unprecedented bloodbath,” said the bishop.
“We have a moral duty to speak up,” said the other lawyer. He was the president of the Kumasi chapter of the Ghana Bar Association.
“What do you think?” said the bishop. His eyes roamed the room.
“The country is perched right on the brink of disaster. It may be up to us to save it,” said the NUGS president.
Banahene and Jordan did not say anything. We were new to this kind of thing.
Finally the bishop said, “In times like these the strength of our nation rests with you, our young brothers and sisters. We will need you to rise up and protest the evil that has been born. Be assured that we shall support you.”
I wasn’t going to jump into things just because the bishop said so. We would return to our campus to discuss the issue, for each of us had responsibilities towards those we represented.
For the next week, I made a daily pilgrimage to the library, where I scoured all the newspapers on display. Most of them merely repeated the press releases from the Ghana News Agency. But whatever was lacking in the printed news was replenished by the grapevine. All eyes were on the government to solve the case and come clean.
‹•›
Mr. Samuel Duah came to see me at about ten o’clock on Sunday morning. He came in traditional Adinkra cloth with a woman he introduced as his wife. His handshake was tight and his palm was sweaty. I could tell he was uneasy. He apologized three t
imes for coming in the morning, saying it was the best time to escape notice as people all over town were finding their way to their churches. Then Mr. Duah said that both Asare’s office and his home had been ransacked by soldiers.
Luckily a contact had tipped him off a day earlier, and this had helped him to destroy some of the sensitive information about Asare and his business.
“I need your help, Charlotte. I can’t hang on to Asare’s documents. I will be next on their list to search and these documents are too important to destroy,” said Samuel Duah.
“I’ve only known Asare for a few months,” I protested.
“Charlotte, it’s because you are just an acquaintance that you’re our best bet.”
“No. This may be dangerous,” I said.
“Take a look at the package. There is no contraband, no drugs, and nothing stolen. Just some contracts, bank details and some money. Asare stands to lose everything he has worked for if these things get into the wrong hands. You will be safe. Nobody in Kumasi associates you with Asare.”
“Okay,” I whispered. In spite of his mild demeanor, Samuel Duah was a very persuasive man.
“Asare is a good man. He would do anything for you. He will repay your kindness many times over.”
“I know.”
“When the heat blows over in a couple of weeks, I shall return for the package. I know Asare will be grateful to you for the rest of his life.”
He turned to his wife, who quickly opened her bag and whipped out a bulky package. Mr. Duah passed it to me.
“We shouldn’t stay for very long. If anyone asks about us, just tell them an aunt and uncle of yours are visiting Kumasi for a funeral. Let’s be discreet, shall we?” said Mr. Duah, still whispering.
I nodded.
“Don’t worry, things will soon blow over. Asare said you were both clever and courageous, and I believe you are.”
They left, and I didn’t see them off downstairs. I checked to make sure my curtains were drawn together, and then I opened the package.
