‘Mel, she doesn’t like me, you don’t always hear everything she says to me,’ I said defensively.
‘Bharti reckons that you don’t like Laura because I’m hanging out with her more than you . . .’
‘No!’ I lied. I knew it would make me sound Delphy’s age.
‘Ohmigod, she’s right isn’t she?’
‘No,’ I lied again.
‘Makeeda, I’m not being funny or anything, but you’re not exactly into sports and stuff, are you?’
‘Well no, not as much as you,’ I replied.
That was an understatement. We were talking about the difference between watching an athletics programme on TV and going to the cinema.
‘Yeah, well, Laura is. I’m not saying I have nothing in common with you any more but . . .’
I could see her point. It was easier to hang out with someone who was into the same things as you.
‘It’s OK, I get it,’ I said, interrupting.
‘Besides, I never said anything when you and Bharti started going off without me last year, did I?’
‘No.’
It was always going to be awkward having three of us in a friendship, and Bharti and I did suddenly start spending more time together – especially when Mel got busier playing sports.
‘Makeeda, you and I go way back pre-Bharti, pre-reception class!’
I started laughing.
‘You know, if it wasn’t for Laura, I wouldn’t have known about what Nelson said to you. You know what I’m like when I’m on the phone.’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
I remembered a trip Mel took to Manchester a few years ago where she chatted to me through an earth tremor. It was only when her mother screamed at her to get off the phone and take cover that she realised what was going on.
‘You should give Laura a chance,’ she said.
‘Hmm . . .’
Laura did me a favour in telling Mel what Nelson said that day, but she had still said some nasty things to me.
‘Makeeda Amma Boakye, what do you think you’re doing?’ said Mum, angrily.
‘Bye, Mel!’ I said, quickly. ‘Mum, I was just . . .’
‘Get into that kitchen and help serve, like Afua. She doesn’t have to be told,’ Mum said, retrieving both phones from me.
I headed into the kitchen and was handed a tray of pies to serve to the other guests in the living room. Slowly moving around the room with a fake smile plastered to my face, I saw Afua engaged in a conversation with some adults.
‘Makeeda,’ Baby Akosua’s dad said, beckoning me.
‘Yes, Uncle Larry?’
He was dressed in a wine-coloured tie-dye shirt, and dark trousers. He automatically began speaking in Twi, until Afua interrupted him.
‘Uncle, Makeeda, doesn’t understand.’
‘Oh yes, sorry. We were talking about the differences between growing up in Britain and Ghana.’
‘Ah huh,’ I replied, trying not to sound bored.
‘Your Auntie Anita reckons it’s more difficult for children brought up here to get a firm grip of our culture, but I disagree. What do you think?’
‘I, um . . .’ Ohmigod, I don’t care! As long as Mum gives back my phone, I’ll do anything for my culture. ‘Well, I guess it is.’
‘Actually, I’ve been learning Adowa,’ Afua said.
‘Oh, that’s very good Afua,’ everyone chorused.
By this time we’d all sat down. My discarded tray of pies lay to my left, and I was using Aunt Grace’s legs as a backrest, which she didn’t seem to mind. It gave her an excuse to fiddle with my braids and generally make me look more ladylike.
‘Yes, I go once a week after school,’ Afua added.
I rolled my eyes and received a dig in the back from Aunt Grace. I was thinking of entering her for a psychic competition, when I saw my reflection in the mirrored fireplace and realised she could see everything I did.
‘Makeeda, ever think of joining Afua?’ asked Uncle Larry.
Not unless I was being paid to be in her company and, even then, I’d rather spend a week in three inch stilettos and a pencil skirt I couldn’t walk in, I thought to myself.
‘Um . . . not really, Uncle,’ I said.
‘Do you know what Adowa is?’ Afua said, raising an eyebrow sceptically.
‘Yes, of course she does, don’t you, Makeeda?’ Aunt Grace asked, making me turn to face her.
‘Well . . .’ I said, looking blank.
‘Do you remember when you went to that dinner party?’ Aunt Grace asked.
I must have returned a seriously dumb-looking face back, because when she continued I could hear the strain in her voice.
‘The one at the hotel in Knightsbridge, when we had those children dressed in Kente . . .’
‘Oh yeah!’ I said, smiling broadly.
I could see the relief on her face. We may all have been family, but even Aunt Grace didn’t want me to look stupid in front of everyone. Those children were really cute, especially the one who couldn’t have been more than four years old. Ohmigod, I realised, Adowa is a dance!
‘You know what? Maybe one day I’ll join you on the dance floor, Afua, Ghana styleee?’ I said, staring at Afua.
‘Hey, then you two could give us a performance, couldn’t you?’ Uncle Larry said to Afua.
‘Yes, Uncle,’ she replied. I could see her face change from a frown to a smile at record speed.
‘I’d better get this back to the kitchen,’ I said, picking up the discarded tray of pies.
‘Didn’t they like it?’ Auntie Anita said worriedly.
Behind her I could see my mother gesturing wildly for me to be as polite as I could. Auntie Anita is an OK cook, but sometimes she stresses for no real reason. Today she had good reason: there was no salt in the pies.
‘Um . . . I think everyone’s a bit, er . . . pied out, after Christmas,’ I said, hoping that I might be able to escape.
‘Oh right, take this then,’ she said, handing a tray of mini sausage rolls.
‘Okaaaaay,’ I said, but Mum gave me a death stare. ‘I’m sure these will be better, Auntie,’ I added.
Then Mum threw her hands in the air in an ‘I give up’ way. That was when I realised what I’d just said. So I left quickly.
‘Uncle Larry wants you,’ Delphy said, grabbing a sausage roll as she ran past me.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘She said Uncle Larry wants you,’ repeated Kofi, as he too grabbed a sausage roll and raced past me.
I walked into the living room again but this time everyone just stared.
‘Er . . .’
‘Makeeda, is it true?’ Aunt Grace asked.
‘Um . . . what?’
‘Delphina was probably mistaken,’ Afua offered.
‘Did you write about Yaa Asantewaa for a project?’ Uncle Larry asked.
‘Yes, for my history essay.’
Suddenly the tray of sausage rolls was taken away from me and all the adults were congratulating me.
‘Such an achievement!’ said one woman.
‘Most children these days, they wouldn’t be bothered,’ said a man.
‘I know,’ Aunt Grace said, smiling at me.
I was really shocked at the attention. Usually I would just say hello to everyone and kind of disappear into that weird ‘too old to be cute and too young to talk about politics’ vortex. Suddenly, I was the topic of conversation. I looked over at Afua; her arms were folded against her chest and she looked ready to kill me.
‘So how did this come about?’ asked an elderly auntie.
‘Well, we had to do an essay about an historical woman we found inspirational. I chose Yaa Asantewaa,’ I said.
‘Oh, I see. Did you have to do the same?’ she asked Afua.
Afua replied in Twi.
‘Don’t speak in Twi. Makeeda can’t understand you,’ the woman said.
‘Sorry, Auntie,’ Afua replied. ‘I did mine on Rosa Parks.’
‘Oh really? That
was a good choice,’ Uncle Larry commented.
‘I agree, but why didn’t you choose a Ghanaian heroine?’ asked the elderly auntie.
‘Oh, my school wouldn’t let me,’ Afua said.
I could see she was lying, but I didn’t think highlighting that fact would score me any points. Ohmigod, I was being the better person. Yippee!
‘My teacher didn’t want me to write it because she thought I wouldn’t find any books, but I just got stuff through the public library and online,’ I said. ‘She even tried to get me to change my topic but I wouldn’t.’
‘Did you get a good grade?’ Uncle Larry asked.
‘Yes, I got an A,’ I said.
I knew I was being really smug, but I didn’t care. Afua wasn’t the only one interested in our culture.
‘Oh, well done!’ said the elderly auntie.
‘Yes, it’s very impressive,’ said Uncle Larry.
‘Thanks.’
‘Yeah, well done, Makeeda,’ Afua said, adding a fake smile.
‘Well, your mum and I are very proud of you,’ Dad said.
This came as a surprise to me. I turned around and saw a broad smile on his face and the same one on Aunt Grace’s.
‘Dinner’s ready,’ said Auntie Anita as she and Mum piled more food on to the dining table.
Afua pulled me aside. ‘You know one essay doesn’t exactly make you an expert, you know,’ she said.
‘Yeah, well, learning one dance routine doesn’t make you one either,’ I retorted.
‘Makeeda, can you help me get some more drinks?’ Aunt Grace asked.
‘Um . . . OK,’ I said, surprised. I could clearly see more than enough drinks already on the table.
‘I heard that,’ Aunt Grace said, once we were in the kitchen.
The smell of spicy rice wafted across us. Ohmigod, she’s going to tell me off!
‘I’m not going to tell you off, Makeeda.’
That’s a relief. ‘Thanks, Auntie.’
‘I just want you to realise something. You and Afua aren’t as different as you think.’
I clasped my mouth with my hand. It was the only way to stifle the threat of seriously loud laughter.
‘Stop that!’ Aunt Grace said, irritated.
‘But . . .’
‘You are both striving for the same thing,’ Aunt Grace said.
I just gazed at Aunt Grace like she had just grown an extra head. There was no way Afua and I were alike, so why were we having this conversation?
‘Whether you like it or not, she is your cousin.’
‘Cousin? But how . . .’ I said.
I always insisted on knowing how I was related to someone. Once I asked my parents, they were forced to go through it step by step – something they didn’t like doing, but it usually resulted in the confirmation that the person was just a family friend.
‘Her father’s father and your grandfather, my father, were cousins.’
Mum walked in, and she and Aunt Grace spoke in Twi briefly.
‘Wait a minute, father’s father equals grandfather, plus your father equals cousins?’ I said, unsure of myself.
‘Yes.’
‘So she’s your niece too?’
‘Well, yes,’ Aunt Grace replied.
‘Ohmigod!’ I replied, shocked. ‘It’s OK not to like your cousin though, isn’t it?’I said.
I suddenly realised that that question definitely should have stayed in my head. Mum shot me her death stare.
‘Makeeda, her family are passing through some difficulties and it would help if . . .’ Aunt Grace began.
‘But she’s mean to me,’ I interrupted.
‘You’re mean to her,’ Mum said.
‘Well, I don’t react well to being insulted,’ I replied.
‘Don’t be so cheeky!’ Mum said.
I saw Aunt Grace’s features turn from a frown to a smile, then back again.
‘Makeeda, just make an effort, for me?’ Aunt Grace asked, before leaving me in the kitchen with Mum.
‘OK,’ I lied.
As we all sat eating dessert of ice cream and lemon cake, I overheard a conversation in Twi between an elderly man and the elderly woman from earlier. I looked over at Afua and I could see she too was eavesdropping, except I only understood the three words spoken in English as opposed to what sounded like hundreds spoken in Twi. I watched the expression on Afua’s face change. She looked angry.
The elderly woman said my name and my ears pricked up.
‘Can’t they speak Twi?’ the elderly man asked.
‘No,’ Aunt Grace replied. ‘Afua, Makeeda, come here. Uncle Yaw wants to ask you something.’
I’d never seen the man before, so I knew he had to be some kind of family friend. Afua and I silently rose and sat near the elderly man.
‘Uncle Yaw was just saying that since he’s been here, he noticed that the children brought up in England don’t seem to be interested in learning about their culture.’
‘Huh?’ Afua said.
I stared at her. I’ve never seen her give or make an incredulous sound like that before, to an adult anyway.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I expect you prefer to keep in with your friends by not being seen as different,’ he said.
‘Huh?’ Afua said again.
Even when the elderly woman told Uncle Yaw about Afua’s dancing and my essay, he still didn’t seem impressed. He told us that there was nothing wrong in preferring our English culture to our Ghanaian one.
That’s when I got upset. I told him that it wasn’t a matter of preference, as we lived with both, but had more access to English culture than Ghanaian because we lived in England. I looked over at Mum and Dad. Mum was busy picking up the empty bowls, whilst Dad was pretending not to listen as he and Uncle Larry attempted to repair a broken remote control. I was waiting for them to stop me. They didn’t.
Afua commented that it would help if our elders had sought to secure our interest by providing or organising more than Independence Day events for the next generation. Then I added if there were Twi language schools, like the ones people went to for Spanish, Portuguese, Arabic and Greek, then maybe by the time Ghanaian kids were adults they’d be fluent.
The room began buzzing in Twi, and Afua and I hadn’t even noticed that we now had everyone’s attention. Mum stood by the door, watching me, then smiled as she left the room.
Afua and I stared at each other and I looked away, embarrassed at our outburst. I could see Uncle Yaw looking impressed.
‘I stand corrected. There are obviously two very bright and culturally literate young people around. I just hope that there are more of you.’
I surreptitiously looked at Afua. She had the same fire in her eyes as I had. I realised that she had something to prove. Even if I did too, it didn’t mean Aunt Grace was right about us being similar, though.
‘Girls, never forget the sacrifices of those who first came to England. It is because of their experiences that your generation have a lot more opportunities,’ Aunt Grace remarked.
Sometimes I hate adults. They always have to be right.
I left the room and reclaimed my seat on the stairs. It was eight o’clock. I knew that this time tomorrow I would either be single again or still with Nelson. It wasn’t going to be just another day hanging out with my boyfriend. That thought unnerved me.
Chapter 19
Crisis Talks
I felt nervous as the bus pulled into the garage. I knew that whatever happened today, Nelson and I would have to resolve everything, even if it meant us splitting up. He said that he hadn’t called to dump me, but what if he just wanted to do it in person? I knew he was hurt that I hadn’t been honest with him, but how could I?
My phone rang just as I jumped off the bus. It was Nick.
‘Makeeda!’
‘Yeah?’
‘I just wanted a quick chat.’
‘Now? Right at this moment?’ I asked. ‘Nick, I’m about to meet Nelson.’
/>
‘Yeah, I know.’
Ohmigod, was Mel right? Was Nick about to confess his true feelings for me? I headed for a corner outside of the shopping centre’s entrance, to get out of the way of the shoppers all eager for a bargain at the sales. This was going to be awkward. I didn’t fancy Nick! I’ve never fancied him. How could I? It was Nick!
‘Listen, I don’t know how to say this, but I really don’t fancy . . .’ I began but stopped, realising I’d just spoken over him. ‘What did you just say?’
‘I just wanted to say I hope it works out for you two.’
‘Oh, right,’ I said, relieved.
‘What did you say?’
‘Can’t remember,’ I lied.
‘Oh, I thought you were telling me you fancied something.’
‘Nope, it’s really noisy here. So what are you doing today?’ I said, changing the subject.
‘I’m going bowling with Anoushka.’
‘Ohmigod, Anoushka as in Amazonian Anoushka?’
‘Uh huh. I didn’t even know she’s Polish!’ he said excitedly. ‘I met her at my nan’s. Apparently her grandparents and mine were old friends back in Warsaw.’
‘Ohmigod, that’s brilliant!’
‘I know!’ he said. ‘I really owe you.’
‘What for?’
‘Well, you introduced us when she came to your house.’
‘That was last year, Nick!’
Nick was at my house a couple of times when Anoushka was tutoring me. They got on, but there were no sparks or anything.
‘I know, but she never forgot me! Anyway, I just wanted to say . . . Nelson seems nice enough, but if he hurts you, I’ll rip his . . .’
‘It’s OK, I get it,’ I said, interrupting. ‘If it’s all right with you, I’m going to find out if I have a relationship left. Bye and say hi to Anoushka!’
‘Definitely!’ Nick said, and hung up.
I was glad he was finally being nice about Nelson, but even happier that he and Anoushka had got together. I was so glad that Mel had been wrong.
I turned my phone to silent and made my way through the people standing at the bus stop. Nelson was in the lobby dressed in black jeans and a black jacket. He hadn’t seen me, so I quickly checked my reflection in a display window. My hair was tied away from my face and I had on a purple top and a pair of black trousers under my pink jacket and pink flats. I reapplied my lip-gloss. As I walked up to him, my nerves suddenly hit me and my mouth went dry.
Growing Yams in London Page 16
