The rest of you, p.13
The Rest of You, page 13
‘Do you think you’ll go back to Ghana, at some point?’
The words flitted from your mouth into the air, your attempt to fill the silence while you read the next part of the book, trying to retrace your steps, certain that you’d missed one.
‘What for? Everyone I love is here.’
‘But what about grandpa? Auntie Aretha said he misses
you.’
Back then Auntie Aretha used to call often from Denmark, asking about school marks and job prospects when you were too young to have proper answers for her. But you enjoyed listening to her clipped notes over the phone, imagining her bundled up in a Copenhagen coffee shop, telling you stories about what it meant to grow up in the heat of the tropics and still find comfort in the cold. Just like Ma Gloria, she never gave you specifics about the past, but she mentioned your grandfather from time to time. He was still in Ghana, somewhere. You never quite got the location down; it was always time to get off the call after that. You were considering this as you looked down at your hand on Ma Gloria’s puckered thigh: youth juxtaposed with time. You felt the skin with the flat of your palm and tried to stretch it out, watching her time travel under your touch. She was quiet for a long time before responding to your message from Auntie Aretha.
‘That doesn’t sound like your grandfather.’
Then you felt her back go up a little, a tenseness that you later associated with any mention of the place she used to call home. And you too, you used to know it as such, somehow. So you admitted then what you’d been humming around for years, what you knew she didn’t want for you. But she couldn’t control all of your desires.
‘I’ve been thinking of going there, to Ghana. Auntie and I talked about it and–’
You stopped yourself short when you mentioned Auntie Aretha for a second time, knowing already that it was a step too far. Your words quickly became weaponry that you hadn’t had enough practice with.
‘And what do you need to go there for? We left that place for a reason. There are other countries to visit, Bobo.’
Ma Gloria propped herself up as she said it, ready to turn over so you could receive the fullness of her stern look. But you were still a little naïve then, the fuel of your teens propelling you forward no matter what stood in the way, including the one woman whose approval you constantly craved.
‘You talk about it like there’s a war raging there or something. There isn’t. And it’s my heritage. Why shouldn’t I go?’
‘OK, and why should you?’
You had no answer of course, though you were certain of it when you had last spoken to Auntie Aretha. She’d hinted at new discoveries of yourself, that the trip was a rite of passage, that everyone should have a chance to go back, no matter what came before. So you prepared to repeat this to Ma Gloria, to make her understand that it was OK that you were searching for a connection to your familial home. But when it came to it, your intentions came to nothing in the face of her desperate anger at the suggestion of defying the one wish she had explicitly asked of you.
‘I want… I want to know where I came from. Everyone is doing it – it’s part of the Black British experience, Ma–’
She kissed her teeth so loudly you heard it in the back of your own throat. She was sitting up now, legs swinging from the edge of the table, looking up at you as you stood in front of her, your hands oily, confused. She knew she didn’t need to also stand to get her point across.
‘Do you not already know enough about where you come from, that you have to return and see for yourself?’ You bowed your head, unsure how to respond without receiving a further scolding. ‘I didn’t raise you to be like everyone else, did I?’ You shook your head obediently. ‘Then why must you act like them? Unless you think I am wrong about this one too?’ You gave another physical no. There was no room for hesitation when responding to such a question. ‘Then what do you need to go there and confirm?’
She didn’t wait for another answer. She slipped herself off the table, wrapping her cloth around her and leaving the room. You heard her in the distance, sniffling, wiping away unexplained tears. You stood there alone for a few minutes, wondering where you had gone wrong, knowing that you wouldn’t get on a plane without her blessing; you couldn’t. After that you stopped enquiring, choosing instead to live out the remainder of your twenties within London mistakes and tiny traumas that built up over time.
Days into your thirties, you were revisiting all the conversations you had had with Ma Gloria about the topic of home, and all the ones you had kept inside. Now you were older and more sure of your questions and the answers you were looking for. And you were more in control, because she was back on your table, letting you work her muscles, work out the stress, open her up a little more. It was the first of many carefully curated steps. Your tread needed to be lighter this time.
‘A friend is getting married in Accra, did I tell you? Anyway, I’m thinking I might go.’
You had never lied so brazenly to Ma Gloria before, and it wasn’t even a full lie. You did know someone who was going to Accra to get married, a friend of Chantelle’s, actually. But you weren’t invited, and Chantelle had no plans to go. You felt the familiar feeling of Ma Gloria’s muscles tensing against your fingers after you spoke, but you didn’t react. You would play it cool for as long as possible.
‘No, you didn’t say. That’s nice for them.’
‘Well, if I do go, would you suggest some places to visit? I don’t want to be a complete tourist if I can help it.’
You would use levity to move things forward if you had to. Her silence became an extended moment in the room, and you almost defaulted to putting on music to alleviate the tension. But you stopped yourself just in time.
‘You know I don’t like to get involved in these things.’
‘But why, Ma? You know all this stuff about the place that I don’t, and you… you won’t share. I’m starting to take it personally.’
You chuckled emphatically as you said it, a false instinct while your stomach was in your throat and you pushed the words out, anxiety gripping you from the inside at what you were forcing into the open. On the outside you held a steady calm in the room, continuing your work on her muscles. You stepped to the side to work on her calves, waiting for her response.
‘This isn’t relaxing, Bobo.’ Her refusal to engage irritated you, and you had to stop your hands for a few seconds to gather your next thoughts. Before you could verbalise anything else, she spoke again. ‘You know I will never stop you going wherever you want to go. I just want to be kept out of it.’
Her body seemed to unclench once the words had come out, as if she had said all that needed to be said. Usually this was true, but today her dismissals made you angry.
‘How can I keep you out of it when you’re the only one with answers?’
‘Ah, so this is an interrogation now?’
She wasn’t yelling, but her voice felt bigger, uncorked, with a sharp edge around it that used to strike fear into you as a child. Now it stoked the flames of your fury.
‘I’m only asking questions about my life, Ma. What’s wrong with that?’
‘No. This is also my life you’re questioning. Have I not shared enough of it with you?’
‘You haven’t shared anything! Not about Tina, not about my father – I have no memories of him, nothing!’
You were both stunned by your outburst, by the way your voice reached an octave you had sworn never to reach in her presence again. The only other time was when you were a teenager, about thirteen or so, sullen after she refused to let you go to a friend’s sleepover because she had never met their parents. Your screaming then had led to two days of silence from her, with a frosty atmosphere every time you crossed paths. The disappointment in her eyes whenever she looked your way was almost too much to bear. Now that same look was aimed at you as you backed into the wall, as far from the table as possible. She slowly sat up topless, staring at you in disbelief, before remembering herself, stepping to the floor and reclaiming her cloth from the sofa.
For a long time as a child, you had assumed that the feeling of not being whole was because of your parents, a space that couldn’t be filled because you had no memories of them. But it was only now, standing toe to toe with Ma Gloria, that you began to suspect you were missing something else, something more significant. Ma Gloria continued to stare at you, the moment still fraught with angry energy.
‘Not everything needs to be shared. Leave this alone, OK?’
‘Why can’t you give me a straight answer, for once?’
Your voice was already getting smaller, breaking, losing its vigour.
‘The answer to which question exactly? What do you desperately want to know that is worth ruining both of our days for?’
And then you felt silence finally wrap itself around your tongue, clamping your mouth shut at the height of a moment of revelation, as always. Only now Ma Gloria looked ready for it, prepared to fight you further – or at least up to a point. You saw her poised, and then watched her face slip into relief when no more words came out of you. Her shoulders fell and she resealed the cloth around her body, then suggested you have some tea before you went back to the flat. Nothing had happened. You were both safe.
When you left, it was dark outside. Your head felt like cotton wool, and you remembered that you never came home and gained clarity. You had been foolish to expect it today. You took the first bus that came and sat downstairs by the window, watching the city lights edge toward you and then fade into the background. Eventually, you reached Central London, the twinkling shop lights beckoning you further. You picked up a Metro newspaper from the seat beside you, just to feel like you were holding on to something. The contents didn’t matter. A wave of sadness from the day hit you before you finally stepped off the bus. You could get lost here if you wanted to, drifting between the eager shoppers, the smell of fresh crepes and smoky nuts from street vendors, the sweeter scents of a London evening in spring. You walked on autopilot toward the noise of people, going against the flow of the crowd to make it to that familiar corner. You looked to your right at the neon lights of Leicester Square, and then sent off a text to signify your arrival.
Chapter 16
Kumasi, 1995
Aretha
All Aretha wanted was answers, even if everyone else in the house pretended that it didn’t matter anymore, that whatever Viktor had coming to him was in God’s hands now. Aretha was not prepared to take that chance. She had to be sure that that man paid for what he had done. But she suspected that it would not come to pass, not on Ghanaian soil, anyway. She knew from enough of her cadet friends who were now in the military that the foreign officers living in Ghana had certain privileges. Not quite diplomatic immunity, but something similar, something that held more freedoms. This was why she had spent the last three days rising earlier than usual, leaving everyone in their beds, stealing away from making preparations for Bobby’s One Week, to catch three tro-tros and walk the last bit of the journey to the courthouse where Viktor’s trial would be taking place. It had already been fast-tracked. The judicial system favours even the ones killing us, Aretha thought when she arrived that third morning. She took her usual place and perched on the courthouse steps, ready to wait out the day. She opened her bag and pulled out a short, fat banana and a small tub of cashews, taking a bite of the first and throwing in a few cashews as a chaser, chewing both together and slowly filling her stomach for the morning.
She had been starving that first day; she hadn’t thought to bring food on the journey at all. She had only woken up with a simple purpose: fix this thing. In the house she felt useless. She needed to be doing something practical, helpful. The Sergeant would not let her help him make calls, and she could not bear to greet guests in her current state. Smiling in the face of the terror that was keeping her awake? No, she refused. But soon she realised there was no news from the Sergeant about Viktor, and she became afraid that he had not dealt with it as he had promised. In fact, perhaps he was avoiding it altogether. He had a good relationship with the Danish government. He had been the military attaché to their Ghanaian embassy for a long time; he would not rock the boat in such a way as to ruin his own career, no matter how much power he held now. Aretha could no longer trust that he would do the right thing, and that thought crushed her. It was the first time her faith in him had chipped away a little, and she thought that perhaps he was not infallible after all. So she let her youth lead her to the next decision: to take things into her own hands, just to make sure Viktor got what he deserved. She would be there to testify on behalf of the family if it was needed. She would be there to look him in the eye and let him know that she knew exactly who he was and what he had done in cold blood. She would be there, and if she got in trouble for it, well, then for once it would be worth breaking the rules.
So she traveled to the courthouse every morning and stayed there until the sun was setting, waiting for Viktor’s case to be called. A friend in a judge’s office had let her know that it would be any day now. On the third day, she jumped from the final tro-tro, finished her breakfast alone and said a silent thank you to Maame Serwaa for the fuel. Maame Serwaa had knocked on Aretha’s door late the night before, brought her a bag of food and snacks and made her fresh bofrot to have after lunch. Aretha looked at her suspiciously at first, as she took the food from her, smelling the donuts with a smile, but Maame Serwaa said nothing. She only gave Aretha a kind look and then left the room again before she could even express her gratitude. Aretha made a note to buy Maame Serwaa something, a new dress for church, or maybe a Mills & Boon book if she could find one; Aretha knew she loved those.
Aretha heard the sound of voices coming from inside the courthouse, and she moved toward the open doors of the courtroom, trying to stay out of sight and hoping to squeeze in the back. The security guard recognised her but said nothing, simply nodding her toward the back of the room before the judge arrived. Now she just had to wait.
She should have already been making her way home before Gloria or the Sergeant started looking for her. But Aretha could not move. She remained at the back of the courtroom, slumped in her seat. Viktor was exonerated so speedily that if she had blinked, she might have missed it. Not quite cleared; he was being extradited to Denmark to face judgment there, but she already knew that with the lawyer he had, he would have a clean record by the time he landed on the other side. No one would know what he had done, what he had taken from them all. And she wondered how she could have been so stupid as to expect anything else. The judge’s hands were tied; it was a military matter that they would deal with themselves. She had to let him go, let him be dealt with by his own people. But Aretha knew he wouldn’t be dealt with – he would return to a new-old life and go about his business. She had not seen remorse on his face when he was walked into the courtroom by an officer. He was stoic, the least animated she had ever seen him. She wished to never lay eyes on him again, but she still burnt holes into the back of his head throughout the entire trial – all fifteen minutes of it.
What a waste, she thought. She had fixed nothing and was not even called on. Just an extra thing in a room that no one needed. An hour had already passed since then, the sky was starting to turn orange. Soon it would be evening and getting back on the tro-tro would not be as safe as it was coming. She knew the Sergeant would have already been told of the outcome, called on the phone to be informed officially. Perhaps he was sitting in his office now, staring at papers, wondering how to deliver the news to the rest of the house, to his remaining daughters and granddaughter. He likely wished for any other job but that one. Maybe he too was as angry as Aretha, maybe it would fuel him to appeal the decision, or to find out Viktor’s whereabouts in Denmark, finally take matters into his own hands. Would that not be something? Aretha was sitting up now, alert, with a new direction in mind. Nothing would bring Bobby back, or Tina. Or Mommy, for that matter. But that didn’t mean she should sit still and accept things as they were.
She left the courthouse finally, and that same security guard greeted her with a questioning look on his face. She asked him if there was a telephone she could use, and then she called Prince and asked that he come and pick her up.
‘Has everyone in this house lost their heads, or what is it?’
The Sergeant was standing behind his desk. He had launched himself up to standing to address both his daughters, who were requesting time with him for different reasons. Aretha had only just arrived as he was in the middle of what appeared to be an argument with Gloria. Aretha had taken it as a good sign, that perhaps a dressing down of Gloria meant he would adhere to her requests a little easier. He had a habit of going with Gloria’s decisions; she made them seem like they were his. So if he disagreed, it must be serious.
‘Daddy, what are we supposed to do when you have to leave again for work? D’you think I can hold off everyone then? They are only now staying away because you are here. I’m afraid to leave Maame Serwaa by herself with Bobo, before that Auntie Vida or someone on her mission comes to ‘cure’ Bobo? What then, Daddy? We have to leave!’
Gloria looked desperate, her eyes wet from recent tears, staring at the Sergeant with conviction. Aretha realised she needed some of that same courage to make her own statement. She stood in the doorway, watching as the Sergeant surveyed them both.
‘Aretha!’ She jumped at the sound of her name, wondering if she had already confessed her thoughts without knowing. ‘Where have you been? Bobby’s mother has been on the telephone three times today looking for you. As if I am your houseboy to be taking messages. So? Where were you?’
