Dear Father, he began.
J Mensah was
drafting a reply to the letter from Kojo’s principal. He raised the
wick of the paraffin lamp and drew the blank sheets of paper closer to
the brightened copper glow, bemused as it threw the shadow of his
bespectacled head in a grotesque oblong on the wall. The house was
silent at last, the area around the dining table where he sat stood in
partial shade. The children were asleep, huddled on mats on the cold
floor; now and then a sleepy chest revved with cough.
Father George
Fraser’s cursive Latin-sequined prose resounded in J Mensah’s head with
all the sonority of a Sunday morning hymn. With paternal relish he
recalled the phrases about Kojo being an outstanding student who had
time and again repaid the attention of his teachers; a young fellow of
undoubted promise who Fraser would have no hesitation in recommending
for a scholarship when the day arose eventually deo volente.
The reek of
fermenting cassava frothing in clay vats at the backyard wafted citric
through the window and J Mensah longed for a shot of scotch to dull the
whiff. In his father’s time, a life such as he now lived and one such
as he hoped for his son lay beyond dream. Chosen as a boy for a
Presbyterian school education, he had risen gradually in Her Majesty’s
service. He commanded deference and admiration, solely on the strength
of a Presbyterian school education and a gradual rise in Her Majesty’s
service. In his mind’s eye he saw Kojo – official-looking, achievement
embodied, almost regal in wig and gown, like the young England
returnees whose photographs he had seen in the West African Pilot. It
could be a life without precedent in their family.
Two years earlier,
Kuffour, his nephew, had left Fourah Bay College and sailed for
Liverpool en route to beginning a medical degree at London University.
Much to J Mensah’s puzzlement the boy had gone incommunicado for the
first year, only to resume contract with a brazen telegram requesting
an urgent transfer of a hundred pounds sterling because SITUATION
CRITICAL. Where did the twerp think he would pluck that sort of money
from? Certainly not from the cocoa plantation. This year the crop was
promising to be poor. A blight had set in, charring the yellow pods
that jutted breastlike from the trunk. At best there would be a few
dozen bags; not up to the usual yield. And there was one more thing to
worry about: Nana, the girl.
She was the
daughter of Mr. Reeves’ housekeeper Obi, and after the first evening
when he saw her J Mensah had made discreet inquiries. She was tall,
nimble-limbed, dark, with quiet enigmatic eyes. Obi’s means and
ambitions did not stretch to giving her a formal education but she had
doubtless been instructed in the fine wifely arts of cooking, cleaning,
and submission. As yet there had been none of the traditional preludes
to matrimony; no visits with bottles of White Horse and kolanut; no
delegation of relations hinting in that oblique, flowery way at the
obvious. J Mensah knew he had to get around to all of that soon.
The other day he
had brought Mr. Reeves from the District Treasury over to the house at
close of work. As they drew up in the Mini the scene was suddenly abuzz
with children jumping excitably, ostensibly at the sight of their
returning Papa.
– These all yours? Reeves had asked wryly, as he stepped out of the car.
– No ….not all of them….. nephews, nieces, that sort of thing, J Mensah had replied.
– I see, Reeves said, with a nod.
Reeves hadn’t
pressed the matter further, so J Mensah let it rest there, not inclined
to reveal that he was the father of thirteen children. Reeves was
patting the smaller children on their heads and pulling a cheek here, a
nose there J Mensah was uncomfortable, and in as menacing a tone as he
could summon he warned the children not to put their dirty hands on the
man’s shirt.
– I always say family is important. And your people…. Well, you really do extend your families now, don’t you?
J Mensah grinned,
certain there was an edge to what seemed like faint praise. But he
understood that the man could mean no offence. With his portly step,
thinning black hair, permanent stubble chin and fondness for
suspenders, Reeves was by far the most urbane of the insular pink bunch
that made up the district English gentry. On occasion he would ask J
Mensah up to his plinth balanced bungalow on Mission Hill. There, in
the evening sibilance of the avocado trees they would sip sundowners.
Obi would be kept on his feet all the while, ferrying a steady supply
of Reeves’ finest Scotch. When Obi appeared, staid and stocky, jangling
tray in hard, Reeves would chuckle: “Not exactly a gentlemen’s
gentleman Obi, but then again neither am I, ay!”. And then he would
light another Dunhill and return to regaling his guest with talk about
his childhood, his days in India and elsewhere in the service of what
he called “The British Vampire”
They said you could
never tell; could never be too sure with these oyibos, but J Mensah
presumed there was pith and core to the acquaintance. It was Reeves
after all who had taught him how to drive when he decided a year
earlier to splash the proceeds of a cocoa windfall on a Vauxhall. They
went out to the football pitch at St. Patricks College, where Reeves
had a friend among the iron-fisted Irish priests who ran the place.
Behind his cassocked back Reeves called the man Padre Picasso because
he was an avid watercolourist, whose real name was Seamus Flanagan.
The students came
out in their blazers and ties to watch as J Mensah learnt to manouever
the gear and steering and brakes, Reeves at his side, the Vauxhall
chugging away like an outlandish white insect gorging itself on grass.
On hearing that J
Mensah’s son was due to write the finals, it was also Reeves who
suggested that Kojo come up the hill and use his library, winking at J
Mensah and remarking; “Let the boy dust my tomes. I should be surprised
if he managed to get any swatting done in that kraal of yours.”
So when the rest of
the family was trudging the muddy pelt of road that led to the yam and
cassava plots, children wielding hoes and matches, women expertly balancing basins on their heads, Kojo would dress up neatly and wheel his father’s old Raleigh up the hill.
The library
consisted of one ceiling-high mahogany shelf, stacked top to bottom
with bound volumes of Shakespeare, Dickens, Conan Doyle and Kipling.
There were also the Britannica volumes, pages teeming with revelation.
Kojo was especially fascinated by the illustrations of prehistoric
animals, hard to imagine as the phantasmal forebears of the antelope,
perhaps the mangy-dog. About the books there hung the faint odour of
vintage dust. There was a desk and a wrought-iron chair in the room;
several photographs hung from the walls, flecked with damp: Reeves as a
young cherub, sitting between a bewhiskered man in a top hat and a
pleasant-faced, plump woman in a frilly dress and bonnet. Also, a
picture of Reeves and his chums beaming proudly, a Bengal tiger
prostrate at their feet, mahouts on an elephant in the background
Reeves was usually
gone by the time Kojo arrived the house, so he was let in by Obi.
Occasionally, too, a young girl named Nana would be on hand to give him
entrance, demure and elusive, disappearing almost immediately into the
quarters reserved for the housekeeper and his family at the back of the
bungalow. Kojo would go straight to the polished desk and begin by
working on his précis, selecting a piece from Nuttall and Turner’s
African Passages. Sometimes he would fall into a light drowse, from
which he would be jolted by the chime of the grandfather clock, or the
shrill cries issuing from a nest-festooned mango tree at the side of
the house.
One such day he
started awake to the receding rays of sunlight streaming in through the
slats of the window. It was nearly six o’ clock. He had to get home.
His throat was dry from thirst, and he had got through the day on a
meagre breakfast of akara and pap, shared with his siblings.
Obi was away from
the Reeves residence that day, so he and Nana had been the only two
around, even though as was customary she hadn’t made herself seen all
day. Gathering his books into the raffia satchel, he made his way
through a dim corridor which led onto the sitting room and out the
front door. A bedroom door was open, and a diagonal of light lay on the
floor, orange and webbed
Kojo happened on
the scene before there was time to retreat into the shadows: Reeves was
entwined on the bed with a girl who was unmistakably Nana. Black and
pink legs spliced in sweaty coupling; the mosquito net had slipped its
mooring on the four-poster.
They broke their
embrace when they saw him. Reeves drew away and got up, chest rank with
hair. He said nothing and Kojo looked away instantly, conscious only
that behind him Reeves slammed the bedroom door with a force that shook
the frames of the house Kojo clutched his satchel tightly in
nervousness. He hadn’t known what to expect and Reeves had probably
been under the impression that the boy had gone home.
Stricken now with
panic over the consequences of his trespass and discovery, Kojo hurried
out through the front door and sullenly past the avocado trees with the
last of sunlight drizzling through their leaves. The sight of the river
seething with phosphorescence, always a delight to him, now failed to
detain his gaze. And in his hurry to leave he had accidentally
forgotten to put back the copy of Othello he had been reading before he
fell asleep.
J Mensah noticed the mask of worry on Kojo’s face when the boy returned from his day at Reeves place.
The boy had offered
a desultory greeting on the verandah as he ate his fufu and melon soup
and gone straight into the house without another word. If there were
anything the matter he would get to hear of it sooner or later. Kojo’s
tacitly acknowledged position as his father’s favourite son meant that
he was treated with infinite forbearance, but it certainly did not pass
without comment the following day when he refused to make his daily
journey up the hill to Reeves bungalow. He skulked about when the women
and the other children were going off and didn’t seem to be acting with
any sense of urgency.
That evening his
father was forced to confront him. And then it all came out. J Mensah
sat quietly through the nervous, stuttered narration, only becoming
visibly moved when his son blurted out the name Nana.
Are you sure of this? J Mensah asked, staring his son in the face curiously.
Papa, would I lie? I carry my two eye see them! Insisted Kojo.
J Mensah nodded
thoughtfully and waved his son away. Liaisons like this were not
exactly a rarity in Kabala, and there were fair-skinned, kinky-haired
children to show for it, even though the European fathers had sometimes
taken off and left their local mistresses in the lurch. But how could
this be happening to him?
The next day at
work Reeves picked up a hint of frost in J Mensah’s reply to his
chitchat, none of the usual warmth. But he imagined that anyone with
four wives and thirteen children had a right to feel burdened every now
and then, the weight of obligation like a python-heavy press on the
shoulders.
– Say, what been
happening to Kojo these days? Haven’t seen the chap around for a while.
Everything alright? Reeves chirped cheerfully.
J Mensah muttered
some words to the effect that Kojo had taken ill with fever and had to
be treated with a remedy that Reeves knew must consist of bits of leaf
and bark, a proper witches brew. Fortunately for J Mensah the white man
hadn’t seemed to sense a lie, in the event of which he would have
resorted to his catch phrase: “come out of the bushes”. This was the
phrase he mused when pressing for elaboration, meaning you should stop
beating about hiding behind a thicket of obliquity.
J Mensah could not marry the girl again, not after this Obi would
have to understand. Reeves of course had acted in total ignorance of
the girl’s connection to J Mensah. There was nothing to forgive,
because only anger sought placation and J Mensah was no longer angry.
He would ask Kojo to return to his studying and tread with greater
caution in the event of open doors. This was one of the many
inscrutable, inevitable things that happened between men, and Kojo
would grow to understand.
