iii
Now she is back in her chair by the fan palm. Amina is busy with the dinner inside. Olu and Ling are very dutifully helping her; Benson took the baby and the twins to find a tree. There are conifers in Ghana, she knows, but not fir trees. She started to warn them, then just let them go. They want to keep busy, she knows, not to say it. Not to let there be stillness or silence or pause. Not to say that they’ve done it. Sixteen years in the making, they’ve lost him. Whatever else, Kweku is gone.
The sun is going down; there will soon be mosquitoes. She takes a long drag, leaning back in the chair. She thinks of plump Ama’s round face, and she chuckles. Just barely a “woman,” how possibly “wife”? Then laughs at her chuckling. Is she jealous? Yes, maybe. Or more so embarrassed, for not moving on? She remembers meeting Benson in the lobby at Hopkins. The skin of burnt umber, black soap, velvet voice. Does Benson rather like her? she wonders. Yes, maybe. She laughs at this, too. Takes another long drag.
Mustafah is hanging up the lights with a ladder. She remembered that she had them and asked him to try. Mr. Ghartey is chewing sugarcane, watching with amusement. All of them start at the bell, at the gate. Fola looks over. “Must be Benson,” she tells them, though wonders why he didn’t honk his car horn instead. Mr. Ghartey opens both of the gates to let the car in. Ama stands there nervously, a taxi behind.
“Madame,” she says shyly, seeing Fola in the beach chair.
Fola scrambles up. “W-w-what a pleasant surprise.” She thinks to hide the cigarette but just can’t be bothered. She goes to greet Ama. “Is everything okay?” They’d dropped her back home when they returned from Kokrobité; Fola invited her to dinner, but Ama refused. She thinks that perhaps she’s changed her mind, and is happy. There is something about the woman that cries out for care. She wouldn’t mind having a new thing to care for, the other things appearing to have all fluttered off.
But Ama shakes her head. “I won’t stay, please,” she says, voice staccato and steady. “I brought these for you.” She holds out a bag, a plastic Ghana Must Go bag, her smile and raised eyebrows belying her pride. Her movements as before seem to replicate Fola’s: she presents the plaid bag as Fola presented the flowers. The mimicry is touching, almost paining. Fola smiles.
“Thank you,” she says. “Are you sure you won’t stay?”
Ama glances back at the taxi. “I won’t, please.” Mirroring Fola’s pained expression, she smiles, then she leaves. Fola, surprised by the sudden departure, holds up one hand as the taxi drives off. She cradles the plastic bag, pulling on her cigarette. Mr. Ghartey steps forward and closes the gate.
She returns to the chair. She peers in the bag. She laughs with such force that Mr. Ghartey looks scared. Cigarette in one hand, she retrieves with the other the slippers: battered slip-ons, thin, worn to the soles. She stubs out her cigarette to free both her hands up and only now sees the face drawn in the dirt. Kweku, however gestural (it must have been Kehinde). She looks at the mouth, at the angled-up eyes. “There you are.”
Here I am.
“Your wife’s a bloody genius. Slippers.” Starts to laugh, picks them up from her lap. “I mean, really.”
Genius. He is laughing. She is laughing. Why did I ever leave you?
“I also left you.” She breathes in the smell of forgotten familiar. She presses the soles to her dampening cheeks. “We did what we knew. It was what we knew. Leaving.”
Was it?
“We were immigrants. Immigrants leave.”
Not good enough.
“Cowards.”
We were lovers.
“We were lovers, too.”
Couldn’t we have learned? Not to leave?
“I don’t know.” She is quiet for a moment. She knows that they’re watching, the staff, from the gate, with confusion, alarm. But still can’t be bothered. She thinks but doesn’t say it: one can learn only so much in one life. “Still there?”
Yes. Forever.
She laughs. Yes, most likely. “We learned how to love. Let them learn how to stay.”
How are they? The children?
“They’re here,” she says, pointing. “I got what I wanted. You sent them all home. They’re all here for Christmas. We’re roasting a game fowl. Your Olu insists upon carving, of course.”
My Olu.
“Well, yes. He was always your favorite.”
Your Sadie.
“Then whose—?”
They’re each other’s. The twins.
“The twins…” She trails off. Hears a car engine idling. The honk of the horn. “They’ve come back. I should go.” But doesn’t. She sits, slips her fingers in the slippers as if they were mittens and covers her face. “You should go,” she says softly. She squeezes her eyes shut. The gate rattles. Tires turn. “I know, I know, I know.” Then there is quiet. Car doors open, shut. She slips out her fingers and opens her eyes.
• • •
A dawn-colored sunset.
“We found one!” calls Sadie.
She watches them hauling out the tree from the trunk. Benson smiles, waving. Waving back to him: “Coming.” She places one toe on the mouth on the ground. The sketch is remarkable, unmistakably Kweku. She stares at it, waiting to hear something else. Then laughs at her waiting. There is nothing to wait for. She picks up his slippers and brings them inside.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am so very grateful to God, and (in alphabetical order, from the bottom of my heart) Andrew Wylie, Ann Godoff, Anne Carol Edelberg, Anthony Campbell, Ashish Bhatt, Auntie Allison, Auntie Ertharin, Auntie Gail, Auntie Harriet, Auntie Joy, Auntie Judith, Auntie Renée, Auntie Simi, Carlos Watson, Avery Willis Hoffman, Catherine Coker, Charity Hobbs, Cheryl Faye, Cousin Alex, Damon Darryl Hamilton, Dan Urman, Daniele Novello, David Adjaye, David Holloway, Deborah Holloway, Dela Wosornu, Derrick Ashong, Dr. Juliette Tuakli my beloved mum, Dr. Lade Wosornu my brilliant father, Dr. Wilburn Williams my dearest dad, Edem Wosornu, Edward Williams, Elaine Markson, Eliza Bentley, Elizabeth Janus, Elizabeth Shipman Lee, Ellah Allfrey, Ernest Marshall, Eyi Williams, Fabio Berardo, Fiorhina Perez-Olive, First Corinthians Baptist Church, Ford Morrison, Francesco Aureli, Francesco Clemente, Gabriele Paoletti, Gabriella De Ferrari, Garry Bromson, the Geezer Gang, Genevieve Dadson, Genevieve Helleringer, Gianna D’Amore, the Harlem Arts Alliance Creative Writing Workshop, Heather Charisse McGhee, Ileane Ellsworth, Ingrid Barnsley Juratowitch, Jamakeah Barker, James Connolly, Jamin Gilbert, Jeanine Pepler, Jenny Calixte, John Earl Jelks, John Freeman, John Kuhn, John Reed, John Pepper, John Simms, Joy Hooper, Joy Sacca, Judas Hicks, Julia De Clerck-Sachsse, Kamin Mohammadi, Kate White, Kathryn Getty-Williams, Kathy Trotter, Keith Davis, Kendrick Forte, Kevin Quinn, Khadija Musa, Khameron Juttla, Kirsti Samantha Samuels, Kofi Owusu, Kristina Moore, Kurt Gutenbrunner, Kyle Juttla, Lanita Marie Tolentino, Laura Armstrong, Lauren L. Messelian, Lauren Zeifman, Lexa Marshall, Lindsay Whalen, Lord Patten of Barnes, Lou Gutenbrunner, Mai Gianni, Margaret Yee, Maria Manuela Enwerem Bromson, Mary D’Amore, Masao Meroe, Matthew Jacobson, Maureen Brady, Melanie Harris Anderson, Michael Ryan Robinson, Michaeljulius Youmanli Idani, Monte Harris, Muina Wosornu, Naima Jean Garvin, Nike Jonah, Nonking Eheh, Olukemi Morenikeji Abayomi, Omar Hakim, Pablo Mukherjee, Paola Pessot, Patricia Nelson, Patrick Marber, Paulo Perez Mouriz, Peggy Broderick, Pier Francesco Grasselli, Piero de Mattia, Pino Scarpato, Pradip Krishen, Rachel Watanabe-Batton, Raman Nanda, Rayya Elias, Rekha Thakrar, Renee Epstein, Rita Pacitti, Robin Holloway, Roszella Turner-Murray, Sadia Shepard, Saffron Juttla, Sangna Karir, Sarah Chalfant, Saskia Juratowitch, Sékou Neblett, Sergio Taranto, Sheila McKinnon, Shelby Nicole Washington, Slice() Mango, Sukari Helena Neblett, Suketu Mehta, Tamara Juttla, Taneisha Berg, Tawan Davis, Teju Cole, Thembi Ford, Professor Toni Morrison, Uncle Ade, Uncle Kojo, Uncle Remi, Uncle Yinka, Venetia Butterfield, Victor Magro, Vivian Kurutz, W. Watunde Omari Moore, Wilfred Finn, Yemeserach Getahun, and, above all, the first person I ever loved, Yetsa Kehinde Adebodunde Olubunmi Tuakli-Wosornu, my extraordinary and eternal journeymate.