Story Pairing:
On the Coast
Jordan Hartt & Franka Andoh
Kofi sat on the beach, arms folded over his knees, and watched the other fishermen
coming back in, the sun hung low on the horizon. He leaned back against the seawall.
He wore his son’s red Michael Jordan jersey that he’d been wearing every day now.
Without realizing it he leaned forward again, away from the seawall, so that it
scratched the jersey and the fraying number on the back. His large hands shaded his
eyes. About twelve boys were splashing in the water near the beach on the opposite
side of the channel and he thought of the first time he’d taken his son out in the boat
with him. Kofi remembered the wind, and the sun, and the way that Yaw had tried to
steady himself by reaching out with two hands to hold both sides of the boat at the
same time. But his arms were too short to reach, and so he’d just stood, knees bent,
arms outstretched, looking forward at the horizon, constantly shifting to maintain his
balance as they headed out into the gulf.
Farther down the beach, people gathered with shovels and buckets. Much fewer
now. In December, a couple of boys had discovered flecks of gold in the grainy sands
of the beach, and for two months the beach had surged with townspeople. Not just
from the town. People thronged into the coastal village from all over, they travelled
from Kisi, Nkwanta, Shama: even from up north, coming and digging up the sand to
make gigantic pillars on the beach. Kofi and his family had made fun of them,
thinking that by digging like crabs they’d be freed from work. More money, more
problems, Kofi had said then—he’d said it while they were digging into the sand,
themselves. It couldn’t hurt to try, could it?
But they—like nearly everyone else—hadn’t found anything. Now, most of the
people had gone, but the optimists remained, digging at the sand with broken
shovels.
Kofi sat with one hand filtering out the sun and watched them: distant specks
crawling on the beach. Yaw had made fun of them more than anyone, Kofi
remembered. And now look what had happened. Look how they were repaid. Maybe
they should have dug for gold after all, instead of casting for fish.
The sky reflected the azure ocean. The wind was soft and gentle and the sunlight
bounced off the sea making it shimmer and shine. The other canoes cruised past,
patched sails fluttering wildly in the wind. They were headed towards that blue
boundary that never seemed to end. It was a day like this many years ago when his
grandfather had taken him out for the first time; and he’d learnt that you either loved
the sea or loathed it. There was always the tumultuous mixture of pleasure and fear,
and when the sultry water drew you into its embrace, you were gone.
The sea is on its best behaviour for you, he’d said to his son who turned to smile
at him. The boy had settled and now only one hand clutched the side of the boat.
Kofi’s eyes shone and his mouth was slightly ajar. He turned back quickly to look at
the other boats, his father sighed.
So you see my son, it’s just me out here. Me, the sea and the old man upstairs.
But I’m with you Papa, Kofi grinned confidently; it’s now you, me, the sea and
the old man. How about that?
He had to laugh.
They’d laughed a lot, he remembered. Yaw’s laughter had been infectious. Once
he started, the whole family would join in. Laughing around the table, talking about a
recent match, or the gold-diggers.
He stood up and walked quickly away from the seawall, blinking his eyes rapidly.
It’s no good to think about it, he thought. It won’t change anything, wouldn’t bring
anyone back.
Yaw was his first born. The first child Ama had placed on his lap and his heart
had beaten so fast he thought it would stop.
“I’ll call him Yaw,” he’d said to Ama who smiled understandingly.
“He looks just like him,” he’d said unable to tear his eyes from the baby. From
the hairline, shock of jet black hair with a grey patch, the resemblance was almost
scary. Yaw grew tall quickly by the age of twelve he was as tall as Kofi, and then he
got even taller. He used to rest his elbow on Kofi’s shoulder and lean in, as if about to
tell a secret, and say things like, “You know something Papa, fishing is a man’s duty,”
in the same way that Kofi’s father used to talk, but Yaw would say it in such a way
that everyone in the family would laugh.
Because of his height, he played basketball instead of football—he’d watch the
Black Stars with Kofi at their neighbours’ house, of course and he’d cheer himself
hoarse—but basketball was what he always talked about. He would catch the ball
down low, back up against his defender, and then turn and lay the ball in as though it
were something he was meant to do. On the fishing boat with Kofi, he would sprawl
in the middle, all arms and legs, until it was time to pull the net in, and then he could
do the work of three men, without ever seeming to strain.
Kofi sighed. His chest felt clogged up, had felt like that since that day. It’s not
like he didn’t love his other children—his son Kwaku; his daughter Serwaa, with her
mischievous grin and dimpled cheeks. She would run towards him and hug him hard
even if his clothes were imbued with the smell of salt and fish. The grains of sand
would rub off her face but she didn’t care. Even if Ama’s face did not light up when he
entered the house with no fish, Serwaa would more than make up for his wife’s
response.
He remembered the day she was born and how complete his life felt. He had his
two boys and now a little queen mother who looked adoringly at him and gripped his
little finger tightly in her tiny but strong fists. He had loved her more than anything.
His little tomboy, she couldn’t wait to walk and then when she did, you had to watch
her all the time. She would climb everything. He remembered the day he found her
on the cupboard. She’d waved at him.
“Daada. Daada.” He’d walked slowly towards her.
“Stay there, Serwaa. Stay right there,” he said softly, trying to take the panic out
of his voice. She had dissolved into giggles and clapped her little hands and he
thought he would die of fright. All it would take was a tiny step and then, her perfect
round head on the hard cement floor. He dashed towards her, grabbed her by the
waist, set her down slowly, tenderly.
“Daada” She raised her little arms. “Arry me, Daada. Arry me.” There was trust
in her voice, confidence in her face and love in her eyes. It’s different out there on the
sea. You can’t move fast enough, you can’t save your child that easy.
Someone screamed on the beach. He looked up to see the man throw his shovel
away and run around in crazy circles. Lucky guy. He had found gold and his life was
about to change. He needed his life to change, but right now, he didn’t know where
his life was going. Whether he and Ama would survive.
“Hmmmmm.” He dropped his head into both palms. Kwaku did that a lot of
that now. His studious son. The boy kept to himself, leafing through books that had
passed through many hands. He was constantly borrowing out of the rusty, broken
down mobile library behind the head teacher’s office. Kwaku was shy where Yaw was
loud, but his anger came in like a sudden storm, fast and furious. There had been
more of that lately, Kwaku’s way of dealing with the situation. It was just like himself
and the other Yaw. He always prayed that his sons would find some common ground.
For a second he lost his train of thought, the sea turned into a misty, blue blur
and his head ached. Yaw had been his consolation, his grace from God and
forgiveness for a life that he had caused to be lost. He had been drawn towards this
son like a magnet in just the way he had followed his older brother around earning
the name, ‘Boy Shadow,’ from his Pa. It was a bittersweet pain to watch his son make
a funny face and then throw a quick glance at his younger brother to see if he was
watching him. Yaw, the star of the show. The difference is that Kwaku with his
mother’s pride did not trail behind Yaw.
“Where’s Aw? Serwaa asked yesterday.
He could not speak. What could he tell her? That Yaw was up there in heaven?
Where is heaven? She would ask. Then what would he say next? That it’s a place up
there in the sky. She would point up and ask again.
“Sky?”
At that point, he would break down and sob like a baby right before his
bewildered five year old daughter. And he didn’t want to do that. So he had averted
his eyes, rubbed her bristly hair and patted her on the shoulder.
Ama was in the kitchen when Kofi returned home. The smell of cayenne and chili
peppers, garlic and onion, made his eyes water. He sat down at the table and studied
his hands.
“So,” she said. “No fishing today.”
“Not yet,” he said.
She was chopping onions quickly, one hand on the handle, the other hand
covering the blade. You couldn’t even tell there was a knife. It looked as if she were
merely passing her hands over the onion and when she was done, it was in tiny
pieces. She used the blade to scrape the white onion meat to the side and placed
another. She covered it with her hands and began to chop. She didn’t look up at him.
“Did you at least try looking for gold?”
“We’ve been over this,” Kofi said.
“You don’t do much else.”
“Ama, we’ve been over this. There’s nothing there. Anyway, Yaw thought it was
funny that people would do that.”
“Don’t mention Yaw to me. And some people did find a little bit. Enough to last a
year.”
“They say they did. Maybe they didn’t.”
“Then how did they buy all those nice things?” she paused, and laid her knife
down.
“Most of them only earned enough for bus fare home,” Kofi said. “Anway, there’s
more to life than money,”
“Says the man who hasn’t brought in money in two months,” she said, picking
her knife back up and beginning to cut again.
Kofi said nothing. He sat sprawled on the chair, the way Yaw had used to.
“So what do we do?” She kept her head down; her broad back faced him.
“What do you mean?”
The knife moved faster. He cringed, hoping her fingers were safe. He hoped he
would be safe.
“You know what I mean, Kofi. You want me to spell it out and then you can say
that I am disrespectful. That I don’t know my place.”
He lowered his head.
“Well so be it! Maybe I don’t know my place. But you should know yours. And
your place is on that boat. What’s the plan, Kofi? You are now going to be a builder, a
teacher? Or maybe a driver? An assembly man? The President?”
“Ama,” he pleaded. She still had her back to him, but now the knife had been
placed to the right side of the table and she scooped up the chopped onions, and
spread the fingers of her right hand wide above the pot. The oil began to hiss and
grabbing the wooden spoon she stirred vigorously, her body tense as she flung the
rest of the ingredients in. The smell of momoni, the salted fish took over the little
kitchen. She was at war with everything. Kofi swallowed.
“I’m a fisherman,” he said. “I’m not some kind of teacher man. I’m not some
kind of assembly man. I’ll get back out there. I just need time,” he said.
“Time, Kofi and certainly the tide that you have been avoiding for the past year
will not wait for you. I’m tired of holding this family up. I’m tired of being the man.
You need to take your place in this family; you’re not the only one in pain. We all
miss him. I miss him very much, but I’ve had to bury my grief, not just for myself but
for you too.”
Her voice broke and he yearned to rise from his chair, his fear, and to put strong
arms around this woman.
It’s going to be okay, Ama. Everything will be okay. He knew what to say, but the
lies stuck in his throat, would not leave his mouth and he got up slowly and walked
out of the house again.
“And take that smelly shirt off,” her shrill voice followed him out of the door.
He went out and leaned against the outside wall of their house. He reached into
his pocket for cigarettes. Ama hated them, and he’d given them up when they got
married. But he’d started again since his son’s death. He walked a few metres away
from the house. He lit a cigarette and walked.
On Friday, the afternoon sun was high, the air hazy and salty. Clouds with gray
underbellies droned thick on the horizon. He was sweating and he lifted the hem of
his son’s jersey to his forehead to wipe the sweat off. He remembered when he’d first
put it on. He’d been sitting in the children’s room, lying on the floor on Yaw’s mat
that he had found in a corner—who knew for how long. The boyish smells of the
room—Yaw’s school clothes, his sandals, his pillow—were thick and Kofi lay on the
floor a long time. He realized he was clutching the red jersey in his right hand. He sat
up and took off his shirt and slowly put the jersey on. It had smelled like the memory
of his son: fresh, alive, young. Now it smelled like him. Like sweat, and—admit it—
like failure, he thought. I’m in a bad place, he thought, as he walked. Did he need
proof? He sighed as two men drove past in a nice car. They wore suits and he
wondered where they were going.
Kofi’s head throbbed; rubbing both knuckles into his burning eyes, he closed his
eyes at the harsh sun. He ran his hands over his head, once, twice and clenched his
teeth. How many more sleepless nights? Of being jerked out of regular nightmares
and then lying on the thin mattress, Ama’s back solid against his, staring at the dirty
wall that had brown finger prints at different heights. That was Serwaa, the prints
nearest the ground, and Kwaku’s and the one he tried to avoid but his eyes dragged
back to again and again. The pencil marks on the wall that Yaw had created. The
recollection of him yelling at the boy reverberated in his head and he would lie awake
until the sun would gently enter the room. Ama would roll out of her side of the bed,
he would hear her slippers shuffle into the other room, she would call out to the
children and he would shut his eyes tight. But he knew, that she knew, that the inbuilt alarm that had sent him to sea every morning for twenty years could not be
switched off just like that.
But she had pretended and he had too. And it had become harder to talk
because he was so afraid that when she discovered the truth, her anger would burn
him up and he would be like a fish caught in a net flapping and fighting for its life,
separated from the sea that was its life, until it gave up.
He was tired of fighting. He had fought for her, Ama the daughter of the head
teacher who also translated in the courts. Wanting a big man’s daughter was like
desiring a ripe mango hanging high on the tree in the cemetery. And then the
memories flooded back, right where he stood against the walls of this house that
belonged to Ama’s parents. Where they now lived, loved and raised their children.
“You’re a little short, but I like you.”
She’d leaned towards him and laughed in his face. Maybe he should have told
her then, when she may have been more accepting of the secret demons that he had
buried in the deep of the sea. Choosing him over the privileged boy’s who wore shoes
and were tall. He’d loved her as hard as he’d hated the other Yaw. Now his little Yaw
had floated down there and unlocked the bad memories.
His cousin Kwame worked at a small motel near the waterfront a couple kilometres
east of Elmina, toward Cape Coast. It was a new motel, owned by an elderly Dutch
couple who sat in their own apartment in the back and watched television while the
fan clicked around overhead. They only came out in the morning for breakfast, and
the evening, for dinner and drinks. Kwame essentially ran the place, which catered
mostly to tourists and government officials. Like Yaw he was tall—much taller than
Kofi—and he looked up in surprise and with a big smile as Kofi entered the motel
restaurant.
“No fishing yet,” he said, casually, not an accusation. The way someone might
say, it’s still raining. Kofi was grateful. It had only been two months. Why shouldn’t
he mourn?
Kwame was polishing a set of drinking glasses with a damp rag. Although it was
nearly evening, the restaurant was almost empty. A man and a woman sat at one
table drinking colorful drinks out of a straw, staring out at the veranda. Kofi
wondered why they were sitting inside. If he were on holiday, it would be much nicer
to be outside, he thought.
“Not yet,” Kofi said. He saw his cousin glance down at his shirt, and then glance
away again quickly. His cousin turned around and came out with a bottle of Coke,
which he opened with a simple twist of his fingers, although it was the kind that
needed to be opened with an opener. He handed it to Kofi. The soda was cool, and
refreshing. Kofi held it against his head.
“How’s the beach?” Kwame asked “Still torn up from the gold diggers?”
“Still is,” Kofi said. “Crazy people. Still, how great would it be, huh?”
“I can’t even imagine,” Kwame said. “You ever think about joining them again?”
“It’s a fool’s errand,” Kofi said.
Kwame laughed. “I’ll admit it,” he said, “I took the children down one afternoon.
We dug around ourselves for a couple of hours. Enjoyed ourselves, actually! Played in
the water, dug for gold. It wasn’t a bad time. Kisi found what she was convinced was
a gold rock, but it was a yellow rock.” He laughed. “It was about the size of my fist.
She had this whole plan that we were going to buy an airplane and live in it.”
“Live in it?” Kofi repeated, laughing. He drank from the Coke bottle. It was cold
and good.
“Yep, live in it. Aba asked her why an airplane and she said so that we would live
up in the sky with God. Can you believe that child?”
The two men laughed again. Kwame glanced toward the back, but it was just
them and the two tourists. No one else. He tossed the white towel over his shoulder.
“No idea. But she keeps the rock in her room, now. She named it Clarence.
Whenever she does something and gets in trouble, she blames Clarence.”
Kofi laughed. “Ama said something about that,” he said. “I thought it was a toy, I
didn’t realize it was a golden rock.”
“Aba must have told her,” Kwame said. “Now we all blame Clarence for
everything. In a way, I feel like that rock is worth much more than it would have been
even if it had been gold. You know what I mean?”
“I do,” Kofi said. “That’s how I feel. People are more important than money.”
“But a man’s got to pay to live,” Kwame said.
Kofi drank from the Coke.
“How’s Serwaa?” Kwame asked. “How’s Kwaku? How’s—”
Kofi said, “Kwame, I know that I need to get back out on the water.”
“…how is Ama…” Kwame finished, because he’d already started. He glanced at
the two people in the restaurant and said, “Kofi, come outside with me.” The two
men went out onto the veranda. The warm wind crinkled in the palm fronds. The gulf
was a clear, darkening blue. “You don’t have to do anything,” Kwame said. “I know
what people say, but I hope you aren’t listening. There are many things a man can do.
Look at me. I don’t fish. What about taking a job as a driver?”
“But I’m a fisherman.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Those are just words to say. Like I said before, I
can get you a job here anytime.”
“Fishing is what’s real work,” Kofi said. “Wait, I didn’t mean that. But you know
what I mean?”
“No I don’t.”
Kofi stumbled over his words. “It’s it’s a man, the boat, the water, the sky, and
the fish.”
His father had been a fisherman, and his grandfather had been a fisherman. And
his son..... had been. He knew nothing else.
“I need to get back out on the water. I need to get back out on the water tonight,”
Kofi said. “I see the looks of the other men. I see the looks of Ama. She thinks I don’t
care, but I do.”
“Then go.”
He was tired of fighting by himself. “I can’t. I need you to go with me.”
Me? Kwame’s eyes filled with fear and his mouth turned into a tiny o. He stared
at Kofi.
“Why me?”
“You know why Kwame, because you’re the only one who understands what
happened that day with Yaw senior on the boat.”
“I won’t say I understand Kofi, how does one understand these things. I do know
that I swore never to get on a boat again.” Kwame looked straight into Kofi’s eyes, his
voice was firm.
Kofi gripped the neck of the Coke bottle and took a deep swig, the bottle made a
sucking sound when it came off his lips. He’d nearly finished it. He wiped his mouth
with the back of his hand, the two men were silent. Kwame looked uneasily behind
him, the Dutch woman wearing a large yellow boubou came out to the bar area. She
glanced in their direction. Kwame looked nervous.
“I need to go,” he said.
“Come with me, my brother. Let’s face our fears together, tonight. Let’s do it.”
Kofi whispered urgently.
“I can’t, Kofi. I don’t care that people call me a coward. I know that people laugh
at me when I go down the market to buy fish for work. They call me a woman.” A
hurt look crept into Kwame’s eyes. “But I have a good life; I take care of my family. I
do not complain.”
Kofi looked downwards, his eyes had welled up and Kwame knew he had said it
all wrong. But it was out there and he couldn’t take it back. He put his arm over
Kofi’s shoulder and held him tight.
“Look Kofi, I’ve got to go, but let me say this. I cannot be everything to everyone.
I’ve always been supportive. But there are some battles that a man can fight better by
himself. Remember our grandfather used to say that no one takes medicine for a sick
man. I’ve been with you since we were just boys and what happened with senior Yaw
was tough for all of us. I know you’ve carried the guilt all these years and I cannot
even try to understand what it’s like for you having lost little Yaw as well. I haven’t
walked your path; I cannot tell if it is smooth, rocky or full of little stones. But it’s
your path.”
Kofi handed the bottle over to Kwame, there was still a little Coke in it. Kwame
turned it upside down and poured it into the ground.
“Libation.” He smiled, but his cousin had a dead look in his eyes. I’ve got to go,
my madam keeps looking this way. If you do go to sea tonight Kofi, may you find the
courage you need to get your life back.” He watched Kofi’s stiff back take slow steps
for a few seconds and then quickly went back to his place behind the bar.
The moon was white and full, casting Kofi’s shadow behind him on the sand. He sat
resting his arm on the side of his canoe. Palm trees crumpled in the warm wind.
Behind him, the lights of the town shone down their different kind of light: warmer,
louder. Friday night. He smelled the exhaust of a passing auto whose motor sounded
as if it were about to break. Music came down from the town. He sat down here,
where it was quiet and still. The sand was cold when he lifted fistfuls of it and let it
slip through his fingers. The waves rolled in. He dug his feet into the sand. The
moonlight sparkled off the sand on his feet. Wait, he thought. Sparkled? He got on
his knees and looked more closely. There was a firm clump of sand that was glinting.
He lifted it in his fingers and turned it around and around. He knew what it was.
He’d never seen it before—except on his cousin’s television: the first time was as a
kid, watching black and white movies—but he knew what it was. He glanced up at the
sky. God, whom he’d not spoken to since his son’s death, had answered his unasked
prayer. He wouldn’t need to fish, now—not now, maybe not ever again. He flipped it
around his fingers a little more. He bit it, the way he’d seen actors—pirates, cowboys,
British sailors—do. He carefully placed it on the side of the canoe. Thank you, God,
he though. Thank you, thank you. He carefully dug in the sand a little bit more.
Kofi’s heart skipped in his chest. There was more of the sparkling wealth
embedded in the sand. He surely would not need to fish again. He jumped high and
landed on the soft sand, his vocal delight carried over the waves that charged towards
the shore. He’d done the right thing by waiting! Two months of mourning, that
wasn’t so bad. And now God was saying, here you go.
Suddenly the urge came on him so strong that his knees buckled under him and
he could hardly hold himself up. He staggered towards the canoe, pushing it with
both hands, almost falling when a huge wave helped him out. He was knee deep in
the sea, and felt a chill going through the thin t shirt. Jumping into the boat he was
carried off quickly by the next wave. He began to paddle and as the sea drew him in,
the images he had bottled up for so long began to run like a movie reel in his mind.
His throat tightened as he remembered the sunny day many years ago, when he and
Yaw exchanged sand filled fists over who should go with Pa.
Pa had said,” We’re all going. Come on get into the boat both of you silly boys.”
And he still had felt it was not fair, since Yaw had gone with Pa the day before. He
had been seething with anger and the paddle as it sliced through the water drew
strength from his anger. He remembered the smirk on Yaw’s face and how he had hit
him with the paddle. His father had shouted and the look on his brother’s face as he
head rolled backwards followed by his thin legs into the blue, blue ocean. The water
had swallowed him up and he had watched helplessly, regretfully as he remembered
what his father had said. “We don’t teach our sons how to swim, because it takes
longer for them to die.” And what did he think, what the hell that he was smarter
than his Pa, or grandfather by teaching Yaw his son how to swim. He wiped his wet,
salty face with the t-shirt. It smelt foul. It smelt like he felt watching his son struggle,
fight, kick to keep his life for the same blue ocean to swallow him up and then spit
him out the next morning. Kofi screamed, “Why, why God did I have to lose so
much?” The boat rocked and the calming sea mirrored the full moon. What the hell,
did he think he could outwit the sea by teaching little Yaw, to swim. The sea was like
a woman, it was a temptress. It lulled you into its arms and then puked you out.
Maybe he had to tell Ama what had happened. Maybe he would never be free until
then. He turned the canoe around, the shore looked further than it actually was and
the gold would still be waiting for him, the angry, undeserving coward that he was.
He dug into the water with his paddle. The earth ahead of him dark; water all
around him; sky a dark canopy overhead. The sea was life, the sea was death. It gave,
and it took away—and it gave, again.
“You aren’t wearing your shirt,” Ama said, shaking him. He opened his eyes. Sun was
coming at a bright slant through the window. He was shirtless for the first time in
two months. He sat up. He was wearing his shorts and nothing else. “I threw it,” he
said. He reached quickly into the pocket of his shorts and fingered the small gold
piece.
Ama put her hand on his shoulder. “I heard you took the canoe out last night,”
she said.
It never failed to surprise Kofi how quickly news traveled in the town. Of course
she knew. But she didn’t know something else. He now knew something else. “I went
fishing,” he said. It felt like a lie, but he knew it wasn’t. It was just a different kind of
fishing. “Did you know?” he said, “did you know that you are married to a rich man?”
He grinned. He knew much more than she did. He lay back, and rested his head
on his hands, smiling up at the ceiling. “What would you think,” he said, “of owning
the hotel near the coast, where Kwame works.”
“Did you catch sick or something?” Ama demanded. She stood up. “Come down
and eat some food. And where are the fish?”
“In my pocket,” Kofi said, still grinning. He stood up and followed her out of the
room, pulling on trousers and a shirt. He went with her into the kitchen. The
porridge was bubbling on the stove. She took his cup but, but he held up his hand.
“No,” he said. “You and me,” he grinned at her again. “ are going out to eat.”
“With what money?” she asked.
“With my money,” he said. He reached under the bed where they kept a small box
full of cedis. The money was for emergencies. They put in bills sporadically. He
scooped up a handful of the colorful bills, and threw them at her. Money rained down
on her.
“You stupid man,” she screamed, grabbing wildly at the flying notes. “It’s one
thing to be crazy over the death of your son, but to be stupid? Your grief has gone to
your head.”
He stared at her. She’d never talked to him so directly, before. And he noticed she
hadn’t said, “our” son, but his. As if it was only he who was still grieving. Which was
fine—he’d loved Yaw, and he wasn’t ashamed of it. And yet she wasn’t willing to
notice that he’d gotten rid of the jersey—that he’d moved on. But those were worries
and fights for poor couples to have. Not rich couples. He showed her a ten-cedi note,
and ripped it in half. Then, as she opened her mouth, he quickly showed her the gold
piece.
“You and I, ”he said,“are going to Kwame’s hotel, to eat.” He paused. “And maybe
to buy it.”
She spoke in a whisper. “How many of those did you find?”
“Sixteen,” he lied, quickly. He nodded, the lie picking up strength inside him.
“Sixteen,” he said, again. It felt good to say it. And now that he’d said it, who was to
say that it wouldn’t happen? And even if it didn’t, this piece would change
everything.
She took it out of his hand. She looked at it carefully in her palm. The way she
gazed at it reminded him of when she was younger, and they’d just gotten married.
Like she trusted him; like everything would be all right, no matter what.
“That is acceptable,” she said.
“What is acceptable?” he asked
“That you take me to lunch,” she said, motioning with her head to the scattered
cedis. He began to pick the money off the floor.
She put on her favorite dress and he put on long pants and a new shirt. He
discovered that he smelled of sweat and sand and saltwater, and he washed himself.
The water felt good and clean on his skin. He pushed his face into it.
They went out the door into the sunlight and walked east on the road toward the
hotel. The sun shone down on them, a wealthy man and a wealthy woman. He
thought of the torn-up beach, and the hundreds of people who were digging. And
he’d found one piece without even trying.
“Where are you keeping the other fifteen?” she asked him.
“Secret hiding place,” he said. “Same place where I keep my letters to Yaw.”
He’d made up the “letters” right in that moment. He came up with a story also in
that moment that he wrote Yaw a letter every day, and put each day’s letter in a
secret place. Somewhere in the house. Obviously she hadn’t found them, yet, so she
would believe that it existed. And obviously he had been broken by the death of his—
his, now—son. So that part was believable, too.
She didn’t say anything to that, and they continued to walk. He didn’t know what
the gold was worth, as it sat in his pocket, but he knew that no one would look at him
for not fishing. The sun was high and hot. The palm trees were still. The hotel was a
stark white building and grass lawns and pinkish white tourists sitting on lawn chairs
looking out at the gulf, reading magazines. They strode directly into the restaurant,
where Kwame was waiting on an elderly Japanese couple. They sat down.
Kwame looked quickly toward where the Dutch woman sat at another table.
She was hidden behind her magazine, and he came quickly toward them. “Get out,”
he said.
“We would like menus,” Kofi said.
“I think you think you live here,” Kwame said.
“I went fishing last night,” Kofi said, in a loud voice. Heads from other tables
turned.
Kwame was breathing quickly. He glanced back at the Dutch woman. She was
now watching the, her glasses perched on her nose.
“You can’t be here,” Kwame whispered loudly. “Sorry, it’s not a good time.”
“I want to order food,” Kofi said. Kwame glanced at Ama, now, and saw that
she had a fine dress on. He now saw that Kofi was dressed for the restaurant, as well.
Ama looked embarrassed. “He’s being serious, Kwame,” she said. “We are paying
customers.”
Kofi flashed paper bills at him.
Kwame nodded, slowly. “We’ll bring you water right away, sir,” he said. He sat
them down at a table and went off. Ama turned her gaze on Kofi. “Must you be
difficult?” she asked. “You could make things really hard for him. Well…I guess you
could just hire him to do something, if he loses his job.”
Kofi laughed, and lounged back in his chair. He hadn’t laughed that hard for
months, he realized, as he laughed. He saw people at other tables look over at them.
Let them look! He laughed and sat and grinned. He had come to believe that he really
did have sixteen gold bits, not just one. No. It wasn’t that. It was that one was more
than enough, for now. He would get more, though. God was helping him, now.
Things were changing. He had suffered enough. He would go back to the beach that
night and get the rest. “Or maybe I’ll just buy this place,” he said, still loudly.
Kwame came back with two bottles of Voltic water. He wore a puzzled expression
as he placed the two bottles, one in front of Kofi and the other in front of Ama.
“I’ll be back with the menu.” He said. Kofi realised the customers were still
stealing glances at him.
“You do that!”
“Kofi, stop it.” Ama hissed at him, “You are embarrassing him.”
Kofi laughed. “Please, is this not his job? Does he not get paid to serve?”
“Stop it I say, or I will leave right now.” She made a move towards her bag
“Okay, okay. I’ve stopped. I am happy. I’m in a good place. We are in a good
place.”
Kwame came back with the menu.
“We found gold,” Kofi said.
“You found gold,” Kwame said.
“Lots of it,” Kofi said. “Well, I found it, I should say. Remember how I told you to
come fish with me? You should have come. You would have landed a bright gold fish.
Here, let me fish something out of my pocket to show you”—he put it on the table—
“look at that.”
“You will lose it, if you keep doing things like that,” Kwame said. His eyes were
scanning the other tables.
“Let’s buy this hotel together,” Kofi said loudly.
Kwame said, “I will leave the menu here with you, and come back.”
“Stop it,” Ama said.
“Stop what? Are we afraid of that woman?”
“You could make him lose his job.”
“Please, woman. No one can replace him. He practically runs this place.”
“Stop talking so loud,” she said. She settled back, and sipped from her water. It
was clear that she wanted to enjoy herself. She smoothed out her dress and smiled.
“Still,” she said, softly, “it would be nice to live in a place like this.”
“There you go, much better.”
Kwame came back.
“Sir?” he asked, avoiding Kofi’s eyes. His voice broke.
“Please, I’ll have the soup,” Ama asked sweetly, trying to meet his eyes so he
would see her smile. Kwame’s face was sombre and his eyes looked through Ama as if
he was there, but he could not see them.
“He will have the soup too,” she added quickly when Kwame turned his gaze
towards Kofi. Thank you.”
“Welcome, Madam. Sir.” He executed a queer little bow and strode off.
“Can we just enjoy this without you lording it over anyone?” Ama asked. “You go
from useless man to rich man in one day and honestly I think I prefer the useless
man.”
Kofi leaned back. “I didn’t mean to ‘lord it over’ anyone,” he said.
“You’re just relieved,” Ama said. “You are providing for your family, and you
don’t have to go out on the boat.”
“I went out on the boat,” Kofi said. “Last night. Right after I found the piece of
gold.”
He settled even more in his chair. He could see that she was impressed. She still
cared about him, he understood suddenly.
The soup came to the table, hot and piping, fish and meat swimming in it.
Neither of the two men acknowledge the other, but there would be time enough for
that, Kofi thought. He had all the time in the world.
“You mean pieces,” Ama said, as they ate.
“What?” he asked. He was thinking pieces of meat.
“Pieces of gold,” she said. “You said you found sixteen.”
“That is what I meant,” he said, quickly. He was enjoying the way she was looking
at him. So this is what it’s like to be rich, he thought. It is a good thing to be this man.
They enjoyed their lunch, the fish was fresh, the soup hot and spicy. Just the way
they liked it. “Leave him a tip, Kofi.”
“Of course.” He responded by placing one cedi on the table. Kwame inclined his
head to them and did not say a word as he watched them go, hand in hand.
As they walked back, the sun was still high overhead. Ama eagerly told him all the
things that she planned to do. She had never visited her friend in Kumasi. She had
never stayed at a nice hotel in Accra. She had never been anywhere beyond Cape
Coast.
“The important thing,” she said, as they walked past the huge white castle toward
the embankment that he now felt like they could own, “is that we take care of family.
I would like Kwaku to study at university.”
The water and the canoes sparkled in the sun. The beach was torn up with
people digging for gold.
“Where were you?” she asked. “Maybe we can get more than sixteen.”
He realized, suddenly, that he didn’t know. It had been dark, and he’d docked at
the other end of the beach. The entire beach was being ravaged.
“I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “I was just sitting there, and then God led
me to the piece.”
“Pieces,” you mean, she said. “Right?”
“Yes,” he said. “Exactly. Pieces.”
She was looking at him carefully, and he understood that he had slipped up. “I
see,” she said. “That’s why you only showed me one, just like the shameful little liar
that you are.”
“Liar?” he asked. “How am I a liar? I showed you the piece.”
“The one little piece,” she said. “And we spent all our money, because of that?”
The sand stretched endlessly, the sea was calm and he felt like a fool. He could see
her face crumple and the light in her eyes dim.
“You are so stupid!” She yelled, her face close to his. He was shocked at the anger
in her eyes, but he wasn’t surprised. He was really a stupid man for having let this
slip through his fingers.
“Why did you not mark the place, something, anything?” “And then you talk
about hotels, you’re going to get a hut. A hut! That’s what you’re going to get. Two
hotels!”
She kissed her teeth and turned back walking briskly towards their house.
“Ama, Ama, wait, wait for me. “
The wind took his plea and threw it away and even if she heard, she was so mad
that he knew she would not come back.
He dropped himself on the sand and cupped his face with his hands. Life was just
kicking him left right and centre. Like the ragged ball the boys played with on the
beach made up of dirty old cloth, tattered and flapping as the strong kicks and the
wind took it this way, that way.
He sighed, looked towards the sea.
He thought about his Pa who always said it was a blessing to be born by the sea.
He’d thought so growing up, and spending days on end, running along the shore,
playing and then meeting the boats when they come in. He was proud of Pa who
always had the best fish, the big fish that the women from Accra liked. Pa went
furthest, because he was the bravest. Only the brave fishermen went far out to sea
where they saw all kinds of things. But his Pa was never afraid.
“I have a good heart, if I must say so myself. I don’t think evil of anyone and so I
go as far as the water will let me and I come back safe every day.”
The paddle had made a clunking sound when it hit the side of Yaw’s head, his
brother had screamed, his mouth was open wide, the fear in his eyes so palpable. He
had been afraid too, knowing that it was his hateful heart that had helped the sea
take his father’s favourite son away.
He knelt down in the sand. There wasn’t a day in his life when he couldn’t feel
the clunk of the paddle everywhere in his body. To be capable of killing your own
brother was to be Cain, marked for life, he thought. That was what the mark was, that
God put on Cain’s forehead. It wasn’t anything visible, at all. It was a mark inside his
brain, for the rest of his life, that he would have to remember what he’d done.
But God hadn’t killed Cain, he’d only exiled him. Sent him away. He’d provided a
wife for him. A family. He’d given Kofi all the same things.
The beach front was getting busy; the women shrieked at each other, jostling for
position as the boats bobbing gently on the sea drew nearer the shore. He had to
leave, come back later and try again.
He sat in the sand for a long time, the cool breeze blew soothingly over him and
he dozed off. Suddenly, the sound of chattering children roused him. He rubbed his
eyes and sat up. School was out already? God, how long had he been sitting here? It
seemed that the days went quickly even for an aimless man.
You are being cruel. He chided himself
But why not?
You are messed up. Your life is over.
Who said?
Ama, Kwame, Serwaa.
Serwaa? Even my little Serwaa whose Daada can do no wrong?
Yes, Serwaa. And she doesn’t even know how bad her Daada has been.
He shook his head vigorously trying to rid his mind of these thoughts that
battled with his sanity.
The noise of the children grew louder and some of the boys shoved each other
onto the sand, laughing, screaming. He envied them their new beginnings. Then he
saw his son, Kwaku languishing at the back of the group. He was talking to a girl. She
was pretty, and tall – a head taller than his boy and she had an awkward walk, as if
one of her legs were longer than the other. She laughed out loud and then he laughed
too as if it was catching. And it was, is catching, laughter. He stared at them both,
couldn’t remember the last time he had caught laughter like that. He crouched in the
sand watching them. Kofi had never seen Kwaku talk to anybody like that.
This boy who kept to himself at home, his nose buried in book, look at him with
his sleeves rolled to his elbows. Ei, so this boy could be funky like this? Hold a
conversation? Kofi swallowed. His son had grown up, suddenly, in a way—and he
hadn’t even noticed. He’d been so consumed with his grief and guilt that he hadn’t
seen anything. What else was he missing? What was he missing about Serwaa? What
was he missing about Ama? What was he missing about himself? The girl smiled at
Kwaku and he put his arm around her waist for an instant, softly, and then let it
drop.
It was a beautiful thing to be alive, Kofi understood, but it was even more
beautiful to find gold.
He jumped into the sand and scrambled toward where he thought he had been.
He ran across the sand, avoiding bodies, families, buckets, shovels. He slowed down
as he neared the far end. He’d been seated right around here. “Lead me,” he prayed.
He prayed as he walked around, kicking at the sand lightly with his toes. A few kids
were now digging around him, but he wasn’t worried about it. He knelt down and ran
his hands around and around. There was nothing yet, but there would be. He would
come at night. He would come at night, and he would go back out on the water, and
when he came back in, the gold would be here. And in the meantime, he still had the
piece that was still in his pocket. One piece was enough. Ama didn’t understand. Just
that one piece would change their lives. And if he could get out on the water, he could
fish. Fish, and gold, and all.
Suddenly, the sun seemed to get brighter, the sea had an extra blue and he felt
lighter. He had an urge to talk to Kwame. He jumped up quickly and dusted the sand
off his trousers. He walked briskly back in the direction of the hotel.
His feet led him back to Kwame’s hotel. He sat in one of the cane chairs with the thin
cushions. Kwame was behind the bar, this time he was washing napkins and he
looked startled to see his cousin come back.
“Can I help you again, sir?” he sounded sarcastic.
“Don’t call me sir.”
“Why not? Are you not a customer?”
Kofi was silent.
“Aren’t you? Coming here and behaving like a big man.”
Kofi dropped his head onto the table.”
The silence weighed heavy. Kwame walked slowly towards Kofi’s table. The
restaurant was quiet. A grey haired man dozed in a cane chair.
He pulled out a chair and sat down.
“What’s going on, Kofi? You know you can talk to me.”
The silence got heavier, Kwame pulled his chair closer, his arm came out
cautiously over his cousin’s heaving shoulders. He could feel the pain emanating
from him. He said softly, “Come on Kofi, talk to me. Talk to me.”
Kofi raised his head, his eyes were red and his face was tight with hurt.
“I am so sorry; I came in here and misbehaved, Kwam.”
Kwame smiled a funny little smile. “I don’t remember the last time you called me
Kwam.”
“I mean it. I just feel as if my life is fucked. I don’t know which way to go. I
wanted to feel like a man. You know what I mean? A real man! “He gripped Kwame’s
hand, Kwame winced.
“Do you know what I mean? Do you understand? I wanted to feel like a man. I
haven’t felt like a man in a long, long time. Can we talk? Can I be really honest with
you?
“You know you can. But can I just close up the bar? Then we can talk? Yes?
“Take your time; I have all the time in the world.”
Kwame grimaced. Kofi understood that look; a working man does not have all
the time in the world.”
“I have something to tell you.”
“I’m coming, Kofi.” Kwame smiled at him and he was transported to when they
were children, sitting on the beach with huge coconuts, happy and content. It made
Kofi feel like a little boy all over again.
Kofi sat back in the chair, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He really
had all the time and the gold would wait.