10

I never knew there was so much bleakness in the world as I felt when I found myself in it without him. It felt, suddenly, like a strange place where I did not fit, and did not want to be. I tried to comfort Ma and Klenam and Mawuli, but most of the time I felt like being on my own.

I dreaded going to the creek without him. But I didn’t want to go with anyone else. I couldn’t face sitting alone in the places we had sat, doing the things we had done together. But the day I finally went, I understood what he had said to me because his presence was almost palpable as I walked down to the water to nestle fish traps in the shallows. And when I emptied them of fish and river prawns, I actually felt his delight. When I sat in the shelter grilling fish, eating it, and remembering his stories, I did not feel alone.

When I tried explaining it to Bright, he said, “Ei, you’re brave o, Sena!” But I didn’t see what there was to be brave about. People talked about ghosts as scary things to run away from, but the Togbe I sensed with me as I did the things we’d loved together was nothing like that, and instead of feeling afraid I welcomed his presence, and wished it to stay with me, always.

I realized then that the key lay in thinking about his life rather than his death. It worked at home too. When we stopped crying and did the things we used to do with him, it felt as though he were still with us. I encouraged Ma, Klenam, and Mawuli to talk about him, invite him back into our midst by celebrating his life rather than mourning his death, and I revived storytelling in the family, appointing myself chief storyteller and requesting contributions from the others, especially Ma.

I went back to the creek whenever I could. I told Ma I wanted to catch fish, and she was always happy when I brought some home for supper. We needed it more as money became tighter, and I even sold some when I was lucky with my catch. I’d woven more traps, and I knew Togbe loved that I was becoming a fisher in my own small way.

But I was really going there to be with him because that stream in the heart of nature was where I felt him most. It might not carry me bodily to him, but it connected us with each other, and with Great-Great-Grandpa Nutifafa and all those gone before who had lived on, and loved, the water. I wondered how many of them had learned to swim and fish in this creek. I thought of how it flowed into the river, and the river formed the lake, and how that whole realm of water in its unique way was like a road through time for all of us.

The season was advancing, my favorite time of year, and the stream was high. Fishing was good, but I couldn’t yet bring myself to try swimming again because I stubbornly wanted Togbe to be the one to guide me, with his gentle instincts for the water. I thought back to that day, that last swim of the old fishermen. How blindly I had trusted they’d still be here; had told myself there’d always be next rainy season! I sat quietly in our hideout while rain began to stream outside and plop inside, watching the endless ripple of raindrops on water, thinking of the boy by the river.

Ma was starting to look more tired at the end of each day as she went about her daily chores. Togbe had been old but strong, and losing his help both at home and on the farm was a blow. Auntie Kafui came over some evenings to pray with her. She’d sing hymns with Ma, eyes heavenward, arms uplifted, then pressed to her heart, acting out the words and trying to lead Ma, saying, “Let us praise the Lord, Sister Aku!”

Ma enjoyed the singing but clearly felt foolish in her feeble miming. I tried not to smile, watching them, but cherished Auntie Kafui for sharing her irrepressible spirit with us. She started giving us more produce from their farm. Her granddaughter Enyonam would knock on our door and come in with a basket on her head or over her arm. When it had a neatly starched, lace-edged cloth over it, I knew it was cooked food they were sharing with us. We tried to reciprocate as much as we could, and I increased my fishing so I could share fish and river prawns with them.

Mr. Adjoyi Jr. was also dropping by more frequently. We’d seen less of him since his father’s death, and I knew from conversations overheard at the funeral that he was investigating the possibility of moving to Accra now that his father was gone. He’d made a generous donation at Togbe’s funeral and told us to let him know if there was anything else he could do. They didn’t have much to spare, either, but it was still good to know there was someone we could call upon in a crisis. He helped us whenever there was heavy work on the farm, or sent his eldest son. They were both short and thickset, a completely different build from us. They worked fast and expertly, and we were grateful for their help.

I was skipping classes regularly now, and Ma didn’t say anything about it anymore. Klenam and Mawuli had started helping on the farm in the mornings too and were sometimes caned for arriving late at school. It made Klenam sullen, and Mawuli wept every day and said he didn’t want to go. It upset me a lot to see them like that.

School was getting harder for me too because I couldn’t catch up anymore with all that I was missing. I feared for my exams, and to top it all, it often happened that when I sacrificed precious time I could have spent on the farm, the teachers didn’t even come. I was getting caned for answering questions wrong, and sometimes I dozed off and missed what the teacher was saying because I was so tired. I got into more trouble for that. I came to hate school too, but I knew our lives would never get better if we dropped out.

All the same I thought about it every day. I wanted to look for work, but I didn’t even have my BECE yet. I doubted I’d get any work that would help us more than my farming. But more and more of my schoolmates were dropping out, especially the boys. Some stayed in the village and farmed, but most disappeared, courtesy of Jack of Diamonds. From what I heard, he passed them on to his “associates,” who whisked them off to work in different places as cattle herders and fisher boys.

I wished I could talk to someone who had actually done one of those jobs, but there were no “returnees” in the village. It seemed that those who completed their service with their masters hardly ever came back. They probably took their earnings and went to live in the cities. That sounded good. One could get rich in the city. I pictured our lives if I were able to do that one day.

Klenam and Mawuli would go to a private school where they’d learn proper English and not be caned for everything. Ma could set up in whatever business she liked, or just relax for the rest of her life. We’d have a car and a proper house with a fridge and freezer full of food, and we’d travel abroad to do our shopping. I wished for those things so hard, it felt as if my whole mind was hurting.

The weekend before the BECE exams, I tried to clear my mind of our troubles and focus on the life-changing week ahead of me. I’d be writing papers from Tuesday till Friday. On Sunday I studied for a couple of hours after church, then did some farming with Mawuli. In the late afternoon I went alone to the creek. I spoke to Togbe in my head while fishing, then lay on the mat in our hideout with my books, thinking of all the things he’d taught me. After studying for a while, I listened to the babble of the creek and stared at the water eternally rushing where its current was taking it, wishing it could carry me wherever Togbe was. I dozed off to its gentle music and came home ready to face the week ahead.

To elude the exam panic around me, I avoided my schoolmates and stuck to Bright, little suspecting it was he of all people who would shatter my peace. Monday break time we were sitting at the snack corner sharing food when he took a deep breath:

“There’s something I have to tell you, Sena, but you can’t tell anyone!”

I studied his face—perhaps he was about to spring a joke? But his expression was more serious than I’d ever seen it before.

I slowed my chewing, my heart suddenly thudding. “What?”

“I wanted to wait till after exams to tell you this, but…” Distractedly he poked at his roasted groundnuts in their newspaper wrapper.

“Talk, Bright!”

He sighed. “Swear you won’t tell?”

I nodded quickly. “You know already.”

He took another deep breath. “I’m leaving after our last paper! For the lake.”

“What!”

He set his pack of groundnuts on the wall and looked away like he was trying not to cry.

“To be… a fisher boy?”

He nodded, looking even more miserable.

“Oh God! How—?”

“Jack of D,” he interrupted. “One of his guys’ll take me to a boat master.”

There was silence while I tried to digest this indigestible news. The dreadful prospect of that bonded work had never seemed as real to me as it did at that moment. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked finally.

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I?” He was almost sullen, which was very unlike him, but I understood now why he’d been quieter than usual. I’d thought it was exam nerves.

“But…”

“Sena, you’d have told me not to! You know you would. But I have to!”

I couldn’t bear it. Togbe gone, and now, Bright! “What about senior high?” I asked after another awful silence.

“You know I don’t have the money! I don’t have… family the way you do.”

“But what about scholarships? Didn’t you say…?”

“Yeah, but after my mock results I don’t stand a chance.”

“But you did well in the mocks!”

“For this place, not for a scholarship!”

I stopped talking because I could see I was just rubbing salt in his wounds. I felt so sad, so helplessly angry. If we’d been in a school where we had all the books and stuff we needed, and the teachers came every day and made life just a little bit easier for us, I knew he could have done it! Why was life so set on bringing down those who least deserved it? I thought of how Togbe said you had to make your own “fair” in this world. But we were just kids! We shouldn’t have to fight so hard!

Ma had promised we’d all work together to pay for senior high school for me, and that she’d borrow money if she had to. I knew she’d been trying lately to get her share of her mother’s jewelry. Grandma Edem had made good money from her clam picking and trading and had left gold jewelry for all her children, but it was being hoarded by Ma’s older sister and her greedy husband. Regardless of all that, there was no guarantee my results would be good enough, no matter how much faith anyone had in me. I felt bad that I should have options Bright didn’t, especially since he stood a real chance of getting good results.

What if I went with him to the lake?

We were struggling too, and if my results were bad, then going might be a better option than staying here and farming. Four years was a long time, but a calf or a good lump sum at the end would be a solid investment in the future. Maybe Bright and I could work together! We’d be there for each other, and with his quick wits to help us through and make sure we made it back home, I’d feel a lot safer than going on my own.

But if he was leaving straight after our last exam… that was Friday!