EIGHTY-SEVEN

That Sunday afternoon, Abena was with Kojo at Josephine Akrofi’s home where the documentary on Kojo was struggling to come together. The film crew had completed the sequences at the Center, but the segments with Josephine interacting with Kojo at home were proving to be a headache. For two days running, Kojo had been restless and difficult to manage with his hand flapping, finger rubbing, and high-pitched screaming disrupting the repeated takes. Abena and Auntie Rose had a lot of patience, but Mrs. Akrofi’s was wearing thin. Her idea had been to show Kojo interacting quietly with his tablet in her home. She would enter the scene, sit next to the boy, and explain how she often welcomed him and other children from the Center to her home (which wasn’t entirely true). The idea was to put an “international face” to the appeal and boost the Center’s new website and crowdfunding campaign. Josephine’s theory was that well-off people are more likely to donate if they could “see themselves” in the video—if they could “relate” to a well-heeled, fashionable woman contributing to such a noble cause.

“It’s the very opposite of showing malnourished African kids in refugee camps with bloated bellies and flies buzzing around their faces,” she reasoned. “People in the West are tired of seeing all those images. They have compassion and donor fatigue. So now let’s put a splash of glamour into charitable giving.”

However, nothing was working. The whole of Saturday, the day before, the director and camera crew had been at the Akrofis’ home, trying but failing to get some usable footage. They had returned this morning with hopes of knocking out a good video segment, but it looked like it was to drag into Monday. Despair and frustration had begun to take hold of everyone, including the object of their attention: Kojo. Abena and Rose agreed with each other that he could not take any more overstimulation.

“I’ll take you home, Abena,” Rose said.

“I have a better idea,” Josephine said. “Abena, you can stay in the servants’ quarters overnight. We have an extra room that’s not in use. That way we can begin the filming early tomorrow morning—no later than seven. My husband is away until tomorrow evening and I would like to have everything finished by then. He’s not particularly fond of disruptions in our home.”

All parties agreed to that. Abena retired with Kojo to the servants’ quarters at the side of the home. Mrs. Akrofi provided dinner in containers that Abena took with her to the quarters. She bathed Kojo, fed him, and lay him down to rest. He was quiet with none of the repetitive behavior of before. Abena finally had a chance to eat in peace. Araba, Mrs. Akrofi’s house girl, had prepared sumptuous banku and okro stew.

After dinner, Abena took a quick shower. Kojo wouldn’t wake up for another two hours. She tried reaching Emma, but the call didn’t go through. Abena lay her head down to sleep and she prayed this project of Mrs. Akrofi would end soon. She could understand the purpose and she approved of it, but the stress being put upon her and Kojo was beginning to wear them down.

Voices from behind the servants’ quarters woke Abena. What time was it? Her phone said ten minutes before midnight. From one of the two windows in the room Abena looked out several meters to the hibiscus garden, which—as was the case with most well-appointed homes—was illuminated brightly with security lights installed along the enclosure wall. She saw Mrs. Akrofi in her dressing gown speaking to a man. She seemed upset. Her chin was thrust forward, her voice rose and fell in both pitch and volume, and she gesticulated with her hands. They were both speaking in Twi, but from where Abena stood, she could make out only a few words here and there.

The man had an odd-looking facial scar. His hand gestures indicated defensiveness and frustration as Mrs. Akrofi argued with him. Toward the end of the almost ten-minute discussion, the man’s head dropped, and he appeared crestfallen. Mrs. Akrofi did an about-face and marched away back to the house, leaving the gentleman to see himself out.

Who was the man, Abena wondered, and what had the heated discussion been about? The question didn’t occupy her mind for very long, however. It wasn’t really any of her business. She went back to bed and fell asleep again.