‘You like him,’ Gran-pa said after Kofi and his mother had left, each content with the truce the old man had brokered: Kofi promised to play football only at the weekend, the rest of the time he would spend on his books.
‘He’s my one, true friend,’ I replied. ‘My one and only.’
‘The one and only?’
I nodded. ‘One of these days I intend to be like this with him, Gran-pa.’ I folded my middle finger over my forefinger, touching them to my cheek as my face glowed. ‘When the time comes, I hope I’ll treat him with the same respect and loving-kindness you show Gran-ma.’
‘He’s not frightened by what you do for the river goddess?’
I shook my head. ‘At times I think he’d like to use her to win at football, but I know better, Gran-pa.’
‘Good girl.’ A smile rippled over my grandfather’s features, lighting his eyes.
Head tilted, I paused. And gauging the warp and weft of him, the texture of his weave, I found myself nestling at the source of his being and remembered. Not so long ago, I used to sit on Gran-pa’s knee while I stroked the dent on his forehead. A friend had injured him when they were children. ‘He took a stone,’ Gran-pa had said. ‘And hit me right here.’
I recalled his forefinger guiding mine as I explored the dent and then the rest of his face: stubborn bristles of hair on chin and jaw, lips that hid a tongue that never belittled but encouraged me to conserve what our ancestors had left in our care. Gran-pa was the kindest, most fearless man I knew, and I loved him more than anyone else, loved him even more than Milo and Kofi. I needed him by my side a while longer.
So, instead of making light of my separation from most of my age group as I usually did, this time I chose to dwell on it: ‘You’ve taught me to rely on my sisters,’ I reminded him. ‘Because to belong to the shrine is not a popular choice.’
‘How so?’ Gran-pa asked.
This was his way of teaching me to flex the muscles of my mind to better understand my calling. He would ask the same question again and again to help me walk firmly on the path I was on.
‘Because Gran-pa, those Alleluia worshippers in my class worry me too much.’
Gran-pa nodded.
‘You know how it is, Gran-pa. They make the same wahala Sweet Mother does. They never stop telling me that what we do is worship trees and rivers. While they claim to worship their one true god, their three in one, they say we spill the blood of animals, sacrifice babies, practise ju-ju…’
‘And how do you answer them, Adoma?’
I inhaled the scent of Gran-pa’s skin like I used to when I was small enough to sit on his lap. I held the smell of him, savouring a trace of wood smoke and sprinklings of nutmeg that Gran-ma used in stews and cakes. The scent enfolded me.
‘I tell them what you told me long ago, Gran-pa,’ I replied. ‘Our god being such a bountiful god wouldn’t have stopped at having just one son. He has many sons. Daughters as well…’
Gran-pa laughed. ‘Spoken like a true Ashanti!’
By now, despite my best efforts to delay our departure – my attempt to persuade Milo down from the neem tree, followed by a last minute suggestion that for his audience with the chief Gran-pa should change into a kente cloth – a colourful, woven cloth worn on important occasions – we were heading out of the gate once again. I carried a rucksack containing water while Gran-pa, behind me, steered his scooter.
As I pulled back the lock to let him through, he gazed at me and said: ‘You’ve seen my fate, haven’t you, grandchild? You’ve seen. That’s why I know you’re ready for me to go…’
‘Gran-pa…’
We were in the din and bustle of our street among vendors selling their wares. A Hausa man cycled past us, a pile of material strapped on his bicycle. Opposite, a woman, a straw hat shielding her face from the sun, roasted corn on a wood fire. Beside her a child wrapped portions of plantain and groundnuts.
I said his name and Gran-pa smiled. At that moment a motorbike thundered down the lane. Two macho men in helmets, biceps pumped to bursting, sped towards us. A second before they passed, the larger of the two on the passenger seat, raised his hand. In it was a gun, which he levelled at Gran-pa. The clap of a firecracker exploded in my ears. One second and Gran-pa’s smile snapped into open-mouthed surprise. He looked down at his hand, wet with blood, as if it belonged to a stranger, the wound in his stomach to someone else.
‘Gran-pa!’ I shouted. I turned, and before the motorbike could exceed my range, made a fist of my mind, and summoning the powers of earth and sky, wind and fire, hurled arrows of molten rage at the assailants.
The motorbike skidded.
In me a volcano erupted and a leopard roared.
No one hurts Okomfo Gran-pa while I’m around. And when I’m riled, no skin-walker escapes my grasp.
I unleashed a volley of blasts that pummelled the hitman and his driver on their shoulders, arms and legs.
Brakes screeched, necks jerked back and the bike flew into the air. For an instant the driver clung on, before he and the hitman tumbled to the ground, and the motorbike dropped on them. The crash ignited screams of pain, frantic juddering of helmets on the ground. The assassin’s fingers twitched. His body quivered, then lay still.
I pivoted, springing to Gran-pa’s aid. Slumped against the scooter, his eyes were closed. I touched his neck searching for a pulse. But as I did and Gran-ma and Sweet Mother rushed outside to see what the wahala was about, I understood that Gran-pa was on his last journey home to his village.