Foolish boy! Look at you enjoying over there when your mother is in hospital.
Kobina leaned forward in the plastic chair, his thumb hovering over his phone. He scowled at the comment, posted below a photo he’d shared on Facebook the night before. In the photo, he stood with his arms folded across his chest, his back against the bonnet of a Toyota Land Cruiser, the beige walls of a double-storey house framing the entire scene.
Marie-Claire took the photo about two weeks ago. It was her idea—the dressing up, the photo shoot. “Pour mon anniversaire,” she’d said, and he’d agreed. He hadn’t known it was her birthday, and the photo shoot might make up for the lack of gifts. Besides, it was New Year’s Eve, and they had the house to themselves. The madam and her daughters had travelled to the US, and as they said back home in Ghana, Happy yourself.
They took the photos late in the afternoon, around when the sun was dissolving into streaks of orange gold on the horizon. Kobina changed into the navy-blue kaftan he’d worn on Christmas day, complete with the woven cylindrical hat that made him look like a Hausa businessman. Marie-Claire, whining she had nothing to wear, went up to the madam’s room and came down in a wrap dress made of green silk. She twirled at the bottom of the stairs, delighted at how the dress showed off her slender waist and wide hips. Giggling, they admired themselves in the mirror above the sideboard table in the dining room, Marie-Claire’s shoulders reaching past Kobina’s, as they posed back to back.
They sauntered outside, their chubby arms linked like newlyweds. After their individual photos with the car, they leaned into each other and took selfies in the garden. Marie-Claire made kissy faces at Kobina, while he stared straight-faced at the phone, his thick lips clamped together in a natural pout.
He hadn’t planned to post any of the photos. In fact, he forgot about them as soon as the madam and her daughters returned, and he got busy driving them around. Last night, he’d only gone on Facebook to watch a video Bisa Kdei had posted. But once there, he’d lain in bed for hours, gaping at the lives of his secondary school mates.
First, at Nana Yaw, who’d been the cleverest boy in school, who now seemed to be some place in the world where words were represented by clusters of dots, dashes and slanted lines. There he was, in a graduation gown, one of the few Africans in a sea of pale faces.
Nana Yaw again, swathed in a black bomber jacket, crossing a street teeming with motorcycles and neon signs.
Then Edward, the class-clown-turned-actor. Edward, his wife and twin girls—at a party, in a restaurant, in a family portrait at a studio.
Unlike his former classmates, Kobina had posted photos he’d found online of the places he’d lived: for his profile picture, an aerial photo of Abidjan, and in his gallery, snapshots of Kakum National Park, and canoes parked along the Cape Coast shoreline. As to photos of Kobina himself, there were none. Nothing to show in the twelve years since secondary school, nothing also to show in the seven years since he left Ghana and crossed the border into Côte d’Ivoire. All this time in Abidjan, and he had just a single room in a derelict building in Yopougon, his bed, a table top fridge and a stained sofa the madam had given him. For a while, a flat screen had hung on the wall above the fridge, but he’d sold it last year for an Italian visa that never came.
Last night, while staring at Edward’s Facebook page, Kobina wept until teardrops fell on the phone screen. Disgusted with himself, he struck his forehead with the phone. When his head stopped throbbing, he changed his profile pic, uploaded the selfies he and Marie-Claire had taken, then counted the likes that followed.
*
Foolish boy … The words danced on the phone screen in the glare of the afternoon sun. Cracking his neck, Kobina squinted at the clothes hanging on the drying lines. He lit a cigarette, leaned back in the chair, and opened WhatsApp. He looked up, hearing the steady squeak of the backdoor. Marie-Claire stood in the doorway, holding Riri.
“Give me two minutes.” She set Riri on the paved concrete, before disappearing back into the kitchen.
Riri trotted over to Kobina. She brushed her furry body against his legs. He shoved her away, but Riri came back, her tail wagging faster. She licked Kobina’s worn loafers.
“Va-t’en!” Kobina kicked Riri.
Howling, Riri ran and hid behind the flower pots next to the outdoor AC unit.
“Don’t look at me like that!” Kobina turned his chair towards the wall, away from Riri’s watery eyes. Closing WhatsApp, he searched on Facebook for Piesie Andoh, the holier-than-thou who’d left the comment. They’d grown up in the same compound house in Cape Coast, had gone to the same schools, Kobina a year behind Piesie. Throughout primary school, Piesie had been in his own corner, surrounded by one or two boys who also liked to write the names of talkatives. In secondary school, Piesie had joined the Scripture Union, transformed into an evangelist.
“When will you give your life to Christ?” he’d ask, whenever he saw Kobina on campus.
From Piesie’s profile pic, it seemed he had graduated from campus crusade to professional pastor, for there he was, standing in front of a cross, hands raised above his head, eyes squeezed shut, teeth bared in prayer.
Kobina glowered at Piesie’s photo. He should type an insult in French, let the know-it-all decipher it. But that would prove he’d seen the message, that he now knew his mother was not well.
She’d tried to discourage him from leaving, even begged his uncle to give him a job. When the old man said, “Come and drive me around,” Kobina sneered and retorted, “With all your businesses, this is what you offer me?”
His father’s brother could fold his hands and refuse to help, just as he’d done since Kobina’s father’s death. Kobina would set off on his own, and in a few years, return with enough money to throw at his uncle’s feet. A proper boga, he would be, an Abidjan boga. Like the fishmonger’s son, who came back from Germany and built his mother a seven-bedroom house. A few months before leaving Ghana, Kobina had seen the guy with his own two eyes, buying drinks for his friends at a chop bar near the University of Cape Coast. That memory, of the fishmonger’s son, whipping out fifty-cedi notes, being patted on the back by everyone, had given Kobina hope, when his mother had flung her arms around him, and pleaded once more that he stay.
*
Kobina flicked his cigarette into the hedges along the wall, as Marie-Claire came through the screen door. It was past midday, and they were off to eat garba—attiéké and fried fish—at one of the stalls on the main road.
As they strolled down the madam’s leafy street, Kobina told Marie-Claire about his mother.
“What will you do? Will you go home?” She stopped and stroked his arm, oblivious to the cars whizzing past within inches of them.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided.”
“But it’s your mother.”
“Oui, je sais!” He pulled away from her grasp, and stared at the fruit stand down the road.
She knew he hadn’t spoken to his family in almost a year. The last time he’d called, his mother had gone on and on about his younger brother’s wedding, telling him about the gifts they had to buy, and the many bottles of schnapps the girl’s family had requested—asking for money in that roundabout way of hers.
Me too, I’m struggling, he’d wanted to say. If Jojo has gone to impregnate a girl, then he should deal with it, he thought to add.
To make his mother happy, he promised to send money. A week later, when no money had been received, his mother called. The phone rang and rang until it cut itself off. Then every day for two weeks, the phone rang—always at 9pm, his mother’s bedtime—until one evening his mother didn’t call.
*
“At least send a message.”
He felt Marie-Claire’s sidelong glance. They were heading back to the madam’s house, and had stopped at an Orange kiosk so she could load units onto her phone. A few metres ahead, schoolchildren in their khaki and white and blue uniforms gathered at the entrance of a convenience store. Their shrieks of laughter drowned out Marie-Claire’s voice, as she asked Kobina whether he was listening to her.
“Tonton.” Kobina gestured at a man pushing a bright red tea cart, a repurposed oil drum on wheels. While Marie-Claire paid the Orange vendor, Kobina watched the elderly man add sugar and milk powder to a cup of hot tea. The man blended the mixture, pouring the creamy liquid into a second cup, then again into the first cup, then into the second, then back into the first. It was like watching a waterfall change direction every second—right, left, right, left, right, left.
“You remember my cousin, Yannick?” Marie-Claire’s voice rose, as they carried on towards the traffic lights.
“His father was dying, yet Yannick did not go and see him. Every day he said the next day, but he never went. The day he decided to go, his sisters called to say his father had died in his sleep.” She paused. “Do you know what happened?”
He’d heard the story before, but he slurped his tea and let her speak.
“Yannick, he began to see his father—in his dreams, on the street. His marabout said his father was still asking for him. Not even a year, Yannick was gone.”
Kobina scoffed at Marie-Claire’s superstitions. Yannick died in a car accident. Not the most unusual of deaths given the way people drove in Abidjan.
Yet, that night, alone in his rented room, he saw his mother standing next to the sofa. She was dressed in a white kaba and slit, and she looked pleased, not worried like the day he left home.
He drifted into sleep, entered their courtyard in Cape Coast. His mother was seated on a stool, sewing up a hole in Jojo’s school shorts, while Kobina and his siblings sat around the asanka eating ampesi. When the earthenware bowl was empty, she asked if they were full. Only after they said yes, did she wash her hands and eat the leftovers in the aluminium cooking pot—two pieces of boiled plantain and a baby’s helping of the green sauce.
*
Kobina lay in bed, eyes closed, not quite asleep. His neighbours, the other tenants in the compound house, moved about the courtyard, fetching water and lighting coal pots to cook kokobaka and abolo, breakfast for the new day.
He’d never known his mother to fall sick. All his life, she’d woken up early and made her way to the market to sell mangoes, watermelons, pineapples, whatever was in season. Even when his father died and she shrunk in size, she remained defiant, cursing at the landlord when he came to throw them out. That morning, their neighbours—Piesie’s own mother included—had to hold her back, as she hurled her slippers at the landlord and called him a wicked man.
He should be returning home in his own car, with a fridge for his mother and suitcases bursting with clothes for his sisters. All the same, he would pack his duffel bag—the frayed one he’d carried across the border seven years ago—and go see his mother.
*
Marie-Claire told him how to approach the madam:
“Ask her this morning, not at night when she’s tired and angry from work. Ask her in front of her daughters; she’ll not want to seem like a bad boss. Tell her you’ll find someone to drive her while you’re away. I have a friend who can step in for the week.”
She’d been with the madam longer, so he listened, and did exactly what she said as he drove the madam and her daughters to work and school.
The madam peered at him in the rear-view mirror, her nose scrunched up like she didn’t believe his mother was sick. In the passenger seat, Laure, the eldest daughter, swiped at her phone screen. Kobina didn’t think she was listening, but she turned to her mother in the backseat, and spoke in rapid French. “You know Tonton Kobina hasn’t been home in years?”
She glanced at him. “Sept ans, n’est-ce pas?”
Laure looked at her mother. “Seven years, Maman. It’s too long!”
Kobina smiled inwardly. Marie-Claire was right. It helped when the children were on your side.
*
Early the next Saturday, Kobina walked to the main road to catch a gbaka minivan to the bus station. Although goose bumps rose on his skin, he did not stop to take a long-sleeve shirt from his bag. He’d heard enough stories about les microbes—those street children who robbed you at knifepoint—to be wary of the dark corners and abandoned buildings in his neighbourhood. Shoulders hunched, he crossed the street to the gbakas lined up on the curb, his skin shrivelling from the Harmattan winds that had left the air cool and heavy with dust.
The first bus to Noé, the border town between Côte d’Ivoire and Ghana, was half-full by the time he climbed on board. Save for the mothers who breastfed their children, most of the passengers appeared to be asleep, their heads against the windows and headrests. Halfway down the aisle, Kobina stopped. His brow furrowed in disbelief. He’d been searching for him for over a year, and now there he was—Baffour, his connection man! The one he’d paid for the Italian visa.
Like the woman sitting beside him, his eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted. He’d grown a beard since they last met, but it was him all right, his skin the colour of honey, the birthmark around his right eye a jagged pattern. After all the money he’d taken, he still managed to look starved, his cheeks caving in, his arms and torso almost gaunt.
Kobina sat behind Baffour.
“I go organise you, no shaking,” Baffour said the first time they met at a maquis opposite the mosque in the city centre.
Baffour had got a friend into Italy, but Kobina remained sceptical. Nodding, he raised the beer bottle to his lips.
“No shaking,” Baffour repeated. No problem.
Later that month, after Baffour got another friend into France, Kobina thought, well, if he’s done it twice, he could do it again.
“Chale, Abidjan no be easy oo,” Kobina said, after handing over half a year’s salary, plus the money he’d gotten for his flat screen. He and Baffour were back at the same maquis in Plateau, and this time, they would eat fufu and palm nut soup to seal the deal. Fifty per cent down payment, balance to be paid when the visa was delivered.
“My friend, nowhere be easy.” Baffour beamed as he grabbed the fanny pack and took a peek. “But at least in Italy, you go chop Euro.” He shot Kobina a cocky smile before plunging his fingers into the soup.
*
The bus stopped in Gonzagueville for more passengers. Baffour’s silver watch gleamed in the sunlight, as he stretched his arms high above his head. He reached for something on the vinyl flooring. The rustle of plastic and paper filled the air, then the greasy smell of fish pastels. Kobina’s stomach rumbled, yet he didn’t beckon to the hawkers swarming the bus, shoving water, plantain chips, and groundnuts at the windows. He couldn’t risk Baffour hearing his voice. Not when he could run off the bus and disappear into the market on the other side of the road.
After Gonzagueville, the bus rolled past Grand-Bassam, Yaou, Kofikro, and Aboisso. Passengers got off and on. Baffour stayed in his seat.
At Noé, the last stop, Baffour stood and shouldered his backpack. Brushing past the other passengers, Kobina followed Baffour off the bus and along the dusty road, staying hidden behind traders balancing sacks and trays of soap on their heads. Phone plastered to his ear, backpack dangling from his shoulder, Baffour went up the sidewalk, past women sitting under market umbrellas, their tables weighed down by basins stuffed with bread and attiéké.
Baffour climbed a ramp towards a row of shops painted sea blue. Now, with fewer people between them, Kobina heard Baffour say, “We go meet in Elubo. I go organise you, no shaking.”
Laughing, Baffour veered onto a path between the third and fourth blue shops. He entered a maze of half-completed stalls strewn with cement blocks and wawa boards. In the first enclosed space, he slipped his phone into his pocket and unzipped his fly. He moaned with relief as his piss hit the sawdust covering the unfinished floor. Zipping his fly, he turned around. “Fuck!” He stumbled backwards.
“Why, you see ghost?” Kobina stepped closer to Baffour.
“Chale, somebody steal my phone oo. I dey search for you long time.”
Kobina chuckled. “See you oo.” He took a step forward, then another, forcing Baffour back towards the wall. “Soso lies nkwaa. I no go ask for my visa sef. But where my money dey?”
Baffour’s heel touched the wall. He breathed in Kobina’s stale breath. “Chale, them sack my connection for the embassy. If no be for that—”
“Stop your nonsense!” Drops of Kobina’s spittle landed on Baffour’s cheeks.
Placing his hand on Kobina’s shoulder, Baffour said, “My guy, listen.” He lowered his voice. “I go get you US visa for the money you already give me. That be more than Italian paper.”
Kobina stepped back, out of Baffour’s grasp. Nodding, he turned his head from side to side, aimed the wild grin on his face at an invisible audience. “See this boy,” he said. “He go get me US visa.” Kobina shoved Baffour. “I dey want my money!”
“Kobina, chale! Stop!” Baffour pushed Kobina. “Here take!” He threw his watch at Kobina.
“This cheap thing?!” Kobina kicked the watch. Cement dust rose into the air. “I no dey wan fight oo. I just dey wan my money.” Kobina lunged at Baffour. They slapped and punched each other, Kobina tugging at Baffour’s backpack.
Wrenching the backpack free, Kobina hurried towards the opposite wall. He unzipped the bag, turned it over and shook the contents out. Baffour’s clothes and toiletries fell out.
Squatting, Kobina shook Baffour’s t-shirts and boxers, then tossed them aside. He picked up a pair of jeans. “I see.” He pulled out a thick wad of CFA franc notes, rolled up and tied with a rubber band, from a side pocket.
“This be all?” He looked up. Baffour was holding a stick. He charged at Kobina.
Rising, Kobina rammed his shoulder into Baffour’s chest. He wrestled the stick from him. “I say I no wan fight!” He swung the stick and struck Baffour’s face. He hit him again and Baffour fell to the concrete floor.
Dropping the stick, Kobina turned Baffour over. Blood oozed from his nose and from the gash on his left cheek, but thankfully, Baffour was still breathing.
Hands shaking, Kobina rifled through Baffour’s pockets. He switched off Baffour’s phone, hid the phone and Baffour’s wallet at the bottom of his duffel bag.
Standing upright, he pushed a cigarette between his lips. Why hadn’t Baffour just given him the money? It was his own fault he was lying like that on the ground, arms and legs splayed out like a dead body. Because of him, Kobina was returning home less than the boga he’d imagined. Already, he could see his uncle smirking, asking, What at all did you go and do there?
“Fucking boy!” Kobina kicked the soles of Baffour’s sneakers. He lifted his duffel bag, and glanced at the rise and fall of Baffour’s chest. He fled down the path and onto the ramp with the sea blue shops. At the bottom of the ramp, he stopped and looked back. One of the people wandering about would surely find Baffour. If not a trader, then one of the builders working on the construction site.
Head bent low, Kobina rushed down the crowded pavement and entered the immigration building. Twelve minutes later, he climbed onto the back of a motorcycle and crossed the bridge into Ghana.
About the Author:
Priscilla Adipa holds a Ph.D. in Sociology from Northwestern University. Her short stories have appeared in Transition Magazine, New Contrast, Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora, Afritondo, African Writer Magazine, and elsewhere. Born and raised in Accra, Ghana, Priscilla recently moved back home after years studying and working in the US, UK, South Africa and Côte d’Ivoire. She is currently working on her first novel. Find her on Instagram: @priscilla_adipa.
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