On Rotation(91)

We ate in tense silence, our forks clinking against our plates. Auntie Abena’s brown stew was banging, as usual, and I scarfed it down at resident-level speed.* Afterward, I waited for Momma to finish, then took her plate and mine to the sink.

“You’ve grown up,” she said. I turned to her as I loaded the dishwasher with our dishes. “You have your own place. Pay your bills.” She leaned back in the dining room chair. “You’re an adult, I suppose.”

I rinsed my glass, watching the bubbles gradually loosen.

“Yes,” I said, maintaining eye contact. “I am.”

“Your dad and I,” Momma said. “We don’t mean to be cruel.” I leaned against the kitchen counter, listening. “You were very studious, and you’ve always responded to motivation, and we just want to push you to be successful.”

“Push me,” I repeated with a scoff. “That’s one way to put it.”

“You’ve done well, haven’t you?” she said.

“I would’ve done well regardless,” I insisted.

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither”—I wiped my hands roughly with my dish towel—“do you.”

We were silent again, and I let us sit in it. Like it or not, I was her blood. Dorothy Appiah was legendary for her stubbornness, but I could hold my own in a battle of wills. After a minute, she seemed to recognize that. She closed her eyes, then smiled to herself.

“Did you wash your hair?” she said.

“Yesterday,” I said.

“Come, then.”

I sat between my mother’s legs on my living room floor, stiffening my neck as she tugged a wide-toothed comb through my dense curls. This one has hair like banku, she had said when I was a child. It had been years since she had braided my hair. She had braided for money back then, bringing her customers into the living room of our small Bronzeville apartment and turning the TV to HGTV. She would comment on the houses’ French windows and granite countertops with the assurance of someone who would someday have those things, as if our linoleum tiling and MDF cabinets were a temporary embarrassment. I still remembered what she smelled like then, like Pine-Sol and baby powder, like the dusty homes she frequented to take care of her clientele.

Nowadays, Momma smelled like Yves Saint Laurent Black Opium, and her kitchen counters were Caledonia gray granite. But her hands were still quick and precise. I showed her a picture of the jumbo twists I wanted, and she hummed, using the sharp end of the rat-tailed comb to part my hair into squares. The steady pattern of tugs against my scalp, the clack of clips and combs, and the lightly floral smell of conditioner lulled me into a quiet stupor.

“So,” Momma said, as she began to twist. “Tabatha says that you’re suffering from a heartbreak.”

I startled awake. Fucking hell, Tabs. Tell them all my business, why don’t you? This close, Momma could feel me stiffen, and she chuckled.

“Your sister loves you,” she said, as if she’d heard my internal dialogue. “The way she harassed me! ‘Your daughter is having a hard time, and she can’t even rely on her own mother to help her!’ Ay! Awurade. This is why you don’t have girls.” She handed me the rest of my twist to finish. “You’re both so much like me. Your poor father.”

My budding fury at Tabatha quelled. She had done good work by trying to assemble my forces. She’d always been our parents’ darling, even during her tantrums, and as children she had used that knowledge to her advantage and my occasional detriment. But now? I could imagine her on the phone with Momma, cutting her down through gritted teeth: What kind of mother are you, huh?

“Yeah.” I shrugged.

“Tell me about this boy.”

And so, I told my mother about Ricky. I walked her through our first meeting, our accidental run-ins in the hospital that quickly became purposeful. I told her about Shae, and the Korean spa, and how he’d offered a shoulder for me to cry on when Nia moved out. I told her about Camila, and his initial resistance to claiming me as his. I told her how he told me that he loved me, and how I loved him so much that I could hardly get through a meal without thinking about the ones we had eaten together. I told her about how, after all that, I still let him go.

By the end, my face was wet with tears. I didn’t expect Momma to say much. Ricky was, after all, far from her ideal choice for a partner for me—not Ghanaian, not wealthy, not raised in a traditional family structure. At best, she would say good riddance, and offer me half-baked condolences, accompanied by the declaration that at least now I could focus on my studies—

“Why did you stop talking to him?” Momma asked instead, matter-of-factly.

I strained to meet her eye, only to be limited by the tug on my half-done braid.

“I told you,” I said, gritting my teeth against the pain. “He was wishy-washy. I couldn’t tell what he wanted—”

“Sounds to me like you could.” She handed me another twist, then rubbed a dollop of leave-in conditioner between her palms. “Nana Adjoa,* I think you’ve made a mistake.”

I gaped, my fingers almost losing purchase on my twist.

“How,” I asked, amazed, “am I making a mistake?”

Tutting, Momma wrapped an extension around the base of my scalp.

“All these friends you have spoiled you. You expect people to know exactly how to love you on the spot,” she declared. “The man was there for you when you needed him, was he not? Just take your time and see where things go.”