Maame(20)

* * *



When I bring Dad dinner, I notice his finger-and toenails are freshly trimmed and Auntie Mabel’s put on a new pair of thick sock boots for his swollen feet.

I push the stool back to the corner as she must have been sat on it when she tended to his nails. The last time I was in Ghana, ten years ago now, I couldn’t understand how the women in my family did it: hunched over bowls when pounding yam, stooping for water, sweeping with short-handled brooms. If I sit improperly at my desk for four hours, my back screams all the way home.

It’s a reminder: the women in my family have spines of steel.





Chapter Seven


I hear Mum before I see her.

“Forty-five pounds for a cab?” she says. “You’re a thief. God will not bless you.”

I take a deep breath and open the door.

“My baby!”

She wears black trousers and a loose white top. Her hair used to be longer but she must have cut it recently and her growing Afro is forming tight coils. Her skin is flawless as always; acne struggles to break the surface because her diet in Ghana is different from mine here. She eats only yam, rice, soup, chicken, and vegetables. She drinks liters of water to keep up with the sun. Mum’s naturally lighter than James and I are, but she always returns from Ghana darker. She spends a lot of time outside, rushing between hostel rooms, cleaning the compound and negotiating with contractors. Her tan is a reminder of the fact that she is more active, more alive, when in Ghana.

“Oh, I’ve missed my baby so much!” When she hugs me, I rest my head on her shoulder; she’s shorter than me by a couple of inches, but she has strength in her body so the hug still feels like it’s mine. She smells of cocoa butter and faint perfume.

“How are you, Mum?” I ask when she lets go.

“I’m blessed, my dear. My bags, please.” I bring them in and she asks, “How’s work?”

I focus on heaving her suitcase over the threshold. “Fine. Using up a few holiday days. You’ve cut your hair?”

Mum runs a hand through her coils. “Yes, it was so damaged and shorter is more manageable for the heat.” She walks into the living room and loudly says, “Fiifi”—Dad’s Ghanaian name—“how are you doing?”

I watch Dad closely, but he simply smiles at Mum. “Fine,” he says.

Mum pats his arm. “Always happy to see me, hmm? You’re well?” Dad slowly nods and she says, “Good, good. Anyway.” She walks into the kitchen next, and I already wish she would stop and sit down. Her energy makes me restless. I remember it’s not my house and that my daily routine will have to change in order to accommodate her presence.

“Has your father eaten?” Mum asks, opening the fridge.

“It’s not his dinnertime yet.”

“I am hungry—have you prepared anything?”

“There’s lasagna in the fridge.”

She inspects the container. “I hope it’s seasoned well.”

She gets two plates down from the cupboard above the sink. I don’t usually eat for another hour still, but she’s already spooning out two portions. I go into the living room. “Hey, Dad, you okay?”

He smiles. “Yes, I’m okay.” His face and demeanor hasn’t changed since this morning; at first, I wonder if he really realizes Mum is back. Then, as I eat in the kitchen, balancing my plate in one hand, fork in the other, and Mum tells me about running the hostel in Ghana, I wonder if my dad’s brain has made him think that Mum never actually left.

James

Is Mum back now?



Maddie

Yep



James

You still moving out?



Maddie

Yes



James

It’s about time but are we sure we wanna leave Dad with Mum?



Maddie

You can always move in for a bit. My room will be empty.



James

Lol that room is a shoebox Mads. And no one can look after Dad like you. You’re his favorite





Chapter Eight


Unbelievable. I was hoping to open my emails and find a job interview offer but instead I’m greeted with a single-line response from HR at CGT.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: RE: Injustice I tell you!

Thank you for your email, Maddie. We will consider this matter further in due course.

Sincerely,

The HR team

My bedroom door handle rattles and Mum lets herself in. I close my laptop and frown at her. “Do come in,” I say.

Mum shrugs. “It’s my house,” she says.

“Technically, it’s Dad’s. His name is on the mortgage.”

She swipes at me. “Did I not bear his heavy children, hmm? You were the heaviest, you know. James wasn’t allowed to carry you in case he hurt himself. Come help me in the garden.”



* * *



“… And you shouldn’t be cooking him lunch and dinner every day,” Mum says. “That’s why the carer is here; I don’t know how many times I must tell you that.”

Mum squints in the sun as I hand her a peg and she throws a clean sheet over the garden dryer line. This is nice, hanging up the washing; a nice, normal mother-and-daughter activity. All that’s missing are sun hats, lemonade, and enjoyable conversation.