Maame(22)

James would tell me this moment directly coincided with Dad’s diagnosis, but I’d (silently) argue that it happened long before then, before Dad was ill, before Grandad died and left Mum the commitment.

All I know is, their marriage has taught me many things but sadly it’s mainly taught me what to avoid.

“Okay, Mum.”

She sniffs, unimpressed. “I bet you talk to your friends about boys but not your own mother.”

I hand her another peg. “You once said friends and mothers aren’t the same.”

“Of course they’re not.”

I roll my eyes when she can’t see. “Some mothers and daughters are best friends,” I point out.

“Those mothers don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Mum!”

“It’s true!” She kisses her teeth to reinforce this. “We are not age-mates, Maddie. We are not peers. There is a reason ‘mother’ is one word and ‘friend’ is another. You should tell your friends some things and your mother everything.”

“Everything proves difficult to fit into every other year.”

She doesn’t flinch. “Then maybe you should spend more time in Ghana.”

“Never mind.”

“Why not?” She hangs up the last of Dad’s bedsheets. “Why don’t you ever want to come home?”

“I am home, Mum.”

“You were born here, it’s true, but your blood and DNA is in Ghanaian soil. It’s been a decade since your last visit. Tell me why you don’t love your mother country.”

“It’s not that I dislike it. I just don’t feel like I belong there.”

“How can you feel like you don’t belong in a country where everyone is like you?” she asks.

I already know I can’t explain it in a way Mum will find acceptable. To her, if my reasoning isn’t logical, then it is false. I can’t explain how I didn’t like the red grounds of our compound whilst others skipped across it. I didn’t like that the last time I was there my cousins made fun of my accent and called me a princess behind my back. I didn’t like that the girls had been carrying heavy bowls and buckets, evidently from birth, and when I offered to help, my arms were compared with the legs of a chicken. I wasn’t fast enough for trotros; I didn’t eat enough, my Western diet was failing me and that’s why my bum and hips had grown but not my boobs, not like theirs had.

I was used to British rain and struggled under the orange Ghanaian sun; I couldn’t balance anything on my head; I couldn’t sweep the floors because I failed to fit the African broom end into my palm and use the force necessary to have bound-together sticks work effectively.

I look at Mum, how she tilts her head to the sun, and consider whether my reluctance to return to Ghana is comparative to her reluctance in being here.

“I don’t speak Twi or any other dialects,” I finally say.

“Whose fault is that?”

I sigh. “It’s fine. I couldn’t go anyway. If both you and I aren’t here, what about Dad?”

She mimics my sigh. “Maddie, you can leave him for a week or two. He has the carer and your older brother.” She turns to look at me. “You are burdened with guilt, but if your father understood what was happening around him, he would beg you to go, to live your life. He and I came to this country so our children would advance; we did not come to hold you back.” She rubs my cheek with her thumb. “When you see what life is like outside of this house, you will understand and you will wish you had lived sooner.”



* * *



Later that night, I lie in bed, chewing my lip and staring at Ben’s unanswered text.

Maddie

Hi Ben. Sorry it’s taken me ages to get back to you. Family stuff

Hi Ben! OMG how have I only just seen your message? How weird!

Hi Ben. I thought I’d replied but didn’t press send!

Hi Ben



Ben

I wondered if you’d text back





Chapter Nine


You’ve now met my mother so are at least partway to understanding why I can’t tell her I’m unemployed. Even if I did manage to convince her I was fired through no fault of my own, she’d tell me to sue for unfair dismissal. As if we have the funds to take on the conglomerate beast that is the CGT.

No, it’s best I keep that to myself.

However, I do tell her I’m searching for a new job, “a new challenge,” so when I do get one, my wanting to leave won’t have dropped out of thin air.

Instead of going to work, I go to the British Library and spend all day there. I’ve never been unemployed so don’t know what else to do. When I was in university, I worked part-time as a bookseller, then worked as a receptionist for various companies before getting the job at CGT, never a break in between. I only left a job in order to start a new one because I should always be doing something to further myself. Mum once said if I ever struggled finding a job related to my field of study, then I should go into retail for the meantime because at least you learn customer service skills and, no matter the job, you always need good customer service skills.

Little did she know people in retail tend to hate customers.

I find a corner desk, open my laptop and apply to any and all jobs in publishing. I’ve done as many as are available before it’s even noon. I can’t leave for another four hours at least, not until the workday is over.