Maame(62)

“What I said to you,” I continue, “was uncalled for and obviously not true. I didn’t mean it and I’m sorry.”

Jo lifts her chin. “You were in shock, so let’s just forget about it and move on.”

“Great,” I say. “Thanks.”



* * *



I wouldn’t say we’ve moved on. Jo and I don’t talk much and instead make the other uncomfortable. We talk, if we have to, mainly via group chat and give each other tense smiles if we meet in the kitchen. Cam and Jo sit in the living room together almost every night. Cam invited me to watch a film with them one evening and I said yes, thinking it would help. The atmosphere was stiff the entire time. They’d been talking about Florence before they heard me on the stairs and all conversation ceased from then. Now I camp out in my bedroom and listen out so I can avoid them in the kitchen or on the way to the bathroom. Jo must do the same because we rarely cross paths now, but it means I spend a lot of my time alone in my room. It’s not that bad.

I’m lonely, but it’s not that bad.



* * *



In the afternoon, I’m on the way home for a traditional Ghanaian ceremony Mum told me about last night and I’d never heard of before then.

Within the first two weeks of someone passing away, surviving relatives visit the house of the deceased to perform a libation. Apparently, we believe that during this time the spirit of the deceased is still around, calling to the spirits of family members who have already died, in this case, my dad’s parents and his older sister. We pour a glass of strong liquor on the ground outside the house as a way of inviting them here, so we can let them know that Dad is joining them.

I vaguely remember my dad’s sister, Aunt Rebecca; I must have met her in Ghana because I associate her with earthy ground and red dust. She had deep, healed tribal marks on her right cheek or on both. She wore a kente head wrap and a matching cloth tied around her waist to form a skirt. For me, that is Aunt Rebecca in her entirety.

That’s the thing about distant relatives you hardly know; they’re like Schrodinger’s cat—the relative in question might either be dead or alive, but often your reaction doesn’t differ dramatically when you find out which.

James is here along with Dad’s brother Freddie and his wife, Aunt Felicity—they flew in only yesterday, but Auntie Mabel’s still in Ghana. She left London right before Dad died and has been trying to move her return date forward. Her son, David, who is dark, lean, and carries himself awkwardly, is here on her behalf; he looks vaguely familiar even though he definitely hasn’t visited Dad since he became ill. The remaining attendees include Mum’s pastor, along with a couple from her church whose names I don’t catch.

Uncle Freddie pours the alcohol onto the ground and then water on top of it. I’m late, arriving halfway through, and he’s speaking Fante, which when spoken quickly is like trying to catch bubbles before they pop. My brain needs a second to translate a word, but he’ll have already moved on to the next one.

Heading back into the house, he comes over and shakes my hand gently. I can’t remember the last time I saw him. Maybe six years ago? He doesn’t like to leave home and Ghana will forever be his home. He has to lean forward when he walks, so we end up the same height; he wears a crackled leather flat cap on his head.

I briefly wonder if it’s harder to lose a father or a brother.

In Fante, he says, “I’m so sorry you’ve lost your father.”

In English, I respond, “Thank you. I’m sorry you lost your brother.”

“Hmmm,” he says, but I notice something different in my uncle’s sadness. Its existence seems to have already been accepted. The downcast of his eyes, the heaviness in his back, the sorrow in his smile, and something says to me: This is your Uncle Freddie now. Grief has already set in and changed him, not drastically but markedly. Have Nia, Shu, Jo, or Cam noticed anything like this in me?

I am still Maddie. Just a little emptier.

“There you go.” Uncle Freddie lets go of my hand. “Get yourself a treat.” He leaves a one-pound coin in my palm and smiles.

“Wow.” I grin. “Thank you. I can finally afford to quit my job as a chimney sweep.”

He chuckles indulgently; I don’t think he understands the joke and I love him for it. “Don’t spend it all at once.”

I look down at the coin and suddenly remember myself back in my primary-school uniform. There was a day when I stole ten pounds out of my dad’s wallet whilst he was in the shower. I’d bought myself and my friends so much chocolate from the corner shop—it was cheap back then. The cashier gave me only a single pound change in exchange for a heavy blue and white striped bag. I remember being impressed that, in the days of thirty-nine-pence chocolate bars and forty-five-pence drink cans, I’d managed to reach a whole number.

Somehow Dad knew it was me who had taken the money, and when he got home from work that evening, he didn’t say anything, just … looked around me when I was there. Things were back to normal the next morning and neither of us brought it up, but every now and again, I think about it. I realize only now that I never asked Dad for money after that, but rather waited for him to offer some instead.

In the hallway, Mum greets me with a hug. The procession is leading into the living room, but I pause before the doorway, letting Mum walk into me.