Maame(63)

“Maddie?” she questions.

I don’t answer and just carry on into the living room. Dad’s special chair is already gone. The dining table in the corner, previously used to house papers, stray carrier bags, and Dad’s medication, has been cleared. On top lie an assortment of snacks; Mum’s made rock buns and bofrot and tied them in individual bags: to-go. There are canned drinks, bottled water, and a crate of Carlsberg beer.

I remember that beer from our first house, in Battersea.

I was eleven, maybe twelve, and I opened the fridge for something to drink. I noticed Dad’s opened beer beside the milk and lifted it out. Dad, standing at the stove, looked over his shoulder, as I took a sip. He was going to tell me off, but before he could, I was spitting it out into the sink. Dad chuckled. “Now you know. Don’t waste my beer again, eh?”

I rub my eyes hard because I’d never recalled that memory until today.



* * *



Once we’re all gathered in the living room we go around the circle retelling the story of how we found out Dad had died. James and Auntie Mabel (who’s joining us via video call) had both called Dad in the morning to wish him happy birthday, knowing they wouldn’t be visiting. They bond over that and my own jealousy is tinged with anger. Auntie Mabel I can understand, but why was James given the opportunity to speak to Dad before he died and I wasn’t?

“He sounded fine,” Auntie Mabel says, her lips turned down. “A little off, just a little slow and tired, but sometimes that is how he would sound. How were we to know? How did he sound to you, Baaba?”

My heart sinks and I open my mouth until my tongue dries. It’s an innocent question, I know it is, because of course I should have been there with Dad on his birthday. If we had put money on who would have been by his side when he died, even I would have bet on me. My eyes sting and Mum puts her hand on my knee.

“Maddie was on her way over when I told her the news,” she says. “Her plans were to be with her father on his birthday.”

Auntie Mabel clucks with affectionate pity I don’t deserve. “Indeed, it was a sad day,” she concludes.

They should have known something was wrong with him. I blink hard at this accusatory thought. But no one sounds fine and then dies hours later. You would have been able to tell, right? I pinch my arm until a dent forms. He would have sounded off to you and you would have called the doctor, like you always do.

I bow my head and silently cry.

We next discuss the financial aspect of the funeral but run short of reaching a conclusion. Dad’s brother tells us how he’d had money set aside in Ghana but somehow, due to either the economy or dubious family members—my grasp on Fante is looser than I thought—it’s now gone. I look over at James and he appears to be following the conversation better than I am. Maybe the three years before me gave him the space to learn. The bottom line (and everyone agrees) is that we need money, but no one has any. They all promise to do their best but what this means is left open to interpretation.



* * *



When everyone begins to filter out of the house, I tidy away what’s left in the living room and take it to the kitchen sink. A man (the husband of the couple whose names are still a mystery) pops his head round. I smile politely, hoping he’s taken a wrong turn to the bathroom.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

He’s quite a circular man, with a round stomach and a head reminiscent of a football.

“Sorry, no.”

“I’m your uncle Kojo,” he says. “I used to know your father, years ago.”

And where have you been since?

“The last time I saw you, you were small-small,” he says. “Young. Maybe ten years old?”

“Oh.” I don’t know how to react to this revelation. It’s been a long time since I was small-small. “Well, it’s nice to see you again then.”

“You really don’t remember me?”

“Fifteen years is a long time.”

He nods. “Of course it is. My condolences to you.”

My hands drip soapy water as I say, “Thank you.”

He stands and nods.

I turn back to the sink.

“I am sorry for your loss, but it’s not the last time you will see him, you know?”

I sigh. “Yes.”

“Don’t cry too hard, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Lamentation is just an opportunity to renew your trust and faith in God, you see?”

I look at him. The corners of his eyes crease without aid and silver-gray threads hide within his nose. I don’t know this man. He hasn’t kept in touch, so of course I don’t know him. It strikes me that the dedications “auntie” and “uncle” have lost all meaning. Anyone can wander off the street, tell me they’re my aunt/uncle from years ago, drive it home with a creased brow, a disappointed frown and a “You really don’t remember me?” and I would nod and welcome them in.

“I’ll leave you now,” he says.

“Okay. Nice to see you.”

Uncle Kojo. I likely won’t see him again.



* * *



However, a familiar face I also wasn’t sure I’d see again presents itself ten minutes later.