Maame(82)

“You could say that,” I answer. “On my first day back, my mum said, ‘God is with you, Maame. Have a good day and call me if work is too much.’ It was too much, but I didn’t call her; I just skipped lunch and walked around Farringdon.”

“Your mother calls you Maame?”

“Yes. ‘Maame’ means—”

“I know what it means.” Angelina smiles—a bit sadly, if I’m not mistaken. “I’m the eldest of three sisters and it’s what my mother called me.”

“You’re Ghanaian?”

“I am indeed. Which means I’m well aware of the importance of names in our culture. In many ways, they’re given to us in an attempt to speak to our future. Growing up, I had many friends named Glory, Patience, Wisdom, Comfort. It seems there is a link between our names and our supposed destiny. We could apply that thinking to the name Maame: the responsible one. The woman. The mother. Often before her time.” Angelina closes her notebook. “How do you feel about that name, Maddie?”

I shift. This question has suddenly made me very uncomfortable. “Why are we talking about my nickname?”

“Because I’d like to get to know you,” she answers simply. “I mainly provide counseling services to companies with a mental-health initiative and it’s been a while since I’ve seen someone so young with such heavy shoulders.”

“I can’t be the worst person you’ve met.”

“‘Worst’ would imply there’s something wrong with you—and there’s not. A person’s troubles are not measured by the size of those troubles, but by how much they weigh on the individual carrying them. I’ve noticed already you’re very concerned about how others feel rather than focusing on how you feel. I asked about your first days back and all you’ve spoken about is whether you’re reacting in a way that your colleagues will find appropriate, or easy to process. It’s not your job to make your colleagues feel comfortable all of the time. That in itself is a burden too heavy to carry when grieving. I imagine your instinct to put others first, even if detrimental to yourself, also plays a part in your personal life.” She fixes her gaze on me. “But I believe I asked you how you felt about the name Maame.”

Seconds tick by before I hear myself say, “I used to love it.”

“And now?”

“Now? Now, I might hate it.” I give my brain time to process. “I think I hate what it means and what it’s done to me.”

“What has it done to you?”

“It made me grow up,” I answer. “It made me grow up when I should have had more time. It made my dad overlook me when I was a child, my mum leave me behind, and my brother get away with doing the bare minimum. It made me lonely and it made me sad. It made me responsible and guilty. It made me someone, if given the choice, I wouldn’t want to be.”



* * *



After I leave the HR room, I head straight for the exit.

The last thing Angelina said to me was that maybe Maddie and Maame could use some distance, as if it would be easy to separate the two. They’re the same person—always have been.

I start walking until I realize I’ve gone from Farringdon to Tottenham Court Road. I make it to the traffic lights just after the station and when I turn back, I spot Mum through the glass window of a coffee shop.

What’s Mum doing here? Is she looking for me? She rarely comes to Central London because, and I quote: “It’s too noisy and busy for no reason.” But there she is, sat at a table by the window, and if she’d only look to her left, she’d notice me. I think she’s about to before she’s joined by a man in jeans and a white T-shirt. Immediately, instinctively, I know this man is Kwaku, my mum’s … boyfriend.

The walk symbol signals we can cross the street, but I let people push past me and tut until I’m jostled to the edge. I can’t take my eyes off the coffee shop window. Through the glass, I can see Kwaku must be in his fifties, like Mum, but he’s very well built and he sits with his back straight and his hands now holding my married mother’s.

Widowed mother’s.

I creep closer and crouch behind a letter box like the world’s shittiest spy, and stare. Kwaku gently rubs the back of Mum’s hand and my first thought is, how does he manage to do something so gently with hands as big as his? My second thought is, he looks nothing like my dad.

Maybe that’s the point.

Mum looks down at their entwined hands and I notice her head is slightly bowed and her shoulders loose. Then when he moves to sit next to her, his arm around her shoulders, she turns miniature. She rests her head on his shoulder and only then, with her head upturned, do I see the tears running down her cheeks.

I straighten my back because I’ve never seen my mum so soft and taken care of. Kwaku wipes her eyes with his thumb and kisses the top of her head, and she closes her eyes. He loves her and, worst of all, she loves him, too. Suddenly, this is unforgivable.

I walk up to the window, not taking my eyes off them until Kwaku clocks me and frowns. Realization hits him between the eyes, assisted by Mum sitting upright with a face slack with horror. In that moment, I wonder if it’s too late to pretend I didn’t see anything because this version of my mum unnerves me. There’s no confidence or assuredness; she’s stuck with no way out. But I’m down the rabbit hole. People sat at surrounding tables are staring too, at the young woman with her nose inches away from the glass.