Maame(90)

I almost manage to laugh. I think my mother makes up many traditions just to get her way.

More people have arrived and approach me to say sorry, to give me pats of condolence. One after the other until I’m facing a woman with a rigid back, a black duku wrapped around her hair, painted eyebrows, and pursed lips sat solidly in the center of her face. She looks down at me underneath full lashes. “Baaba, I am your aunt Abena,” she says in Twi. “One of your father’s many cousins, and this is your uncle Osei.” She gestures to the man beside her. “Our condolences,” she finishes.

“Thank you,” I tell them both.

She tilts her head. “Hmm?”

“I said, thank you.”

She doesn’t move and continues to hold her rectangular purse to her stomach. “Try again,” she orders.

“I’m sorry?”

“Am I speaking to you in English, Baaba?”

I feel the sun burn my cheeks. “No. You’re speaking Twi.”

“Exactly. So why are you responding in English? Do you not know your own language?”

I look around for help, someone to interrupt us, but no one is paying any attention.

“I know some.”

“Then try.”

“Thank you—Medaase.”

She nods. “Good. How have you been?”

She wants more? “Me…”

“Go on,” she pushes.

“Leave her be,” her husband says.

“No,” she responds, looking at me. “She can do it. The day of her father’s funeral is no day to be lazy, is no day to speak English. He was born surrounded by those speaking in Twi and he will be buried the same.”

If she wasn’t so intimidating I’d tell her that those were strong words coming from a woman I’m sure I’ve not met before. I’d tell her she doesn’t have the right to tell me how to act or speak at my father’s funeral, but looking around, it’s clear that this is my extended family in a nutshell. It doesn’t matter if we talk every day or if we’ve never even met, she is family and that means she can drop in whenever she likes and remind me of who my father is and by default, who I am.

“Go on, Baaba.”

I almost say I don’t know how to respond but then remember my mum’s response to another auntie minutes ago. “Me ho ye,” I say slowly. “Wo ho te sen?”

My pronunciation isn’t great and I’ve probably missed out a word or two, but she breaks into a big smile. Approval.

“See? She knows it,” Aunt Abena says. “She thinks she doesn’t, but it is in her.”

She passes to go into the house, and I think about how the language I’ve mourned never learning has on some level already been taught. A language I thought too difficult to warrant effort has already embedded itself into me. I can probably converse simply by recalling the responses of others. So I listen as we wait and it’s a nice distraction. I listen to my family’s chatter and translate in my head and try to store the words I might need today and maybe tomorrow.

Yefre wo sen? What do they call you/what is your name?

Me din de … My name is …

Mente ase?. I don’t understand.

That will come in handy.



* * *



We’re not very organized. The dead are more prompt than the living, as the living are currently deciding which cars to go in. Aunt Abena is unsurprisingly taking the lead. She pushes Mum toward one car, then folds her fingers into her palms repeatedly, says “Bra ha” to James and he helps Auntie Mabel into his.

“Are you in this one?”

“Nante yiye.”

“Let’s go now.”

“The address. What’s the address?”

“Kyer? me kwan no.”

Twi and English are flying in the air. Heels on the pavement, engines revving, and car doors slamming. For a moment, I stand alone because if Dad were here, his would be the car I’d sit in. For years, wherever he went, by bus or by train, to the supermarket or the GP, I’d go with him, until I had to begin going instead of him.

Aunt Abena gently pulls on my arm and tells me to get into the silver car.

The man at the wheel is familiar, belonging to the group from Mum’s church, but I don’t know his name. He’s a friend of the family, or a family friend, or family but not blood-related, whichever one, it doesn’t matter. We pull away from the house and travel down the road.

We’re the third car behind the procession. Every time the hearse turns a corner and I see the photograph of Dad, large and framed, sat at the end of his coffin, the tears resurface.

People on the street turn to watch us. A dog barks. One old man makes the sign of the cross. When their eyes meet mine, my chest opens and I feel exposed. I hope I remember never to stare at a funeral procession as it passes ever again.



* * *



I’ve never been through a graveyard before; I used to avoid cemeteries because I worried it would tempt fate. Looks like fate found me anyway.

The sun is hot and the ground is uneven. My black cotton dress feels too heavy when I watch the cemetery workers lower my dad into a burial plot. They talk amongst themselves as they work because this is their own personal brand of “just another day at the office.”