Maame(91)

People I didn’t greet at the house come up to me, but I don’t really see any of them. Hello, Uncle. How are you? Me ho yε. My condolences. Medaase. You’re so big now. Aane. Do you remember me? Sure.

Then we’re all stood surrounding a rectangle of hollowed-out earth. In there, at the bottom, is my dad. Aunt Abena is adjusting her headpiece and my uncle Osei swats at a fly. James is staring at the ground, Mum is pinching the bridge of her nose, Auntie Mabel has her head bowed and Uncle Freddie dabs his eyes with a white handkerchief. Suddenly I miss the noise from before: the Twi, the cars, the movement.

“Are we all here?” Mum’s pastor asks. He’s a tall, lean Black man who must duck to avoid a tree’s swooping branches.

“Yes,” Mum says.

“Then let us pray. Lord God, we commit this day into Your hands,” he says. “We are gathered here to celebrate the life of Mr. George Wright…”

He finishes by telling us that Dad is in a better place and that we as Christians need not mourn, but give thanks to God that we have a place where we will reunite with loved ones someday. We are blessed as believers because death is not the end.

The tributes are read: “George Wright was clever and studious … As he was a faithful man, even when physically weakened, he will be at home now, with the Lord and family already gone … He was a hardworking man and his discipline allowed him to travel from Ghana and make a living in London…”

I’m the only one who struggles to get started. I bite my lip and breathe through my nose. When words still won’t come out, Mum rubs my back and whispers, “Take your time. There is no rush.”

“I will remember my dad for the smile on his face whenever I walked into the room.” I clear my throat. “Although he often preferred his own company, in his final years his love for his children only grew. It is, and will continue to be, strange going home and … and not finding my father there. Life is different without him now; I wish I could say I was at peace, but the truth is that it’s difficult and I’m struggling. But I’ll get there. And if it takes a while, that’s fine, because if there’s anything my father’s smiles taught me, it’s that it’s not too late to start again. It’s not too late to be the person you want or were always meant to be.

“I … Sometimes I think of love as pieces of one heart. When I love someone, I break off a piece and give it to them. There are not so many because that way each piece is substantial, but without a doubt, my dad has one of the biggest pieces I have and will ever give. It cannot be replaced. It is his forever. God bless my father and may he rest in peace.”

I don’t like my eulogy because I don’t feel it encapsulates everything, but how could it? How can I, in front of my family, describe that I’m not only mourning my dad but the life I lost when he became sick and the life I’ve lost now that’s he’s gone?

Dad’s immediate family sprinkle earth onto his coffin, we sing hymns and Pastor prays again. I stare into the deep rectangle of earth carved into the ground, where, at the bottom, in a box, my father’s body will remain forever. Auntie Mabel sings a Ghanaian burial song and then we watch the grave being filled. It takes a forklift, a truck, and a man with a shovel. I rest my head on James’s shoulder, my cheeks hard and dried. He pulls me into a side hug. He smells expensive, not of acrid body spray or heavy aftershave, but light and reminiscent of gummy sweets.

“Sorry I was never there, Mads.” He sniffs and when I look up, he’s crying. “After what you said the other day in the kitchen, I see what we did to you. I don’t even know what to say.” He nods toward Dad. “And there’s nothing I can do for him now, either. I missed all my chances.”

I could say something soothing, but I don’t have anything to offer. I’ve run out of lies. Dad’s gone and the chance to help him has gone with him. I could say it’s fine and that it no longer matters, but that won’t negate how much it did matter at the time. I decide not to say anything at all.

One day we’ll be orphans; one day I’ll be faced with the question of: who am I without my parents? I know I will never live at home again; that home as I know it may cease to exist. Mum will likely sell the house, and in a few months, she’ll go back to Ghana. James will continue to be reachable only after the second call. Then there will be me. Maddie. Madeleine Baaba Wright, twenty-five. Nothing else about me as definitive as those facts.

“What’s your job, Mads?” James asks.

“Huh? I’m an editorial assistant.”

“And that’s what you want to do, in life, I mean?”

“I think so. Why do you ask?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t know. I knew it was something to do with books but didn’t know what exactly.”

“Oh, I should have specified.”

“Nah, I should have asked.” He speaks quietly, squeezing my shoulder. “I never thought I needed to check up on you. I’m sorry we’re not the family you deserve, Mads,” he suddenly says. “Dad’s gone and Mum’s just not very maternal in that way. I know you want her to be, every kid does, but not every mum is that mum. When I was at school, I’d be wishing she’d act like the other mums, pick me up from school, make me dinner, help with homework, and sometimes it looked like she’d changed, but it never lasted ’cos you can’t pretend to be someone you’re not for very long. So don’t waste your time wishing for it, because it’s not anything you’re doing wrong, yeah?” James sighs. “Mum and I really just left you from young and I think about that a lot now. The family and our house would have collapsed years ago if it weren’t for you looking after Dad and paying the bills, and you did all that from the heart, ’cos I know we didn’t act grateful. I could never; I don’t have that in me, man. I’m thankful for you, Mads, and I’m sorry, for … for a lot of things. For everything. But Dad loved you, you know.”