Dear Reader,

In your hands is the first special issue of Za! Magazine, born in part from the Goethe-Institut co-publishing workshop in
Cameroon with TJ Benson and Jeff Atuobi and a conversation that took place at Pa Gya! A Literary Festival in Accra in
2018 between myself and the former. TJ and I had been reflecting on political borders and their consequences. I revealed
to TJ my dual heritage of being Ghanaian-Nigerian and why I felt more interactions between these two places were
needed. TJ would ask why I describe myself as Ghanaian-Nigerian and not Nigerian-Ghanaian. I would pause for a bit,
my fork heavy with beans and plantain stuck midway and say ‘because I know Ghana as home.’ We will agree then to work
on a project together.

The 83’ Issue comes six years after that conversation and in good timing; 40 years after the very famous 1983 Ghana Must
Go Saga which remains a very popular reference for the bitter memories that exist between Ghana and Nigeria. Often
referenced politically, the history of January 17, 1983 has not been explored enough through the lens of the masses who
were affected the most and still bear the weight one way or the other.

The significance of this issue goes beyond the ceremonial marking of this event and carrying on its histories and
knowledge to the next generation. It brings together writers, illustrators and photographers, some of dual heritage, who
represent the very masses who either lost companions, were lost or caught up in the brouhaha of a mess left for the masses
to deal with after an order was given by a leader far removed from their realities. From Ghanaian-Nigerians who reflect on
identity crises and trauma,memory and observation, to writers whose works delve into imagining life before, during and
after the saga, it is my hope that this edition helps expand the possibilities of conversation and diversity to a point where
Nigeria and Ghana can come to the table, moving beyond Jollof, social-media banter and political references. It is my hope
that it serves as a moment to reflect. I write this note at a time when many young Africans are leaving their home countries,
leaving those of us left behind to ponder leaving as well.

Sudden hope, sudden movement, despair, hunger and loss will always be with us. The beauty of Art is that we carry
creativity that surpasses difficulties and eases dialogues.

Elizabeth Ofosuah Temitayo Johnson.

Accra,
July 22, 2023
 1.What relation does the shadow bear with the object?

The shadow gestures towards a necessary bond. It signifies the

object’s attachment to light. The shadow, intangible, weightless, is
an intimate companion of the opaque, tangible thing. This
lingering intimacy is delicately expressed in moshood’s .slow.
photographs. In a conversation with Natachi, moshood explains
that his impulse to photograph shadows was an instinct to
withdraw from human interaction towards more “bearable
companions.” Although the shadows become, as moshood says,
irresistible in their companionship, they first appear to him as
apparitions.

The things that moshood’s images actualise are largely non-human but
bear traces of human touch, of person weights. In one photograph, two
cloth pegs hang on a line, one of them bent to the side and holding the
possibility of tottering towards the bright wall and lush foliage below.
Under the pegged line is another, tautly drawn. The shadow of the
pegged line is translucent and wraithlike but present. Another image,
sequentially preceding other photographs with live hens in them,
foregrounds the remains of one or several dead birds. Even in death,
the spread of feathers, and several gradations between illumination and
umbra lend animation to the birds. An insight into death as life’s
inevitable companion and intensifier.

In .slow. there area many shadow images of household objects: door handles, clotheslines, kitchen sinks and
utensils, chairs, walls, gates; shadow images of plants: tree barks, tree canopies, individual leaves, skinny
stems, outdoors, indoors. And even within these indications of the familiar exist something mysterious, not-
yet-fully-articulated, or suppressed. Perhaps lingering beside the images of the objects we now fully know, are
shadows of those things which are to come or things which are past?

3
 2.The uncanny configurations of Ghanaian (s)pace.

In the second part of .slow., moshood extends the

camera beyond the folds of domestic shade. During
the course of three Sunday afternoons, he collects
images of Makola. These photos are a witness to the
slowness of Makola and the comforts of its shadows,
but they also bear the burden of our history. One of
the images is in portrait. In the background, the
Cocoa House rises about six storeys high.
COCOBOD is seen atop its roof. Across it runs a dual
carriageway. Three vehicles are approaching on one
side, partially obscured by the trees spread along the
barricaded central reservation. On the other side, a
mini truck zooms away, loaded with stacks of plastic
chairs.

The cocoa crisis of the 1930s on the Gold Coast comes

to mind. In 1937, the chief-led cocoa hold-up joined a
general boycott of European goods in the colony
because the masses got word of European collusion to
manipulate the prices of goods. The anxious colonial
government then introduced the Cocoa Marketing Makola Market, Accra, moshood, .slow., 2021
Board, which eventually became COCOBOD, a
The shadow of death breezes across the empty roads,
monopoly buyer and price fixer for all legal Ghanaian
the vacant sidewalks and bales of goods covered in
cocoa beans. The European companies hated it even
tarpaulin sheets. I see a four-wheeled cart unloaded,
though they still profited. The farmers hated it
steered left and motionless in front of a bundle of feet of
because they were still fleeced for their labour. The
mannequins shooting out of a sac. Beside the sac,
House stands so tall, without a shadow, because the
rightward, stands a box emblazoned with a bald eagle in
sky is overcast with clouds. I also remember the 1935
flight, bands of colours and stars behind it, 45 at the
meeting, in which the Okyeman traditional council
upper right corner and HOT at the bottom. The
encouraged the colonial government to deport Sierra
American iconography triggers a brief reflection on the
Leoneans and Nigerians for being insubordinate to
Super Eagles. Behind the box, mannequins and cart, a
customary law (a fiction of colonial jurisprudence).
melange of metalware for holding makeshift stores and
They claimed that these foreigners colluded with
umbrellas during commercial hours are retired, upside
European companies to destroy the hold-ups.
down.

4
 Two buildings, one preceding the next, form the
background of this organised chaos. Benches and
tables stacked over one another rest against the wall
of the nearer building, in the shadow of what appears
to be a concrete awning. The next building, two
This was the much-needed house cleaning. Through
storeys higher, has OFORIWA HOUSE held flat
threats and actual violence, the traders were dispersed.
against it: two condenser units cover the bottom of
Goods grew even scarcer. Prices were fixed by martial
the F and O, W and A.
fiat and enforced violently. Many traders hid in their
homes and hoarded their little remaining wares.
I recall the country’s early years when it convulsed
Scarcity was not caused by hoarding; it was scarcity that
through the struggle against overt colonial
caused hoarding. While the economic situation was
domination. Kwame Nkrumah is the name we easily
harsh, the elite still belched from fullness. A series of
remember. But Agnes Oforiwa Tagoe-Quarcoopome,
clandestine commerce above the control prices took
a trader at Makola, was one of his financiers, without
shape. Soldiers grew more paranoid. Market women all
whom Nkrumah could have never gained the
over Ghana were rounded up on suspicion, arrested,
massive support of the market women. I imagine
stripped, flogged and murdered. The same women
those days when Oforiwa moved from stall to stall,
chartered ten buses to support the revolution of
sharing the message of national liberation, pooling
Rawlings. The same market women financed
the wealth and stirring the hearts of women. Makola
Nkrumah. The very same.
was no longer merely a site for the sale of fresh goods
and retail products; it was a site for political
mobilisation.
However, Makola was destroyed in August 1979 by
enraged soldiers. Other markets were destroyed by
mobs.

The press of the day villainised the kinds of Oforiwa,

calling them “market queens.” The soldiers had the
curious idea that the prices of goods were
astronomical because wicked women raised them for
profit, not because the prices were determined by
predatory international market forces and local
elites. They did not believe all the costs of commerce
were shifted on the traders while the elites and
European companies kept the profit, even in those
trying times. The angry soldiers saw the effect and
called out “cause!” They looted stalls. With
bulldozers, the market was razed to the ground.

5
I am struck by the headless, armless plastic feminine figure, propped at a leftward tilt on two stacked bricks. The
right foot barely touches the ground; the left is broken off above the ankle. Behind it, tie-and-dye shirts, eighteen
of which I see, hang on wooden structures. A bench sits between the form and the shirts. Why does this image
remind me of my grandmother’s horror stories, of the images of women forcibly denuded by soldiers and seated
on ice blocks for profiteering from textiles or tins of milk? My grandmother fled from these soldiers when they
found that she hoarded pieces of textiles. My mother, then a girl, fell during the chase and sustained injuries
whose scars persist on her knee and lower lip. This mannequin hovers a haunting shadow over my recollection.
How did it come to this?

In 1969, three years after Nkrumah was deposed, the United Party came to power as the first civilian-led
democracy of Ghana. Under this government, Ghana became the fiefdom of international capital. The IMF and
World Bank’s Strategic Adjustment Programmes, with their deregulation, liberalisation, reduced public
spending and privatisation of our economy, lay the country defenceless against the forays of Western capital. This
resulted in unemployment, debt and ridiculous prices of basic needs. The price of cocoa was plummeting at the
time. Hunger and despair fanned xenophobic flames. The government, to appease the masses, drafted the Alien
Compliance Order. By the snap of the fingers, Nigerians, Togolese, Sierra Leonean and Ivorian persons, hitherto
grafted into the communities they lived and contributed their labour to, were changed into aliens. But what
happened to the representatives of the foreign companies whose enrichment was at the masses’ expense? They
were British-protected persons or expatriates. Not aliens. Most of the deported people were Nigerians, Yoruba,
to be precise.

I visited Ibadan a few months ago. I seamlessly blended in with a Fila and a few pidgin phrases, only to be
discovered when Yoruba was spoken to me. My accent also betrayed my foreignness although most people did not
guess I was Ghanaian. I passed through Mokola Roundabout on my way to Dugbe, Bodija or Moniya. Mokola
reminded me of Makola. What does Mokola mean? And why is our most important market similarly named?

6
In a photograph, a road, starting broadly, is bordered by bales of
wares, stacked benches and tables, and, towards its vanishing point,
the back of a trailer is open. Human figures, male and young,
appear before it, someone seems to be inside the trailer. To the right,
the figure of a girl walks away, a loaded basin balanced on her head.
A lonely errand. Why she must be out here on a Sunday, selling to
deserted streets, packed up tables and benches? This scene sets off a
memory, a story innumerably retold by my grandmother, of my
mother carrying pieces of textiles far from the stall to drive sales,
adding to the prices, fetching a profit and keeping it. My mother
always acts innocent of this when the story is told. But my
grandmother insists that she knew it all along and allowed it. It
showed that her shrewd daughter, my mother, would make it in life.
My time in Ibadan was replete with insightful encounters with the
reality of Nigeria and the traces of Yoruba in my experience of
Accra. I think of Alata Samina, the African black soap we washed
ourselves with. The first time I heard Alata being used to refer to a
Nigerian was when my grandmother pointed at Pastor Chris on the
TV. She disapproves of charismatic preachers. Years later, I learnt
the oral history of Alata. It was drawn from the Yoruba word for
“pepper seller” due to the Yoruba women who came to trade pepper
in Gold Coast. At Bodija Market I sneezed multiple times because of
the glut of chilli pepper, dried, ground or fresh, around me. But
when the Keke arrived at Mokola Roundabout, I again
remembered Makola Market and wondered about the origin of its
name. A little research brought more than one answer. One claimed
Makola, a Yoruba word that means “meeting of people,” was where
they settled in Accra. Another said it was from the Ga expression
“makolai,” meaning “where the firewood is.” However, I leant
towards the story of S. O. Akiwumi.
The year is 1924. The colonial official needs to set up a market. The
land most conducive for this new market is owned by a Yoruba
businessman, S. O. Akiwumi. Forced by the colonial powers, he
hands over the land. A market is established and named after
Selwyn-Clarke. But it later returns to Makola from the Yoruba
expression “ m ko la w le,” meaning “The child brings wealth
home.” Makola is imagined in this name as the lucky child of S. O.
Akiwumi. The child, like the girl selling on a desolate Sunday, like
my mother dashing through the market with textiles, brings home
wealth.
3. What shadows do the past cast on the present?
moshood’s .slow. affords us the (s)pace to reflect on Makola. I have
only been to Makola thrice and in those times, I went with someone.
The dizzying pace of activity, the blaring of vehicles that miss you by
a hair’s breadth, the blazing sun, the press of people and the
disorienting calls of traders and conductors, all deter me from
entering the approaching Accra Central, on my own. Once there, I
never look around long enough to recollect.
At rest, all tensions relaxed, obscurity is dispelled and the opaque
present melts away for the luminous past to shine through. Now,
without the din, we can “hear the sounds of the soldier's boots/the
crack of their whips against the women's skins/the women's
wailings…” I go some steps further. From the desolate market, I can
now imagine the desperation of immigrants of 1969, the instant
alienation from their society and labour. With a tremor, I imagine
how kiosks, houses and vehicles were sold for cheap to Ghanaians.
How alienated people could not withdraw the money they worked
for, even when they had to fund the forced deportation. How, in a
flash, the alchemy of the law had transformed hardworking
labourers from other colonies into criminals. I think tenderly of the
many who were driven to suicide, the many who were separated
from their partners. I may not understand how they felt, but I can
empathise with the decision of some to burn their properties
because they could neither sell nor carry them back to Ogbomosho.

Jeff Atuobi is a writer, researcher, translator and educator based in Accra, Ghana. They are interested in African artistic and literary
productions as sites for revolutionary praxis. An alumnus of the Caine Prize for African Writing Workshop, Mo Issa Writers Workshop
and Goethe-Institut Art Writing and Criticism Workshop, and an Ebedi Fellow, Jeff prioritises collaborative, collective thought. He
believes that discourse can expand into loci of agitation against the status quo. Their work aims to build connections between art
practitioners, writers and thinkers on the continent committed to decolonising Africa's cultural output. His work can be found (or is
forthcoming) in Jalada Africa, A Mind to Silence: The Caine Prize Anthology, Art from Africa: Its Place in Our Lives and Time and
elsewhere.

7
 ALIENS
at
HOME
In my childhood, the bag was popular in two colours – red
and light blue. Its checkered body, made from plastic, gave
it a peculiar look, so that once seen, even from afar, one
could tell it was Ghana Must Go. A couple of these bags sat
in our wardrobe and they contained the clothes of me and
my siblings. Each time we opened them, their skins
crackled and the smell of camphor broke into the air. Once,
my younger brothers and I emptied the bags and took
turns going into and out of them, as if entering a portal to a
private realm, but as well to see if they could hold us as
comfortably as they held clothes. Ghana Must Go, as we
later learnt, held more than material things. It held, also, a
historical memory, one narrated so often it felt like a myth.
Once upon a time, the stories said, Ghanaians flocked to
Nigeria. They took on petty trade, driving jobs, teaching
roles, positions in private and public firms, and
contributed to an increase in crime, it was said. To restore
safety and revert the decline in the country’s economy, the
Nigerian government, under President Shehu Shagari’s
rule, expelled Ghanaians, and while leaving, they used
these bags to carry their things, so it became known as
Ghana Must Go.
Over the years, the bag has acquired symbolic meanings. It
has become a symbol for human movement.
It has also become a bag for carting cash, by Nigerian
politicians hoarding money or passing bribes, or by thieves
fleeing a heist – that is, it is a symbol of crime and
corruption. Most evidently in Nigeria, it has become a
symbol of class division, often depicted as a travel bag for
the poor, an image perpetuated by Nollywood films.
How accurate are these symbolic meanings? I wonder. And
how true are the stories I heard, in childhood, about
Ghana Must Go?
8
- Zenas Ubere
The stories told to us felt flat, and we grew up retelling this
simplified narration of the expulsion. Generations of
Nigerians removed from the incident stayed poorly
informed about a past so recent in our historical timeline
that it could be yesterday’s event.
In the 1970s, Nigeria transitioned from an agriculture-
based economy to an oil-based one. Between 1969 and
1974, oil production in the country rose to 2.5 million
barrels per day. By 1975, the revenue from petroleum
reached $4.733 billion, making Nigeria one of the richest
African nations. This upward economic climb continued
into the late 1970s. Now a hub of wealth with a buoyant
economy, good standard of living, and job opportunities
cutting across the construction, transportation,
communication, and manufacturing sectors, Nigeria
attracted citizens of neighbouring countries, particularly
Benin Republic, Burkina Faso, Togo, Niger, and Ghana.
“Immigrants, however, were
blamed for this collapse...”
However, the oil boom gave way to an oil glut. Demand for
oil from Nigeria declined. And in 1981, petrol price
slumped. Nigeria’s oil-dependent economy was collapsing,
and the country’s revenue nosedived. Unemployment
rates began to rise. The weakening financial strength of
citizens to match the increasing cost of living became
apparent. The formerly buoyant economy had deflated.
Hardship befell the country, and crime rates spiked. The
mismanagement of funds and poor economic choices by
the country’s leaders in the days of affluence contributed
significantly to this sudden economic fall. Immigrants,
however, were blamed for this collapse, accused of eating
into a sizeable amount of the country’s economy and being
the perpetrators of the criminal activities rising in the
country.
In response to this, on 17 January 1983, Alhaji Ali Baba, Minister
of Internal Affairs at the time, ordered all illegal immigrants in
the country to leave. Those who had official immigration papers
were exempted. But for those without papers, unskilled
immigrants were given two weeks and skilled persons were
allowed until 28 February to legalise their stay or vacate. Anyone
caught after the grace period, the announcement said, would be
arrested and tried and eventually deported.
Ghanaians had a higher population of immigrants in Nigeria and
the grace period wasn’t feasible for everyone to get their legal
papers. When it elapsed and the fear of xenophobic hostility set
in, immigrants began to flee in haste, and the Ghana Must Go
saga began. Friends bade friends farewell. Lovers kissed lovers
goodbye. Colleagues parted ways with colleagues. Some escaped
by air, some by water, and many by land.
“People exchanged their belongings for
food and drugs, and those who couldn’t
afford any lost their lives.”
On land, the border at Benin Republic was closed to avoid an
influx of refugees. This was in response to the closed border at
Togo, which was, in turn, a response to the closed border at
Ghana (earlier, for the fear of a coup and to prevent smuggling of
goods, Flight Lieutenant Jerry Rawlings, Ghana’s military head
of state at the time, had closed the country’s border with Togo).
Because of these closed borders, the pressure of people at the
Benin-Nigeria border kept building. Organisations, such as the
Red Cross, helped to set up camps. And in no time, the campsites
got cramped. There was heat, there was hunger, and soon,
disease outbreaks began to occur. People exchanged their
belongings for food and drugs, and those who couldn’t afford any
lost their lives. To ease the number of people leaving by land,
Ghana’s shipping line, the Black Star Line, was dispatched to
ferry people by water. At Apapa Wharf, Ghanaians waited, in
large numbers, for the ships’ arrival.
The ships took about a week to arrive, and in the waiting, in the
struggle to board them, and on their journey along the Atlantic,
people lost properties, sustained injuries, and died. On land,
twelve days after the expulsion order took effect, Ghana finally
opened its border with Togo, then all the other borders opened,
and Ghanaians saw passage home. In Ghana, some families
waiting to receive their own were happy to see them alive. For
some families, however, the expected loved ones never arrived.
In researching the Ghana Must Go incident, a few things
surprised me, but what stood out the most was the language
usage at that time, how the word ‘alien’ meant someone not from
the country, carrying the same derogatory air that ‘immigrant’
now carries.
9
For someone who grew up watching films where aliens were
otherworldly beings to whom uber-human intelligence was
ascribed, seeing the word used in a derogatory light was
surprising. In the films, the aliens always came to dominate Earth
with their advanced technology and superior knowledge of
things. And thinking about it, I began to trace similarities
between the aliens in the films and the ‘aliens’ in our world. For
instance, Ghanaians were so good at teaching (even better than
Nigerians) that stories about Ghanaian teachers still abound
today. In areas where they were exceptional and therefore
preferred for their performance, it would seem as if they were
dominating it. This exceptionalism, however, is something we’ve
seen before, in Ghana, some years earlier. And history, as usual,
was merely repeating itself.
In 1957, Ghana gained independence from British rule. A
beacon of hope to neighbouring West African states, it was led by
Kwame Nkrumah who sold the pan-African dream, extending
welcoming arms to other Africans. Around then, Ghana was the
world’s largest cocoa producer, and it became a haven for people
from different parts of West Africa who trooped into the country
to participate in its cocoa-led economy, to work as farm labourers,
contractors, or to engage in trade.
By 1960, however, Ghana’s position in the world’s cocoa market
dropped, the global price of cocoa fell, and the country’s
economy weakened. By the late 1960s, unemployment levels
rose, as did the cost of living. Immigrants, accused of being
threats to the economic survival of Ghana, were blamed for this
misfortune.
To address this, Kofi Busia, the then prime minister of Ghana,
made policies to restrict non-Ghanaians from participating in
certain economic activities. And on 18 November 1969, Busia’s
government gave the Aliens Compliance Order, which took effect
the next day. Illegal immigrants had two weeks to vacate the
country. A large percentage of these immigrants were Nigerians,
most of whom dominated the Ghanaian markets as traders and
built solid trading networks that would, after their expulsion,
leave a vacuum in the retail trade network of the country.
Preparing for the evacuation, some immigrants sold their
properties for a paltry sum. Some of them had their monies
seized in banks. Regardless, the compliance order took effect, and
the exodus began. Campsites were set at borders to ease their
movement, and there, unfair living conditions were met. In
Nigeria, family members received their eventual arrival with
elation, welcoming them home. Now at ‘home’, some returnees
faced difficulty with reintegrating into a place they left long ago,
and for those born in Ghana who called the country home, the
feeling of displacement was strong.
 For both expulsions in Ghana and Nigeria, most immigrants had lived in these countries before they gained
independence from colonial rule. So their stay preceded the need for visas and passports, and suddenly, they were
termed ‘aliens’ and ‘undesirable elements’ and became recipients of xenophobic policies. In both occurrences, the
blame for increased crime and the economic collapse of these countries was apportioned to immigrants, but their
contribution to socio-economic growth was never mentioned or used as generalisations, and the leaders who ran
these countries into economic hardship were extricated of any blame. Another common factor between both
expulsions was that they were election-motivated: Busia was voted into power in October 1969, and Shagari sought
re-election in 1983; for both cases, chasing away ‘aliens’ was to assure their citizens that they prioritised their
wellness. But in Nigeria, as it was later observed, after Ghanaians and other immigrants were chased away, there was
no improvement in the country’s economy or citizens’ standard of living due to the expulsion.

I consider again the symbolic meanings the Ghana Must Go bag has taken. Why it has become a symbol for human
movement is apparent. But it signifies crime in ways not often attached to it. The bag marks out a precise time in
history. And in that time, the lootings by our leaders aside, the atrocities immigrants faced during the exodus can be
considered a crime against humanity. I think of the thousands stranded at borders, living in-between nowhere,
waiting to pass through Benin and Togo to gain access to their country. A narration of movement is much smoother
than the actual journey, for after the story has happened, a clear beginning, middle, and end emerges. But consider
the days without food, the subjugation to poor hygiene, being packed tightly in trucks and boats, the feet swollen by
long treks in torrid weather, the inhumane sleeping conditions, the toll on mental health, the uncertainty of arrivals,
the stampedes, the deaths witnessed…
Consider that all those crammed in boats and clogged on roads, no matter their social class before the exodus began,
became impoverished on their journey home. And while Nigerian leaders, during the oil boom, were hoarding cash
and passing bribes with Ghana Must Go bags, immigrants were handed the same bags, albeit empty, to pack their
things and leave for an economic collapse that was not their doing.

“A narration of movement is much smoother than the

actual journey, for after the story has happened, a clear
beginning, middle, and end emerges.”
Over the years, regardless of all that happened, Ghanaians and Nigerians remain fond of each other.
We are often caught in online banter, whether arguing about food or music. Sometimes, for jokes, we
claim each other’s superstars when convenient and pass our celebrities with bad reputations to the
other country. The jokes aside, we are also seen in alliance, supporting together the Super Eagles or
the Black Stars in any continental or global football competition. We play so much together that the
world forgets there are two francophone countries between us. Our shared lingua franca is ostensibly
a contributor to this. But is it possible that these bants and fondness we have are a product of
inherited nostalgia? To an extent, we know ourselves, we know our weaknesses and our strengths.
And I wonder what both countries would have become had we, instead of blaming and expelling,
worked towards integration, together, each country strengthening the other in areas where its
citizens are stronger.

Zenas Ubere is a Nigerian writer and editor. A Pushcart Prize nominee, his writings appear in Isele Magazine, The Forge Lit, Agbowó,
Gordon Square Review, The Voyage Journal, and elsewhere. He is the coordinator of Lolwe Classes, an editor at Africa in Dialogue, and
a participant in the SBMEN-Goethe Institut Arts Writing and Criticism Workshop.

10
THREE
POEMS
Henneh Kyereh Kwaku
Interrogation

Tell me about this package you speak of.

Does it taste like jollof?

Is it something our Wollof

Kin approve? If we ever classify jollof

Will it make the list? Lemon-flavoured jollof?

That exists? Is that even jollof?

Who made that? Okay, this jollof—

Mek u’no lie; e’dey be? Ein den Ghana jollof

Which one dey be? Wait, for this same jollof

You get witnesses? So I fit taste this jollof

If I go the Island? Which Island be this?

Lagos? Okay. Why you no talk am earlier?

You, Kwaku, ate something in Lagos

& you still call it jollof?

If you no fit get your mama food,

Anything wey go fill belle dey sweet you.

13
Sankofa

I, Kwaku Kyereh, pledge no promises—

Let nothing that tried to kill me call me beloved.

A city, a country, a lover, capitalism, the dogs

From the neighbour’s compound who eat under our tables.

I am, indeed, bound, by a passport, blood, love

And sometimes, waistbeads.

I have considered statelessness—

But even that, I am ineligible.

I offer my voice to the kin I never met, and those the borders
Displaced— how selfish, that I think they became a different

People, and not me. That they were displaced and not I.
What Kwasi Broni sought to do, it worked—

I have called my brothers and sisters strangers.

And I have chased them with clubs and machetes.

And here I am, still eating the morsels fallen

From the mouth of their dogs.

I revise my pledge, in making a new promise—

This is your home too, my people.

14
 Let the stock-keeping start here—

On the cusp of precariousness.

If you care enough, a kiss is a gift & anxiety.

In Nigeria, one needs $10—

Another needs to travel to his home state

To vote out the president. & vote in new grieving.

Another has been edging—

postponing his love & his death.

& we laugh at the joke of being alive.

This one says he’s depressed & I respond—

“No, you’re just broke,” & we laugh again.

It is a song we have rehearsed & only perform

For ourselves. He’s suicidal—

But also broke & who loves a life of poverty?

If I were woke, I’d tweet:

“Poverty is a political strategy & we’re not ready

For that conversation.”

My sister borrows someone’s words:

“Breakups are overrated, family issues

Can break a person more than anything.”

She adds, “Honestly.” What else is there to say?

Henneh Kyereh Kwaku is a poet & health educator from Gonasua/Drobo in the Bono Region of Ghana. He's the author of Revolution of
the Scavengers (African Poetry Book Fund x Akashic Books, 2020). He was a 2022 resident at the Library of Africa and the African
Diaspora (LOATAD) and a two-time recipient of the Samira Bawumia Literature Prize (2020, poetry and 2022, Nonfiction). He is the
founder and co-host of the Church of Poetry on Twitter Spaces. His poems/essays/hybrids have appeared or are forthcoming in the
Academy of American Poets’ A-Poem-A-Day, Poetry Magazine, Prairie Schooner, World Literature Today, Lolwe, Agbowó, Tupelo
Quarterly & Olongo Africa. He lives in Orange, CA, where he studies Creative Writing at Chapman University. He shares memes on
Twitter/Instagram at @kwaku_kyereh.

15
PRETTY
- TJ BENSON
BIRD
She met him at a makeshift healing centre not far from a
wrecked village. He had been wounded from the war
against the machines and that was good enough reason.
He said her eyes were his reason.
He refused to be discharged after the metal bits had been
removed from his leg. Rumour had it that some people
were rebuilding the village and settling in. Could they find
a place together? At least until some sort of government
was set up. These were not the times to live alone. She
smiled at her tray of needles and said yes. But he would do
all the building and repairs. She would try to remember
how to cook. The last time she cooked had been before the
war.
“This was how they navigated
the aftermath of war,
destruction always led home”
After a war where all you loved was taken away you
unlearned how to love. You learned how to detach from
fond memories. Unless you wanted to kill yourself. She was
a coward and could not do that. She survived a war without
knowing why at the end of it. Then he came into the centre
with his blue eyes. His eyes had been altered for night
vision by some tech kid in what used to be India. He said he
used to be Nigerian. She said she used to be Ghanaian. It
was the first time she was admitting out loud that the world
as she knew it had ended.
They took off at night and the ruins led them to the village.
This was how they navigated the aftermath of war,
destruction always led home. The good buildings had all
been occupied but they found a compound of huts at the
fringe of the village, square and circular. Most of them had
been torn down by the faceless machines. No organization
or nation had claimed responsibility for the actions of the
machines. Nobody saw them. Just the fire and bullets they
spat from the sky. And their charred remains when they
were shot down.
17
“He said he used to be Nigerian.
She said she used to be Ghanaian...”
He used some of these remains to cover the gaps in the wall
of the hut they were going to sleep in on the first night.
They lay on the bare earthen floor and gazed at the stars
through the open roof till sleep came. Someone once told
her that visible stars had died eons ago, long before their
lights reached the earth. Now, she wondered if in
constellations above, the last six years had not happened. If
somewhere in the consciousness of those stars she was still a
little girl on her way to the Parliament House for school
excursion.
He continued fixing the compound the next day. He used
his blue eyes to check for radioactivity. He tried to fix the
pit latrine but it was filled with rotten bodies. They had
probably been hiding here during the heat scourge. In the
third year of the war, machines that could identify heat
signature arrived and everyone had gone into hiding.
Almost all animal life went extinct by the end of that year.
She urged him to hurry. In four months, all humans would
be disconnected from the wireless metabolism satellite.
During the war, when machines destroyed all food and
fauna on earth, organisations that had managed to survive
provided metabots that connected humans to the
metabolism satellite. They would need a kitchen now that
the satellite was going to be shut down.
By the end of the first month of their cohabitation, he had
already gone halfway into preparations for their
disconnect; he had found some salt and large metal scrap
parts and a plastic bowl to perform electrolysis that would
generate electricity for them to cook with or just light up
the place. He had turned the latrine into a kitchen and
discovered moisture on the walls of an abandoned well at
the back of the house.
Then he went ahead to expand the bottom of the well with
plain blunt metal parts that served as a spade and planted
all the seeds he had been gathering on his path of war
round the world. A Qat shrub from Yemen. Hazel nuts
from America. She was terrified when he spilled them out
of his front pocket, she could not handle the unpredictable.
Yes, spontaneous used to be exciting, until machines came
out of the sky. He apologised for keeping his seeds secret
from her. But he could understand, the war had left
everyone on the edge. She could forgive and understand
that this was his way of doing things, he had been a loner
throughout the war, but forget? No, she could not forget.
“Just feel the flesh on your tongue.”
As the weeks to deactivation drew close, the more
desperate whatever it was they shared became. He was the
one who brought up the ridiculous idea of marriage. She
didn’t see the point of an apocalyptic union but she wanted
them to move into a proper compound that had other
people. No one had seen them together. He preferred the
solitude here. He talked too much, she said, for someone
who cherished solitude. She was too cold he said, for
someone who cherished the company of others. For a
moment no one spoke. He got the sensation of treading
thin ice. Then she threw her head back and laughed. He
chuckled a little, breaking sweat all over. He walked close to
her to watch the wonder of a girl’s laugh. It was out of place
in their world, this manner of laughter.
She followed him down the well that afternoon to see the
growing plants. Every plant had germinated, the dwarf
mango already producing fruits that would be ripe by the
week of deactivation. The yam tendrils snaked to the wall
and crept up, feeling for sunlight while peppers and
tomatoes glowed red. She fondled the leaves with the tips
of her finger and smiled at him. She plucked a tomato and
fed it to him. I know you won’t taste it and it won’t do
anything in your body, she said when he resisted. Just feel
the flesh on your tongue.
18
She showed him the rest of her flesh that night, after they
both said a quick prayer to God just in case He was still
there.
The next morning she woke up to find him with a metal
scrap in his hand, poised to strike a bird perched at the
mouth of the well outside. He wasn’t even wearing his
clothes. She came from behind him and embraced his taut
body, truly happy. She felt his muscles tense, then relax. Do
you even know what day it is? Leave the bird alone. But it’s
a vulture, he said without looking back, an ugly thing. We
can have it for dinner. You know how rare meat is.
It’s a pretty bird, she said, turning him to her. For you, he
said and walked to the door. She laughed, picking up his
jacket on the ground. A black box the size of a palm and
face of glass fell out from a pocket. He knew the rules. No
human was allowed to use any electronic device; the only
electronic device the machines had not hacked was the
human brain. With mobile phones, televisions, personal
computers and home appliances they had wiped out 73
million people. The only way he could be alive with a
phone was if-
She let it go and smiled at him as he shooed off the vulture
and disappeared into the well. She was new to the trust
thing. She pressed the forgotten jacket to her chest for
strength. He came out from the well with everything they
would need to create some semblance of a meal. They
laughed over the failed culinary experiments and soon
found themselves on the plastic cement floor of the kitchen
in a mess of over-boiled yam pulp. By evening however, she
had mastered the electrolysis cooking system he created.
This was possible only because she chased him out of the
kitchen. He stumbled out giggling when she had to resort
to tickling.
He distracted himself from distracting her by cleaning her ankara print wrapper and his coat for
dinner. When the moon was at the centre of the sky she brought the food served on washed metal
scraps and he brought their clothes. They dined with only moonlight for illumination, the partial
darkness heightening their senses of taste as the protective numbness the metabots had caused
wore from their tongues. Mashed yam. Crushed roasted groundnuts. Pepper and garlic sauce. First
they tasted saliva. Then their door was smashed in and five men in war armour circled them. They
came in peace they said from their glass masks, why weren’t the two of them wearing any? Gas masks
were required to adjust to the surrounding oxygen since the metabolism satellite had been
deactivated. He explained that they were not aware of that instruction; they had not left their
compound since they moved in. The ex-soldier who had been speaking nodded. The movement
almost disturbed the thatch roof.

New information had been discovered, he bellowed through his mask; a

human or a set of humans, probably environmental care fanatics, were
responsible for the control of the machines. A team of scientists and
programmers had cracked the code of the computer virus program that
had overridden all telecommunication systems, and it was revealed that it
was man made, not even an artificial intelligence, else it wouldn’t have
been crackable. Had they noticed any strange behaviour in any one since
the war started? Suspects would be those more adjusted to the situation,
those with solutions and lack of anxiety or fear. They might have preserved
some things from before the war, maybe painting or leaves. Those
extremely knowledgeable in post-war survival. They must have spent
years in training for it.

He shook his head and said no. The men turned to her and repeated their
question. Bile rose to her throat. The phone, she said. What? He asked,
taking her arm and rubbing gently. She returned his gaze. The phone. The
seeds. The electrolysis. He screamed as the men electrocuted him to
submission, the bluish light illuminating her face as she stared at the food
in calm. He begged her to talk to them, to say something as they chained
him and dragged him away. She leaned on the door and stared at the moon
instead, a hand on her stomach. On a full moon like this years ago, her
mother had showed her the face of Mother Mary leaning over Baby Jesus.

TJ Benson is a Nigerian writer and visual artist whose work explores the body in the context of memory, Non-Abrahamic
spirituality, migration, utopia and the unconscious self. His work has been exhibited and published in several journals
and his Saraba Manuscript Prize shortlisted Africanfuturist collection of short stories ‘We Won’t Fade into Darkness’ was
published by Parresia in 2018. His debut novel ‘The Madhouse’ was published in 2021 by Masobe Books and Penguin
Random House SA and his second novel ‘People Live Here’ was published in June 2022. He regularly facilitates writing
workshops, and has attended residencies in Ebedi Nigeria, Moniack Mhor Scotland, Art Omi New York and LOATAD
Ghana where he was an African Union writer-in-residence. He is a University of Iowa International Writing Program
Spring Fellow, a recipient of the 2022 Prince Claus Seed Fund, the Sudkulturfond Switzerland and shortlistee of the Miles
Morland Foundation Scholarship. He is the founder of Za! Publications. He currently lives in an apartment full of plants
and is in the danger of becoming a cat person.
 LITERATURE,
HOME and
GROWTH
A personal reflection on Ghanaian and Nigerian Literature in conversation.
- Elizabeth Johnson
There is no doubt that Ghana and Nigeria have for years been in interaction long before the geo-political construct of
both countries and by extension, their borders even existed. The people have crossed borders to exchange
economically which established the historical, political and social footprints that many of us were born to meet and
continue to experience. These interactions at all social levels, have existed and strengthened with time amidst the
tensions that have arisen; be it pre-independence conversations to friendly football banter, jollof wars on twitter to
more complex conversations such as Ghana hosting the 1967 Aburi Accord, the Ghana Must Go 1983 saga which
marks 40 years in 2023. Or the Ghana 1969 Expulsion which saw over 140,000 Nigerians evacuate Ghana. There are
also the post-independence conversations such as the knowledge that Nigerian traders of pepper, cloth and black soap
have been in Ghana dating as far back as the 1800s or even the history of the Ga people originating from the Yorubas of
Nigeria. Our shared histories and interactions have been packaged into linear forms in history and politics and
perspectives from what can be considered the Elite/Upper class forms which for me alienates so much richness in the
diversity of our interactions. For me, aside being Ghanaian-Nigerian, interest in seeing these interactions have been
more within the pots of popular culture; Music, Film, Art, Fashion, Literature where stories are diverse, perspectives
are never linear and many hidden gems are waiting to be found.

Although living most of my life in Ghana, I am a Ghanaian-Nigerian born in the UK with a name that is as English as it
can get. My identity cannot get more complex than that and within these complexities, I acknowledge the peculiar eye
in which I am able to view both countries. Even then, my view is somewhat biased towards the cultures that I grew up in;
Yoruba and Akan (specifically Akuapem) and so I cannot in their entirety ever speak for both countries.This is why my
interest in Popular culture peaks. Popular Culture is a representation of contemporary cultural identities birthed out
of cultural exchange, assimilation and adaptation. It provides a mixed pot of cultures that new generations hold on to
as identity becomes more complex.

African Literature or Literature from Africa is expanding in genre, form and definition. Day in and out, we have
conversations with writers on the continent versus those outside of the continent and what writing and publishing
means to them. Conversations on Writing Africa from Africa, African writers and global publishing or writing as an
African outside the continent are all very common conversations on podcasts, festivals, social media live sessions or
book readings. Most recently, there has been a conversation, or rather debate, on writers on the continent rushing from
MFAs outside of the continent. I do find these conversations on our literature easier in the sense that conversations
about literature on the continent in conversation with each other hasn't been largely explored. With decades of
interaction, how do all these reflect in Literature from Ghana and Nigeria? How does Literature from both countries
help explore the lenses through which they both view each other and in fact what these interactions have birthed?

20
In exploring how these two literatures are in conversation, I return to my personal history of storytelling. My introduction to
African Literature or shall I say, Literature from Africa would be in primary 4 having to read two books; Ancestral Sacrifice
(Kaakyire Akosom Nyantakyi,1998) and Things Fall Apart (Chinua Achebe,1958). But before these, I grew up on stories
from home. Stories from both parents which I latched onto, to gain some sense of understanding of my heritage. I am a
sucker for a story. Stories about people and places and time and happenings before me send me into rabbit holes of research
and exploration. How is it that two people from two different countries find their way together and birth me? What would
their great-great-great grandparents think of it?
From my mother, Nigerian, I hold on to stories told in color. Very vivid and descriptive you could almost feel the people she
spoke of. Thinking about it now, my mother could tell a five-minute story in 30 minutes with her humor, jokes and songs that
bring the characters to life. She would describe a real-life incident that made it seem like a theater play. There are several
childhood memories my mother has that she has planted me in via storytelling. My Ghanaian father too told us stories. His
stories came suddenly, while watching the news and remembering his days as a teacher; while watching a Rawlings
documentary and recollecting the Ghana Must Go saga; while opening a tin of sardine and remembering the year of hunger.
He told his stories in fragments, hardly spoke about family but always knew the significant dates and names in our histories.

Over the years, I have engaged greatly in Literature from both countries and drawn parallels with my parents' approach and
style to storytelling. Where Nigerian Literature captures you with captivating storytelling, colorful description and
characters laced with humor and personalities that stay with you long after a read, Ghanaian Literature is precise and
fragmented, less colorful but captivating in story structure… There is a way that the story unfolds that keeps you with it. Both
countries share the telling of stories on the backdrop of politics, history and culture but where one captivates you with their
narration, the other holds you in with its precision. Doesn't this speak to the general character of our people? A Ghanaian
would describe a Nigerian as flamboyant and giddy and loud and forceful sometimes dramatic while a Nigerian will describe
a Ghanaian as calm and collected, gentle and charismatic once you get to know them.

Nigerians tell stories more colorfully perhaps because of their language or their nature of being more expressive people.
While Ghanaian’s tell stories in clues, fragments often focusing more on roundabouts of the story than anything else, again
perhaps due to language where things are either told straightforwardly or in parables. So one would pick up literature such
as The marriage of Anansewa ( Efua Sutherland, 1975) and The Trials of Brother Jero (Wole Soyinka, 1960), The Blinkards(
Kobina Sekyi, 1915) and The Palmwine Drinkard (Amos Tutuola,1952), Jagua Nana ( Cyprian Ekwensi, 1961) and The
Strange Man ( Amu Djoleto, 1967), Efuru ( Flora Nwapa , 1966) and Changes ( Ama Ata Aidoo, 1991) and see that although
the stories are significantly similar in themes, historical significance and approach, what sets them apart is the storytelling.
Even in contemporary African Literature; What it Means when a Man falls From the sky (Lesley Nneka Arimah,2017) and
The Waiting ( Martin Egblewogbe, 2020), Stay with Me ( Ay bámi Adébáy , 2017) and His Only Wife ( Peace Adzo Medie,
2020), The Secret Lives of Baba Segi’s Wives ( Lola Shoneyin, 2010) and Cloth Girl (Marilyn Heward Mills, 2006).

21
How have Ghanaian and Nigerian Literature been in conversation that reflects each other's view of the other? I start with a book
recommended by my father. When one day on vacation during my first year of secondary school, ( I was a history student and spent
time reading -perhaps overreading on history during the vacation) I asked him about the 1983 Ghana Must Go Saga and he
recommended Unexpected Joy at Dawn ( Alex Agei Agyiri, 2003) a book that explores the story of two siblings during the 1983
deportation. In Small Worlds (2023) by Ghanaian British writer Caleb Azumah Nelson, many Nigerian characters are mentioned in
the book as family to the very Ghanaian lead male character and his brother. These characters call the UK their home and it is
interesting to see the interactions between Ghanaians and Nigerians even outside of the continent.

Between 2003 and 2023 I have come across several books that put these two countries in conversation. Bisi Adjapong, being of
Ghanaian -Nigerian heritage in her first book Of Women and Frogs, 2019 (Later published as The Teller of Secrets ,2021) explores
what it means for little Esi (who is herself Ghanaian-Nigerian) to grow up in Ghana and live a part of her life in Nigeria. The book
explores identity and belonging and lays emphasis on my initial point of Nigerian storytelling and expression versus the Ghanaian
through the characters. Esi’s family in Ghana are conservative and calm while her family in Nigeria are expressive, somewhat
‘dramatic’ and exploratory. But before Bisi Adjapong, there was Taiye Selasi also Ghanaian-Nigerian and her book, Ghana Must
Go which unravels the story of a Ghanaian surgeon and how his death calls for his Nigerian wife to reunite their four children.
Another Ghanaian Nigerian writer worth mentioning is Ben Hinson. Although his work ( at least from my readings ) does not
explicitly explore this heritage, his stories do have influence from this background.

In Last Seen in Lapaz (2023), crime fiction by Ghanaian author Kwei Quartey, there is the death of a Nigerian woman in Ghana.
This will not be the first time Nigeria features in his work as Wife of the Gods ( 2009) has a few Nigerian characters as well. In both
books he explores these characters as immigrants looking for work in Ghana exploring the stereotypes of being seen as thieves or
swindlers. An Abundance of Scorpions( 2017) by Nigerian writer Hadiza Isma El-Rufai follows Tambaya, a widow who leaves Kano
for Accra to live with her brother, Aminu and touches on links between Northern Nigeria and Ghana. Hundred Wells of Salaga
(2018) by Ghanaian author Ayesha Harruna Attah also mentions Nigeria and explores between Northern Ghana and Nigeria.
Some Angels don’t see God by Ever Obi (2021) also mentions a character following a job in a bank in Accra.

Chibundu Onuzo in her second book, Sankofa(2021)- A title that directs to Ghanaian Adinkra symbols that explore the idea of
returning or to retrieve from the past- we follow the protagonist Anna Bain of Welsh- Bamanian heritage. The writer explores
certain histories of Ghana and it can be argued that Bamania is in fact Ghana. Finally, Nnedi Okarafor’s book, Remote
Control(2021) is set in Ghana. Other books that mention Ghana and Nigeria by writers from either countries are Half of a Yellow
Sun (2006) by Chimamanda Adiche where Olanna visits Ghana at a point. Again in Americanah (2013) by the same author, the
protagonist has family living in Ghana. One moves beyond the 2003-2023 bracket and mentions books such as the Beautyful Ones
Are Not Yet Born (1968) by Ayikwei Armah that mentions Ghana a lot and The House Maid (1998) by Amma Darko follows how a
young Ghanaian girl becomes a house maid in Lagos. Amos Tutuola draws on Ghanaian folklore in The Palmwinde Drinkard to
some extent.

Characters, places and ideas shared across Literature give testimony to the real-life narratives - both good and bad - that we
experience. A Nigerian comes into Ghana looking for work in a bank or to set up a business explores how from the Ghanaian lens,
Ghana has always been a good business venture for Nigerians who are very business oriented. A Ghanaian in Nigeria from the lens
of Nigeria is either in Education for their good English or in the long run will run a salon, own a bar or a photo studio. These
narratives are also explored in other forms of popular culture.

In film, the character Idikoko by Augustine Abbey imitates the lower classed Nigerian persona- An entrepreneurial man, quite
crafty, often swindling people in business or manning a company/home as a drunk security guard. There is also the not stated but
obvious Nigeria or Nigerian influenced male character in the film, I Told You So (1970) later brought to stage in 2017. But this is a
paper on Literature and so to not digress any further ( and with points well established nonetheless) I recenter the conversation on
Literature but before then, mention an audio drama by Joe Wackle Kusi and Fui Can Tamakloe , Goodbye Gold Coast (2022) set in
1957 that features a Nigerian Journalist and photographer who is really all about his business.

22
Being the only Anglophone countries along the coast in West Africa, it is easy to see why we have such a strong connection to each
other. We are both surrounded by Francophones and speak no French and this will reflect in our reading of each other.n In school,
at least in my experience as a Ghanaian, we are introduced to Chinua Achebe, Wole Soyinka, Ben Okiri, Seffi Atta, Buchi Emecheta
and most recently Chimamanda Adichie and Lola Shoneyin. Nigerians speak of Ama Ata Aidoo, Lade Wosornu, Kofi Awoonor.
Outside of school it is interesting to find writers such as Kojo Laing more known in Nigeria than in Ghana and writers like Chuma
Nwokolo ( based on the reading community I find myself in Ghana) are read more in Ghana.

In more recent times, Nigeria seems to be doing better on the scale of publishing fiction that Ghana is doing. However, it is
interesting that Nigerian publishing houses have not picked up Ghanaian writers to publish. It is a more recent occurrence to find
Ouida Books publishing Ruby Goka’s work however this should have been long done. Perhaps it is the issue of numbers. Publishing
is looked at from a business perspective after all and how well might a Ghanaian writer sell if published in Nigeria? But then again,
will a good story not do well regardless of population etc?

In more recent times, Nigeria seems to be doing better on the scale of publishing fiction that Ghana is doing. However, it is
interesting that Nigerian publishing houses have not picked up Ghanaian writers to publish. It is a more recent occurrence to find
Ouida Books publishing Ruby Goka’s work however this should have been long done. Perhaps it is the issue of numbers. Publishing
is looked at from a business perspective after all and how well might a Ghanaian writer sell if published in Nigeria? But then again,
will a good story not do well regardless of population etc? The small Ghanaian publishers or editors who publish fiction have in fact
looked at Nigerian writers. Is this an issue of lack of enough Ghanaian voices,

I highly doubt it. Maybe again, looking at it from a marketing angle, Nigeria with a huge population will drive in sales for them and
get more eyes on Ghanaian writers. Anthologies like All the Good Things Around Us (2016), The Sea has Drowned the Fish (2018)
and Random Photo Journal’s Identity During the Pandemic (2021) feature Ghanaian and Nigerian writers all edited by Ghanaians.
My main point here is rather than look out for global publishing deals , how can both literary spaces help each other in ways that
benefit the artists and the businessman? The music scene seems to be doing that nicely ( of course there are tensions that exist in
there as well). I must mention that the SprinNG Writing Fellowship has in recent years had a healthy exchange between Ghana and
Nigeria. But we do need more, more interactions among writers in fellowships, publishing deals and festivals both ways.

Of Course as a Ghanaian-Nigerian myself,it would be great to see more writers of this heritage write more as well.

Elizabeth Johnson is a writer, researcher and cultural producer. She works with the Writers Project of Ghana (WPG) as a media and
programs coordinator as well as the Manager for the annual literary festival, Pa Gya! A Literary Festival in Accra. She has also
worked with The Library of Africa and the African Diaspora (LOATAD) where she helped produce events including their festival,
Womanfest and their SYMPOSIUM. As a writer, her stories, poetry and articles have featured in a number of publications and
platforms. Elizabeth is currently a resident with Oroko Radio where she produces and hosts the MnR Show, a show dedicated to
Highlife Music and Creatives. She is the co- creator of Art and Thought Conversation. Elizabeth is a 2022 participant of the AKO
Caine Prize writing workshops. She works as a Teaching Assistant at Ashesi University and moderates panel discussions and
conversations for cultural organizations from time to time.

23
 Man
The
Majestic
Chameleon
- Fui Can-Tamakloe
Over There
In Lagos, the rains came without warning. The wind thrashed Odartey as he trudged through the downpour, regretting his
decision to leave his truck in a yard and ride an okada into town. It was a sound decision — his fuel budget and the bulk of his vehicle
didn’t allow for casual city driving — but he did not enjoy being wet. Save the rain, he was glad not to be driving. More than a few
times, as he had soft-pedalled his way to the truck stop using the rudimentary directions his boss in Accra had given him, his
manhood, destiny and sanity had been questioned by hot-breathing strangers in a hurry to go Godknowswhere. He had travelled
all the major roads in Ghana, most of Abidjan and Burkina Faso, carrying everything from canned goods to furniture, yet he had
never seen such organised chaos like in the streets of Lagos. Organised, because even to him, it was easy to see that there was
some underlying order in the madness. Chaos, because why on earth had the driver of the Camry in front of him gotten down to
beat the okada rider by his side for slamming his palm on the hood of his car while demanding he moved?

The rain had begun minutes after he paid his okada rider, who had left him with vague directions. So now, he was trapped by the
rain in Small Accra, which according to the okada rider, was a smaller part of Agege, Lagos where many Ghanaians lived. This Accra
was very different from the Accra he had just come from. For starters it felt quaint, as if it had never left the 1980s. In the Accra
Odartey knew, old buildings were collapsed all the time for newer, vulgar-looking edifices that promoted an image of western
imitation. In this town, the old, though shabby and somewhat out-of-place, had been maintained. But Odartey had no time to
savour it beyond recognition. The rain was coming down harder. He hugged his duffel bag close to his body to keep the rain off it
and moved quickly towards the “over there” that the okada rider had pointed to. In the bag were his two missions. The first mission
consisted of a camera and a few canisters of used film. Despite being a cargo truck driver, Odartey had a love for photography he had
nursed since a benevolent stranger had gifted him with a Pentax K1000 camera years ago. Now, whenever he was on a trip he took
pictures of any picturesque landscape he came across.

The other mission came in the form of a small, cardboard box. As he made his way through the untarred roads of Small Accra, he
thought of the battered, barely sealed box jiggling in the bag. The unimpressive box took up more space than its physical
proportions. It had sat on Odartey’s happiness for more than four years representing a failed promise. His mother had given it to
him years ago for safekeeping, making a promise to one day tell him about the man in Lagos it belonged to. She had died before
telling him who it was and he’d never had the courage to open it. After his mother’s death, life happened to Odartey in the vicious
way it does to people who lose everything to grief, and the box had moved from being a priority to being a reminder of his many
failings.

24
Squeezing through an alley between two houses that abruptly cut off the road he was on, Odartey wondered if it was wiser to give up on his
mission. He had two days to kill in Lagos, kind courtesy of the cargo company he drove for. He had set out today simply to get his pictures
developed and he had found that errand harder than he had imagined. It made sense that he would have some difficulty finding someone
to develop film considering that only few people used film to take pictures these days. But after trudging through different parts of Lagos
for hours, he was yet to find a single person. Finally, the okada rider had listened to his accent, identified him as Ghanaian and told him
whatever he was looking for could be found in Small Accra. Prior to that, he hadn’t even known there was a place in Lagos called Small
Accra. And now, Odartey was walking through what was currently a ghost-town on account of the rain. He was starting to regret leaving the
comfort of his truck. Then, he saw it.

The Ruins of Rome

Not unlike buildings he was familiar with in older parts of Accra like Adabraka and Jamestown, this two-storey building loomed in front of
Odartey, causing him to pause briefly. It looked abandoned, but not quite. The chicken wire fence surrounding the building was more hole
than fence, but still served the purpose of isolating the building from its neighbours, even if only by mere metres. A signboard that hung
crookedly from the upper balustrade said “Welcome to the Majestic Chameleon” which caused Odartey to break into a smile. The place was
far from majestic.

Odartey wasn’t sure what made him walk into the building. Perhaps it was a rather optimistic signboard. Or perhaps he was just tired of the
rain. Yet, he found himself walking through the fence into the small front yard of the building. It was mostly empty, except a goat tied to a
pawpaw tree, munching cassava peels completely oblivious to the rain. He rushed out of the rain into the safety of the veranda. He ran his
fingers through his small afro and kicked off his wet leather sandals so his feet could feel the warm, dryness of the cemented veranda. He
looked to see if anybody was around so he could ask pardon for his intrusion. His eyes fell on an elderly man sitting in a lazy chair at the far
end of the veranda, who had been hidden from his view by one of the four grand pillars that littered the front of the building. Flustered at
being “caught” intruding, Odartey picked up his sandals and walked down the veranda, stepping over a few stools, pots, and pans till he
stood beside the old man. It was only then that he realised the old man was fast asleep. A cooley-high on his head shrouded his face and grey
whiskers covered most of his mouth. A puppy sat beside the sleeping old man, gnawing happily on an old cow bone. It barked and growled
at Odartey, causing the old man to wake with a startle.

“Good evening, Papa,” Odartey greeted as demurely as he could.

“Good evening,” came a response in between a wide yawn. In one fluid movement, the man shifted his hat back up to get a clearer view of
the intruder. He cleared his throat loudly and proceeded to huck-ptuh a big wad of phlegm loose with the spectacular skill of a man who
had spent years letting spit fly without care. Odartey fought the urge to turn to see where the spit had landed.
“Wetin you dey do for here, young man? You dey find person?” the old man asked. The pidgin was different from what he was used to but
Odartey was able to catch the old man’s drift.
“I was looking for a place to develop camera film. But it started raining, so I came to hide small. I hope you don’t mind,” Odartey said
politely.
The old man sat up straighter in his chair. He appraised Odartey differently.
“Yes. You’re lucky it is here you entered. I am the one you’re looking for. I develop film. But…who sent you?” the old man quizzed, shifting
to English. His accent was an odd Ghanaian-Nigerian hybrid which sounded quite curious to Odartey. The question he had been asked
halted the progress of the smile on his face, the insinuation being unexpected.
“Nobody sent me,” Odartey responded testily. “I want you to develop the film for me. I’m a photographer.” He pushed his hand into his
bag, past the box, and pulled out canisters of used film.
“Ao!” The old man exclaimed, his voice now filled with enthusiasm. He palmed the canisters that Odartey handed to him.
“I used to be a photographer, you know? I thought only we old photographers still used film o! You digital-digital people still use film?
Fantastic!” He propped himself up with enthusiastic effort and managed to get out of the lazy chair. The old man looked genuinely happy
to be in the presence of a photographer who still used film Odartery observed.
“Follow me.” The old man threw the invitation over his shoulder and walked toward the grand doors of the Majestic Chameleon. The dog
obediently followed, and Odartey walked in after the two unlikely companions.
The furnishing inside The Majestic Chameleon was sparse. It looked as though a while ago, someone had come through and ransacked
whatever furniture they could find. The room they stood in had the makings of a ballroom, if Odartey could even tell what a ballroom
looked like.

25
The ceiling was higher than he would have guessed standing outside, and in the centre of the room was a sunken circular floor that
looked like a dance floor. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light provided by the overcast sky through the windows, Odartey could
make out a single disco ball that hung desolately from the high ceiling.
“This used to be a disco,” Odartey whispered to himself. The old man, who had made his way halfway through the room already,
turned to see Odartey still standing at the entrance, taking the room in.
“You’re from Ghana, eh?” the old man asked enthusiastically. Odartey nodded.
“Ahan! I knew I couldn’t sense any Naija in you,” he paused as if to allow the statement to sink in while he broke into a large smile.
“This wasn’t a disco. This was the disco. Ask anybody that knows something about anything. They’ll tell you. From ‘77 to ‘95, I’m
telling you. You weren’t jamming if you weren’t at the Chameleon. Psychedelic stuff.”
“What happened after 1995?” Odartey asked, making his way toward the old man who had now turned his back to him and was
moving with a quickness that belied his fragile look.
“Rome rose, and Rome fell,” the old man said, his words filling the distance between them. He reached the base of a staircase at the
end of the room and turned. “Come,” he beamed, “let me show you my studio.”

Photographs

The staircase led them upstairs. The puppy had long since given up on following its master, and was content with remaining
downstairs while yapping at the occasional rumble of distant thunder. The rain had slowed and closer to the ceiling now, Odartey
could hear the pitter-patter of the light drizzle on the corroded roofing sheets. The old man pushed open a door and ushered his
guest into a room.
“If I had known that a customer was coming, I would have cleaned small,” he apologised hastily.
If the room were a photograph, the composition would have been asymmetrical. On one end, the room was bare, and on the other,
there was clutter. There was a queen bed, a chesterfield sofa that had seen better days, and a rocking chair with the imbalanced
sturdy-yet-delicate look. It felt like the old man had bought his furniture decades apart from very different places. The eclecticism
extended to other things in the room. There was a beautiful, well-kept Fujica ST701 hanging by its strap on a nail. Next to a new-
looking refrigerator stood an ironing board with a box iron. Odartey hadn’t seen a box iron in decades. The red of the handle stood
in defiant contrast against the forest green of the wall, reminding Odartey of a time when he had captured some West Indian
Jasmines in bloom in a forest in Biakpa. He had driven the cargo truck from Accra full of furniture for some rich man’s vacation
cabin. As the workers offloaded the vehicle, Odartey wandered into the rich forests of Biakpa and captured that one picture. He
named it Blood in Green.

They moved through the room to another door. The old man opened it and walked into the room, Odartey following closely
behind. “Close the door behind you,” the old man ordered. Odartey obeyed. They were plunged into darkness. “Feel the wall for
the light switch,” came the second command. Odartey caressed the wall, disoriented by the sudden darkness. The circular switch
jutted out the wall like a pimple on a baby’s bottom. He flicked it, and Ordatey was transported into the low, blood-red light that
flooded the room.
“I used to be a top-class photographer, you know.” The old man chatted as he set about arranging a desk to work on. “I used to travel
and take pictures — only black and white pictures — all over Ghana and Nigeria. If not for this my club, I would still be on the road,”
he said.
Plastered from wall to wall were black and white images of people and places. The photos were of surreal quality as if taken by an eye
that could see beyond the physical to tease out something more than the simple beauty of that time capture. Odartey stood
enthralled as he studied the shadow work of a picture of a taxi on what he realised was a time-frozen memory of what Accra High
Street used to look like.
“You have an eye,” the old man said from behind Odartey. “I took that when I was still learning about shadows and blurs. I’ve never
been able to replicate it.”
“It’s perfect,” Odartey breathed. The taxi blurred with its surroundings, and even the people milling around on the sidewalk were
barely distinguishable for lack of defining lines, which made them even more iconic. It felt so…Accra. A city in constant motion,
where people and things never stop.

26
Inspired, Odartey moved on to another picture. It was a portrait of a
woman with eyes lit up in laughter. Her head was tilted back familiarly,
with a laugh so infectious that despite being frozen in a photograph,
Odartey found himself suddenly full of cheer. The small beaded
fascinator she wore in her hair partially hid her face. One gloved hand
brushed her right cheek while the other was bent playfully in the
direction of the shot as if to tell the photographer to stop teasing.
“That’s another good one. She was by far my favourite model and lover.
We had chemistry, she and I,” the old man explained after noticing
Odartey’s subsequent fixation.
“She’s so beautiful,” Odartey said. “Was she popular? She kind of looks
familiar.”
“Popular?” the old man pulled at his whiskers. “I am not sure. I haven’t
seen her in more than thirty years, so I wouldn’t know. But I don’t think
she was — oh, look at this one. That was on a day we had a lover’s spat. I
had taken nude photos of another woman, and she heard about it. So
she came to my small apartment in Surulere to accost me. But she
looked so glorious in her indignation that I had to take out my camera
and snap….”
The old man’s voice faded. A deafening silence echoed in Odartey’s
head as he stared at the woman. She was standing akimbo, ears with no
earrings, her unruly hair bound by a duku tied sternly in a baakw -ni-
oya-tã knot, with a mouth set in a line so grim that it was almost a snarl.
Odartey had seen that look so many times. He stared at the picture
shocked, and his mother glared defiantly back.
Oga Na Oga
The old man frowned a little, “Anything the matter? You look like
you’ve seen a ghost.”
“That’s…my mother,” Odartey said, the words feeling very foreign in
his mouth. The old man paused, his gaze shifting between Odartey and
the picture he was staring at. Realisation flooded him.
“Oh.....how?” he asked incredulously. Odartey let out a low laugh.
“How?” indeed. There was no explanation for such a situation.
“Sylvia had a child?”
His mother’s name coming from this elderly man’s mouth in Small
Accra sealed whatever doubts Odartey had.
“You knew her!” Odartey stated in disbelief. The old man beamed,
overcoming his shock.
“I can’t believe it!” he muttered, smiling widely. He hobbled towards
Odartey; his arms spread open. “A child of Sylvia’s is a child of mine,” he
said as he hugged Odartey.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” he continued, returning to clearing
up his workstation. “I haven’t seen Sylvia since 1987.”
Odartey blanched as something else dawned on him. The old man
chuckled to himself as memories began to surface. He suddenly stopped
his tidying.
“Heh! You know what? All of this can wait. The rain is dying down. Let
us grab a drink. This is cause for celebration!”
“Heh! You know what? All of this can wait. The rain is dying down. Let us
grab a drink. This is cause for celebration!”
***
It was odd to Odartey that the old man lived above what, according to him,
once used to be the most thriving disco in all of Lagos, and yet they had to
travel a distance to get a drink to celebrate. Odd or not, Odartey and the old
man arrived at a small pub in the back of a bedazzled keke. From top to
bottom, the motorised tricycle was decked with LED lights. The rain had
come to a complete stop now. The young rider gave them a knowing look as
they both got off at a shack with “Oga na Oga” painted on it. “Best ògógóró in
town,” the old man said, stretching his back. “But since I’m walking with a
fellow Ghanaian, today we will call it akpeteshie.” His laughter was raucous
and with hollow coughs interspersed between breaths, which caused him to
let loose another wad of phlegm skilfully. As they entered the shack,
Odartey wondered how the old man knew of a place like this. The shack
turned out to be just the front of the business. In about four or five steps
Odartey had crossed the length of it and stood in front of an entrance
obscured by a curtain of beads.
“Go through,” the old man said from behind him. He obeyed, walking into a
small backyard that was set up with cane chairs and wooden tables, with a
speaker on low volume playing drum-heavy highlife. It was pretty early in
the night, so the open-air yard was not so crowded, but a healthy population
of customers had filled some of the seats, and they looked to be in their late
forties or early fifties. These elderly men and women were, to Odartey’s
curious pleasure, smoking heavily.
Weed and tobacco smoke hung thick above them like a dark cloud. “Best
kept secret in town,” the old man said, pleased at Odartey’s surprised
reaction. He hobbled into the place and eased himself into the cane chair
that looked worse for wear. Odartey took a seat opposite him, looking
around. A girl at the bar who looked tired of life came with a small basket of
beer, a practised smile suddenly on her face. If Odartey hadn’t stolen a
glance at her when he entered, he would have been convinced that she was
genuinely happy to see them at the bar. Survival, Odartey thought.
A few minutes later, she opened the beers with a flourish and handed them a
plastic cup each. The old man watched as Odartey tilted his cup and poured
a healthy serving of beer into it without wasting any on the foam. The old
man smiled.
“Let me show you something,” he said. Cup upright, the old man began to
pour the beer from his bottle into the cup. By the time he had doled out only
a little, the cup was mostly full of foam. Odartey smirked playfully.
“Aren’t you wasting the beer,” he said. The old man laughed heartily.
“When you pour it with some foam, you don’t have too much gas going into
you when you drink. The foam helps keep the flavour fresh and the drink
cool.” Now it was the old man’s turn to smirk. Odartey laughed.
“Today I’m celebrating,” he said. “I have found my mother’s friend. I’m in a
great mood. I will even pour beer like an old man in Small Accra who owns a
disco.” He downed the contents of his cup and poured it just like the old man
had done. There was something satisfying about passing things down, the
old man thought. He raised his cup.
“Here’s to Sylvia’s child. May the ancestors always favour you.” After the
toast, the old man poured three large drops of beer on the ground. The
rough, thirsty cement quickly soaked the drink.
“When you pour it with some foam, you don’t have too much gas
going into you when you drink. The foam helps keep the flavour
fresh and the drink cool.” Now it was the old man’s turn to smirk.
Odartey laughed.
“Today I’m celebrating,” he said. “I have found my mother’s friend.
I’m in a great mood. I will even pour beer like an old man in Small
Accra who owns a disco.” He downed the contents of his cup and
poured it just like the old man had done. There was something
satisfying about passing things down, the old man thought. He
raised his cup.
“Here’s to Sylvia’s child. May the ancestors always favour you.”
After the toast, the old man poured three large drops of beer on the
ground. The rough, thirsty cement quickly soaked the drink.
“Amen,” Odartey said reverently and then chuckled at his mistake.
The old man laughed.
“Church has done a number on us, hasn’t it?”
And their evening began.
Love, Heartbreak & Comebacks
“When did you come to Nigeria?” Odartey asked. The old man wet
his lips with his beer as if to make his words come out smoother.
“It’s an interesting story, you know. People came here from Ghana
because of the oil boom and economic benefits. Me, I came here for
love.” he said as he gently set his drink back down on the table.
Through the lonely speaker at the corner, Tony Allen says “Never
expect power always,” and laughs. Odartey’s face cracked into a
grin.
“Love?”
“Oh yes. I followed a man from Accra to Lagos. And when he broke
my heart, I was too far from home to do anything but move on.” The
old man said simply. His beer was gone. He signalled to the young
woman and she materialised at the table with the practised smile
once again on her face.
“Another round please, and this time two fingers of the good stuff
too. For him as well.” the old man said in his lilting accent. The girl
nodded and disappeared. Odartey’s eyes absentmindedly followed
her departure.
“What do you mean, ‘man’?” he said, when he turned to see the old
man staring at him curiously.
He shrugged. “What do you mean ‘what do you mean’? You think
it’s only straight men that do dumb things for love?”
Flustered, Odartey looked away. “I thought you and my mother
were an item once? I just assumed you weren’t…gay.”
The old man laughed. “I live on top of a disco in 2023, it’s much
harder to describe than these labels,” he chuckled.
“Anyway. Let me continue my story. I came here thinking that I had
found my forever. But if there’s anything life has shown me it’s that
forever is as good as now. My sweetheart left me for some oil tycoon
before you could even say jack. And I was left broke and
heartbroken in Surulere. One time, when I was a successful disco
owner, I almost commissioned the Lijadu Sisters to write a song with
that title but who wants to remember their pain anyway?” The old
man looked bemused, but his eyes were lost in the memory of long
ago.
“And you just never went back to Ghana?” Odartey asked.
“Well, when Shagari was in power I considered it. People don’t talk
about it now, but 1983 was horrible. There was gossip of the mass
deportation of Ghanaians and other aliens. There were a series of
protests by some Nigerians calling for it. They called them the
Ghana Must Go protests. But nothing came out of it, thankfully.” He
beat his chest as the akpeteshie burnt warmth into his body on the
cool evening. From the speaker, Cardinal Rex Jim Lawson
threatened to tell on a corner-corner baby. Odartey tapped his feet.
He liked this version better than the more popular Flavour remake
played in Accra.
“If it didn’t happen, what makes it so terrible?” he asked.
“Imagine sitting in your home, and a man — someone you’ve
known for years — asks you point blank, what would happen to
your things were you to be deported overnight. Then they offer to
buy your property for a pittance.” It was the understated way in
which the old man spoke that made Odartey realise he was talking
of his own experience.
“Jesus Christ. Your own friends?”
“Hm. And you can’t help but think if they were to pass any kind of
deportation policy, this person or someone else, anyone else, would
willingly report you to the police or whatever the enforcing
organisation is. We saw sides of our neighbours that we just could
not believe. It’s why Small Accra came into being. People just
wanted to be closer to others they could trust.”
“So…Ghanaians who were under the threat of mass deportation
came together to live in communities which would have made it
easier for the authorities to round them up? A solid plan.” Odartey
said, deadpan.
“You’re really Sylvia’s son, you know? You have her rude sense of
humour.” The old man chuckled and drank some more. They were
both on their third beers now. The young girl’s smile had
completely disappeared though the genial air was still present.
“How did you know my mother anyway?” Odartey ventured into a
topic he’d been mulling over since the revelation.
“I was waiting for you to ask,” the old man smiled. “She’s not told
you anything about her time in Nigeria?”
“Nothing. I just knew she spent time here in her younger years.
That’s it.” Odartey said honestly
“Nothing. I just knew she spent time here in her younger years.
That’s it.” Odartey said honestly.
“Okay. You might not like the story, but I will tell it anyway. Do you
remember the part of my story where I was broke and heartbroken
in Surulere?” the old man asked.
“Uh huh?” Odartey responded.
“Well, I had to make a living somehow. All I had was a camera and
pain. I couldn’t sleep at night so I would roam dance club to dance
club all over Lagos, taking pictures of nightlife enthusiasts and then
developing them and selling them back. That’s where I got the idea
to start a disco. Anyway, it was far from an easy gig. Turns out that,
when men make money and they want to take their girlfriends or
boyfriends out for a good time and one too many drinks, they don’t
want those moments of intimacy recorded. How would they be able
to explain this to their darling wives at home? I got it wrong
multiple times. I would develop a stunning picture of some chief
and his lover, and before I know it I’m being beaten by police for
extortion…you’re laughing?” the old man asked with a twinkle in
his eye. Odartey was unsuccessfully holding back a chortle.
“Sorry oh, I don’t mean to laugh but this is funny,” he said.
“Oh go on and laugh. I barely remember those days. Those beatings
couldn’t cause me more pain than pictures of my ex-lover and his
new darling all over the news tabloids. The newspapers never
mentioned them as an item, but they went to every event together.”
There was a pause as the old man finished his beer and raised his
hand. The girl got up from the melancholy of her stool and brought
two new bottles of beer. Between the bar and where they sat, the
smile had appeared; just as friendly as before. Odartey marvelled at
the speed with which the young woman kept bringing the beers.
“Do you come here often?” Odartey asked.
“Only on days that end in ‘y’,” the old man guffawed. The alcohol
had loosened his body and his laughs came quicker.
“So…as I was saying. It was around that time I met your mother.
This was somewhere in the 70s. She saw the vision in my
photography, and also saw my mistakes. She worked in these bars as
a dancer. The tantalising kind. She had one of those faces that
people never knew how to place, so she was always introduced as
some foreign beauty from some country that most of us had never
been to. Shandy from South Africa. Erica from Eritrea. Or the
Mysterious Majesty, from Madagascar. I think that was my favourite
moniker of hers.”
“My mother…was a stripper?” This time there was no mirth in
Odartey’s eyes.
“An exotic dancer. And hold on to your knickerbockers, it’s not that
bad a profession. You make your own hours, and you have many
men willing to spend thousands of naira, even millions, to get to
know you. Not even to have sex, just to get the pleasure of your
company and bragging rights that they had enough money to get
you to show interest in them.”
“I don’t believe this.” The incredulity on Odartey’s face tickled the
old man.
“Ah well, that one na your own wahala. That’s how we met. She kept
me out of trouble by pointing out who would be willing to pay for a
picture, and who was trying to be discreet. Later on, when our
relationship was strong, she showed me which people were willing
to pay for pictures of other people. Tabloids, jealous housewives,
political rivals, the list was long and messy. When trouble came
knocking at our door, we started a new club. Somewhere cameras
were banned. Where people could be whoever they wanted to be in
the open. Chameleons.”
The night got suddenly quieter.
A World Apart
They had staggered into the old disco minutes after midnight, an
odd pair completely drunk off beer and akpeteshie. Somehow, the
old man was more alert than Odartey was, despite drinking more.
As the old saying went, monkeys played by sizes. The old man had
found another lazy chair for Odartey, and they both sat on the
veranda staring out into the darkness silently. Their reverie was
interrupted once in a while by the occasional beating of a tired
okada engine slowly making its way home. Odartey had given up
for the night, but the old man still nursed a plastic bottle of the good
stuff, taking quick sips every now and then, which were punctuated
by aah’s that suggested the heat of the alcohol burning down his
throat was just perfect.
“Tomorrow.” The old man began, and then stopped. A beat passed
as he gathered his thoughts. “Yes, tomorrow. I will work on the film
for you.”
More silence ensued. Termites hovered above them, clinging to the
solitary naked bulb that illuminated the veranda as if it were the
very source of life. Odartey couldn’t bear to look at them flying.
They made his head spin.
“I don’t understand how she could be this person you say she was,
and then still be my mother. The woman I knew growing up was a
little religious. We didn’t have much, but she kept me fed and
decent. And it was always do the right thing, don’t do this or that.” A
lump grew in Odartey’s throat. Tears welled up in his eyes.
“Sylvia was a firebrand,” the old man said softly. “But the firewood
that burns brightly, often also dies out quickly. You don’t see it, but it
makes sense that she run to the safety of religion. Our world takes a
lot from you, you know? Music, celebrities, drugs, parties, endless
sex…you wake up one day and you feel tired. Used.”
There were bangs in the distance in quick succession. Odartey
looked around, concerned. The old man chuckled.
“Gunshots. Could be some neighbourhood watch, police, or
criminals. Or it could just be an overexcited person at a party.”
Silence once again consumed the night.
“In your studio, you referred to her as your lover…” Odartey let the
question hang in the air, as if he was not sure if he wanted to ask it.
Silence once again consumed the night.
“In your studio, you referred to her as your lover…” Odartey let the
question hang in the air, as if he was not sure if he wanted to ask it.
“You want to know how she could be my lover if I’m gay?” the old
man asked. The drink sloshed against his chin as his inebriation
caused his aim to be sloppy.
“Yes.”
“I always wondered too. She was the only woman I was ever
attracted to, and I didn’t understand it. I don’t think she did either.
We loved each other though, that much I’m aware of. She was even
the one that helped me pick the name for this place. And when the
local government was unwilling to lease me the land, she knew
which people to strong-arm. In a way, I wouldn’t be here if she
didn’t take me under her wings.”
The old man chuckled again.
“What is it?” Odartey asked sluggishly.
“Her other nickname. The last name she performed under. Angel
from Adis Ababa. As if she even looked remotely Ethiopian.” He
laughed. Odartey joined him, though he wasn’t really sure why.
“I was born in 1987,” Odartey admitted. This time, the old man did
not have a ready answer to the unasked question.
“Shit.” came the final comment. There was no more to be said, and
Odartey didn’t try to press the issue.
“Why did she leave? I mean it sounded like she had it good over
here.”
“I think what happened in ‘83 broke her more than it did the rest of
us. We were finally beginning to feel like we belonged. Lagos was
supposed to be a Mecca for all of Africa’s lost children. You won’t
believe the people that came here in ’77 when FESTAC was
organised. That’s when I opened the Chameleon. We had made a
home for ourselves. Everyone loved us. And all it took was a few
protests and the rumour of a declaration to put it all at risk. She
never recovered. It took her four years to decide to leave, but she
was never the same after ’83. When she told me bye, I didn’t fight it.
After that, we tried to keep in touch. A letter or two. A phone call or
the other. But the last few letters I tried to send in 1990 came back
undelivered. After that, I just hoped she was okay.”
In the distance the engine of a sports car roared on the highway.
The bulb went out, and so did the few lights in the neighbourhood.
The termites, their reverie broken, began to disperse. Odartey
shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“Your first power-cut in Lagos? I’m surprised it took them so long
today.”
Odartey chuckled.
“It’s not Nigeria if the lights don’t go off eh?”
“Exactly.”
On the veranda of The Majestic Chameleon, the two men sat
without speaking. The only interruptions were the old man’s light
wheezing, and Odartey’s itchy throat.
“Have some of this,” the old man passed him the bottle. A gulp of akpeteshie
seemed to clear the irritation in Odartey’s throat.
“Thank you.”
“I don’t know if I’m your father or not. I’m guessing your mother has never
told you?” The old man finally addressed the issue.
“No, she never did.”
“Classic Sylvia. Independent as ever. I’m sure any man who had tried to be
your father would have suffered under your mother’s hand,” the old man
continued.
Odartey remembered the flurry of lovers that had passed through his house
in his childhood. They never stayed long enough for him to think of them as
anything more than his mother’s ‘friends.’ His mother was as hardworking
as she was insatiable. He had known she was nothing like the other mothers
in their community. She never hid her lovers, and she never took shit from
any man. Now that he thought about it, the signs had been there. His mother
never shied away from talking about sex or listening to raunchy music too.
Once, when nineteen year old Odartey had gotten his girlfriend pregnant,
she had taken responsibility for arranging an abortion. No questions asked,
just disappointment in Odartey’s poor decision-making skills regarding
condoms. She had been religious, but she hadn’t exactly been the typical
religious woman.
“She never tolerated bullshit,” Odartey said to the old man’s merriment.
“A true Ga woman through and through! Oh, Sylvia!” the old man laughed.
He raised his cup to toast the imaginary Sylvia and then drank his beer.
“You know,” he said, smacking his lips, “I’m too much of a coward to ask….”
“She died a few years ago. From a heart attack,” Odartey said softly.
There was yet another lull in the conversation. The old man looked
saddened, and Odartey thought about how his mother would have loved to
hear about this meeting. The box suddenly came to mind. If there was
anybody that would know what to do with the box, it was the old man sitting
next to him.
“She left me a box to be given to a man in Lagos.” He said, finally.
“Do you know what is in the box?”
“She died before she could tell me who it was for, and I’ve been unable to
open it,” came Odartey’s response. Somehow admitting this to the old man
didn’t feel like weakness. “I brought it to Lagos because…honestly I’m not
sure. I thought maybe I’d finally have the strength to open it, just so I can
deliver it.”
“Well, opening it will be the only way to find out. The dead don’t talk,” the
old man said sagely.
“No, they don’t.”
“But you will find out for yourself. You have to, my boy. I would offer to help,
but I believe this is something you must do alone.”
“Tomorrow.” Odartey said, resignedly.
“Tomorrow.” The old man agreed. He shifted a bit, sighed, and poured
some of the akpeteshie on the veranda floor.
“To the best woman I ever met,” the old man prayed, downing the last drops
from the plastic bottle.
The once silent night was now very much alive. The air vibrated with the
sound of generators. A cricket nearby began to chirp. Frogs called to each
other. The goat bleated its annoyance at the interruption of its sleep. And
soon the owner of The Majestic Chameleon began to snore.
“Well, opening it will be the only way to find out. The dead don’t talk,” the old man said sagely.

“No, they don’t.”

“But you will find out for yourself. You have to, my boy. I would offer to help, but I believe this is
something you must do alone.”

“Tomorrow.” Odartey said, resignedly.

“Tomorrow.” The old man agreed. He shifted a bit, sighed, and poured some of the akpeteshie on the
veranda floor.

“To the best woman I ever met,” the old man prayed, downing the last drops from the plastic bottle.

The once silent night was now very much alive. The air vibrated with the sound of generators. A cricket
nearby began to chirp. Frogs called to each other. The goat bleated its annoyance at the interruption of
its sleep. And soon the owner of The Majestic Chameleon began to snore.

Fui Can-Tamakloe is a writer based in Accra, Ghana. His works have appeared in anthologies like Tsooboi and Kenkey for Ewes &
Other Very Short Stories, published by Tampered Press & D’Akpabli Publishers respectively. He’s also been published online by
Afreada, Kalahari Review, adda, and many more. In 2022 he co-wrote Goodbye, Gold Coast, a post-colonial audio drama with
Joewackle Kusi. In his work, Fui explores relationships that Ghanaians have with their history, culture and environment. He also
seeks to platform othered people in his writing. Fui writes in English and Ghanaian Pidgin. He enjoys cold beers, great books, and
slow travelling.
 Akua Serwaa Amankwah
There is fire on the mountain, run, run, run
Lagos, 1983
Lagos, 1983
Rahila disappeared hours after Shehu Shagari set her world on fire
with his words.
Everyone had different versions of when they last saw her—she was
going to Sabon Gari to supply a new bride with cloth. She was going
to the market. She was going to Lagos. She was going to see her
future mother-in-law. How typical of her to cause chaos when
Nigeria was foxtrotting in its chaos, when Ghanaians, bees to honey
had flocked to the Giant of Africa and were now being shooed away.
Adubea got home from work to find most of the teachers in their
shared house shoving their lifetime possessions into the backs of
weary taxis and trucks. Amid the commotion, someone had
ransacked her small flat. They had taken the tapestry bag filled with
wedding gifts she’d gotten for Rahila. In their haste, they left a
bronze silk hijab. Adubea’s hands trembled as she picked it from the
floor. Her head was spinning, and the spacious single room seemed
to close in on her. She had to go to Rahila in Katsina. It was the only
thing that made sense. She crouched on the floor and reached for
the small suitcase she’d pushed under the bed. She sighed in relief.
It hadn’t been touched by the thieves. She opened it and smiled
when she saw the box with the latest gift from Farouk she was yet to
tell Rahila about. She paused for just a moment, then hastily packed
what she could.
She rushed out to get into a danfo to Katsina. It was after 8 pm, but
the streets were alive with frantic people rushing, running in circles,
trying to strike deals with danfo drivers over their fares. She
recognised people she’d moved from Ghana with; she had taught
with some, laughed with some, made small talk with some. Yet now
they moved like strangers, each person engrossed in their own
escape. She reached for the hijab in her bag and wrapped it around
her head and shoulders in one slick movement. Rahila would be
proud.
32
Adubea was lucky enough to secure the last back seat in a cramped
and sweltering danfo that soon made her feel her feet were on fire.
She dared not remove her hijab. She slept in fits. In moments when
she was awake, she kept her gaze towards the window so no one
would talk to her and rat her out using her accent. There were
countless danfos teetering on the edges with mattresses, suitcases
and trunks secured by small strings of rope and prayers of their
owners. Her heart was thumping, and she tried to think of better
days. Her stomach growled in protest. In her haste, she had
forgotten to buy food. She wished she was in Katsina already. She’d
be eating Auntie Azzara’s special tuwo shinkafa and miyan kuka
followed by fura and freshly made kwakumeti.
Adubea tuned out the scattered conversations, loud voices from tiny
radios people had placed by their ears, the cacophony from outside.
She fell into a troubled sleep. From time to time she would jolt out of
sleep and pray her thumping heart to quieten. When they got to
Ilorin, she bought moin moin from an impatient street hawker, and
let her keep the change. She listened to people weigh in on the chaos
and wondered if most had always seen Ghanaians as a nuisance. She
wondered if there was anyone hiding like her. They still had a long
way to go. She closed her eyes and fell into a light sleep only to be
woken by the driver’s sudden cry, announcing they had now
entered Kano. Adubea felt her chest begin to untighten when she
saw familiar roads.
She was almost there.
At her stop in Daura, she dragged herself out of the danfo and fixed
her hijab. It was already early evening. She hugged her suitcase and
began the thirty-minute walk from the bus stop. She said a silent
prayer for the perfect disguise she had on. People hardly looked her
way, and it was what she needed.
Rahila’s neighbourhood was just as she remembered. The two
mosques, Tunca’s Halal Meats, The Baraka School. Here too,
people were moving up and down. It was easy to spot the Ghanaians
and other Africans; they were in taxis, danfos, and moving trucks.
She looked away and picked up her pace. Adubea paused when she
got to Rahila’s house. It was never this quiet. Where was everyone?
She expected Rahila to be sitting outside, chatting with her cousins.
She would crow with laughter and tease her and call her Madam
Afraid, then she would wrap her in a hug and remind her she was
not alone. Adubea rapped at the gates till Auntie Azzara came
rushing out.
“Adubea!”
“Hei”
“Welcome.”
Did you…did you come with Rahila?” Auntie Azzara’s eyes were
combing the evening as if expecting someone to appear. Her eyes
usually lit up whenever she saw Adubea. Today, she seemed to be
lost in her own thoughts. Adubea was also looking beyond her,
wondering where Rahila was.
Puzzled, Adubea shook her head.
“I-no. I-we, there was a lot of commotion in our place and I had to
come here…”
“Dama mana. But where are the rest of your things?” she eyed the
suitcase Adubea was clutching.
Adubea opened her mouth, but no words came out. The tears she
had fought hard to control won, and they burned.
“Zo, zo. You’re home now”, the older woman said, opening her
hands and embracing Adubea.
“Where is Rahila?” Adubea asked, her voice muffled as she was led
inside the house. She wanted to add Where is Farouk, too?
Today, there was a hesitation about Auntie Azzara that unsettled
Adubea.
“Come inside, there’s news”, she chose her words carefully.
Makola No. 1
Accra, 1975
Adubea had her life planned out perfectly. She was going to be a
secretary, just like her father wanted. Their family friend worked as
a secretary at R.T. Briscoe and promised she would help Adubea get
in. She was the eldest and had to set the right example for the three
siblings who came after her.
Everything changed when she met Rahila Bello one random
afternoon. Her mother sent her to buy cloth, and she entered the
first textile shop in Makola No. 1.
33
The girl that attended to her was loud and flamboyant. She had big,
beautiful eyes which sparkled with curiosity and mischief. A fan of
thick lashes framed them she loved to bat. She reminded Adubea of
a butterfly, flitting from one place to another in her bright yellow
and blue floral cloth. She carried herself like she owned the shop. If
a customer was unsure of what they were looking for, Madam would
stand before the assortment of colours, make choices, and convince
you to get the one she thought fit you the most. Adubea had never
seen anyone wield so much power with cloth. She ended up getting
a colourful six-yard piece, instead of the four yards she had been
asked to get.
Back home, Adubea’s mother, miffed, asked her to return the six
yards and get the four she’d requested in brown. For something she
was going to wear, surely, she should have a say? She reluctantly
trekked from Jamestown back to Makola. The cloth was meant to be
for her, and the beautiful wide-eyed attendant had convinced her to
take the dark green, yellow, and pink patterned cloth that made her
dark skin glow. She had never seen anything so beautiful.
“Shin haka ne? I can take the cloth back, but my Mma over there will
sell four yards at a much higher price. Prices just went up”, the
mango-skinned girl said with a glint in her eye.
“How is that possible?” Adubea blinked.
“I can’t explain, my sister. The market has its ways”, she said,
shaking with mirth. There was a small pause. It was the girl’s turn
to pay attention to the quiet girl who was adamant about a change in
her purchase just because her mother said so. She was probably not
more than seventeen, but she carried herself like an old woman
used to taking orders from other people. Everything about her was
orderly and modest, the tight neat braids, her pleated dress, the way
she held her bag upright. She moved as if she could not afford to
make a mistake, and now that she had, she feared punishment.
“Are you a teacher?” she asked. Adubea shook her head. “No.
Why?”
“Well, the way you’re glaring at me, I know if you had a cane, you’d
give me some lashes”, she mocked.
Rahila watched Adubea’s face and demeanour transform as she
burst out into laughter. She had a dimpled smile that lit her face. She
wondered if she laughed often.
“Don’t mind me, I’ll change it for you. My name is Rahila, what’s
yours?”
Adubea grinned. This was the start of an unlikely friendship.
Felicia Abban’s Day and Night Studio
Accra, 1976
It was Adubea’s eighteenth birthday, and they were getting a treat
for her by taking photos. They had saved for this. The studio
supplied an array of clothes, and they had a field day picking and
matching. Adubea chose a lace dress with pearls cinching her waist
first, and Rahila found a suede black dress with the most dramatic
mutton sleeves. Just before Mrs Abban snapped the photograph,
she slipped off her hijab. Adubea gasped when she saw Rahila’s
cornrows. She almost never took her hijab off. They changed again
and again, giggling, dancing, posing with afro wigs, sparkly dresses,
cloth. Adubea loved it. Perhaps, in another universe, she would be a
model. They were lost in time till Adubea looked up and saw the
time on the grand clock.
“Oh, Jesus!” she exclaimed. “I have to go and pick Birago from
school”, she said, rushing into the dressing room. Rahila told her
mother she had a runny tummy and had come for a birthday
photoshoot. Adubea had left school early so she could take the
photos and then pick up Birago. If she was lucky, her little sister
would forget to tell on her.
Rahila had an impish smile on her face. “Let’s get Birago, and then
I’ll go back to Makola”, she said.
Adubea still had bits of Afro hair stuck to her own hair, and Rahila
brushed it off, smiling. They were different in every way possible,
but their personalities rubbed off each other with time. Rahila
learned to be softer, and Adubea waltzed out of the shell she’d
hidden in for years. In the early years of their friendship, both
families looked on uncomfortably, hoping the friendship would
fizzle out. Rahila’s family didn’t want her going crazy about school
and dropping out of the thriving family business. Adubea’s were
sceptical about the girl whose laughter reverberated in whatever
space she was, who commanded presence and yet gave their
daughter more than enough room to shine. Their families couldn’t
find anything to complain about, and their friendship was left to
bloom in peace.
They talked about their dreams. Rahila wanted to own several
textile shops across the markets, so she would be the Market Queen.
Her parents were planning for her to marry Salim, even though she
was crazy about Akil, a shy young Lebanese whose parents sold
tyres. When she was in one of her moods, she would talk about
running away with Akil and coming back years later to beg her
parents.
“Baba would die”, she said, laughing so hard she snorted.
“You are crazy”, Adubea would say, shaking her head. Her plan was
much less dramatic. She would go to secretarial school, and then
help at home. Her mother had started buying cloth and utensils in
preparation for her marriage, even though she had no idea whom
she would marry.
34
“I still don’t understand this secretary, secretary business”, Rahila once
said.
“What do you mean?” Adubea asked, her eyes narrowing.
“I thought you would teach. You teach so well…and you quickly
understand everything you read. I can’t imagine you following some
arrogant man and doing “Yes sah!” Ugh!” Rahila said, giggling.
Adubea had not once considered what she wanted. She loved to teach
others, but she wasn’t sure her father would readily agree to that. Her
path had been chosen for her. Her brothers would work at her family’s
bakery, and Birago would most likely follow their mother’s profession of
sewing.
Months later, she secretly bought forms for teacher training and then
waited to see the storm that would rage in their home following her
quiet defiance.
Shuffering and Shmiling
Accra, 1979
It started with the coup and then months later, Makola No. 1 was
bombed. Before the bombing, the soldiers came to ransack the women’s
stalls, then plundered what they could get their hands on. They
targeted market women who felt they had more power than they
should. They accused Rahila’s mother of hoarding and others of
profiteering. Rahila’s mother was stripped naked and flogged in public
and left to her fate while the place was blown up. For weeks, She
couldn’t lie still, and their house was plagued with her tears, whimpers,
and the strong stale scent of White Cloverine. She never recovered.
Everyone said her mother died from the horror of watching her friend
Comfort burn to death by the soldiers for her defiance. She would relive
this scene in tears ending with how death was so violent to the bearer of a
name and soul so calming.
It continued with bushfires and rain that refused to fall. There were
strikes and salary and food shortages and then by 1982, the rationing
and hunger started. Adubea wondered if it was punishment for the lives
that had been lost during the coup.
It ended with Rahila’s move to Katsina, where half of her family lived.
Adubea was miserable. She had a shiny teacher’s certificate and no
school to teach at. Her father had somewhat forgiven her for choosing to
teach and was now forcing her to marry Toku, a forty-year-old man who
wanted five children and had predetermined their sex and professions.
By early 1983, Toku happened to be one of the few with functioning
farms, and she suspected it was the food he brought that made her
father so fond of him.
When Adubea finally got the long-awaited letter from Rahila, she
screamed. Rahila’s friend was teaching the children of Nigerian Agip
Oil Co. officials in Lagos, and he was making good money. There was an
open position for an English teacher, and she was hoping Adubea would
want to take it. Adubea’s eyes shone with excitement and the torment of
making a tough decision, the grumbling of her stomach pushed her to
make a choice. Many teachers and lecturers had left, but the kind of
opportunity she’d gotten was rare and paid far better. She yearned for
good food and for freedom from her father’s many plans. She was tired
of her father’s motivational messages. She was tired of humouring Toku
and his fantasies.
pushed her to make a choice. Many teachers and lecturers had
left, but the kind of opportunity she’d gotten was rare and paid
far better. She yearned for good food and for freedom from her
father’s many plans. She was tired of her father’s motivational
messages. She was tired of humouring Toku and his fantasies.
She told her mother after spending a huge portion of her
savings on a bus ticket. The conversation went awry. Her
mother was livid. She was accused of being selfish, of not acting
like a firstborn. She knew she could either sell her ticket, or run
away, and she was hoping she wouldn’t have to do either.
When she woke up the next morning, she would find some of
her mother’s finest cloth and an envelope filled with money on
her bedside.
Things falling apart
Lagos, 1982
When the oil prices plummeted, and things began to change,
many were in denial. Salaries were delayed… Denial…
Contracts cancelled…Denial. Food prices started soaring high,
and Adubea felt like she was in the middle of a horror movie.
The madness that had haunted Ghana had journeyed to
Nigeria. Yet, she stayed. Nigeria would bounce back. She
wrapped each day in prayer, refusing to acknowledge the world
disintegrating before her very eyes. She grasped at signs of
normalcy. Farouk was hours away, and he sent her anything and
everything. Letters, small gifts, photographs he’d taken. She
was still angry with him, but it didn’t stop her from obsessing
over everything.
She still sent money and provisions home. She still went for
catfish Sundays at Lindy’s, even when all the other teachers
stopped coming. On days she had access to the phone booth, she
called to speak to Rahila in Katsina, and they would talk about
everything except that thing that was falling apart from the
seams.
“Come visit me”, Rahila would implore. It had been months
since their rich merchant wives' impersonation. There was too
much to do in Katsina. She had met a nice young man called
Hakeem, and he had asked for her hand in marriage.
“I will come”, Adubea promised. She had bought a few presents
for Rahila–a silk scarf, earrings and a bag. Whenever she had a
little extra, she filled the bag. Her wedding gift would surpass
everyone’s.
Border
Katsina, 1983
It had been 4 days since Rahila’s disappearance, each day
weighing heavier than the last. Her to-be husband and his family
moved between their home in Kano and Katsina. The two
families spent their days moving from place to place, asking,
prodding, demanding. Her cousins connected with other
cousins and friends and tried to retrace her steps. Those who
said they remembered where they’d seen her were now second-
guessing. She had promised to deliver cloth to her bride in
Sabon Gari, but no one saw her in a danfo. She had bathed and
dressed up before six. It was normal for her to leave home early.
Her little cousin Hassana said she was very sure Rahila was going
to Lagos, but Hassana told so many little fibs that everyone
dismissed it.
Everyone except for Adubea. What if Rahila had heard the news
and jumped on a danfo? Rahila loved to act on impulse. Maybe
the very same day she was coming to Katsina, her friend
anticipated her fears and set out hours earlier to find her in
Lagos. Maybe she was staying with her friends Adanna and
Abiodun and hadn’t gotten the chance to call and let them all
know she was okay. But she would have called Hakeem at least.
The stories Adubea was forcing on herself weren’t working
Hope metamorphosed to fear which metamorphosed into
paranoia.
“I don’t understand! How can she just…disappear?” Auntie
Azzara whispered to herself. She had lost half of her weight with
the way her cloth hung loosely about her.
Adubea’s eyes and ears were glued to the news and radio. Aside
from hoping for some news about Rahila, she followed the
updates on Ghana Must Go. It gained that name because 80% of
the foreigners that had to leave were Ghanaians. Throngs of
people were carrying their possessions on their heads and
looking for ways to exit. Ghana and Togo’s borders had been
abruptly closed. Food and water were scarce. People were sick,
and others succumbed to mass stampedes. The overcrowding
extended to boats too, a good number of which were swallowed
by the ever-hungry waves. She read of aid that was moving to
Nigeria from America, and she shuddered. Rawlings finally
opened Ghana’s borders and negotiated with the Togo and
Benin governments to help Ghanaians stuck on the borderlines,
and many seethed at the unnecessary delay. Adubea briefly
thought about her friend back home and shivered at the
thought that many of them could be lost in the chaos. Everything
was happening so fast it was hard to keep a proper sense of time.
Adubea assured her family she was fine the few times they spoke on
the phone. They asked to speak to Rahila, to thank her family for
taking Adubea in during such a time when they too could have been
in danger if their own people found out. She found lies to cover up,
to avoid more questions she had no answers to and was too afraid to
ask herself. Her family had finally forgiven her. If she told the truth,
her father would lose it. She was in limbo; she felt out of place in
Katsina, but she could not return home. Husseina, the other twin
cousin, gave her more than enough clothes to disguise herself.
Some people got carried away with the expulsion, and they were
busy ratting out their non-Nigerian neighbours and friends and
people they worked with. Rahila’s big family cushioned Adubea,
and yet she had never felt more exposed. She wanted nothing more
than to see Rahila walking through those brown gates, cackling like
mad at all of those who thought she wouldn’t return.
Every now and then, she thought of Farouk. The way he paid full
attention when she was speaking. The way he’d raise one eyebrow
when he was going to tease her about something. The way his face lit
up when he saw her, and she smiled.
Eden
Lagos, 1981
The teaching job was even better than Adubea expected. Shell and
Mobil employees also started securing admissions for their
children. The school, nestled in Palm Grove Estate, was small and
exclusive. The owners offered extra perks to the teachers–access to
loans, healthcare, and lunch. Adubea found a place that was filled
with other teachers and professors, mostly Ghanaians. She had
more than enough to get things like Blue Band Margarine, Geisha
Mackerel, Cadbury Goody Goody. She bought provisions and sent
them through people who were going back to Ghana. She sent
money too. Her father’s anger melted away, but even then, his
answers were curt. He sounded proud, but he wouldn’t say it. It
made her smile.
She felt she was in Eden, eating the best of the land. She fell in love
with Semo and efo riro. On Sundays, she met with some of the other
teachers, and they enjoyed catfish pepper soup and an assortment
of drinks at Lindy’s Bar. When Rahila visited from Katsina, it was a
treat. Her aunties would fill her bags with different varieties of food,
and Adubea’s heart would be full. They would move from Roxy
Cinema at Apapa to Odeon at Ebute-Metta, and Idera at Mushin.
There were too many things to do, too little time. They spent time at
luxury hotels, pretending to be the wives of rich merchants while
they ate food a little above their budgets. She was Madam Sika, and
Rahila was Hajia Ruweida. They filled their time with gossip,
laughter, and wedding plans at home.
It was the happiest she had ever been.
It was the happiest she had ever been.
One time, when Rahila could not make a visit they had planned for months, she
sent Adubea stuff through her cousin Farouk. He was being polite when he
accepted her lunch offer of jollof rice with fried chicken, and eight hours felt
like eight minutes. When she accompanied him to the bus stop, she felt like
crying, and when she left she felt as if she had left something behind. When she
didn’t hear from him, she hated herself for thinking there could have been
more. She thought of the right time to tell Rahila and wondered why he had not
said anything to his cousin.
Months later, she found out Farouk had been betrothed to marry someone else
and had backed out of the wedding. Yet whenever they met at Katsina they
would circle around each other, afraid to touch.
Farouk
Katsina, 1983
Rahila’s home was teeming with family and friends who came and left. The one
that stayed was Farouk, the one person whose intent gazes dizzied her and
made her lose her train of thought. When he first appeared, she was happy to
see him, and her first instinct was to envelope him in a hug, but she was also
angry. When their eyes locked, she squirmed. Even if he was single, Adubea
knew there was no way her father would accept marriage to a Muslim. Two
strikes were enough. A third would get her disowned. Yet when Farouk came
home like every distraught cousin trying to find Rahila and make sense of her
disappearance, sense flew out of the window. She hated that he had that effect
on her.
The days were getting darker, and Adubea was suffocating under the weight of
loss, but there was a hand that steadied her, that held her, that cradled her. Even
when he just sat by her and signed, she seemed to know how to respond to him.
Months that had been lost into years didn’t matter anymore. They were
together.
Day 39
Katsina, 1983
Adubea’s hands were trembling as they traced Rahila’s childhood picture in an
album that looked like it would come apart. The familiar smile tugged at her
heart.
“She was around five at the time. Broke three of Maikudi’s plates and he did
nothing. She had him wrapped around her finger”, Farouk muttered, shaking
his head. Thirty-nine days and two hours, and they were still searching. They
shared stories about her–he, about Rahila’s childhood, she, from when she met
Rahila at Makola No. 1.
When he looked at her, she still squirmed, still felt warmth permeating her
being, and still felt disoriented. Everyone smiled a little when they saw the two
seated in the hall, going through old pictures, laughing, or avoiding what had
been obvious the day he walked into the house.
In Adubea’s room were letters from Ghana stacked to the ceiling, letters
imploring her, asking her politely, commanding her, then threatening her to
return home. She read every one of them. And responded by sending the little
she had home, even when they didn’t receive it as quickly.
One morning, forty-five days and seven hours into Rahila’s absence, she made a
choice and accepted her third strike. It reminded her of the morning she woke
up to her mother's cloth and envelope and she knew this decision would take
longer to accept. It would mean avoiding home or going home years later to
unforgiveness just like Rahila’s funny love stories when they were younger. Her
life had broken into a million pieces, but they were better fitted in Katsina, with
Farouk.
In Adubea’s room were letters from Ghana stacked to the ceiling, letters imploring her, asking her politely, commanding her, then
threatening her to return home. She read every one of them. And responded by sending the little she had home, even when they
didn’t receive it as quickly.
One morning, forty-five days and seven hours into Rahila’s absence, she made a choice and accepted her third strike. It reminded
her of the morning she woke up to her mother's cloth and envelope and she knew this decision would take longer to accept. It would
mean avoiding home or going home years later to unforgiveness just like Rahila’s funny love stories when they were younger. Her
life had broken into a million pieces, but they were better fitted in Katsina, with Farouk.

Mango-skinned
Katsina, 1991

Adubea met Rahila in the 1990s. Like the first time they met, it was unexpected. She had been married to Farouk for years and had
borne three sons. The last child, they hadn’t planned for. The last child, they didn’t know about till she was five months due.
It was typical of Rahila to make an entrance the way she did. Fiery, loud, big, beautiful eyes with the attitude to match. Adubea held
on to her a little tighter, and she thought of home.

Akua Serwaa Amankwah is an academic, author, and creative entrepreneur. Her research interests revolve around (Digital) African
Literature, Photography, Food, and Sustainability. Her stories have been published in The Mirror and Flash Fiction Ghana, as well
as Kenkey for Ewes and Resilience Anthologies. She won the Inspire Us Writing Contest by Worldreader in 2019, and the imagining
Early Accra competition in 2021. Akua is the creative lead of Studio Mansa. She is a 2022 participant of the AKO Caine Prize
workshops.
I know a Ghanaian man whose clear intention to marry a
Nigerian woman was not taken lightly. His village-folk sent
delegates to his father to ask why he was allowing the one
gentleman emerging from their village to marry a foreigner.
The man’s father told them that he raised no protest because he
had seen that his son was wise. He will marry the foreigner, and
they will have kids, and the kids will be his. The village
representatives left, convinced that the Nigerian woman must
have won the Ghanaian man’s heart and that of his father, by
dark magic. They married. They had kids. I am one of them.

SEW-BATA Amma Konadu Appiah

When I asked my mother what Ghanaians were moving to Nigeria to go do at the time of mass exodus, her response was, “Oh
anything! Even ‘sew-bata’ they would move to go do”. After explaining what ‘sew-bata’ meant ; a term for shoe-mending, she
added with laughter in her voice, “you must go and at least bring back a sound system! Those days, only the returnees mostly had
those”. This painted such an interesting picture for me. A struggling Ghana…a thriving Nigeria…humans caught in-between…
This is the Ghana-Nigeria story. A story of humans that become a representation of both because of love, lust, a blend of both or
anything in between.
Long before I was born, my parents ended up in Nigeria for some years with my older siblings. This would be between ‘77 and
‘87. In the course of their being there, part of which my father was back in Ghana schooling, two of my siblings died. They were
buried there. We do not know exactly where. I came along when they had returned to Ghana and my siblings had nearly lost all
the Yoruba their tongues had picked up. Me? I speak none at all.
Having grown up and lived nearly all my life here in Ghana, there is only the blood that runs in my veins as proof that I am from
these two places. Before, it felt like a robbery. It was treated like something that shouldn’t be proudly talked about. I did not know,
for instance, that I had mixed heritage, until I was an older child going through family photos and asking questions. There is still
a lot I cannot bring myself to freely talk about, because it has always been layered with what feels like secrecy.

Some years back, when I would think about my dual heritage, it was always with a mix of pride and a longing for something that
wasn’t there. It would seep into my creative thought process quite often. For instance, while on my way to school one day when I
was a Master’s student some 8 years ago, we drove past a small group of people gathered round a dead body. It was obvious that
whoever it was had died right there by the road, because he or she had been covered with fresh banana leaves.

38
In that moment, my mind started its usual thing where it began to spin something around what I had observed. That stranger, covered in
leaves laying there dead, somehow brought back memories of bean-soaking, bean-dehusking, bean-grinding, ewe-eran-wrapping
techniques, and cheerful chatter over warm moinmoin and temperamental gari soakings.

When I think of my dual heritage, there are memories of experiences that tell that my blood flows back into two places, and then there is
a touch of grief. Why? Because this is the fictional story my mind wove around moin-moin at the time:

As I slowly walk past someone’s loved one laying there on the side of the road, covered in freshly cut banana leaves, with only their shoes
sticking out, the band aid is ripped off and I start to bleed.

My mother died, leaving me unsure of the emotion I carry for her. When news of her death reached me seven years ago, it was not until
memories of her instructing me through the process of making moinmoin came to me, that I began to feel some sadness. It has been what
connects my heart to her since then. It is what reminds me that there was love…under layers of trauma there was love.

Now, as I walk even more slowly the rest of the way to my apartment, the blood pools in my throat and coagulates. I cannot swallow. I
cannot breathe. My heart pounds, my extremities tingle, and I run the rest of the way, fumbling with my keys, desperate to make it
behind closed doors before the panic consumes me. It engulfs me. I do make it..
The sea of emotions is filled with guilt and anger and grief.
Grief.
My mother died and I did not cry. My eyes are pooling with tears now. Seven years delayed.
I walked past someone’s loved one, moments ago, who had died and unintentionally taken my mother along with them, and I am angry.
The distance between my front door and my refrigerator feels like forever, and every hurt I refused to address confronts me as I take
painful steps towards where my last batch of moinmoin is kept.

I open the refrigerator, and they stare at me, wrapped in ewe-eran, like somebody’s loved one. I pick them up, hands trembling, and I
feel the tears finally make their way down as I move towards the trash can.

My anger is hot, melting away the clot in my throat and I let out a scream as my mother falls from my hands into the bin. I scream some
more; a tantrum for what that somebody’s loved one has stolen from me – the one happy memory of my mother. When the numbness
begins to travel everywhere, I lower myself down and curl up right there on the kitchen floor…

Hoping that when I get back up I would be finally ready to not be like my mother.

As an adult, the stories told of my family’s history have made it clearer why some people would prefer no ‘fixation’ at all on that duality.
The reason is trauma. Trauma of not really ever belonging; ever-regarded as a foreigner where you have lived for more than half a
century. Trauma of going back ‘home’ and not really belonging either, but having to leave pieces of your heart buried in unmarked
graves.

I understood too that sometimes people resolve to leave the trauma untouched – leave it be and it will go into hibernation. But there are
also some people – like me – who want to gently prod till it rouses, and while it is half-awake, confront it gently – find answers – do all we
must to trace the duality, and like our forefathers who went to Nigeria, mend the broken parts.

Even sew-bata we will do...

Amma Konadu Appiah lives in Accra with her spouse and two kids. She holds a Bachelor's degree in English, a Master's in Population
Studies, and just recently submitted her thesis for a Doctorate degree in Population Studies, with a focus on Chronic Non-
Communicable Diseases and related lived experiences. She enjoys reading and creative writing, and expresses this through blogging,
contributing to Ghanaian anthologies, and sharing in literary spaces. She is passionate about intercultural learning in international
education and embraces the idea of empathetic study abroad management. As a person living with a chronic illness, Amma also dedicates
time to raising awareness on autoimmune rheumatic diseases and advocates for persons living with such in Ghana.
Amma Konadu Appiah

Elizabeth Johnson

Ayobami Ogungbe

Henneh Kyereh Kwaku

Akua Serwaa Amankwah

Jeff Atuobi

TJ Benson

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