Forest Girl

Prologue

Ghana, early 1990s

A FEW DENSE FORESTS, a few animals, a few good roads, some tall buildings…that was people’s image of Africa—a little of everything everywhere. However, if we considered the essence of life, the things that really mattered—like love—then maybe things would cease to seem so basic.

Take a Ghanaian village like Ebinom, a small settlement just sixty kilometres north of the city of Kumasi, their only connection a ribbon of rough road that turned what should have been a forty-five-minute journey into three hours of misery as drivers attempted to dodge potholes. It proved an added torture for those travelling by commercial vehicles, which, even when available and no more than two days in a week, lilted from side to side under the weight of their overloaded cargo, tossing passengers like trees dancing in the evening breeze.

A typical village, littered with mud houses and dirt roads, the natives were hardworking men and women who tilled the soil and reared livestock for their livelihood. They held tradition in high esteem and made it their concern to meddle in one another’s affairs in their commitment to be each other’s keeper.

The village folk lived out their lives, as had generations before them, celebrating victories and mourning their dead together. At close of day, many gathered in their homes and greeted the evening with songs and folktales. A few hours of sleep, and the next morning began a day very much like the previous one.

Today, Ebinom was bereaved. Unforgiving death had given up on lurking in the corners and laid its icy hands on one of their most resourceful men. The village square brimmed with mourners who shamelessly expressed their grief with tears and wailing. The cool breeze ceased its whiffling as if it, too, were aware of the elegy in the air. The desolate tune rekindled the tears of mourners, particularly the women, who seemed especially blessed with the ability to cry on demand.

Opanyin Badu had been in his mid-eighties when he was called to take his place with the forefathers. A hardworking man with three big farms a distance from the village, he had been loved and respected for his generosity and regard for all. His competence in work, from which many village folk benefited, earned him a place among the elders at an early age of forty.

When the women had finished displaying their mourning prowess, the men, majestically clad in their funeral cloths, sombrely paid their respects to the lifeless body of a onetime great man. The adowa dance ensued, and the old women took over. While dancing adowa, the older generation was envied for the elegance of their advanced age, because somehow, their delicate frames possessed the grace required for this dance. With every step, turn, and shrug, their smiles acquired a mystic quality as though they had soared into a higher realm.

Despite the mournful occasion, the crowd cheered the dancers on. A bit of alcohol and the resulting ambience gingered some others to join in. Amidst the drumming and dancing, they marched to the burial grounds.

While parents mourned, children gathered in various courtyards, telling folktales among themselves until bedtime, for children weren’t allowed to see the face of death. At the end of what may have been construed as an unproductive day, the people retired to their various homes, with many shamelessly drunk and hardly in control of themselves. One couldn’t be sure whether anyone had sound sleep when a person died, but life had to go on.

As for the dead, they became ancestors.

Chapter 1

One Year Later

MICHAEL YAW BADU TOOK a deep breath, hoping to curb his restlessness as the Jeep entered the village of Ebinom, his hometown. Staring outside the window, though, he couldn’t help the thread of excitement rippling up his spine. It had been ten years since he’d left to go to college in America, and not one day had gone by that he hadn’t missed his home or his family. He couldn’t wait to see his mother, whose love had shaped him into the man he’d become.

A group of men gathered under the shade of a mango tree caught his attention. The sight thrust him into a memory of a hot, sunny Friday just like this one; the kind that made people want to stretch out in the shade and have long siestas, and when even animals stayed in their pens, eating and sleeping.

As a boy of ten, house chores had been the least of his likes, so he’d snuck out of the house in search of his father. He’d found Opanyin Badu under the shed of an old man who brewed some of the best akpԑtԑshie, the locally distilled spirit brewed from palm wine.

Knowing his father would disapprove of him being in such a place, Michael had hidden behind a tree listening to their conversation.

If either of my wives ever did anything like that, one of them said, I would discipline her, and she would know who is boss. Luckily, they already know who rules the house.

His father’s laugh drifted over. My friend, look. You may sit here trying to prove to us that you are a tough man, but I tell you, our women are not second-class to us.

I didn’t know you were afraid of your wife, the first man said as the others egged him on.

Let me tell you one thing. I’m not afraid of my wife. He took a swig of his drink. I respect her.

The others burst out laughing as though he’d gone out of his mind.

Listen, he went on after the noise had subsided. Have you ever seen Akyaa misbehave in public before?

Reluctantly, they admitted they hadn’t, and his father concluded triumphantly, I think of her and treat her with the same respect I would give a man.

Dead silence followed his statement. It lasted only a moment until one of the others, who was quite drunk by now, fell into a convulsive laughter. If you don’t fear your wife, why did you never marry another woman?

The others joined in the laughter, and thus went their discussion. That was the man his father had been, and he’d instilled the same mutual respect for women in his sons.

He refocused his attention as his childhood home came into view. Some children played football in the street, reminding him of days when he and his friends used to do the same. A smile came to his lips as a wave of nostalgia enveloped him.

The driver sounded the horn, causing the children to scamper out of the way, abandoning their ball. Most people in the vicinity paused in their actions, watching the scene unfolding as if expecting some government representative.

Right here, he instructed the driver.

The Jeep came to a smooth halt in front of the Badu house, leaving behind it a thick field of rising dust. Michael opened the door and stepped out. He slipped on his sunglasses as he cast a broad gaze around.

An almost terrifying scream tore right through the dust, causing him to rear back. Then he noticed where the scream came from as his sister ran towards him.

"Yaw nie oo, Yaw nie!" she screamed, announcing his arrival.

Serwaa, he said.

Then she was in his arms. Her shrieks had garnered attention, and by the time he released her, a crowd had begun forming around them, some merely watching while others also shouted joyously as they pushed forward to hug him and help carry his luggage. Soon, the shouting became singing.

He watched as the mob took shape around him, singing and dancing to welcome him home; tugging at his clothes from all directions as if hoping some of the foreign air he’d breathed would rub off on them. Fascinated and humbled by their reception, he realised how much he had missed his hometown. It had been such a long time since he had seen this many people jubilating with a kind of unity that could move mountains.

As he entered the compound of his father’s house, the noise from the crowd seemed to diminish. He raised his gaze and saw his mother emerge from the house. Everything in him stilled, the sounds of singing fading to the rear. She looked much older and leant towards her right where she held a walking stick. Her hair was black, cut and dyed in the royal densinkran fashion he had always known her to wear.

Maame. The woman who’d loved him with all her heart, who hadn’t stopped him from becoming all he could be, even when it had meant letting him go for a while; the woman to whom he owed his very breath. A sense of peace settled upon him as their eyes met. He was home.

"Me piesie, Yaw," she said in her gentle voice.

He released a breath, and his heart expanded with love.

Yes, Maame, it’s me, your first born, he responded and embraced her.

Finally, when the crowd had dispersed and his luggage had been taken into his room, he dismissed the driver who needed to return to Accra. Later, he found himself seated in the sitting room of his father’s house where, as custom demanded, his mother formally welcomed him home and asked about his journey.

By the time he’d talked about his stay in America and subsequent return to Ghana, his new job at AgroChem, and his actual journey back to Ebinom, he’d spoken for over thirty minutes. His mother, in turn, told him about all the happenings since his departure; his brother, Sefah, taking over the duties of running the family farms, Serwaa still unmarried, his father’s transition into ancestry.

It has been a year now. We have already done your father’s first anniversary assembly, since we were not sure when you would be arriving, Maame Badu explained. "That’s the way of life. You are born one day, you fulfil the tasks you were put here to do, then Ɔdomankoma takes you back. It is a journey we all have to make someday."

Michael’s heart shuddered. A sense of foreboding always lodged in his chest whenever his mother spoke of death as though she were ready to go any day, as if she wanted to go. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to her.

You’ll go to the cemetery with Sefah and Serwaa, and they will show you where we laid your father to rest. May his soul rest in peace.

Michael nodded. Images of the man who had been his childhood hero—and still was—flashed through his mind. The man who had shown him how to hunt and skin his catch, who had taught him how to be a man. He missed his father. The shock he had felt upon receiving the letter informing him of his father’s death still lingered.

The old man hadn’t been sick, the letter had stated. Michael had been grateful for that. His father would have hated to have been ill for any period. It would have meant being weak and a burden to the people he was supposed to protect. No! Strong today, gone tomorrow. That was exactly how his father, the hero, would have chosen to go.

It hadn’t been possible to leave America at the time, but an opportunity had presented itself several months later, an opportunity to return home and test a fertiliser, Formula F, which he had helped develop.

When he and his mother finished talking, he dined with his family and distributed the gifts he had brought them.

The journey from Accra to Ebinom had been tedious. Preparation towards the trip had taken a lot out of him. By seven o’clock, he was ready to call it a night, so excusing himself, he kissed his mother’s cheek and retired to his room.

****

Moments later as Michael lay in bed, hands crossed beneath his head, eyes staring at the ceiling, he smiled a simple, noncommittal smile. The familiar smells, and the sound of crickets chirping outside filled him with joy. Home. He may have come from humble beginnings, but he’d always been proud of his heritage. "Humble beginnings do not diminish a man," his father used to say. He’d kept those words in his heart.

He breathed a contented sigh.

Ten years ago, he had been an ordinary village boy who should have been satisfied with everything he had. He could have stopped schooling and worked on his father’s farms as Sefah had done, then get married and bear children.

However, he had wanted more. His desire to attain greater heights than his father had ever reached had propelled him and filled him with a yearning for something greater. He had wanted to point to himself someday, if not as somebody else’s hero, then as his own. At an early age, he’d been able to see how nature dictated their lives, how a little drought, locust attack, or bush fire could affect the harvest. Couldn’t something better than plain animal droppings or other local manure be used to toughen the crops against the vagaries of the weather, he had wondered.

At school, his favourite subject had been Agriculture where he had learnt about mechanised farming in the developed world. His fascination with how one country could produce enough to feed itself and many others had fuelled his desire to learn how such a feat could be achieved.

His Agricultural Science teacher had encouraged him. Our village folk are too dependent on the food they get from the soil and the livestock they rear, he’d often say.

Such words had watered the seed already planted in Michael’s mind. He not only strove to excel in his studies, but in every area he could; prefect for most of the time he’d been in secondary school, placing among the top three students in his class, and remaining one of the best athletes the school had ever produced.

He chuckled, remembering several girls vying for his love, but he hadn’t paid them any attention. Just when he’d finished his A-levels, destiny had favoured him—his uncle, Wↄfa Tawiah, in America had helped him obtain a visa to further his education. Michael would forever be grateful to him.

While studying for his masters in America, he had met Lena Brown-Ankrah, a Ghanaian undergraduate student and very attractive woman whose maturity and intelligence had immediately caught his attention, as had her chic fashion sense. Like every modern girl, she felt it her right to have whatever she wanted, but it was that very sense of determination which attracted him. He’d left her back in Accra where, by this time, she’d be back home from work, indulging in a glass of wine while preparing dinner.

He shifted to a more comfortable position, contemplating the changes he’d noticed. Ebinom had expanded beyond its original borders. Had it become home to new settlers, or was it simply the result of expanding family units? The thought of growing families filled him with a strange yearning. He dismissed it immediately. With his upcoming project taking off soon, children were the last thing he needed to think about.

Bringing his mind back to the present, he took stock of his old room. His father’s house looked and felt more comfortable. Well…Sefah’s bed creaked, and Serwaa slept on a mattress on the floor, but even those were an improvement over the lumpy straw mattresses and woven mats they’d had growing up.

With these thoughts swirling in his mind, he finally welcomed sleep, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t have to dream of home.

****

Esi Afriyie entered the kitchen just as her mother and her two friends were coming out. Giving an apology and a greeting, she stepped aside and allowed them to pass. Once they were gone, she set down her basket of merchandise she’d just bought at the market and noticed the three calabashes on the floor, from which the women had drunk. Picking them up, she washed and replaced them in their usual places on the shelf.

As she picked up the gourd of palm wine, a smile formed on her lips. She shook her head. Did Papa know about Mama’s secret stash; one she had occasionally allowed Esi, and her younger sister, Abena, as well as their sister-in-law, Agyeiwaa, to taste? Stowing away all incriminating evidence, she began preparing the ingredient for fufu and groundnut soup.

By the time her mother re-entered the kitchen, the delicious aroma of steaming bush meat permeated the air. Esi finished preparing the wooden mortar and pestle with all the other things required to pound the cassava, plantain, and cocoyam for the fufu.

I see you’ve washed the calabashes. Her mother gave her a conspiratorial wink. Hasn’t Abena returned from school yet? The shadows are beginning to stretch.

She’s in the backyard feeding the animals.

The older woman frowned. She didn’t pass by to greet us.

Her mother left, calling out to Abena. By the time she returned, Esi had finished setting up for the next phase of cooking.

Your sister will take a while, her mother explained. Come and start pounding. As soon as Abena comes, you can continue with the soup while she takes over from you.

Esi grabbed the pestle and started pounding the piece of cassava her mother had placed in the mortar.

As the melodious beat of the pestle against the mortar surrounded them, Esi remembered a story her mother had told about the preparation of fufu, one set in the colonial days—at a time when the White man had craved his homeland, growing interest in knowing a little about the community and the culture rather than imposing his western ways on them. The colonisers had questioned the logic behind expending so much energy in pounding the crops when they could be eaten just boiled. They’d suggested a device be made whereby the people could prepare fufu without having to pound.

The Ghanaian folk had been quick to oppose the idea, arguing that the unique harmony of pounding and turning fufu bred unity. There were many who wouldn’t eat fufu unless they had heard sound of pounding first. So, the tradition remained a part of the people and promised to stay with them for a very long time.

I met Auntie Yaa and Auntie Pokuaa at the market, Esi said during a pause while her mother took out the first mound of fufu and placed a new piece of cassava in the mortar. They asked me to greet you. I didn’t realise they were coming here.

You know those two like chatting a lot.

What news did they have today?

A frown came across her mother’s face. Pokuaa said something which surprised me. She says that girl at Akosua Manu’s house…what’s her name?

Akua, Esi provided, half intending it as a question. She wondered if her mother had really forgotten the name or avoided it because the girl was her mother’s namesake.

Yes, that one. She says the girl has been sneaking out to the small river to meet a certain young man.

Just rumours. Nobody has caught her there before, Esi said, laying particular emphasis on caught.

Bro Kwame hasn’t arrived yet, has he? Abena entered, wearing a faded-out dress she’d already outgrown but continued to keep because it was a favourite. He usually comes back home before I do.

Have you forgotten he went with his wife? Esi replied. You know when they go off to the farm together, they only return after six.

Sometimes, I wonder what they do in the farm that they don’t want those of us at home to see, their mother said with a coy smile as she broke a piece of the plantain and popped it into her mouth.

Esi and Abena laughed at their mother’s suggestive comment.

Where are my grandchildren? Maame Akua asked Abena.

They passed by Ma’Afia’s house to play. They’ll be home soon.

Thus went their conversation as the preparation of food progressed.

"Agoo," someone call from outside.

"Amee, their mother responded. Come in."

Esi’s best friend, Mansa, entered.

Good afternoon, Maame Akua, she greeted.

Good afternoon, Mansa. How are you?

I’m fine, Auntie, she replied. May I borrow Esi for a few minutes? I won’t keep her long.

Abena, come and take over, their mother said.

Esi handed over the pestle to her sister and checked on the soup before following her friend outside. She assessed Mansa’s demeanour.

What is making you smile like that?

He has returned, Mansa announced.

Her heart thudded. Already? The excitement in her friend’s eyes meant only one thing, and yet, she had to ask, Who?

Your husband. He arrived yesterday.

Esi’s throat went dry, and her heart pounded. Don’t be silly. When did you ever attend my marriage ceremony?

You know I’m talking about Yaw Badu.

The mere mention of his name still caused her heart to beat like