Joy Came in the Morning: A Novel

© 2013 by Yema Lucilda Hunter. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   12/18/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-4996-3 (e)

This is a work of fiction. Except in a few obvious instances, names, places, institutions, organisations and incidents are either product’s of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover design by M. Hunter (Colleone.com)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Author’s Note

My previous novel, Redemption Song, was set in an unnamed West African country which allowed me greater creative freedom in telling the story of Emmanuel, Hamida and Samu, young people caught up in a war situation. Sierra Leonean readers took that unnamed country to be their own, since, even with major differences in the timeline of the war and in the names of key people, places, and institutions, the novel dealt with a conflict very similar to the one they had just experienced. In Joy Came in the Morning, Cobola Ennison, one of the minor characters in Redemption Song, tells the story of her life in memory clips and conversations with her son. I was persuaded to come clean this time and name the setting of the novel as being Sierra Leone. However, to maintain the link with Redemption Song, I have retained three fictitious elements: The People’s Redemption Army (PRA), the timeline of the rebel war, and the suburban village of George Town.

Acknowledgements

Once again, I am indebted to my husband, Kobi, to my sisters, Imodale, Smita and Velma, and to my friends Nance and Denise. All of them read the manuscript at different stages of its development and gave me useful feedback by pointing out grammatical mistakes, boring passages, inconsistencies, unlikely events, and false notes. Special thanks go to Coolie for persuading me not to shy away from naming the country where the story is set and to use real place names. Additional thanks to Imodale for providing a summary of the story.

Dedication

In loving memory of my mother,

Olivette Kelfa-Caulker. She was one of the nurses trained at the Princess Christian Mission Hospital, and also worked at Yongoro.

Chapter One

That unforgettable weekend began with a rare visit from my former neighbour, Manny Martin. He and his girlfriend, Hamida, came to see me on the Friday afternoon. Hamida, too, used to live here with her family, but all that changed when fighters from the so-called People’s Redemption Army attacked us in 1997. Manny’s parents and their house were no more; and Hamida’s family—what was left of it—now lived a few miles away on Fourah Bay Road.

After an hour or so, my young visitors asked my permission to leave, saying they had to visit Hamida’s parents before going back to college. I went out to the porch with them to say goodbye and afterwards, leant on the wooden ledge watching them stroll down to the highway. They were hand in hand and deep in conversation. I had been so pleased to hear that Manny was close to obtaining an honours degree in English that, in my usual way, I had raised my eyes and arms, saying aloud, ‘Praise God Almighty!’

‘Oh, Gramma Cobola,’ Manny had said, shaking with quiet laughter. Hamida’s amusement stayed in her eyes, but it was plain to see. Perhaps I had exaggerated the verbal praise, but thankfulness came from deep within my heart. She, too, seemed to be doing well—in her first year at university, studying accountancy. As I watched them go, I recalled how much they had suffered when those PRA fighters came here that day, and said to myself: thank God for love. I had no doubt that having each other was what had helped them recover from the tragedies that had befallen them.

They finally disappeared from view, but I continued to gaze out on George Town’s apology for a main street, brooding over the state of affairs in our country in the three years since the rebel war ended. So much to sigh over still; somehow the place didn’t feel completely peaceful yet. There were too many people as poor as church mice and just as hungry. Even those like me, who were not in actual want, were finding life hard with the dry water pipes and endless power cuts. For weeks there had been hardly any of my favourite fish in the market—mostly pollock, pollock, pollock, with a few baskets of herring or bonga; ordinary palm oil and rice now cost an arm and a leg. And as for corruption! From all accounts that was even worse than before the war. It seemed people were grabbing any chance to steal from the government and to cheat each other, as if they no longer believed in Judgment Day.

My young friends had left me smiling, but those gloomy thoughts must have been showing on my face by the time Obi and Ransolina Davies passed my house on their way home. They were dressed in black, obviously returning from a funeral. As always when they saw me on the porch, they called out a greeting.

‘Welcome, my dears,’ I called back; but my voice, too, must have reflected my darkening mood because when I went on to ask about the funeral they merely said, ‘Everything went well, Gramma,’ and continued up the hill. Normally, they would have paused for a chat.

Not long after they disappeared, I straightened up to go back inside. With my first step, pain stabbed my right heel again. I let out a small groan and went gingerly indoors, calling out to Ida—my third house help since Modu’s abrupt departure to join the new army. She emerged from the pantry, drying her hands on her pinafore.

‘Yes, Gramma.’

‘Start warming water for my bath and get the lanterns ready.’

‘Yes, Gramma.’

‘And don’t forget to melt my ori-o,’ I called after her departing back.

‘Yes, Gramma.’

Ida always sounded eager to please, but I suspected that she was saying to herself: why does this old woman have to tell me the same thing every evening, as if I ever forget? Indeed; I didn’t know why I kept reminding her about melting the shea butter. It would have made more sense to allow her to forget so I could discover how reliable she was. Oh, well, I thought, it must be one of those old age things; like the slightly dry voice I sometimes heard when I spoke. I swallowed an Indocid capsule for the pain, and then limped towards my armchair by the window thinking that Ida, too, would probably start helping herself to my things before long. Or she would do something else that I couldn’t stand; then the search for a helper would have to start all over again. That prospect so deepened my gloom that I let out an audible sigh and muttered: thank God I am approaching the departure lounge. It was a reference to my only journey by air. I had gone to Banjul to spend a month with Yao’s room-mate at university.

Yao. Every single day I thanked God for my precious son, but much as I adored him, my other daily prayer was that my transition from time to eternity would happen before I became too weak to look after myself. I dreaded the thought of some lingering illness that would force me to end my days living with him and Isabella. Not that I disliked his wife—far from it. She was a good girl, and had been kindness itself when Yao’s father died. But they had got on my nerves when I stayed with them after the PRA invasion in 1997—so much so, that I insisted on being brought back here just one month after those young devils attacked us—even before the official announcement that it was safe to return. The problem? Isabella’s bossiness, and the way Yao gave in to her all the time. Almost every day when I lived with them, I had had to bite my tongue to stop myself from telling him to act like a man who had risen to be head of the personnel department in an oil company.

I was still in the armchair feeling rather low when my mobile rang. It was Yao, of course, checking up on me as he did every evening. The phone was his Christmas present, and I had to admit that the thing was useful. All the same, I still missed my fixed line with its hand piece which had places to put my mouth and ear, and only a monthly bill to pay. The long and frequent power cuts made it necessary to send Ida down to the petrol station every few days to charge the phone from the generator that kept their pumps going; and I had to pay for that favour every time. There were also the top-up charges; but I had no choice. My other phone had been dead for more than a year; ever since a terrible storm brought the lines down again.

‘M.A., are you alright?’ Yao asked the moment he heard my voice. I sensed suppressed excitement; wondered what could be causing it but waited for him to enlighten me—if he chose to. That had been my policy ever since I had overheard Isabella complaining that I always wanted to know everything. I tried to make my voice sound brighter than I was feeling.

‘Yes, my dear. I have had a very good day; not so much pain in my foot, and Manny and Hamida came to see me. You know how they lift my spirits…’

Since Yao had never shown much interest in Manny and Hamida, I was neither surprised nor put out when he interrupted before I could go into any details about their visit. In the same eager voice he said,

‘M.A., listen. You always say your heart can stand anything, but I am not going to risk it. Get ready for a big surprise tomorrow.’

‘My dear, nothing has shaken me for a long time,’ I replied with a snort. ‘You know that.

‘This one will knock you off your feet. I’m telling you…’

Just then Ida came to say my water was ready and since I like a hot bath, I soon brought the conversation to an end; though not before asking Yao to hug Adora and the twins for me. He assured me that he would do as I asked, but I knew he would only hug my seven-year-old granddaughter. The boys, he would tell that Gramma sent them hugs. Now eleven years old, Eric and Derek disliked physical displays of affection.

‘And about tomorrow,’ Yao said. ‘Have a good breakfast-o, and have it early. I don’t have to go to work, so I’ll be there around nine o’clock.’

‘Alright, my dear, I hear you. God bless. And say hello to Isabella for me, ya?’

‘Will do,’ he said and clicked off.

I had another reason to sigh after my bath, but this time it was with pleasure as Ida massaged my feet and ankles using the softened shea butter. She then served me a small pollock fried dry, the way I liked it, with one piece of boiled plantain and a little gravy. As always, a cup of Milo sent the food down nicely, as well as the tablet I took to control my blood pressure. Later, I used the commode beside my bed then, having affirmed that goodness and mercy would follow me all the days of my life, blew out my lantern, climbed under the mosquito net and draped my legs with the soft folds of my country cloth. I took a few deep breaths and floated on the surface of sleep.

My mind drifted towards Yao and the coming surprise. What, I wondered, could possibly astonish me enough to endanger my heart? This faithful organ had withstood some terrible shocks, the most recent being the PRA attack on George Town in 1997. Only one possibility came to mind—a deep and secret longing I had nursed for most of my life. I instantly dismissed it, though. Far too unlikely now I thought with a sigh, and allowed my drooping eyelids to close.

My old dog, Whisky, had joined the dear departed the year before and had not been replaced, so there was no barking to warn me of approaching visitors the next morning. I was still at the breakfast table, washing down my last piece of bread with my usual cup of strong, sweet, milky tea, when a forceful knock shook the front door. It was followed immediately by a hearty, ‘Good morning to this house.’

The voice was Yao’s. I called out to Ida at once, but before she could come, Yao had pushed open the door and stepped into the parlour with a smile broad enough to reveal his last molars.

‘Jesus!’ I gasped, when I saw the shaven-headed man who entered the house behind him. My cup clattered onto the saucer and I clutched at the embroidered insertions decorating the front of my old print dress. Except for a few faint lines across his forehead, his pale biscuit complexion, and a slightly higher nose, the man bore a striking resemblance to Yao who, so everybody said, looked like me, apart from that little dimple he got from his father. The resemblance was truly remarkable, especially since Yao had started cutting his hair so close to his scalp that he might as well have been bald himself. My heartbeats skipped, skipped again and, even after regaining their normal steady rhythm, continued to pound against my ribs. Perhaps I swayed for a moment, because Yao’s grin vanished as if an invisible hand had suddenly wiped it away. He cried out, ‘M.A.’, and took a rapid step further into the room; so did the man behind him, who reached for my pulse while watching my face with a questioning frown. Yao hovered beside us, anxiety written all over his face.

‘I’m alright, I’m alright,’ I assured them, but in such a weak voice that even when the stranger nodded and gently released my wrist, it took Yao a little while to satisfy himself that there was no cause for alarm. He finally let out a huge sigh of relief.

‘M.A., you frightened me-o. It looks like you already know who this person is…’

I gave a slight nod. The two men exchanged glances. The stranger smiled down at me, and I managed a smile in return; but then he went and introduced himself as Orlando West, and tears filled my eyes.

Yao must have thought it was joy that was making me tearful, but it wasn’t that at all. It was the shock of hearing that name: Orlando West. Somehow, it had never occurred to me that the people who adopted Sani would have changed his name. Through the long years of our separation, I had always called him Sani in my mind. This new name made him seem like any other overseas visitor—so much so, that as I struggled up from behind the table and moved towards my armchair, I was regretting that I had not yet plaited my hair into the two neat cornrows I did every day. My head was still wrapped in a faded head tie. In my confusion, when we had all sat down, I found myself falling into the role of gracious hostess, and using the kind of fake English accent we call ‘speaking’.

‘And how was your journey, my dear?’ I asked.

Yao’s eyes widened with renewed concern.

‘M.A., Orlando—is—your—son…’

He emphasised every word as if he thought my heart might be all right but I had suddenly entered my second