She came here to have a child . . .

‘. . . And they say, they opened her stomach and removed the baby.’

‘Oh . . . oh, I see.’

My Lord, hold me tight so that nothing will happen to me now.

‘I see. It is the Caesarean case.’

‘Nurse, you know her?’

And when I take her back, Anona Ebusuafo will say that I did not wait for them to come with me . . .

‘Yes. Are you her brother?’

‘No. I am only the driver who brought the old woman.’

‘Did she bring all her clan?’

‘No. She came alone.’

‘Strange thing for a villager to do.’

I hope they have not cut her up already.

‘Did she bring a whole bag full of cassava and plantain and kenkey?’

‘No. She has only her little bundle.’

‘Follow me. But you must not make any noise. This is not the hour for coming here . . .’

My master, does she know her?

‘Yes.’

I hear it is very cold where they put them . . .

.  .  .  .  .

It was feeding time for new babies. When old Esi Amfoa saw young Esi Amfoa, the latter was all neat and nice. White sheets and all. She did not see the beautiful stitches under the sheets. ‘This woman is a tough bundle,’ Dr. Gyamfi had declared after the identical twins had been removed, the last stitches had been threaded off and Mary Koomson, alias Esi Amfoa, had come to.

The old woman somersaulted into the room and lay groaning, not screaming, by the bed. For was not her last pot broken? So they lay them in state even in hospitals and not always cut them up for instruction?

The Nursing Sister was furious. Young Esi Amfoa spoke. And this time old Esi Amfoa wept loud and hard – wept all her tears.

Scrappy nurse-under-training, Jessy Treeson, second-generation-Cape-Coaster-her-grandmother-still-remembered-at-Egyaa No. 7 said, ‘As for these villagers,’ and giggled.

Draba Anan looked hard at Jessy Treeson, looked hard at her, all of her: her starched uniform, apron and cap . . . and then dismissed them all. . . . ‘Such a cassava stick . . . but maybe I will break my toe if I kicked at her buttocks,’ he thought.

And by the bed the old woman was trying hard to rise and look at the only pot which had refused to get broken.

Certain Winds from the South

Certain Winds from the South

M’ma Asana eyed the wretched pile of cola-nuts, spat, and picked up the reed-bowl. Then she put down the bowl, picked up one of the nuts, bit at it, threw it back, spat again, and stood up. First, a sharp little ache, just a sharp little one, shot up from somewhere under her left ear. Then her eyes became misty.

‘I must check on those logs,’ she thought, thinking this misting of her eyes was due to the chill in the air. She stooped over the nuts.

‘You never know what evil eyes are prowling this dusk over these grasslands – I must pick them up quickly.’