Now I really ran into the village. I immediately made my way to Nana Kum’s house, for the case was going on there. There was a great crowd in front of the house. Why were there so many people about? Then I remembered that it being a holiday, everyone was at home. And of course, after the eating and the drinking of palm-wine in the morning and midday, divorce proceedings certainly provide an agreeable diversion, especially when other people are involved and not ourselves.

The courtyard was a long one and as I jostled to where Maami Ama was sitting, pieces of comments floated into my ears. ‘The elders certainly have settled the case fairly,’ someone was saying. ‘But it seemed as if Kodjo Fi had no strong proofs for his arguments,’ another was saying. ‘Well, they both have been sensible. If one feels one can’t live with a woman, one might as well divorce her. And I hate a woman who cringes to a man,’ a third said. Finally I reached her side. Around her were her family, her two aunts, Esi and Ama, her two cousins and the two uncles. To the right were the elders who were judging the case; opposite were Kodjo Fi and his family.

‘I have come, Maami Ama,’ I announced myself.

She looked at me. ‘You ought to have been here earlier, the case has been settled already.’

‘And how are things?’ I inquired.

‘I am a divorced woman.’

‘What were his grounds for wanting to divorce you?’

‘He said I had done nothing, he only wanted to . . .’

‘Eh! Only the two of you know what went wrong,’ the younger aunt cried out, reproachfully. ‘If after his saying that, you had refused to be divorced, he would have had to pay the Ejecting Fee, but now he has got the better of you.’

‘But aunt,’ Maami protested, ‘how could I refuse to be divorced?’

‘It’s up to you. I know it’s your own affair, only I wouldn’t like your mother’s ghost to think that we haven’t looked after you well.’

‘I agree with you,’ the elder aunt said.

‘Maami Ama, what was your debt?’ I asked her.

‘It is quite a big sum.’

‘I hope you too had something to reckon against him?’

‘I did. He reckoned the dowry, the ten cloths he gave me, the Knocking Fee. . . .’

All this had been heard by Kodjo Fi and his family and soon they made us aware of it.

‘Kodjo,’ his youngest sister burst out, ‘you forgot to reckon the Knife Fee.’

‘No. Yaa, I did not forget,’ Kodjo Fi told her. ‘She had no brothers to whom I would give the fee.’

‘It’s all right then,’ his second sister added.

But the rest of his womenfolk took this to be a signal for more free comments.

‘She is a bad woman and I think you are well rid of her,’ one aunt screamed.