‘Wasn’t there a picture in The Crystal over the week-end about his daughter’s wedding? And another one of him with his wife and children and grandchildren?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he is heading a commission to investigate something or other?’

‘Yes.’

Connie just sits there with her mouth open that wide. . . .

The Late Bud

The Late Bud

‘The good child who willingly goes on errands eats the food of peace.’ This was a favourite saying in the house. Maami, Aunt Efua, Aunt Araba . . . oh, they all said it, especially when they had prepared something delicious like cocoyam porridge and seasoned beef. You know how it is.

First, as they stirred it with the ladle, its scent rose from the pot and became a little cloud hanging over the hearth. Gradually, it spread through the courtyard and entered the inner and outer rooms of the women’s apartments. This was the first scent that greeted the afternoon sleeper. She stretched herself luxuriously, inhaled a large quantity of the sweet scent, cried ‘Mm’ and either fell back again to sleep or got up to be about her business. The aroma did not stay. It rolled into the next house and the next, until it filled the whole neighbourhood. And Yaaba would sniff it.

As usual, she would be playing with her friends by the Big Trunk. She would suddenly throw down her pebbles even if it was her turn, jump up, shake her cloth free of sand and announce, ‘I am going home.’

‘Why?’

‘Yaaba, why?’

But the questions of her amazed companions would reach her faintly like whispers. She was flying home. Having crossed the threshold, she then slunk by the wall. But there would be none for her.

Yaaba never stayed at home to go on an errand. Even when she was around, she never would fetch water to save a dying soul. How could she then eat the food of peace? Oh, if it was a formal meal, like in the morning or evening, that was a different matter. Of that, even Yaaba got her lawful share. . . . But not this sweet-sweet porridge. ‘Nsia, Antobam, Naabanyin, Adwoa, come for some porridge.’ And the other children trooped in with their little plates and bowls. But not the figure by the wall. They chattered as they came and the mother teased as she dished out their titbits.

‘Is yours alright, Adwoa? . . . and yours, Tawia? . . . yours is certainly sufficient, Antobam. . . . But my child, this is only a titbit for us, the deserving. Other people,’ and she would squint at Yaaba, ‘who have not worked will not get the tiniest bit.’ She then started eating hers. If Yaaba felt that the joke was being carried too far, she coughed. ‘Oh,’ the mother would cry out, ‘people should be careful about their throats. Even if they coughed until they spat blood none of this porridge would touch their mouths.’