Dele was a short, powerful woman with a stubborn mouth. Appropriately, she came from Bukom, a tough old part of Accra that continued to churn out a disproportionate number of professional boxers.

Dele held up a blouse to examine it. The fabric, a cotton blend with swirls of pale blue and fuchsia, was by Woodin—a well-known, upscale brand. “Why are you asking me that, Araba?”

“I always hear Daddy preaching to people not to fornicate,” Araba said.

“And he hasn’t explained it you?” Dele asked. “Or is it you don’t understand the explanation?”

Araba shook her head. “He hasn’t told me. If I ask him, he’ll be angry.”

Dele rested the almost-completed blouse to the side and turned to her niece. “When a man and a woman get married,” she said, “they are supposed to stay together forever and only make love to each other. If the husband goes to be with another woman, or the wife goes to be with another man, then they have committed fornication.”

“So, it’s only for grownups, then,” Araba said, relieved.

“Yes, my dear.” Dele gave Araba a hug. “You won’t have to worry about that for a long time. Now, sit here and do the sleeves. Let’s see how good you are.”

Araba executed it to her aunt’s approval and smiled at her praise.

Someone knocked on the door, and Dele went to answer. Araba heard her father’s voice and stiffened.

“Is she here?” Fifi asked Dele. His voice was deep and rich—perfect for preaching.

“Yes, she is,” Dele replied. “Please come in.”

Fifi did and saw Araba in Dele’s sewing bay. Clothes were everywhere, and it looked like a jumble, but Dele knew exactly where everything was.

Fifi eyed his daughter. “You didn’t tell me you were coming here,” he said. “I was worried.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Araba said in not much more than a whisper.

“It’s not her fault,” Dele said. “It’s me who should have called you. I lost track of time.”

Fifi grunted. “No problem. Come on, Araba. Say goodbye to Auntie. We have to go home for your bath and dinner.”

“Bye, Auntie,” Araba said. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here,” Dele said. “But check with your father first.”

Fifi guided Araba out with a light hand on her head. “See you later, Dele,” he said, with not so much as a glance at his sister.

Araba didn’t completely understand why her father and aunt didn’t get along, but what she did know was that Dele always took Araba’s side if it came to that.

That night, after her bath and dinner, Araba waited for Mama to come up and tuck her in. To pass the time, she looked through her old dog-eared fashion magazines, examining the dress styles, the hairdos, the shoes.