Ghana Must Go by Taiye Selasi

Author:Taiye Selasi [Selasi, Taiye]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, General, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9781594204494
Google: DL18acu-9NoC
Amazon: 1594204497
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 2013-03-05T00:00:00+00:00

7.

Ling is rapping gently on the bathroom door. “Olu?”

He has fallen asleep with his head on his knees. He opens his eyes and coughs roughly, disoriented. “Yes?”

“Are you in there? Can I come in?”

“Yes.”

She opens the door and peers in. “Hello, sleepy. I thought you left.”

“No.”

“You were here all this time then?”

“Yes.”

“You okay?”

“Yes.” He stares at her blankly.

“You smell like smoke.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Yes, dear, I know.”

“A woman at the hospital had just lost her husband,” he says, and, as flatly, “My father is dead.”

“Baby.” She covers her mouth. “I’m so sorry.” She enters the bathroom and kneels on the floor. She places her hands on his kneecaps and rubs them. She hugs his legs, resting her head in his lap. “I’m so sorry. What happened?” She looks at him. “Tell me.”

“A heart attack.”

“When?”

“Their time, morning. I guess.” He speaks in a monotone, entirely without feeling. He shakes his head, squinting, trying to break from the fog. Still, there is nothing but dull, heavy numbness. He stares down at Ling, trying to see her, to feel. “We’re going to Ghana. Tomorrow. My family.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

Too quickly, “You can’t.”

Both of them start, at the clip of this answer. Ling stands up, tensing. He straightens his back. As in fire at will. “Meaning what?” she shoots quickly. He shakes his head, presses his palms to his eyes. “I have the week off. I’ll come with you.”

“I know that. And thank you for thinking to offer to come.”

“Offer to come? You’re my husband, remember? It’s kind of a thing a wife offers to do.”

“Don’t, Ling. Don’t do that.”

“Do what, please?” Reloading.

“We said nothing changes. No name change, no rings.” He rubs his head, frowning. Has not meant to say this, and tries to explain it, “We’re still who we were. You said ‘you’re my husband’—”

“You are.”

“No, I know that. But we said it wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t change things with us. Those words, husband, wife, they’re just words, they’re not mandates—” He stops, grabs his head. “I don’t know what I mean.”

“I think you do, Olu.” She shakes her head quickly. “I won’t come to Ghana.”

He looks at her, pained. “I should go with my family.”

“I thought I was your family.”

“No,” he says, desperate, “you’re better than that.” He squeezes his eyes shut to bid back the tearfall. He feels her small hands on the sides of his face. Her lips on his lips, then the taste of her toothpaste. The smell of her, Jergens, Chanel No. 5. “Ling,” he says, breaking. He still does not touch her. She holds his head gently and he doesn’t resist. “I don’t want to be a family,” he says to her, anguished, as a child says, exhausted, I don’t want to go to bed. “I don’t believe in family. I didn’t want a family. I wanted us to be something better than that.”

The phone in his scrubs pocket rings now, abruptly. For a moment he ignores it, not wanting to move. He wishes to stay here

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