No One Dies Yet by Kobby Ben Ben

Author:Kobby Ben Ben
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Europa Editions
Published: 2023-07-05T00:00:00+00:00

KOBBY

“Hey,” I call out, halting. She’s seated under a coconut tree, her legs like tentacles looped around her loins. With a fist, she pounds the stem, causing the plant to shudder. Above her is a bundle of brawny nuts, assembled as footballers huddling and scheming over a strategic win. Should they disperse, her skull will be hammered into her clavicle, flattened like inquisitive nails caught peeking out of their panelling. I’d like to see the poetry in this death, to hold up a fallen drupe coated with the sand her blood adheres onto the fleshy epicarp. Hence, in place of a cautioning against her suicidal naiveté is a grin. “Milly!”

“You’re late.” Her braids are bunned to conceal their slow unravelling. Her neck hides under a green t-shirt that complements her grey eyes. On the t-shirt is written, Emancipate Yourself from Mental Slavery. There’s a set of turquoise ahwenneɛ lying above the waistline of her jeans. Rarely have I taken notice of these features I’m now attentive to. Could I be getting sentimental that this may be the last time we see each other before I bid the resort and Cape Coast goodbye? Or maybe my boss was spot-on about her postulation on fatphobia—If you want to confirm you’re fatphobic, watch how you treat the added layers of fat on your own body. Do you ever see a fat person and see them for things other than their size? When your gaze holds their added layers, do you not treat them the way you treat your own fat, which is to stare and stare until your entire being is reduced to the pound of flesh you hold against your judgement?

To appease her vexation, I employ a tired wisecrack, “If I wasn’t late, I wouldn’t be Ghanaian, would I?”

“True.” She aims her fist at my knee. I am quick to duck. “Faisal’s never early for anything. I’m the woman, yet he takes longer showers. He uses gels and splashes I would never use. He shows up late for everything.”

“He smells like he takes his time too.” This, I do not say. Instead, I say, “So! I brought brownies!” I take out the polythene from my pocket. At this point of their staleness, they look more like poloo than brownies.

“Oh yum.” Milly wants one. But she hesitates. “Are these spiked?”

“With marijuana, yes.”

“No, thank you. I don’t do anything I can’t test. The only place I’ve ever done drugs is Amsterdam. Over there, you can test what exactly is in what. Even in the UK, you can’t be certain about the stuff people pass off as recreational drugs. How much more Ghana where you’ve got failed systems? No, not taking that risk. They look nice though, even if poorly made.”

“Our first Twi lesson!” Lowering myself onto the sand, I inject some cheer into my tone. It’s a propitious coincidence that we’re seated in the same area where Vincent attempted drowning. At late afternoon, the entire scene looks serene; the sea is soothing, the winds caress instead of slapping and clawing at eyes till tears run down cheeks.

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