The God Child by Nana Oforiatta Ayim

Author:Nana Oforiatta Ayim
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781526610751
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2018-09-18T19:12:58+00:00

We were held up in Rome for two hours with no explanation, until a murmured chorus rose from the passengers. ‘What nonsense is this…? Why are they treating us like animals?’ Still, when the plane landed in Accra, everyone cheered and clapped like it had been a first-class journey. I sat in business class and had been refreshed by orange juice on a regular basis. Those in economy had none. It was now one of my mother’s pretensions to sit herself and her children in business class, wherever we flew or however little money she had. It was like the way her accent changed when she left the house. Or her voice rose when she wanted people to hear what she was talking about – her large house, her Jaguar, her royal lineage. Once, when listening to her boasting of our enormous television, I interjected, ‘But we don’t have one,’ and had been clipped for my troubles, learning to wince silently at the excesses.

I stepped out of the plane onto the top step of the ladder. The hot muggy air swept over and into me. I closed my eyes. Home. We were herded into a bus and, when we got to the terminal building, the first thing I saw were the familiar gold-rimmed smiling eyes of Kojo. I ran into his arms.

‘Akwaaba, welcome.’ He took my bag from me. ‘You have grown into a beautiful young woman.’ He looked at my tight curly hair, misshapen from the journey, my pink crumpled flower skirt, white vest top and platform shoes.

I smiled into his admiration. He whisked me past the passport control, throwing waves and smiles as he went. On the other side, a man in a white-shirt uniform, with a blue beret, met us with a trolley and asked me to describe my bags. The arrivals hall was small and matt compared to the glossiness of Heathrow. There were only two conveyer belts and a small wooden counter with ‘Bureau de Change’ written in black on yellow above it. Why French? I was wondering, when I saw my mother rushing towards me in a sumptuous long green, gold-dusted dress, gold slip-on shoes and matching bag. I had forgotten how beautiful she was. She was laughing, with her arms outstretched, her bag falling from her shoulder to her elbow. Her diamond-encrusted glasses hung diagonally across her face. She took me in her arms and kissed me hard on the cheek. I drew in my head at her effusiveness and looked up at her. She smelt of powdery luxury. Her arms and chest felt like butter and as always there was gold trapped beneath her skin.

‘Your hair looks awful!’ She put her hands through it. ‘And what are you wearing? Terrible!’ Even though I was next to her, her voice rang out to the walls.

We had to pick up other boxes. My mother had demanded Christmas-tree lights and decorations from Switzerland and Lebkuchen biscuits, Dr. Oetker juices and a Christmas cake from Germany.

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