Zainab Takes New York by Ayesha Harruna Attah

Author:Ayesha Harruna Attah
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hachette Headline Accent
Published: 2021-04-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

Work Drama

The Monday after my mugging, carrying a woven Mexican bag I’d borrowed from Mary Grace, I made my way up to the thirtieth floor, to the bright white offices of Kweku’s ad agency, and asked for him. He showed up at the reception in a blue shirt, jeans and a baseball cap, a big smile brightening his face.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘I got mugged and couldn’t call you.’

Truth is, if I’d really wanted to find him, I could have searched for him on TheFacebook, but I told myself a long story of how I didn’t want to go on there and find out that he had a whole other life, like a girlfriend, so it was better to stay in denial and to avoid him altogether. And there was Alex, too.

‘Whoa. Are you OK?’ His brow had furrowed, and his dimples had deepened. ‘There were so many people at the event, I was hoping you’d come but somehow hadn’t gotten round to saying hi.’

‘Ah, Kweku, how would I have come and not said hello?’

‘Shyness?’ He smiled and shrugged, his eyes closing. ‘Do you have time to see my office?’ I nodded, and he led the way around the reception. ‘But you’re sure you’re fine? That was a proper New York baptism. I’ve lived here for so long and that hasn’t happened to me. Touch wood.’ He knocked on the wall in the corridor we wound through.

‘It happened so fast. Apart from my notebook and passport, the rest can be replaced. The passport is the one bugging me papa. Please give me your number again.’

‘Mum knows someone at the embassy,’ Kweku volunteered, as he flipped open my phone, pressed in his number and passed it back. ‘He gets us our visas to Ghana and arranges for everything Ghana-related. I’ll ask her for his info, or rather, let me ask Mum and tell you how we can help. So, this is me.’

His desk, a white semicircle, was neat. Next to his desktop were folders and figurines. He hadn’t outgrown his love of superheroes. The next desk was covered with signed baseball gloves, framed photos of players I didn’t know, at least five caps, a shrine to the game.

‘Your neighbour loves baseball,’ I said.

‘Nope, he loves the Yankees. I think he goes up to the Bronx, like, every weekend. It’s all he talks about. I try to tell him about the World Cup, and somehow we end up on Derek Jeter.’

‘If I had a work neighbour I could even just see, I would endure whatever they wanted to talk to me about,’ I said.

‘No, you don’t want Dave next to you,’ Kweku whispered. ‘I think he manages to insert baseball in some shape or form into every single one of his campaigns.’

‘That’s funny. How was the MoMA? I really wanted to come.’

Not true.

Let’s give them some space.

‘Also,’ I said, more to explain to the voice in my head, ‘because I haven’t been yet, and as an art student that’s a travesty.

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