Chapter 1- Akua
“He’s in your smile,” Akua’s mother said as the screen door to their room slapped hard behind her. Akua had designed and installed the metal spring herself to ensure that no mosquitoes would bother them at night. Her mother was coming in from the main house, back to the single room they shared. “The way your lips curl at the corners…and that look in your eye…it’s his.”
Akua had been sitting sitting on the small bench that was pushed against the far wall of the room, lost in a book. She stayed, frozen in her position, afraid to move in case she would reveal another part of her father hidden deep inside of her. It’s not that she didn’t like it when her mother compared her to him. It’s just that the two of them weren’t very good at talking her about her father. He had died when Akua was four years old and she and her mother never really discussed him, except for these awkward passing moments.
And even as she willed her mother to stop talking about her father, she hoped desperately that she might share something new, something she didn’t yet know about him. Akua tried to reach deep into her memories to find one of him...
She was so little, her walk was an unsteady wobble. He was on the cement floor of their room, down on his hands and knees. With slow, labored steps, she wobbled to him and laughed as he lifted her up onto his back. With one strong arm he held her in place and with the other he bounced across the room. Nothing but joy and laughter and the certainty that her father would never let her fall.
“Come on, get moving.” Her mother said, pulling Akua back to the present moment. “You’re going to be late for school. And you haven’t even had your breakfast yet.”
Akua devoured her plate of red-red, grabbed her bag and headed out the door and toward the gate. The guard greeted her as usual, “Good morning, little Akua.”
“Good morning, Uncle Charles.” He wasn’t really her uncle, but every good Ghanaian child knew that you must address your elders with a title.
She stepped through the gate into the bustle and busyness of Accra. She kept to the side of the road as cars zoomed passed. Taxis honked their horns and motorbike weaved their way in and out the traffic. Her school wasn’t too far away, and, yes, she was running late, but she still took her time, careful to greet each familiar face.
Akua loved the walk to the school. She was an observer who to liked to soak in every detail of her surroundings. Her mind naturally made connections between seemingly unrelated things. She was always wondering “Why? How? What if?”
Akua knew that she must get all of these questions out of her system on the way to school. Miss Dorothy, Akua’s class teacher, hated when kids asked questions that she didn’t know the answer to. And, unfortunately, there were a lot of things that Ms. Dorothy didn’t know.
Akua had been sitting sitting on the small bench that was pushed against the far wall of the room, lost in a book. She stayed, frozen in her position, afraid to move in case she would reveal another part of her father hidden deep inside of her. It’s not that she didn’t like it when her mother compared her to him. It’s just that the two of them weren’t very good at talking her about her father. He had died when Akua was four years old and she and her mother never really discussed him, except for these awkward passing moments.
And even as she willed her mother to stop talking about her father, she hoped desperately that she might share something new, something she didn’t yet know about him. Akua tried to reach deep into her memories to find one of him...
She was so little, her walk was an unsteady wobble. He was on the cement floor of their room, down on his hands and knees. With slow, labored steps, she wobbled to him and laughed as he lifted her up onto his back. With one strong arm he held her in place and with the other he bounced across the room. Nothing but joy and laughter and the certainty that her father would never let her fall.
“Come on, get moving.” Her mother said, pulling Akua back to the present moment. “You’re going to be late for school. And you haven’t even had your breakfast yet.”
Akua devoured her plate of red-red, grabbed her bag and headed out the door and toward the gate. The guard greeted her as usual, “Good morning, little Akua.”
“Good morning, Uncle Charles.” He wasn’t really her uncle, but every good Ghanaian child knew that you must address your elders with a title.
She stepped through the gate into the bustle and busyness of Accra. She kept to the side of the road as cars zoomed passed. Taxis honked their horns and motorbike weaved their way in and out the traffic. Her school wasn’t too far away, and, yes, she was running late, but she still took her time, careful to greet each familiar face.
Akua loved the walk to the school. She was an observer who to liked to soak in every detail of her surroundings. Her mind naturally made connections between seemingly unrelated things. She was always wondering “Why? How? What if?”
Akua knew that she must get all of these questions out of her system on the way to school. Miss Dorothy, Akua’s class teacher, hated when kids asked questions that she didn’t know the answer to. And, unfortunately, there were a lot of things that Ms. Dorothy didn’t know.
I don't know if this piece is a fictional story or a memoir of something that happened because you write it with such vivid details, that I can picture it as if it really happened! Beautifully written! I really want to find out if Akua gets to learn more about her father...
ReplyDeleteThank you for sharing!
Your ending line is so intriguing! It certainly makes me want to read more. You've got some interesting strands woven through this piece (Akua's father, her engineering ability, Ms. Dorothy, etc.) and I'd love to know how they're all going to intersect.
ReplyDeleteThe opposing tension in that last paragraph between learning and school... Oof.
ReplyDelete“He’s in your smile,” Akua’s mother said as the screen door to their room slapped hard behind her. Akua had designed and installed the metal spring herself to ensure that no mosquitoes would bother them at night. Her mother was coming in from the main house, back to the single room they shared. “The way your lips curl at the corners…and that look in your eye…it’s his.”
ReplyDeleteI hate to clip and paste the opener but the dialogue and action of Akua's mother is tight. The entire unraveling of this new character is a treat. That Miss Dorothy though. Not sure what to expect from her, and I like that in a supporting character.