Chapter 3- Akua

Chapter 3

When two people share the same small space, it’s hard to do anything without getting caught. Akua would have to act fast. She had only a 30 minute window of time during which her mom would be up at the big house serving breakfast to the family.

On most mornings, Akua used this small slice of personal time to fall into a book or work on one of the inventions she was building out of abandoned items she rescued from oblivion on her way to and from school. On this day, she had another plan. She sat, eyes staring at the page on her book, not reading a word, waiting for the SMACK! of the screen door to signal her mother’s departure. When it finally came, she stayed still for a few more seconds to ensure that the coast was indeed clear.

With her book still in hand she stood, took a slow, deep breath, smoothed her school jumper and walked to the trunk at the foot of their bed.


Once, about three years ago, Akua’s mother had knelt before the same trunk. She called Akua over. “I have something I want to show you,” she said hesitantly, even fearfully. She slowly began to remove the contents of the trunk: a folded piece of kente clothe whose golden thread reflected the light coming through the open window, an intricate cork carving that was a gift her cousin had brought back after earning a scholarship to study in China, a bag of Omo washing powder, a gourd filled with shea butter. But, these were not the things that her mother had called her to see. Instead her mother reached to the very bottom of the trunk and lifted out a brown cardboard shoe box. Akua looked at the four letters, "KOFI", written in her mother’s impeccable script. She didn’t notice the small blemish at the top of the letter ‘K’ where her mother’s tears from long ago had mixed with the ink, causing it to look as if the ‘K’ itself were shedding one single tear.

Akua let out a small gasp. She froze.

KOFI

Her mother lifted the lid with her father’s name written so precisely, so delicately. The crying K was set facedown on the bed and Akua, with as little movement as possible, leaned forward to see inside the box. It was far from full. A few loose papers and a single photograph haphazardly lined the bottom of the box.

“If you ever want to know anything about your father, you can ask me,” her mother said softly, almost imperceptibly.

“Okay.” Akua said without even moving her lips, still frozen in place.

“He loved you very much,” her mom continued. “There are some things in here that I kept for you.” There was hesitation and fear and pain in her voice. She was as nervous as Akua, but Akua didn’t notice. How could she? She was still young enough to believe that mothers always knew the right thing to do.

“So, if you ever want to know more about him, you can look through this box…or you can ask me.” Her voice trailed off at the end, as if she wasn’t really sure that she wanted to make that offer.

Akua just stood there. She wanted to see every piece of paper in that box, read every word on every line. She wanted to hug her mother. She wanted to scream. She want rip the contents of the box apart and set it on fire. But all she could do was stand there. Tears began to form at the back of her eyes. She fought the tears, praying that her mother wouldn’t notice them. And she didn’t know why…why she was crying, why she was fighting, why she didn’t want her mother to notice.


Akua had returned to that box in the trunk many times since her mother first show it to her. She always did it in secret, always when her mother was away. She now knew every detail of every item in the box. She would pour over each one, always hoping to see something new, understand something differently. Yes, she had been through the box many times, but today would be the first time she ever took anything from the box.

Pushing aside the kente and shea butter, Akua slowly, almost ceremoniously lifted the box out, opened the lid a crack and removed the single picture. She placed the photo between the open pages of her book then returned everything else to its proper place.

Akua put the book, containing the photograph, in her backpack then sat down to wait for her mother to return.

Comments

  1. Alex, your writing today, makes me think of many different themes- connection, possession, closeness and love. These our all powerful and sentimental too.

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  2. You've crafted a powerful scene here with so many layers. You did a great job setting the scene at the beginning. I could really visualize Akua staring at her book and waiting for that door to slam shut. I also like how you give insight into both Akua and her mother's feelings. Your attention to details (each item in the trunk, etc.) enriches your writing.

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  3. First line plus description of the mottled K -- two killer parts of this draft.

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  4. You have captured the viewpoint of this young girl so brilliantly. My favorite part? "...still young enough to believe that mothers always knew the right thing to do." The moment that that particular belief changes is a memorable one, for sure. Keep going!

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