Chapter 4- Akua (pt. 2)

Like a modern-day sundial, the growing shadow cast by Akua’s pen marked the passage of time. The thrill of the morning’s photo heist had long warn off and Akua was left with only the nervousness of uncertainty. Not uncertainly about her ability to follow through with the plan, but uncertainty about the plan itself. Was it the right thing to do? Did he want to be discovered? Was there a reason he had left so many years ago? Was she prepared to know the truth?

She allowed herself to look away from the never-ending stream of tro-tros to gaze upon the photograph resting in her book. It had been taken only one week before her father’s death. Akua had deduced this by comparing the date, carefully recorded on the back in her mother’s perfect handwriting, with the date of death published in the obituary that was still nestled safely in the box.

They were all dressed in their Sunday best: her mother a vibrant slit and kaba, her father a striped batakari, and Akua a white lace dress with a headband encompassing her closely-cropped hair. Akua was sitting on her father’s lap, his hand holding her up as she leaned to the left. They were all smiling, and even then, even though she was still so young, one could already see that they had the same smile.

Akua didn’t remember sitting for the photo, didn’t remember her father’s hand holding her up as she smiled from his knee, but she did have a memory from that day.

It was the second of four memories that she kept of her father, and it was the one she was most certain of. The first, being pulled onto his back and riding around the house like a cowgirl on her bucking bronco, could have been a fabrication of her imagination, as could the third memory. And the fourth, well it seemed too improbable to have ever really happened. But this memory, the second one, it was too trivial, too mundane to be anything but real…

She twirled an unbalanced twirl and laughed at the sight of her lace dress as it fluttered with the force of her spin. When she stopped, the world kept spinning, so she reached out and steadied herself on his leg. The loose hem of the his intricately woven batakari swayed, brushing her cheek. He was standing at a flimsy folding table, the top just taller than she. It wobbled as he recorded the family’s name in the photographer’s record book. She reached two tiny hands up and grabbed the edge of the weak table. Her small weight was enough to pull the table over. She felt it falling, but before she could cry out, his large hand enveloped her two tiny ones, keeping her and the table upright.

That was it, the entire second memory didn’t last more than four seconds. She let out a breath of air and turned her attention back to the window, and there it was, there he was. The Search & Find tro-tro had rolled to a stop, the man with her smile was sitting in the backseat.

Comments

  1. I admire how you move your protagonist through time so effortlessly. The memory, so integral to this piece, is woven in beautifully. I worry that heartbreak is ahead for Akua--you definitely have me caring about this young girl.

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  2. The details are wonderful in this piece! And the mystery you leave us with; could it truly be her father? Thanks for the exciting morning read!

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  3. For me, this slice captures the way unpredictable, unreliable memories stick with us -- or don't.

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