If I hadn’t made it clear before, let me do that now. Dad doesn’t get a lot of visitors. He never had many friends; used to be a bit of a recluse, a hermit. Mum often jokes he’s where I get my solitary nature from. She made it seem as if it’s one of Dad’s faults, that he lacks social graces. I, however, see it for what it really is: he’s an introvert.
The world is filled with two different kinds of people: those who need to be surrounded by others and those who do not. Dad and I are simply the latter, James and Mum the former. Whenever Auntie Mabel comes round, I wonder what became of Dad’s few friends. I’ve never asked, and now he won’t remember.
There used to be a man Dad would laugh, watch football, and drink beer with. A man I called Uncle （he wasn’t blood-related） … Richard? Albert? Caleb? I sometimes think about what happened to him. It’s possible Uncle X saw Dad’s health deteriorating and couldn’t handle it. It happens. When people are ill to the point of no return to full health, to the person they used to be, some don’t have the stomach to stick around. We don’t appreciate being reminded of our own body’s weaknesses, our lack of control and inevitable mortality. Or maybe moving from Battersea to Croydon put distance between them, a distance Uncle X couldn’t be bothered to continually cross.
Now Dad doesn’t have any friends who aren’t family. Which isn’t entirely the case for me, but not too far off.
If I were Dad, which of my friends would I see monthly? Who would come to visit me with a home-cooked meal? Would James even?
I hang around for a few minutes, then excuse myself, leaving Dad with his little sister.
* * *
So that’s now Dad and my auntie I’ve lied to. I don’t want to tell Dad I’ve been fired. I don’t want anyone to know I’ve been fired, and unless I tell them, no one will ever find out.
Avi
WTTFFFFFFF WHY DOES YOUR OUT OF OFFICE SAY YOU’VE LEFT???
I briefly close my eyes.
Okay, maybe I can say I chose to leave because I’m a woman of principle and I wasn’t going to take another day of tyranny under the—
Avi
HAVE YOU BEEN FUCKING FIRED???
I sigh and pick up when Avi calls. News about me being fired yesterday has spread around the office, and when I tell her what happened, Avi shoulders a steaming mass of indignation on my behalf.
“Senior members of staff can’t keep getting away with this!” she whispers. “It’s like we’re disposable! You should complain to HR.”
“You know, Google said something similar. You think it’s worth doing?”
“What have you got to lose?” she asks, and I think she might be right. “The office is so weird now,” Avi tells me. “I walked in this morning, and it was just a creepy atmosphere. Katherine’s still crying in the toilets, but then smiling like a maniac at everyone like she didn’t fire you for no reason.” Avi pauses to lower her voice. “Listen … everyone’s on your side by the way,” she says, “but obviously we don’t want to say anything in case, you know, we get fired too.”
After the phone call, I open my laptop. Emboldened, I write an email to HR explaining the unfairness of the situation. I write of “the bureaucratic-soaked injustice perpetrated by senior members of staff who, aided by HR, seek to further harden the hierarchical blocks of which constitute the theater’s current foundation.” I end with a thinly veiled （okay, empty） threat to sue, but with an afternote stating I will still be expecting a decent reference should a future employer ask for one.
* * *
Auntie Mabel stays for a few hours and calls me down when she’s on her way out.
“How is Jojo?” she asks. “The big, strong boy.”
I inwardly roll my eyes. James is hardly a boy at twenty-eight. It’s obvious who her favorite is, but I don’t mind because Auntie Mabel is James’s favorite too; she would cook a lot for us when Mum first started traveling to Ghana.
“He’s fine, Auntie,” I answer.
“Good, good. Your mother’s back tomorrow?” she asks when we’re in the corridor. She leans heavily on her cane, but I know better than to offer a seat—“It’s my brother’s house, Baaba—I know I can have a seat, and I will sit when I want to be seated.” Auntie Mabel’s the youngest of four children （Aunt Rebecca was the oldest, followed by Uncle Freddie, who rarely leaves Ghana, then Dad） and in her early fifties, but she’s had joint problems for the last two decades. She managed to keep finding ways to overrule them, but I remember when she had to concede and how she slung biblical curses at the cane when she’d first had to use it.
“Yes,” I answer. “I’ll be moving out now that she’ll be back.”
I watch my auntie intently because I have such respect and love for her that if she told me to stay, I wouldn’t want to disappoint. I would stay.
“Well…” She frowns, but then sighs. “It is time. It’s never been right: you being here, the only one responsible for your father,” she says, and inwardly, I sigh with relief. “You’re too young and need to live your British life. You know, in Ghana, it is the children’s responsibility to be the primary persons of care for an ill father but only if his wife has passed.” She sniffs and stamps her cane. “When she is back, your mother can step in and do her duty. Hmm. I must go now. I’m traveling to Ghana next week to visit Freddie, so I will see you another time.”
I help her down the step. “Bye, Auntie. Love you.”
“You as well, Baaba.”
* * *
When I bring Dad dinner, I notice his finger-and toenails are freshly trimmed and Auntie Mabel’s put on a new pair of thick sock boots for his swollen feet.
I push the stool back to the corner as she must have been sat on it when she tended to his nails. The last time I was in Ghana, ten years ago now, I couldn’t understand how the women in my family did it: hunched over bowls when pounding yam, stooping for water, sweeping with short-handled brooms. If I sit improperly at my desk for four hours, my back screams all the way home.
It’s a reminder: the women in my family have spines of steel.
Chapter Seven
I hear Mum before I see her.
“Forty-five pounds for a cab?” she says. “You’re a thief. God will not bless you.”
I take a deep breath and open the door.
“My baby!”
She wears black trousers and a loose white top. Her hair used to be longer but she must have cut it recently and her growing Afro is forming tight coils. Her skin is flawless as always; acne struggles to break the surface because her diet in Ghana is different from mine here. She eats only yam, rice, soup, chicken, and vegetables. She drinks liters of water to keep up with the sun. Mum’s naturally lighter than James and I are, but she always returns from Ghana darker. She spends a lot of time outside, rushing between hostel rooms, cleaning the compound and negotiating with contractors. Her tan is a reminder of the fact that she is more active, more alive, when in Ghana.
“Oh, I’ve missed my baby so much!” When she hugs me, I rest my head on her shoulder; she’s shorter than me by a couple of inches, but she has strength in her body so the hug still feels like it’s mine. She smells of cocoa butter and faint perfume.