“Mum?”
“Yes, darling? Is the bottom shelf yours?”
“Yes. Before Grandad died, was it just the two of you a lot? You and your dad?”
“It was the two of us always,” she says. “You know your grandma died when I was small and you know your uncle is a lazy, good-for-nothing. Which frying pan is yours? Ah, I see. So, yes, it was just your grandfather and me.”
Despite myself, I smile at the fact that Mum has yet to draw the parallel between us. I know Grandad couldn’t have been in the greatest state of heath before he passed and I doubt Mum had the help of careers and a GP who could drop by the following weekday. And if my uncle is anything like James, she was very much on her own.
I have a lot to learn about this woman. At least this time I’m not too late.
“I have something to ask,” she suddenly says.
“What’s that?”
She begins washing rice under the cold tap. “At the house, you said I should not call you Maame. What did you mean by that?”
“Oh, just—I don’t really like what Maame means.”
“And what does it mean to you?”
“Woman, right?” She nods. “But you’ve been calling me a woman, an adult, since I was a child.”
“You’ve always been wise beyond your years,” she says. “That is not a bad thing. However, Maame is only a term of endearment.”
“I don’t think it—”
“Your grandfather would call me Maame from when I was a baby!” I watch as she laughs to herself. “My brother, your uncle, would say: ‘What would Daddy do without his Maame?’ What would your father have done without his, hmm?” She returns to the fridge. “We grow up fast. Not by force, but because we are needed.”
“I think sometimes we’re needed for the wrong reasons.”
She pretends not to hear me. “You don’t have much here,” Mum says. “I hope you haven’t been spending all your money on food from outside. I can make you a stew with what you have. Go and lie down and I will call you when it’s ready.”
“Thank you.”
She nods me out of the kitchen.
Chapter Thirty-seven
People are already outside the house when I arrive on the day of my father’s funeral.
James, who gives me the longest hug ever, is already here, as well as Auntie Mabel and her son David, Uncle Freddie and his wife Felicity, Uncle Kojo from the kitchen and his wife, and members from Mum’s church whose faces are recognizable to varying degrees. All are dressed in long black shirts and trousers or cotton dresses like my own.
More condolences. More hugs. More sympathetic pats on the back.
I run upstairs. Mum’s in her bedroom putting makeup on in front of the mirror. She drops her powder and rushes over to hold me. “Are you okay, Maddie?”
I nod.
“Your mother is still here.”
“I know.”
I lean against her bedroom wall as she goes to put in her earrings, but then puts them back down. “I almost forgot myself,” she says.
“What?”
“Family, especially spouses, don’t wear jewelry on the burial day.”
Mum is called downstairs and I stay in her room, taking my earrings out. My name is mentioned a few times, but I just close the bedroom door.
I look at myself in the mirror. My makeup is minimal and my hair is brushed back. I have plain, black ballet shoes on and my first ever mourning dress. The fabric is black and a little hard so that it keeps its straight corners, and has rows of small geometric shapes printed on. The neck is square and the skirt comes down to reach just below my knees. It’s a little tight and difficult to walk in, but it’s fine. When are you going to wear it again, right?
There’s a photo in Mum’s room of us. I remember the day that photo was taken. Fourteen years ago, Mum complained we didn’t have any recent family photos so booked a professional session in a department store in Tooting. I can still picture the road it was on, even though Tooting has changed so much in the past decade. It was after church one Sunday because, “We’ll already be wearing our best, so, good timing, eh?”
I remember my mum and me in front of the bathroom mirror brushing my hair out. Dad came to church but not to the photos. He didn’t want to and, at eleven years old, I already knew not to ask why—that was just Dad. So the photos are only of me, Mum, and James.
I’d give anything to go back to that time. Maybe I could have convinced him to join us.
“The hearse is here,” Mum calls.
I start to sweat and I can feel my stomach melt.
I look out of the window onto the road and there he is, in a coffin surrounded by flowers; one of the arrangements spells out DAD.
The whir of the room’s fan is loud and I think, what would happen if I just left? Just ran out the door and kept hopping on trains and buses until I was far, far away?
I could go to Brighton. Everyone is happy by the sea.
“Maddie? Maddie!”
Brighton is far enough and I won’t tell anyone where I’ve gone.
“Maddie, where are you? Your father’s outside; come and pay your respects!”
I don’t answer as Mum shouts through the house until she bursts into the room. She finds me crying and heaving.
“I can’t do this, Mum. I can’t.”
“It’s okay, it’s all right.” Her tone is gentle, but she’s pulling my arm and fixing my hair. “Come outside, come and cry near the coffin.”
“What?”
“It’s okay, it’s tradition,” she says. “To cry near your father.”
I almost manage to laugh. I think my mother makes up many traditions just to get her way.
More people have arrived and approach me to say sorry, to give me pats of condolence. One after the other until I’m facing a woman with a rigid back, a black duku wrapped around her hair, painted eyebrows, and pursed lips sat solidly in the center of her face. She looks down at me underneath full lashes. “Baaba, I am your aunt Abena,” she says in Twi. “One of your father’s many cousins, and this is your uncle Osei.” She gestures to the man beside her. “Our condolences,” she finishes.
“Thank you,” I tell them both.
She tilts her head. “Hmm?”
“I said, thank you.”
She doesn’t move and continues to hold her rectangular purse to her stomach. “Try again,” she orders.
“I’m sorry?”
“Am I speaking to you in English, Baaba?”
I feel the sun burn my cheeks. “No. You’re speaking Twi.”
“Exactly. So why are you responding in English? Do you not know your own language?”
I look around for help, someone to interrupt us, but no one is paying any attention.
“I know some.”
“Then try.”
“Thank you—Medaase.”
She nods. “Good. How have you been?”
She wants more? “Me…”
“Go on,” she pushes.
“Leave her be,” her husband says.
“No,” she responds, looking at me. “She can do it. The day of her father’s funeral is no day to be lazy, is no day to speak English. He was born surrounded by those speaking in Twi and he will be buried the same.”