expression, with her brows knit together and her mouth folded over, an upside-down smile. Only yesterday he’d noticed that she made this face with Olu, too, whenever he was wailing to communicate complaint. The brows knit together, the head slightly sideways. “
Okunrin mi
,” she’d say. My son. “I know, I know, I know. It hurts.”
And she did. In the literal sense could “feel others’ pain.” A proper empath, a thing he hadn’t believed existed when they met. His questions were endless. Where in her body did she feel it? How did she know it was his pain, not hers? (In her chest, on the left, a purely physical sensation, of foreign origin, now familiar, proper empathy.) That face.
“Darling,” she said.
“It’s a lie,” he repeated. But quietly. And was glad now to find his hands free. He grabbed his head, spinning, his gloves to his forehead, a futile attempt, keep the brain in one piece. “She’s never been ill for a day in her life. How? What are they saying?” He went to her side.
She handed him the letter, touching his free hand with hers. It was that cheap air mail paper no one uses anymore, flimsy pastel-blue sheets that, folded up, became envelopes.
All caps, slanting upward.
Unsteady black pen.
The letter didn’t say that his mother was ill. It said she was dying and would be dead in a month. It was two weeks old yesterday. He dropped it to the table. His hands began to tremble (other parts of him, too). Fola jumped up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. For the first time since he bought it, he loved this beige coat. Its thickness put some distance between her chest and his trembling, his wife and his weakness, his quivering limbs. (And his cameraman in position across the room by the window couldn’t shoot the crumbling hero for his dull protective coat.)
“We’ll go to Ghana,” she said.
“With what money?” he mumbled. “We don’t have the money.”
“We’ll ask for it—”
“
No
.” And carried on, desperate, “They’re overreacting . . . it’s an infection, not cancer . . . she’s not even fifty. She’ll be better by New Year . . . I’ll have the money by New Year . . .”
“We’ll ask for it, Kweku. We have to.”
They did.
• • •
Rather
she
did: that day spent the last of her cash on a ticket to Lagos to visit a louse, younger half-brother Femi, whose prostitute mother had taken her dead lover’s money and run.
Then Ghana, and the smell of Ghana, a contradiction, a cracked clay pot: the smell of dryness, wetness, both, the damp of earth and dry of dust. The airport. Bodies pushing, pulling, shouting, begging, touching, breathing. He’d forgotten the bodies. The proximity of bodies. In America the bodies were distant. The warmth of it. Pushing through the jostling throng, warm bodies, clutching Fola’s arm while Fola clutched the baby, leading his squadron on to the taxi rank. “Your purse!” he called over his shoulder. “Be careful! This is Ghana.”
“It
is
?!”
But when he looked she was laughing. “My friend, I’m from Lagos. Never mind your small Ghana.” She winked. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”
And then home.
• • •
They rode into the village in a ramshackle taxi, a red and yellow jalopy expelling black smoke, bumping awkwardly up the dark red dirt road, no one speaking, even Olu sitting silently, as if in his baby-heart he knew. This wasn’t how he’d envisioned the triumphant return, political hysteria on the radio sans John Williams strings, but this driver was the only one working the rank who both accepted his price and knew the way to his town.
• • •
An hour outside of the city: the ocean.
Unannounced, without fanfare.
Just suddenly
there
.
From town they’d braved the then-unpaved road to the junction, where they’d turned up the dry empty hill to Kokrobité. The hill brought them down to the coast, blocked from view by the mounds of grass lining
Okunrin mi
,” she’d say. My son. “I know, I know, I know. It hurts.”
And she did. In the literal sense could “feel others’ pain.” A proper empath, a thing he hadn’t believed existed when they met. His questions were endless. Where in her body did she feel it? How did she know it was his pain, not hers? (In her chest, on the left, a purely physical sensation, of foreign origin, now familiar, proper empathy.) That face.
“Darling,” she said.
“It’s a lie,” he repeated. But quietly. And was glad now to find his hands free. He grabbed his head, spinning, his gloves to his forehead, a futile attempt, keep the brain in one piece. “She’s never been ill for a day in her life. How? What are they saying?” He went to her side.
She handed him the letter, touching his free hand with hers. It was that cheap air mail paper no one uses anymore, flimsy pastel-blue sheets that, folded up, became envelopes.
All caps, slanting upward.
Unsteady black pen.
The letter didn’t say that his mother was ill. It said she was dying and would be dead in a month. It was two weeks old yesterday. He dropped it to the table. His hands began to tremble (other parts of him, too). Fola jumped up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. For the first time since he bought it, he loved this beige coat. Its thickness put some distance between her chest and his trembling, his wife and his weakness, his quivering limbs. (And his cameraman in position across the room by the window couldn’t shoot the crumbling hero for his dull protective coat.)
“We’ll go to Ghana,” she said.
“With what money?” he mumbled. “We don’t have the money.”
“We’ll ask for it—”
“
No
.” And carried on, desperate, “They’re overreacting . . . it’s an infection, not cancer . . . she’s not even fifty. She’ll be better by New Year . . . I’ll have the money by New Year . . .”
“We’ll ask for it, Kweku. We have to.”
They did.
• • •
Rather
she
did: that day spent the last of her cash on a ticket to Lagos to visit a louse, younger half-brother Femi, whose prostitute mother had taken her dead lover’s money and run.
Then Ghana, and the smell of Ghana, a contradiction, a cracked clay pot: the smell of dryness, wetness, both, the damp of earth and dry of dust. The airport. Bodies pushing, pulling, shouting, begging, touching, breathing. He’d forgotten the bodies. The proximity of bodies. In America the bodies were distant. The warmth of it. Pushing through the jostling throng, warm bodies, clutching Fola’s arm while Fola clutched the baby, leading his squadron on to the taxi rank. “Your purse!” he called over his shoulder. “Be careful! This is Ghana.”
“It
is
?!”
But when he looked she was laughing. “My friend, I’m from Lagos. Never mind your small Ghana.” She winked. “I’m okay. We’re okay.”
And then home.
• • •
They rode into the village in a ramshackle taxi, a red and yellow jalopy expelling black smoke, bumping awkwardly up the dark red dirt road, no one speaking, even Olu sitting silently, as if in his baby-heart he knew. This wasn’t how he’d envisioned the triumphant return, political hysteria on the radio sans John Williams strings, but this driver was the only one working the rank who both accepted his price and knew the way to his town.
• • •
An hour outside of the city: the ocean.
Unannounced, without fanfare.
Just suddenly
there
.
From town they’d braved the then-unpaved road to the junction, where they’d turned up the dry empty hill to Kokrobité. The hill brought them down to the coast, blocked from view by the mounds of grass lining
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