My Name is Butterfly
Content
The word Trokosi comes from the Ewe words “tro” meaning deity or fetish and “kosi” meaning female slave.
“I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free.” -Charles Dickens
After ΩΩΩ New York City Summer 2009
Prologue Harlem, New York 2009
On the morning of the day she killed him, the sun lay in long, yellow slats across the sidewalk. Abebe strolled down 145th Street; the hem of her multi-colored skirt swept the ground as her flip-flops smacked musically against the pavement. The large silver-hooped earrings she wore bounced against her fat cheeks as her wide hips swayed to a rhythm as old as time. On her shoulder, she carried a gold and purple purse made of straw which contained four bottles of homemade hair oils, a magazine, a letter from her aunt Thema, a cell phone, and a rusted screwdriver with a red and black rubber handle – which she carried for protection. In all of the years
Abebe had been working in and around Harlem, she only had to brandish the weapon once and that was when a drunkard threatened to toss his beer can at her because she had not returned his hello. When she reached Lenox Avenue, she turned the corner and joined three other women waiting at the bus stop. Abebe nodded in greeting. One woman mumbled good morning, the other diverted her eyes and kept her lips sealed. A bus approached, thick with passengers, and Abebe and the other women climbed aboard, slipped their metro cards into the slot, and pushed their way to the center of the mass. Lenox Avenue was already bustling with activity. People moved up and down the sidewalks, clutching Starbuck coffee cups, carrying plastic bags crammed with groceries, and pushing baby carriages. Abebe exited the bus at 120th Street and continued on foot toward her place of employment – The Queens of Africa Braiding Salon, located on the corner of 125th Street and Lenox Avenue. She stepped swiftly past the Nigerian, Sudanese, and Guinean hawkers who stood alongside their black velveteen blankets, displaying items they offered for sale: music CD’s, bootleg DVD’s, African soaps, oils, incense, and trashy novels. As she moved past them, they called out to her: “Something for you today, mama?” Abebe shook her hand at them and kept walking. Up ahead she could see the signage for the hair shop - a gaudy, gold and
green monstrosity illuminated with red lights. Standing beneath the sign was Mohammed, an elderly man the color of black sand, with a beard as white as cotton. His back was bent, but his eyes were effervescent with life. Mohammed sold roasted peanuts from a silver pushcart, and he and Abebe were passing acquaintances. Abebe knew that Mohammed was a widower, had three children and eight grandchildren and that he had been in these United States for half a century, never once returning to his homeland of Ghana. He knew that Abebe was married with two children and that she worked as a braider and had not been back to Ghana since she arrived in New York in the winter of 2003. Those were the things they knew about one another and not much else. When Abebe spotted him, she raised her hand in greeting and in that moment she realized with great horror that she knew something else about Mohammed; she knew the man standing beside him and her heart jumped into her throat and her bladder let go. Urine streamed down her legs and puddled on the sidewalk at feet. His name was Duma and she’d known him as intimately as a man of the cloth knew his God - or more appropriately, the way a sinner knows Anyen – the devil. Abebe watched, frozen, as Duma tossed a roasted peanut up into the air, tilted his head, and opened his mouth. The nut bounced off his lip, fell to the ground, and rolled across the pavement toward Abebe. When the nut bumped the rounded rubber toe of her flip-flop, she
uttered a strangled cry and leapt into the air. Mohammed gave her a curious look and the smile on his lips faded to a frown when he saw the frightened expression on Abebe’s face. His eyes swung to Duma and then back to Abebe who by then was charging toward them with the screwdriver in her hand, raised high above her head – the rusted tip of the tool glinting brilliantly beneath the morning sun.
Before ΩΩΩ Accra, Ghana 1978 - 1983
Chapter One
In 1978, Abebe was two years, eight months and 23 days old. Her first memory was of her waking in her parents’ bed, a large, mahogany monster with posts the size of elephant legs. The room was shrouded in the gray haze of early morning. Outside a car engine roared to life, the rusty hinges of the wrought iron gate squealed open, and a choir of roosters began to croon. Abebe rubbed the sleep from her eyes, searched the room for signs of her parents, and in her quest, caught sight of her reflection in the oblong-shaped mirror that hung over the chest of drawers. She had a button nose and large inquisitive brown eyes. Her small lips formed the shape of a heart, her skin was the color of night, and her hair was corn rolled into a peak and secured with a blue, glass bobble.
Abebe yawned, bringing her hand to her mouth the way she’d seen her mother do, before calling out, “Mama!” over and over again until her mother, Lemusi Tsikata, appeared in the doorway. “What is all of this noise, little one, heh?” Lemusi pronounced in a voice that was filled with light. Abebe grinned and raised her arms. Lemusi was slight in build with a mass of thick hair that she kept pulled back into a ball. She had the fingers of a pianist - long, thin and elegant. Her skin was smooth, dark and scented with cocoa butter. She lifted Abebe from the bed, placed her on her hip, and carried her into the dining room where she placed Abebe into a chair directly across the table from her father, Kwasi Tsikata. Kwasi was reading The Daily Graphic Newspaper. Abebe could see his shiny, creased forehead floating above the top of the page. “Good morning, Papa!” she sang. Kwasi lowered the paper to reveal a square chin and wide flat nose that barely supported the thick, black framed glasses he wore. He smiled his gap-toothed smile and said, “Is that little Abebe?” Abebe shook her head vigorously up and down. “Yes, Papa, it is me!” “No, you cannot be Abebe,” he teased. “Abebe is a sleepy head who never rises this early.”
“It’s me, Papa, it’s me!” Lemusi laughed and placed a loving hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Hurry now, you don’t want to be late.” The Tsikata family lived in an affluent area of Accra known as the Airport Residential district. It was a neighborhood comprised of expensive homes shaded by the fronds of towering palm trees. They lived in a lovely one level, mahogany shingle with sweeping front and back verandahs, hardwood floors, and louvered windows. The kitchen was spacious and fitted with all manners of modern conveniences, including a refrigerator that dispensed water from the door and created ice cubes in the freezer. Kwasi and Lemusi were from the village known as Pram-Pram, located in the Volta region of Ghana. Kwasi had been educated in England and after graduating from university, found employment as an accountant in the government’s treasury department. He drove a silver Mercedes and had his eye on a piece of beachfront property in Takoradi, where he hoped to build a family vacation home. Lemusi was a teacher, but before she was a teacher she was a model and her face had graced the covers of many West African beauty magazines. They were practicing Catholics who attended church most Sundays. The worn leather bible that rested on the nightstand, along with the demure gold crosses all three family members wore around
their necks, publicized and punctuated their belief in the one, true God.
Chapter Two The summer Lemusi’s sister came to visit, Abebe was an impressionable, five-year-old. Serwa Zinga was four years younger than Lemusi and possessed the same cinnamon-colored complexion and wide-set eyes. But unlike Lemusi, Serwa was curvy; bottom and top heavy and favored clothing that accentuated those attributes: Mini skirts, low cut blouses, tight jeans, and high heels. Serwa drank and smoked and had a wantonness about her that made other women – including Lemusi – uncomfortable. Her years of living in America had imparted Serwa with a twang that made her sound like an Obruni – a white American.
She loved music, both the popular Ghanaian High-Life and the American R&B and Disco. She came to Ghana with a black case filled with music cassettes, which she played one behind the other, raising the volume on Kwasi’s stereo higher and higher until the music filled all the rooms of the house and could be heard out on the street. During those times, Serwa would grab Abebe by the hands and the two would dance until they were both drenched in sweat. Abebe was enchanted with her aunt. “One day, Abebe,” Serwa tweaked her nose and announced, “I am going to send for you to come and spend a vacation with me in America.” “Really?” “Uh-huh, and I’ll take you to McDonald’s and Burger King—” “What is that?” “You don’t know?” Abebe shook her head no. “Well, they’re wonderful restaurants that make delicious hamburgers and milk shakes!” Abebe licked her lips. Lemusi waved her hand. “That food is garbage. American trash and I won’t have my child eating it.”
Serwa and Lemusi looked at each other and something passed between them so heavy that it cut the air and Abebe felt a breeze against her cheek. The two sisters glared at each other for a moment before Serwa returned her gaze to Abebe and said, “So tell me, do you have a boyfriend?” Abebe made a face. “Yuk!” Serwa laughed. “So you don’t like boys?” Abebe shook her head no. “Don’t worry, one day you will. One day you will love them.” *** Months after Serwa had returned to her life in America, Lemusi realized that she was feeling more drained and lethargic than usual. She was a severe anemic and the disorder had always played havoc with her menstrual cycle, and so she did not think anything was wrong – or in this case, right – when two months passed and she still had not seen her period. It was the light-headiness and the nausea that washed over her whenever she smelled cooked meat – that and the unmistakable flutter deep down in her belly that finally put her on alert. Lemusi had had so many false alarms in the past that she dared not say anything to Kwasi before she was one hundred percent sure. When Dr. Benga confirmed that she was indeed with child, she broke down and wept in his arms. That evening she shared the news with Kwasi, and his face lit up like a
candle. “Are you sure?” Lemusi nodded her head while stroking her husband’s hair. Kwasi lifted Lemusi’s blouse and gazed at her stomach in wonder. “I can’t believe it.” His words were choked with happiness. “After so many years, finally...” “Ten years,” Lemusi said. “God has finally answered our prayers.” “I always knew that he had not forsaken us,” Lemusi said. “All in his time,” Kwasi whispered through his tears as he leaned in and kissed the warm flesh of Lemusi’s belly.
Mawuli was born in the spring - a round, brown boy with pink gums and sparkling eyes. Kwasi finally had a son; he could not have been more proud. His family was finally complete. Abebe spent all of her free time staring at Mawuli. He was the most wondrous thing that she had ever seen. She rocked, fed and changed him and never tired of combing her fingers through the wispy hairs on his head. “I love you more than crisps,” she whispered in Mawuli’s ear. That said a lot because crisps were Abebe’s absolute favorite treat.
Chapter Three
It was dinnertime when the call came from a cousin in Pram-Pram who’d walked ten miles from his village to a pay phone. Thunder boomed a town away, the air was suddenly thick with the scent of rain,
and an angry, evening wind began to whip the palm trees just as Kwasi pressed the phone to his ear and said, “Hello?” “Your papa has passed away,” the cousin announced thinly. Kwasi dropped the phone, stumbled to the couch and fell down into the cushions. The next day he packed his family into the car and drove to PramPram. The trip took four hours, and when they arrived, the vehicle was covered in red dust. When they entered the village, a group of children the boys indistinguishable from the girls - began running alongside the car, tapping the windows and waving. Kwasi’s mother was seated outside of her hut, a gourd bowl filled with dried peas rested on her lap; her fleshy hips spilled over the sides of the stool she sat on. Kwasi leapt from the car and bounded over to her. Lemusi followed and the two threw their arms around her shoulders and kissed her cheeks. Abebe had only been to Pram-Pram a few times. Those visits had been a time of sheer delight for her as she swam naked in the lagoon, chased chickens, hugged goats, and squealed when her grandmother aimed the cows’ utter at her face and squeezed the milk into her open and waiting mouth. Abebe climbed from the car clutching her Walkman protectively to her chest. The circle of children closed in around her, pointing and chanting, “What is that? Can I have it, sister? What is that?”
Abebe’s grandmother reeked of sweat, grilled meat and melancholy. The old woman squeezed Abebe, kissed her cheeks, patted her backside, told her that she was too thin, offered her a mango, looked at the silver and black contraption that Abebe held in her hands, and shook her head in dismay. The grandmother’s home was a three-room thatched roof mud hut. The front room held two metal chairs with tattered, green cushions and one short square table made of wood. An aged, yellowed, calendar depicting the deceased Ghanaian president, Kwame Nkrumah, hung on the wall near the door. The back rooms were furnished with twin-sized beds, grass sleeping mats, and nothing else. The cooking area was located behind the house and was comprised of three piles of stones beneath an awning made of grass. There was no indoor plumbing, just a standpipe located in the middle of the village where the women lined up daily, to fill their buckets with water for cooking, drinking and bathing. They washed their clothes in the lagoon. The toilet was a concrete box with a wooden door. On the floor of the structure was a hole, which one would squat over to relieve themselves. It was shared by four other families. Abebe and her family remained in the village for one week, making many trips into town to be fitted for the special funeral garments. Kwasi fought long and hard with his brothers about the color and pattern before they finally agreed on red and gold Bubu’s.
An art coffin was constructed from walnut wood and carved with intricately detailed images that reflected the senior Tsikata’s life as a husband, father and farmer. The cost was a staggering 3000Cedi. Kwasi said he didn’t care if it was 30,000Cedi; his father deserved the best. The nights in Pram-Pram were long, black and filled with sinister sounds. In Abebe’s mind, mating cats became feuding lions, the patter of feet - a charging elephant. She pressed her trembling body against the bulk of her grandmother’s and was eventually lullabied to sleep by the music of the old woman’s beating heart. On the day of the funeral, large black and red tents were erected at the graveyard. Vendors sold handkerchiefs and beer to the mourners. The old women of the village beat their breasts and wailed. Tables draped in red cloth were placed to the right of the coffin, where people could place their offerings of money, food and liquor. The funeral attendants handed out laminated programs that pictured the deceased Tsikata. Abebe stared down at photograph of her grandfather; his black eyes watched her from beneath his furrowed brow. Her memory of him was as faint as a dream. Bored, she bounced the card against her knee until Lemusi took it from her and placed it in her purse. After the ceremony, the body was interned, which signaled the end of the mourning period and the beginning of the celebration. Agboba drums accompanied by Axatse’s rang through the air as people gathered around the large tables laden with a variety of traditional
Ghanaian food and piled high their plates with red-red, fufu, fried fish, pepper stew, breads, and fresh fruits. Libations were opened, spilled in honor of the deceased and then consumed. Abebe and her cousins ran circles around the mud huts and played hide-and-seek in the brush as the adults flung their hands into the air, stomped their feet, and swung their hips in a fit of joyful dance. The merriment went on until the darkness seeped from the sky and the sun’s yellow head peeked over the horizon. The sun was a high yellow ball in the sky when Lemusi and Kwasi finally crawled onto the tiny bed and wrapped their arms around one another. Kwasi’s breath was sweet with Schnapps, his words thick with sleep when he announced, “I will bring Mama to stay with us for a little while.” Lemusi tightened her arms around his neck and planted a tender kiss on his lips. “Of course, Kwasi. Whatever you think is best.”
Chapter Four
To Grandmother, Accra smelled of smoke, steel and shit. She thought her son’s house was too grand and reminded Kwasi that he was
not a king or a chief, so all of the rooms were unnecessary, especially for a family with just two children. The grandmother had raised eight children in her modest hut. “And why is the food cooked inside the house?” she asked. Kwasi shrugged his shoulders, “That’s just the way it’s done here,” he said. In an effort to appease her, Kwasi went out and purchased a television, which he placed on the small wooden chest in the grandmother’s bedroom. Grandmother eyed it suspiciously. The last time she watched television was a decade earlier when she went to visit the family of her daughter-in-law. It was a small black and white Zenith, with a dial. The antenna was a wire hanger wrapped in foil. Kwasi proudly handed her a remote control. She looked at the white, oblong object, folded her hands defiantly across her breasts, and said, “What am I to do with that?” And so the next day, Kwasi bought her a radio. Grandmother spent her days roaming the house, examining the knick-knack souvenirs that friends had purchased abroad and given as gifts to the Tsikata’s: A white man on a surfboard, a pointed tower, a grand clock. The words stamped on the souvenirs - Hawaii, Paris, London – meant nothing to Grandmother because her language was Ewe and her English was limited to “hello” and “good-bye.” She spoke some Twi, but not much. Grandmother went into Abebe’s room, picked up and then tossed
down the stuffed animals that were neatly arranged across her bed. She reached for the snow globe on the nightstand, shook it, and watched the bits of white plastic swirl and settle on a tiny castle. She pressed her fists into her hips and stared at the poster of a galloping pink horse with a spike jutting from the center of his forehead. Such frivolity, the grandmother thought and then sucked her teeth in disgust. In the evenings, Grandmother enjoyed hiding behind the curtains of her bedroom window, eavesdropping on conversations of the unsuspecting neighbors. During the day, she sat on the front verandah in a folding chair and gazed down at the people dressed in their western clothing who moved up and down the sidewalks. She complained that the cook, a young girl called Abba, did not know what she was doing. Lemusi and Kwasi smiled and listened respectfully to the old woman’s grievances, but did nothing to change the situation, and so one day Grandmother changed it for them. Kwasi was at work, Abebe was at school, and Lemusi had taken the baby for a visit with a friend. When Grandmother heard Abba set the large, metal pot onto the stove, she emerged from her room like a crow and flew into the kitchen squawking demands. “Show me how to work this stove. Fill this pot with water! Chop this…cut that…!” A flustered Abba complied without question. When Lemusi returned home, Grandmother was standing over the
stove, stirring a pot of stew and Abba was cowering in the corner. “Mama, what are you doing?” Lemusi asked. “We have Abba to do that.” “Her food tastes like pig slop. Anyway, what am I to do, sit in that room all day listening to the radio and staring at the picture box?” Grandmother stated without looking up from her task. “Of course we don’t expect that. But you’re here to rest, not work. Take a walk. The streets are safe, very safe. No harm will come to you. There are eyes everywhere. Our neighbors know who you are.” Grandmother dropped a pinch of salt into the stew and swirled the wooden spoon around the concoction a few times before bringing the spoon to her lips for a sample. Satisfied, she nodded her head and then looked at Lemusi and said flatly, “You should have left me to die in Pram-Pram. This place is hell.”
Later on, in the privacy of their bedroom, Lemusi gently massaged the arch of her husband’s back. Kwasi was tense, but not for the reasons Lemusi suspected. Having his mother there had not been easy for any of them. Grandmother’s adjustment to city living had been slow and painful and was at times a weight on the family – but that was not the source of the knot of tension in his back. “It’ll get better,” Lemusi whispered. “Everything is new to her. It’s
just going to take more time than we thought.” Kwasi nodded his head; his mother was the very least of his worries. What was paramount in his mind was the allegation that had come down from the director of the treasury accusing Kwasi’s manager – Ota Nweli - of diverting government money into his secret, personal account. Ota’s passport had been seized and he had been placed under house arrest while the police investigated the charges. Kwasi had been summoned to the director’s office and questioned about the matter. “I had no idea,” Kwasi said and shoved his trembling hands into the pockets of his pants. He did not understand why he was so nervous because he was in no way involved and knew nothing of the theft. But still, perspiration gathered in beads across his forehead, and his tongue turned to sand paper. “Really? None at all?” the director said in a gruff voice. “You were his right hand man, and you didn’t notice that these funds were missing from the account?” “No, sir, I did not. Those particular books were not put in my charge.” The director eyed him warily. “The truth will be revealed.” He dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Did you hear me, Kwasi?” Lemusi had brought her lips close to
his ear. Her warm breath fanned across his cheek. Kwasi turned and looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry, Lemusi,” he said as he placed his palm on her cheek. “I was thinking about something. What did you say?” Lemusi grinned. “I said, stop worrying yourself about your mother. Everything is going to be just fine.” Kwasi nodded his head. “Of course it will.”
Chapter Five
When Lemusi came wobbling into the house supported by her husband and a pair of crutches, Grandmother tilted her nose into the air and said, “That is what happens when you wear those awful high-heeled shoes.” Lemusi ignored her comment. “It was the silliest thing. I go up and down those steps at least once a week. How I missed the last step, I don’t know. Thank God I wasn’t carrying Mawuli!” Kwasi helped Lemusi down onto the couch, turned to his mother who had followed them into the living room, and announced, “The doctor said she’ll be in the cast for about six weeks.” “Six weeks?” Grandmother retorted with a huff. “With that thing on her leg?” “Yes.” Grandmother shrugged her shoulders, turned and went back into the kitchen where she seemed to spend most of her time now. Lemusi could hear her through the wall mumbling about high-heeled shoes and tight skirts.
During the second week of Lemusi’s convalescence, Kwasi came home in the middle of the afternoon. His face was limp with worry. “They have suspended me,” he said as he walked to the cabinet, pulled the bottle of Schnapps from the shelf, and poured himself a drink. “Suspended? But why?” asked Lemusi. “They think I have something to do with the money that was stolen.” By that time, Lemusi had already known about the theft, because news of it had reached the newspapers. Even as the reports gained momentum, Kwasi had kept the fact that he was being investigated a secret from Lemusi. But now all of that had changed. “That’s ridiculous. You’ve been working at the treasury department for ten years, and not a cent has ever gone unaccounted for.” Kwasi drained his glass and poured another. Lemusi watched quietly as he drank. When he’d drained the second shot, he looked down into the empty glass as if his life had fallen down into it. Lemusi asked, “How long will you be suspended?” “Until the investigation is complete and they find me innocent.” “And how long will that take?” Now a slither of panic could be
heard in her voice. “I don’t know,” Kwasi announced dryly. “What will we do for money?” Kwasi sighed. “I will still be receiving some of my salary.” “Some?” “Half.” “Half? We can’t live on half!” Kwasi scratched his head. “We have our savings, we’ll be fine. I can’t imagine that this investigation will go on for more than a few weeks.” Lemusi uttered a bitter laugh. “Have you forgotten where you live? This is Ghana. What might take a few weeks in other countries can take months or even years here.” Lemusi shifted uncomfortably on the couch and then timidly said, “I can go back to work.” Kwasi grunted and pointed a long finger at her cast. “It’ll be off soon.” He shook his head. “No, you need to be here with the baby. I said not to worry. We are fine.” ***
Days later, Mawuli fell ill. His body raged with fever and boils the size of eggs broke out on his skin. Kwasi took him to the doctor, who prescribed ointment and antibiotics. Grandmother did not trust westerners or their medicine and so she sent Abba to the market for herbs, which she then pounded into a paste, placed in a pot of water, and set to the boil. The concoction made a stench so strong it could be smelled for blocks. After a few minutes, Lemusi appeared at the doorway of the kitchen with her hand pressed over her mouth and spoke through the slats of her fingers, “What is that?” “Medicine for the child.” “Bush medicine?” “What else would it be?” Lemusi wobbled over and peered into the pot. “Is he to drink that?” “No, it is for him to wash in.” Lemusi backed away from the bubbling mixture. She removed her hand from her face and inhaled. The scent was so caustic it made her cough even though it seemed to have no effect on Grandmother at all. “I – I,” Lemusi began respectfully, “ I don’t think that this is a good idea. The medicine that the doctor prescribed will start to work very
soon, so…” Her words dropped away under Grandmother’s icy gaze. “You trust the white man’s medicine over that of your own kind?” Lemusi was flustered. “Well it’s not about trust...I just think that...” Grandmother slammed the spoon down onto the stove. “What do you think? Tell me.” Lemusi face turned scarlet, her lips continued to flap, but no words emanated from her mouth. Finally, embarrassed and ashamed, Lemusi retreated to her bedroom.
Hours later, she woke to Mawuli’s terrified screams. Grandmother had poured the mixture into the tub and had set Mawuli down into. Mawuli’s cries echoed through the house, pulling Lemusi from her afternoon nap. For a few moments, Lemusi floundered helplessly between sleep and wake, unable to decipher whether or not she was dreaming. When it was clear that Mawuli was in peril, Lemusi jumped from the bed and landed on her wounded ankle. Pain exploded behind her eyes, and she went crashing down to the floor where she lay moaning as she cradled her foot. When the pain ebbed to a throbbing ache, she crawled from the bedroom, down the hall, and into the bathroom where Mawuli’s cries bounced off the tiled walls like balls. “Mama! Mama, what are you doing?” Lemusi screamed as she
dragged herself into the bathroom. Grandmother had one meaty arm wrapped tight around Mawuli, holding his squirming, naked body down in the water. With her free hand, she dunked a sea sponge into the pot of the concoction she’d boiled and then raked the sponge across Mawuli’s skin, dispersing the green liquid over his flesh, rupturing the boils. The infection had seeped out and was floating atop the water like yokes. Mawuli’s face was red and wet with tears, and his mouth was stretched wide open as a fresh scream climbed his throat. Lemusi struggled to right herself and dragged her injured foot the last few feet until she was standing, unsteadily before Grandmother. The old woman looked up in surprise, but it was too late, Lemusi already had her by the wrist, pulling her arm back until Grandmother fell off the stool and hit the floor with a thump. Lemusi then snatched Mawuli from the water, and did not even glance at Grandmother as she hobbled from the bathroom, back down the hallway, and into her bedroom.
When Kwasi arrived from his hearing at the treasury department, Grandmother was seated on the verandah, solemnly plucking the feathers from the body of a decapitated fowl. “Mama,” Kwasi’s tone was tired. “I’ve asked you a hundred times not to do this on the front verandah. If you must buy and kill live fowl, you can do so in the backyard.”
Grandmother raised her head. Her lips were pressed into a thin angry line. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” “Your wife hit me.” Kwasi was sure he’d heard wrong. He set his briefcase down, loosened the knot in his tie, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the gray slacks he wore, and said, “What did you say?” Grandmother flung her arm out at Kwasi, revealing the impressions of Lemusi’s fingers pressed black and blue into the flesh of her wrist. Kwasi stared in quiet astonishment. “Lemusi did this?” he asked unbelievingly. To Kwasi, it seemed that his life was unraveling as quickly as a ball of yarn. The officials at the treasury department claimed to have incrementing evidence as well as an eyewitness who could confirm Kwasi’s involvement in the theft. When Kwasi asked to see the evidence, and for the name of the eyewitness, the officials had stammered and stuttered, and in the end had not granted either request. Instead, they’d thrust an affidavit under Kwasi’s nose and urged him to sign it. “We can make this go away for you, Tsikata. No prosecution and no jail time, just dismissal.” Kwasi quickly understood that they didn’t have anything on him, but were looking for a scapegoat to take the fall. The Ghanaian
newspapers were demanding that the treasury department bring the coconspirators to justice and criticized the snail-like progression in which the investigation was progressing. Some of those articles had been reprinted in European and Chinese newspapers, which painted Ghana in a less than favorable light on the world’s stage. Kwasi refused to sign the affidavit and instead had gone straight to an attorney whom he paid a ten thousand Cedi retainer. That had taken little over half of what was left of their savings. And now he’d come home to find that his wife had attacked his mother. Kwasi left his mother on the verandah and marched into the house to his bedroom. The door was closed and locked. Kwasi knocked and when Lemusi did not immediately respond his temper boiled over and shouted, “Lemusi, open this door now!” The lock clicked open and Kwasi barged in. Lemusi was seated on the edge of the bed; her hair was flayed about her head like that of madwoman and her eyes were red and puffy from crying. Mawuli was beside her, fast asleep. “What have you done?” “What have I done? What have I done?” With each question, Lemusi’s voice climbed to a hysterical level. “Your mother went against my wishes and bathed our child in bark, and weeds and Lord knows
what else, so I did what I had to do!” Kwasi opened his mouth to speak, but Lemusi wasn’t done yet. “Look, look at your son’s skin. Look at it!” Kwasi gazed down at the gaping purple craters on Mawuli’s body and then he turned back to his wife and said, “They look like they’re healing. Isn’t this what we wanted?” Lemusi was up and in his face before he could utter another word. The slap was sudden and harsh, temporarily blinding him. “L-Lemusi!” Kwasi cried as he caught her by her small shoulders, whipped her around, and then slammed her against the wall. The mirror shook and slipped off of the wall and crashed loudly to the floor. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” “I want her out of this house. Today, right now! Take her back to Pram-Pram!” Lemusi screamed hysterically. “Have you gone mad? Stop it!” Kwasi yelled as he shook her. Lemusi kept screaming and Kwasi kept shaking her. But Lemusi would not stop screaming, and Kwasi finally unfurled his fingers from her shoulders and stepped back. They glared at each until he mumbled an apology. Lemusi did not respond; she hobbled shakily away from him, and fled to Abebe’s room where she remained until Abebe came home from school.
That evening, the family ate dinner in silence. The tension hung in the air like syrup. Abebe longed to escape it and so hurried through her meal and then asked if she could be excused. Sometime during the night, Abebe woke to use the bathroom and heard the hushed voices of her father and grandmother. They were conversing in Ewe, a language that Abebe was not quite familiar with and so she was only able to make out a few words. Her name was mentioned a number of times along with that of her mother and her aunt Serwa. The grandmother made a remark about bad luck, which was followed by a million words, Abebe did not understand. There was urgency in her grandmother’s tone, but her father’s responses sounded unsure.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this excerpt of My Name is Butterfly. For a limited time only you can purchase the ebook for .99cents on Amazon, B&N and Smashwords.
Other books by Bernice L. McFadden
Gathering of Waters Glorious Nowhere is a Place Camillla’s Roses Loving Donovan This Bitter Earth The Warmest December Sugar Visite the author at: www.bernicemcfadden.com
“I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free.” -Charles Dickens
After ΩΩΩ New York City Summer 2009
Prologue Harlem, New York 2009
On the morning of the day she killed him, the sun lay in long, yellow slats across the sidewalk. Abebe strolled down 145th Street; the hem of her multi-colored skirt swept the ground as her flip-flops smacked musically against the pavement. The large silver-hooped earrings she wore bounced against her fat cheeks as her wide hips swayed to a rhythm as old as time. On her shoulder, she carried a gold and purple purse made of straw which contained four bottles of homemade hair oils, a magazine, a letter from her aunt Thema, a cell phone, and a rusted screwdriver with a red and black rubber handle – which she carried for protection. In all of the years
Abebe had been working in and around Harlem, she only had to brandish the weapon once and that was when a drunkard threatened to toss his beer can at her because she had not returned his hello. When she reached Lenox Avenue, she turned the corner and joined three other women waiting at the bus stop. Abebe nodded in greeting. One woman mumbled good morning, the other diverted her eyes and kept her lips sealed. A bus approached, thick with passengers, and Abebe and the other women climbed aboard, slipped their metro cards into the slot, and pushed their way to the center of the mass. Lenox Avenue was already bustling with activity. People moved up and down the sidewalks, clutching Starbuck coffee cups, carrying plastic bags crammed with groceries, and pushing baby carriages. Abebe exited the bus at 120th Street and continued on foot toward her place of employment – The Queens of Africa Braiding Salon, located on the corner of 125th Street and Lenox Avenue. She stepped swiftly past the Nigerian, Sudanese, and Guinean hawkers who stood alongside their black velveteen blankets, displaying items they offered for sale: music CD’s, bootleg DVD’s, African soaps, oils, incense, and trashy novels. As she moved past them, they called out to her: “Something for you today, mama?” Abebe shook her hand at them and kept walking. Up ahead she could see the signage for the hair shop - a gaudy, gold and
green monstrosity illuminated with red lights. Standing beneath the sign was Mohammed, an elderly man the color of black sand, with a beard as white as cotton. His back was bent, but his eyes were effervescent with life. Mohammed sold roasted peanuts from a silver pushcart, and he and Abebe were passing acquaintances. Abebe knew that Mohammed was a widower, had three children and eight grandchildren and that he had been in these United States for half a century, never once returning to his homeland of Ghana. He knew that Abebe was married with two children and that she worked as a braider and had not been back to Ghana since she arrived in New York in the winter of 2003. Those were the things they knew about one another and not much else. When Abebe spotted him, she raised her hand in greeting and in that moment she realized with great horror that she knew something else about Mohammed; she knew the man standing beside him and her heart jumped into her throat and her bladder let go. Urine streamed down her legs and puddled on the sidewalk at feet. His name was Duma and she’d known him as intimately as a man of the cloth knew his God - or more appropriately, the way a sinner knows Anyen – the devil. Abebe watched, frozen, as Duma tossed a roasted peanut up into the air, tilted his head, and opened his mouth. The nut bounced off his lip, fell to the ground, and rolled across the pavement toward Abebe. When the nut bumped the rounded rubber toe of her flip-flop, she
uttered a strangled cry and leapt into the air. Mohammed gave her a curious look and the smile on his lips faded to a frown when he saw the frightened expression on Abebe’s face. His eyes swung to Duma and then back to Abebe who by then was charging toward them with the screwdriver in her hand, raised high above her head – the rusted tip of the tool glinting brilliantly beneath the morning sun.
Before ΩΩΩ Accra, Ghana 1978 - 1983
Chapter One
In 1978, Abebe was two years, eight months and 23 days old. Her first memory was of her waking in her parents’ bed, a large, mahogany monster with posts the size of elephant legs. The room was shrouded in the gray haze of early morning. Outside a car engine roared to life, the rusty hinges of the wrought iron gate squealed open, and a choir of roosters began to croon. Abebe rubbed the sleep from her eyes, searched the room for signs of her parents, and in her quest, caught sight of her reflection in the oblong-shaped mirror that hung over the chest of drawers. She had a button nose and large inquisitive brown eyes. Her small lips formed the shape of a heart, her skin was the color of night, and her hair was corn rolled into a peak and secured with a blue, glass bobble.
Abebe yawned, bringing her hand to her mouth the way she’d seen her mother do, before calling out, “Mama!” over and over again until her mother, Lemusi Tsikata, appeared in the doorway. “What is all of this noise, little one, heh?” Lemusi pronounced in a voice that was filled with light. Abebe grinned and raised her arms. Lemusi was slight in build with a mass of thick hair that she kept pulled back into a ball. She had the fingers of a pianist - long, thin and elegant. Her skin was smooth, dark and scented with cocoa butter. She lifted Abebe from the bed, placed her on her hip, and carried her into the dining room where she placed Abebe into a chair directly across the table from her father, Kwasi Tsikata. Kwasi was reading The Daily Graphic Newspaper. Abebe could see his shiny, creased forehead floating above the top of the page. “Good morning, Papa!” she sang. Kwasi lowered the paper to reveal a square chin and wide flat nose that barely supported the thick, black framed glasses he wore. He smiled his gap-toothed smile and said, “Is that little Abebe?” Abebe shook her head vigorously up and down. “Yes, Papa, it is me!” “No, you cannot be Abebe,” he teased. “Abebe is a sleepy head who never rises this early.”
“It’s me, Papa, it’s me!” Lemusi laughed and placed a loving hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Hurry now, you don’t want to be late.” The Tsikata family lived in an affluent area of Accra known as the Airport Residential district. It was a neighborhood comprised of expensive homes shaded by the fronds of towering palm trees. They lived in a lovely one level, mahogany shingle with sweeping front and back verandahs, hardwood floors, and louvered windows. The kitchen was spacious and fitted with all manners of modern conveniences, including a refrigerator that dispensed water from the door and created ice cubes in the freezer. Kwasi and Lemusi were from the village known as Pram-Pram, located in the Volta region of Ghana. Kwasi had been educated in England and after graduating from university, found employment as an accountant in the government’s treasury department. He drove a silver Mercedes and had his eye on a piece of beachfront property in Takoradi, where he hoped to build a family vacation home. Lemusi was a teacher, but before she was a teacher she was a model and her face had graced the covers of many West African beauty magazines. They were practicing Catholics who attended church most Sundays. The worn leather bible that rested on the nightstand, along with the demure gold crosses all three family members wore around
their necks, publicized and punctuated their belief in the one, true God.
Chapter Two The summer Lemusi’s sister came to visit, Abebe was an impressionable, five-year-old. Serwa Zinga was four years younger than Lemusi and possessed the same cinnamon-colored complexion and wide-set eyes. But unlike Lemusi, Serwa was curvy; bottom and top heavy and favored clothing that accentuated those attributes: Mini skirts, low cut blouses, tight jeans, and high heels. Serwa drank and smoked and had a wantonness about her that made other women – including Lemusi – uncomfortable. Her years of living in America had imparted Serwa with a twang that made her sound like an Obruni – a white American.
She loved music, both the popular Ghanaian High-Life and the American R&B and Disco. She came to Ghana with a black case filled with music cassettes, which she played one behind the other, raising the volume on Kwasi’s stereo higher and higher until the music filled all the rooms of the house and could be heard out on the street. During those times, Serwa would grab Abebe by the hands and the two would dance until they were both drenched in sweat. Abebe was enchanted with her aunt. “One day, Abebe,” Serwa tweaked her nose and announced, “I am going to send for you to come and spend a vacation with me in America.” “Really?” “Uh-huh, and I’ll take you to McDonald’s and Burger King—” “What is that?” “You don’t know?” Abebe shook her head no. “Well, they’re wonderful restaurants that make delicious hamburgers and milk shakes!” Abebe licked her lips. Lemusi waved her hand. “That food is garbage. American trash and I won’t have my child eating it.”
Serwa and Lemusi looked at each other and something passed between them so heavy that it cut the air and Abebe felt a breeze against her cheek. The two sisters glared at each other for a moment before Serwa returned her gaze to Abebe and said, “So tell me, do you have a boyfriend?” Abebe made a face. “Yuk!” Serwa laughed. “So you don’t like boys?” Abebe shook her head no. “Don’t worry, one day you will. One day you will love them.” *** Months after Serwa had returned to her life in America, Lemusi realized that she was feeling more drained and lethargic than usual. She was a severe anemic and the disorder had always played havoc with her menstrual cycle, and so she did not think anything was wrong – or in this case, right – when two months passed and she still had not seen her period. It was the light-headiness and the nausea that washed over her whenever she smelled cooked meat – that and the unmistakable flutter deep down in her belly that finally put her on alert. Lemusi had had so many false alarms in the past that she dared not say anything to Kwasi before she was one hundred percent sure. When Dr. Benga confirmed that she was indeed with child, she broke down and wept in his arms. That evening she shared the news with Kwasi, and his face lit up like a
candle. “Are you sure?” Lemusi nodded her head while stroking her husband’s hair. Kwasi lifted Lemusi’s blouse and gazed at her stomach in wonder. “I can’t believe it.” His words were choked with happiness. “After so many years, finally...” “Ten years,” Lemusi said. “God has finally answered our prayers.” “I always knew that he had not forsaken us,” Lemusi said. “All in his time,” Kwasi whispered through his tears as he leaned in and kissed the warm flesh of Lemusi’s belly.
Mawuli was born in the spring - a round, brown boy with pink gums and sparkling eyes. Kwasi finally had a son; he could not have been more proud. His family was finally complete. Abebe spent all of her free time staring at Mawuli. He was the most wondrous thing that she had ever seen. She rocked, fed and changed him and never tired of combing her fingers through the wispy hairs on his head. “I love you more than crisps,” she whispered in Mawuli’s ear. That said a lot because crisps were Abebe’s absolute favorite treat.
Chapter Three
It was dinnertime when the call came from a cousin in Pram-Pram who’d walked ten miles from his village to a pay phone. Thunder boomed a town away, the air was suddenly thick with the scent of rain,
and an angry, evening wind began to whip the palm trees just as Kwasi pressed the phone to his ear and said, “Hello?” “Your papa has passed away,” the cousin announced thinly. Kwasi dropped the phone, stumbled to the couch and fell down into the cushions. The next day he packed his family into the car and drove to PramPram. The trip took four hours, and when they arrived, the vehicle was covered in red dust. When they entered the village, a group of children the boys indistinguishable from the girls - began running alongside the car, tapping the windows and waving. Kwasi’s mother was seated outside of her hut, a gourd bowl filled with dried peas rested on her lap; her fleshy hips spilled over the sides of the stool she sat on. Kwasi leapt from the car and bounded over to her. Lemusi followed and the two threw their arms around her shoulders and kissed her cheeks. Abebe had only been to Pram-Pram a few times. Those visits had been a time of sheer delight for her as she swam naked in the lagoon, chased chickens, hugged goats, and squealed when her grandmother aimed the cows’ utter at her face and squeezed the milk into her open and waiting mouth. Abebe climbed from the car clutching her Walkman protectively to her chest. The circle of children closed in around her, pointing and chanting, “What is that? Can I have it, sister? What is that?”
Abebe’s grandmother reeked of sweat, grilled meat and melancholy. The old woman squeezed Abebe, kissed her cheeks, patted her backside, told her that she was too thin, offered her a mango, looked at the silver and black contraption that Abebe held in her hands, and shook her head in dismay. The grandmother’s home was a three-room thatched roof mud hut. The front room held two metal chairs with tattered, green cushions and one short square table made of wood. An aged, yellowed, calendar depicting the deceased Ghanaian president, Kwame Nkrumah, hung on the wall near the door. The back rooms were furnished with twin-sized beds, grass sleeping mats, and nothing else. The cooking area was located behind the house and was comprised of three piles of stones beneath an awning made of grass. There was no indoor plumbing, just a standpipe located in the middle of the village where the women lined up daily, to fill their buckets with water for cooking, drinking and bathing. They washed their clothes in the lagoon. The toilet was a concrete box with a wooden door. On the floor of the structure was a hole, which one would squat over to relieve themselves. It was shared by four other families. Abebe and her family remained in the village for one week, making many trips into town to be fitted for the special funeral garments. Kwasi fought long and hard with his brothers about the color and pattern before they finally agreed on red and gold Bubu’s.
An art coffin was constructed from walnut wood and carved with intricately detailed images that reflected the senior Tsikata’s life as a husband, father and farmer. The cost was a staggering 3000Cedi. Kwasi said he didn’t care if it was 30,000Cedi; his father deserved the best. The nights in Pram-Pram were long, black and filled with sinister sounds. In Abebe’s mind, mating cats became feuding lions, the patter of feet - a charging elephant. She pressed her trembling body against the bulk of her grandmother’s and was eventually lullabied to sleep by the music of the old woman’s beating heart. On the day of the funeral, large black and red tents were erected at the graveyard. Vendors sold handkerchiefs and beer to the mourners. The old women of the village beat their breasts and wailed. Tables draped in red cloth were placed to the right of the coffin, where people could place their offerings of money, food and liquor. The funeral attendants handed out laminated programs that pictured the deceased Tsikata. Abebe stared down at photograph of her grandfather; his black eyes watched her from beneath his furrowed brow. Her memory of him was as faint as a dream. Bored, she bounced the card against her knee until Lemusi took it from her and placed it in her purse. After the ceremony, the body was interned, which signaled the end of the mourning period and the beginning of the celebration. Agboba drums accompanied by Axatse’s rang through the air as people gathered around the large tables laden with a variety of traditional
Ghanaian food and piled high their plates with red-red, fufu, fried fish, pepper stew, breads, and fresh fruits. Libations were opened, spilled in honor of the deceased and then consumed. Abebe and her cousins ran circles around the mud huts and played hide-and-seek in the brush as the adults flung their hands into the air, stomped their feet, and swung their hips in a fit of joyful dance. The merriment went on until the darkness seeped from the sky and the sun’s yellow head peeked over the horizon. The sun was a high yellow ball in the sky when Lemusi and Kwasi finally crawled onto the tiny bed and wrapped their arms around one another. Kwasi’s breath was sweet with Schnapps, his words thick with sleep when he announced, “I will bring Mama to stay with us for a little while.” Lemusi tightened her arms around his neck and planted a tender kiss on his lips. “Of course, Kwasi. Whatever you think is best.”
Chapter Four
To Grandmother, Accra smelled of smoke, steel and shit. She thought her son’s house was too grand and reminded Kwasi that he was
not a king or a chief, so all of the rooms were unnecessary, especially for a family with just two children. The grandmother had raised eight children in her modest hut. “And why is the food cooked inside the house?” she asked. Kwasi shrugged his shoulders, “That’s just the way it’s done here,” he said. In an effort to appease her, Kwasi went out and purchased a television, which he placed on the small wooden chest in the grandmother’s bedroom. Grandmother eyed it suspiciously. The last time she watched television was a decade earlier when she went to visit the family of her daughter-in-law. It was a small black and white Zenith, with a dial. The antenna was a wire hanger wrapped in foil. Kwasi proudly handed her a remote control. She looked at the white, oblong object, folded her hands defiantly across her breasts, and said, “What am I to do with that?” And so the next day, Kwasi bought her a radio. Grandmother spent her days roaming the house, examining the knick-knack souvenirs that friends had purchased abroad and given as gifts to the Tsikata’s: A white man on a surfboard, a pointed tower, a grand clock. The words stamped on the souvenirs - Hawaii, Paris, London – meant nothing to Grandmother because her language was Ewe and her English was limited to “hello” and “good-bye.” She spoke some Twi, but not much. Grandmother went into Abebe’s room, picked up and then tossed
down the stuffed animals that were neatly arranged across her bed. She reached for the snow globe on the nightstand, shook it, and watched the bits of white plastic swirl and settle on a tiny castle. She pressed her fists into her hips and stared at the poster of a galloping pink horse with a spike jutting from the center of his forehead. Such frivolity, the grandmother thought and then sucked her teeth in disgust. In the evenings, Grandmother enjoyed hiding behind the curtains of her bedroom window, eavesdropping on conversations of the unsuspecting neighbors. During the day, she sat on the front verandah in a folding chair and gazed down at the people dressed in their western clothing who moved up and down the sidewalks. She complained that the cook, a young girl called Abba, did not know what she was doing. Lemusi and Kwasi smiled and listened respectfully to the old woman’s grievances, but did nothing to change the situation, and so one day Grandmother changed it for them. Kwasi was at work, Abebe was at school, and Lemusi had taken the baby for a visit with a friend. When Grandmother heard Abba set the large, metal pot onto the stove, she emerged from her room like a crow and flew into the kitchen squawking demands. “Show me how to work this stove. Fill this pot with water! Chop this…cut that…!” A flustered Abba complied without question. When Lemusi returned home, Grandmother was standing over the
stove, stirring a pot of stew and Abba was cowering in the corner. “Mama, what are you doing?” Lemusi asked. “We have Abba to do that.” “Her food tastes like pig slop. Anyway, what am I to do, sit in that room all day listening to the radio and staring at the picture box?” Grandmother stated without looking up from her task. “Of course we don’t expect that. But you’re here to rest, not work. Take a walk. The streets are safe, very safe. No harm will come to you. There are eyes everywhere. Our neighbors know who you are.” Grandmother dropped a pinch of salt into the stew and swirled the wooden spoon around the concoction a few times before bringing the spoon to her lips for a sample. Satisfied, she nodded her head and then looked at Lemusi and said flatly, “You should have left me to die in Pram-Pram. This place is hell.”
Later on, in the privacy of their bedroom, Lemusi gently massaged the arch of her husband’s back. Kwasi was tense, but not for the reasons Lemusi suspected. Having his mother there had not been easy for any of them. Grandmother’s adjustment to city living had been slow and painful and was at times a weight on the family – but that was not the source of the knot of tension in his back. “It’ll get better,” Lemusi whispered. “Everything is new to her. It’s
just going to take more time than we thought.” Kwasi nodded his head; his mother was the very least of his worries. What was paramount in his mind was the allegation that had come down from the director of the treasury accusing Kwasi’s manager – Ota Nweli - of diverting government money into his secret, personal account. Ota’s passport had been seized and he had been placed under house arrest while the police investigated the charges. Kwasi had been summoned to the director’s office and questioned about the matter. “I had no idea,” Kwasi said and shoved his trembling hands into the pockets of his pants. He did not understand why he was so nervous because he was in no way involved and knew nothing of the theft. But still, perspiration gathered in beads across his forehead, and his tongue turned to sand paper. “Really? None at all?” the director said in a gruff voice. “You were his right hand man, and you didn’t notice that these funds were missing from the account?” “No, sir, I did not. Those particular books were not put in my charge.” The director eyed him warily. “The truth will be revealed.” He dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Did you hear me, Kwasi?” Lemusi had brought her lips close to
his ear. Her warm breath fanned across his cheek. Kwasi turned and looked into her eyes. “I’m sorry, Lemusi,” he said as he placed his palm on her cheek. “I was thinking about something. What did you say?” Lemusi grinned. “I said, stop worrying yourself about your mother. Everything is going to be just fine.” Kwasi nodded his head. “Of course it will.”
Chapter Five
When Lemusi came wobbling into the house supported by her husband and a pair of crutches, Grandmother tilted her nose into the air and said, “That is what happens when you wear those awful high-heeled shoes.” Lemusi ignored her comment. “It was the silliest thing. I go up and down those steps at least once a week. How I missed the last step, I don’t know. Thank God I wasn’t carrying Mawuli!” Kwasi helped Lemusi down onto the couch, turned to his mother who had followed them into the living room, and announced, “The doctor said she’ll be in the cast for about six weeks.” “Six weeks?” Grandmother retorted with a huff. “With that thing on her leg?” “Yes.” Grandmother shrugged her shoulders, turned and went back into the kitchen where she seemed to spend most of her time now. Lemusi could hear her through the wall mumbling about high-heeled shoes and tight skirts.
During the second week of Lemusi’s convalescence, Kwasi came home in the middle of the afternoon. His face was limp with worry. “They have suspended me,” he said as he walked to the cabinet, pulled the bottle of Schnapps from the shelf, and poured himself a drink. “Suspended? But why?” asked Lemusi. “They think I have something to do with the money that was stolen.” By that time, Lemusi had already known about the theft, because news of it had reached the newspapers. Even as the reports gained momentum, Kwasi had kept the fact that he was being investigated a secret from Lemusi. But now all of that had changed. “That’s ridiculous. You’ve been working at the treasury department for ten years, and not a cent has ever gone unaccounted for.” Kwasi drained his glass and poured another. Lemusi watched quietly as he drank. When he’d drained the second shot, he looked down into the empty glass as if his life had fallen down into it. Lemusi asked, “How long will you be suspended?” “Until the investigation is complete and they find me innocent.” “And how long will that take?” Now a slither of panic could be
heard in her voice. “I don’t know,” Kwasi announced dryly. “What will we do for money?” Kwasi sighed. “I will still be receiving some of my salary.” “Some?” “Half.” “Half? We can’t live on half!” Kwasi scratched his head. “We have our savings, we’ll be fine. I can’t imagine that this investigation will go on for more than a few weeks.” Lemusi uttered a bitter laugh. “Have you forgotten where you live? This is Ghana. What might take a few weeks in other countries can take months or even years here.” Lemusi shifted uncomfortably on the couch and then timidly said, “I can go back to work.” Kwasi grunted and pointed a long finger at her cast. “It’ll be off soon.” He shook his head. “No, you need to be here with the baby. I said not to worry. We are fine.” ***
Days later, Mawuli fell ill. His body raged with fever and boils the size of eggs broke out on his skin. Kwasi took him to the doctor, who prescribed ointment and antibiotics. Grandmother did not trust westerners or their medicine and so she sent Abba to the market for herbs, which she then pounded into a paste, placed in a pot of water, and set to the boil. The concoction made a stench so strong it could be smelled for blocks. After a few minutes, Lemusi appeared at the doorway of the kitchen with her hand pressed over her mouth and spoke through the slats of her fingers, “What is that?” “Medicine for the child.” “Bush medicine?” “What else would it be?” Lemusi wobbled over and peered into the pot. “Is he to drink that?” “No, it is for him to wash in.” Lemusi backed away from the bubbling mixture. She removed her hand from her face and inhaled. The scent was so caustic it made her cough even though it seemed to have no effect on Grandmother at all. “I – I,” Lemusi began respectfully, “ I don’t think that this is a good idea. The medicine that the doctor prescribed will start to work very
soon, so…” Her words dropped away under Grandmother’s icy gaze. “You trust the white man’s medicine over that of your own kind?” Lemusi was flustered. “Well it’s not about trust...I just think that...” Grandmother slammed the spoon down onto the stove. “What do you think? Tell me.” Lemusi face turned scarlet, her lips continued to flap, but no words emanated from her mouth. Finally, embarrassed and ashamed, Lemusi retreated to her bedroom.
Hours later, she woke to Mawuli’s terrified screams. Grandmother had poured the mixture into the tub and had set Mawuli down into. Mawuli’s cries echoed through the house, pulling Lemusi from her afternoon nap. For a few moments, Lemusi floundered helplessly between sleep and wake, unable to decipher whether or not she was dreaming. When it was clear that Mawuli was in peril, Lemusi jumped from the bed and landed on her wounded ankle. Pain exploded behind her eyes, and she went crashing down to the floor where she lay moaning as she cradled her foot. When the pain ebbed to a throbbing ache, she crawled from the bedroom, down the hall, and into the bathroom where Mawuli’s cries bounced off the tiled walls like balls. “Mama! Mama, what are you doing?” Lemusi screamed as she
dragged herself into the bathroom. Grandmother had one meaty arm wrapped tight around Mawuli, holding his squirming, naked body down in the water. With her free hand, she dunked a sea sponge into the pot of the concoction she’d boiled and then raked the sponge across Mawuli’s skin, dispersing the green liquid over his flesh, rupturing the boils. The infection had seeped out and was floating atop the water like yokes. Mawuli’s face was red and wet with tears, and his mouth was stretched wide open as a fresh scream climbed his throat. Lemusi struggled to right herself and dragged her injured foot the last few feet until she was standing, unsteadily before Grandmother. The old woman looked up in surprise, but it was too late, Lemusi already had her by the wrist, pulling her arm back until Grandmother fell off the stool and hit the floor with a thump. Lemusi then snatched Mawuli from the water, and did not even glance at Grandmother as she hobbled from the bathroom, back down the hallway, and into her bedroom.
When Kwasi arrived from his hearing at the treasury department, Grandmother was seated on the verandah, solemnly plucking the feathers from the body of a decapitated fowl. “Mama,” Kwasi’s tone was tired. “I’ve asked you a hundred times not to do this on the front verandah. If you must buy and kill live fowl, you can do so in the backyard.”
Grandmother raised her head. Her lips were pressed into a thin angry line. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” “Your wife hit me.” Kwasi was sure he’d heard wrong. He set his briefcase down, loosened the knot in his tie, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the gray slacks he wore, and said, “What did you say?” Grandmother flung her arm out at Kwasi, revealing the impressions of Lemusi’s fingers pressed black and blue into the flesh of her wrist. Kwasi stared in quiet astonishment. “Lemusi did this?” he asked unbelievingly. To Kwasi, it seemed that his life was unraveling as quickly as a ball of yarn. The officials at the treasury department claimed to have incrementing evidence as well as an eyewitness who could confirm Kwasi’s involvement in the theft. When Kwasi asked to see the evidence, and for the name of the eyewitness, the officials had stammered and stuttered, and in the end had not granted either request. Instead, they’d thrust an affidavit under Kwasi’s nose and urged him to sign it. “We can make this go away for you, Tsikata. No prosecution and no jail time, just dismissal.” Kwasi quickly understood that they didn’t have anything on him, but were looking for a scapegoat to take the fall. The Ghanaian
newspapers were demanding that the treasury department bring the coconspirators to justice and criticized the snail-like progression in which the investigation was progressing. Some of those articles had been reprinted in European and Chinese newspapers, which painted Ghana in a less than favorable light on the world’s stage. Kwasi refused to sign the affidavit and instead had gone straight to an attorney whom he paid a ten thousand Cedi retainer. That had taken little over half of what was left of their savings. And now he’d come home to find that his wife had attacked his mother. Kwasi left his mother on the verandah and marched into the house to his bedroom. The door was closed and locked. Kwasi knocked and when Lemusi did not immediately respond his temper boiled over and shouted, “Lemusi, open this door now!” The lock clicked open and Kwasi barged in. Lemusi was seated on the edge of the bed; her hair was flayed about her head like that of madwoman and her eyes were red and puffy from crying. Mawuli was beside her, fast asleep. “What have you done?” “What have I done? What have I done?” With each question, Lemusi’s voice climbed to a hysterical level. “Your mother went against my wishes and bathed our child in bark, and weeds and Lord knows
what else, so I did what I had to do!” Kwasi opened his mouth to speak, but Lemusi wasn’t done yet. “Look, look at your son’s skin. Look at it!” Kwasi gazed down at the gaping purple craters on Mawuli’s body and then he turned back to his wife and said, “They look like they’re healing. Isn’t this what we wanted?” Lemusi was up and in his face before he could utter another word. The slap was sudden and harsh, temporarily blinding him. “L-Lemusi!” Kwasi cried as he caught her by her small shoulders, whipped her around, and then slammed her against the wall. The mirror shook and slipped off of the wall and crashed loudly to the floor. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” “I want her out of this house. Today, right now! Take her back to Pram-Pram!” Lemusi screamed hysterically. “Have you gone mad? Stop it!” Kwasi yelled as he shook her. Lemusi kept screaming and Kwasi kept shaking her. But Lemusi would not stop screaming, and Kwasi finally unfurled his fingers from her shoulders and stepped back. They glared at each until he mumbled an apology. Lemusi did not respond; she hobbled shakily away from him, and fled to Abebe’s room where she remained until Abebe came home from school.
That evening, the family ate dinner in silence. The tension hung in the air like syrup. Abebe longed to escape it and so hurried through her meal and then asked if she could be excused. Sometime during the night, Abebe woke to use the bathroom and heard the hushed voices of her father and grandmother. They were conversing in Ewe, a language that Abebe was not quite familiar with and so she was only able to make out a few words. Her name was mentioned a number of times along with that of her mother and her aunt Serwa. The grandmother made a remark about bad luck, which was followed by a million words, Abebe did not understand. There was urgency in her grandmother’s tone, but her father’s responses sounded unsure.
I hope you’ve enjoyed this excerpt of My Name is Butterfly. For a limited time only you can purchase the ebook for .99cents on Amazon, B&N and Smashwords.
Other books by Bernice L. McFadden
Gathering of Waters Glorious Nowhere is a Place Camillla’s Roses Loving Donovan This Bitter Earth The Warmest December Sugar Visite the author at: www.bernicemcfadden.com
