Lighthouse

By Kingsley Osei-Karikari

A slap awakened the neighborhood.

Then mama poked her head through the door and apologized to the onlooking neighbors. "It's all fixed now," she declared.

The broken fridge was indeed fixed. Mama fixed things with her hands. She had to.

"See you later, mama." I descended the hill and went to work.

Come, work with me. I'm 7 and I'm a roadside seller.

I promise it's not that bad. All you must do is carry your merchandise, run next to the moving car, and sell to the woman sitting shotgun.

Try to keep up, and by the time you're 13, your legs will be very tired. Or maybe not. After all, you're only reading a book.

But what about my legs? And what about mama's hands? Will they get tired?

I want to take you on a journey that begins on a hill in Ghana. Relax, and endure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9781662445484

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Lighthouse

Kingsley Osei-Karikari

Copyright © 2022 Kingsley Osei-Karikari

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2022

ISBN 978-1-6624-4547-7 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-6624-4548-4 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

The Place I Grew Up

Donfuget

I Just Sniffed It

Fosters

Integrity

Fireside

The Sky on Earth

Modern Ladies

Eclipse

Washing Machine

5 Minutes

Secret

Cold Feet

Fall

Mac and Cheese

Peace of Mind

Rejected Ballots

Sundays

Who Am I?

What Happened?

Voice

Dim

About the Author

The Place I Grew Up

March 3, 2004. It was an unassuming evening just like the previous four days. The skies were still lit with a hint of the sun's inescapable presence. Whether it was January or March or September, it would not matter because the sun is king in this part of the world, and no winter would come and tame its scorching brightness.

I had just arrived home from school, but before I set my backpack down, Obaatanpa issued a clear instruction that I must run to buy charcoal from Maakro market because a two-cedis worth of charcoal in the coal pot had somehow disappeared into ashes before her bewildered eyes.

Akwasi, two cedis o. Mente asee, Obaatanpa said, shaking her head.

It took every breath of patience in her to not curse at this ungrateful charcoal. How dare this charcoal disappear before she was done cooking her long-awaited nkatenkonto soup?

She had saved for this soup for two weeks. I, on the other hand, had waited for three months since she last made nkatenkonto. Nkatenkonto was my most favorite soup.

Typically, when Obaatanpa sent me on an errand as soon as I arrived home from school, I whined that she was being inconsiderate. I had worked so hard during the day at school, and even if nothing else counted, my three-mile walk home alone should earn me a minute's rest before she sent me on another trip. But this night when I arrived home and was greeted with the unmistakable aroma of nkatenkonto, I did not dare complain. I just dropped my backpack and took to running to buy the charcoal.

However, unbeknownst to both Obaatanpa and I, an unannounced rain would ruin our feast.

Unannounced. Announcement was a privilege reserved for such things like funerals and weddings. Beyond this narrow range, everything that was heard was heard as rumor. It was a binary. Things were either announced or rumored. But the very nature of rumor was elevated in my society. When we heard a rumor, we treated it as truth because the information that was being rumored could save us from headache for several weeks ahead.

The rumors were rumors of consequence, and really, the rumors held more consequence than the announcements. Sometimes, Obaatanpa and I missed wedding announcements and paid no price for it. But when we missed the rumor that electric power would be cut for the next four days, we were caught unprepared with no kerosene reserved in our gallon. We lived through those four days without the simple but scarce comfort of a kerosene-lit lantern.

So to say that the rain came unannounced as if it was something shocking is hilarious, for it suggests that we lived in a society that was used to announcement. Weather fell outside the privileged circle of funerals and weddings, so it was never announced—only rumored. The rumors, of course, spreading from the sky itself based on how the clouds were forming and how our very tactical eyes, boasting years of experience of reading clouds, sent these visual cues to our cortex to interpret as the onset of rain.

Obaatanpa was an especially great cloud reader. She had honed her skill out of necessity because unlike the other moms in our neighborhood, she could not afford the rain pouring at any time between 4:00 and 7:00 p.m. The other moms, when the rain came pouring, gathered their foodstuff, utensils, coal pots, and charcoal and relocated themselves and their still-brewing dinner into a veranda where they cooked under a safe roof. When the rain came pouring, Obaatanpa did the same, except for a few differences. She gathered her foodstuff, utensils, coal pot, and charcoal and relocated herself and her still-brewing dinner to her bedroom, her living room, her dining room, and her kitchen all at once. Obaatanpa had only one room, no veranda. This one room housed her bed, her clothes, her mat, her fan, her wardrobe, and when the rains came pouring, her coal pot. This one-room home housed everything Obaatanpa and I owned.

On this night in March 2004, Obaatanpa's cloud-reading skills failed her.

It was 5:15 p.m. when the rain came. I was still racing back from the market with the charcoal she had instructed me to get. As soon as the first raindrop fell on my forehead, I thought about the still-brewing dinner and fear gripped me. So with my right hand, I secured the charcoal on my chest, bent my head down to protect the charcoal from rain, and ran as fast as I could while jumping over rocks and uncovered gutters, tactfully avoiding these hurdles and escaping the numerous threats of a fall that lay ahead with every step I took.

When I arrived home, beef and tilapia lay on the floor.

Unforgiving raindrops were falling hard on them. The soup had all been washed away. The saucepan that was once full of soup now sat next to the beef and tilapia, and was collecting rain. The coal pot was still in the rain, too. Its fire had been completely turned out by the merciless raindrops. My worst fear had come true. No nkatenkonto soup for us today.

I was not sad, not disappointed, not frustrated. I was just calm.

I opened the door to our one-room home and set the charcoal in the corner of the room. Then I ventured back into the rain, picked up the saucepan, and poured the rainwater out of it. I collected the estranged meat and fish and put them in the saucepan. Finally, I entered the one-room home and set the saucepan next to the charcoal. Drenched in rain, water dripped down my body and pooled around my feet.

Obaatanpa tossed me a towel. I looked into her eyes.

She was not sad, not disappointed, not frustrated. She was just calm.

This was not the first time we had lost our dinner to the rain. I knew what had happened, so there was no need to ask. She had rushed to get the saucepan off the coal pot and into the room, but it had slipped out of her grasp.

We were calm because we were thankful that the hot soup had not spilled on her feet. We could not afford a trip to the hospital. But we could afford a simple substitute dinner of tea with bread. For this, we were thankful.

This was the home in which I grew up. It was a one-room home. Within this one room, we had our living room section where the fan stood on the table, our bedroom section where the radio stood on the bed's wooden frame, our kitchen section where the sensitive fridge stood, and the six-feet-by-six-feet central space that served as bathroom on nights when the rain came pouring.

We were so much better off than at least two of our neighbors. These neighbors lived in one-room tents. Our one-room home was made of bricks. Their one-room tents were made of wood and cloth. I never entered the tents, but I did not need to enter to understand that they slept on mats, not beds, and had no fridge nor fan, for they had no electricity. They lived every day on the edge, hoping and praying the rains would not be too harsh and uproot their tents. Most days, the heavens listened to their prayers, but once every year, heaven turned its eye away from them. And every time they were uprooted by a storm, they rebuilt. The neighbors who lived in these one-room tents were Sister Akos and Auntie Ataa.

We were so much worse off than the neighbors who lived in the mansion that stood opposite our one-room home. This mansion—with its purple-painted wall that rose about eight feet high, an evergreen lawn, three two-bedroom flats, four single rooms, one guest room, two floors, and a spacious garage—overlooked the whole neighborhood. Maa Serwaa, the woman who owned it, fought the young boys in the neighborhood because we used her wall as goalpost when we played soccer on the dirt street. She repainted the walls every year because despite her fighting spirit, she could not stop us. That spot was the only good spot to play soccer in the neighborhood.

In our one-room home, the living room section where the fan stood on the table was my most favorite section. The table had one squeaky leg that twitched every time I set the lotion back on top of it. When this leg became so weak that Obaatanpa and I worried the table might collapse on itself, one Saturday, we took down all the items it carried—the fan, the lotion, a palm-sized mirror, and a roll of sewing thread—then rotated the table for its weak side to rest against the bed. With the weak leg now supported by the bed's frame, its melodious squeaks ceased. The room was too silent after that Saturday. I missed the squeaks.

The bedroom section where the radio stood on the bed's wooden frame was my second favorite part of our one-room home. The mattress was very soft. Obaatanpa changed the bedsheet every Saturday, and sometimes she even changed the bedsheet twice a week. I did not wet the bed. Obaatanpa simply liked clean sheets. The bed was as much my sleeping space as it was my study space. I sat on it to do my homework, and I studied for all my exams from first to seventh grade on this bed. Whenever I sat on the bed to study, I turned on the radio. Reggae music was popular on the radio, and for reasons unknown to me, I decided reggae was the genre of music I liked.

The kitchen section where the sensitive fridge stood was opposite the bed in our one-room home. I did not like the fridge for two reasons. First, I did not drink cold water so in my mind, we had no use for it. Second, as long as the fridge still had life in it, I was going to sell abele every weeknight and on Saturdays. Obaatanpa made the abele and froze them in the fridge, and I sold them at Maakro Park and around Maakro Junction, the two hotspots of Maakro. I felt it below my dignity to carry around abele, advertising at the top of my voice, Sweet abele. Homemade sweet. So cheap, it's almost free. I was terrible at the advertising part, but in those business transactions that ensued between me and my customers, I learned math.

The six-feet-by-six-feet central space that served as bathroom on nights when the rain came pouring had a woolen carpet. On nights when it was very hot, Obaatanpa set a mat in this central space and curled herself up on it. When I took naps in the afternoons, I did the same. The mat cooled my body. But it was a tradeoff because whenever I slept on it, I could not dream. It was as though the mat stole my dreams away. And among those stolen dreams were dreams about going to America. When it rained at night, Obaatanpa set a basin in this central space and took her shower while I showered outside in the rain. It was not worth it for her to walk all the way through the rain only to access the open-top bathroom that stood about sixty meters down the street. Open-top because it had no ceiling. The bathroom had an open top.

This one-room home where I grew up was very kind to me, but there was a time when I was ashamed to reveal my home to my friends.

Is this where you live? Michael asked, pointing to my one-room home.

No, I live here. I pointed to the mansion.

School had ended earlier than usual that Friday, and Michael had decided to walk with me. Michael said if he went home this early, he would have to wait outside the door to his home because his parents were still at work.

To deter Michael from coming with me, I said, "I am actually not going straight home. I must first deliver a message to my mom's friend.

Great. More time will pass as we walk.

I could not change Michael's mind.

During the walk, I tried more lies. After delivering the message, I may have to go to my aunt's place.

It doesn't matter, Michael said.

Michael kicked small rocks and happily told me about a series called Avatar. He insisted that he was a real-world avatar and could merge all the rocks around us into a mountain.

I have mastered earth bending was his mantra. He stretched out both hands and summoned the rocks to unite, but the rocks did not listen.

You must be the other boy—the stupid one that you just talked about, I teased.

No, you are Sokka. You walk just like him. I am the avatar, Michael teased back.

He put on an exaggerated bowlegged walk and circled me. I laughed with him and imagined the stupid boy, Sokka, who wore a robe and walked funny. "Maybe one day, I'll also watch Avatar," I whispered to myself.

Though Michael's company was refreshing and though our laughter was loud, I was running out of time. I needed to find another way to deter Michael so I took him on a longer path to my home.

Still, he did not seem to tire nor pick up on the cues that I was not ready to reveal where I lived.

After all my failed attempts, we finally came upon the hill on which my one-room home stood. My heart started racing and my eyes shifted uncontrollably to scout my surroundings.

As we climbed up, I made every effort to hide myself from Obaatanpa because I could not risk her seeing me from a distance and calling me over. That would ruin everything.

About halfway up the hill, we met a few of the neighborhood adults. Auntie Ataa, good afternoon. Dada Akwasi, good afternoon, I greeted them before continuing up. All these adults had little to no English education yet they knew how to say good afternoon in perfect Ghanaian English accent. They mostly struggled with good evening, but apart from saying evening as ee-veen, they responded to every other greeting in English perfectly.

Michael and I were now just about to walk past the mansion's front gate when I noticed the gate was unlocked. My heart jumped with joy.

I was lucky—and I knew it—because the mansion's gate was usually locked. But it would not be the only ray of luck that shone on me this afternoon.

I walked confidently toward the gate and led Michael into the beautiful compound. The evergreen lawn lay before us like a mythical garden. Michael and I were surrounded by the fresh smell of well-watered leaves and the fulfilling fragrance of blooming flowers. I undid my backpack and tiptoed to the center of the lawn before I lay down in it. Michael, emboldened by the confidence of his tour guide, did the same.

Including the owner, Maa Serwaa, four people lived in the mansion. But this afternoon, only one of them, Eno Mmum, was home. This meant there was less chance anyone would kick us out. I was lucky.

Eno Mmum was a wonderful neighbor and a great cook. I was told that when I was a newborn, she strapped me on her back and played with me every day. When I was a toddler, she bought me toys. But these days, as an elementary school boy, she supplied me dinners regardless of whether I had already eaten or not.

My typical conversations with Eno Mmum went like this.

Eno Mmum: gestured with her hands for half a minute.

I: nodded and smiled.

Eno Mmum: smiled and gestured again, this time for almost a minute.

I (watching attentively): nodded again and smiled.

Eno Mmum: shook her head vigorously and gestured again, this time slowly.

I (fixing my eyes on her hand movements): nodded and smiled more widely.

Eno Mmum: slammed her hands on her sides, smiled and walked away.

Our conversations were brief. I understood nothing, except for her slamming her hands on her sides out of frustration. She knew I did not understand her, but she kept trying.

This Friday, my conversation with Eno Mmum when she walked past the lawn was no different from the usual. Brief, nothing understood but meaningful.

She gestured to me and waved hi to Michael.

I nodded and said, He is my friend from school. She gestured back very proudly as though she heard and understood me.

Turning to Michael, I said, She is my aunt.

I had never been so proud of claiming someone who was not a relative as a relative. In that brief conversation with Eno Mmum, the mansion felt like home, and I felt like I had not been lying to Michael after all.

Michael and I sat on the lawn and played until he decided it was time to go home.

Everything had worked to emphasize or justify the lie. Michael could not believe I lived in a mansion. But in his mind, it all made sense. I was smart and always neat despite Ghana's dusty air. I was handsome. Handsome people were only born into affluent backgrounds.

Every day afterward, I claimed the mansion as my home.

And every time I claimed it, I wished I understood Eno Mmum's language. Nonetheless, I understood her heart. It was full of joy and kindness. Eno Mmum and I communicated past each other, but I think she knew that in every conversation we had, it was her heart that I understood the most.

This was the place I grew up. Deaf and dumb neighbors made the neighborhood whole as much as any other neighbor. We all took care of each other, and we welcomed new members into our neighborhood.

We took care of the madman who made his home in front of Auntie Abena's grocery store. We did not know where he came from. All we knew was he arrived one night, set down his luggage, and made himself comfortable. Once he made the veranda in front of Auntie Abena's store his home, he became one of us.

Eno Mmum invited the madman to the mansion. She had a bed for him, but the madman was too proud and preferred to sleep outside.

Eno Mmum fed the madman every night after he returned from his daily wanderings. No one knew exactly where he went during the day, but we hoped and prayed that he would not be knocked down by a car on one of his roadside walks.

The neighborhood kids were afraid of him at first. But over time, even us kids accepted him as a worthy member of our neighborhood. He did not bother anyone. No one bothered him. He was a man who had lost his bearing, and in a country like ours, he did not have access to treatment.

We woke up one morning and learned that he had died. Rumor said Auntie Abena hired macho men the night before to beat him up. She blamed her sinking grocery business on him. No one knew if the rumor was true, but I have mentioned that where I grew up rumors were the next best thing to truth. The madman's name was Bola.

This was the place I grew up. Our one-room home sat on top of a gentle hill. Our home was light because we owned little property. It was so light a strong storm could have uprooted it at any point. But thankfully, a storm strong enough did not come our way. I called our home a lighthouse. On one hand, it made me sad to think of it as a light, empty house. But on the other hand, it made me happy because it gave our home an important role in the community as a lighthouse that lights the way for all neighbors.

Donfuget

Don't forget this story.

Sweet abele. Homemade sweet. So cheap, it's almost free.

These were the chants heard around Maakro Park and Maakro Junction on weeknights and Saturday afternoons. And to this day, it never fails. At least once every few months, a seven-year-old boy visits me in my dreams, chanting these words, Sweet abele. Homemade sweet. So cheap, it's almost free.

It was a Thursday evening with foggy gray skies. Gray skies were unusual around this time of the year. So I hoped the gray would give way to black tonight because black, when dotted by those bright spots of stars, looked magnificent.

It had been a bad day at school, but Obaatanpa always said, There's never a dull day in nature. Always look up and admire. It doesn't cost a thing. So when I looked up, I saw beauty in the gray and did not worry about my unimpressive day at school.

Good afternoon, Mama, I greeted when I arrived home.

Good afternoon, my boy. How was school today?

I got a zero on my English homework.

We did? What did we do wrong?

Not we, Mama. Me. It's only me. I get the grades. You don't.

It's us, Akwasi. When you fail, it means I failed.

Obaatanpa took my backpack and opened my English homework book.