From Pasta to Pigfoot (35 page)

‘Because funerals are so important, not to mention expensive, friends and well-wishers contribute to the cost. Those people lined up there are giving donations – we call it
nsa –
to help our family pay for all this.' As they watched, one of the men seated at the table scribbled out a receipt and handed it to a donor in exchange for an envelope filled with cash and then announced the donation in
Twi
over the PA system.

‘As for the dancing; well, you should know we have dances for every occasion; whether we are happy or sad,' Auntie Akosua went on. Changing the subject, she gestured towards the field. ‘You see that man who is walking over to the public address system – he came over to greet us earlier?'

Faye looked across to where her aunt was pointing but couldn't distinguish the man from what seemed like the hundreds of people who had greeted the family that day. She shook her head in apology.

‘He was my late uncle's best friend,' Auntie Akosua continued. ‘He's now going to read the first tribute, which will be my uncle's biography.'

The elderly man adjusted his black cloth, tossing it over his shoulder with ease, and straightened out a sheet of paper he had retrieved from his shorts. He slipped on a pair of glasses and in a surprisingly strong voice, read out a long biography of the late Mr Ofosu Obeng. Faye listened in fascination to the life history of the deceased, which was followed by other tributes given by his friends, former work colleagues and relatives.

After the tributes had been concluded, the family headed back home to have lunch and to give the older aunties a chance to rest before returning to the funeral ground. Back at the house, they had a simple meal of hot
kenkey
with fried fish and pepper sauce and about an hour later, set off back to the school for the remainder of the funeral rites.

They returned to their seats, accompanied by loud drumming as the MC announced their presence. The drummers had tied their cloths around their waists and their lean dark torsos gleamed with sweat as they played.

Nana Osei and his grandfather walked over to greet the family and sat down to chat with them. Nana Osei sat in the empty seat next to Faye and gave her an impromptu lesson on the drums being played. The large
drums with inverted metal bowls were called
ntumpane
drums, he explained, while the other drums that looked to Faye rather like elongated wooden barrels with tightly stretched hide across the top were called
fontomfrom
drums. Beating the
fontomfrom
with sticks with a right-angled hook at the ends, the drummers skilfully stirred the crowd of mourners into action.

Before long a number of women had taken to the field, dancing rhythmically to the sound of the drums. Waving their handkerchiefs, they danced towards the family, beckoning to them to come and join them.

The old aunts rose stiffly to their feet and moved onto the field. Auntie Dufie was surprisingly agile as she waved her arms in time to the drums and swayed towards the other dancers. Auntie Serwah gyrated her hips and moved along with Uncle Kodjo, who managed to dance a series of convoluted steps while still keeping his cloth draped over his shoulder. The other family members stood up to dance and Auntie Akosua pushed a nervous Faye forward onto the field.

Although she was initially appalled at the thought of all the eyes upon her, once she was on her feet and felt the throb of the drums, she lost any sense of self-consciousness and began to sway in time to the beat. Soon she was waving and gyrating sinuously with the others, lost in the rhythmic beat of the drums. A group of women danced over to her and raised their hands over her, two fingers extended as though in victory, in salute to her dancing. Eventually, the drums died down and they returned to their seats, invigorated by the experience.

A couple of hours later, the old aunts were visibly wilting. After a quick word from Uncle Kodjo, the announcement was made over the speakers by the MC that the family were leaving. Shaking hands with their relatives and other well-wishers as they left the grounds, they made their way to the car and were soon back at the house.

Faye collapsed onto the aged sofa as soon as they arrived home, the elderly ladies having immediately headed off to their rooms to lie down.

‘Whew! What a day.' She pulled off her black headscarf with a sigh of relief. ‘It's amazing how tiring just sitting down can be.'

Auntie Akosua sat on a chair, stretched her legs out in front of her and gently kneaded her temples.

‘These events are exhausting,' she said with a deep sigh. ‘Although we're leaving tomorrow, the tradition is that the family has to go round and visit those who came or helped with the funeral and thank them. Then, they've got to sit down and go through all the expenses connected with the funeral –
ayi asi'ka
, as we say in
Twi
, and to see whether the
nsa
that was donated by family members and friends will cover the cost.'

‘What happens if it doesn't?' Faye asked curiously. The older woman laughed and shrugged. ‘Well, then the family must make up the difference, which usually means that the cost will be shared out amongst us, the blood relations.'

Faye dragged herself off the sofa. ‘Well, I know it doesn't sound like me, but I'm so tired I don't think I've got the energy to stay awake for supper. Is it okay if I go up to bed now?'

Auntie Akosua nodded. ‘That's fine, my dear. Go up and rest.' She smiled as Faye yawned widely, unable to disguise her fatigue. ‘We'll leave after breakfast tomorrow. Kodjo will drive us back to Kumasi and we'll get the midday bus to Accra.'

Faye waved goodnight and trudged up the stairs, barely managing to remove her funeral cloth and wash her face before collapsing into bed and sleeping dreamlessly.

The following morning, after a warm bath this time, and a hearty breakfast, Auntie Akosua and Faye bid farewell to the elderly aunts. Auntie Serwah hugged Faye warmly, insisting that she come back to visit them. Auntie Dufie unbent slightly and thanked her grudgingly for coming to support them in their grief. Trying not to smile at Auntie Serwah's broad wink as she stood safely behind her sister, Faye thanked them both gravely for their hospitality before heading towards the pickup and clambering into the back seat.

‘We'll stop at your grandfather's first so you can say goodbye,' Uncle Kodjo said cheerily as he climbed up onto his cushion and started the truck. He gave his aunts a farewell wave and drove up the road and around the small roundabout, following the same route past the church that Faye and Auntie Akosua had taken two days earlier.

Parking in front of the Boateng house, he gave two short blasts of his horn and waited. Shortly afterwards, Nana's stooped figure appeared and he walked slowly towards them.

Smiling at Faye who waved at him from the back seat, he greeted the older couple first.

‘Kodjo, I don't want to delay you but I think my grand
daughter has one last very important visit to make,' he said. The two men exchanged a look and Kodjo turned enquiringly to his sister.

She nodded and climbed down from her seat to assist the old man to climb up and take her place, and then joined Faye in the back of the pick-up.

‘Are we going to visit another relative?' Faye was curious about the silent interplay that had just taken place. For a moment no one spoke. Auntie Akosua took Faye's hand between her own and spoke gently.

‘We're going to the cemetery where Annie is buried. You know that she was brought back here after she passed away, don't you?'

Faye sat for a moment in stunned silence. ‘Dad never said anything about it, and I guess we never asked him because it was all so painful.'

Auntie Akosua stroked her hand gently. ‘I think you'll be glad you had a chance to see where she is laid to rest.'

They drove in silence for about ten minutes and came to a stop at the side of the main road leading out of the town. Uncle Kodjo climbed down and walked round to help the older man out, while the two women stepped down from the back.

Faye looked around apprehensively, noting a signboard that bore the simple words ‘
Ntriso Cemetery'
. There was scarcely a sound to be heard except for the loud chirping of birds and the odd car driving by. She followed the old man and Uncle Kodjo for a few minutes through thick grass and past marble headstones, with Auntie Akosua close by her side.

The men came to a sudden stop and stood back, beckoning to Faye to come forward. Her heart pounding in her chest, she moved to join them and stared transfixed at the tombstone before them. It was made of white marble and the words ‘Annabel Asantewaa Bonsu' were carved in gold along with the dates of her birth and death. Inset into the headstone was a picture of a smiling woman with high cheekbones and striking almond-shaped eyes.

Faye's eyes misted over as she stared at the serene expression on the woman's face. She had never seen this particular picture of her mother before but, as she took in the features so like her own, she knew now without any doubt that she had inherited more from her mother than she had ever realised.

‘Nana, she was beautiful, wasn't she?' She turned to the old man who had been watching her sadly. He nodded slowly, suddenly looking older than he had just moments before.

‘Asantewaa had a natural beauty that drew everyone to her,' he said heavily. He patted her gently on the shoulder. ‘You have the same quality, my dear,' he added, his dark eyes twinkling at her. ‘Come, we should leave now so you can take this old man back to his house before you set off.'

They walked back to the pick-up and Faye stayed silent during the drive, still caught up in the whirlwind of emotions brought on by what she had just witnessed. Back at his house, Nana hugged her warmly, waved goodbye and watched them as they drove off.

On the drive back to Kumasi, Auntie Akosua and her brother chatted quietly about the follow-up arrangements
for the funeral while Faye sat quietly in the back seat. As they drove through the small rural settlements along the main road to Kumasi, she could see women pounding fufu and cooking with charred coal pots, while little children chased after chickens and played in the dust.

Uncle Kodjo glanced over his shoulder and took in her expression as she watched them.

‘Yes,' he said soberly, in answer to her unspoken question. ‘I'm sure it's quite different from the parts of Accra that you've seen. When you spend as much time as I do meeting and doing business with people from these small villages, you sometimes cannot believe that you are all part of the same country.'

‘We have so much to do to improve the lives of the people in the rural areas that sometimes the task seems impossible,' Auntie Akosua interjected. ‘With all the modern conveniences we are used to in the city, it's easy to forget that out in these areas, very little has changed.'

Uncle Kodjo nodded in agreement. ‘Our contact with the West has had a very uneven impact on our culture here in Africa. As a result, you will see a major contrast between a very Westernised society – the educated people in the urban centres – and the traditional rural people whose beliefs and way of life are in many ways not very different from what they have always been.'

He slowed the truck down to allow a young boy in tattered shorts to herd some goats across the road. He grinned at them as he ran after the last of his animals and waved cheerfully before continuing on his way.

‘You take that young man,' Uncle Kodjo said. ‘Now
he could be a potential doctor or engineer and yet it is unlikely that he will even finish school.'

Faye pondered on this for a few minutes. ‘Dad is always saying that at least in Ghana people have been able to avoid the wars that some of the other countries in Africa have experienced.'

Uncle Kodjo nodded. ‘That's true, but until we start taking more control of our economy, we are always going to struggle to catch up with the rest of the world.' He glanced round at her and grinned. ‘But I also think that sometimes we are given a poor deal in how the developed world sees us. It's funny that when there's fighting in Europe it's called “ethnic conflict” but when it happens in Africa, they call it “tribal warfare”.'

Auntie Akosua chipped in. ‘Oh yes, we in Africa have villages but in the West they have “rural communities”.'

Faye laughed ruefully. ‘I know what you mean. You wouldn't believe the number of times in this day and age – despite the internet and everything – that I still have to explain to some people that Africans don't live in trees or run around spearing each other to death!'

The rest of the journey went by swiftly and soon they were at the transport yard saying goodbye to Uncle Kodjo. He waited until they were safely aboard the bus bound for Accra before waving farewell and returning to his truck.

There were fewer people on the bus during the return trip. This time they made the journey without the accompanying aroma of dried fish and Auntie Akosua kept Faye entertained with stories about her mother and their adventures as teenagers.

It was late afternoon by the time they arrived at the busy state transport yard in Accra. Retrieving their bags from the hold, they walked out into the hot sunshine in search of a taxi.

‘I'll drop you off at Labone and then carry on to my house, Faye,' Auntie Akosua said, as a taxi pulled up at her signal. When they arrived at Labone, Faye gave the older woman a warm hug before stepping out of the car.

‘Don't bother getting out, Auntie Akosua. You must be exhausted.'

‘I am rather tired, my dear. Give my regards to the family and tell Amelia that I will call her later this evening.'

The driver revved his engine noisily at the delay, earning an irritated glare from Auntie Akosua. ‘Take care, Faye, and thank you for coming with me. I hope you enjoyed the trip?'

‘I had a wonderful trip, Auntie Akosua,' Faye replied, the sincerity in her voice unmistakable. ‘Thank you for taking me home.'