Growing Yams in London (17 page)

‘Oh.’

‘So anyway, in 1896 King Prempeh I and some chiefs held a peaceful
durbar .
. .’

‘What’s a
durbar
?’

‘Look it up, Delphy,’ I said, and she gave me a disappointed look. ‘Oh OK, it’s an official meeting held during colonial times between a British governor and local chief
or dignitary.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, smiling.

‘Anyway, they went to discuss British rule of the Asante Kingdom with the Governor, William Maxwell, and within eight days of that meeting, they were all arrested and then exiled in the
Seychelles.’

‘What! Why?’ Delphina questioned, sitting up.

‘Stop interrupting me and I’ll tell you,’ I said, smirking. I was just impressed that I had her attention. Delphy was usually a tough audience.

‘Apparently, the British believed that if they removed King Prempeh I they could destroy the Asante Kingdom and seize control of the region.’

‘So then what happened?’

‘Hold on. Well, as Queen Mother, Yaa Asantewaa automatically became the leader of the Egweso, because its own chief had been sent to exile along with King Prempeh I.’

‘And?’

‘Delphy! Then the British did something terrible. In 1900, the new governor, Hodgson, demanded to sit on the Golden Stool. I think he knew about Ghanaian folklore surrounding the Golden
Stool.’

‘What is it?’

‘The Golden Stool was the most sacred symbol of the Asantes’ strength, independence and spirituality, and there was a link between whoever sat on the stool and the strength of the
Asante Kingdom. Hodgson thought that if he sat on the Golden Stool, he would automatically control the Asantes.’

‘Why aren’t you asleep?’ Dad interrupted, appearing in the doorway.

‘Makeeda was telling me about Yaa Asantewaa,’ Delphy said.

‘Really?’ Dad said, impressed.

‘Yes – can I stay up? Oh please, Daddy?’ Delphina said, putting on her best baby face.

‘No. You have school tomorrow and you’ll be too tired.’

Wow, he really was becoming resistant to her cute faces.

‘Goodnight, Delphina,’ he said, kissing her forehead.

‘Night, Dad,’ she replied sulking.

‘Tomorrow,’ I said, and I walked back to my room.

Since my argument with Mum, Dad hadn’t behaved any different towards me. He told me outright how disappointed he was that I’d lied and with the way I spoke to Mum, but that was it.
The atmosphere between Mum and me was still icy, and I hated it. I was beginning to wish that I hadn’t said all that stuff about her and Tanisha; at least then I’d only have been
punished for going out with Nelson. I missed her. I didn’t even have the bits of her I got when Tanisha was around. This was worse. It was like not having a mother at all.

I was tidying up my essay on my PC when Delphina raced in. She was already in her pyjamas.

‘Mum says you have to read to me again.’

‘What? Your bedtime isn’t for another hour.’

‘So? You promised!’

‘OK, fine,’ I said, reaching for a rough version of my essay.

My mobile rang.

‘Hey, it’s me,’ Nelson said.

‘Hiya!’ I said excitedly, closing my door.

‘Wanna meet up outside the library in Harrow?’

‘Er . . . when?’

‘About forty-five minutes.’

‘Um . . .’

‘Come on, I haven’t seen you in ages!’

‘Yeah OK,’ I said.

‘Later!’ he said, and the line went dead.

‘Makeeda!’ Delphy yelled.

I walked into her room and found her sitting up in anticipation.

‘This isn’t just a story, is it? It really happened, right?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘OK. You were up to that governor asking to sit on the Golden Stool.’

‘Right, well, the Asante dignitaries were totally outraged and Yaa Asantewaa told Hodgson that only the King knew where the Golden Stool was kept, so he should be returned from
exile.’

‘Wow!’ Delphina said, amazed. ‘Then what happened?’

‘Well, Hodgson refused to return the King and the other chiefs, so Yaa Asantewaa and the other dignitaries left. Eventually Yaa Asantewaa persuaded them that they needed to fight the
British. So war was declared.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Delphy . . .’

‘I know, I know, if I shut up you’ll tell me,’ Delphy said, making me laugh.

‘Hodgson arranged a search party for the Golden Stool, but Yaa Asantewaa’s soldiers stopped them and successfully protected it.’

‘Good!’

‘OK, Delphy,’ I said, smiling at her enthusiasm. ‘So the war went on until 25th April 1900 when Yaa Asantewaa’s troops managed to surround the British base in Kumasi, but
in June the governor escaped and alerted the British government and more troops were sent. Eventually Yaa Asantewaa and her troops were captured —’

‘Oh no!’

‘Yep. She was exiled to the Seychelles and in 1901 the Asante Kingdom became part of the Gold Coast.’

‘So she lost the war and was kicked out of the Asante Kingdom?’

‘Yes. No. Ohmigod!’ I said.

It suddenly dawned on me what Nana-Amma had been talking about when she said I should be thinking about the outcome of Yaa Asantewaa’s actions.

‘Makeeda, that doesn’t make sense,’ Delphy said, interrupting my thoughts.

I grabbed a pen from Delphy’s desk and scribbled on the last page of my essay.

‘What are you doing?’

I told Delphina about my conversation with Nana-Amma.

‘So Yaa Asantewaa lost the war, and in 1901 the Asante Kingdom became part of the Britsh empire. But she still managed to protect the Golden Stool,’ I said.

‘Did she ever return from exile?’

‘No, by the time King Prempeh I and his chiefs were returned to the Asante people in 1924, Yaa Asantewaa had already died. She died in 1921.’

‘Ohmigod, Makeeda, that’s such a sad story,’ Delphina said.

‘It’s not that sad. I mean, she managed to preserve the most significant symbol of Asante identity. If she hadn’t done that, maybe we would’ve lost all our
traditions.’ I said.

‘So she kind of won, right?’

‘Yes, Delphy,’ I said, gathering my papers. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a ruler sticking out of the plant pot. ‘Delphy, what are you growing?’

‘Yams.’

‘You’re growing yams?’ I said, trying not to snigger.

‘Yeah, but the temperature needs to be between twenty and thirty degrees Celsius for the first eight months of its growth cycle.’

‘Eight months? It’s really hot in here. Why didn’t you just grow broad beans?’ I remembered growing a broad bean plant when I was her age that actually grew shoots.

‘Too boring. Besides, Aunt Grace said she’d help me.’

I wasn’t that surprised. The only plants we had in our house were ones Aunt Grace gave us; she even designed our garden.

‘Delphy, you know that it’s really unlikely that your plant will grow into a . . .’

‘Shut up, Makeeda! My plant doesn’t need negative vibes!’ Delphina said, getting upset.

‘OK, OK, I’m leaving!’ I said.

‘When I’m a millionaire and everyone’s eating my yams, you’ll be sorry.’

‘Yeah right, Delphy,’ I said and left her room.

I looked at my watch. I had twenty-five minutes to convince Mum to let me out and meet up with Nelson. I ran downstairs and had the shortest conversation of my life with my mum. I lied and told
her I needed to go to the library to get a book for my essay. She agreed and even asked if I wanted a lift. I said no for obvious reasons and was out of the house and on a bus in record time.

After waiting in front of the library for ten minutes, I decided to move to the bus stop and sent him a text message.

Buses came and went, along with cars that looked too similar to Dad’s. I couldn’t help but panic that I’d get caught lying again. I kept glancing at my phone
and wondered why Nelson hadn’t replied to my message, hoping that there had been a weird delay in it reaching his phone.

He was now nearly thirty minutes late and I couldn’t help thinking that he’d been in an accident. When I called his mobile, I got his voicemail.

‘Hey, where are you? I’m still here, but I can’t wait much longer. I’m still grounded,’ I said into my phone.

When the fourth bus that Nelson should’ve been on arrived, I realised that I’d been stood up. Humiliated, I crossed the road and jumped on a bus home.

As the bus pulled into my road I received a text message.

Nelson: Can’t make it tonight.

I stared at his reply in disbelief. There was no apology. Was this Nelson’s way of dumping me? I cried all the way home.

I walked in to find Mum in exactly the same place I’d left her, on the couch, reading.

‘How was it – did you find anything?’ Dad said from the kitchen. He was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and looked a lot cleaner than usual. Mum makes him shower before having
dinner, as she hates the smell of the garage.

‘Um no, I didn’t.’

‘Oh right,’ he said. I could tell that he’d noticed I’d been crying but, thankfully, he left me alone.

I went to my room and began typing up a new conclusion to my essay.

An hour later Mum joined me.

‘Makeeda, I want to talk to you about Tanisha.’

I’d been anticipating this conversation for ages, but it still frightened me. I knew things between us had already changed because of that argument, but this conversation would change
things for ever. What if everything between us got worse, rather than better? Worse still, what if nothing changed and I never got my mother back?

I looked at Mum. She looked nervous and I could see what looked like fear in her eyes. The last time I saw that look was a few years ago, when Delphy had trouble breathing and was rushed to
hospital. Did Mum feel as anxious as me, or was I imagining it?

I watched as she took a deep breath and continued.

‘Makeeda, I need you to . . . to understand how I felt when my sister, your Auntie Jennifer died,’ she said. ‘I know this will be quite difficult for you to understand but
Jenny and I were really close. That’s why I was devastated when she died.’

‘I remember you wouldn’t do anything for weeks,’ I said.

For about two weeks after Aunt Jennifer had died, Mum seemed to just shutdown. It was like she wasn’t around. Things only got better when Nana-Amma arrived. Within days Mum was almost back
to normal, but then the whole Tanisha thing started.

‘I . . . I know, Makeeda,’ she said apologetically. ‘It was incredibly difficult for me. All I had left of Jenny were memories, and Tanisha.’

‘But that didn’t mean you had to leave us out!’ I said angrily.

‘I know.’

‘Why, Mum, why did you do it?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. Makeeda, I love Tanisha, but you and Delphina are my children – you always come foremost in my heart. You should know that.’

‘You never acted like that,’ I said. ‘You left us out and you’re still doing it, Mum!’

It suddenly dawned on me that all I was doing was picking holes in everything she said, but I didn’t care. It felt like I was finally telling her everything that Dad had stopped me from
saying before.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I know I’ve focussed on Tanisha, but I only did it because I felt that was what Jennifer would have wanted. I was wrong. I know that
now,’ Mum said quietly.

‘OK.’

‘I’m just aware that Tanisha still hasn’t really come to terms with losing her mother.’

‘I know – she never talks about Auntie Jennifer, and gets that funny look in her eyes whenever anyone mentions her,’ I said.

‘Yes. That’s why she still needs our support.’

‘OK, but what about me?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Mum, you lost your sister and Tanisha lost her mother, but no one remembered that she was also my aunt. Delphy can barely remember her, but I can!’ I said, crying. ‘I remember
that she hated raisins but loved hot-cross buns and always took us swimming.’

Mum stared at me. She was in shock. After a few minutes, she put her arms around me.

‘Your dad was right,’ she whispered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We argued over this. He told me you were hurting, but I dismissed it. I made a mess of things, Makeeda. I’m sorry,’ she said as tears welled in her eyes too.

‘I’m sorry as well,’ I said as she hugged me again.

‘What for? You silly thing.’

‘The stuff I said.’

‘It was from the heart – there’s nothing wrong with that,’ she said, wiping her eyes and returning to normal. ‘So you and Nelson . . .’

‘Sorry I lied.’

‘Your father and I have decided that you can see him on the following conditions: if your grades slip, it’s over, and he can only come here if either your father or I are
home.’

‘Is that it?’ I said, astonished. These rules were pretty simple to keep.

‘No, there’s more. Family functions always come before your seeing him, plus you can spend six hours with him over the weekend. Don’t forget with Christmas coming your Sundays
will be for church.’

‘Six hours?’

‘Yes, you’re only fourteen!’