Growing Yams in London (22 page)

‘Mum, why has she logged off halfway through?’ I asked.

‘Looks like she got hit by Lights Out. You remember what that is, don’t you?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. Then I began laughing. ‘Just as she was justifying all those presents!’

‘Yes!’ Mum said, joining me. ‘I think we should go there next Christmas or maybe the summer holidays – that’s longer. You’d love it, Makeeda.’

‘Yeah, maybe I would,’ I said.

‘You could visit the Manshia Palace and Museum’

‘A museum?’ I said. ‘They’re boring . . .’

‘Makeeda, I’m talking about the King’s home! Asantehene’s palace?’ Mum said, annoyed.

‘Oh, so there would be stuff on Yaa Asantewaa?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Hmm . . .’

The more I thought about it, spending the holidays in Ghana didn’t seem so bad after all. I mean, I knew I’d miss my TV programmes and friends, but they’d still be here when I
got back. My eyes flicked to the white envelope addressed to Nelson on my dressing table. It contained a Christmas card and vouchers for his favourite music shop. I began to think about meeting him
on the twenty-seventh. I was glad that we were finally going to talk things over, but part of me was scared. After all the misunderstandings, could we have a relationship left?

‘Hurry up, Makeeda!’ Dad shouted from behind my door. I’d just got out of the bathroom and couldn’t find my tub of Astral body lotion anywhere. We were
meant to be going to Aunt Anita’s for dinner.

‘Delphy! Where’s my . . .?’ I screamed.

‘I haven’t got it!’ Delphy yelled back.

There was a knock on my door.

‘I’m getting dressed!’ I yelled back.

‘Not without this,’ Mum said, handing back my lotion. She was wrapped up in a dressing gown. ‘Don’t look at me like that – I ran out.’

Mum likes to bulk buy toiletries at half price. So we’ll have loads of stuff for a while, then all of a sudden it will run out because she can’t bring herself to buy it at full
price. I have a sneaky suspicion that she’s waiting for me to get a Saturday job at her favourite shop or something.

Within half an hour I was dressed in a top and blouse made of navy blue ntoma with yellow apples on it. Thankfully I had normal cuffs on this one. My yellow beads would have looked great with
it, if I had known where they were.

When I got downstairs Aunt Grace was sitting on the sofa reading a magazine. She was wearing a long red dress with gold patterns on it. Her gold bangles jangled as she hugged me.

‘This is a much better style than the last one!’ said Aunt Grace, smiling. ‘But you need a chain or something.’

‘I know, but I couldn’t find the one I wanted,’ I replied.

‘Makeeda, go and get your sister!’ Dad interrupted.

‘Delphy, hurry up!’ I said, walking into her room.

She was watering her yam plant. Her hair had green ribbons in it that matched the colour of her ntoma.

‘I’m coming,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to check on my plant.’

I stared at the plant. Despite the heat in the room, it still hadn’t grown. I could feel my make-up melt and was about to force her out of the room, when I saw my yellow beaded necklace.
The one I thought I’d lost. I marched up to her pink collection of hair accessories and pulled it out.

‘Leave my pink — Oh,’ Delphina began.

‘What are you doing with my necklace? How many times have I told you not to go through my stuff?’ I shouted.

‘I . . . I . . . forgot,’ Delphina said, scared.

I pushed past her and put the necklace on in her mirror. Delphina went back to staring at her plant.

‘Delphy, it’s not going to grow, you know,’ I told her.

‘It might!’ she said defensively.

‘Yams don’t grow in —’

‘La, la, la!’ she sang loudly, shoving her fingers in her ears.

‘Delphy!’ I grabbed her arms, but she grew louder. ‘Fine,’ I said, just as Aunt Grace walked in.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Makeeda was being mean to me and she said that my plant won’t grow!’ Delphy said, rushing into Aunt Grace’s arms.

‘Makeeda?’ Aunt Grace said.

‘And she pushed me,’ Delphy added, crying.

‘Apologise, Makeeda. There’s no need for pushing.’

‘But she stole my necklace,’ I said.

‘Do you have it now?’

‘Yes, Auntie, but . . .’ I began, but Aunt Grace gave me a severe look, so I apologised.

Delphy gave me a satisfied smile through her fake tears. It was all an act, as usual.

‘Delphina, Makeeda’s right,’ Aunt Grace said.

‘Told you,’ I said, smirking, but Aunt Grace shot me another look, so I shut up.

‘It’s unlikely your plant will grow. We just don’t have the climate for it here,’ Aunt Grace added.

‘But it’s for my project. I can’t go back to school without a plant. Everyone will laugh at me,’ Delphy said.

‘At least you tried. Now you get to write about why it didn’t grow and stuff,’ I said.

‘Yes and it shows how mature you are,’ Aunt Grace said looking straight at me.

I guessed that comment wasn’t just meant for Delphy then.

‘Besides, it’s when things don’t work out the way we expect, that the fun usually begins,’ Aunt Grace said, smiling.

What was she talking about? There’s no fun when things don’t work out. Just grief! Delphy would probably fall for it though.

‘Come on, let’s go.’ Aunt Grace said ushering us out.

An hour later, we had arrived at Auntie Anita’s place.

‘Ring the bell then,’ Dad said to me.

The door opened to reveal a smiling Afua, so I knew straight off that I wasn’t going to enjoy the party. I tapped my coat pocket for my mobile phone and felt relieved at its presence.
After greeting everyone, I found my usual spot on the stairs and switched on my phone.

That didn’t sound good. Actually it sounded like Bharti and Mel had been talking about me behind my back.

Right, so Bharti the traitor has been telling Mel exactly what I think of Laura. Great!

I called Mel on Dad’s phone. He always had loads of credit.

‘Hi, Mel, it’s me.’

‘Hi, Makeeda. Are you out of credit again?’

‘Yeah. What’s the emergency?’

‘You and Laura!’ Mel said. ‘Listen, I know you have issues with Laura but —’

‘Mel, she doesn’t like me, you don’t always hear everything she says to me,’ I said defensively.

‘Bharti reckons that you don’t like Laura because I’m hanging out with her more than you . . .’

‘No!’ I lied. I knew it would make me sound Delphy’s age.

‘Ohmigod, she’s right isn’t she?’

‘No,’ I lied again.

‘Makeeda, I’m not being funny or anything, but you’re not exactly into sports and stuff, are you?’

‘Well no, not as much as you,’ I replied.

That was an understatement. We were talking about the difference between watching an athletics programme on TV and going to the cinema.

‘Yeah, well, Laura is. I’m not saying I have nothing in common with you any more but . . .’

I could see her point. It was easier to hang out with someone who was into the same things as you.

‘It’s OK, I get it,’ I said, interrupting.

‘Besides, I never said anything when you and Bharti started going off without me last year, did I?’

‘No.’

It was always going to be awkward having three of us in a friendship, and Bharti and I did suddenly start spending more time together – especially when Mel got busier playing sports.

‘Makeeda, you and I go way back pre-Bharti, pre-reception class!’

I started laughing.

‘You know, if it wasn’t for Laura, I wouldn’t have known about what Nelson said to you. You know what I’m like when I’m on the phone.’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

I remembered a trip Mel took to Manchester a few years ago where she chatted to me through an earth tremor. It was only when her mother screamed at her to get off the phone and take cover that
she realised what was going on.

‘You should give Laura a chance,’ she said.

‘Hmm . . .’

Laura did me a favour in telling Mel what Nelson said that day, but she had still said some nasty things to me.

‘Makeeda Amma Boakye, what do you think you’re doing?’ said Mum, angrily.

‘Bye, Mel!’ I said, quickly. ‘Mum, I was just . . .’

‘Get into that kitchen and help serve, like Afua. She doesn’t have to be told,’ Mum said, retrieving both phones from me.

I headed into the kitchen and was handed a tray of pies to serve to the other guests in the living room. Slowly moving around the room with a fake smile plastered to my face, I saw Afua engaged
in a conversation with some adults.

‘Makeeda,’ Baby Akosua’s dad said, beckoning me.

‘Yes, Uncle Larry?’

He was dressed in a wine-coloured tie-dye shirt, and dark trousers. He automatically began speaking in Twi, until Afua interrupted him.

‘Uncle, Makeeda, doesn’t understand.’

‘Oh yes, sorry. We were talking about the differences between growing up in Britain and Ghana.’

‘Ah huh,’ I replied, trying not to sound bored.

‘Your Auntie Anita reckons it’s more difficult for children brought up here to get a firm grip of our culture, but I disagree. What do you think?’

‘I, um . . .’ Ohmigod, I don’t care! As long as Mum gives back my phone, I’ll do anything for my culture. ‘Well, I guess it is.’

‘Actually, I’ve been learning Adowa,’ Afua said.

‘Oh, that’s very good Afua,’ everyone chorused.

By this time we’d all sat down. My discarded tray of pies lay to my left, and I was using Aunt Grace’s legs as a backrest, which she didn’t seem to mind. It gave her an excuse
to fiddle with my braids and generally make me look more ladylike.

‘Yes, I go once a week after school,’ Afua added.

I rolled my eyes and received a dig in the back from Aunt Grace. I was thinking of entering her for a psychic competition, when I saw my reflection in the mirrored fireplace and realised she
could see everything I did.

‘Makeeda, ever think of joining Afua?’ asked Uncle Larry.

Not unless I was being paid to be in her company and, even then, I’d rather spend a week in three inch stilettos and a pencil skirt I couldn’t walk in, I thought to myself.

‘Um . . . not really, Uncle,’ I said.

‘Do you know what Adowa is?’ Afua said, raising an eyebrow sceptically.

‘Yes, of course she does, don’t you, Makeeda?’ Aunt Grace asked, making me turn to face her.

‘Well . . .’ I said, looking blank.

‘Do you remember when you went to that dinner party?’ Aunt Grace asked.

I must have returned a seriously dumb-looking face back, because when she continued I could hear the strain in her voice.

‘The one at the hotel in Knightsbridge, when we had those children dressed in Kente . . .’

‘Oh yeah!’ I said, smiling broadly.

I could see the relief on her face. We may all have been family, but even Aunt Grace didn’t want me to look stupid in front of everyone. Those children were really cute, especially the one
who couldn’t have been more than four years old. Ohmigod, I realised, Adowa is a dance!

‘You know what? Maybe one day I’ll join you on the dance floor, Afua, Ghana styleee?’ I said, staring at Afua.

‘Hey, then you two could give us a performance, couldn’t you?’ Uncle Larry said to Afua.

‘Yes, Uncle,’ she replied. I could see her face change from a frown to a smile at record speed.

‘I’d better get this back to the kitchen,’ I said, picking up the discarded tray of pies.

‘Didn’t they like it?’ Auntie Anita said worriedly.

Behind her I could see my mother gesturing wildly for me to be as polite as I could. Auntie Anita is an OK cook, but sometimes she stresses for no real reason. Today she had good reason: there
was no salt in the pies.

‘Um . . . I think everyone’s a bit, er . . . pied out, after Christmas,’ I said, hoping that I might be able to escape.

‘Oh right, take this then,’ she said, handing a tray of mini sausage rolls.

‘Okaaaaay,’ I said, but Mum gave me a death stare. ‘I’m sure these will be better, Auntie,’ I added.

Then Mum threw her hands in the air in an ‘I give up’ way. That was when I realised what I’d just said. So I left quickly.

‘Uncle Larry wants you,’ Delphy said, grabbing a sausage roll as she ran past me.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘She said Uncle Larry wants you,’ repeated Kofi, as he too grabbed a sausage roll and raced past me.

I walked into the living room again but this time everyone just stared.

‘Er . . .’

‘Makeeda, is it true?’ Aunt Grace asked.

‘Um . . . what?’

‘Delphina was probably mistaken,’ Afua offered.

‘Did you write about Yaa Asantewaa for a project?’ Uncle Larry asked.

‘Yes, for my history essay.’

Suddenly the tray of sausage rolls was taken away from me and all the adults were congratulating me.