Praise Song for the Butterflies Page 3

  The baby boy screamed again, his howls bouncing off the tiled walls like Ping-Pong balls.

  Ismae lumbered forward, throwing herself at Grandmother, who was shorter than her, but wider and stronger. The old woman barely shuddered when Ismae’s body slammed into hers.

  She caught hold of Grandmother’s wrists and tried to twist the hand holding the sponge away from Agwe, but Ismae’s own hand slipped and slid on Grandmother’s wet flesh. Grandmother shoved her aside, plunged the sponge into the pot of bush medicine, and prepared to swipe it over Agwe’s head.

  Ismae righted herself, ignored the fresh wave of pain erupting in her ankle, and lunged at Grandmother a second time, sinking her fingernails into the fleshy underside of her arm. The old woman bellowed in agony and surprise before she toppled off the stool and hit the floor with a thump.

  When Wasik arrived home from his hearing at the treasury department, Grandmother was seated on the veranda, solemnly plucking the feathers from the body of a decapitated fowl.

  “Mama,” Wasik said in a tired voice, “I’ve asked you a hundred times not to do this on the front veranda. If you must buy and kill live fowl, you can clean it in the backyard.”

  Grandmother raised her head; her lips were pressed into a thin, angry line.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Wasik asked half-heartedly. He had come to terms with his mother’s incessant discontent. It seemed that nothing could please her. So he no longer tried. He simply accepted his role as a sounding board for her daily complaints. He just needed a glass or two of schnapps to get through it.

  “Wait, don’t tell me,” he said, raising his hand. “Let me get a drink first.”

  “Your wife hit me,” she blurted out before he could take a step.

  Wasik was sure he’d heard wrong. He set his briefcase down on the empty chair next to his mother. “Sorry?” he offered as he loosened the knot in his tie.

  Grandmother flung her arm out at him, revealing the torn flesh. An astonished Wasik gazed stupidly at the gaping wound.

  “Ismae did this?”

  “Yes,” Grandmother snapped.

  Wasik’s life was bad enough. The officials at the ministry of finance claimed to have incriminating evidence as well as an eyewitness who could confirm Wasik’s involvement in the theft. When he asked to see the proof and the name of the eyewitness, the officials denied both requests. Instead, they’d thrust an affidavit under his nose and demanded he sign it. We can make this go away for you, Kata. No prosecution and no jail time, just dismissal.

  Wasik quickly understood that they didn’t have anything on him, but were looking for a scapegoat to take the fall. Talk was, they’d discovered that the real coconspirator was related to the prime minister and thus virtually untouchable.

  Wasik knew if he signed the document he would destroy his career and his reputation. He shoved the paper away, excused himself from the meeting, and went straight to an attorney to whom he paid a 10,000-cendi retainer—a quarter of what was in their savings account. And just when he thought the day, his life, couldn’t get any worse, he’d come home to find that his wife had assaulted his mother.

  Wasik left Grandmother on the veranda and stormed into the house. Abeo was seated at the dining room table immersed in her homework. Her head bounced up when he entered the room.

  “Hi, Papa,” she chimed.

  Wasik forced a smile. “Hello, my beautiful daughter.” He’d greeted Abeo this way every day of her life. But this time the words were strained. If Abeo noticed, she didn’t react.

  “Did you have a good day, Papa?”

  Wasik glanced at the wall that separated the dining room from the master bedroom. “I did.”

  “I think Mama and Agwe are taking a nap. I haven’t seen them since I got home from school.”

  Wasik’s face flushed with relief. He was glad that Abeo hadn’t been there for all of the ugliness between Ismae and his mother. He bent over and planted a kiss on the top of Abeo’s head. “Yes, Mommy is very tired,” he said, before asking, “So, did you learn a lot in school today?”

  “Oh yes.” Abeo leaned over to retrieve her book bag, but when she was erect again, Wasik was already walking out of the dining room.

  The bedroom door was closed and locked. Wasik knocked, and when Ismae did not immediately respond, he knocked louder.

  “Ismae, open this door now,” he hissed. “Do you want Abeo to see us behaving in such a way?”

  The lock clicked open and Wasik charged in. Ismae was seated on the edge of the bed, her hair splayed about her head like a madwoman. Her eyes were red from crying. Agwe was sound asleep, naked save for a diaper.

  “What have you done?”

  “What have I done? What have I done?” Ismae screeched. “Look, look at your son’s skin. Look at it!”

  Wasik gazed down at the gaping purple craters on Agwe’s body. Before he could catch the words, they flew out of his mouth: “They look like they’re healing. Isn’t this what we wanted—”

  Ismae hurled one of her crutches at him. It clipped his chin and clattered to the floor.

  “I-Ismae!” Wasik cried, backing away from her.

  Never once in all the years they’d been married had their disagreements turned physical. In fact, Ismae was as nonviolent as they came. Yet here she was, somehow transformed into a ball of ferocity, committing two acts of violence in one short day.

  Wasik didn’t know what evil had swooped down on his life, or what devil had taken possession of his wife; what he did know was that he needed this bad luck and bad behavior to come to an end.

  He bent over, calmly retrieved the crutch, and set it against the wall. “Ismae,” he started gently, “can we talk about this civilly?”

  “There’s nothing to talk about, Wasik. She did what she did and I did what I did. There’s no going back to change any of it. And I’m not sorry, so don’t ask me to apologize, because I won’t.” Fresh tears welled up in Ismae’s eyes. “I want her out of this house. Today. This minute. Get in your car and drive her back to Prama.”

  Wasik’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. He was caught between two bookends, between two women he loved and cherished. He had no idea what he should do.

  * * *

  That evening, Grandmother ate her dinner in the kitchen. The cold silence in the dining room was more than Abeo could bear. Eager to escape the tension, she scoffed down her food and excused herself from the table.

  Sometime during the night, Abeo woke to use the bathroom and heard the hushed voices of her father and grandmother. They were conversing in Twel, a Ukemban patois that Abeo was not fully versed in. She was able to catch a few words, including her name and Serafine’s, which was mentioned several times.

  Grandmother made a remark about bad luck, followed by a million words Abeo did not understand.

  Although she could not grasp what was being debated, Abeo did recognize the urgency in her grandmother’s tone, even as Wasik’s responses sounded unsure.

  6

  It was a known but seldom discussed fact that Ismae’s grandfather, Nsun Vinga, had brought shame and bad luck onto his family.

  When Nsun was fourteen years old, a group of white tourists came to visit his village. They arrived with cameras swinging from their pale necks, bottles of bug spray and rolls of toilet paper tucked into their knapsacks. They brought gifts of crayons, coloring books, pencils, notebooks, and candy for the children. For the adults—secondhand clothing, soap, deodorant, large tubs of Vaseline, and sanitary napkins.

  The white people arrived in a dented passenger van that belched brown smoke from its exhaust pipe. It was that van that started the problems for Nsun. The driver had left the keys in the ignition—Nsun spotted this, climbed into the vehicle, turned the key, and the engine sputtered to life. He’d never been in an automobile before and so he sat there pressing the pedals with his feet and laughing at the sound of the motor racing away beneath the hood. After a few moments, he took hold of the gear stic
k, pulled it toward him, and the vehicle began to roll backward. Nsun yipped in surprise and glee.

  Hearing the noise, the driver rushed out from the hut he’d been resting in and hurried toward the moving vehicle. Nsun, unable to stop the van from rolling, leaped out and took off running. The van rolled over a wire fence, down a hill, and into a herd of grazing goats, crushing two female kids.

  Nsun was caught and punished with a severe whipping, which left scars on his body that he would take to his grave. His father promised the owner of the goats that he would replace the dead property; but he was a poor man and never had enough money to honor that pledge. To make matters worse, those particular goats were not just animals kept for milk, flesh, and hide; they were pets. In fact, they were the owner’s favorite pets. The death of the goats left the owner inconsolable, and three months after the unfortunate incident, the old man succumbed to a broken heart and died. So the wrong was never set right and this, of course, displeased the gods.

  Nsun went on to live a long and fairly happy life. Yet his offense was still alive and well and lurked among his descendants like a specter, awaiting retribution. That time, according to Grandmother, had finally arrived.

  It seemed to be true.

  Wasik had not taken Grandmother back to Prama and this act—or non-act—created a wedge between Wasik and Ismae.

  Ismae had moved into the guest room and taken Agwe with her.

  The investigation was still dragging on, there seemed to be no end in sight, and the money in his bank account was disappearing as quickly as if he’d set a match to it. Soon they’d be penniless, and then what would they do?

  Grandmother caught Wasik firmly by the chin one evening and forced him to look into her lined face. “Things are getting worse for you. Think about your wife and your son.”

  Wasik cringed, tried and failed to pull away from her vise grip.

  “I know you love her, but she is not your daughter, she is not of our blood. It is the Vinga’s family sin to fix; if she won’t do it, then you must.”

  “But Mama—”

  “Take Abeo to a shrine and offer her to the gods. Then and only then will things get better for you.”

  And with that, she released him and lumbered off to her bedroom.

  * * *

  When Wasik took the solution to Ismae, her hand fluttered to her parted lips to block the laughter chugging up from her throat. Little good it did. When it reached her lips, the laughter plowed through her fingers and exploded into the room.

  Wasik watched in silence, the corners of his mouth twitching. True, Ismae’s laughter was infectious, but more than that, Wasik realized just how ridiculous his suggestion sounded.

  When Ismae finally composed herself, she dabbed the corners of eyes, asking, “You’re joking, right?”

  Wasik tried to smile, but only one side of his mouth cooperated.

  “Yes, of course I’m joking,” he chuckled ashamedly.

  Ismae nodded her head, still grinning. “That was a good one,” she clucked, reaching for her hairbrush. “A really good one.”

  7

  Serafine arrived in early July with a hundred synthetic platinum braids dangling down her back like tentacles. The natural brown of her eyes was camouflaged behind emerald-green contacts. A short, plump black American friend named Didi accompanied her. The lobes of Didi’s ears were double-pierced and a diamond stud twinkled in her left nostril.

  Serafine brought gifts for the children: designer clothing for Agwe and two videos for Abeo—Watership Down and The Wizard of Oz—as well as a genuine US-cooked McDonald’s Big Mac hamburger that she had covered in layers of Saran wrap and tinfoil for the journey. The bread was soggy and the meat cold, but Abeo gobbled it down anyway. When she was done, a mayonnaise-glazed smile spread across her lips.

  After dinner, the family piled into the living room to watch The Wizard of Oz. Abeo was fascinated by the movie—she barely made a peep the entire time—and when it was done, she applauded with great vigor.

  * * *

  If not for Serafine’s visit, Ismae would have remained in the guest room until Wasik banished his mother back to Prama.

  But despite their differences, Wasik and Ismae agreed to call a truce—at least while Serafine was in town.

  So Ismae returned to their marriage bed.

  That night, when Wasik reached for her, Ismae did not refuse him. Their lovemaking went on for hours. The following morning, their night of passion could not be concealed. Ismae wasn’t just glowing, she was absolutely pulsing with light.

  * * *

  For the next few weeks, Abeo essentially became a tourist in her own country, seeing it through Didi’s American eyes and experiencing it as she did.

  It was only on the rarest of occasions that Abeo took public transportation—her father drove the family everywhere. So to Abeo, riding in the colorful, dilapidated minibuses known as tro-tros was as thrilling as an amusement park ride.

  Day after day, the trio, hands linked, left the Kata homestead and headed toward the commercial district where Serafine waved down a tro-tro and the three happily crammed themselves in alongside people and livestock. One time Didi found herself sitting next to a woman who held an irate chicken in her lap and it pecked Didi from the time they climbed on until they got off.

  On a cloudy Thursday morning, Abeo, Serafine, and Didi boarded a bus that took them across the border into Ghana and on to Accra.

  Abeo had visited Ghana just twice in her young life. The first time was when she was barely a year old. Her parents had taken her by car to attend the wedding of a family friend. She was too young to remember the trip, but there was an album full of photos of Abeo, cradled in her mother’s arms, grinning into the camera; all gums and cheeks, adorned in a gold-and-purple dress, her bald head wrapped in a matching head tie.

  The second time she was six years old. She and Ismae had traveled to Ghana in the church van, along with other members of their congregation, to have a day of prayer and celebration with an affiliate house of worship in Accra. The trip had been long and hot. They rode with the windows down, fanning themselves with handkerchiefs and church programs. The van was old; it coughed black smoke, sat low to the ground, and was in need of new shocks. The driver had a gift for sighting potholes, but not avoiding them. When someone needed to urinate, they had to do so in the scrub that bounded either side of the road.

  Now, in the air-conditioned coach, complete with a tiny bathroom, Abeo peered out at the rolling green savanna, bouncing her leg with excitement, half listening to Didi who was babbling at warp speed, jumping from one subject to the next, pausing only to flip through the pages of her guidebook. Serafine, the sponged headphones of her Walkman covering her ears, spent the three-hour journey bopping her head to the music of Shalamar, Khalif, and Mtume.

  At Black Star Square, Abeo posed for a picture beneath Independence Arch. On a trip to the W.E.B. DuBois Centre, in the sitting room of the former home of the great thinker, Didi turned to the crowd of mostly white tourists and bellowed dramatically: “One ever feels his two-ness—an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two reconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder!”

  Serafine flashed an apologetic smile at the visitors who stood staring.

  Abeo giggled into her palms.

  Serafine caught Didi by the wrist and dragged her away from the buzzing crowd. “What the hell was that?”

  Didi smiled sheepishly. “Girl, DuBois’s spirit must have jumped on me,” she giggled. “These white folk need to know!” And with that she threw a wink at Abeo, who was still laughing.

  At the Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum and Memorial Park, erected in memory of Osagyefo (the Messiah) Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, the first president of Ghana, Abeo was struck mute by the structure—where the bodies of the great leader and his wife were laid to rest. She listened in awe as the tour guide explained that the design was meant to represent the Akan cultur
e’s symbol of peace—an upside-down sword. She was equally enchanted by the magnificent golden fountains in the park.

  At the Tetteh Quarshie Art Market, Didi haggled over the price of a wooden sculpture of a naked man seated on a tree limb. Serafine covered Abeo’s eyes when she saw her staring at the penis.

  With each stop they made, Didi shared small nuggets of knowledge. In the marketplace, she pointed to a bolt of colorful cloth stamped with a running motif of diamonds encased in rectangular boxes. “See this, Abeo? This cloth is from the Ivory Coast, from a town called Korhogo—”

  “It is?” Serafine cut in, stepping over to examine the fabric herself. “How do you know that?”

  Didi ignored Serafine, extended her hand, and ran the tip of her finger along the geometric design. “This represents the talking drum,” she informed Abeo.

  “Talking drum?” Abeo batted her eyes in confusion.

  “The lunna!” Serafine cried with delight. “Heh,” she laughed, “at least I do know that!”

  “Yes, you’re right, Serafine, it is the lunna drum,” Didi confirmed.

  Abeo brought her ear close to the material, closed her eyes, and listened, but all she heard was the busy Accra traffic blaring all around her like white noise. “I don’t hear any drum,” she sighed, her voice dripping with disappointment.

  “You don’t?” Didi’s eyes twinkled mischievously. She bent over Abeo, pressing her own ear to the material. Her face tensed with concentration. “I hear it. Maybe you have to listen a little bit harder.”

  Abeo’s eyes stretched.

  “Go on,” Didi coaxed, “try again.”

  Once again, Abeo closed her eyes. The shopkeeper, an inky-colored man with a line-thin mustache, eyed them with great amusement from behind his wooden counter.

  Abeo pressed her ear firmly against the fabric. Soon, the blare of horns, screeching tires, and cries of street vendors hawking their wares began to fade, and for one crystal moment there was nothing but silence. And then a faint sound echoed in the hush. Abeo wrapped her arms around the bolt of fabric, pushed her ear deeper into the material. The faint beat of a lone drum reverberated in her ear; the sound gradually swelled until it seemed her entire body throbbed. Surprised and shaken, Abeo snatched her head away and turned startled eyes on Didi.