Wednesday’s Delight
By Aba Asibon
Kwabena Ampau is always amazed at how much detail one picks up in the early morning lull, when one no longer has to go to work. The neighbour’s wireless goes off at four-thirty with the hoarse edifications of an impassioned televangelist. A garbage truck bellows by at five, leaving behind a trail of exhaust fumes and putridity. He is up before the shrill sound of his alarm clock, a sound which used to be a call to something greater. With nowhere to be that early, he lingers in bed for a while, watching the shadows of the tamarind trees dance against his drawn curtains. Deep sleep, he has concluded, is a gift better suited to the worn and weary. During the day, he attempts to tire himself out by ambling around the bungalow with his metal toolbox, replacing rusty hinges, touching up smudged paint, tightening loose bolts. At night, he seduces sleep by reading tedious books on climate change and macroeconomic theory.
With waking comes the faint gnawing in his bones, the same one his doctor dismissed as nothing of concern during his last medical check-up. Twelve: the number of steps between his bed and the bathroom. Fifteen: the number of seconds it takes for him to completely empty his bladder. He finds himself counting the most mundane things these days. He sees something – the ceramic tiles on his bedroom floor or a packet of biscuits – and a clicker automatically begins to run in his brain. The counting helps ease the restlessness in his bones, if only for a moment.
He peruses the stacks of carefully folded clothes in his wardrobe, most of which hold little value outside the corporate world. As a boy, the teachers at Wesley Grammar had prescribed white poplin shirts and khaki shorts for each student to eliminate any fashion quandaries. And for most of his adult life, he has diligently adhered to the civil servant uniform of collared shirts paired with twill slacks. Since his retirement, he often spends minutes contemplating what counts as casual and what counts as formal, and if a linen tunic is too pretentious for a quick dash to the supermarket. But today is different. A trip to High Street, in the company of the briefcase-bearing and the high-heel-wearing, leaves little room for indecisiveness. He adeptly knots a spotted tie around his neck, the smooth silk gliding between his fingertips.
He has no appetite for breakfast, his stomach already filled with anticipation. He brews himself a cup of coffee for the sake of running the digital coffeemaker, a retirement gift from his former place of work. He takes delight in watching the blue lights blink as fresh coffee trickles down gracefully into the glass carafe. The gift had been presented to him at the surprise retirement party the office had thrown him. One of his colleagues had managed to lure him into the windowless conference room under the ruse of meeting a group of foreign dignitaries. The entire department clapped as he walked through the door, each person wearing a colourful party hat in his honour. Someone had taken the time to organize a frosted cake and a shiny banner. His colleagues had gone round the room, praising him for twenty-five years of committed service to the Ministry of Trade and Industry. Some said they would remember him for his meticulousness and his keen eye for accounting errors. Others said they would remember his unceasing willingness to show the more junior staff the ropes. They’d toasted him as he’d sunk a knife into the dense cake, promptly returning to their posts thereafter. Difficult to believe that was almost a year ago.
From the kitchen window, he can see Mrs Dankwa from next door, trimming her hedges with a pair of oversized shears while her eyes dart around other people’s compounds. It’s moments like this that make him wish for real brick fences between the bungalows on Apam Street, instead of these flimsy chest-high hedges. The one-bedroom bungalows had originally been constructed by the City Housing Corporation as temporary accommodation for young unmarried civil servants. When he first moved in twenty-five years ago, Kwabena did not mind too much the absence of concrete boundaries. He had rather enjoyed the occasional exchange of pleasantries with his fellow bachelors, carrying on about the inadequacies of the government and rising fuel prices. But over the years, the residents had gotten too comfortable, moving in nosey wives and girlfriends, promptly followed by colicky babies.
As he gulps down the rest of his coffee, he plots his exit strategy. After the death of her husband, Mrs Dankwa has taken to spending all of her time outside, tending her garden and accosting passers-by with empty banter. She draws their attention to her flourishing flame lilies and birds-of paradise, liberally flaunting her knowledge of botanical names. Kwabena hypothesizes that if he walks by briskly enough with headphones plugged into his ears, it should send a clear message. But no sooner has he locked his front door does Mrs Dankwa dart towards him, frantically waving her shears.
“Ah! Mr Ampau,” she greets him.
“Looks like rain, doesn’t it?” He casts a glance up at the lucid sky but chooses not to disagree with her – not today.
She looks him over, from the spotted tie down to his leather brogues.
“You’re all dressed up. What’s the occasion?”
“I’m meeting my daughter for lunch.”
“Ah! Of course, I almost forgot what day of the week it was.”
He’s glad he is not the only one for whom the days of the week have grown fuzzy, their borders beginning to blend into each other.
“When do we get to finally meet the special young lady?”
“You know these children … they prefer life in the city to life here in the suburbs.”
The truth is, he has not yet broached the subject with his daughter. It feels too soon, too forward for a child he is still getting to know. The night he received the call about his daughter, he had been seated in front of the television, polishing his shoes with no particular destination in mind. He had let the phone ring a few times, wondering who would be so inconsiderate to call someone at that time of the day.
“Kobby?” the voice on the other end said when he finally picked up.
There was only one person who addressed him by that moniker and he had not heard from her in about eighteen years.
“Lebene?” he could hear her breathing on the other end.
“I hope you’ve been well?” she asked with the ease of a dear old friend.
“Yes… I have.” He should have said more, at least asked her how she was also doing, but the words eluded him.
“Listen, I’m so sorry to call so late. I just had to get something off my chest.”
She had always been direct, never one to mince her words. It was a trait he had found both admirable and unnerving all at once. She had made her expectations around marriage clear from the very beginning of their relationship – she did not by any means want to end up a spinster like her mother. So, when he still had cold feet after five years of dating, she moved out of his bungalow and into the arms of a man up North who would. What could she still have on her chest after eighteen years of silence, he wondered. Were there remnants of animosity for his fear of commitment? Did she still feel that those years spent together had been a complete waste of her time? He would be quick to let her know that he did not consider them a waste at all, that in those five years, he had discovered parts of himself he never knew existed, parts that were warm and boundless.
“I’m listening,” he responded, eager to drop the guillotine.
“We had… we have a daughter.”
Her words were concrete bricks.
“What do you mean?”
“What I’m trying to say is that I was pregnant when I left you.”
Hot breath piped out of his nostrils. “And you kept it from me for eighteen years?”
“I could not stand the thought of being tethered to you forever because of a child.”
He loathed her aloofness, half-expecting her to be more apologetic.
“And you thought keeping it from me was a fair decision?”
“If you were not ready for marriage, how could I be sure you were ready to father a child?”
He swallowed the words that were scorching the back of his throat. There were a million things he could say to drag this out. After all, the two of them had always been skilled at dissecting disagreements into microscopic proportions. But for the first time, he did not care about who won and who lost. “Why now?”
“She’s moving down to Accra for university soon.”
“Does she know about me?”
“Yes. I think you two should meet.”
He fought the urge to plaster the receiver to his lips and spit into it, “No kidding!” He thought about the emptiness of the last eighteen years, of beating himself up every day for being unkind towards her. His friends had tried in vain to set him on blind dates after her, each one falling through because he could not shake off the guilt. But here she was, delivering such heavy news with little remorse.
“She takes after your brilliance,” she continued, her idea of an olive branch.
He arranged the first meeting with his daughter on a Wednesday, when her classes ended early and she had the afternoon to herself. He picked a restaurant a few blocks from his old office, a less-frequented place that would give them privacy and allow them to hear each other. As he sat waiting for his daughter to arrive, he conjured up images of her in his mind. There was a lanky version, much like himself, with her mother’s smile and cleft chin. There was a more petite version with his dark complexion and deep-set eyes. He worried he would not be able to identify her when she walked through those doors, but he had no reason to worry – the familiar spring in her stride gave her away. He rose from his seat, unsure if he should reach in for a hug or a handshake, but she went ahead and stuck out her right hand, freeing him from his conundrum.
Dzigbordi, a name from her mother’s side of the country. He found it too heavy, too constricting. He would have picked something more versatile – Mary or Jennifer or even Elizabeth. To his relief, she told him she went by Gigi for short. The girl’s uncanny resemblance to her mother rattled him. He saw Lebene in those high cheekbones and in the slight lisp when she spoke.
“Marine Biology,” she answered, when he asked what she was majoring in at the university. It was admirable, of course, to be pursuing a degree in the sciences, but what exactly did one do with a degree in Marine Biology? Had he been consulted, he would have recommended she pursue something more practical; law or, like him, accounting. He blamed it on her mother, who had always clung to the philosophy of following the heart and chasing dreams.
He harassed his daughter with questions about her childhood, eager to be brought up to speed on the years he had missed out on. She spoke of the five-bedroom house in which she had grown up, the Cambridge-certified international school she had attended, the yearly summer trips to Germany where her stepfather’s sister resided. Her speech was littered with references to her stepfather, whose last name she bore, and every time she said the word “Daddy” Kwabena cringed. What would she call him then, when they eventually became well-acquainted with each other? “Dad” seemed too stiff, devoid of the warmth that Daddy exuded. “Dada” sounded too juvenile, almost inappropriate for a young woman her age. After that first meeting, they agreed to meet the next Wednesday and the one after, and three months down the line, it has become their little tradition.
He bids Mrs Dankwa goodbye and begins to make his way down the paved sidewalk.
“Aren’t you taking your car?” she calls after him, gesturing at the white Peugeot in his driveway.
“No,” he shakes his head. “Not today.”
Parking in the city is a headache without a work-issued pass and a designated parking spot. Besides, he does not mind the twenty-minute walk to the bus stop, a fine opportunity to stretch his stiff limbs. He had once read somewhere that the key to optimal health is walking ten thousand steps daily. The bus he catches into the city is half-empty. To his relief, he gets a row of seats to himself in the very back where he can focus on generating a list of questions for his daughter. She takes after him in demeanour, pensive and reticent. So, the onus falls on him to keep their conversations on wheels, to fill each awkward pause with substance.
High Street finally emerges, a sprawling avenue of lofty office buildings and exclusive shops. As soon as he alights, the city greets him like an old friend. Bodies unapologetically shove past and irate drivers assault his ears with their incessant hooting. He can see his former place of work in the distance, the boxy colonial architecture sticking out among the more contemporary silhouettes. He passes the vendors sprinkled along the sidewalk, ignoring their calls for him to patronize their wares. While he is not one to buy things off the street, he indulges his daughter when she stops at the horticulture stand. He observes her come alive as she inspects seedlings and seed packets, throwing around gardening phrases like bolting and deadheading.
When he reaches the restaurant, a small crowd is already building inside. He manages to secure a table for two in a corner where they will have few distractions. The other diners look temporarily liberated, with their loosened ties and suit jackets draped over chairs. He scans the room, hoping not to bump into anyone he knows. These days, people take the liberty to offer unsolicited advice on how he should use his newly acquired time. His younger brother keeps pestering him to join him for a game of golf at the sports club when he has made it clear he finds nothing stimulating about swinging after a ball with a bunch of pot-bellied bourgeoisie. Others have suggested he join a church, but God still lives in the same box he placed him in many years ago. Frankly speaking, he would much rather spend his evenings at an open-air bar, if most of his close friends hadn’t chosen to relocate to the village to live out their retirement raising chickens and chewing tobacco. They have tried to coax him into adopting their relaxed lifestyle, but he fears the simplicity of village life will slowly eat at his brain.
He glances at his watch. His daughter is uncharacteristically late. All the possibilities begin to swirl around his head, each one darker than the one before it. Is she stuck in traffic? Was she involved in an accident? Has she been abducted? He is shocked at the preposterousness of his own theories but simply cannot help himself. Since the day he found out about his daughter, he has harboured a deep-seated desire to build an impenetrable shield around her, to do all that is within his power to keep her from harm. To his relief, she walks through the glass doors minutes later, a red backpack slung over her shoulders. Her fitted jeans and cropped T-shirt make her stand out amongst the other diners.
“Sorry I’m late,” she pants as she settles into the seat across from him. “My last class ran over.”
“I was beginning to worry,” he says, handing her a menu.
“No need to worry,” she responds casually, her head buried in the extensive list of meal options.
A waiter takes their order and delivers a basket of warm bread rolls to the table for starters.
“How have you been?”
“Alright,” she responds, fiddling with the watch on her wrist. He can tell from the genuine leather strap alone that it is beyond her means.
“Is that new?” he points to it. “Yes, a birthday present from Daddy.”
Quite a superfluous gift for an eighteen-year-old, in his opinion. For her birthday, the first since getting to meet her, he had gifted her one of his favourite books from his library, a limited-edition paperback about ancient African empires he thought she would enjoy.
“It’s an Omega.” His daughter turns her wrist from side to side as if he should know what an Omega is – he who has owned the same digital Casio for the last fifteen years. He imagines the stepfather is the kind of man who buys affection with material things to make up for one inadequacy or another.
When their food arrives, his daughter twiddles her fork through the plate of jollof rice. He wishes she would ask him questions – she must have questions given the circumstances. Perhaps, she is still processing it all. Perhaps, she needs more time.
“So, how’s school?”
“Good.”
“Are you working on anything new?”
“Yes, I’m doing a literature review on the feeding ecology of the Greenland Shark.”
“Mm, I’ve never heard of it. Tell me more.”
He thinks he sees her shoulders perk up a little.
“It’s one of the largest living species of shark and it can live up to five hundred years.”
“That’s a long time to live.”
“Most of them end up blind because parasites attach themselves to their corneas.”
“I hope they move in groups at least, to help direct each other?”
“Only in the winter season. During the summer, they go their separate ways.”
“What a miserable way to live out five hundred years.”
“But is it really misery if you have known nothing else?”
Her wisdom blows him away, but would he expect anything less from his own kin? With their plates now empty, her eyes begin to roam around the restaurant, fixating briefly on a table of rowdy young men in cheap suits. She plays with the cotton table napkin in front of her. Kwabena fidgets in his chair. The silence between them grows clammy.
“I’ve started gardening,” he blurts out. . Anyone who knows him well would know he has never been the kind to get dirt under his fingernails or blisters on his palms.
“Oh really?” she cocks her head slightly. “What are you growing?”
“Vegetables… I’m growing vegetables.” “Which ones?” He strains to modulate his voice, questioning the necessity of the lie. “Oh, all sorts really. Maybe you can come by one of these days and give me a few pointers?”
“Sure,” she shrugs her shoulders. The restaurant is emptying out, the waiters now busily wiping down tables and tucking in chairs. Father and daughter take it as their cue to leave. All along High Street, employees are returning to their air-conditioned offices, sluggish from the combination of simmering heat and heavy lunches. At the bus stop, his daughter hails an orange TATA bus heading in the direction of campus.
“Next Wednesday then?” he asks her as the bus slows down.
“Sure,” she mutters, disappearing into the open bus, not stopping to look back.
Sure, a word that should evoke more certainty. A word powerful enough to make him turn around and walk towards the horticulture stand.
“Anything in particular I can help you with today?” asks a man in green overalls.
“Vegetables – the fastest growing ones you have.” The vendor raises an eyebrow but quickly composes himself, “Well, then I would suggest okra or spinach.”
“How fast are we talking?” he asks, examining the flat seed packets the vendor has just handed him.
“Four to six weeks.”
Even though he does not have four to six weeks, he takes the packets and catches his bus back to the suburbs. At home, he stops at the entrance to scope out his front lawn, where tall stalks of wild grass now mingle freely with browning Bermuda grass. He identifies a balding patch on the far end which he thinks would make a good site for a vegetable garden. In the morning, he will ask Mrs Dankwa to lend him her gardening implements and a hand with planting. Inside the bungalow, the only sound is the monotonous hum of the refrigerator, from which he grabs a bottle of beer. He immediately flips on the television, dismissing the stillness with the voice of a cheery news anchor. Pops, he thinks to himself as he sinks into the couch and takes a swig of beer. Pops – more charming and light-hearted than “Daddy.” Pops - that’s what he’ll ask to be called.
Excerpt from “Captive: New Short Fiction from Africa” copyright © 2024 edited by Helen Moffett and Rachel Zadok. Published by Short Story Day Africa in association with Catalyst Press in the USA and Europe and Karavan Press in South Africa.
About the book: Introducing Captive, the newest collaboration between Catalyst Press and Short Story Day Africa, the publishing team behind Disruption: New Short Fiction from Africa, which features the Caine Prize winning story, “Five Years Next Sunday” by Idza Luhumyo. In Captive, twelve new and emerging writers from Africa and the African Diaspora explore the identities that connect us, the obsessions that bewitch us, and the self-delusions that tear us apart.
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Helen Moffett is an author, editor, poet, academic, activist, and SSDA enthusiast. Her publications include university text-books, a treasury of landscape writings (Lovely Beyond Any Singing), a cricket book (with the late Bob Woolmer and Tim Noakes), an animal charity anthology (Stray, with Diane Awerbuck), and the Girl Walks In erotica series (with Sarah Lotz and Paige Nick). She has also published two poetry collections – Strange Fruit and Prunings, with the latter the joint winner of the 2017 SALA prize for poetry.
Rachel Zadok is an editor, writer and designer. She is the author of two novels: Gem Squash Tokoloshe (Pan Macmillan, 2005), shortlisted for The Whitbread First Novel Award and The John Llewellyn Rhys Prize, and longlisted for the IMPAC Award; and Sister-sister (Kwela Books, 2013), shortlisted for the University of Johannesburg Prize and The Herman Charles Bosman Prize, and longlisted for the Sunday Times Fiction Award. She is the managing editor of Short Story Day Africa.
