A Short Story
Ignorance
By Kwadjo Attakora Baah
"I like you, Obaa Yaa," I found myself saying almost in a whisper after I had mustered enough Dutch courage. We were in no time jamming, our two bodies now one, moving slowly and harmoniously in tune with the cool jazz music.
Her face brightened with a smile and mine lit with joy. I reciprocated this by implanting a warm passionate kiss on her cheek. I saw a glow of desire on her face. From that moment my excitement knew no bounds. I looked round and saw the whole world smile. I was aroused and she had lust boldly printed on her face but we controlled our emotions.
Obaa Yaa was a receptionist and I, the accounting officer of the Okitipupa branch of the National Bank of Nigeria. She had for long attracted me, but I was too faint-hearted to play the traditional men's role.
But for that evening at the 45th birthday party of our manager, Mr Ogunsola, I didn't know the attraction was mutual.
Despite the 20 years age difference,Mr Ogunsola and I had so taken to each other that we shared our secrets and called ourselves by nicknames. The reason was obvious. We had certain things in common - physical build up, facial looks, drinking and womanising.
"Miss Odekye is for you," he once told me. This was Obaa Yaa. I preferred calling her by this pet name. Mr Ogunsola was pleased to see our relationship grow by leaps and bounds.
She told me she was a Ghanaian. Her mother was a Mrs Odekye but she knew nothing about her father. She presumed he died when she was a baby. Her step-father, Mr Odekye, took upon himself to cater for her, hence her bearing that name. "I'm a Gambian. The late Reverend and Mrs Jallow were my parents," I told her.
I was the type who rarely had dreams. The recurrence of those nightmares in which I found myself mixing pots of blood under the supervision of a masked man was to my greatest displeasure.
My Christian upbringing made me detest the activities of fetishes. That was why I brushed Mr Ogunsola's sug- gestion to consult the fetish on this aside.
After much persuasion, I gave in and we went to Darko, the priest at the Akonodi shrine. "The gods of your people are angry with you," said the priest after an apparent tête-à-tête with the spirits of the unseen world.
"The gods of my people..."
"Yes, that explains your dreams."
He gave me a long list of things to buy and some money to pay if I wanted him to give further explanations and how to avert any misfortune or unpleasant happenings. The amount in-volved ran into hundreds of naira. That stopped me from going further. I was pleased about that but Mr Ogunsola wasn't. "If I had the money," he said, "I would have given it to you because I see it as very important."
When the economy of Ghana started deteriorating at an alarming rate, the Ghanaian saw Nigeria as a land flowing with milk and honey.
Obaa Yaa joined the army of Ghanaians trooping to Nigeria. Luckily, she didn't join the horde of Ghanaian girls going into the world's oldest profession - prostitution. She had a job with my bank.
Mr Ogunsola told me much of his experiences in England when he was studying banking.
"Never allow a woman, not even your wife, to know your secrets," he said with some seriousness.
"Why?"
"Women are troublesome, quarrelsome, inquisitive and so on and so forth."
"I hold a different view, anyway," I told him.
Mr Ogunsola told me of a Miss Sarpong, a Ghanaian lady he met while in London.
"Very attractive, very beautiful..."
"A good wife," I interrupted, completing his sentence for him.
They got married after their first child. That was the plan. He advised me never to make the mistake of marrying a woman without first ensuring that she was fertile. "You lose all respect in the society and subject yourself to uncalled for misery if you remain childless," he remarked.
"I had two kids with that woman," he said with some sense of pride.
"Two children?"
"There were in fact three but one died."
"Where are they?" I asked with concern.
"They are with that woman."
Mr Ogunsola told me of how this lady was so domineering and how he hated her. He said he had a Nigerian girlfriend he wanted to marry in addition to his wife. This was because his people back home were so conservative that they wouldn't tolerate his marrying a non-Nigerian. His wife would however not see eye to eye with him.
"I realised she was getting on my nerves. I therefore made sure I terrorized her every day," he said shamelessly.
"Why?" I asked alarmed and with some sympathy for the poor woman and the children.
"I just wanted to get rid of her and the children.'
"And the children?"
"Yes, and the children, and I sent them out of my house."
Mr Ogunsola realised I disapproved of his action. I was in fact disappointed in him for that wicked and irresponsible act in a man I liked and respected so much.
"I've since not heard from her or the children. This was 20 years ago," he added.
Mr Ogunsola once told me that Obaa Yaa looked very much like his former wife. "Her voice and the dimples in her cheeks when she smiles are exactly the same as hers. These made me initially grow mad with love for her," he said.
I went by Mr Ogunsola's advice. Obaa Yaa was pregnant when we went to the altar. I wasn't particularly keen on Western weddings but all others were. "There is a sense of dignity and pride in wearing a wedding ring." remarked Obaa Yaa
Mr Ogunsola and his wife stood in for my late parents. We had people to represent Obaa Yaa's parents.
Months after those dreadful dreams of mine, Yaa also had the same experience. It was exactly like mine but I never told her I'd had the same dreams before. She didn't take it seriously because she'd been having more terrifying ones.
I told Mr Ogunsola about this and as expected, he suggested that we go to see the fetish for an explanation. Obaa Yaa didn't see the need for that. She had no belief in those fetishes; neither did I. The idea died off to the dismay of Mr Ogunsola.
On 9th September, Oba Yaa had her first baby. Disappointedly, it was a girl. I wished I had a boy.
Mr Ogunsola and I visited her at the hospital. Mother and baby appeared fresh and healthy. Something strange happened here to my displeasure. When my eyes met that of the new born baby's, there was a sudden apparent somersault of my heart. It was followed by its violent pounding against my ribs for a moment. I stood there petrified and rooted to the spot.
The momentary nature of this experience afforded me the opportunity to conceal my feelings.
We planned going to Ghana to meet my in-laws. Mr Ogunsola expressed the willingness to go with us. We seized the opportunity of the long Christmas holidays for the trip. We were keyed up to seeing the much talked about country.
Everything went as planned. We left Lagos by Ghana Airways and arrived in Accra on schedule. This was unusual, for in Ghana things get properly done only by chance, I was told. We succeeded in getting a vehicle to Koforidua from where we were to take another to Asuboi, where Obaa Yaa's people were. The trip was quite smooth but we were compelled to stop over at Koforidua because there were no vehicles to the village when we got there at 6.30 pm.
We got to Asuboi by 11 o'clock the following morning. Yaa led us to her mother's house but she had moved from there to the family house. I was disappointed and ashamed to have been led to that dilapidated mud structure - which they called a house - as the residence of my mother-in-law.
Our arrival was unexpected. Obaa Yaa's letter and a telegram informing the family of this never got to them. We met three very old women and a number of children in the house. All others had gone to the farm. We were ushered by a little girl into a fairly large room, with furniture which looked like two centuries old and a few framed photographs on the wall.
Mr Ogunsola was attracted to one of these. That was a picture of a beautiful woman.
"He will never stop looking for a woman," I thought. He moved closer to it and had his eyes glued to it for a couple of minutes.
"That's the picture of my mother when she was young," announced Obaa Yaa.
"The picture of your mother?" asked Mr Ogunsola absent-mindedly. "Your own mother?"
"Yes,. my real mother." All of a sudden, I saw his face lose all its cheerfulness. "What is wrong, Mr Ogunsola?" I asked.
"Nothing," he answered with a bewildered face. I knew it was a lie.
A younger sister of my mother-in- law, Ami, was the first to arrive from the farm. All the others, including my mum-in-law, trailed in soon after her. The news of the arrival of Obaa Yaa with a baby girl and her husband had gone to them on the farm. That necessitated an early return.
"This is Mr Jallow, my husband and Mr Ogunsola my boss at my place of work," said Obaa Yaa as she did the introduction.
Mr Ogunsola was all this while very quiet and clearly felt uneasy. I saw the smile on my mother-in-law's face freeze. He looked away. All around shook hands with each other. There was no handshake between Mr Ogunsola and my mother-in-law. He stood, made for the door and with only a gesticulation to me that he would be back soon, he left unceremoniously and to the amazement of everybody except perhaps my mum-in-law. Only the two of them knew what was happening. I sat ill at ease.
All sat with all ears and listened to who I was. "Your parents were the late Rev. and Mrs Jallow, a Gambian couple residing in Nigeria?" asked a man who I learnt was Yaa's uncle, in an astonished tone.
I saw all the faces turn sour but clearly agog for the rest of my story. At a certain stage, there was spontaneous yell from all the women assembled. This was followed by heart- breaking screams. I was thrown into a complete state of unimaginable confusion. I thought I was announcing the death of the family's breadwinner.
The reason was simple. Obaa Yaa was the daughter of my mother and I the son of her mother. Mr Ogunsola was the father of Obaa Yaa and I. Reverend and Mrs Jallow were a barren couple and had adopted me when I was four.
