KAYAYO

Etornam Agbodo

It was in the month of December I decided it was time to go. I had kept postponing it for the past two years. My cousin who had taken the lead when the chance arose was now sending money home. This December she had sent some money as her contribution towards upkeep of her mother’s household.  She had sent two lengths of cloth too. One for her mother and the other for her father. Aunty Muna had come rushing to our house like she always did when the gifts came in.

‘What beautiful fabric?’ she asked, holding the two neatly folded lengths of cloth as she entered the compound. ‘Amina has done it again, eh. And who says daughters are worthless these days, who?’ Aunty Muna declared, dancing around the compound in circles and holding forth the two lengths of cloth. 

My father who had been reclining in his lazy chair looked up, put his wooden tobacco pipe to his mouth and puffed. Mother was already getting up from the low stool that faced the fire. She stood full length and faced her sister, sharing in her joy with expectant smiles.

‘Eii my sister, look what Amina has sent,’ Aunt Muna said, stretching out her hands.

Mother took one length and passed her hands over the fine texture. Everyone agreed to the beauty of the cloths except my father who sat in the moonlight puffing his pipe as if he never heard a thing. The moon was bright and the gentle night breeze was cold. A few dogs howled in the distance, singing my shame. Girls my age were responsible adults and fertile mothers. In Yulinayuli, a girl of fourteen was old enough. I was just two months away from turning sixteen; my cousin Amina had jumped at the opportunity as soon as it came. We were age mates. The very driver who brought the remittance and gifts she sent had brought the woman we all called Hadjia to our little village in Yulinayuli two years ago. 

Hadjia had a great proposition. ‘Accra is a city teaming with life and people. It offers opportunities no one will offer you here,’ Hadjia explained. ‘Yes, it is far but it is a city that changes girls to ladies. I went there myself a poor village girl but here I am today. I have three restaurants in the city and drive my own car.’

In Yulinayuli we had a few lorries with wooden bodies that had benches in them. No one had a car. Her lecture drew a lot of interest. Hadjia promised to house her employees, feed them and then pay them salaries at the end of every month. It was an opportunity too good to ignore. But my mother’s kose and koko business was too big to let her be. I was her only girl. Mother had given birth to seven children. She lost two out of the seven. My four elder brothers and I were all she had left. My brothers had taken trades and wives of their own. They had moved on. The koko itself was porridge we added some pepper and spices to while the kose was the condiment of special fried and spiced bean cakes. It took a lot to do and mother’s koko had some following. Even with my help she worked deep into the night and she was getting no younger. I had passed the opportunity to go to Accra so as to stay and help Mother. But that was before my decision. The November before my departure, Father had woken Mother and I up. If Father woke you up at dawn, the issue at stake was really important. My mother sat on a low stool and I sat beside her on the floor with my legs stretched before me.

‘Ahm.’ Father cleared his throat and looked at both of us without speaking. ‘Tanko has asked for the hands of my daughter in marriage,’ he stated suddenly, pointing a coy finger in my direction. Tanko was a kola nut merchant. ‘He will give three cows in honor of your hand,’ Father declared, his face flushing with pride.

I had wept the whole day. Tanko was older than my father. He was a rich man in Yulinayuli. My father was a man of sixty-two and called Tanko elder brother not because Tanko was richer. No, Tanko was older than my father. I had known Tanko as a child. He came round buying kola nuts from anyone who had. Tanko had a bigger market for his collection of kola. He was tall and missing his upper front row of teeth. Apart from festive occasions, he had always worn the long brown djalabia I knew him for. So much so that when you mention Tanko, the long brown flowing dress came to mind. I would do anything to keep Tanko’s hands off me.

I cried the whole day Father broke the news of Tanko’s proposal. Amid my tears I made my decision. I went to see Hadjia’s agent in town and begged to go to Accra. ‘You will not be shamed, sir. I will work hard,’ I assured him. This agent was the brother of the driver who brought Hadjia to our village. He was a seasoned customer at mother’s koko joint. ‘Very well, I will put in a word for you,’ the kind man promised. ‘The next bus taking deliveries to Accra is due soon. You can go with it,’ the man assured me. Deliveries did not only refer to the usual Yulinayuli ingredients that Hadjia perpetually wanted for her restaurants. The willing human cargo was considered delivery as well. I was happy. When I broke the news to Mother, she wept. ‘My mother, my mother,’ she called. She had always referred to me thus. Mother believed I was her mother come back to her through birth so she always called me Mother. ‘Your absence will cause me pain but lesser pain than having you marry toothless Tanko,’ she said almost in lament, and I could see her aging face lines tighten in pain. My mother resolved to bear her sadness and let me fly from the clutches of old Tanko. 

My father was sitting in his perpetual chair smoking his foul-smelling tobacco when I broke the news to him. Mother had been too broken to tell him. ‘What is it?’ he barked when I bent down before him. ‘Father.’ I called. ‘I am going to the big city,’ I said. Father looked into my eyes and frowned. ‘So, you don’t want to marry Tanko,’ my father replied and continued with his pipe. That was all he said. When there was nothing more coming from him, I informed him I was going back to help Mother and he ignored this too. I got up and walked away slowly. Mother informed me later my father wept when I left.  

In January I packed my few belongings into a small jute bag and bid my mother goodbye. Father was conveniently absent. As the big vehicle full of passengers trudged on through the streets of Tamale, I took in the entire scenery with already growing nostalgia. It felt as if I might not survive to return. I was heading into the unknown. The polished mud houses stared at me. The call of every bird that dawn seemed to have a message of doom and the trees seemed to wave gloomy farewells. I remembered my mother’s tears and wept afresh. 

For ten hours we travelled. I must have slept during the latter part of the journey. Yells from excited passengers shouting, Accra! Accra! roused me. I woke to the sight of the big city I was coming to. There were no mud houses and thatch roofs as far as I could see. There were tall and great buildings. Finally, our vehicle pulled over at the Kwame Nkrumah Circle. Hadjia had sent one of her girls to bring me along. I thanked the driver who had kept Hadjia informed about our progress, then I headed off with the girl who had come for me. She was dressed in a very short skirt that exposed more than I liked. The shirt she wore over the skirt was white and a bit revealing too. I asked her name and she said she was called Sisi. I had never heard a name like that. I was silent throughout the bus ride to Madina where Hadjia lived. Sisi chewed gum loudly and continued filing her painted nails. How she could keep doing that in the bus that kept bumping up and down the road surprised me. I watched her in silence.  

I expected to meet cousin Amina at Hadjia’s place but was disappointed. ‘Amina does not work here. She is at the Dzorwulu branch,’ Hadjia explained to me. The house itself was fenced and had a big compound. There were two long rows of single rooms facing each other. At the other side of the compound stood the business itself. One of the restaurants Hadjia talked of, complete with kitchen and eating places for customers. Patrons moved in and out constantly and there were numerous girls running chores. I could see robust young men wielding the heavy pestles with which they pounded boiled cassava and plantain known as fufu. It was a constant flow of activity. Sisi took me to one of the rooms that had three low beds. ‘You will sleep on this one,’ she said, pointing to the bed close to the wall away from the door. I moved over and dropped my bundle of possessions on the floor beside the bed that had been indicated. I had brought with me all I owned in the world. Three long dresses, a leather pair of sandals, and two scarfs. A bundle of chewing sticks my mother had given me for oral hygiene lay within my possessions.

Sisi proceeded to give me a tour of the house. She showed me the bathroom and where the toilets were located. Everyone watched me when I was shown the restaurant. ‘Why are they staring at me,’ I asked Sisi. ‘Why will they not stare with that crude long thing of a dress you wear? It looks like a Nsawam prison uniform,’ Sisi explained. I looked down at the long simple dress mother had given me and understood. It stood out among the style of all the other girls. They were mostly dressed in tight pairs of jeans and t-shirts. When the tour was over, I was sent back to Hadjia who sat under a tree in the compound continually counting monies brought in to her. She asked me to sit on a stool beside her. 

‘Rafia,’ she called me. ‘You have come a long way to earn a living. Most of my girls come from far so you will work with girls from different backgrounds. All my girls are hardworking and obedient. This city is hard and can be cruel but smart people prosper here. You must work hard but you will be paid for it. If you are nice to the customers, you will earn tips from time to time. These you can keep for yourself. Your style of dress does not fit in here so we will get you some nice clothes.’ 

I looked on, confused about the dress issue. I still thought my dress more proper and those of the other girls too revealing, but like she said I had come from far. The dress code was not enough to frighten me off. My mind went back to the lengths of cloth and money my cousin Amina had sent her mother. I was determined to treat my mother equally well. After a long talk with me, Hadjia asked me to take it easy for the day and hang around the restaurant running errands to learn the ropes. That is exactly what I did for the day. I washed dishes and helped carry food to customers. I even earned a tip at the close of the working day.

At the close of work when dishes were being washed and the place cleaned, those hard-working men who had pounded fufu throughout the day sat down to the leftovers. One popular one among them who joked all the while as he did his work and had a ready smile as if he was preparing his own meal asked me for water. I sent him a sachet from the fridge. He drank long and belched the belch of a satisfied man. ‘Kwrasene!’ one of the girls called out, addressing the belch in the Akan word that meant villager. 

I was alarmed as I thought the insult would incur the man’s anger but I was wrong. He joined everyone in the laughter that followed and handed me a five cedis note. I didn’t know what to do at first. I stood watching the hand that held the gift. ‘Grab it, girl,’ another girl said. I took the money then and the young man nodded in agreement. ‘You have to learn fast if you want to survive here,’ the man said. ‘Or are you not here for money?’ he asked. I nodded and curtsied in appreciation while thanking him. They all laughed as if this was awkward. I was taken aback as this was usual back home. You bent low to say thank you when given a gift but this gesture seemed funny to these city dwellers.

That night when I was just about retiring to bed, I noticed a lot of the girls had changed into more revealing dresses. Some went out that night and some sat in the compound chatting with Hadjia.  I had had my bath and lay on my bed thinking about home, thinking about Mother. I did not know what she might be feeling at the moment back in the village while I lay here for the first time not on a straw mat on the earth but on a soft mattress in a bed. I was in the big city. I was in Accra. The two girls who shared the room with me were Sisi who had picked me up earlier from Kwame Nkrumah Circle and a smallish girl with short hair called Liza who seemed to talk forever. She continued talking even when Sisi put the lights out. Liza was inquisitive. She wanted to know everything about Yulinayuli and talked a lot of her home where she had left her mother and little son. ‘I come from the Volta region. Keta to be precise. It is the loveliest place on the planet Earth. The sands are golden and the sea bluer than the sky. There are coconuts so big it takes seven people to drink up the water in one.’ Liza chatted away, keeping us up. She said she had fallen pregnant after a brief affair with her boyfriend in school who happened to be the football captain and was so handsome all the school girls wanted him. This was until he deserted Liza. That was when he turned so ugly no girl wanted him anymore. ‘Hey Sisi, is your rich man not coming for you tonight?’ Liza asked. The question drew a chuckle from Sisi. ‘He has grown stingy these days. The pay goes smaller and smaller with a lot of lame excuses.’ Sisi was still talking when I slept off. 

I heard the door creak in my sleep and then voices followed. These woke me. They spoke in low tones. I guessed they did not want me listening. I remained as I was and pretended to be asleep. 

There was a male voice and that of my two roommates. ‘You no go come?’ the male voice asked in broken English. He was asking whether the person he addressed would not come along. ‘Look, Soja, we don’t take those your coins anymore,’ I heard Sisi say. ‘How much do you have Soja?’ Liza asked.

 ‘Oh what now? Liza, I no address you o. I no want horse with baggage,’ Soja gave back strongly.

‘Aha, today you say I am horse with baggage because I have a child. So, you were blind to my child all the other times. Sick man without money says medicine is not good. I am not cheap o. I was only being kind to you those other times,’ Liza rationalized. 

There was a brief pause and then Sisi’s voice came through again. ‘Ok, how much do you have?’ The male voice did not respond immediately but came in shakily after a brief hiatus. ‘I go pay twenty Ghana cedis. Only short time.’ The male voice was not as bold as it had begun. ‘That your long thing?’ Sisi countered. ‘Thirty or no business,’ she offered. ‘Ok thirty,’ Soja agreed. ‘Money na hand, back na ground,’ Sisi said and Soja pulled money out of his pocket and handed it over to the service provider. 

In silence I wondered at what I had just witnessed. “Money na hand back na ground,” I understood well. It was a prostitute’s way of saying I will lie down for the act only if you pay. Upfront payment.  With dread, I came to understand my roommates were up for sale. They were trading sex for money. I don’t think I slept a wink again before daybreak. What had I gotten myself into? 

At dawn the whole household was up. We had our baths and it was work as usual. I helped in packing the various foods from the cooking place to the sale spot. As early as half-past six in the morning the inflow of customers started and never stopped till night. I learnt another lesson again that second night. I had shied away from Sisi that whole day knowing what she had done the night before. Liza and I became closer and I just had to tolerate her permanent chatter. Before we went to bed, one of the girls who dressed up with overdone make-up came out smiling from Hadjia’s room. ‘I got the big one,’ she said to Liza. I asked Liza if we could go to have our baths after the others were done. I wanted to have a word with her. She agreed. When I asked in the bathhouse about the incident of last night and what the other girl meant when she talked of getting the big one, the explanation tore my heart to shreds. I wondered whether the fate I was opened to now was not worse than having to settle down with kola nut Tanko back in my village.

The matter at stake was huge. Ostensibly we were all prostitutes. ‘See, these customers who flock in here. They do not do so just because Hadjia’s food is the best in Accra. No. They come gawking,’ Liza explained. I could only shake my head in disbelief. ‘Sorry excuse for gentlemen. They come here to see and pick. They come to point and kill. We are all on show. As for Soja and Sisi’s affair, these are normal happenings. Wake up,’ Liza pointed out. 

‘So, this is Accra.’ I said in alarm. ‘Very much Accra. Hadjia is a big broker. You see, many of the big men who come here have wives at home. When they spot anything they like, Hadjia does the approach and negotiation. She takes her commission of course. And you do not say no to Hadjia unless you want to be thrown on the street. Hadjia herself started earning her wages this way and is still available if the purse is right,’ Liza told me. 

I had come all the way from the North. What was I to do? One thing I was sure of was that I would never be involved in any of these illicit transactions. But was I ready to be thrown out? I was in a dilemma. I did not know where to turn. I had nobody in Accra. No known relative except Amina whose whereabouts I was not sure of. 

The Saturday after this revelation, Hadjia went with me to the market. We had to replenish the storehouse with foodstuff. Along with that I got new clothes. For the first time I owned pairs of jeans trousers. I had always considered trousers dress-up for men but I was used to women wearing them now. When we got home Hadjia made me wear the clothes so she could see how I looked in them. ‘You are beautiful Rafia,’ she said over and over again. The fate I had dreaded never befell me. I was spared for one whole month. The night it threatened I had almost forgotten of it and was fitting in that fine. I had received my pay too. One hundred Ghana cedis for a month’s work with free food and boarding. I felt blessed. My plan was to buy a new mobile phone, add a length of cloth and a new pipe for my father when I added the next five months earnings. 

That night my two companions had gone on trek as they called it. To them it was work away from home. ‘That is a good earner. You spend time with a man willing to put good value on every moment you give him. Hadjia vets them well and so pay and safety guaranteed,’ Liza explained to me earlier. I was alone in the room. There was a knock on the door. The man who had given me my first cash gift of five Cedis and subsequent others came in. We had become somewhat friends now and talked freely around work. He had complimented me over a hundred times on how my new clothes looked good on me. This man was one of the male workers who shared a room in the compound. Just a handful of them did. The rooms were mainly for the girls. 

‘Jojo aren’t you going to bed?’ I asked him. ‘Bed for where? I can’t sleep. You are like a fire burning in my heart. I should have told you this all the while but I could not risk your refusal with everyone watching. I waited for this moment. I have loved you from the first when you came in here,’ Jojo revealed, drawling his words at times and sounding confident at others. When I told him in plain words I would have nothing to do with anybody, he offered me more money. ‘Here, see.’ He pulled out a wad of ten cedis notes. ‘One hundred Cedis all in cash. It is yours.’ I got angry and asked him to leave. That was when he grabbed me and the struggle ensued. I shouted and screamed so loud that my shrill voice through the night got the household’s attention. Jojo tried to silence me by pressing his mouth against mine and I bit his mouth so hard part of the top lip was almost severed. His own scream in terror and pain joined mine now and the door burst open. Hadjia and many of the girls pushed in. No one recoiled in anger or shame when the story was told. 

‘Are you not a woman?’ Hadjia had asked. ‘And you screamed as if he was killing you. Look how you’ve hurt him,’ Hadjia fumed. Jojo was rushed to the hospital. The next day most of the girls shied away from me as if I had committed a terrible sin. At the end of that week Hadjia called me. ‘Rafia, you can earn a living under my roof or you can starve on the streets,’ she started. ‘I had to pay over a hundred cedis for Jojo’s treatment. You will pay it back. I shall take your salary for this month ending and the next in place of what I spent and the inconvenience.’ I looked surprised. I was so horrified she must have seen it. Then she came through with her proposition. ‘A good man,’ she said, wanted a night with me for which she guaranteed me two hundred cedis.  ‘Two month’s salary in just a night you see. Your beauty is going to turn you rich in no time,’ Hadjia explained. Of course, I turned down the offer. The next dawn Hadjia marched to my room with two girls and gave me a sound thrashing. She demanded all the clothes she had bought me. They threw me out in my mother’s old dress I had worn to Accra and I wept.

That is how my journey as a kayayo began. Kayayo is what they call those of us who bear loads on our heads to various destinations for pay. Kaya refers to the various burdens we bear while yo qualifies the bearer. That morning on the streets of Madina, I was fortunate to meet Samia. We had not known each other previously but she was kind. I told her my story and she listened with keen attention. ‘How naïve of you.’ Samia said. ‘I can’t blame you. I was almost as naïve as you when I first came to Accra too but I learnt fast. There is no free meal here. To many of the men, we are commodities,’ she told me. 

Samia slept on the streets and carried loads. I joined her in the trade. She was a good teacher. The busier spots were the big Makola market and Kaneshie. We went wherever there was work. Within a month I did not need Samia’s help again. I had learnt the trade. I knew the busy market stalls to hangout. I knew how to catch the eyes of customers. Finding a place to sleep was trickier than many other maneuvers I could manage. The first few days I slept under a shed in Makola number one bus terminal. It was made of wide zinc sheets supported by stout odum poles. My colleague kayayos jostled for a spare place and when I found space enough, I claimed it, coiling  my body as comfortably as could be managed. The large carrier basin I used as my load-bearing tool came in as a handy pillow and guaranteed my basin from getting stolen. The position I took was way behind the lines of crouching sleepers. I was close to the little office cabin under the wide shed. So close my feet almost touched the cabin door. I did not mind the mice running over me occasionally. At dawn we woke up before the drivers and mates came to make use of the shed. On the fourth night I found out the safety of the shed could be breached too. I had fallen sound asleep even in the midst of the various symphony of snores. But then I sensed movement. A body touched me and a sharp sigh escaped into the night like smoke through the chimney. My eyes opened in sleep’s haze but I shut them again. The sigh and movement came from the girl curled to my right. It came again and I opened my eyes but dared not move immediately. The lights under the shed had long been put off and darkness engulfed us, but I was aware. The girl curled to my right was moving, not of her own volition. I turned to my right, still feigning sleep. It was then that I saw faintly through the night what was unfolding. The moving girl was being pulled by the leg. I felt the coiled body of the girl to my left move momentarily. She too stopped still in an adjusted crouching pose. She said nothing. If others had noticed, they said nothing. Did nothing apart from the momentary instinctive crouching adjustment.

The streets teach you to be economical with screams and the moving girl might have learned that too. Your next scream might be the last, cut quickly by a blade, a fatal choke. It is safe to scream when there is honest help at hand but honest help is a scarce commodity in our world. There was a momentary struggle and another sigh but instinct is a precious gift. The girl slithered in vain struggle as she was pulled by the leg but did not scream. My eyes caught the menacing flashy bared teeth of the determined puller. I had a glimpse of the muscular fore-am enacting the pull before the slithering girl in a final haul vanished into the small cabin used as a makeshift office during the day. Just moments later I heard stifled intermittent cries emanating from the little office cabin and I heard no more. The deep night held her own menace. 

With relief I saw the slithering girl alive the next day. She was limping on one leg but she was alive. ‘The hulking bastard,’ I heard her confide in another Kayayo. ‘It was the foul-smelling master of the shed. He splintered me apart. He is big as a log.  I will move to Nkrumah Circle. There I can pick and choose,’ she affirmed. After that night, she vacated the shed.

I moved too. I had to pick and choose as well. My next abode was not totally removed from Makola number one bus terminal. It was a waterlogged spot at an abandoned warehouse. There was a place under a solemn bridge. The dripping droplets did not touch the spot. The company of mosquitoes were not as menacing as gripping hands and scowling teeth. My sleeping nights were unbothered except for the splitter splatter of running raindrops and nimble insects. My cover shawl given me by my mother served as a head bundle for my loads at day and blanket at night. 

My delicate solitude was neither broken by dragging hands nor slithering sighs. The song that broke my peace came at dawn. ‘Some have food but cannot eat, some can eat but have no food. We have food and we can eat.’ I woke slowly to this soulful song and realized I had company. He was standing clothed in tattered shrubs with his hands held in humble supplication above.

I recognized the man in the dim cast of street lights. Koo Labi. The insane man who begged his keep with fervent movements of a juggler by day, disappearing into obscurity when night came. How was I to know my lowly spot held attraction for him too? With a final leap of faith and drooping lips, Koo Labi took a cowering lunge at me. My instinctive role saved me as the mad man landed with a heavy thud in my dry spot. I sped away pulling my basing in firm grab but I lost my mother’s old shawl that had served me as a head comfort during my labor days and blanket at night. Koo Labi wore it as a trophy the next day, and many other days to come. I was not deceived. Even this small dry space held her own nocturnal danger. 

There was no one safe spot at night for sleep but a juggernaut of maze puzzles to maneuver. I slept in teaming huddles, shivered in lonely cold spots and even claimed vacated fireplaces abandoned at night but I learnt to keep my pants on and padded cloths wrapped around my waist with my purse of earnings. Sleeping when possible, I neither grudged the night nor my circumstances.

One day, I carried a load of groceries for a man from the stalls to the car park where his vehicle was parked. ‘How much?’ he asked when I offloaded the groceries into the trunk of his car. ‘Oh, anything you give me, Sir,’ I answered. The man looked at me without blinking. I could see surprise written in his eyes. ‘You are a good girl. Give me your phone number and will call you whenever I come shopping,’ the surprised man addressed me. ‘Oh, I do not have a phone, Sir,’ I explained. ‘Here,’ he said, handing me twenty Cedis. I was struck dumb. That was a lot of money for the short walk I had done. ‘I will come shopping with my wife on Saturday. If you will make yourself available at the Madina bus station, we will meet at two o'clock Saturday afternoon.’ I nodded my head and thanked him again, bowing low before him. ‘My name is Sir John,’ he called as he pulled his car from the car park and drove away. I was mighty glad, and yes, I met him and his lovely wife when they came shopping the next Saturday. I helped them to their car. That day he gave me my first mobile phone. A simple Nokia pad phone so I could make time when he came shopping. His wife gave me an added tip after Sir John paid me. It became a good relationship. I came to know Sir John’s house and delivered groceries when needed. 

It was this benefactor of mine who turned my innocence into depravity. I had shopped the family’s weekly groceries and sent it to them, expecting the money I used for the shopping and the extra always waiting for me. I tapped at the door and it was opened from inside. Sir John stood there in a pair of khaki trousers and white t-shirt. I saw a strange smile on his face as he waved me in. ‘You know you are such a good girl. A wife material,’ he said as I passed him by and smelled the unmistakable stench of alcohol on his breath. I was alarmed. Not so much for the stench but his comment. The good girl part he had said often but the wife material call was not amusing. As I was placing the groceries in the kitchen as I normally did, I felt an unsettling presence behind me followed by a heavy sigh. Turning around suddenly in alarm I encountered Sir John with a wide grin on his face. His t-shirt was off and his hairy muscular chest looked menacing. I dashed back from the door but fell back against the kitchen cabinet. ‘Oh, come on. Don’t be that way. Good girl,’ Sir John said and pounced on me. ‘Aooo. Ma!’ I called out to his wife but it was in vain. The empty walls echoed back at me. My struggle was vain in the face of his strength and determination. I was still crying and begging when he took me. 

When I left, I threw all the money he gave me at him. That foul gift of money felt like rubbing salt in my injury. It came as a cheap insult after the travesty brought on me and the money felt dirty. I was no longer chaste. The way I saw it, the men could have their way. Later on, I learnt to keep the dirty money and not to throw it back in anger. I became what I had fought against this long while. A prostitute. 

I returned to Yulinayuli after six years. Within those six I had come to discover Amina my cousin. She was in the same trade, prostitution, but Amina was luckless. She died of AIDS and I was part of the delegation that took her body home. My mother could not recognize me until I called to her. She was at the bus station to welcome us. I had aged and looked I believe older than Mother. She took in all with the subtle understanding of a woman and wailed in sorrow. She wailed; I believe not for the dead daughter of her sister but her own daughter whom life had dealt many savage blows. She wailed. ‘My mother,’ she called me over and over as she clung to me. If only she knew, knew how I managed to send her the phones I did, the lengths of cloth and money. ‘I am home, Mother, and that is sufficient,’ I told her. She understood and wiped her tears as she led me home.

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As narrated to me by Rafiatu Ibrahim