WHY MY NANA BURIED HER SOFA
I had my story ready for when Mommy picked me up tomorrow from my Nana’s house: Two hours of Maths revision, an afternoon nap, then two hours studying history. But Nana hadn’t got the memo. Or she had but didn’t care. We were standing in the sunshine, outside her blue metal gate.
“You’re in time to help me bury my sofa, Yeboah,” Nana said to me – just loudly enough for Mommy to hear. I groaned inside. Mommy had just dropped me off and was about to drive away; two seconds later and she would have gone. Her head snapped around like some robot doll in a horror movie. Her car window slid further down.
“Bury your sofa?” Mommy’s thin, pretty face looked tired from being up too early.
Nana slipped her slim arm around me. “We’ll do it together,” she smiled.
We all knew that sofa –a saggy three-seater. It sat like some tatty god in Nana’s living room. Nana and I did all my favourite things on that sofa– reading comics. Arguing about what the world’s coolest invention was. Talking about the best and worst places to go in Ghana, playing video games. And eating
