Victims of Hope

By Charles Darkoh

She grows up in a village in Ghana. Efia questions the things around her but she must learn to live with the rich but rigid culture. When she boards the flight to pursue a law degree at Harvard, little does she know what shocking punches life will throw at her in Boston. She returns home armed with a Law Degree, only to realize there is so much more to life in Africa, than her "book knowledge".

Efia falls for Big Joe. He is a great lover but he comes with great trouble. Is he also dating the only daughter of one of the wealthiest men in Ghana, the ruthless Alhaji Yusif? Alas, Efia is already pregnant.
Alhaji is not one to forgive... He does not.
Ansah, Efia's brother steps in with a plan. His sister does not deserve this.

The yam that will burn, will burn boiled or roasted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Nov 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780228819783

Charles Darkoh

Charles Ohene Darkoh is a proud son of Ghana who believes in his personal heritage and also cherishes his love for the multiculturalism and beauty of Africa. He is a practicing Physician and also holds a Master of Laws Degree. He is very passionate about Mental Health, especially as it relates to Africa. He enjoys reading and writing fiction and other subjects. He hopes to use the power of fiction to highlight various health and socio-cultural challenges in Africa, in a light and digestible style.

Book preview

Chapter One

Wo bayerɛ ammɔ a, na efiri w’asaase.

The nature of the soil determines how well your yam flourishes.

I was keen to get on with it, I was hungry and tired. I inserted the egg into my mouth and swallowed, but found my throat and neck rejecting it. I panicked, and that made my throat muscles tighten up the more. The egg flew out of my mouth; with my palm I quickly stopped this and glanced at my mother. She gestured, encouraging me to try again. Without realizing what I was doing, I bit into the egg. A disappointed hush fell on all present and one of the women burst into tears. I bit twice again into the morsel and sent it down in two swallows.

My mother, Nyaniba, knelt beside me and rubbed my back. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine, she whispered to me as she stroked my sullen face.

We have to take her back for re-purification and forgiveness at the river. Nana Nsaba took control, staring grimly at me.

I bowed my head in shame and held back the tears.

I don’t want anybody to cry!

Efia, you still have to swallow another egg when we come back from the river, and I am afraid that will be your last chance! Nana Nsaba reminded me. Turning to my sister, she said, Oforiwaa, rush to the queen mother and tell her what has happened, we need her to come back to Siamo. My sister galloped away like an antelope after its prey, her urgency hitting me with the seriousness of what was happening.

I was covered with the white ntoma once again and ushered by five of the women to the River Siamo. This time there wasn’t any singing. I felt a strong sense of shame as we paraded through the village; I had never seen this happen to any other girl in the village. Libation was poured every hundred yards, explaining to the gods why I was being taken back for purification.

At the river, the queen mother, who had joined us, poured more libation. Nananom, your innocent daughter is asking for pardon. She is asking you to restore her fertility and relieve her from the curse of barrenness.

I felt strange and unreal, as if I was witnessing all this happening to someone else. Once again the coolness of the water made me shiver. This time I was made to rinse my mouth three times. I was then ushered back home, this time without any singing. There was, however, silent clapping, while the queen mother repeatedly declared, Let’s thank Nananom, she has been purified, she has been forgiven.

***

The rumours had spread like wildfire. My family was quite respected in the village not only because my father owned lands, but also due to how well my mother carried herself, not to mention my good work in school. But, alas, I had not been able to swallow an egg whole. I was so ashamed, and this feeling pushed my determination to get it right the second time, come hell or high water. Almost the whole village was out now, observing and gossiping, as I was escorted back home.

I have always been bad at swallowing large morsels and my mother had been rather apprehensive about this part of the menarche ceremony. When I was a toddler, I was told, my fufu morsels had to be cut into very tiny pieces, a sharp contrast to feeding my sisters, who had never experienced any difficulty in swallowing. Even now, I notice my morsels are relatively small when I eat.

My dear mother was extremely worried. I noticed the deep crease on her forehead that I had only seen twice before, and both times it wasn’t good news. I worried about her worry.

While I was being taken to the river for the second time, she had hatched a plan. Ansah, she told my brother, run to the farm, look in the guinea fowl coop and select three of the smallest eggs and bring them back to me. Hurry up!

As Ansah took off, Asah, my other brother, ran after him—he was certainly not going to be left out. They returned in a flash, I was told. The eggs were hard-boiled and ready when I came back from Siamo.

Even in my shame and anxiety, I still felt the hunger pangs. I could only try. A rush of adrenaline ran through my body. I selected the smallest egg among the three, closed my eyes tightly in determination and swallowed it at the first try. A wave of relief swept across my mother’s face as our eyes locked. She gave me a comforting smile. A tear of relief trickled down my cheek. The other women cheered and clapped, and the singing once again started. I was now officially a young woman.

***

It had all started when I felt something crawl down my thighs one afternoon during my break at school. I thought it was an insect as I slapped my left thigh with my right hand. I felt fluid on my hand and hastily looked. It was blood. I knew it had finally come. I looked around to see if anyone was watching. Fortunately, it was break time and most of the pupils were out playing. I saw Anthony, my friend with the peculiar face, sitting in the corner—I would later come to realize he had Down’s syndrome. He was the favourite of the girls but was always teased by the boys. He started rushing toward me when he saw blood on my palms, not that he knew what to do.

No, Anthony, I shouted, my bloody outstretched hand.

He halted in his tracks with a distressed but puzzled look in his slit eyes. I jumped out of my seat and rushed home, forgetting to place the piece of ntama [cloth] where Maame had advised me to.

I rushed into the sun-baked compound, shouting in excitement.

Maame, Maame, it came, it came.

I showed my red palms to my mother and innocently lifted my skirt. She hugged me and literally carried me to the edwaeɛ [bathroom], a bamboo enclosure at the rear of the compound. She gave me a good bath and my first practical lesson in feminine hygiene.

Having done this three times before, Maame knew what was expected of her. She went around the village sounding an old pan, declaring her last daughter had come of age. Her broad smile spread from cheek to cheek on her dark shiny face.

Come Saturday, she took me to the queen mother to commence the bragorɔ, the traditional puberty rites. I was first examined to verify that I was still a virgin and not pregnant. Another girl in the village had also had her first menses, and our bodies were shaved by the elderly women of the village, and the nails of our fingers and toes delicately trimmed. A nimble old lady took to shaving my head in densinkran style, cut short and dyed black—as worn by royalty or Ashanti women on special occasions.

I have initiated many a girl in this village, she said, "and, Efia, you have the best-shaped head I’ve ever seen. You deserve royalty, to be the wife of some Nana kɛseɛ [grand king]."

I glowed as the mature women of the village threw compliments at me. My father, Paa Kofi, had to pay for the haircut as custom demanded, but this money was later given to me as my financial capital to start life.

We were then dressed in traditional attire and adorned with gold necklaces, hair ornaments, bracelets, and ankle beads. The queen mother ushered us outside into her forecourt where the women of the village were cheering and singing branwom [traditional songs sang during puberty rites]. Billows of dust danced in the air, randomly jerking to the waves of music.

Nana Nsaba, an elderly village lady with fourteen children, directed me to sit on the stool twice, each time for just a moment.

"Tenase, soree, she said. [Sit, stand.] Tenase, soree!"

The third time I sat and stayed. The stool was placed on beautiful kente [sacred cloth], and a yaawa [brass basin] filled with water sat beside me, with special ceremonial leaves moving on the surface as if in celebration.

Most of the villagers were there, as it was an occasion for the young men to witness our readiness for marriage. We whispered among ourselves and speculated about who would be the lucky one to engage me.

I felt special and enjoyed the attention, but I kept saying to myself, I am not going to marry now. I have go to university first. I even tried to keep eye contact with any hopeful young men to a minimum. My mother was smiling from ear to ear as all and sundry congratulated her, and as the celebration went on, she remembered the circumstances of my birth and a tear trickled down her cheeks. Family, friends, and well-wishers gave gifts and celebrated with drumming and dancing.

In the evening, the elderly women of Akurapa rubbed me with a white clay called shire and covered my head and face with white cloth. I was then escorted slowly to the River Siamo for the cleansing ritual. No one was allowed there other than the few elderly women and the queen mother. I had to be naked for this part of the ceremony. I was initially dipped into the river three times, and although the sun was out, I found the water quite cold and shivered briefly. I had heard that a water snake had fatally bitten one girl’s buttocks many years ago during a similar ritual and became quite apprehensive. It was said that this girl had engaged in prepubertal intercourse and the gods had sent the snake as a punishment.

I was bathed with a new sponge, soaped, and rubbed with lime. There was a libation of local gin, and prayers were said to the gods, including the River Siamo herself, petitioning them to give me a good husband and to make me fertile and successful in childbirth.

I was dressed in resplendent new kente and a pair of new ahenema [royal sandals] to match. While being led under an umbrella back to the village, I was met at the outskirts by my family and friends, and the singing and cheering restarted. I was then taken to our family compound. It was time to eat.

Three ayewa [earthenware grinding pots] were placed in front of me. There was ɛtɔ [mashed yam with palm oil] and boiled eggs, banana and groundnuts, and cooked elephant skin. The rumours were that it wasn’t an elephant but akrantie—a large rodent known as grasscutter—though no one dared argue about that, since it was always provided by the chief.

I tasted the oto, which was the best I had ever eaten.

You have to swallow the egg whole, young lady, Nana Nsaba had instructed. If you bite into the egg, you will be eating your children.

That was when my troubles had started.

Now that I had finally successfully maneuvered the feat, I was kept indoors for the next seven days, and every day the elderly women of the village came over and educated me on various pertinent issues including the social, emotional, and spiritual consequences of premarital sex and pregnancy. I found the part on sex education quite embarrassing and giggled coyly throughout. I also learnt about good womanhood, how to take care of wuwura, your husband, and about the traditions of the village.

***

A few years before I officially entered womanhood, the heat of the sun and of the revolution had scorched the people and earth of Ghana. A famine, resulting from the severe drought of the prior year, made life even more difficult. Vast numbers who had fled Ghana to seek a better life in Nigeria had been ordered back home by the Nigerian authorities. Moreover, store owners, in a bid to increase prices, were hoarding food to increase the demand. The situation looked much grimmer in many other African countries. Many lacked even the simple basic needs of life. Inflation was ballooning all over Africa and the ravages of war skipped across the continent like a hungry tern skipping over waters. Dusk was gradually enveloping the land of gold, cocoa, timber and oil: natural resources that were said to enrich the nation. Yet, somehow, the people were mostly poor. A child though I was at the time, I frequently puzzled over how we could have all these valuable resources, while few people that I knew of were well-off.

I had been born on June 7, in Akurapa, a village seventy kilometres south of Kumasi in the Ashanti region of Ghana. Akurapa was three hours from Kumasi, even with the sure-footed land rover, due to the ever-worsening potholes on the muddy road. No one dared travel the road at night if it was their first time. Dust from the roadside made the night settle in quickly.

One day in March, as the women prepared the evening meal, my eldest sister, Oforiwaa, came over to me. Smart but rather lackadaisical, Oforiwaa’s personality was laid-back. Her husband had been caught in the increasing tide of fresh, able-bodied African men trying to escape the pervasive hardship by seeking greener pastures abroad. Some people called it the Zion train and many wanted to jump on board. That had been three years ago. She had not seen him since. He wrote to her twice a year: Christmas and sometime mid-year. Ansah, the elder of my twin brothers (albeit by only seven minutes), and more recently myself, would explain the contents of the letters. Oforiwaa was rather suspicious that he had found a white woman for himself, but that, surprisingly, did not bother her much. What she desperately wanted was a child. If only he could come back just for a month, her wishes might be fulfilled.

But, for now, she would lose herself in the day-to-day obligations of maintaining the home. Come help me gather firewood from the roadside, Oforiwaa said.

As usual, I had my nose in a book, but at my sister’s request, I marked my place with a single reed from a broom, and set the book aside.

Sure, I replied with a smile. I tried not to let my annoyance show. I’d been reading about the United Gold Coast Convention, an organization calling for Ghanaian independence shortly after World War II. It seemed as if my homeland’s history was a string of compromises in the move toward true independence. Perhaps when I am older, a full-grown woman, I thought, I can play some part in the unfolding story of my nation’s progress. To be a part of it, though, I would need to read more, study hard, and travel beyond my family’s compound. Compared to such thoughts, gathering firewood seemed pointless and trivial, but I still replied with a smile.

We walked barefoot through the swampy grassland, along the contorted clay footpath. Lizards and butterflies danced around, each going about their business.

The firewood was sold by Nsiah, my father Paa Kofi’s weed-smoking, scraggy nephew, who called himself Bob Marley. He supplied us with free firewood for the privilege of cutting the wood from my own father’s lands. Many suspected he was growing cannabis somewhere remote on these lands.

We gathered enough firewood for the next couple of weeks, carrying the pieces on a long piece of coiled cloth, serving as a cushion for our heads. We daintily balanced the load without the support of our arms, and as we made our way back, a couple of young men who were walking behind us in single file undoubtedly exchanged knowing glances, as they admired our buttocks wobbling sturdily. Returning to the cooking area at home, we dropped the last of the firewood on the mud floor in the kitchen area, close to the mukyia-tripod cooking mound made from hard clay, serving as a stove.

"Well done, sweet kaakyire—last child. You are always ready to lend a helping hand, Oforiwaa said, her large rolling eyes filled with mock gratitude. Remember, Efia, there is a time for everything: there is a time to read and a time to help out with household chores. The book will not feed you—you have to learn these things too!"

Yes I know, but everyone has a hobby; yours may be cooking, but mine is reading! Do you mind?

Oforiwaa replied, "I do mind. You don’t even know how to light the mukyia, and all the other girls your age do. You can never get a husband like this!"

She gave me a knowing look. "Your teacher is not the most regular of teachers, yet I never see you playing ampe when I pass on my way to the market, on the days he is absent. Where do you hide yourself?" she asked. Ampe was a game favoured by most little girls and included a lot of jumping and clapping, accompanied by shouts, giggles, and outright laughter.

I could feel the dimples on my face light up as I smiled deeply. "I would rather read, Oforiwaa. There is so much to learn that sometimes I feel like I will never be able to take it all in. And when I do, I fear I will become so full as to burst at the seams like the way efuru-dotwedotwe burst after eating so much food." Efuru-dotwedotwe, the man with the huge belly, was well-known in Ghanaian folklore as a good friend of Kweku Ananse, the trickster.

"In the classroom, I try to answer all of the questions on my own, lesson by lesson. Sometimes I read storybooks, too. Mr. Takyi narrated Weep Not Child and Cry Freedom to our class. I think they are my favourite stories. On those days, we also spend a lot of time doing agricultural science. Agric is not as interesting as stories, but I don’t mind it."

Unlike many little girls my age, I was extremely curious by nature; as soon as I was able to read, my lithe mind gobbled up every book I could lay hands on. I loved African literature and tried to read most of the books, even though I did not comprehend some of the words. The stories brought out an intrinsic cry for something I did not understand, but yearned to see, touch, and experience.

You shouldn’t be so serious all of the time, Oforiwaa gently scolded me. You’re only eight and have plenty of time for studying and playing. Before you know it, your life will be little more than work and chores, with a husband and children to care for. Enjoy your play time while you can.

Is the food ready? Asah, who was the kakra (younger twin), asked. I am hungry. Ansah glared at him as he pounded the boiled cassava and plantain with the wooden pestle, while Nyaniba effortlessly turned the sticky mixture in the large wooden mortar. Asah hardly ever helped in pounding the fufu, which was boiled cassava and plantain pounded to a thick, sticky delight. He would time his homecoming so that by the time he got home, the food would be ready, pounded by Ansah, of course.

How dare you, do you think we are your slaves? Next time, we will leave raw cassava in your bowl so you learn to be responsible, Ansah remarked in disdain. He had made these threats many times, but had never been able to carry them out.

Go fetch the others, Nyaniba snapped at Asah, a timely interruption to prevent the usual tiff.

Soon the whole family was gathered outside the compound, seated on small wooden stools, busily swallowing morsels of fufu from a bowl on the ground before each one. Only Paa Kofi sat at a small wooden table, a bowl of water to wash his hands on the ground beside it.

I glanced at the mass of food on my father’s table and wondered why his fufu was hidden beneath a mountain of mutton and akrantie, while the rest of the family barely had a small piece of either meat on our plates. I had asked my mother about it once, but was told I will understand when I grew older. A child must crack the shell of a snail, not that of a tortoise was the proverbial response from my mother. I hated it when any adult answered my questions in that manner. It did little to satisfy my curiosity and only made me want to know more.

That evening, my sister Akosua helped with the chores as she usually did. Although she was born after Oforiwaa, in many ways her appearance made her appear to be the eldest. She was buxom and had an attractive figure. She tackled every situation presented to her with an air of maturity. Married to Wiafe, she decided to return to a hut in her parent’s compound, with her son, when her husband informed her one morning of his desire to add another woman to the household. His announcement had greatly upset her.

That evening, I could clearly read the worry on Akosua’s face, even before she blurted out. Can’t he feel the pinch of hardship already plaguing us? she complained to my mother as we cleaned up after the meal. Even with just him, me, and Star, she said, referring to her five-year-old son, "dinner has not been a regular feature in our household. How can we afford to feed yet another mouth?

Without waiting for my mother’s reply, she carried on. "Is he going to use stones to feed us? If Wiafe has his way, this second