The Straw Mattress

By Nicholas Asare

"Asare's most impressive work to date. Belongs on a small shell reserved for African authors masterpieces" - Steven Atuah.
The Straw mattress is classic novel of fate, survival, regret and love set in the heart of Accra, Ghana.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781329594012

Book preview

The Straw Mattress

Cover Page

Title Page

The Straw Mattress

By

Nicholas Asare

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 Nicholas Asare

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

Chapter One

Frank read the unsigned note with its ominous message twice, but it still didn’t make sense to him. Why would anybody warn him to vacate his lodgings or else? The writer was either in a hurry or perhaps did not possess good penmanship. Obviously a case of mistaken identity, he thought. Or maybe it’s BB at it again.  In Frank’s opinion there was no one as prone to mischief and pranks as his best friend, Bernard Boahen, popularly known as BB. 

The next day while chatting with BB Frank accused BB of writing the note, but the latter denied knowledge of any such note. 

Don’t lie to me, man, Frank pressed his point. I know how you like to play pranks.

I agree I like to play jokes, I’ll admit that, BB replied.  But there are some jokes that are too expensive, even for me. I wouldn’t play that kind of joke on you.  Believe me."

Okay, if you say so.

When you find out who it is let me know.

That was the end of the conversation. Frank didn’t think anymore about the matter until he returned home that evening and found another note under his door. Definitely in no mood to play mind games he found the second note more infuriating.  After a hard day of hustling to make ends meet, all he wanted to do at about eight o’clock was to have dinner followed by a much-needed rest and relaxation. Quite puzzled, he instinctively turned over the sheet of paper. The name on the back said, Mr. Frank Asiamah.

There had to be some mistake! He could feel his heart beating faster as he tried to come up with clues -- anything -- that would help make some sense of what to him was a clear case of mistaken identity.  His antagonist had threatened him with some sort of physical harm unless he moved out of his room by the end of the month. There was no reason given, but I am going to get you could mean only one thing:  physical harm of some sort.   

When Frank heard a truck passing behind the house, he instinctively looked out the window.  It was a typical dark night in Accra, Ghana. A few street lights spaced far apart stood out like little yellow specks against the dark background.  From his one-room flat on the second floor of building number NT 504, Frank could make out the large Tata beer advertisement several hundred yards away. Religiously, the neon sign continued flashing its incessant message to all and sundry:  Tata Beer, Premier Beer of Ghana. He quickly lost interest.  Who cares even if it’s the best beer in the world? He looked down just in time to see only the top of the truck and the taillights. Apparently, he driver was trying hard to avoid the large potholes on the unpaved road behind the house because the truck was heaving dangerously to the left and then to the right.  

He found it hard to understand why many drivers ventured to drive fast through that stretch of space.  It was just an open space about three hundred meters long between the buildings unpaved and with no discernible gutters like the regular roads in the city.  Refuse littered it in many places and in a few spots one could see small, dark pools of water filled with garbage.  The constant use of the road by vehicles and occasional heavy rains had left deep potholes and unevenness in many places.  The exposed clayey and reddish soil had become hardened over time, ensuring a hard, uneven, and treacherous surface especially after a rainfall.  One of these days, Frank thought, shaking his head, a car is going to tip over! It’s only a matter of time! He wondered if the open space was originally set aside to be used as a road or if it was part of some other city project that had been left unfinished and forgotten.

Closing the window, he wiped the tiny beads of perspiration that had begun to form on his brow. Perhaps it was the high humidity or fear or a combination of both.  After making sure his door was locked, he turned off the ceiling light which was the only light in the room. There…you can’t be too careful, he thought as he slumped into the well-worn sofa.  He could feel the hard lump in the sofa where he had stuffed rags inside the springs in an effort to firm it up.  The effort had not yielded any significant difference.  The springs still creaked every time he sat on it, but he had gotten used to it. With time he had been able to find exactly where to sit on the sofa and where not to sit.  He chuckled at the thought of it all. 

Then his thoughts returned to the pieces of paper with their threatening messages. It was good he had turned off the light, for the dark room provided some comfort. Hopefully, if his antagonists did not see any light in the room, they might conclude that he was still out.  But the darkness also had the unintended effect of amplifying every little sound in the room, including the sound going thump! thump! thump! in his chest. Closing his eyes, he pondered the events of the past few days.  Could this threat have anything to do with any of the passengers he picked up in his cab?  He wondered, but nothing stood out in his mind that could lead to a threat of this nature.

After a while, realizing what was happening to him he sat up. There was no reason to be terrified. I’ve wronged nobody, at least no one I know of; he reasoned, so why am I panicking?  Surely, this must be a mistake. He turned on the switch and light flooded the room again.  Almost as soon as the light came on, he heard footsteps coming up the stairs, followed seconds later by three soft knocks on the door.

Who…who is it? he croaked as his heart resumed beating faster again.  He could hardly recognize his own voice.

Frank, it’s me, replied Mrs. Maanan, his landlady.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he opened the door.

I thought you were still out, Frank, said the petite elderly woman, looking up at him.  I didn’t see you come in.

I came home a little earlier today, he lied. I was just resting.  What can I do for you, Mrs. Maanan?

Oh, pardon me; I was wondering if I could borrow a couple of cubes of sugar. Just two cubes will do.

Of course, he replied.  Let me see how many I have. 

Bending down, he opened the little, old, oak cupboard where he kept his meager supply of food items.  There were about fifteen cubes of sugar left in the Tate & Lyle paper box with its characteristic olive green packaging. A few tiny red ants were milling around the box. Quickly, he squashed them with his thumb. It seemed as if every time he killed them more of them showed up the next day. Nasty pests! Almost immediately he smelled the pungent odor wafting from his thumb.  I better wash my hands! How could such little ants smell so bad?

Here, he said, handing Mrs. Maanan six cubes.  

Oh, thank you so much, Frank! she exclaimed.  This will last me more than two days. Oh, thank you! You’re such a good person.

She stayed for a while to chat with Frank before deciding to leave. 

I will pay you back next week, she promised. 

Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Maanan, he replied, glad to see that she was happy. 

He did not expect her to repay the six cubes of sugar.  After all, that was not the first time she had promised to return or replace something she had borrowed.  Mrs. Maanan never borrowed much of anything. She always needed just a small amount:  a few cubes of sugar one day or a tablespoon or two of salt another day.   Sometimes, she borrowed a few hot peppers; other times she borrowed one or two tomatoes.  But, in spite of her promises, she never seemed to remember to return them.  Somehow, Frank could not bring himself to remind her to replace what were essentially negligible items. Better that your landlady felt indebted to you than the other way around, he thought. 

But he had not always felt that way. He recalled the day when, after he had reluctantly given Mrs. Maanan a few teaspoons of salt, he had told himself, No more! But the very next day he could not keep his promise. Somehow he could not bear the thought of seeing the elderly lady disappointed as, empty-handed, she returned downstairs to her room.  Furthermore, he remembered the few times Mrs. Maanan had allowed him to continue to stay when he was behind in his rental payments. One good turn deserves another, he had reminded himself as he recalled a story he had read a long time ago when he was in primary class six.

The curious thing, in his opinion, was that there were a few other tenants in the building who could have helped Mrs. Maanan, but she always preferred to come to him.  For example, the Tokus on his floor and Mr. Asamoah and his wife, Auntie Amma, who lived just a room away from Mrs. Maanan on the ground floor were people to whom she could have gone for help. These were people who could have played the same role he was playing, but Mrs. Maanan always came to borrow from him, and that never sat well with him, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask her.  How did she make it when I wasn’t here? It was hard to understand why she always seemed to run out of a few of the essentials even though she received rental payments each month.  It didn’t make sense.  He wondered what she did with all the money she collected. Why was she such a habitual borrower? Oh well, he shrugged, at least she is a good landlady. I don’t know…. Maybe I’m too soft on old women.

Frank watched the elderly woman as she painstakingly descended the flight of cement stairs with its old wooden handrail that had been smoothened and blackened by the rubbing of countless palms over the years.  His eyes fell on the lone light bulb that seemed to be perpetually dimmed as it hung naked on a wire high up in the ceiling above the stairs.  Surrounding the light bulb like a dirty halo was a cluster of cobwebs.  One of these days I will have to find a ladder and clear them, he promised himself. God knows she needs help.

Whether it was due to senility or just sheer ignorance, Mrs. Maanan did not seem to have any concept of home maintenance.  Both the outside and inside of the house had not seen a coat of paint for what seemed like ages, but she seemed to be satisfied with the state of the building.  Maybe it was because she was old, Frank had previously assumed, or may be it was because none of the tenants had complained. Built with cement blocks, the building was very solid. As long as there was no physical damage to the building, and as long as she received her rental payments, everything seemed to be all right for his landlady.

The light cast a dim shadow of Mrs. Maanan against the wall as she stood at the bottom of the stairs.  Looking up at Frank, she grinned and waved slightly. 

Thank you again, Frank! 

Don’t mention it. 

Frank heard her door close, and silence again descended on the floor. 

Glad that he had been able to help out Mrs. Maanan he began to wonder how she spent her days and whether she had any relations.  He did not remember a time when the old woman received any visitors.  There had been none -- at least within the previous two years.  An elderly woman living alone with hardly any visitors and with no live-in help was certainly an oddity in a family-oriented nation like Ghana. How was she able to keep her sanity being at home virtually alone all day? In Ghana where family consisted of members of the extended family such as uncles, aunts, nephews and nieces, and even cousins, it didn’t make sense to Frank that Mrs. Maanan would be living alone. Could it be she really didn’t have anybody? Didn’t anybody care? What Ghanaian woman at her age would not have at least one or two grandchildren living with her? There was something that was definitely out of character in the whole picture about Mrs. Maanan. 

In some ways Mrs. Maanan reminded him of his own mother, especially because they were about the same age.  But his mother was not that lonely; she had other people around her – her husband (Frank’s father), other relatives, and some of her grandchildren.  As he thought about his mother, he remembered that he had not sent any money to his parents during the previous six months.  Feeling ashamed, he reflected on how hard it was to make ends meet.  Forget about savings. Somehow he didn’t seem to make enough money to even take care of all his expenses.  Every day he woke up hoping that things would get better, that he would get a lucky break only to find out that nothing was changing.  Day after day he got out of the house to hustle -- just to get his daily bread. But going back to live in his hometown, Koforidua, was out of the question.  He had nothing to look forward to by way of job opportunities. If only his parents and relatives knew how tough things were for him!  Unfortunately, they seemed to live in a different world altogether.  Accra was the place to be! So long as Frank worked in Accra, he was presumed to be doing better financially.  

He decided he was not going to worry about the notes, but he couldn’t stop thinking about them. Recalling that they had been placed under his door, he deduced that whoever was threatening him lived in the house.  But who would want him out of the building? I should have asked Mrs. Maanan if she had seen anybody come upstairs during the day, he thought.  At that point the sound of quarreling next door broke into his thoughts. 

Here we go again! he mumbled to himself.  His already frayed nerves could hardly stand another source of irritation.  When are these people ever going to get their act together?  The Tokus had moved into the building a year before Frank came to live next door to them.  For as long as Frank could remember, the couple had quarreled at least once every month; but in recent weeks, the quarrelling had become almost a daily affair.  For some reason the quarrels always occurred at night. 

"You call yourself a man?" Frank heard Reina, Mr. Toku’s wife, scream. 

Having heard them quarrel so often, Frank knew what was going to follow next -- "You’re hopeless, useless. Why did I marry you?" 

For some reason, there had been a marked increase recently in the number of times the couple had a spat, and that had been a source of anguish for him.  Not only could he hear almost every insulting word that was uttered because the couple screamed so often, but it usually took about an hour or more before they calmed down.  As always he felt that he should say something to them the next day, but he did not know how to go about it.  Mr. Toku was older than him; so, out of respect, Frank just did not know how to approach him and tell him that he could hear almost every word the couple said.  So, he would get up in the morning and pretend he didn’t hear anything.  Surely, they can’t pretend as if nobody hears them, he thought; they ought to know better!  Frank had complained to Mrs. Maanan a few times before, but the woman had not done anything about it.  I guess it’s none of my business, he thought, as the quarrel went on.  Then he heard what sounded like a slap, and then there was silence.  Who slapped whom? He wondered. 

* * *

Chapter Two

The city was already wide-awake when Frank woke up the next morning. Turning on the old Akasanoma radio, the Ghanaian brand, he heard the announcer say something about the River Densu that had overflowed its banks and was posing a significant problem for vehicular traffic at Nsawam, about thirty miles from Accra.  Unfortunately, the usual static and poor reception prevented Frank from hearing the rest of the news. After a few unsuccessful attempts to get the radio to work, he gave up.  After all, what else is new in Ghana? He thought, It’s always the same old news…bribery and corruption, and funeral announcements, anyway.  Besides, he reasoned, there couldn’t be anything new besides the political speeches and their promises of great developments.  There had been talk of the government’s plans for rural electrification programs and creation of jobs in rural areas, but nothing had materialized out of the promises, perhaps due to the military coup d’etat. 

Above the sounds of the morning came the rumbling of a distant train, and he wondered where it was headed – whether to Accra with its problems or from Accra and to freedom.  Ade akye abia… he said as he pondered about "the daily grind" -- another day of toiling and hustling for humanity.  The sound of the train ushered in memories of the only train journey he had ever made when, six years earlier in 1961, after completing his secondary school education at Pope John’s Secondary School, he had left Koforidua to seek a better life in Accra.  For him the lucrative jobs and the easy life of Accra that his cousin had promised and bragged about had not yet materialized.  

To get by in the early years after his arrival in Accra, Frank lived with his cousin in a one-bedroom flat near Kantamanto, and he did some odd jobs.  He had to move out and find other accommodations after his cousin befriended a girl. That was a tough time, Frank recalled. Whenever the girl visited and wanted to spend the night, Frank had to find some other accommodation, sometimes quite late at night. At such times, he found a corner in the kitchen where he nestled, covered himself with a blanket, and steeled himself against a night of mosquito attacks. He shook his head at the memory. "Aniwa nnim awerehow" – The eye knows no sorrow so the adage went.  Somehow, he always managed to fall asleep in spite of the mosquito bites, the cold cement floor, and other unfavorable conditions. 

As the visits of his cousin’s girlfriend became more frequent and as the daily pressures of living in Accra proved to be too much for all three of them, Frank packed his few belongings and moved out.  For the next six months after he moved out, he drifted from friend to friend until he found his present living quarters at Accra New Town, also known in some circles as Lagos Town. 

Frank had also tried his hand at professional boxing. At five feet nine inches and weighing one hundred and sixty eight pounds, he was classified as a middleweight.  His hero then was Dick Tiger of Nigeria who at that time was the Commonwealth Middleweight champion and later became the World Middleweight Champion. His other hero was Floyd Patterson. Frank went into boxing thinking that he had the right build and hand speed to be successful, but he quickly realized that he lacked what it took to succeed in that profession:  stamina, a dogged will, and a strong jaw.  His first fight had been billed as a sparring session.  It was to be his first step to being recognized as a legitimate boxer.  Unfortunately, he soon found out that it didn’t matter how a fight was billed.  The fact of the matter was that you still got hurt. That day, his more experienced sparring partner pummelled him. While sprawled on the canvas, he decided on a change of career.

Recalling the experience he laughed out loud. Of course, at that time, it was a matter of life and death. How strange that, with the passage of time, unpleasant experiences somehow took on a funny character! Yes, it was an important lesson that changed his life. Immediately after the fight, he decided to steer far away from any profession that could involve fisticuffs and other physical violence such as the police and the army.  He found what he thought was a safer profession -- driving a taxicab for a living.  Accra had made him resourceful, tough, and street smart.  Having survived those early days, he was hopeful that he would eventually succeed.

Although life was very tough in Accra, there seemed to be no escape and nowhere else to go.  Furthermore, many hundreds more starry-eyed, idealistic, young people were arriving in Accra daily from the hinterlands, swelling up the population and aggravating an already-worsening situation.  For these new arrivals hope of making it big in the city quickly evaporated as, sooner or later, they came face to face with reality. It was much too easy to lose one’s innocence.  No one seemed to be immune from misfortune or pain.  In Frank’s opinion Accra had a subtle, nameless kind of malaise that promoted selfishness and self-preservation to the neglect of mutual compassion and caring that characterized rural communities. It was a malaise that seemed to sear the conscience of everybody -– the guilty as well as the innocent. Why else would some anonymous antagonist single him out for harassment?

He picked up the old Pronto wristwatch from the small dresser. The watch was the only possession of some value that reminded him of better days in Koforidua.  In those days one had class if one owned a Pronto wristwatch!  It was old but it was still ticking. The time was 7:29 am. A few more minutes and he would be getting ready to go to work.  After a while he got up from bed and went through his stretching exercise.  Sometimes he did a bit of shadow boxing. He appreciated those stretching exercises that were remnants from his boxing days.  They helped to keep him fit and trim.   A slight pain on his side reminded him of another side of the hard life:  sleeping on a straw mattress.  Made of coarse jute cocoa bags sewn together and stuffed with dried straw, these mattresses were quite uncomfortable, but they were better than the bare, cold cement floors of many Ghanaian homes.  As the mattress of the working poor, it was dubbed, "sore-ko-adwuma! Literally, the term meant, Get-up-and-go-to-work!" The rich, on the other hand, slept on springy, foam-filled Vono mattresses which, as expected, were always soft and very comfortable.  

"Sore-ko-adwuma" was so uncomfortable that it nullified every temptation to sleep in. Frank knew that too well. Many times he had woken up and felt body aches as if he had been in a fight. Sometimes a sharp piece of straw would penetrate his calico linen, stab his side, and wake him up as he turned in his sleep.  Thank God it was not a daily occurrence any longer, especially after he smothered the mattress by covering it with a couple of thick woolen second-hand blankets that he had picked up at Makola market. Unlike some of his taxi driver friends, he felt very fortunate that he didn’t also have to deal with the problem of bedbugs.  A "sore-ko-adwuma" mattress breeding bedbugs made for a sleeper’s nightmare – a sure recipe for restless nights! Those taxi drivers, with bloodshot eyes and bags under their eyes, could attest to the fact. 

It was Thursday morning, and another day of hustling lay ahead. Frank hurried past the kitchen door to the common bathroom.  The bathroom served the four tenants living on the second floor:  Old Mr. Mills, Mr. Toku and his wife Reina, and Frank. There were four bedrooms on the floor.  Old Mr. Mills had the farthest room.  Next to his was an unoccupied room.  The Tokus had the next one.  Opposite the Tokus’ room was the flight of stairs that led to the ground floor past Mrs. Maanan’s door to the entrance of the house. Frank occupied the first bedroom on the second floor, the one closest to the kitchen. 

The second floor of Mrs. Maanan’s house was shaped in the form of an L. On the longer side of the L were the four bedrooms.  The shorter side of the L contained three rooms:  the kitchen, the bathroom, and the toilet in that order. This morning Frank was glad to find the bathroom unoccupied. There had been days when he had had to wait for what seemed like eternity as Reina took a shower. 

After a quick shower Frank was ready to get out and begin the day. There was not enough time to prepare some porridge.  Besides, the little cupboard was virtually empty.  He would have loved to have a hot cup of Ovaltine or Milo, but he had already run out a few days earlier.  The cupboard contained what was left of the tea bread that he had bought three days earlier.  Brushing aside a few of the ubiquitous tiny red ants that had managed to hide under the crust, he broke a piece of the bread and tossed it into his mouth. It tasted stale. Indeed, it was more like a jawbreaker, but with the help of a generous amount of sugar-sweetened water he was able to eat the bread quickly as he dipped pieces of it into the water to soften them. 

* * *

Chapter Three

Mr. Mireku, the owner of the taxicab that Frank drove, lived only a few hundred yards away from the West African Secondary School in Accra New Town.  It was a short distance from Frank’s house; so, he did not have to stand in line to board a tro tro passenger vehicle to go to work.  Each morning, he would walk to Mr. Mireku’s house, take the keys for one of the two taxicabs, and go on his rounds from about nine o’clock until about seven o’clock in the evening. 

Mr. Mireku’s nephew, Kwame Boateng, drove the newer taxicab, a Toyota Corolla model.  Kwame was popularly known among his fellow cab drivers as Skipper.  It was a nickname that he had taken during his days in secondary school after watching an American war movie at the Orion Cinema in downtown Accra.     

Two years before Skipper came to live with his uncle, Frank drove the newer of the two vehicles. But, as the saying goes, Blood is thicker than water; so, as soon as Skipper obtained a driver’s license, Mr. Mireku gave him the newer car. Frank then began driving the older Datsun model, even though he had been very careful and had been accident-free during his three years as Mr. Mireku’s employee. Apparently Frank’s clean driving record had not made any impression on his employer. But what choice did Frank have? What can you do? You take what you’re offered. Life is like the proverbial Kokofu soccer game -- no one passes the ball to you if you are not related to any of the players on the field!  It’s the same old matter of whom you know, not what you know, he thought as he walked to Mr. Mireku’s.  However, in spite of the gloomy thoughts, he was content. At least he had a job.  

Mr. Mireku had set down the conditions of the employment when Frank first started working for him.  In reality, it was more like leasing the car every day.  Essentially, Frank would pick up the cab from Mr. Mireku’s house in the mornings and return it in the evenings. At the end of the week, usually on Saturday evenings, he would give Mr. Mireku a pre-established sum of seventy-five thousand cedis for the use of the vehicle for that week. That was the agreed sales amount for every six-day week.  If Frank fell short of that amount, he had to dip into his own pocket and make up the difference.  When he started with Mr. Mireku, the amount was fifty thousand cedis, but the charge had increased steadily every year.  While Frank was responsible for the petrol, Mr. Mireku retained the responsibility for the maintenance as well as all major repairs made on the car.  Any money over the seventy-five thousand cedis which Frank received from passengers would belong to Frank. Thank God the shortages had been few and far between, making it possible for him to make ends meet. 

In Mr. Mireku’s opinion anyone who didn’t meet his expectations was either lazy or had a character problem.  He didn’t like to hear excuses.  "I pay for the repairs on the car! he would say as he struck his chest to underscore the fact of ownership.  Then he would go on to talk about the hardships he endured. Yes, the hardships!  I worked hard for my money. . . . he would begin.  Frank had heard the rags-to-riches story more times than he wanted to know.   The basic essence of the story never changed; however, the more times Frank heard the story the more it seemed to him the hardships were assuming greater magnitude with each retelling. If the man was very upset, he would sometimes ask, Where were you when I was buying the car with my own hard-earned money?" One could not argue with that!  Granted, sometimes it appeared to Frank like an unnecessary caressing of Mr. Mireku’s ego, but who could deprive the man of his bragging rights? The facts, as evidenced by Mr. Mireku’s material possessions, spoke for themselves.  

It was a cool morning, and Frank felt good. The sun had risen, but it was hidden behind the few story buildings that were on the east side of the road.  The stores on the east side of the road selling hardware, canned foods popularly known as provisions, and bags of rice were already open for business.  Opposite the stores was a large empty space which served as a makeshift market and lorry station. As usual the motor traffic had begun to pick up as was evidenced by the assortment of vehicles on the road and by the shouts of scantily clad, barefooted tro-tro drivers’ mates as they called out their destinations to potential passengers.  

"Thirty-Seven!  Thirty-Seven! Thirty-Seven!"

Others shouted intermittently, "Nima!... Nima!....Nima!"  or "Aladjo! Aladjo!"

The majority of the mates – whose tro-tros were headed for downtown Accra -- were shouting, Accra! Accra! Accra!

Life was in full swing as Frank weaved through the mass of people.  He blocked his mind from the hubbub swirling up around him. To keep one’s sanity, one always learned to block the cacophony that was part of life in Accra.  There was brisk activity everywhere he looked.  School children in their brown khaki uniforms were jostling their way through crowds as they crossed the busy street.  It seemed there were people from all walks of life moving in all directions that morning. Women with babies strapped to their backs were carrying on their heads pans, baskets, and other containers full of foodstuffs as they mingled with men and women in their work uniforms.  Several kaya men drenched with sweat and some with dirty towels draped across their shoulders were carrying on their backs big bags of rice soon to become meals for unknown wealthy consumers in other parts of Ghana.  

Everybody seemed busy this morning. Sellers of miscellaneous items such as toothbrushes, sponges, hand mirrors, and towels were shouting as they hawked their wares.  Other people were making their way to the tro-tro station where the tro-tro drivers had lined up to pick up passengers.  For the ordinary man on the street those mini buses were a God-sent.  A large percentage of the buses were rusty, but that didn’t matter to the riders so long as they arrived at their desired destinations without unnecessary delays.    

Long before anybody could remember, those mini buses were charging five pence, called, "tro in the local language, for a one-way trip. That was how the minibuses had acquired their unique moniker. Over the years, the fare had shot up drastically, but the name tro tro – five pence, five pence" -- had stuck.  

Frank glanced at the meandering line of people waiting to get into the tro-tro buses, and he thanked God that he no longer had to wait in one of those lines.  It was common to stand in line for as long as one hour before getting on board. He recalled the many times he had had to stand waiting in line behind somebody who reeked of body odor.  Somehow the odor was always worse during the mornings.  

I better hurry up, he thought, quickening his pace.  I can’t afford to give Mr. Mireku an excuse to chew me up!

* * *

Chapter Four

A short time later, Frank arrived at Mr. Mireku’s house.  The latter was already up and had opened the double doors of his pharmacy ready for business.  A barrel-chested, pot-bellied man with spindly hairy legs, Mr. Mireku was seated in front of his store wearing a white singlet, a pair of brown khaki shorts, and brown sandals. He was chewing a four-inch long chewing stick.  He was clean shaven as usual, which was a marked contrast to his hairy chest, arms, and the other parts of his upper body.  In Frank’s eyes Mr. Mireku was a wealthy man content with his status in life.  

Frank couldn’t help glancing a few times at Mr. Mireku’s legs.  I can’t believe this man, he thought, looking away. There is no way I would wear shorts if I had such spindly legs!  Sometimes it seemed like a miracle that those legs could support Mr. Mireku’s bulky frame.  With his face buried in a newspaper, Mr. Mireku didn’t see Frank stepping onto the veranda.  

Good morning, Mr. Mireku!  Frank saluted limply. 

Good morning, Frank, Mr. Mireku replied, looking up from the newspaper. His eyes sparkling, he appeared to be cheerful. Frank wondered what it was the man had been reading. 

How are you?  Mr. Mireku asked.

Oh, by the grace of God, I am doing well!   

Good. 

Without another word, Mr. Mireku got up and went behind the counter.  Pulling a drawer he retrieved a key.   Here, he said as he handed Frank the key.  See you in the evening. 

Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir.

Frank went to the back of the house where he had parked the car the previous evening.  Mrs. Mireku was bent over busily washing the family’s laundry.  She straightened up when Frank greeted her.

Good morning, she replied, and then asked, Frank, can you do me a favor?

Sure.  What is it?

Can I give you some money so you can buy something for me from town?

Sure. No problem at all, he replied, wondering why she would choose to ask him rather than Skipper for that kind of favor. Wouldn’t Skipper be the obvious choice since he lives in the same house with her? But Frank decided not to ask.

I need three packets of sugar, a bag of onions, and a bag of rice.  I am going to be busy today; so, I can’t go to town.  I can get some of those items here, but they’re just too expensive. 

Sure, no problem. 

She wiped her hands in one of the dirty towels that she had piled up beside her and went into the house.  While Frank waited, he looked at the pile of clothing and quickly counted among the laundry at least ten large towels of all colors.  He couldn’t believe how large and plush the towels looked compared to the only towel he had.  His was the cheaper, less absorbent kind that the Hausa traders sold under the shade trees at Tema Station.

He began to fantasize about how wonderful it would also be to be married to a beautiful woman like Mrs. Mireku.  What a lucky man Mr. Mireku is, he thought, to be married to this woman! She was a woman of about forty with a smooth chocolate brown complexion and a ready smile.  Everything seemed to be going well for the couple.  Mr. Mireku owned a fairly large house in Accra, a store, a Peugeot 504 sedan and two taxicabs, not to mention all the furniture, the refrigerator, television and other modern appliances that Frank had noticed in the house the first time Mr. Mireku took him into his house.  From observing the way the Mirekus always interacted, Frank deduced that they were truly happy. Lucky man! Frank thought.  He’s certainly got it made!

The couple’s only problem was that, although they had been married for nine years, they did not yet have a child. In view of the cultural stigma associated with barrenness, Frank could only imagine how troubling that would be for the couple, especially for Mrs. Mireku, who because she was a woman, would be presumed to be the one at fault.  

Mrs. Mireku returned about five minutes later and handed Frank a wad of money. 

It’s 1,000 cedis, she said. That should be enough for the items.  Don’t forget.  I need sugar, onions, and rice.

I will make sure I get them for you, he replied, and thought, She didn’t even say, ‘please’… how arrogant… these rich folks! It won’t be any trouble at all, Mrs. Mireku, he continued.  Do you want them sooner or in the evening?

Oh, take your time, she replied.  I have enough for this afternoon so you can bring them when you return the car tonight.

Okay, I will get them for you, he promised as he ducked under the clotheslines and headed for the cab.

Thank you so much, Frank, she shouted after him.

No problem. 

Getting behind the wheel of the cab, Frank started the engine, shifted the transmission into reverse, and pulled up behind the pharmacy on the south side. Mr. Mireku’s house was located at the corner of a little side road and one of the major roads leading to downtown Accra.  Mr. Mireku had broken the outer wall of one of the larger rooms of the house facing the street and converted it into a pharmacy.  Stopped on the side road, Frank waited for an opening in the early morning traffic.  A few minutes later he was in traffic heading to Accra.  The day’s task had begun. He mentally prepared himself as he repeated a common proverb:  "Anomaa antu a, obua da!" -- If the bird refuses to fly, it goes to bed hungry.  He was not going to go to bed hungry. Although he was not particularly religious, he made a sign of the cross, as he had seen boxers do before they started their fights, and thought, Hopefully, Providence will smile upon me and give me a good day.

He stopped three times to pick up fares.  He drove a lady to the area of Kingsway Stores and two others to the general area called Ministries, where most of the government offices are located.  From the Ministries he transported two Europeans to the airport.  After parking his cab beside the other cabs at the taxiport west of the main airport terminal building, he walked to the open place under the trees where all the cabbies usually had breakfast or brunch.  It was the place to be as there were many food vendors selling a variety of menus:   kenkey and fried fish, gari and beans, omo tuo or rice balls with peanut butter soup, fried ripened plantain and blackeye peas stew (commonly called red-red), and so on. 

A festive atmosphere greeted Frank. The usual crowd was there, and many of the men were eating and chatting about all kinds of topics from politics to sports and in between.  Most, however, were focusing their discussion on the upcoming weekend soccer league championship game to be played at the Accra Sports Stadium between Tano Bofoakwa and Accra Hearts of Oak.  The discussion was so animated that even some of the usually reticent kenkey sellers had joined in.  Everybody agreed that it was going to be a great game between the two titans of the league.  The supporters of Kumasi Asante Kotoko, the porcupine warriors, who traditionally had been the archrival of Accra Hearts of Oak, were supporting Tano Bofoakwa, the team that had replaced Kotoko. The crowd was split between supporters of Bofoakwa and supporters of Hearts. Frank found the same level of intensity and expectation as he had previously seen before games of this nature.  The animated discussions had been for him a safe way to dissipate his frustrations and he had always looked forward to participating in these discussions. 

As soon as Buckman, one of the cabbies, saw Frank, he cried out, Hey, Frank, which team do you think is going to win the game? 

Hearts of Oak, of course! Never say die… Frank replied, beginning to repeat the team’s slogan, Never say die, until the bones are rotten!

A mixed chorus of protests and agreements rose up from the crowd.  His answer was like pouring gunpowder into a flaming fire. But it was all in good fun, and he would willingly have joined in the fray, but this morning he was a little subdued as he thought about his hard life and worried about the mysterious note he had received the previous night.

When it was his turn to be served as he stood in line to have an early lunch, Madam Ashitey, the kenkey seller, asked him for his order.

I will have only kenkey today, he