of porcelain. Her cheeks contracted as she saw Amma.
Amma’s head faced the ceiling, ignoring the crouching mother in front of her who struggled up to full height. Amma’s skyward expression was of concentration, set on the plaster vines weaving the whiteness above.
Belinda pressed her lips together, then slowly relaxed them out and breathed. ‘Shouldn’t, shouldn’t be surprise to you? You got them in all the rooms. But me, I never saw anything like these patterns and designs and things on the ceilings before. Is very pretty, but I’m almost thinking how did someone come up with the idea to put them up there? Who was the first one to do it and why?’
‘You won’t help your sister, eh? She has prepared for you this special, and so –’
‘Belinda, totally. Yeah. Thank you.’ Amma took the tray from Belinda’s strict grip, lowering it to the coffee table. Belinda thought the girl smelled so clean and flowery, despite all the dirty shades of black and mud and grey she wore. ‘This is very kind – thanks – and there’s no need to be so utterly patronising, Mum.’
‘I’m only trying to get you to –’
‘We don’t need to have a discussion about everything.’
‘OK, Amma. That’s OK. No one is trying to be difficult here.’
‘I’m not trying to be anything. It appears that I just am.’
‘No. No. Belinda has prepared something for you to enjoy. That is the thing for now. To enjoy. Do that, eh?’
The stretched final note made Belinda play with her earlobes, as if touches to their softness would help. Amma rolled on the armchair towards the food. She rested her elbows limply on legs splayed like a man’s, then pulled herself forward to press the cafetière’s plunger.
‘I don’t suppose you want some, Be?’
‘No. I mean, no thank you. Is very strong for me, even if I know you like it as such.’ Amma’s forehead moved, dipped slightly. ‘I hope you like it well.’
‘Sure I will.’ Amma splashed in milk, eased back and seemed to wait for the next move, next sentence. In its absence, Amma shook her head and sucked shiny wetness off her little finger. She reached out and bit a bofruit. Belinda almost felt sorry for the doughnut collapsing under the assault. Although, of course, she felt sorrier for herself.
The decoration of this upstairs room, Belinda thought, might have been the reason why the conversation between the two standing and one sitting snagged. The second living room seemed silly, not for living in at all. Belinda had only been allowed to a museum once: a compulsory Cultural History trip Mother saved hard for. This was another museum. Kente scarves meant for celebrations were flattened behind glass, rainbowing walls. Alongside them, huge paintings of bloody sunsets and kola trees, women loaded with pots, curved elders relying on long sticks for support. But the black figures in the pictures were wiry and stretched, and the backgrounds painted in something smoky; these were images of a place so much dreamier than Belinda’s recollection of that world.
Rather than books, the bookcases were for ornaments and framed papers. One set of shelves presented several documents, bordered with complicated black swirls. Each was marked with shiny holographic stamps, like sweet wrappers. Most had Amma’s details written in important letters, the middle name Danquah misspelt in different ways. On remaining shelves, jutting their arms, rows of akuaba stood to attention. The fertility dolls’ inflamed heads and pinched features always seemed odd to Belinda; ugliness for objects meant to bring a pretty, fat baby into the world seemed wrong.
‘You see how Belinda is fascinated by our traditional things? You enjoy my collection? The dolls?’
‘Is a very big one … very unusual to have.’
‘They’re, er, very – very surly, aren’t they, Ma? You almost want to pick up the little darlings and ask them what their bloody beef is,’ Amma said, mouth full.
‘Bloody beef? What is a bloody beef to do with these, Amma?’
But Nana interjected, ‘I suppose how the whites they sometime collect these stamps, buttons and whatnot, this is my version. I told myself every time I went back to our homeland I will collect one or two to bring back, trying to find something nice that will complement the ones I already have, you know? First it was a bit for juju as well, I cannot deny that.’ Nana flexed her golden fingers and rearranged some of her loose, greying curls. ‘Even after all these years of collecting and hoping and praying, when my little girl actually came, I still kept getting more, because I … they give me a sense of protection. Or something along lines like that. You get me?’
‘Hanging on to the past, Mater. Get rid, non? I’m sure Oxfam would be delighted to receive a job lot of these lovelies – and what a beautiful symmetry there’d be: African gems saving African lives. Et cetera.’
‘A big-time joker. That’s good for you. Congrats to the comedienne. If your father wasn’t in his work, I’m sure he will be here with you, also laughing it up and having a great fun. But when I talk of that time before you? Me, I can’t find any funny at all. A hard, hard time to wait for you, Amma – my very, very hardest time.’
Her hand waved Amma’s reply aside. Nana bent down for a napkin and nestled it and a doughnut in her palm. Belinda wondered if she should have added a dash of lemon juice, to sharpen the taste.
Nana seemed amused by something. ‘Maybe the third or fourth time when I’m starting to gather all the dolls, I go home for a visit; my mother was unwell deep inside her back. Complaining and coming up with such horrible ideas: how the spine is rotten off and will soon fall out. Adjei! Can you imagine this nastiness? Anyway, when I was staying in the compound that time, everyone was joking of this kwadwo besia who had passed through the village – eh, Belinda, how can we explain kwadwo besia for her?’
Belinda blinked several times, tugged the striped strap of her apron and then shrugged.
‘Is like one of those … sissies. Those, erm, Lily Savage, Edna Everage. Amma; I used to ask you if Margarita Pracatan is one? Anyway, anyway: they told me he carried his own akuaba on his back as though he is a real woman, wanting a child like I. And I thought; no, they are lying about this one, it cannot be like that, you can’t take the mimicking so far. But on one afternoon, I saw him! Is like when you see a Father Christmas for the first time in the shopping centre. He was knocking on someone’s door to beg for change. Adjei, I never knew anything such as this, Belinda. More than six feet and with a dress for a nightclub with sparkles, only covering his buttocks and let you see all of the big legs – and his hair? A wig like he has fetched it from the roadside. Trampled. And a massive one of these dolls strapped to his back in our normal way as if he is a normal. We laughed! We. Laughed. My mum had been bedridden for weeks and moaning moaning, suddenly she is laughing so much we fear that she would urinate! All the little ones came with sticks and bad pawpaws to throw at the him–her, and as he is running away, the kwadwo besia cannot even get out quickly enough because he can’t walk in the women’s shoes!’
Nana stopped to chomp and wipe away a pretend tear of laughter. Belinda wished that Amma hadn’t turned to the ceiling again, with her jaw even more fixed. Belinda wished Amma wasn’t closing her eyes, making her face so peaceful and breathing so steady when Belinda sensed that those were not the girl’s actual feelings.
‘I only thought kwadwo besia was on the television. For comedy. Not in real life. It must be very great to encounter one in the flesh,’ Belinda tried.
‘And why you so serious, Miss Otuo? I think that’s one of my favourite tales. Not even gonna do a little smile for me? Tough crowd here, innit?!’
‘Kwadwo be-sia. Kwad-wo be-sia,’ Amma whispered, before adding with force, ‘I’ve got memories of Ghana all of my own.’
‘Yes! Good! Share with your sister Belinda also. Excellent.’ Nana settled into one of the armchairs and invited Belinda to take the other. ‘Seem like you not interested