Love is Courage |
Issue 11
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The plane hovered, and finally touched down, rumbling down the runway, then slowly coming to a stop. Ato was suddenly filled with anxiety, his stomach lurching uncontrollably. He wasn’t a nervous flyer, and in fact, it had been an excellent 14-hour overnight journey from JFK to Kotoka International Airport. But Ato was nervous.
He had left Accra twelve years ago. In the time he had been away he had achieved a lot academically, financially and socially. Ato had made new friends and good money, and had settled into a routine of hard work and a rich social life – travelling round the USA and the Caribbean islands, and dreaming of the day he would return home and travel round his own country and get to know it better. He savoured every place his travels took him. But he missed home. Arriving in Accra should have been an exciting event, but instead, it was unnerving. As he disembarked, his JP Morgan satchel slung carelessly across his shoulder, he was hit by the humid, hot air! He had forgotten how hot it was in Accra - or perhaps it was the effects of climate change? He had boasted so fondly about his native Ghana and its greenery, but here he was confronting large ochre patches everywhere. Where were the trees he regularly dreamt of? There was so much he wanted to learn on this journey home, because there was so much he hadn’t learnt yet - the names of plants and trees, the customs and traditions of birth and death, marriage and inheritance systems, family, social graces… But so much had changed since he left in 1995. There was no mother to come home to, and the greens, the trees - where were they? The sense of foreboding once again emerging and nibbling. Ato’s A-Level results had gotten him a scholarship into the esteemed Columbia University, where he excelled and was respected by both his faculty and peers. He was shy and gentle, but was gradually coaxed out of his shell by the Drama and Music Clubs, as well as the opportunity to contribute articles regularly to the The Columbian. He wrote home regularly and looked forward most fondly to phone calls from his parents on weekends. The course, spanning four years, came and went so quickly. When his brother and father attended his graduation, he couldn’t have been prouder as he looked into the brimming eyes of his father, and the big, dimpled grin of his brother Kobby. Kobby was an alpha male, muscled and strong. He was rambunctious and outgoing, but he also exuded a charm and sweetness that drew crowds to him as easily as flies to an over-ripe mango. All these combined to make him Ato’s hero. Both Ato and his older brother Kobby had been fine boys by all standards. Well-mannered and smart, they had enjoyed each other’s company immensely. But between the boys, their shared bedroom had often looked like a mad house. Their mother would often throw them disapproving stares, but at other times, she would murmur distinctly, “A place for everything and everything in its place.” Years later, they would laugh fondly about these moments, forever grateful for the discipline she instilled in them. A high school teacher for several years, she was as much fun as she was strict, both at home and in the classroom. Ato came out of his reverie as he stepped into the arrival hall and the conveyor belt came into view. A lot had changed in the airport. Ato noticed the expansion, the freshly painted white walls and the welcoming messages. Plastered in huge black letters across the hallway was the word ‘AKWAABA’. That immediately warmed his heart, and he smiled. Then he heard a couple behind him speaking his native Fante with such lilt and silkiness. “My goodness! I can’t believe I’m home”, Ato whispered to himself, pleasure whizzing through him. His mind suddenly jumped back to the home where he and Kobby had grown up, a big house with so many childhood memories. Then he remembered that Kobby had passed away tragically. Tears came to his eyes, muting his joy. He wiped them away and started looking for his suitcase. Ato stepped out of the arrival hall into the heat of the glaring morning sun and there stood his cousin, Kojo. Kojo was never particularly known for his exuberance, but he looked unusually glum today. His face was as sombre as a hearse, an incongruous, shabby beard framing it. Ato’s heart welled with affection and he rushed to hug Kojo, his feelings spilling out in his open embrace. Kojo stiffened. Ato was taken aback. Was something wrong? As kids, Kojo had spent all his holidays in their house. They had learnt to read and write together and learnt to use catapults too. Back then, all three of them spent whole mornings riding their bicycles around the neighbourhood; they were so inseparable that the neighbours dubbed them “The Three Musketeers”. “Is everything okay?” Ato asked. “Your Dad…” Kojo mumbled, tapering off and looking away. It was strange and confusing, seeing this new version of Kojo. What could have happened? Had time and age just changed him? It didn’t matter; Ato was determined to enjoy his time back in his beloved homeland. They got into his father’s car, the same old Triumph Daddy had loved for years, only quite battered now. Ato made a mental note to get his father a new car, maybe a Toyota SUV. He intended to do everything to make him a happy and proud father; also, he was going to visit home more regularly. And he was going to tell him something important, something he had kept from him for far too long. Something that made him nervous every time he remembered he had to tell this secret. The drive home was quiet and Ato stared out of the window. So many new houses had sprung up in the Airport Residential Area. But in other parts of town, it was absolute chaos with piles of rubbish springing up everywhere. And the ubiquitous kiosks! Ato cringed, ducking instinctively when a sudden gust of wind blew a hail of papers and plastics right at the windscreen. He couldn't believe his eyes and the lack of discipline Accra was sinking into. His heart sank. But before the sadness could settle, they had arrived, the smile returning to his face at the sight of home. The house was more beautiful than he remembered, its shade of taupe gleaming in the sun. The wine-painted gate was still the same but slightly dented and faded. Sprays of brown earth at the bottom end of the encircling wall were evidence of splashing mud from the typical tropical rain. No wonder the morning sun was so hot today - it was the heat after the rain that revealed the clear blue skies. The weeping willows on either side of the gate seemed to be welcoming him. Their shimmering green leaves fluttered in the gentle breeze, waving, almost as if beckoning him in. By now Ato’s heart was bursting with affection; affection for his father, for his home and for his country, and he said a brief prayer of thankfulness to God. After they pulled up to park, Kojo helped Ato unload his luggage and then without a word he slunk quietly round the side of the house and disappeared into the backyard. Ato was puzzled by Kojo’s strange coldness but he kept his cool; he picked up his luggage and stepped inside. “Agoooo! Anyone at home? I’m HEEERE!” Lifting his eyes to meet the room he saw an unexpected picture: the room was full and it was absolutely silent. All eyes fixed on him. The room was not lit, and the fans were whirring softly above their heads. Ato shook his head in bafflement and looked at the motley collection of men and women; his uncles and aunties, some two or three times removed. He smiled confusedly. Then he spotted his father right in the middle, grey-haired and subdued. Their eyes met in shared love and sadness, and Ato felt guilt washing over himself. He had been away too long from this father. He wrote letters and called him every couple of weeks, but seeing his aging father now reminded him what he already knew: he had been away from home for too long. Daddy had worked so hard to give his children everything, inculcating in them virtues of empathy and decency. This loving old man had lost his older son and wife in quick succession, and he’d had to depend on his own siblings for emotional support. Grateful for his siblings and guided by generosity, Daddy had always shared whatever money Ato had sent him with them all - despite Ato’s protests. As fate would have it though, over the years, Daddy had also become disillusioned with his brother, Kwame, whom he had discovered was not the paragon of virtue he claimed to be. For a second, it all felt like a dream. Ato dropped his luggage and whispering, “Daddy”, arms stretched, rushed towards his father who stretched his arms back out to embrace Ato. But Ato’s uncle, Kwame, three years older than his father, like a rubber ball, popped up between them. His eyes were blazing, his voice fierce with rebuke. “Don’t you dare touch him, little brother! He’s no longer your son,” he said, wagging his wrinkled, bony finger. Kwame was a wiry little man, mean-spirited, only happy when others were unhappy, but even for him, these theatrics seemed extreme. In shock, Ato stumbled backwards two steps, as if thrown by some unknown force. And the audience leaned in as if it were a performance, attentive, imbibing every word. They chewed and gulped up each word as they nodded in agreement. In a society where seniority mattered and where the Abusuapanyin voice carried power, Kwame ensured he used his authority to maximum effect. How a little man like him acquired that powerful voice was something Ato couldn't fully comprehend. “Opanyin Kwame”, Ato’s father started, addressing him with his title, “My son just arrived, and we haven't even confirmed the veracity of the rumours you’ve heard. Yet you choose to shun him even before we’ve offered him the kind welcome we’d give to total strangers—not even a customary glass of water!” His voice was calm but stern, protective. Ato looked from one to the other in total confusion. His father embraced him, holding on to him, as if to protect him. Ato’s uncle stared contemptuously at them. Lifting the ends of his draping traditional cloth onto his shoulder, he continued with venom, “This young man must be banished from the family with immediate effect; he has desecrated our ancestors, ourselves and the whole proud Ansong lineage of great warriors. Some of us here have seen a video of him kissing a man.” Then suddenly filled with much vigour, he bellowed in Fante, “He sleeps with men!” his right hand slicing the air at every word he uttered. The audience responded with a resounding, “Eiiiiii!” It was comically loud, almost as if it had been rehearsed. Ato’s father, filled with righteous indignation spat back at Kwame, “You! A cheating monster! A rapist and incestuous paedophile who impregnated your 15-year-old niece under your roof; how dare you accuse anyone of a crime. And to think that some of you here today knew! And yet protected him and wrapped it all up in a tidy ball of secrecy, neatly tucked away in corners of your filthy little brains!” Ato’s oldest aunt cut in, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen over the room, “So did Abusuapanyin Kwame assemble us here to listen to all this rot about himself or what?” “Auntie, what Abusuapanyin said is true: I’m gay,” Ato responded quietly. “Gay?” Her English was limited and lilted, flat with her Fante accent. “Why should we be meeting because you’re happy? What nonsense is going on here? Where are all these accusations and counter accusations and joyfulness leading to?” Ato might have laughed at the whole scene if he weren’t so shocked. Ato’s father stepped back in, “Listen very carefully to what I’m about to say.” His voice was stronger and sterner than before. Kwame must have sensed a shift in the air because at this point, he’d pulled a dirty, crumpled handkerchief out of his pocket and started wiping his sweating, greasy face. He continued, “Abusuapanyin here has been depraved for a very long time, but I’d chosen to stay out of family politics because I’ve been dealing with my own share of trauma. But I shall go all out now.” He stood up taller. “Ask this man here what he’s done with the family lands,” he said, pointing at Kwame. “Not only has he sold half of it, but he has also emptied the family bank accounts—all the allowance you have received this year have been from the monies Ato sent me!” Murmurs of disbelief swallowed the room. Before the hum could die down, he continued, “Also, that fatherless child Akos bore in the village is Abusuapanyin’s own, but he threatened her to hide the secret! And this man calls himself a Christian,” he spat out disdainfully. “Ask him now if anything I’ve said is untrue and let him deny it.” This bombshell seemed to shake the very foundation of the house, the lot of them shuffling and gasping in shock and horror. Kwame stood motionless, sweating even more profusely than before. “And after all this, Kwame has the nerve to threaten my son because of his biological constitution!” He paused for effect. Then looking around the room, continued, “Listen, all. Ato is a respectable young man, educated and intelligent, polite and kind enough to send me money to share with you all; a man who loves and worships God in all sincerity; an upright citizen with a high regard for societal values. And he is a gay. And so what? He did not choose to be; he is what he is! What has anybody got to do with whatever two consenting adults do in the privacy of their love lives? Has anyone questioned any of you here about your sexual inclinations?” Then, his voice rising louder than ever, he pressed on, “Why are so many people in this country fixated on this specific issue of sexuality? Have you people finished dealing with the menace of armed robbery yet? What about the politicians who steal from the national coffers? And the corrupt judges and policemen? Have you held them accountable? And you dare to pass judgement on my son? Ayimguase fo! You don’t seem to have any shame - all of you! The discomfort that filled the room was palpable. The silence was stark. Ato’s aunt broke the silence once more, this time in slow, earnest Fante. “My brother, you are right. We are so very sorry.” She paused and looked around the room, silently daring anyone to challenge her, then continued, “I speak for all of us when I say that none of us knew why we were called here; we were all just summoned to show up for an emergency family meeting. We are so sorry.” The room nodded in unison, with the exception of Abusuapanyin, on whom all the accusing eyes had suddenly turned. “Well, I’m too tired to continue this foolishness”, Ato’s father said matter-of-factly “Will you all please leave my house… NOW!” he barked. They all jumped up, startled, and shuffled out hurriedly, almost falling over each other. Everyone was too shocked about what had transpired, but also about the sudden rage in the final word of this gentleman who had never seemed capable of anger. Father and son stared hard after them till the last of them had left the room. When they heard the bang of the gate, Ato stepped forward to hug his father. “Good gracious, Daddy! I can’t believe you knew!” “I have always known, Son, ever since you were little, even though I wasn’t totally sure.” “Thank you, Daddy. I’m so blessed to have a father like you. You are the best,” Ato said quietly, his voice choked with love. “And you’re the best there ever will be. Your courage to be who you are inspires me, and and I’m proud to be your father. I will always be proud to call you my son.” |
JANETTE K. ALLEN was born in Ghana in 1956, and now resides in the UK. A retired English teacher, she writes both poems and short stories, many recited to her own children as they grew up and are now shared with her grandchildren. She is happily married to a retired educator in Oxfordshire.
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