THE MYSTERY OF THE GAME III

The moon was up but because of all the competition she was getting from all the light bulbs in town, her luster went unnoticed. Nostalgia gripped my heart for I even missed the smell of burning kerosene soaked wicks from lanterns and bobos. Who would have thought? This was no city and there were certainly lanterns and bobos around but somehow, the effect wasn’t how I remembered it. The canvas for my memories seemed to be irrevocably damaged. Maybe it’s selfish of me but I wanted my Lolobi to be the Lolobi I remember from long ago. I wanted the whole ‘village experience’ to be like I always remembered. Maybe too, it is time I considered that maybe, just maybe I am the one who has changed that much.

***********

I tried to recapture the little I remember by going back years into my past. It was the dry season and it was cold, chilling cold. There was a bonfire and there around the fire was us kids. The older kids amongst us were roasting anything that was edible. Plantain, yam, cocoyam, fresh peanuts in pods, breadfruits, you name them. The younger kids were always charged to stay a certain distance away from the fire. I was usually either with my maternal family or my paternal family during these rare evenings but in my memories, I moved the characters around to the same location and time, around a bigger bonfire with the adults and kids all around. There was always a story or a riddle contest. There were also tidbits of local gossip too. Hush, hush stories of what new marital scandal was in town, careful accounts of which god was exacting a fresh stream of vengeance on defaulters. Then there were the ghost stories of which ancestor had visited whom in recent times. Civilization has certainly taken a lot away but the gods obviously still worked their butts off not to be forgotten or taken for granted. 

Earth to Audrey, earth to Audrey! I came back to the present to a story about an accomplished man who happened to drop dead after he came home to be king because he was next in line. From what I could deduce from my aunt’s story, the death happened under unexplained circumstances and though nobody dared say it out loud, everybody ‘knew’ the faction of the kingmakers which was opposed to the man ascending the throne was responsible, or as they like to put it; ‘they had a hand in it’.

That night was the first time I met Kalai. He was a young man in his early thirties, good looking and a hunter. His house was a few houses removed from our home and he seemed to get along well with everyone, that’s what I had been told. Did I say good looking? He was more than that. He could hold a candle to any city boy I know. He had charm. He was married to Dorothea and their marriage was about two years old. Kalai had nieces and nephews but one nephew in particular stuck to him like glue everywhere he went and this evening was no exception. Sammy, as usual, tagged behind his uncle as they stopped by our little group. From then on, the conversation turned to one of the bond between the uncle and nephew. The kid wasn’t even that close to his own father. Then there were tales of his hunting experiences. I personally thought some of them were exaggerated but what the heck, the guy has earned himself the right to a few tall tales. Our visit was almost coming to an end and we were scheduled to leave the following day so my mom suggested that if he catches any game that night when he goes hunting, she would be interested in buying. He was delighted to hear it and promised to bring one back for us.

That night as the town slept, Kalai headed for a thicket outside town with his riffle and torchlight. As he got away from the town, the moon’s shine made it useless for him to use his torchlight. After an hour of treading through the night, he finally entered into a thicket to try and find some game to sell. He had dreams, dreams of making a better life for Dorothea and himself and their unborn babies. A rustle from the dry leaves a few feet away from where he was got his attention. He switched on the torchlight and readied the riffle, only to find out it was a papa cobra probably on his way back to his family. He decided on leaving it alone and waited it out till it had passed. The dew had already started to settle on the leaves. It was past midnight and the night was a chilly one. He would rather be sleeping by his wife’s warm and soft body, occasionally tweaking her waist beads but with the reputation he had earned himself as the town’s best hunter, he really wanted to impress the woman and her pretty city daughter. Deeper and deeper, he went into the woods.

 He remembered the first time his father had taken him hunting, he was so scared of how quiet the night could be, but now, he welcomed this. The intermittent sounds of an owl or two were sounds he was used to now. Once or twice, he’d met wild species like a leopard but he rarely did. In fact, he hadn’t met one in a long while and he hoped tonight wouldn’t be an exception. Occasionally he met a viper or two, like he just did with the cobra and he almost always let them go, not wanting to waste his shots. One time, he shot and killed a tree python and had good market for it too. He is a hunter and because he is, he is particular about whose meals he bought and ate if he ever does. Not that he has any need to since he married Dorothea. By now, the moon had made it all the way to the other side, informing him that dawn was breaking.

He turned to head back home, disappointed. After moving a few metres, he felt rather than saw a movement. Leaving himself no room to second guess himself, he raised his torch and riffle and there in front of him was a beautiful and graceful deer. Before he thanked his god and ancestors for such a gift, he fired. Picking up the poor animal, he finally gave thanks and headed home.

By the time he neared home, the R.C bell was sounding for dawn mass. He carried the game across his shoulders, his riffle slung over his right shoulder and his torchlight in his hand, he walked on home with a puffed chest. When he got to his buyer’s house, he saw that the household was already up so he decided to drop off the game before heading on home for a warm bath, a warm bed and a warm wife. He greeted them and laid the game at their feet but instead of the looks of admiration and smiles of adoration, they were all giving him looks like he’d just committed a sacrilegious act. The animal was a beauty, if he does say so himself. The only word that came from the group came from the old lady and all she had to say was “Aaaoooo!”

What had he done that was so bad? He brought them game, that was it. Everything that happened after that happened so fast, he barely had time to blink. By six am, there was quite a crowd outside the house. Among the crowd was his Dorothea……….with tears in her eyes. That was when he looked down again for about the hundredth time at the game and found at his feet, ……………..the lifeless body of Sammy…….his Sammy. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach. “How could, did this happen?” The million cedi question that would be asked over and over again.

*************

I’m not a morning person and travelling miles to Lolobi didn’t miraculously make me one. I woke up to all the ruckus going on outside. I walked out and the sight that met me was one that can only be captured by the imagination. I had never seen a dead body before, much less one with so much gore. In the middle, by the body, was Kalai.

How could this happen? He kept on saying he shot a game and not his nephew but how is that possible? What was Sammy doing in the woods when his parents testify that they saw him to bed themselves the previous night when Kalai brought him home? If he did follow his uncle into the woods, then how could he not see him the whole night.

That was the height of my excitement. The issue became a police case of course but I doubt any satisfactory answers would be found. Back home, there would be all sorts of rituals to purge the family and town of the calamity but poor Sammy was gone either way.

My mom was a witness, apparently, so she had to give her statement to the cops. We had to deviate from our departure plans but early Sunday morning, we said good bye to family and headed to Hohoe to pick a bus back to the home I’ve had for the past fifteen or so years. Events of the past few days would make for a nice story one day and I just told it.

***THE END****

THE MYSTERY OF THE GAME II

We spent the rest of Thursday evening visiting with my immediate uncles and aunts from both sides of my family. I’m beginning to understand how convenient it is to marry one’s own kind. Just imagine; I wouldn’t need to schedule a whole new trip for my father’s side of the family. Quite a reunion that it was. Uncles, aunts and cousins, some of which I have never met. Among all the effusive displays of affection and all the fussing, maybe things haven’t changed that much at all.

There is something no returnee will dare do; that is to not go pay visits to people one knows in town. With a town like Lolobi where everyone seems to be related to everyone else, that is a whole day of hiking………and talking……and smiling. I didn’t know that before but let me say; after our courtesy visits, I had no doubt I am Miss Congeniality and that I would make a hell of a beauty queen.

Friday morning, after the first hour of our visits, I started whining about how tired I was. Mind you, there are no taxis here, at least that much is the same.

No less than three men, old enough to be my grandfathers, maybe, have made jokes today about me being their wife. Apparently, I was quite the heartbreaker in my toddling days. I am told I even rejected some of them, vocally, without shame. Hahaha, the things you get away with in the name of being a kid, eh. Now, as a shy young woman, I can barely reconcile myself with the kid who entertained crowds at a time and relished the attention.

Most people remember me for my infamous rendition of different animal sounds. I certainly do not remember but it is recounted that I created quite a bit of traffic in front of either of my grandmas’ houses. People going to the stream or their farms or going to a neighbor’s house to fetch burning coals to start their own fires would stop to watch the spirited kid mimicking the sounds of different birds and animals. With the way the story is told, I am surprised I didn’t ace my ornithology course last semester. I don’t remember doing these things but I have heard the story over and over again that sometimes I can swear I remember, or at least it feels like it.

Back then, I was the centre of attention because of how lively I was as a kid, now, I am the centre of attention because I am a returnee. It’s like when people look at me, after the initial “for lormor mgbor?” literally translated “is this you all grown up?” they revert back to seeing Komla and Jovita’s kid, making everyone laugh. The feeling this invokes is not unlike that which a carnival monkey might feel when it is being expected to swing around and do tricks for spectators’ amusement. ***sighs***

“I don’t do that no more, peeps. I’m all grown up.” Of course, I never say that out loud.

  

Over the years, a lot of its inhabitants have travelled outside and returned. And like any other show-offs, some of the people we visited wanted to prove that, yeah, they’ve also been out of town at one time or the other. What they normally do is to drop a sentence or two of Twi in the conversation after my mom has reaffirmed the town or city we were coming from. I watched in amusement as my mom flippantly let it drop that I am perfectly capable of understanding and speaking Siwu so they shouldn’t worry about misunderstandings. Hahaha. This people blast sometimes paa oh. I spent a few years in this town before we left and they are treating me like I just dropped from Paris. If they were to meet my siblings who have never set foot on this land before, they would probably start speaking tongues with them. Oh, and did I tell you that one of the most irritating habits of some Ewes in the city was to start speaking Ewe with you once they see you sign your surname? That attitude was one reason why I stopped speaking the Ewe language. I used to speak it fluently as a kid but no more. Like I said though, I’ve outgrown all that stuff and now I plan on relearning the language because aside from the attitude of its speakers, it is a beautiful language.

The people we met could fall into a range of variables. They couldn’t be more diverse if we had intentionally handpicked them for a research. There were the grandmotherly and grandfatherly types who would tease me mercilessly for something I’m supposed to have done in the past. There were the motherly and fatherly types who seemed unable to shut up about their own kids and where they are or what they are doing, some of them outside town. Then, there were my peers. Most of whom were married and with whom things seemed awkward.

The weather-beaten clay walls from which I used to get my fresh supply of soft pebbles for snacks have a lot of them plastered over. Yes, I used to snack on some of the softest and sweetest tasting rocks when I was young. I might probably have developed a case of pica if I hadn’t left. My mom’s junior sister initiated me into it but it was our little secret. I guess the cat is out of the bag now. Hmmm, the tempting assault on my olfactory senses every time it drizzles on a dusty road. That smell of freshness always reminded me of my childhood and now, that too has changed.

That evening, I had yet another change to be disappointed about. Both of my grandmothers were present and so were some of my aunts and uncles from either side of the family. Such a casual gathering rarely happens but with our arrival in town, exceptions were made.

The moon was up but because of all the competition she was getting from all the light bulbs in town, her luster went unnoticed. Nostalgia gripped my heart for I even missed the smell of burning kerosene soaked wicks from lanterns and bobos. Who would have thought? This was no city and there were certainly lanterns and bobos around but somehow, the effect wasn’t how I remembered it. The canvas for my memories seemed to be irrevocably damaged. Maybe it’s selfish of me but I wanted my Lolobi to be the Lolobi I remember from long ago. I wanted the whole ‘village experience’ to be like I always remembered. Maybe too, it is time I considered that maybe, just maybe I am the one who has changed that much.

THE MYSTERY OF THE GAME

When mom said we were visiting home, it was a welcome distraction from the humdrum of city life. My first excitement stemmed from the expectation of seeing my extended family again, especially, my grandmas.

The journey wasn’t any out of the ordinary because this route was one I’ve taken frequently in recent times. The knot appeared in my abdomen when we crossed the Adomi Bridge into Volta territory. As we passed through Mafi, Tafi, Kolon, Kwati, Have, Logba, all the way to Hohoe, the knot of anticipation just kept tightening and tightening. The first jolt I had that we were nearing home was when we got to Hohoe and had to take a bus from a designated Lolobi station. When we boarded the vehicle bound for Lolobi, everyone in that bus was speaking Siwu. No Twi, no Ewe, no English, just Siwu. Over there in the city, you could go for years without hearing anyone speak this beautiful language. In almost fifteen years that I’d been away, I can’t say I’ve met up to ten people who speak it apart from my family.

My name is Audrey. I come from Lolobi Kumasi, and no, it is nowhere in the Ashanti region. Later on, I will tell you how the name came to be. Academia puts my people among a group called Guans in Ghana. I speak Siwu as my mother tongue and I grew up trying to explain my dialect is not French. I recently outgrew my defensive arguments as to why and how I don’t speak Ewe. I have outgrown them but maybe if you dig a little deeper you would still find them there beneath the surface, I don’t know. One thing I admire about my upbringing and for which I am proud is that my parents always made me feel like our dialect was the one golden dialect anywhere. It didn’t hurt that we could still have our privacy smack in the middle of a crowd. With the compound housing system so common in most of these big towns, it was a distinguishing feature if you didn’t speak the language of the masses most times. Outside and at school, I spoke Twi just like any other kid but when I got home, I was supposed to leave all my Twi and English at the door. It was an unspoken rule. I am living proof that a kid can master multiple languages at the same time so there is absolutely no reason to limit one’s kid to just English all the time.

As we made that last 15min. drive from Hohoe into Lolobi, I remembered it through the eyes of a child. This stretch of land that never lacked forests. This piece of land used to give off sounds like the rush of a flowing river. It used to creep me out as a kid, how dense the place could be. There were also many a ghost stories told of this place. But today, as we drove through, the rich forest sounds were missing, I couldn’t hear any river flowing even if it was. Civilization has caught up with this little town. The road was still untarred but civilization was definitely the sound you heard. A sawmill has sprouted up somewhere en route and vehicles were on the road most of the time now. A ghost would be smart not to use this road anymore lest it be hit by a car.

Our first contact with Lolobi was with Ashiambi. Lolobi is made up of three towns; Ashiambi, Kumasi and Huyeasem. Kumasi happens to be the capital of these towns and it sat in between Ashiambi and Huyeasem.

History has it that, once upon the conquering era of the Ashantis (Mashande), they ventured into Lolobi. It is said that the Ashanti warriors had with them a maiden dressed in ojobo (a slip of cloth tied around a woman’s waist to cover her womanhood, much like how Dipo girls of the Krobos are dressed). The maiden carried on her head a large gourd and walked a few feet in front of the troupe. When Lolobi heard that the Mashande were coming to attack, its warriors hid at the outskirts of the town in hopes of ambushing them. When they saw the troupes of their enemies, one of our warriors, Zoglo, aimed at the girl and fired at the gourd she was carrying. From this, one could infer that my people were a superstitious lot and they still are. The shot broke the gourd and some kind of bird very much like a vulture flew out. From that moment, the Mashande warriors became disoriented and Lolobi was able to seal their victory. Zoglo still remains a hero to this day. The name Kumasi was added to Lolobi to remind us of our victory that day and to serve as a sort of taunt to the foe we defeated. That is how Lolobi Kumasi was born. Grandma told me that story and ever since she did, I’ve been itching to tell it to anyone who asks me whether my Lolobi Kumasi is in the Ashanti region. Surprisingly, no one has asked me since I got the answer that would shut them up; they just give you blank faces with big question marks on them. So I am writing this down for posterity’s sake. Later on, some of the townspeople resettled to form Ashiambi and Huyeasem but that is a story for another time.

We alighted at Kumasi and made our way home. It was the time of day when the town seemed empty because most people had gone to their farms. Mom seemed to think that was a good thing, claiming we would have few people we have to stop and visit with before we got home. The town stretched out before me but it wasn’t the one I remembered. So much has changed. There were definitely more houses but a lot of the old ones too were gone. The language though, was the same.

There was something about walking through the sounds of the language that first welcomed you to earth. To walk into a shop and say; “la a’ ira” instead of “metor  ade3” or “I’m buying something”, one could imagine. The first time I did after we got back, tears stung my eyes.

Lolobi, the community that first hugged me. To see the faces of the grandmas whose names have changed ever since you nicknamed them as a toddler? I can bet not even Princess Diana felt this special at a point when she was. To walk the streets of Ashiambi or Huyeasem and say you are going to Kumasi without anyone asking questions about ‘which’ Kumasi you are referring to. In this town, you are the odd one out when you speak Twi. In this town, there is no cockamamie argument about making Twi a national language. In this town, you better know how to speak Siwu very well because it is viewed a glitch in your upbringing if you can’t. No matter how sophisticated I think I have become, the sense of belonging I feel among this minority cannot be ignored.