Hold. Michael Donkor

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       3

      That evening, back at Aunty and Uncle’s, Belinda twisted the kitchen tap firmly and was amazed again by the water’s purity, so different from the gritty coughings of the communal pump back in the village. She picked up her terracotta asanka, its complicated decoration of interlocking diamonds matching the design of the kitchen’s smart grey tiles, and placed the bowl beneath the tap’s steady flow, tilting it so shallow waves skimmed its grooved inside.

      In the tro tro on the way home from the zoo, Belinda had done her best to enjoy Mary’s sulking silence. Mary’s quietness as they went through Bekwai and Melcom should have given them both a moment to calm; time for Belinda to realise the threat had passed. She had told Mary that she was leaving and so the worst was over. But Mary’s silence had not been calming at all. Mary’s eyes were narrowed, her jaw set, her mouth mean.

      Mary seemed slightly less distant when they arrived back in Daban and they returned to the familiarity of their routine. In their room Mary unpacked the bags, arranging everything they had bought in rows in the small cabinet by her side of the bed. Belinda listed the tasks that needed doing in preparation for the evening meal and Mary listened to and acknowledged each clear order. They both slipped out of their clothes and then put on their matching uniforms at the same time.

      Belinda’s swilling of water round the asanka, the rhythm of Mary scouring saucepans at the kitchen’s island and the drain’s glugging were disrupted by a shout. Another shout came and Belinda glanced through the window’s louvres. Near the pool, lit up by the sunset, Uncle was thrusting tilapia at Aunty. Aunty was screaming and clutching her breast. Shaking and stroking his bald head, Uncle threw the fish onto the barbecue, then waved towards Aunty until she fiddled with something in her hands. Belinda recognised the voice that soon came from speakers as Sarah Vaughan’s because Aunty and Uncle played this CD so often. The woman’s voice spread and slid and spread.

      ‘Aba! They always causing a complete racket when we try and concentrate,’ Mary pounded her fist. ‘Don’t they know that we like to have a peace when we make them eto?’

      Since Belinda arrived in Daban, Uncle often told Belinda he planned to make the most of his retirement, laughing his roundest laugh as he said it. ‘Making the most’ seemed to mean eating, listening to the trumpet man Miles Davis or the lady Sarah Vaughan, sleeping in the day, drinking, and playing pranks like that one with the fish. Mary kept on scouring, Uncle bullied a reluctant Aunty into dancing with him and yet again Belinda found it difficult to imagine that man handling all the big monies they said he dealt with in London. He must have changed himself a lot between there and here. Pulling the tough green skin from four plantains, she wondered if she could change so much in her own lifetime. Tossing the peelings in the rubbish, something made her flip the louvres down. She laid the pale plantains side by side on the chopping board, like tired infants ready for sleep, then sliced them fast.

      ‘And so please start the boiling, me pa wo kyew.’

      ‘I shall do that one, Belinda.’

      Belinda turned her attention to the Scotch bonnets, using the knife to scrape out some but not all of the peppers’ seeds, allowing the meal to keep its fire as Aunty and Uncle liked. Belinda heard pleasing grunts of effort as Mary carried the heavy pan to the stove; heard the click of the kettle, the clattering as the little girl rested the pan on the hob, the crackle as she lit the match, the whispering of poured hot water and salt, the plop as she let the eggs go.

      ‘Now, Belinda, pass me plantain, please.’

      With a nod, Belinda did as she was told, watching Mary drop the plantain pieces into the water too.

      ‘You know the story of this one?’ Belinda asked, pulling the roots off two onions.

      ‘Wo se sɛn?’

      ‘What eto is for.’

      ‘You tell me.’

      ‘Is the egg, really. That’s the important part of it all.’

      ‘How is that?’ Mary stood on the tips of her toes to reach the shelf with the seasoning and tall bottles on. She grabbed the deep red palm oil and set it on the side.

      ‘So on the wedding day they will give the eto to the bride. In the morning, perhaps; I don’t know. And they will give it to her as we will to Uncle and Aunty. I mean that after it has been prepared – we’ve mixed together the mashed plantain, fried onion, nuts and things – they will place a boiled egg on the dish. Then all the elders and everyone will watch the bride. Because she has to eat the whole egg in one go. Without biting or chewing anything at all. Swallow in one.’

      ‘Adɛn?’

      ‘The elders’ rule is that if you consume it all in one then you will have many, many children. But if you bite even one small bite into the thing then is like you are eating into your unborn child and you will never have any children ever and after. Is their word.’

      ‘Sa?’

      ‘Aane. Is what they have always said. Now collect the roasting groundnuts, I beg.’

      Mary bent down to the oven, waved away heat and pulled out the tray, nuts crackling against the foil. Belinda busied herself with chopping the onions, the heels of her hands wiping back hot tears.

      ‘Miss Belinda, I have some feelings about this one you have told.’

      ‘Of course you do. I will be pleased to hear them.’

      ‘Thank you kindly. So I don’t believe the story is a truth. Boiled egg to tell of later babies? No, I don’t agree with this one. And, also, sound to me like a horrible thing to do to a lady on her wedding day when you are already full of nerves and fears. Adjei! Why ask a girl to stand in front of the publics to watch her choke and become ashame? And, also, what if she choke so much on the egg it comes up from her mouth onto her princess dress? Can you imagine? Where have I placed the salt?’

      ‘Your mind is a sieve. Is over there. There, by the pan.’

      ‘You are correct. There it is. Is always the same: Belinda always right; Belinda never fail.’

      The sharpness of Mary’s comment hung in the air. Belinda worked the pestle in the asanka, using her weight against the СКАЧАТЬ