The teachers’ bungalow where I reside is a ten-minute walk from the primary school. I wake up at 4:30 a.m. every day because my body has grown used to it over the years. If I were in the city, I’d be rushing to get ready by 5:30 to make it to school before 7:30.
Last night, I stood by the local kiosk, one of the few places I can get a network signal in this village. I spoke to Lisa; she complained bitterly about the traffic.
“I’ve been in traffic for close to two hours. I’m going to miss my favourite TV show. You’re so lucky you don’t have to deal with this BS.”
It’s the first time someone has envied my location. Papa keeps asking when I’ll return to the city. I keep telling him I don’t know. I’ve asked myself too, and I never seem to find an answer.
Papa likens me to the snails we used to gather in the garden behind the house. We never really cooked them; Mama said they were poisonous, but Lisa and I used to poke their eyes just to see them coil into their shells. Father says I’m behaving like a snail, hiding in a shell, but that eventually I’ll come out and return to the city. If I’m truly in a shell, then I’m happy to be here in this shell.
Unlike the villages ahead, I’m lucky to be in a town with a tarred road. I start my day with devotion. I don’t use a guide; I simply let my heart choose the scriptures. I’ve read most of the New Testament, plus Daniel and Amos. I’m currently on Proverbs. The verse that struck me this morning was Proverbs 2:11—“Wise choices will watch over you. Understanding will keep you safe. Wisdom will save you from evil people, from those whose words are twisted.”
I scribbled it on a sticky note and taped it to my wall. They never stick, so I always reinforce them with cellophane.
I run back and forth a few times until my knees are weak. On my third lap, I see a woman sitting by the borehole. As I approach, she stands.
“Madam Maakye. Will you please help me carry this basin of water?”
I can hear the relief in her voice. She must have been waiting a while. We both bend down to lift the basin. I brace myself on my dominant left foot. The first time I tried to help someone like this, half the water poured on me. It was embarrassing. But it also made me admire how the children and women here can carry these huge basins and still manage to fill large barrels at home.
I started small, just a bucket, and even that was heavy. The old folks, noticing how I struggled, told their children to fetch water for me. Over time, I’ve learned to carry larger buckets and basins. It feels like an achievement. Once, thinking no one was watching, I tried balancing a bucket on my head without using my hands, just like the village women.
I’ve come to appreciate water as a rare commodity. Walking for it teaches you its worth. I’m careful, stingy even, but proud to be responsible.
The pupils I teach are aged 10 to 12. There aren’t enough teachers, so the few of us juggle classes and subjects. The children are eager to learn, and their enthusiasm fuels my zeal. I think I’ve found purpose.
Today is Friday. We only have English reading and comprehension; the rest of the day is for sports. I sit under the tree with the other teachers and canteen workers, watching the children play. After a short cleaning exercise and assembly, everyone disperses. So do I.
I don’t have a fridge yet, so I only cook enough for a day or two. I was planning to make fresh vegetable stew with the taro leaves and garden eggs some pupils brought from their parents’ farms. But just as I undress, Akosua, the daughter of one of the teachers, knocks. Her father is inviting us to Ampesi.
This is the third time this week. Monday was fufu, Wednesday was banku, and today, it’s braised rice. I can already smell the oil. Kesewa says she’ll come for me when the food is ready.
After dinner, we clean up together, laugh, and slowly retreat to our rooms. It is quiet. I don’t know when I drift off.
Agya Bamfo’s house is made of red soil, but it’s austere. He drives a taxi and powers his old TV with a car battery. On weekends, the children gather there to watch old Chinese or Indian movies. By the time I get there, the place is packed. A few kids shuffle to make space for me.
I forgot to mention, Agya Bamfo’s is also a good spot for internet connection. I turn on my data. After a while, the messages begin to pour in. I open WhatsApp. There’s a photo from Lisa. I tap to download it. It takes time.
“Honestly, the baby is very pretty. I’m sorry. This could have been you. Stay strong for me.”
I zoom in and out several times, then close the app. I’m caught between anger and sadness. The Indian music on the TV barely registers.
“I came here to get better,” I remind myself. I turn off my phone and hide it in my shoulder bag.
Slowly, I tune into the atmosphere. The old folks are animated, predicting scenes and laughing loudly. I join in. Perhaps my subconscious is adjusting to this simple life.
Why?
Why?
Why?
I was 14 when they took Aunt Asabea to the psychiatric ward. Lisa and I were young but curious. I remember the conversations, the feelings, and the awe I had for her until the madness consumed her.
“She has her own money. She’s beautiful. Why go mad over a man?” Lisa said once.
As though one chooses to go mad. I never knew what happened to her there, but when she came back, she was darker, her eyes vacant. The fashionista aunt, once envied, became a woman merely surviving.
Each time I saw her ex-husband, I was too scared to disrespect him. I hated him for not only the effrontery to cheat on my aunt. He looked nonchalant about it, as though it was nothing, and my aunt was being overly dramatic about the whole incident.
Why?
Why?
Why?
The day I realized I was going mad, Lisa stood in the doorway, worried. She came to sit beside me, rocking me gently, whispering,
“It wasn’t your fault. You did right by waiting. It wasn’t your fault.”
I couldn’t bring myself to cry, nor could I tell Lucy that I did not wait. I broke our pact, for him.
I went to the clinic alone and waited for the nurse to call me in. When I heard the word “negative,” I cried, out of relief.
Negative.
Negative.
Negative.
That’s all that mattered. It no longer mattered that he got his student pregnant. That my parents returned the ring and schnapps. That everyone pitied me.
They say that heartbreak makes people discover themselves. I have never been spontaneous, and so the decision to come teach in this village was a shock to me and my family. My father does not buy the lie that I want a new environment; he knows I am running away, coiling into my shell as he calls it.
Yes, it is true. I am running away from the place, the streets, the people, the air, the music, all of it, everything that reminds me of what was mine or what could have been mine.
