Our village is called Agona.
In the predawn hours, you hear the chirping of birds and the crowing of cocks – kokurokoo, kokuroko, kokurokoo – announcing a new day. In addition, children appear as apparitions dressed in school uniforms and sandals, strolling between buildings to the government school, shrouded in the morning fog that affords them a modicum of anonymity.
At 5:30 in the morning, my brother and I wake up because of a noise – gbam, gbam, gbam, gbam, gbam. It is sister Adoma’s ceremony to wake us up.
“I can’t go to school.” I tell her.
“Go back to sleep. Your brother will speak to your teachers and tell them you are vomiting.”
His name is Sarkodie. He is older than I am, by three years, and is quieter than I am. He has small dark eyes beneath bushy brows, like the rest of us. Once we roamed around barefoot, throwing stones and shooting catapults. My stone hit a roof. I ran quickly into the woods.
Sarkodie stood there. A man came out of the house and slapped him. He did not cry and just walked away quietly.
In the evenings, he would put slates in our backyard and teach me mathematics with some of the neighbourhood’s children.
Our school is called Agona Government Primary School. It is on the road tying Agona to a small town called Nyakrom. The village offers distraction, I think.
We start our days with the weeding in the compound. Guinea grasses grow in the pitch, so we weed them all, though the heat is unbearable and the ground scorching. After the weeding, girls start the sweeping. They sweep under the large tree with women beneath it, selling chewing gum, sweets, biscuits and frozen water. They sweep until the compound is shiny. Then Miss Frema or Miss Sophia gives the office girls the curtains, the napkins, the bowls, and the Veronica buckets that need to be washed.
Miss Evelyn then shares plastic buckets with different colours with us and sends the prefects with us to fetch water from the wells to refill the Veronica buckets and office drums. Sometimes, when workers building a house hardly have enough water to mould the blocks, Mr. Kyekyeku makes us fetch water for them and they pay our school.
There are rumours of sexual misconduct, of his interest in girls; allegations that he denies.
In the night, you will hear the hush-hush voices and the giggling of boys and girls in the dark corners of the school.
I am sleeping but my eyes are not closed. I am weak like a kitten, and dizzy. That is why I have tightened my sheet around me.
Sister Adoma is talking to the people in our house and exchanging greetings.
“Adoma, how are you?”
“My sister, God has been grateful to us.”
“How are your younger brothers?”
“They are fine, thank God. How is Adepa?”
“God is faithful. I didn’t see Adomako join his brother to school.”
“He does not feel fine in the body.”
“What exactly?”
“He says his head, if you touch him it’s hot.”
“Are you sure it is not fever? That’s how it begins.”
“That’s what came to my mind.”
She enters the room with food in one hand and a sachet of paracetamol in the other. I am terrified, as I hate the smell of paracetamol.
“Adomako, sit up. I brought you medicine.”
Vomit splatters at my feet. I sit still, sweating and crying.
So Sister Adoma rests my aching head on her lap. I promise God I won’t watch blue films again if he lets me get well. God is benevolent, he lets me sleep first. Sister Adoma lets me sleep on her bed, and when I wake up, I feel better.
Tell us: Why is Sister Adoma so helpful to Adomako and his brother?