Mama didn’t make any more stops and she didn’t ask me any more questions either. The stretches of grassland between the towns were not as long as before and there were more vehicles and people on the road. I tried to go back to sleep but I couldn’t. I put my earphones in my ears and switched on my iPod.

One town we entered had pots for sale everywhere—different colours, different shapes, different sizes. I loved their colours and sizes. They were beautiful; things you’d see on display in offices and fancy restaurants. I gasped and Mama turned to look at me. She had driven to Sogakofe several times to make arrangements for her job and my new school and I think she had become used to the sight. She pulled out the earpiece in my left ear. “Do you want us to stop? We could buy a couple.” I shrugged as if I didn’t care if she continued driving or stopped but I did want her to stop. I looked in the side mirror as we drove past the last stall. She caught me looking and stopped on the shoulder of the road. She waited for a tractor to drive past us and did a U-turn.

“I could use a break. Let’s stretch our legs a bit, shall we?” Without waiting for me to reply, she picked her handbag up and got out of the car. I followed her out, trying to pretend I didn’t care that she had stopped but I couldn’t resist walking up to a stand and just staring at the pots and vases. It was almost like they had some power over me. I passed my hand over one of the vases. It was as smooth as glass.

The young man whose stand it was came to stand by me.

“You have good eyes. That one is fine paa. Only that one remained. The clay they use to make am no be common. You have to go far far away to get am. That one be the last one.”

“It’s beautiful,” Mama said.

“Mmm hmm. It looks like glass, doesn’t it?” I said and rubbed my hand over the red vase.

“It does,” Mama said, looking at me and probably realizing that this was the first time I had agreed with her on anything since Daddy died.

“How much?” she asked the young man eager to make our ‘moment’ last. I left her haggling over the price with the young man and walked to the next stall hoping to find more of the beautiful vases. There weren’t any others like it, but there were several more pots. Some almost came up to my waist. Others were so small they fitted into the palm of my hand. I was still browsing through the stalls when I heard Mama honk. I left the pots reluctantly and walked back to the car.

“I’m paying the movers by the hour. We’ll come back another time, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks for the vase.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. I could see she wanted to say more. A whole lot more but she kept quiet. I put my earpieces back in.

In no time at all we were at the Sogakofe Bridge. The River Volta flowed calmly beneath it. ‘Lower Volta Bridge,’ the sign before the bridge said. Next to it were about ten empty yellow sheds and a sign that said ‘fish market’. There was no going back now. We had arrived.

*****

Once we got across the bridge, bread, biscuit, aboloo, fried yam, fried oyster and chofi sellers all stuck their wares through the open car windows hoping to tempt us to buy some. Mama drove right through them. People on motorbikes zoomed past us. Sometimes there were as many as four people on a bike, none of whom wore helmets. What surprised me was that the passengers were women with babies strapped to their backs or toddlers whom they placed between themselves and the drivers. It looked like the okada business was really booming. At the roundabout I saw a signboard for my new school. Mama kept driving until I saw another one for the hospital. Not long after that we drove into the hospital compound. The security man, who had obviously met Mama before, greeted her profusely. He practically stuck his neck into the car so he could see me too.

Mama introduced me. “This is my daughter, Yayra Amenyo.”

“Yayra. O nice, nice. I am Mr Lucky Agbesi. You’re very welcome.”

“Thank you,” I said.

There was a row of cream and green coloured bungalows a little distance away from the main hospital building. The movers were already unpacking when we got there. Our belongings lay scattered on the front lawn.

“Isn’t the door open?” Mama asked getting out of the car.

“No, madam.”

“Are you sure?” she got down and checked. She turned the knob this way and that but the door wouldn’t budge. She went to the back of the house. I looked around and noticed two boys weeding in the yard next to ours. The older, taller one was faster. His plot looked more level and neater. The younger one had stopped to stare at us. At a word from the older boy he continued weeding. Mama came back, took her phone from her bag and dialed a number. I could see the call was not going through.

“Madam, we finish o,” one of the movers called out.

Mama was in near panic mode; things were not going according to her plan. “But you just can’t leave. You have to send the things inside.”

“Madam, we get another job we for do today.”

“Please . . .,” Mama said.

“Okay, we go wait ten minutes.”

“Thank you,” Mama said. She tried calling one more time but still couldn’t get through. She turned and noticed the boys.

“Hey! Hey!” she called.

Both boys stood up and looked at her. Come, she motioned with her hand. I think the taller boy told the younger to continue weeding. He dropped his cutlass and pulled out a handkerchief. Instead of going back to work, the younger just stood watching. He used it to wipe his face and sauntered over to Mama. He didn’t even glance my way. His eyes were on the vase, which I had placed by one of the walls.

“Umm, medekuku, administrator . . .,” Mama began then she turned to me. “How do you say ‘house’ in Ewe? I shrugged. Mama was Akan, Daddy was Ewe. I’d grown up speaking Twi.

She turned back to the boy, “Administrator home?”

A wary look passed over his face. I thought people in small towns and villages were always falling over themselves to make others feel welcome. “I speak English and Twi,” the boy said.

“Oh, thank God. Do you know which one is the administrator’s house?”

The boy pointed to one of the bungalows.

“Thank you. Thank you.” She turned and started walking in that direction.

“He’s not home,” the boy called after her.

“Where’s he gone?” Mama asked.

The boy shrugged.

“When’s he coming back?”

Another shrug. He turned and ambled back to the plot he had been weeding.

Mama was near boiling point now. Things were so not going according to plan.

She whipped the phone out of her bag once more and tried the administrator’s number. This time she managed to get through. She walked away from us. You didn’t need to be psychic to see she was very pissed off.

“You’re where?”

The person on the line said something.

“Where’s that?” she asked.

“How long will it take you to get here?”

“What? Forty-five minutes to an hour? Isn’t there a spare key?”

An hour. That would be like two or three hours Ghana time.

Apparently the movers thought the same thing. When Mama ended her call they told her they couldn’t wait that long. Mama paid them and they left.

“He said he forgot! Can you believe that? And yet I called him this morning!” she said coming to sit by me on the veranda. I was eating the rest of the plantain chips.

“Are you hungry? We might as well go and get something to eat,” she said looking at her watch.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“I‘m starving. I’ll get us some food. Look after the things will you?” An order.

Not a question or a request. She got into the car and drove away.

***

Tell us what you think: What do you think of Yayra’s mother? Do you think she made the right decision to move?