The back seat was filled with all manner of kukunikanka that Mantse uses for his projects. He works primarily with junk people throw away. He calls himself a recycle artist. I could make out an empty tomato crate that had pieces of a tyre, a piece of latex foam, a number of calabashes, spokes from a bicycle wheel, the rusted springs of a bed and what looked like the prongs of a rake.

Mantse rubbed her side, a loving look on his face: “She’s not acted up since you left. But now that you’re back, who knows? She’s very possessive you know.”

“She’s not possessive, she’s possessed. She needs very serious deliverance, preferably, after ten weeks of fasting and praying.”

Mantse opened the passenger seat for me. “Your carriage awaits, milady,” he said with a bow.

“May I drive?”

Mantse rolled his eyes. “In your dreams.”

I lifted up the sides of my school skirt and sat down like I was royalty. Mantse shut the door and walked over to the driver’s side.

The minute he strapped himself in, the engine died. He turned the key, nothing. I sighed and settled down to wait for Mona Lisa to take her time. He turned the key again, nothing.

“Come on, baby, come on,” Mantse coaxed and tried again. Nothing happened.

He opened the door, got down and opened the bonnet. I could hear him as he muttered under his breath. Mantse was one of my mother’s strays.

One of her permanent strays, that is. He has been with us for four years. Our boys’ quarters in Roman Ridge had always been an open house for people who needed temporary accommodation.

Anyone who needed to house a friend or a relative just had to call Mama and make their request known. I don’t even know what Mantse’s story was, but unlike all the others who had left after Mama died, Mantse had remained. He had even moved to Ada with us. No one had questioned him when he had packed his things and joined us in the car that morning. He had taken charge of the family and taken care of all the loose ends that needed tying up. Pope had offered him a job as a handyman at the resort and he had taken it gladly.

“Buerki, start her for me, would you?” Mantse shouted.

I turned the key. Nothing happened. He fiddled some more and repeated the command. This time when I turned the key, the engine roared.

“Yeah, baby,” Mantse whooped. He gently lowered the bonnet and got back into the car. He pulled out of the parking space and took the turn that led to Ada Foah.

After the plane crash that killed Mama, Pope had used the compensation money he got from the airline to relocate us to Ada, our hometown, and to open up a beach resort, Asi’s . That had always been Mama’s dream—to open a guesthouse by the beach. Pope had gone one step further and built a resort. Everyone had thought he was in some kind of shock, resigning from his job at the bank and relocating us to Ada. The only person who had been pleased was Nyewayo, Pope’s mother, my grandmother. She lives in Ada and operates her salt business from her garage. Mama’s parents live in Koforidua. We still visit them each Easter like we did when Mama was alive.

The strip of land on which the resort is built lies between the Volta River and the ocean. The main resort lies on the banks of the Atlantic Ocean and is surrounded by white sandy beaches. The restaurant and bar are closer to the river. We have ten chalets, twenty large, airy rooms and five executive suites in the main lodge. Most of the buildings were built with wood, bamboo, cane, reed and grass. It is a favourite place for ex-pats and those with what Pope likes to call ‘disposable income’. He named it Asi’s in honour of my mother. It is just an hour’s drive from Accra— distant enough from the hectic city life but close enough for easy commuting.

***

Tell us: Would you like to live in a place like Ada, or rather in the city? Why?