I am yet to meet a person who does not fall in love with Ada—the lush vegetation, the white sandy beaches, the many twisted and gnarled coconut trees along the beach and the clear, blue ocean. There are lots of things for tourists to do in Ada. Pope take advantage of this and organises various activities for our guests. It is a thirty minute walk from Asi’s to the estuary where the River Volta enters the sea, and for an extra fee guests can be taken to the Songhor Lagoon where salt is mined. The area also doubles as a paradise for birdwatchers. The lagoon is an important migratory site for all types of birds. Guests can also be taken on a tour of the old Ada town to view the ruins of the buildings used by British colonials or on fishing trips with the locals to fish for barracuda and red snapper or on boat rides for a picnic on any of the many islands that dot the Volta.

My favourite place is the restaurant. It is built on stilts on the river. Pope cooks most of the food himself. He and Paa Willie, whom he poached from one of the bigger hotels. There is a buffet each day and the food is cooked from scratch every single day.

In Mantse’s car I felt every bump, every pebble on the road and every pothole the car fell into. The people who called mummy-trucks bone shakers hadn’t experienced Mantse’s jalopy. They’d have called it a bone-marrow rattler.

“I see you haven’t gotten round to getting the shock absorbers,” I said as Mona Lisa entered a bathtub-sized pothole. I clutched the side of the door as the entire car rattled again.

Mantse ignored my comment. He took his eyes off the road for a minute. “I think I’ve got one.”

I turned to look at him. He was grinning. I didn’t have to ask what he was talking about. Mantse’s only dream was to showcase his work in a gallery on Oxford Street in Accra.

“Oh my goodness! Congratulations!”

“I haven’t got the official letter yet but I think they’ll ask me. They asked to appraise five of my pieces.”

“So when will you know for sure?”

He shrugged like it was no big deal but he wasn’t fooling anyone. “In a couple of weeks, a month maybe.”

“That’s great!”

“A minister bought The Goatherd two weeks ago. It was he who linked me to the gallery,” he added with a lopsided grin. The Goatherd was a sculpture of a boy with a stick across his neck which Mantse had made entirely out of damaged car exhaust pipes. It was one of his pieces I’d liked.

I screamed, “Pay day don come”, and drummed on the dashboard. The glove compartment fell open. A thousand and one crown corks fell out. I didn’t even ask why Mantse had crown corks in his glove compartment.

“Sorry about that,” Mantse said, grabbing handfuls of corks from my lap and throwing them into the glove compartment which refused to close. He gave up and left the rest of the corks on the floor. He twisted around and pulled some polythene bags from the back seat. “Make yourself useful and sort them according to their colours for me.”

“I wouldn’t even ask what they’re for.”

“But you’ll like it. I promise.” He put on the radio and we sang along to R2Bees Walahi which had begun playing on the radio. The minute we entered a pothole, the frequency got jammed. Mantse gave the radio a tap on the side, a voice speaking French filled the car. Another tap and we heard announcements in Ewe from Jubilee FM. A third tap and the glove compartment I had managed to close fell open again.

Mantse shook his head and said, “I told you she hates it when I don’t give her my full attention.”

I threw my head back and laughed. Not because what Mantse had said was particularly funny, but because I was happy and it was good to be happy without feeling guilty.

Mantse looked over at me and smiled, as if he knew what I was thinking and was telling me, ‘It was okay to be happy. It would have been what Mama would have wanted’. We hit a spot of traffic at Ada Foah and he passed the time by trimming his fingernails with his teeth. When we began moving again, I hit the side of the radio and got Radio Ada. I turned the volume of the radio to the highest dial and sang the tail end of the Walahi song. I was glad to be going home.

***

Tell us: Why would Buerki feel guilty for feeling happy?