The Sailing Ship
What is dying?
I am standing on the seashore.
A ship sails to the morning breeze and starts for the ocean.
She is an object and I stand watching her
Till at last she fades from the horizon,
And someone at my side says, “She is gone!” Gone where?
Gone from my sight, that is all;
She is just as large in the masts, hull and spars as she was when I saw her,
And just as able to bear her load of living freight to its destination.
The diminished size and total loss of sight is in me, not in her;
And just at the moment when someone at my side says, “She is gone,”
There are others who are watching her coming,
And other voices take up a glad shout,
That is what dying is. An horizon and just the limit of our sight.
Lift us up O Lord, that we may see further.
Bishop Charles Henry Brent
Febr 1, 2014, Saturday
To Do List:
- Study √
- List for market √
- Wash dirty things √
- Market √
- Used books x
- Pick Sarfoa up
- Stews +/- soup for the week
- Iron for school and church
- Study
***
So much to do, so little time, I thought as I went through my mental “to-do list” for the day.
“Hi, this is going to sound weird but can you lend me one cedi?”
I noticed the accent right away and looked up. I hadn’t been annoyed the first time when he had deliberately walked into my path. I’d just waited to give him time to walk away.
Traders displayed their wares on either side of the pavement so pedestrians were left with a thin lane to use. The sidewalks were crowded and busy and you always had people stopping at inopportune times as they tried to dodge potholes, sidestep rubbish, beggars or hawkers, or avoid bumping into each other.
I could just tell today was going to be one of those days in which nothing went according to plan. Saturdays are usually like that. Not just because I have to do the shopping at Kejetia Market (which at its best is smelly and muddy, and at its worst, like today when it had already rained this morning and was threatening to rain again, is your worst nightmare) but also because I hadn’t bought any books today, I still had to pick Sarfoa up from her dance lesson at the Cultural Centre, and then I had to go home and attempt to make a pot of soup or stew to last us for the week.
This had been my routine for the past month but I was out of sorts because Baba the used-book seller I had an arrangement with had travelled to his hometown for a funeral and the guy he had left in charge didn’t know me.
Books are my life, literally. I get irritable when I haven’t read a book in a week. I read at least two books a week. My arrangement with Baba is simple. I’d buy a used book at five cedis. If I liked the book and would want to read it again one day, I kept it. If I didn’t, I brought it back to him and sold it to him for two cedis fifty pesewas and got new ones for five cedis each. It was an arrangement that had worked splendidly for us.
Two weeks ago, I’d bought Bill Marshall’s Bukom for five cedis. Baba had promised to get me The Son of Ubele for the same amount. I’d gone to Baba’s stall only to be told by a pimple-faced young man that Baba had travelled. I’d attempted to return six books I’d bought previously and pick up new ones but the man had flown into a rage.
“Do you think this is a library? We are here to sell books not to buy them back.”
I kept my cool but the man got even angrier when I took The Son of Ubele off the stands and handed him a five cedi note.
“That book is ten cedis.”
I tried to argue that I had bought books from Baba for five cedis for years but the man would not listen.
“The dollar has gone up. Now things are hard.”
I asked when Baba would be back and he said he couldn’t tell, and then right before my eyes he took the book and sold it to someone else for twelve cedis—a book I knew Baba had specifically reserved for me.
I was pissed off beyond words and I just walked away. I was therefore in no mood at all to be accosted by confidence tricksters.
“I lost my wallet. Can you lend me one cedi?” the boy repeated. There was no doubt about it, he was a Nigerian. He looked to be about my age but he was taller than me and had thick Afro hair. It was the same hairstyle that Mom and Dad had in their old black and white pictures.
Lend? Lend meant he intended to see me again. I, on the other hand, had no intention of meeting him ever again. I didn’t bother replying.
He grabbed my arm and I was forced to turn. It was then that I noticed his eyes. They were the lightest shade of brown I’d ever seen. They looked golden. Almost like honey.
“Please.”
I shrugged out of his grasp and shot him one of my most evil looks. He got the message and backed up a step and in that moment, the hope or expectation or whatever it was that had been in his eyes died out. Just like that it went out. Snuff.
I knew better than to be tricked. Nigerian meant only one thing to me. 4.1.9. I wasn’t going to be the one to fall for that flimsy excuse. But then again, what if he really did need that money? One cedi was not much. I could afford to part with it. I shrugged the thought away, hefted the shopping bag higher up my shoulder and continued walking.
If Mom had been here, we would have gone to the Central Market and done all of our shopping before 8 a.m. We’d have gone back home and she would have done most of the cooking for the week while I studied. At noon she’d have brought Maa Sarfoa for her traditional dance lessons at the Cultural Centre. She’d have gone back to pick her up at 2 p.m. At 4 p.m., she’d have dropped me off for choir rehearsals.
After rehearsals, I’d have gotten a ride with Dad if he had come to the church to do something (which was usually the case) or gotten a ride with some other member of the choir. By 6 p.m. we’d have all been sitting out in the backyard. Handel’s Messiah or some jazz music by Dela Jackson playing in the background as we ate fufu with akrantie light soup.
After Maa Sarfoa and I had done the dishes, the whole family, with the exception of myself, would gravitate towards the TV to watch ‘The Onga Food Tour’, ‘Asanka Delight’, and ‘Edzieban’ in that order.
Mom would call up the stairs every five minutes, “It’s the weekend, do something fun.”
I don’t consider watching cooking shows “something fun.” Maybe that’s why everyone had diarrhoea after eating my groundnut soup last week.
I used to live for Sundays. After church Dad would drive us to lunch. We picked where to eat in turns. Sometimes we’d go to really fancy places like the Golden Tulip or Hans Cottage, those were usually my picks.
Once, Dad just stopped in front of a diehuro seller when it was his turn to choose. The woman’s kiosk hadn’t looked posh at all but her food had been delicious. Mom picked the same woman a number of times.
When Maa Sarfoa had been really small, like three or four, she once asked Dad to stop by a Fan Ice seller. That was what she wanted us to have for lunch. Fan Ice and a tart. But best of all, on Sundays after the news I’d join the family at 8 p.m. to watch ‘Who Wants to Be Rich’. That I considered fun because I was the only one who usually got the answers right.
After the show it was bedtime for Sarfoa. I usually squeezed in another hour and half of studying. Mom and Dad usually just sat in the sofa, with the TV sometimes off or on mute and cuddled. I don’t know what they talked about but I’d hear them laugh every five minutes or so. Dad’s would die down after a while but Mom’s would carry on like an echo until Dad said something again or they remembered something and it would start all over again until I finally went to bed.
***
Tell us: Gyikua is passionate about reading. Do you like reading? Why? What kind of books do you like reading?