1995

I am very excited today, because today's New Year"s Day and I’ll be visiting Aunty Gina in the afternoon.

I have just finished the final editing on a client's manuscript when the door to my study swings open. Tiny feet pad through the woollen carpet to where I sit. As she draws closer, Nana is flooded by the golden rays of sunlight stealing in through the wide French windows. A comforting warmth creeps into my heart.

"Mommy, can we visit Auntie Sweety today?"

I frown. I've always thought my sister's name sounds ridiculous. Now, hearing my little girl add 'auntie' to it increases the degree of absurdity. I take her face in both hands; we gaze at each other. She has her father's sombre scrutiny.

"Honey, why do you want to visit Aunty?"

"I want to play with M'Afia."

"Ok, go and tell Aba to dress you up. We are leaving in thirty minutes."

"Yaaahh!!!" She screams as she flies from me. My ear drums throb. I turn to my desk. My old diary lies open at the page about my aunt. For the past two weeks I've been working on my autobiography. I only paused this week to focus on my client's work.

For some reason, I feel exhausted. I lean back and place my head on the backrest of my chair. Why can't Nana just be happy with the countless toys I've bought for her; and the many friends who are always coming around to play? Why this incessant desire to always be with M'Afia? On our last visit, the little witch had almost bitten my baby's finger off; and all Sweety could say was,

"You should let your child bring her own toys."

I can still remember the angry itch in my fingers to slap her face. I sit up. The diary still lies open. I read the now familiar entry. I cannot help my derisive smile; at least Sweetie is candid with her feelings about our presence in her house, not like my aunt. I lean back again.

How excited I felt whenever Mommy said we were going to visit my aunt. My aunt, she was the only one who was still married to her first husband; the only one rich enough to own a mansion, more than one car and have the best in life. Her children, five in all, were perfect in every way. Whenever I entered their world I became the awed observer. In no time at all, I had joined their host of blind admirers.

1995, New Year's Day.

I had the time of my life when I visited my aunt. We went to many places and saw lots of interesting people.

Lies. The time of my life. Lies. We never went to my aunt's house that New Year's day. Mommy didn't want to go. But when we did go, eventually, what little enjoyment I had felt like eating candy with vinegar.

My aunt, why did I like that woman? Why that ridiculous heady thrill? Now, I know what those sidelong glances meant; the perpetual haughty look that made me cringe involuntarily; beady eyes that followed my every move. Her angry barks:

"Is that toy yours? Take it back!"

"Hey! Who taught you that? Don't use that word here. Don't you know this is God's house?"

"Please don't touch the seat covers, we always have to wash them after you people visit."

How inferior we were.  Inferior and ordinary: no class, no wealth, no fame; inferior, inferior - only in her deranged mind.

Strangely, it never bothered me until I entered my teens. I never cared until I understood. Then I heard the complaints:

"Bimba never lets her children help when they visit."

"That Ohemaa, who does she expect to serve her?"

"Do they think they can enjoy my excellent cooking and leave the dishes for me to wash?"

On our next visit, I asked,

"Where can I help? What can I do? How can I be useful?"

"In the kitchen, that’s where; washing dishes and cleaning up, that's what; being a hard working goody-two shoes, that's how."

So I helped.

Only and only then, was I blessed with a rare look of approval and the shadow of a smile; as brief as a passing thought.

Kaka, her fourth and favourite child took a liking to me. I felt honoured. She was older by a year or two. People said we looked alike, but she was prettier. True. I adored her. How I wanted to be like her, to attract people the way she did, to be the way she was - perfect; a perfection that veiled the rot within. For most of my young years Kaka and I were star and shadow.

The time of my life; never, not with my aunt. Yet, I made all my friends at school believe it was an awesome experience. I made myself believe I was having a good time and I always asked for more:

"Mommy, when will we go to Auntie's house again?"

"Mommy, will we go to Auntie's house this Christmas?"

"Mommy, can I go to Auntie's house today?"

Our numerous visits were never returned.

I flip through the pages...

On one particular visit I heard Tonu, my aunt’s eldest son telling his friends how stupid he thought my mom was. I saw blood. A second after his utterance he caught sight of me. My mask was on. His time has not yet come.

What a waste! Why did I try so hard? What the heck was I looking for? Couldn’t I see it was unattainable when it came to my family? My Family: a parsimonious collection of egocentrics - selfish to the core.

How I wanted what my friends had; the families I read about in books: the aunt who would remember my birthday and send a gift – any gift; the uncle who visited now and then; cousins who were fun to be with; a sibling I could confide in; a mother who had no favourites; and a dad who cared…yes…a dad who cared. A family that loved and responded to love; a family I could truly celebrate.

Something begins to engulf me… like smoke in my head… ah! The familiar fusion of pain and resentment. I stand up and begin to pace. The sun is no longer shining. Clouds, I look at my watch, 1pm. I return to my chair.

I remember my last conversation with Yaa, my aunt’s first daughter:

"Ohemaa, my husband’s family are so united. There’s so much love among them, so much bonding… I’ve never seen anything like it."

She sounded odd in that wistful tone.

"I see."

"I wish ours was like that."

"You do?" I couldn’t keep the surprise out. Why has it taken so long? I thought cynically.

"Yes. I’ve even planned a fufu party for all of us."

Count me out. I thought.

"I know Kwame’s family will come in their numbers. I want to see all of us there too." She continued, sounding more confident.

"When will it be?"

"The second day after Christmas."

"Ok." I said, turning to leave. She grabbed my sleeve, her eyes pleading,

"Please be there."

"Ok." I said again, nodding.

A wry smile played on my features the whole drive home and only one thought occupied my mind: deep wounds just don’t heal.

"Mommy, I’m ready!" Nana yells as she runs back into my study. I am still sitting where she left me, staring blankly at nothing.

"I’m ready." She repeats.

I look at her. She is wearing the baby blue Levis jeans outfit I bought for her. Her affluent background is obvious. I feel satisfied.

"Is it ok?" She asks anxiously.

"You look perfect darling, but I’m sorry, we can’t go today."

"Why?" She whines, "You said we were going."

"No honey…"

"Yes! You said it!!" She screams at me, stamping her foot.

"Honey, you don’t understand…"

I reach for her hand. She yanks it away. The tears are already streaming down her face and I know a tantrum will soon follow. I sigh.

Outside, the trees on the lawns are heaving back and forth. Ajei! I feel a painful kick in my shin; Nana has thrown herself on her back and is vigorously kicking the air, bawling her heart away.

Suddenly, the windows fly open. My study is invaded by a strong gush of teeth-chattering wind fused with a whipping rain. I rush to shut them. Without warning an ear-shattering crack of thunder rocks the whole house and I am momentarily blinded by a dazzling flash of lightening. My heart shrivels. I have the strongest urge to drop to my knees but someone is grabbing my thigh: Nana. Her whole body is quivering. I pick her up and move shakily towards my rocking chair. The crushing sound of raindrops on the roof creates a formidable image of my house under a waterfall. I shiver.

After a while her curls brush my face. I look down to meet her regard, so much like her dad’s. I wonder what is going through her mind, and then she whispers,

"Mommy, will we go to Aunty Sweety’s house tomorrow?"

"Honey, do you really want to go?"

A spirited nod.

"Ok, tomorrow, I’ll keep my promise."

She circles my neck with her chubby arms in the warmest hug I’ve had in a long time. I am forgiven. The promise will be kept.

I continue to rock back and forth… back and forth… back… and… forth... With every move, the rain falls harder and harder, and my resolve to leave this country for good grows firmer.

Mercy Ananeh-Frempong is a freelance writer and editor; email mafila88@yahoo.com.