Songs of War

2a-Akosua

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I jolted awake to the sound of clanging pots and pans. In the kitchen, I found Papa caught in a whirlwind of culinary chaos. Cookware littered every surface, a trail of scarlet palm oil snaking across the floor like a warning. Gods, this is going to be a nightmare to clean, I thought, eyeing the mess.

The earthy scent of yam mash filled the air, rising from an earthenware bowl. Papa sat precariously, his walking stick a third leg, struggling to mash yams with trembling hands. For the first time, I saw beyond the stern exterior to a father determined to bring joy to his child, illness be damned.

"Let me help," I said softly, gently prying the wooden masher from his grasp. As I worked, a realization hit me like a bolt of lightning. We didn't have yams. That's why I'd risked the farm yesterday. Where did these come from?

"Sorry for waking you with my disturbance," Papa murmured.

"It's okay," I replied, focusing on the task at hand.

"Zainabu," he said suddenly, shattering years of silence. "Your mother, her name was Zainabu."

I whipped my head around so fast my neck cracked. Zainabu? The name was foreign, unfamiliar.

"Akosua, the only reason I didn't tell you about your mother was because I was afraid."

Afraid? The word seemed alien coming from Papa's mouth. Even when illness had dimmed the light in his eyes, I'd never imagined him afraid. Fear and Papa were as incompatible as fire and water.

Questions bubbled up inside me like a boiling pot, but I bit them back, waiting.

"I am not the person you know," Papa continued, his words heavy as stone.

Confusion swirled in my mind. Who was he then?

"Years ago, I was stronger than you could ever imagine, and that strength led to my downfall." His knuckles went white as he gripped the odum wood doorframe, wrestling with something I couldn't see.

"Akosua," he said, his voice urgent. "Come to my room when you're done; I have something for you."

"Yes, Papa," I nodded.

He turned to leave but paused. "And I'm so sorry for last night. I didn't mean to shout at you like that."

"It's fine, Papa. It was partly my fault; I was overwhelming you with too many questions."

He nodded once before disappearing, leaving me alone with a thousand unasked questions and a bowl of mysteriously acquired yam mash.

I raced through the cooking, eager to see what Papa had for me and then dash to Grandma's for her promised coconut jollof rice. The kitchen filled with the heady aroma of frying onions and palm oil as I mashed the yam. The sizzle as I poured the hot oil over the yam was music to my ears. I crowned the dish with boiled eggs before tackling the chaos Papa had left behind – scrubbing stubborn palm oil stains from the clay floor and wrestling pots back into order.

After a quick bath, I slipped on the kente dress Grandma had woven for last year's Yam Festival. My hair cascaded down my back, tamed only by a matching kente band.

Papa's face lit up as I entered his room, food in hand. "Happy birthday, firefly," he said, patting the cane sofa beside him.

As I set his breakfast down, he pulled out a small wooden box from beneath the sofa. Its intricate carvings drew my eye, promising secrets within. "This is one of the few things I have left of your mother," Papa explained. "She made me promise not to give it to you until you turned fifteen."