The Boy Downstairs

The compound in Kaneshie never slept. Not really. My shop was on the ground floor, between Ma Adwoa's provisions store and the barber who played Shatta Wale too loud at 7am. I fixed phones. Screens, batteries, charging ports. I was 28, I had a small fridge with Club beer, a PS5 I bought on credit, and no one to answer to. That was the life. Then the boy downstairs moved in. It was Tuesday. I was trying to change a Tecno Camon screen when I heard dragging down the corridor. A woman's voice, tired. And a small boy with a Ghana-must-go bag bigger than him. "Kojo? Kojo Mensah?" I looked up. A woman in a blue nurse uniform stood at my door. Her face was familiar from the compound — third floor? No, she was new. "Yes?" "I am Faustina. We are moving to Room 4 downstairs. My son, Ethan." The boy didn't look. He was 12, maybe, in a faded school uniform that was too big. He stared at my workbench, at the small pile of phone cases, at my clover keychain. My clover. I found it two years ago behind the National Theatre. Four leaves. I kept it as a keychain. Lucky charm. Business had been slow, but I kept it anyway. "Ethan, greet your uncle," his mother said. He whispered, "Good afternoon." "Good afternoon, boss," I said. He almost smiled. Faustina worked nights at Korle-Bu. That was the problem. She needed someone to watch him after school. "Just until I settle. He is quiet. He reads. He won't disturb you." I wanted to say no. I had plans. Church on Sunday where Ama sang in the choir. Ama, who I liked. I wanted to look responsible. So I said, "No problem, sister. We are family here." That was mistake number one. By Thursday, Ethan was downstairs every day at 4 pm. He sat on my small stool, doing his homework, not talking. JHS 1. Maths. English. He was from Tamale. His accent was different, and the boys in the compound laughed at him. "Why do you talk like that?" One boy shouted over the wall. Ethan didn't answer. He just wrote faster. I felt annoyed. Then I felt sorry. I remembered JHS. I was not popular either. "Charlie, leave him," I shouted at the boys. "Come, focus on your book." Ethan looked up at me. First real look. "Uncle, what is that?" He pointed at my clover keychain. "Four-leaf clover. Very rare. Means good luck." He reached out carefully. "Can I see?" I gave it to him. He held it like it was glass. "My grandfather in Tamale said if you find one, you will never be lonely." He was 12 and saying things like that. I didn't know what to say. "Then keep it for today," I said. "Bring luck for your homework." He smiled. Full smile this time. Missing tooth. At 6 p.m., his mother came, tired, thanked me. Ethan gave the clover back. "It worked. I got 8/10 in English." On Sunday, I saw Ama after church. She was with her friends, beautiful in white and blue. "Kojo, I heard you are taking care of someone," she said, smiling. "Faustina's son? That's so responsible for you." My brain stopped. I wanted her to think I was mature. A family man. Not just the phone repairer who played FIFA all night. "Yes," I heard myself say. "He is my little brother. Ethan. He lives with me now. Downstairs. I am teaching him." Ama's eyes widened. "Your brother? You never said you had a small brother! That's so sweet." Behind me, I heard a small voice. "Uncle Kojo?" Ethan was standing there with his exercise book. Ama looked at him, then at me. "So this is Ethan?" she said. Ethan looked confused. He looked at me. I looked at him. The clover keychain swung on my table. I had two seconds to fix it. "Yes," I said. "My brother. From Tamale. My small brother." Ethan's mouth opened. I begged him with my eyes. Don't talk. And that was how I lay my way into having a 12-year-old brother I never had.