24

A TRADITIONAL WEDDING IN AKOSOMBO

Thursday, 3pm sharp.

The G-Wagon was idling in the driveway. Black. Tinted. Bulletproof, probably. Kofi was already in the back seat, laptop open, phone to his ear. He didn’t look up when I slid in beside him.

I was wearing the emerald green dress. Silk. Floor-length. It fit like it was sewn onto my body. Auntie Mercy had done my makeup. Soft. Natural. She’d twisted my hair into a neat updo and told me, “Nana Yaa will love this color. It means fertility, you know.”

Fertility. I almost laughed.

“Driver, let’s go,” Kofi said into the phone. He hung up and finally glanced at me. His eyes did a quick sweep — dress, hair, face — and then went back to his laptop. No comment. No reaction.

“Do I pass inspection?” I said before I could stop myself. My voice was sharper than I meant.

He didn’t look up. “You look like my wife. That’s all that matters.”

Rule #1: No emotions. Right.

The drive to Akosombo took two hours. We didn’t speak for the first hour. He typed. I stared out the window. The city gave way to green hills, then to the Volta Lake, wide and silver under the afternoon sun.

It was beautiful. And I hated that I was seeing it like this. As a fake bride on her way to a fake wedding.

“Read this,” Kofi said suddenly. He handed me a printed sheet.

_Mensah Family - Key People_

_Nana Yaa Mensah - Grandmother. 78. Matriarch. Pancreatic cancer. Loves: God, gossip, obedience. Hates: lies, disrespect, Accra traffic._

_Uncle Joseph Mensah - Nana Yaa’s first son. My father’s brother. 55. Runs Mensah Foundation day-to-day. Wants my inheritance. Do not trust him._

_Auntie Beatrice - Uncle Joseph’s wife. 50. Will ask about babies within 10 minutes of meeting you._

_Cousin Edem - 30. Lawyer. My best man. He knows the truth. He’s the only one._

I looked up. “Your cousin knows?”

“Edem drafted the contract,” Kofi said. “He’s the only person I trust. Everyone else believes this is real. Especially Nana Yaa. If she doubts you for one second, she’ll change the will again.”

I swallowed. “What if I mess up?”

His eyes met mine. For the first time today, they weren’t cold. They were… tired. “Then my family loses two billion cedis that could build 20 hospitals. And your father dies.”

No pressure.

---

The Mensah family compound in Akosombo was not a compound. It was a village.

The gates opened onto a huge piece of land right on the Volta Lake. There were three main houses, all painted white with green roofs. Mango trees everywhere. A chapel. A separate kitchen building where women were cooking over big coal pots. Goats. Chickens. Children running barefoot.

And people. So many people. Aunties, uncles, cousins, workers. Everyone stopped and stared when the G-Wagon pulled in.

Kofi got out first. He came around and opened my door. Offered me his hand.

I stared at it. Clause 4.2: _holding hands when in the presence of Nana Yaa Mensah._

I took it. His palm was warm. Dry. Calloused from typing, not construction. We’d never held hands before. Not in university. Not ever.

“Smile,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. “You’re supposed to be in love with me.”

I forced my lips up. It felt like a grimace.

A woman rushed toward us. Tall. Big. Wearing a beautiful kente cloth and a smile that could power all of Akosombo.

“Kofi!” she shouted. “My son! You finally brought her!”

She pulled me into a hug before I could react. She smelled like palm oil and vanilla. “Ah, Nana Esi. You are even more beautiful than your photos. I am Auntie Beatrice. Welcome to the family, my daughter.”

Daughter. The word hit me in the chest.

“Thank you, ma,” I said. My voice was small.

She held me at arm’s length. Studied my face, my dress, my stomach. “Eh heh. Green. Good. This one will give us strong grandchildren. You are not too thin. That’s good. My Kofi likes women with meat on their bones.”

I felt my face go hot. Kofi made a sound in his throat. A warning.

“Auntie,” he said, calm but firm. “Where is Nana Yaa?”

“Inside,” Auntie Beatrice said, waving her hand. “She’s been waiting since morning. She refused to take her medicine until she saw you. Come, come.”

She linked her arm through mine and started pulling me toward the biggest house. Kofi followed, one step behind. His hand settled on the small of my back. Light. Barely there. But I felt it through the silk.

Clause 4.2. Right. I was supposed to like it.

---

Nana Yaa Mensah was sitting in a carved wooden chair on the veranda.

She was tiny. Smaller than I expected. Her head was wrapped in a beautiful white cloth, and her face was lined with 78 years of life. She had an oxygen tube under her nose, and a knitted blanket over her knees. But her eyes — her eyes were sharp. Sharp like Kofi’s. Sharp like she could see every secret I’d ever had.

Next to her stood a man in a suit. Tall. Grey hair. He looked like an older, crueler version of Kofi. Uncle Joseph. The one who wanted the inheritance.

“Kofi,” Nana Yaa said. Her voice was weak but clear. “You are late.”

He dropped to his knees in front of her. Took her hands. Kissed the back of them. “Sorry, Nana. Traffic from Accra.”

“Traffic,” she scoffed. “You are a billionaire. Buy a helicopter.” Then her eyes landed on me.

The veranda went quiet. Everyone was watching.

I stepped forward. My heart was beating so loud I was sure they could hear it. I dropped to my knees too, like I’d seen people do for elders. “Nana Yaa, good afternoon ma. I am Nana Esi Addo.”

She didn’t smile. She just studied me. Head to toe. My dress. My hands. My face.

“You are the one,” she said finally. “The one who called my grandson soulless in university.”

My blood went cold. He told her?

Kofi went rigid beside me.

Nana Yaa’s mouth twitched. Was that… a smile? “Good,” she said. “He was soulless then. Too much book, not enough heart. A woman who can insult him to his face is a woman who can handle him.”

The tension broke. Auntie Beatrice laughed. Uncle Joseph did not.

“Stand up, my daughter,” Nana Yaa said. “Let me look at you properly.”

I stood. My legs were shaking.

She reached out and touched my cheek. Her hand was soft. Papery. “You have your mother’s eyes,” she said quietly. “She was my friend, you know. Before she died. Your father did the roofing for this house. 1998. He was an honest man.”

I hadn’t known that. My father never talked about his old clients. Tears burned my eyes. Rule #1. No emotions. I blinked them back.

“She’s perfect, Ma,” Kofi said. His voice was gentle. A tone I’d never heard from him before. He stood and slid his arm around my waist. Pulled me into his side. “Isn’t she?”

I was so shocked I forgot to breathe. His body was warm. Solid. He smelled like clean soap and something expensive.

Nana Yaa looked between us. Then she nodded, once. “Tomorrow. 10am. The priests are ready. We do the traditional marriage first. The court wedding can wait until I am gone.”

Traditional marriage. Tomorrow. I was really doing this.

“Joseph,” Nana Yaa said, not looking at her son. “Go and tell the drummers to start practicing. My grandson is getting married.”

Uncle Joseph’s jaw tightened. But he nodded. “Yes, Ma.” He walked away.

Auntie Beatrice clapped her hands. “Ah! We must prepare! The dress! The food! The drinks! Nana Esi, come. You must meet the other aunties. They will ask you 100 questions.”

She pulled me away. Kofi’s arm fell from my waist. I felt cold immediately.

The rest of the day was a blur.

I was dressed in kente. Heavy. Red and gold. My head was wrapped. My wrists were stacked with gold bangles that belonged to Nana Yaa’s mother. Aunties pinched my cheeks. Asked when the babies were coming. Asked if Kofi was good to me. Asked if I could cook banku.

I lied. And lied. And lied.

“Do you love him?” one auntie asked, straight.

I looked across the compound. Kofi was talking to his cousin Edem. Laughing at something. He looked… young. For one second, he looked like the boy from university who stayed up all night coding.

“Yes,” I said to the auntie. “I love him.”

The lie tasted like ash.

---

At 9pm, Auntie Mercy found me. “Master Kofi says you should rest. Tomorrow is a big day.”

She led me to a room in the main house. Bridal room. The bed was covered in white cloth and rose petals. Candles everywhere.

“There is only one bed,” I said, panicked.

Auntie Mercy smiled. “Eh, my daughter. You are getting married tomorrow. Where else would Master Kofi sleep?”

Kofi. In this bed. With me.

Clause 6.1: _No real intimacy._ But Clause 4.2: _convincingly._

The door opened. Kofi walked in. He’d changed. Cloth pants. White shirt. No shoes. He looked… human. Less CEO. More man.

He stopped when he saw me. Saw the bed. Saw my face.

“Auntie Mercy,” he said, voice calm. “Can you prepare the second bedroom?”

“Master Kofi—”

“Now,” he said. Not unkind. But final.

She left. The door clicked shut.

We were alone. In a bridal room. The night before our traditional wedding.

He ran a hand through his hair. For the first time, he looked tired. “I’m not sleeping in here, Nana. Not tonight.”

Relief hit me so hard I had to sit down on the bed. “Thank you.”

He was quiet for a long time. Then: “Nana Yaa liked you. That’s good. That’s all that matters.”

“Kofi,” I said. “Why me? Really. You could have picked anyone. Why the girl who hated you?”

He walked to the window. Looked out at the Volta Lake, black and silver under the moon.

“Because you’re the only person who ever told me the truth,” he said finally. He didn’t turn around. “Everyone else tells me what I want to hear. You told me I was soulless. You were right.”

My throat closed.

“Get some sleep,” he said. “Tomorrow you become my wife.”

He left. Didn’t look back.

I lay down on the bed of rose petals. Stared at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, I would marry Kofi Mensah. In front of his whole family. In front of God.

And it would all be a lie.

But when I closed my eyes, I could still feel his hand on my waist. Warm. Steady.

Rule #1: No emotions.

I was failing already