The Kweku Chronicles

CHAPTER 9: HOMECOMING OF THE HEART

‎As she placed her bag on the conveyor belt she felt that same hollow-full ache surge again. It was not only fear for her father. It was grief for a maybe-love she had not been brave enough to test. She closed her eyes for one heartbeat and pictured Kweku in the dawn light, wanting to explain. She pictured Ama beside him on a plane to Accra. She opened her eyes and stepped through the scanner.

‎Across town, Kweku stood in the empty courtyard after her car pulled away. Rainwater filmed the paving stones. Crew dorm rooms were shuttered. A lone rooster crowed like it had forgotten the hour. He had not chased her. He did not know if that was maturity or cowardice. Ama came out carrying a travel mug. “You are up early,” she said. “She left,” he replied. “I saw.” Ama studied him. “You cared more than you said.” He did not answer. His phone buzzed again. Uncle Mensah. He almost ignored it, then picked up. “When are you coming?” his uncle asked without greeting. “Next week,” Kweku said. “I promised I would finish here.” “Do not delay. There are papers to sign and things your mother left that you must see yourself. Your cousins have been asking questions that will bring trouble.”Kweku pinched the bridge of his nose. “I will come. Book the land surveyor. And tell me what this secret is” His uncle’s voice lowered. “Not on phone. Come home". The line clicked dead. Ama sipped her drink. “Looks like we are both Ghana bound,” she said lightly. Kweku’s jaw tightened. “Maybe,” he said, but his eyes were on the gate where Simi had disappeared. He turned toward his room to pack. Behind him, the sun tipped over the horizon, lighting the wet earth gold. Somewhere above the clouds a plane banked north toward Abuja. Simi was on it. By the time the plane touched down in Abuja the clouds had thinned into a pale sheet and heat shimmered off the runway. Simi’s stomach clenched as the wheels thudded. She had not been home in more than a year. The closer the plane rolled to the terminal the more that hollow-full ache spread through her chest. Inside arrivals the air conditioners fought the heat and lost. People bunched in slow lines, mothers calling children, men lifting overstuffed hand luggage from the carousel before it started again. Simi’s phone buzzed while she waited for her bag. Tasha: Zenith Specialist Hospital, Garki. Ward B3. Ask for Mr. Okonjo. Please hurry. Simi read it twice. Her father’s surname underlined everything. She had blocked his calls but his name still lived in her. She cleared immigration, collected her bag, and stepped into the taxi rank where drivers waved slips and shouted destinations. A man in a faded green cap said, “Madam, town? Hospital?” She nodded. “Zenith Specialist,” she said. “Garki.” He loaded her suitcase. As they pulled away he asked, “You dey come from Lagos?” (Are you coming from Lagos?) She said yes. He nodded like that explained the tired in her eyes. Abuja opened wide and flat. Construction cranes. Red earth scraped raw for new developments. Long walls around compounds with fresh razor wire that flashed in the sun. Roadside suya smoke swirled past. At an intersection, a boy ran between cars selling cold water in sachets from a blue basin. Simi watched him dodge tires and thought about the hustle she had chosen. Fashion over law. Cloth over court. Her father had called it foolish. Maybe she had been proud. Maybe he had been afraid. Maybe both.

‎The hospital compound smelled of disinfectant and rain dust. White paint, trimmed hedges, a security man at the gate who wrote her name in a ledger before letting the taxi in. Inside, the corridors were cool and the lights too bright. Nurses in pale blue moved with quick feet and calm faces. Simi signed in at reception and followed a young nurse up the stairs. Her heart hammered the whole way. Ward B3 had four beds. Curtains drawn on two. A ceiling fan turned with a slow chop. Her father lay in the bed nearest the window. He looked smaller than memory. Shoulders that once filled a room now rested narrow against the pillows. Grey had eaten his hairline. An oxygen cannula looped under his nose. His chest rose shallow, paused, rose again. A newspaper lay folded on his lap though it did not look like he had strength to read it. Simi stopped in the doorway and gripped the metal rail of an empty bed to steady herself. She waited for anger to rise. It did not. Only soft shock. She crossed the space and stood by him. “Daddy,” she said. His eyelids fluttered. Opened. His gaze moved slowly, blinked, then sharpened. “Simi,” he breathed. It came out rough but sure. “My stubborn daughter.” Tears pricked. She took his hand. His fingers were cool and dry. “I came,” she said. “Tasha told me. I am sorry I did not pick.” He made a small sound that might have been a laugh. “You get your mother’s head. Hard.” He coughed and winced. The monitor beeped once and settled. “Sit. Let me see you.” She sat on the edge of the mattress, careful not to tug the IV tubing. Up close she saw the bruising on his forearm where they had tried more than one line. She saw the tremor in his jaw when he swallowed. She wanted to fold herself over him and cry. Instead she squeezed his hand. “How bad is it?” “Doctors plenty,” he said. “Heart, blood, pressure. I hear grammar.” His mouth twitched. “They say I must rest. I tell them I have children that do not answer phone.” His eyes glinted. “I deserved that,” she said. “I was harsh. I was angry. I thought you did not respect me. I wanted you to see me.” Her voice cracked. “I still want that. But I want peace more.” He turned his head slowly to look at her. “You think I did not see? I saw. I was afraid. When your mother died I promised you would not struggle like she did. She stitched clothes at night to pay her school bills. I wanted you to wear suits, not sew them.” His breath caught. “But you sew the world, Simi. That is bigger.” Her face crumpled. She bent and rested her forehead against their joined hands. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “For blocking you. For thinking the worst.” He lifted his other hand with effort and touched her hair. A nurse entered, checked his vitals, smiled politely at Simi. “He is improving,” she said. “Medication responding. He must reduce stress.” She gave Simi a look that said family stress counted too. Simi nodded. “We will try.” When the nurse left, her father pointed at her backpack. “You still carry those your cloths everywhere?” She laughed wetly. “Yes.” She unzipped the bag and pulled out a padded envelope of fabric swatches and printed sketch sheets she had carried through the shoot. She spread them on the blanket. Indigo prints. Striped aso oke trims. Silhouettes for a small ready to wear set she dreamed of. His eyes tracked each piece slowly. He touched one sketch with a shaky finger. “This one. Make it for me. When I stand.” He glanced at his thin body and smiled. “Make it big. I will eat.”

‎“I will,” she said. “I will sew you three.”

‎He dozed mid afternoon. Simi sat and watched the rise of his chest. When her phone buzzed she stepped into the hallway to answer Tasha. “He knew me,” Simi said. “He joked.” Tasha exhaled loud relief. “Thank God. I will try come weekend. Call if anything changes.” Simi promised. She scrolled her phone before tucking it away. A missed call from Felicia. A silent chat window with Kweku. She opened it, typed Landed Abuja. Deleted it. Closed the screen. Her thumb hovered long seconds before she slipped the phone into her pocket. She was not ready to open that wound. Evening light turned the ward windows orange. A volunteer came with watery custard and bread; Simi fed him half and argued him into a few spoonfuls of pap a relative had left that morning. He grimaced, swallowed, and called her wicked. She laughed. He asked about work then. She told him the film wrapped. How she patched raffia skirts and fought humidity. How a lead actor refused to sweat. She did not say Kweku. Not yet. When visiting hours ended, the nurse suggested she go rest. Simi refused. They found her a spare chair. She pulled it close and settled in, head near his shoulder. Machines hummed. Somewhere down the hall a child cried until sleep took her. Simi watched the slow blink of the monitor and let the day sink through her bones. She thought of the runway in Lagos, of Kweku standing in dawn light wanting to explain, of Ama’s voice by his elbow. She thought of the vow she had made at security to stop fighting ghosts. Her father breathed. She matched her breathing to his. Close to midnight she opened her phone in the dark and typed one line to Kweku: Reached Abuja. He is weak but we are talking. Then she added Careful trip when you go home. She read it twice. Sent it before she could change her mind. The message ticked to delivered. No reply yet. She set the phone face down and closed her eyes. Outside the ward window Abuja night spread wide and quiet. Somewhere above it, planes crossed the sky toward Accra and Lagos and cities she had never seen. Inside, Simi held her father’s hand and chose peace.

‎