All characters are fictional, but the places may not be. Any semblance to real events is purely coincidental. The story explores themes that are suited for mature audiences and contains explicit material. Viewer discretion is advised.
Multi-chapter story
- Prologue: Before the clock started ticking
- Chapter 1: Sometime after 7:30 p.m (this post)
- Chapter 2: 3 a.m
- Chapter 3: 11 a.m
- Chapter 4: 3 p.m
- Epilogue: Sunset
Chapter 1: Sometime after 7:30 p.m.
She placed her phone down on the settee. It was sometime after 7:30 p.m., probably almost 8 p.m. She knew this because it hadn’t been long since the evening news aired on television. Her rice had become scorched, but just a little. She calmly walked to the kitchen and turned off the stove. Her already prepared vegetable gravy stew had been warmed in the microwave. She fixed herself a plate—a healthy portion, too—and ate everything. She came back to the living room and sat herself back in front of the television, staring at the screen and seeing nothing.
It simply couldn’t be. How could it? Only nine days ago, Joe had proposed at her most favourite place in the world: her “reading area”.
“So I stand before the keepers of knowledge and pledge my undying love to you”, Joe continued after taking her hand and pulling out a ring from the inner pockets of the jacket he wore.
And he didn’t kneel. He probably had to fight against that tendency with every fibre of his being. At that point, her love for him grew. She had said yes in no uncertain terms.
She was wearing the ring now. Staring at it even now, it looked so perfect. It was a Diamond Solitaire ring in rose gold, just like she wanted. He had listened. He always did, and she loved him for it.
To her, love was a living, breathing communion; a give and go that immersed you, soul and body, into the magical world you have created with the other person. And that is why she was certain no one could give it to her. She had made her peace with it. Though, she didn’t think it was too much to ask of someone who loved you.
Aenya always considered herself quite balanced for a Ghanian.
A great many weren’t.
She had been fortunate to be brought up by unusually progressive parents. At just twelve years old, she was reading books on feminism and the philosophy of religion. She grew not to believe in big picture ideas like destiny and fate. Her parents were proof you could make your own. By age fifteen, her parents had established protocols that allowed her to go out and come late, or even days at a time with prior permission. Her presents for her 16th birthday included a box of condoms. Aenya recalled an uncomfortable event before that when her parents tried to find out about her sexuality way before it was fashionable.
Mrs Akuffo was brought up in a typical Presbyterian household in Begoro located at the heart of the Eastern region. But Aenya’s mother didn’t take church too seriously. She went sometimes. Other times, she sat on her rocking chair, pulled up a book, and had a quiet morning of reading which could continue into the late afternoon.
Her mother recounted how she went through the motions and ended up studying a bachelor’s in French at the Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology, Kumasi. While in the university, she sang anything—the genre didn’t matter—at any avenue she got; it didn’t matter where. After school, she was presented with an opportunity to travel to France and teach english. Aenya recalled the hilarity of her facial expression when she was describing how boredom after just four months in Bordeaux. So, she quit, joined a band and toured Europe, and did not look back. Aenya remembered the first day her mother told her this story. “And in the evenings, we were engaged in debaucheries…,“ Mrs Akuffo attempted to divulge her secrets. She distinctly remembers her mum’s eyes lit up for just a moment, and then she came back down to earth.
She was part of the group for seven years; ignoring impassioned pleas from her family to come home and settle down. At a point, she stopped picking up their calls, and slowly became estranged from them. She came back when an accident meant she couldn’t sing any more, and got a job as a French teacher in one of the high-end private schools for expatriates. Later, she also moonlighted as a translator for some consulates in the Cantonments.
Mr Akuffo is more of a mystery. It is not even clear if he attended secondary school, but his English is impeccable, and he has impressive penmanship; an art that Aenya thought is lost today. He is an artist of sorts. He can do photorealistic paintings as well as murals. On multiple occasions, he had painted the walls of their house all by himself. He made all their chairs with his own hands. Aenya’s father designed their little yard, and it was breathtaking; it was their own small paradise. Aenya was pretty sure only the electronics weren’t made by him. And he could cook!
With a slight penchant to be dramatic, she had once described in her diary that their marriage was a symphony.
One event stood out in her memory. When she was thirteen years old, her mother became gravely ill. Aenya remembers asking her father what was wrong with her mother, to which he answered honestly that they didn’t know as yet. Her body temperature was warm, and she had trouble breathing most of the time.
The doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her, Aenya remembered. So, when she got stable, my father moved her to our home. He remodelled their whole bedroom to suit her. He bought an adjustable bed. Not only that, but he made her food each and every single day, he bathed her and dressed her. He did her hair in a way that doesn’t wouldn’t cause her pain. He would read to her as it was her favourite thing. You couldn’t get him to leave her side. When she could keep her eyes open for a few hours, she took her outdoors, often in a wheelchair. Their love was intense and obsessive, but in a totally nonsexual way.
Aenya grew up with, as far as she could tell, a pretty unrealistic model of love for Ghanaians. By the time she was in her senior year in university, she was convinced she would never get what her parents had in this country. Ever. The stories she heard in the media made it all worse. So, she found someone to please her when she had the urge. She had numerous partners, and all of them thought they were playing her.
When the time was right, and she wanted to, she would pick someone to marry. But obviously, she wouldn’t expect much from him.
She went straight to graduate school in Budapest after national service. Many, including her lecturers, had wondered why. After living and working there for a few years, she came back to Ghana to work in one of the big firms in Accra.
Enters Joe. He was everything, and yet somehow not like her parents. He couldn’t cook many dishes like her dad could. But the thing about Joe is that his effort was always up there: just because he was unable to do something for you didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. Sometimes, it worked, and it was sweet; other times, not so much.
Joe was a firm believer in carpe diem, a coinage from the Roman Poet Horace, which means to seize the day. Joe had learnt that phrase from an old play he had been forced to watch when he was young. Although he couldn’t tell you anything from the play if you asked him, Joe remembers it was the day his perspective about life changed forever.
He was thoughtful and always present. You would think that would clash with Aenya’s pensive disposition. But he knew when to back off. He knew when to turn it all the way up. He waltzed with Aenya; their communion ebbed and flowed. He liked to give gifts, even little ones. And when he stood in front of her, he stood very close, appearing to look into her very soul. It was scary and bliss—all at the same time.
She remembers being at home one Saturday and thinking, I could use some vanilla ice cream with coffee, gelato, chocolate, and strawberry. Almost two hours later, Joe showed up in front of her door with an ice cream bowl with all these flavours except coffee. Close. It was hard to describe. It felt impossible that this should happen, and yet here he was. Joe had not even been outside Ghana before, which drove Aenya crazy the more she thought about it.
So it continued. There appeared to be a blue shirt lying on the bed, beside where the person who looked like Joe was going at someone from the rear. She had seen Joe’s closet. Multiple times. This shirt wasn’t in it.
I mean, the build of his body was similar to Joe’s, Aenya thought. More than half of his face was showing, but the whole face didn’t show. It could be a look-alike. But his watch, though. Looks just like the one she got for him a few months ago. It was a pretty uncommon piece, she would recognise it anywhere. It had an elephant grey embossed crocodile strap, which normally would be quite expensive, that she actually got for very cheap. The tears began to stream gently down her cheeks.
She remembered. They were going to the Peninsula Resort and Joe was driving. Joe had insisted they go directly after work that day, so they could wake up there on a Saturday morning, right on time for the morning massage. The night sky was beautiful. Sharon Robinson was playing. All was well. The atmosphere was just right. So, when all of a sudden the car screeched to a halt, Aenya was startled. She looked at Joe, and then all around the road. No bandits were in sight. No one was hit, either. Nothing had happened. So, she was about to speak, “Why-“, when Joe put his finger on her lips. Gently. He took her hand and held them in his. Then, he stroked her hair with the other hand. He said, “Aenya my love, you are the one for me.” Silence. Her will to speak had left her. And at that moment, she was in that world she had created with her very own person.
She cleaned her tears with her sky-blue shirt. She had decided it wasn’t him. The Joe she knew loved her so much. Besides, people had sex all the time. It didn’t have to mean anything. All was well for a few seconds, but she was glued to the video; she couldn’t stop watching. Amidst screams of ecstasy, the main in the video shouted, “You are the only one for me!” It her like a huge ocean wave. The tears snuck up on her, pouring in torrents this time.
She called Joe about thirty minutes to midnight. He didn’t pick up. The familiar voice mail played. He was an early bird, so that wasn’t unusual. She attempted another phone call. Maybe he was too tired from work. She decided against a third call. It was not her intention to disturb him.
Read Chapter 2 of the story here.