The People vs. Nyamekyɛ
“Children are a gift from God … if the timing is right.”
Missy Gold, my J.S.S teacher dropped this variation of the popular saying during an RME lesson in. At the time, it sounded disturbing. Children were a gift from God. Always. There was no clause. I knew that because my father said so. My little brother had just been born at the time. Family and friends came to visit my mother bearing assorted gifts. My father drove all the way to town to buy all the things on a long list my mother made. Two weeks later, I, who only got a new dress once a year, wore a pretty white lace to the thanksgiving service.
Missy Gold was wrong. A child was a precious gift sent by God to bless the parents, family and a whole generation.
That was months before I turned thirteen, when life was simple, fair … black and white.
Hallelujah it’s morning!
The radio jingle reminds me it’s Sunday. I’m still in bed, clutching a pillow to my face, praying for the end of the world. I know I have thirty minutes to get ready for church because the 6 a.m news broadcast on my father’s radio has just ended. A teasing aroma wafts into my bedroom . I smile. Waking up to breakfast. It’s a nice change from being almost always dragged out of bed by the incessant ringing of my phone alarm, fifteen minutes to a lecture.
Home, sweet Home.
Missy Gold scribbled on the board and turned to the class, her eyes settling on me. I squirmed in my seat, wondering if her stare had anything to do with the meaning of my name.
“At the wrong time, a child is a curse, an uninvited guest you should not entertain. It sounds harsh, but it’ll serve you a lot of good to remember that most truths of life tend to be just that.”
I shut my eyes tightly, blocking out the memory. It’s been seven years, but I can still feel the eeriness that settled over the class that afternoon. Missy Gold never minced words, even when it made others uncomfortable. It was easy to see she didn’t care what people thought of her.
That’s probably why I’m thinking of her now.
“Nyamekyɛ!”
The door to my room is thrown open. I listen to the flip-flop of my mother’s slippers until my cover cloth is yanked away.
“Maame, wake up.”
I lay still, eyes shut. When my mother taps my shoulder, I want to wrap my arms around her, cry my eyes out, and tell her everything. But I can’t.
I turn around, rubbing my eyes.
“Get up. You’ll make us late for church.”
She pulls my curtains back and light spills into the room. She rummages through my wardrobe for a minute and holds up a dress. “Are you wearing this one?”
It’s the purple, low neck-line dress she gave me when I arrived yesterday; my ‘welcome-home’ gift.
She’s not asking. I nod.
“I’ll have your brother iron it for you. Go and take your bath. And hurry before your father starts pelting us with his big grammar.”
I busy myself with pulling on a pillow case, avoiding her gaze. One look at me an she’ll know I was up all night. Then the inquisition will start and I won’t be able to keep it together.
When she steps out of the room, I drag myself out of bed. I don’t want to go to church. I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to be seen. The gravity of the situation hits me all over again and I bury my face in my hands. Tears fall now, dripping through my fingers to the floor of my childhood bedroom.
God, please sound the trumpet now.
Of course, I’m not ready for judgement day. Considering what I’ve done, what I want to do, Armageddon would mean eternal damnation for me.
But it would also mean I don’t have to decide whether the fetus growing inside me should live or die.
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