LOVE OF MY LIFE

My father was the very best friend of the chief of our village and so wielded so much power. Our household was one of the most important in the village and many people would die to marry someone from my home. But no one wanted to marry me. They thought I was either too short or too ugly. I did everything I could to be beautiful enough to attract suitors to no avail. My only consolation was that I was good academically.

I had two sisters and three brothers. I was the fourth of six children from the same parents although my father had three wives. My first crush was a farmer; slim and tall who loved holding his gun in his left hand and his machete in his right hand while clothed in dirty long sleeved shirt and trousers. He was a very dark man, strong with a sparkly white neatly arranged set of teeth. But ours was not to be as he picked one of my elder sisters as his bride. I was devastated, I cried and feigned sickness for over three months. I did not take part in their marriage ceremony and developed an unfair hatred for my brother in law who knew nothing of my feelings for him. He always tried to be nice to me but I shunned his company. I was happy when Brother Abdulai’s mother requested he migrated with his new bride to her village to oversee her farms because she was growing old. Maybe the words “out of sight, out of mind” may have some truth to it, because with time, I found myself having no thoughts of Brother Abdulai, neither did I have that dreadful heartache whenever my sister Larki’s name was mentioned.

The chief, Sagbonwura Naa Kampaya was a very kind man. He was always nice to me. So nice that I found myself drifting to the land of daydreams whenever his thoughts crossed my mind. Once, I was walking around my father’s house in just a piece of cloth. I turned around coyly and met Naa’s intense gaze. He just looked at me and smiled and beckoned me into his arms. He embraced me and asked, why have I not seen this beautiful you? You are so pretty, so much so that I will have to marry you and treat you better than all my wives. I thought that was the most romantic scene ever and wanted that to happen in reality. But too bad, it was all in my fantasy. It was a funny feeling, because the chief was older than my father. He was about sixty five years old while I was twenty four. When I could no longer bear it, I told Naa about it but he candidly but kindly told me not to have those fantasies about him. He told me that he was so flattered but loved me too much to waste my life that way. He assured me that I would get a husband who will love me and care for me in the near future and advised that I desist from thinking of marrying someone whose life is almost over. I felt broken hearted once more but it was not as painful as the first one. The way Naa said it made me hopeful.

I know you may think I was not that old, but for a woman to be 24 years without any prospective suitor during that time in Sagbon meant the woman was too cantankerous or ugly. And I would have preferred to be the former than the latter. By the time I turned 25 years, I had completed training college with the help of a government scholarship and the encouragement of my father. My mother died when I was 15 but my father’s wives replaced her. My father had over twenty children who were either interested in farming or fishing. Only one of my elder brothers and myself were interested in education. My sisters never took any interest in education. My father encouraged me despite the fact that most men thought educating a girl was preposterous. This was because he thought I at least needed to be able to take care of myself in the future if it so happens that I end up with no husband. Not that he told me in plain words, he was talking to one of his kinsmen but my eavesdropping made my ears the sad hearer of his view.

I was posted to Nsawie Basic School for my national service. I went there expecting my fate to change where marriage was concerned. And yes, I got a fine man who said he was interested in me. I sent money home often but I still had money because I was not extravagant. This man only visited when he wanted money. Sometimes he would come there three times and then ask for money on the fourth day. I gave him everything he wanted because I knew I had nothing where beauty was concerned. He promised to marry me but that was not to be as he finally wedded a very beautiful woman from Nsawie. That day, I felt like killing myself. I was so sad that I could drink poison without a thought. Then I met a dedicated Islamic woman who exuded peace.

Mma Meimunatu was that woman whose smile could calm every storm in every life. She assured me that everything will be okay and that I will find a good Muslim who will marry and cherish me. Mma advised me to think of myself as beautiful and to have the confidence because I was beautiful. She even said that being tall is not a good feature in women and that very tall men loved very short women. I nearly believed her but for the mirror in my room that told me to look at reality.

 

My very eldest brother died when I was 27 years old, the next one died the following year and my father followed that same year. I was devastated. My eldest sister; Harina, came from her husband’s village and so did Larki. Our only brother who had married a Nigerian to the detriment of my family also came. The funeral was a sad one. No one died in Sagbon without a superstition hovering around him or her. I heard that, the spirit that made me short was killing the good men in my family. How could such an intelligent lady be that short and ugly. I also heard that, the women in the family were witches and were killing them one after the other so that we could become the men of the house. An old lady, Mma Amina, who was over hundred years old was also purported to have been killing the young ones in order to stay alive.

My sisters and I were not happy so we consulted an oracle who told us that one of our father’s brothers was killing the men who may be a hindrance in his quest to be the sole heir of our grandfather’s properties which included two compound houses and many plantations of cocoa. My only brother who migrated to Accra with his wife failed to return home after that for fear of being driven to his early grave. I transferred to Sagbon Secondary School as a Catering teacher. The grown students made fun of me with some calling me “kakapuipui” and others just making fun of me, but I endured.

One sunny day, a man who was 15 years my senior met me and proposed instantly. I did not know what to say. I had given up on marriage a long time ago. At first, I thought he was making fun of me, then I realized he was serious when he asked me to send him to my family for the marriage rites. Before I realized what was happening, I was married to this gentleman. He had a wife and four children who despised me. I stayed in their family house for three years while constructing my own and bore all the maltreatment they could mete out. Unfortunately for me, I was told that I would not be able to give birth because of my height. My husband was not disturbed, I reckoned it was because he already had children. I was very sad because I was being called all sorts of names: Childless Shorty, Ugly Doo and many others. I resolved to move into my house and my husband decided to move in with me.

But problems started as my sisters started fighting because of their children. I was not interested in their problems so called our only brother to help resolve the issue. He did not mind me and his tone gave signals of not wanting to be disturbed. I sent a delegation to his house hoping he would heed to the call of his roots, but his Nigerian wife sacked them. Those who went claimed he had been bewitched by his wife. They even brought a message from his wife that I should never send the food items I send occasionally to her house again because she believed I had evil intentions towards her husband. It dawned on me, the possibility of my brother’s Nigerian wife thinking his Ghanaian Husband’s sisters were witches.

I resolved never to bother him again and to be the man of my family. I had money and prestige, I even had a husband so my voice was heard. But there is a saying that “the cock may dance with flair in the midst of hawks but they will never see it as anything other than food” my luck changed when many men came to my house one afternoon wielding machetes and sticks. I climbed into one of my small pans and came out when all was calm to see my poor husband in his pool of blood. I came out shouting only to be caught, shaved and brought to this witch camp. My sisters looked on, shaking their heads in awe and hooting at me, I heard nothing, I only saw their faces and decided to close my ears. There was nothing to live for. My husband was dead and my sisters did not need me, they thought the worst of me. My husband was not young, he may have married me for the security of his old age, but he loved me, loved me enough to have stood up and died rather than telling the people where I was.

And so brethren, there is the story of my life. The story about my life and the love of my life.

Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2014.

Picture by Andre Stephano.