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  ALUTA

  Adwoa Badoe

  Groundwood Books

  House of Anansi Press

  Toronto Berkeley

  Copyright © 2016 by Adwoa Badoe

  The author would like to acknowledge funding support from the Ontario Arts Council, an agency of the government of Ontario.

  Published in Canada and the USA in 2016 by Groundwood Books

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Distribution of this electronic edition via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal. Please do not participate in electronic piracy of copyrighted material; purchase only authorized electronic editions. We appreciate your support of the author’s rights.

  Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press

  groundwoodbooks.com

  We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council and the Government of Canada.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Badoe, Adwoa, author

  Aluta / Adwoa Badoe.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-55498-816-7 (bound).—ISBN 978-1-55498-818-1

  (epub).—ISBN 978-1-55498-819-8 (mobi)

  I. Title.

  PS8553.A312A65 2016 jC813’.54 C٢٠١٥-٩٠٨٤٤١-٥

  C2015-908442-3

  Jacket illustration by Shonagh Rae

  Design by Michael Solomon

  For my dad, Kankam Twum-Barima

  Prologue

  Thursday, July 22, 1982

  Some things only happen in movies, I thought, as I sat on the wooden chair in a room with no windows and only one door. A naked pearl bulb hung from the ceiling and everything was painted white, as though nothing dirty could ever accumulate there.

  I had been told to sit on the other side of the table, across from the thin man who had a tribal mark cut deep into one cheek. He had a thin pointy nose, high bulky forehead and beady eyes that never blinked.

  His speech was slow and deliberate and he read his questions from a binder that lay open in front of him. I watched him as he wrote down everything I said.

  “Your name?”

  “Charlotte Adom.”

  “Full name?”

  “Charlotte Abena Mampomaa Adom.”

  “Date of birth?”

  “July 30th 1963.”

  Suddenly, I recalled that I had flipped the calendar just that morning. July 22, 1982. It was a Thursday morning.

  “Father’s name?”

  “Joseph Manu Adom.”

  “Occupation?”

  “Biology teacher, Achimota Secondary School.”

  “Mother’s name?”

  “Cecilia Esi Dansoa Adom. Teacher. Achimota Preparatory School.”

  “Siblings?”

  “Sarah Adom.”

  “Where do you attend school?”

  “University of Science and Technology.”

  “What degree are you taking?”

  “BSc. Social sciences.”

  “Year?”

  “First year.”

  The questions were easy, even if they were barked out by the man in the dark gray political suit who never smiled.

  The questions continued.

  “A Level?”

  “Achimota School.”

  “O Level?”

  “Achimota School.”

  “Are you on the university Student Representative Council?”

  “Yes. I am the SRC secretary.”

  He wrote this down in his book. Then he closed the book, folded his hands together and placed them on the table. He fixed his gaze fully upon me.

  Unease fluttered like bees in my belly. I was used to men staring, but not like this. A hostile, narrow squint instead of the usual look of charm or lasciviousness that I encountered regularly as a young woman of marriageable age.

  “Where were you going when you were apprehended in the taxi?”

  “I was going to visit my uncle.”

  “His name?”

  “Mr. Kwadwo Owusu.”

  “Why would you visit him on a weekday morning?”

  “He’s retired.”

  Another silence as those small eyes bore into my soul. A shiver passed through me but I didn’t blink. It was important that I stayed steady and direct. I knew he was looking for holes in my answers. He was looking to unnerve me.

  “Why today? Why would you even be in Accra? Don’t you have exams coming up?”

  “I have been studying hard. I needed a break to refresh, and I needed a bit of money to finish the term,” I replied.

  “You are smart, Charlotte Adom. But I’m past playing games. We have intelligence about a subversive NUGS meeting in Accra. I believe you were on your way there.”

  “A NUGS meeting? I don’t know about it,” I said, glad that I had not kept any record of the address that Banahene had passed to me on a slip of paper. I had destroyed it earlier that morning, after I had emptied my bag of everything but my makeup and my wallet. I knew they would find nothing on me when they took my bag away.

  “Girl, you are in serious trouble. Treason is a serious crime against the state. Don’t think you’re too young to face a firing squad.”

  “I don’t know anything,” I said. But this time my voice quavered.

  “You know much, and you will tell all you know. Trust me.” His voice was softer than ever but there was violence in his cold black eyes.

  My gaze fell on the hand that tapped a pen against the table. His fingers were long and slender, his nails brownish and overgrown. Cruel hands.

  “We are already aware of your meetings in a certain priest’s house in Kumasi,” he hissed.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  To my surprise, he scraped his chair hard on the floor as he pushed himself away from the table. He picked up his binder and strode to the door. The door swung open and closed with a snug click, and I was left by myself.

  Time passed, perhaps an hour. There was no clock in the room and they had taken my watch. I thought through the questions I had been asked. My answers were innocent enough and I hoped that I would soon be released. Then I could warn the others.

  I walked cautiously to the door and tried it. It was locked. I returned to my chair and noted with unease that my bladder was filling.

  I was anxious but not panicky. What would they gain by hurting a common student?

  I thought about my last day with my boyfriend, Banahene. We had made love and I worried that I had sinned. I asked God for forgiveness. Surely the word was true that forgiveness was instant, at the point of confession. God would protect me.

  The door opened and my interrogator was back. He offered me a glass of water but I declined, saying that I needed to urinate. I wasn’t sure if the water was drugged. So long as I wasn’t dying of thirst, I’d stay away from any food or drink.

  “You will hold your piss until I have the information I need,” he said.

  And for the first time he smiled, but his eyes were hard. That was when I felt the sweat wet my nose and armpits.

  “Tell me about Banahene. Where is he? Where are they holding the meeting, and when does it start?”

  I told him I didn’t know where Banahene was.

  “I barely know him except f
or SRC meetings,” I said.

  My interrogator opened a folder. He spread photographs on the table and told me to draw closer.

  They were photos of Banahene and me walking side by side on campus. We were laughing at something and Banahene’s hand rested on my waist.

  “Now tell me about Banahene, you liar.”

  He moved fast, smacking my left cheek with his hand. I was more shocked than hurt, and a little pee escaped me. I tightened my groin and covered my face with my hand.

  “Charlotte Adom, I am not here to play games. This is a matter of national security, and you are under a potential charge of treason. Do you understand?”

  I struggled to hold back my tears.

  “I just came to Accra to visit my parents. I was going to my uncle’s house when I was brought here,” I said.

  Another slap landed on the other cheek and left me whimpering. I felt the warmth of my urine against the sides of my legs. The horror of it must have registered on my face.

  Abruptly, my interrogator got up and left. And little by little I swallowed my sobs, but shame now covered me from head to toe.

  Time passed. Three, four, five hours, maybe. I tried to talk to myself to hold up and not be intimidated. I told myself it was no shame to urinate when someone was holding you captive and beating on you.

  I remembered something my dad used to say. “This too shall pass.”

  I was wet, uncomfortable and tired. A strange high-pitched sound pierced the air intermittently, as if metal was scraping on metal. It set me on edge.

  The interrogator came back. He put a glass of water in front of me.

  “Drink!” he said.

  I drank the water but it did nothing to alleviate my anxiety, and soon my stomach began to cramp.

  “Do you know Edmund Kwame Asare Bediako?”

  “No, I don’t know anyone by that name,” I lied.

  Why was he asking about Asare?

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You are a member of the university’s SRC?”

  “Yes. I am the secretary,” I said.

  “What are you doing in Accra?”

  “I’m visiting my parents,” I said.

  I wondered why he was repeating questions I had already answered.

  “You are young, but being a student doesn’t make you safe. I just want you to know you are being watched. We know you’ve been in certain meetings, in certain homes, talking to certain reactionaries. Your name has even come up with intelligence about coup plots. Be very careful. Next time we might not be so forgiving,” he said.

  I exhaled. Perhaps they would let me off soon. My stomachache had subsided but I began to feel woozy in my head. I must have nodded off.

  Then I heard my name as if I was in a dream. My interrogator appeared to be shouting, yet his voice was distant. His questions were coming fast and I answered them. I could not help myself. I felt strange. I was suffocating. I wanted out of there. I wanted to stop talking about Banahene, the SRC, my parents and me.

  I just wanted everything to stop.

  1

  I was sitting at the table in Room 803, reading, when my new roommate burst in through the door. She was followed by a trail of small-boys carrying everything from a small fridge to an apɔtɔyewa for crushing vegetables.

  It was still very early days for me in residence at Africa Hall, and I didn’t know what to think. I had waited five days for a roommate and suddenly there was Mary. She was in her third year and I knew she would not be looking forward to sharing a room with a first-year student.

  Mary was pretty. Her mass of jheri curled hair bounced at every step. She had tiny feet and the smoothest round face. She carried along a whiff of delicate floral fragrance which I would later recognize as Anaïs Anaïs. Her eyebrows were picked into a thin line of surprise above her eyes, and spots of sweat burst through a thick layer of foundation. Even though she was petite, she was a little on the plump side — just like her personality.

  Mary’s voice was shrill as she picked on the small-boys, instructing them and chiding them all at once. She knew all of them by name.

  “Hello,” she trilled my way. “I’m Mary, and since I’m in third year, I should have the bottom bunk,” she said.

  We both stared at my yellow bedsheet tucked in around the mattress. My two pillows lay innocently at the head of the bed. I worked hard to stifle indignation as I yielded to years of inculcation in secondary school — seniority allowance! Then, it had always been best to comply with one’s senior, but I wasn’t sure if that applied in university.

  My worst fears were coming true — a bossy roommate.

  Mary had so many things. I watched as she unloaded a double-burner tabletop stove and set it up on the balcony table. She squeezed her fridge into the corner where the desk and the bookshelf met. Her covered bucket went beside mine on the balcony.

  Then she unpacked her clothes and carefully arranged them in the closet.

  I was very relieved when she didn’t complain about using the lower shelves. That said she wasn’t going to treat me as her junior in everything. Her alarm clock went on the shelf along with a set of pretty plates and glasses. Instead of plain bedsheets, she had beautifully patterned ones. She also had a soft baby-blue fleece blanket for a bedspread.

  “Roomie, help me put up the curtains, please,” she said.

  I liked the familiar way in which she addressed me. I got off the chair and we put the prettiest lace curtain over our larger window at the back of the room. Then we stretched a blue curtain on the tall window at the front. She even had a curtain for the back door.

  I had totally forgotten about curtains when I packed for school. So for the first week I was forced to use my spare bedsheet to cover my front window while I planned how to get curtains from home. Mary solved that problem, and I had to admit that it wasn’t such a bad thing to get a senior for a roommate.

  Then she played some reggae music on her JVC stereo radio-tape recorder, and I entered freshman heaven. Only fate could have made such a sophisticated roommate possible.

  Later on, I’d learn that Mary was a Kumasi girl, with family right in town. She was in her third year of the three-year social sciences program. And she had a serious boyfriend — in fact a fiancé who had already performed the door-knocking rites of courtship.

  For the first time since getting my A Level results, I felt lucky. In that first hour of meeting Mary, it was easier to believe that the University of Science and Technology was going to work out for me.

  Here I was, six hours away from my home in Accra, and life was at last about to bud and blossom.

  ‹•›

  My contribution to our household appliances in Room 803 was a heating coil. On the eighth floor we stored water in buckets overnight. This was because the pump could not push water up eight floors when all the bathrooms in our building were in use. Our showers became useless in the mornings. So we used the heating coil to warm our buckets of bath water after the night had chilled them to near freezing.

  I woke up earlier than Mary for my African-child shower. That’s what she called squatting in a shower stall and scooping bucket water with a small pail to wash soapsuds away. I could bathe with as little as half a bucket of water.

  My heater was useful, but I didn’t realize it was going to help me make friends with my neighbors in Room 802 — Juaben and Sylvia.

  On Thursday, Juaben poked her head in my doorway and said, “Can I borrow your heating coil?”

  Two tiny dimples appeared in her cheeks when she smiled. She was the kind of girl people would call black-beauty for her very dark chocolate skin. Afterwards, tall and slender Sylvia returned the heater. And by the next day we had established a routine around it.

  I told them the history of our empty elevator shaft as we walked down the eight fli
ghts of stairs to the dining room. Mary said that it was boarded up because the builder had ordered a wrong-sized elevator when the building was brand new.

  “That’s more than fifteen years ago. They’re never going to fix it,” said Sylvia.

  “No running water, no elevator. Eighth-floor problems,” said Juaben with a sigh.

  “First-year problems. We’re going to spend all our money sending small-boys on errands. Poor Mary wasn’t supposed to end up on the eighth floor,” said Sylvia.

  Mary never complained about having to put up with us first-year students on the eighth floor. But she made jokes about the hours we spent matching our clothes and trying on makeup and different hairstyles.

  She shunned the dining hall as if it was a place for beggars. But Sylvia, Juaben and I began every school day there. We didn’t have rich boyfriends, and a breakfast of hot Hausa koko — corn porridge spiced with chili and sweetened with sugar — was the hearty base upon which to load our lectures for the day. After eating, we converged at the main entrance with other students for the twenty-minute walk to Mecca, where we had our lectures.

  We talked about boys — the ones we fancied. We discussed campus parties. And as a faithful disciple of Mary, I showed Sylvia and Juaben how to pin their invites on the notice board in their room. At Tech there was a style of making miniature invitation cards, no bigger than a square inch and hand decorated with stars and glitter. Mary had taught me the pride of accumulating invitations all year long as proof of one’s popularity.

  I learned from Mary that it was best to go to parties with my girlfriends instead of going as the date of a guy who could cramp my style all night long. That way I could dance with whomever I wished. I shared this tidbit of wisdom with Juaben and Sylvia on one of those walks to Mecca.

  Mary was a good roommate. But Sylvia and Juaben were my buddies — which meant that we took some lectures together, went to parties and even exchanged clothes.

  And just like that, by the second week of term, my fear of not fitting in at university was gone. My future at Tech was looking good.

  ‹•›

  Matriculation came two weeks into the term. Mary explained that it was a formal ceremony to welcome all first-year students to the university community. We were up early that Saturday with plenty of time to get ready for the event at the Great Hall. The eighth floor was never so busy. We were bumping into each other in the bathroom, on the balcony and in our doorways. Everyone was trying to look their finest.