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  Sylvia wore black pants and a striking red blouse. Juaben’s straightened hair was pulled back along the sides and fluffed forward on the top in the popular look called Travolta. I wore my hair in a small afro and tucked a yellow rose just above my right ear. The rose matched the yellow flowers on my best blue dress. Funky brass bangles, large earrings and low-heeled black strappy sandals completed my look.

  Then we were off to the Great Hall. I marveled at Juaben’s courage on that long walk on her red high heels. She walked without missing a step.

  The stairs on all sides of the Great Hall were crawling with first-year students. The boys were neatly dressed in long-sleeved shirts, ties and their best shoes. Only a few of them owned suits.

  After all the fuss and makeup, there we sat, wilting like mountain flowers in the heat while speeches were made from the podium. With a neatly folded handkerchief, I dabbed at the sweat forming on my forehead while ceiling fans whirred uselessly above us. I was sorry for those professors who sat on the stage, arraigned in awkward black hats and pompous medieval gowns designed for temperate regions.

  Afterwards photographers zigzagged among us. I joined the eighth-floor ladies in a group shot. I also posed with Sylvia and Juaben. Then I took some solo pictures to send home to my parents. There was a reason we dressed up so fine.

  But as I approached Africa Hall with Sylvia and Juaben, I heard a splash and the sound of hoots and laughter.

  Someone shouted, “Another one bites the dust!”

  Mary had told me about the ponding ritual for first-year students. She had said it would be hard to escape the seniors who were hell bent on throwing us into the lobby fishpond while we were still in our best clothes. I could see them through the open door. There were perhaps fifteen of them.

  I watched them chase some first-year students across the lobby. Whoever they caught, they swung by hands and feet like a pendulum, before dropping her into the pond.

  It looked dangerous, and my greatest fear was swallowing a fish, or worse, algae. One had to be crazy to enjoy this kind of game.

  I was wearing my best outfit. The label said it was 100 percent viscose and dry clean only. I wasn’t going to let it into a dirty algae-ridden pond.

  “What shall we do?” said Sylvia.

  A girl who had just joined us said it was best to get it over and done with right away. But I was determined not to ruin my best dress. Juaben and Sylvia decided to go to town to visit Juaben’s aunt until the evening, when things had died down. I didn’t want to go with them. They took the path, stepping gingerly over loose stones. It was some distance to the junction. Those shoes would kill Juaben unless they found a taxi very quickly.

  Soon they were out of sight. I crept forward with a bunch of fearful students until we were about sixty meters away from the hall entrance. I waited and watched until I understood the momentum of the ponding ritual. The crowd thinned as half an hour became an hour of waiting. There were more shouts and cheers. Then the excitement seemed to die down, as the ponders got tired of the ponding.

  I took off my sandals and approached the entrance. They were about to pond someone. I slipped in quietly. As soon as I saw that they were all diverted, I dashed as fast as I could to the stairs of my block.

  Just as I took the first few steps, I heard someone shout, “There goes Charlotte. Get her!”

  But I was already up the first flight and taking the steps two at a time. They didn’t bother to chase me because they already had a prey in hand. I heard their gleeful shouts as they threw another girl into the pond.

  Panting, I continued up the stairs while my heartbeat sounded like sonic booms in my chest. By the time I reached the seventh floor, I was quite sure I would die.

  Then, just as I stepped onto the eighth floor, I slammed into someone. We fell down together like bags of cement.

  “You should watch where you’re going,” I said.

  “Me?” he said incredulously. “You’re telling me to watch?”

  In the next moment we were both laughing.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I was escaping the ponding.”

  “Well, good luck. Although it’s better to get it done now, and not when you’re least expecting it.”

  “Not in this dress,” I said.

  “It is a pretty dress, but so are all the other dresses getting soaked right now.”

  “This is dry clean only,” I said, dusting myself.

  “Oh?”

  Suddenly it occurred to me how silly it was to own a dry-clean-only dress in hot, dusty Kumasi.

  He stuck out his hand. “I am Banahene. What’s your name?”

  “Charlotte. And I had better get to my room before they catch me and drag me down eight flights of stairs to drop me in a stinky pond.”

  “Charlotte? You’re Mary’s roommate. Mary is my cousin,” he said.

  “Mary hasn’t mentioned any cousins.”

  “You think I’m lying. Come on, then. Mary can tell you herself.”

  Mary was cooking, and the aroma of her stew filled the air. She was surprised to see me with Banahene. She couldn’t explain properly how they were related to each other. They shared an uncle in common, but the family tree was confusing with half-brothers, stepsisters and all.

  Banahene was good company, and I guess he was hungry because he stayed until Mary’s Jollof rice was ready. Mary dedicated the meal to my matriculation, and Banahene toasted me with our shared bottle of Coca-Cola.

  “To Charlotte — wishing you a happy stay at the University of Science and Technology. If I were you, I’d take off that pretty, dry-clean-only dress and go back and let them throw me to the fish. It’s better to get it over and done with now,” he said, holding up his glass.

  “Go and jump in the pond then,” I said.

  “Not after so great a meal,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye.

  That was how I met Banahene.

  It was not my intention to fall in love with him.

  2

  I remember when I first met Mary’s fiancé, William Opoku. Mary said to call him Willie. But Willie seemed too disrespectful for such a dignified man, and so I called him Mr. Opoku.

  It was Saturday. I had just had a meal of fried plantains and beans at the dining hall. If there was anything I really loved, that was it. And I carried a plate upstairs for Mary. To tell the truth, I hoped she would decline the meal so I could have it later for dinner.

  And there was Mr. Opoku in our solitary wooden armchair, looking shower-fresh in a burgundy golf shirt and black pants. Traces of his cologne hung in the air. I recognized him at once from the large framed photograph that stood in the corner of our worktable — Mary, with a hand on Mr. Opoku’s chest, looking up at him with wonder in her eyes.

  The most attractive thing about Mr. Opoku was the air of accomplishment that he exuded. He was confident and collected — a complete man in control of his environment. And our tiny room felt out of place around him.

  I observed Mary quietly as she fussed over her clothing. All Mary’s clothing was fine. She could have worn anything and she’d be the best dressed, but she had two blouses picked out for the evening.

  “Willie, this one, or that?” she asked, tilting her head flirtatiously.

  “Wear a dress tonight, baby — the blue one with the straps and the slit at the side.”

  Even his voice was perfect. It was as if he knew everything Mary owned, and I was so impressed.

  Mary pouted in a sexy kind of way. She wanted to wear her black pedal pushers with a leopard pattern blouse or a black-and-white shirt. Pedal pushers were in vogue.

  She started to argue, but Mr. Opoku had a way with her. Maybe it was because she so loved him. There were times I wondered if he had some power over her. But Juaben said love was a kind of power.

  Mr. Opoku was a Kumasi lawyer — smart and tall for an
Ashanti man. He was from one of those families that everyone knew in the city. He had it all — a respectable career, handsome face and a pretty girlfriend at the university. Mr. Opoku spread his charm in softly spoken words, and Mary knew she had got herself a real catch. When he laughed, it was her eyes that lit up like stars.

  “Why don’t you join us this evening?” he said to me.

  It took me a moment to understand that it was an invitation to go out with them. I placed the plantain and bean dish carefully in the fridge and turned to face him.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Just out to dinner, and then some fancy dancing. Let’s show you the Kumasi lights.” A hint of humor brightened his eyes and gave way to infectious laughter.

  Still, I looked to Mary for direction. I certainly did not want to crash her evening. I’d heard that insensitive roommates who crashed every visit and every date were the worst of afflictions in residence.

  So when Mary said, “Great idea,” I gladly said yes.

  Mr. Opoku was too important to be asked to wait outside like an ordinary undergrad while I changed. So I took my clothes next door to 802, where Juaben and Sylvia helped me to look my best. We agreed that Mary was bound to outclass me with her designer couture from England. My aim was just to keep up. I didn’t want to be the country mouse to her town mouse.

  In the end, I wore my dark brown corduroy trousers and a sparkly yellow shirt. Sylvia made up my face with blue eye pencil and eye shadow. My lips were painted full red and outlined in black. Juaben lent me her black evening bag and shoes to match.

  And there was Mary, stunning in her blue strappy dress and tall stiletto heels.

  Mr. Opoku said that he was the lucky one, because he had two of Africa Hall’s most beautiful ladies with him for the evening. I let his flattery linger over me.

  In Mr. Opoku’s Mercedes-Benz, S-class, cool air wafted over me. The olive-green masterpiece had black leather seats and tinted glass.

  As we zoomed off to the muffled sound of the powerful car, nobody would have known I had come to school with two old suitcases and a small cardboard box of canned fish and evaporated milk.

  ‹•›

  At first we went to City Hotel. It had seen better days, and the air conditioner grumbled loudly without cooling the air. Still, the food was tasty, and everything washed down very well with the coldest glass of Star beer. Mr. Opoku and Mary enjoyed Jollof rice with grilled chicken and garden salad, drenched with Heinz salad cream. I had ordered my all-time eat-out favorite — a club sandwich.

  I cut cautiously through layers of toast, chicken, bacon and tomato, hoping I would not drip mayonnaise on everything. Once I took my first bite, I no longer noticed the businessmen huddled around their dinner tables talking loudly. Neither did I care about the flickering ceiling lights or the missing tiles on the wall or the chairs worn out by use.

  I became bold and asked if we might go to Hedonist, the only nightclub I’d heard about in Kumasi.

  “Hedonist has great music, but varsity students ruin it for everyone,” Mr. Opoku said.

  “How come?” I asked. Everyone said Hedonist was the place to go when there were no parties on campus.

  “They’re just loud and rowdy — like children,” he replied.

  “They can’t handle their drinks,” Mary said with a chuckle.

  “Nkɔdaa-nkɔdaa, little children,” said Mr. Opoku, as he set his glass on a cardboard coaster.

  “I hope you won’t think I’m childish, too,” I said.

  My sarcasm was lost on Mr. Opoku.

  “It’s the boys who behave childishly,” he said.

  ‹•›

  So we drove to a nightclub at Nhyiaeso, and the car park was jam-packed. Even from outside, the music did violence to the night. There were several groups of people loitering outside smoking, and their curious eyes followed us through the arched entrance. I wondered if Mary knew that it was my first night out to a club.

  “Wee smokers,” Mary whispered into my ear. And I recognized the pungent smell of marijuana smoke.

  Inside, we were hailed with loud calls from one of the garden tables. Mr. Opoku was obviously well known here, and his friends were like him — quite a bit older, well-to-do Kumasi professionals. We settled among them.

  One thing was clear. These men had money to spend, and their laughter filled the air all around us.

  Then I understood what Mary meant about childish undergrads. She was comfortable among Mr. Opoku’s friends, and she chatted away happily with both men and women. She laughed as loudly as any one of them.

  I danced with one man, and then another. And I noticed that even those men who were sitting next to their partners cast curious glances at me.

  I was more than a little intrigued. These people had their own jokes. They expressed their worth in large gold watches, shiny black shirts and blood-red Italian leather shoes. They mixed English and Twi easily. Almost every one of the men flashed a large gold signet ring. I was reminded that Ashanti was the land of gold.

  And in this way Mary introduced me to Kumasi city night life and its businessmen.

  I was curious about the women at our table. Mary seemed to be well acquainted with two of them. But the third one seemed out of place. She wore a white dress with shoulder pads and big sleeves. She said little all evening, punctuating every two-word response with a please. Please yes. Please no. She seemed obsessed with a plate of chicken wings, which she picked at gingerly, almost as if she expected a fried wing to come alive and fly off the plate. She sipped cautiously at her glass of beer.

  Mary must have noticed me watching the girl in white, because she leaned over and whispered, “She’s just a small-girl, probably from one of the secondary schools around. I don’t know what she’s doing here. She is way out of her league.”

  That was how I felt, too, but I was not going to admit it. So I added my opinions to the conversations at the table and tried to exude confidence.

  The band should have stuck to highlife music. Instead it vacillated between good highlife and weak renditions of pop and disco, played with highlife guitar styling. I got up to dance with a man whose big teeth flashed white and strong. He was a short man and very jolly. He made a joke and we laughed together. Every now and then he pulled a white handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped furiously at his forehead. It was impossible not to sweat on the packed dance floor.

  I had just returned to my seat when I heard, “Dance with me.”

  I turned around. It was the man who sometimes spoke with an American accent. He had kept up a humorous commentary all evening, spicing his jokes with occasional profanity.

  Asare was stocky and well built. He was very dark skinned, and he held his shoulders back and his forehead high. I might have described him as arrogant, except for the smile that played around his lips.

  I never asked, but I think the girl in white was his date.

  “Come on, Charlotte, I like Kool and the Gang,” he insisted.

  We danced to “Get Down On It.” I liked Asare’s moves and so I didn’t hold back. Then the DJ played Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly,” and Asare drew me easily into his arms.

  “Where are you from?” he asked, speaking slightly above my ear.

  I leaned into him to say, “Accra!”

  “Do you live in Accra, or do you come from Accra?”

  “I come from Kibi, Eastern Region.”

  “Ei! Kibi women are beautiful but cantankerous,” he said into my ear.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re beautiful but maybe not cantankerous, then.”

  “Neither,” I replied.

  “Yes, you are beautiful.” And his breath was warm and moist around my ear. It disturbed me a little — an awkwardness in my belly. I said nothing until at last the song ended.

 
“You should dance with your date,” I said as I wriggled out of his arms. I’d had enough of older men for one night.

  ‹•›

  I was taking courses in political science, history and English. I wasn’t sure yet which of the three would become my major. I didn’t care about politics. I had chosen political science because I expected it to be easier than economics or law. At Tech there was this idea that political science was a course of only medium difficulty, so I hoped to do well at it.

  It was at my political science course that I first met Dr. Ampem. And it was in his class that I met Jordan on the morning of the first Dawn Broadcast.

  I was fast asleep, dreaming about my hair — long and straight, blowing in the breeze. Mary had promised to relax my hair. She said I had to choose between a natural down-cut or straightened hair, because big poufy afros were out of fashion.

  From far off, a song filtered through my sleep and wove itself like a colorful thread into the pattern of my dream.

  A voice spoke urgently in the pre-dawn darkness, “Repent, and be saved!”

  Which impassioned Africa Hall sister could be so bold as to shout down our dawn dreams on a Friday? I climbed down the ladder to find Mary on the lower bunk, valiantly holding onto her sleep, her head buried beneath the pillow.

  As quietly as I could, I opened the door to the front balcony and stepped up against the balustrade to find a bunch of girls huddled on the low roof of the porter’s lodge, singing.

  As the first rays of dawn entered the darkness, I could make the ladies out in their dressing-gowns. The leader brought the song to a close with the sinners’ prayer.

  Thanks to them, nobody would be late for a 7 a.m. lecture.

  The piping hot Hausa koko changed my sour mood for the better, and I joined my favorite group of girls for the walk to Mecca. The mild sun meant no sweat or stickiness. And the gentle breeze stirred up fallen leaves and blew them ahead of us.