Page 31 of Choosing the Chief

Repentance

Adom

It has been seven days and Maya still refuses to see or speak to me. Thank God she didn’t go all the way back to Atlanta. However, I would never have known that since my cousin and his traitorous wife, my former best friend, didn’t tell me she was with them at Bonbiri. They stone walled me for three days before I finally found out from Senya she was at their home. Had it not been for him, I would be in Atlanta right now, because even though I told her to go back, I most certainly did not mean it. I was just so frustrated, and she was so pushy. I hate being pushed. I felt like I could not fucking breathe. However, there is no way I would let her leave Ghana while I am here. She is not allowed to be in another country. My heart can’t take it. She is mine. I cannot ensure that or her safety with continents between us.

In spite of all that, I will not beg her to come home. She knows where home is; it is where I am. While I want her home, I am livid at how Maya is acting like a spoiled brat. She knows how disrupting my new chiefdom is to my life. I can’t even begin to think about how it disrupts “our” life.

I am still trying to accept that my hedge fund in the States is running without me and that my mother is going through town celebrating me as her son, the chief, and planning my installation just because she birthed me 36 years ago. The woman has never given me a loving touch or an ounce of worthy advice. I have always been her afterthought. I am a reminder of the king and life she could not have. To her, my life is no more than the product of her not being good enough to be queen. It just so happens that I am now chief, and she feels being allowed to be center stage and regarded as a matriarch is me providing her long-awaited due.

The crazy thing is I halfway agree with her. Neither of us had it easy after my aunt, Kofi’s mother, died and the torrid affair between my mother and Kofi’s father was exposed. She was never again seen as little more than a rich whore that broke her sister’s heart. Many acted like my Aunt Akosua’s death was a murder instead of a suicide.

I was reduced to the king’s bastard. Through my father’s actions, it was constantly reinforced that I was no more to him than a disappointing imitation of Kofi, the real prince. The man who I knew as my father for ten years, Kwesi Annan, loved me but hated my mother for her infidelity. Until I revealed the affair to my aunt, he always thought I was his. He continued to love me, but I pushed him away. If my real father wanted nothing to do with me, then I didn’t need one. But I was always proud to carry Kwesi Annan’s name. My mother tried to make me change it to Ajyei in a move of spite toward the king. I refused. Kwesi never had any children of his own, and I will never take that from him.

Kwesi Annan refused to even look at my mother the moment he found out. She never had an explanation or an apology. She just said nothing about it. Soon after, she took us both away back to my grandfather’s home. To him, I was the representation of guilt, shame, and betrayal from his king and daughters. I was more than happy to go away with Kofi and Chief Owusu’s son to London for schooling. I never looked back. Now, this fucking installation is forcing me to. Through all the retrospection, I realize my mother and I have gone through hell. I suppose we both deserve a little time in the African sun to be admired, respected, or, if all else fails, feared.

That is precisely why I do not have time to cater to Maya. I cannot worry about properly fucking my girlfriend daily and providing enough quality time when I have power to secure. I love her, but shit has not changed. I am still Adom Annan, and I handle my business. My business is now Tafo in all its complexities. When my business is handled, I will eagerly go back to handling her. I’ve allowed my mind to be OK with knowing exactly where she is without dealing with her feelings. I’m sure she’s seething with rage, but I just want to get through installation.

So, here I am at my grandfather’s compound, which is now mine. Today, I am working with some servants to make it look and feel more like mine and clear out some of the clutter. I’ve been meaning to start this, but the past week kept me busy with the construction zone I’ve created outside. I need to have a proper office space and I am adding a wing to the back of the compound. Initially, I wanted to bring in expert architects from Accra, but Kofi warned me that could be political suicide. “Work within the village,” he warned. I took his advice and now I have a headache because these men have never built more than a storefront. I am doing more creative directing than I normally would do. However, it has been nice to learn more about my village working alongside these men. I suspect that was my brother’s plan all along. No one would have thought twice about me hiring an Accra architectural firm; he knows I would have ensured all the workers were from Tafo.

As I continue to organize all of my grandfather’s important paperwork pertaining to village affairs, I stumble upon a drawer filled with nothing but photo albums. Each album is bound in mud cloth with a stapled brass plate on the front. The plate displays a date. There are at least 50 albums in a vast drawer. Apparently, there is a dedicated album for every year of his reign. I open the album labeled 1985 and the first picture is of my mother holding me in her arms. I’ve seen this picture before.

The next page shows a similar picture, except my grandfather is bending down and kissing my pudgy foot. His eyes are full of laughter. He loved me. He was excited I was alive. He was excited I was his. I choke back emotion and pick up another album. This one is labeled 1984. After a few pages, I catch pictures of Kofi and I with another little boy. I do not directly place him. Kofi and I were always together as kids, but we didn’t start to include a third playmate until Senya became a servant at the palace when I was ten. Oddly, this third little boy looks a lot like Senya. But I know it can’t be him. We did not know him then. He was living in Aboso with his parents before they died. I shrug and pull that picture out to take with me, then put the book away. The eyes of the third boy in this picture reflect my own, and I can’t shake the sight of him. I decide to ask Kofi who the boy is later. He always knows everything.

Just as I get into a rhythm with filing all the paperwork grandfather left behind, a knock comes at the door. I welcome the break. “Come in,” I command. I need to work on how to sound more inviting. My grandfather’s personal servant, also known as a concubine, shuffles into the room looking at her feet. My heart breaks. She can’t be a woman of any more than 20, and I’m sure she was forced upon my grandfather as soon as she turned 18. That is one practice that changes with me. No young women will be forced into any man’s service, but especially not mine. I will talk to Maya about how we should go about the campaign. She will know the history behind women’s rights in coastal West African villages. She will know which countries have made progress and how they have done it. She will advise and help me shape a policy for Tafo’s girls and women. Then I remember she is not talking to me. I will have to put a pin in it for later.

I look up at the trembling woman at my door. I walk over to her and place a hand on her shoulder to calm her. “How can I be of service?” I force a smile, hoping she will relax.

She does.

She gives me a furtive glance. “Yes…um, Chief, there is a phone call from Ms. Maya Taylor. She says it is an emergency, but your phone is not ringing. I told her you asked not to be disturbed, but she…” Her voice trails off.Shit, I cut the ringer off to focus on my work.

I can’t hear.My heart starts to race. What emergency? Fuck, I hope she’s OK. As mad as she is, it must be serious for her to call after me. I look down and see the small woman is wincing in pain from the grip I have on her shoulder. I remove my hand and apologize.

She continues to speak while I start to move and locate my phone. “Sir, she was hysterical. I could barely make out anything she said through her sobs.”

I release a harsh breath.Fuck!“Marian, go and get my driver right away. I expect him to be outside and ready to take me to Bonbiri within the next three minutes.” I shout at her even though I do not mean to. She flinches, but I do not have time for yet another apology. Maya might be hurt. We have no time to waste.

I immediately locate my phone and see that I have ten missed calls form Maya, and a text she sent ten minutes ago.

Maya: 1:10 p.m.

Adom, I’m sorry I left. Please let it go and call me back. I need you. I cannot handle this on my own. We can finish our cold war later.

Now I know something is seriously wrong. My Maya would never apologize first. Especially when it could be argued she was right. I look down at myself and say a silent prayer of thanks that I am not in my kente. I am wearing a plain blue linen suit and she should be pleased with the look. Suddenly I care that she likes the way I look again. I stare down at the phone and decide to wait until I am in the car before I call her back. Whatever it is, I think I should be sitting for the news.

When I step outside, my Range Rover is ready and the back passenger door is held open by a nameless servant. I want to learn all of their names. But whenever I try to get to know them, they act like I have two heads. I get nods and shy smiles as answers. I understand. My grandfather was always an intimidating force. However, I am different, at least I am trying to be.

When I am settled and the car starts moving, I call Maya. She picks up immediately and I hear the husky hesitation in her voice when she calls my name.

“Adom. It’s Ella, she is at the hospital. The babies are coming.

“Babies? There is more than one? Since when?”

Maya starts to sob. “Kofi said they are having twins, but wanted to surprise everyone. Now the surprise is ruined, and Ella might be hurt Adom. What are we going to do?”

My heart skips more than one beat. Ella is only 27 weeks along. This can’t be good. I order my driver to speed up and I turn my attention back to the beautiful girl on my phone.

“Don’t worry, Maya, I’m on my way. You won’t have to do this on your own.”

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