“Yes, I’ve heard that.”
“I hate that name.”
Dawson smiled at Abe’s obvious affection for his town.
“Here we are,” his cousin said, pulling into a parking space.
His shop, Abraham’s Stationery, on the corner of Ako Adjei and Kofi Annan Roads, was located opposite the Barclay’s Bank in a congested commercial area where vendor stalls packed the pavements. Before he took Dawson upstairs to the second floor where he and the family lived, Abraham showed him the shop.
One assistant stood behind the sales counter and a second one was high up on a ladder getting something for a customer. The shop wasn’t large, yet it was packed with every imaginable style, color, and size of copy paper, writing instruments, computer supplies, toner cartridges, and exercise books.
Dawson was impressed. “I like it. You have everything here.”
“Almost,” Abraham said. “I want to start carrying computers too, but I don’t know where I’m going to put them.”
“You’ve already outgrown yourself.”
“Yes, that is it.”
They exited the shop and went around to the rear of the building via a side alley.
They went up two flights of steps at the top of which Abraham’s wife, Akosua, was waiting. She was about her husband’s age, around forty. With an endearing dimpled smile, she greeted Dawson with the same elation that her husband had. Slim and straight, she was the physical opposite of Abraham, whose body was rounded off everywhere.
They had a cozy sitting room with a flat-screen TV, a small adjoining kitchen, and two bedrooms down a short hallway. After about an hour, Akosua announced that dinner was served. When she brought the dishes out to the table that she and their young housemaid had prepared, it was clear that they had put themselves out in the good tradition of Ghanaian hospitality. On a wide plate stood four smooth, perfectly shaped ovals of fufu brushed with a light coating of water to make them glisten. The fufu was made by strenuously pounding boiled cassava in a large mortar while adding water until it turned into a soft, glutinous mass.
Next to the plate of fufu was a deep bowl of steaming palm nut soup, its rich golden-red oil snaking languidly around succulent chunks of fish and turgid white eggplant. The sight and the aroma made Dawson’s salivary glands contract so hard that they hurt.
Akosua brought a towel, soap, and a two bowls of water to the table. She waited for the men to wash up before she followed suit. The three ate traditionally with the fingers of the right hand only. Like many, Dawson would tell you he loved
