A Time To Be Stubborn
By Akorfa Dawson
3rd Place Winning Entry of the imagining Early Accra competition (Adult Category)
About: This short story is set in the years leading up to independence in Ghana - from 1953 to 1957. It is about a young girl, married off to a man older than her, who is discovering how to free herself from the subtle shackles in her life just as her nation attains independence from colonial rule.
The story was inspired by a video of the Independence Gala which had the author wondering which kind of people would have been invited. That served as a jumping off point for the character of the protagonist’s new husband - an aristocratic architect who schooled abroad and returned around independence to help build his country.
March 1957
How had she missed this drawer all this while? She thought.
Every single day these past three years, she had religiously dusted the chest of drawers on which the gramophone stood majestically. Yet, never had she noticed that there were four drawers instead of three. The fourth drawer was without a handle or a knob, and as she exerted some more force, she opened it.
She found documents and copies of school papers he had kept. They all had the same feel and could possibly be from the same source. One particular envelope caught her attention; it was a different shade of cream.
Her form-four-English was adequate to enable her to read. The inscription on the envelope formed a lump in her throat.
* * *
August 1953
“You would do yourself a great disservice if you refuse this offer. This is not the time to be stubborn, my child.”
All she did was to stare expressionlessly at her mother.
“You of all people should know that I wouldn’t let you do this if it wasn’t good for you.” The mother continued
As if you have a say in anything! She scoffed audibly at the thought.
“Now I am funny erh?” The mother was getting visibly agitated, and it showed in how her brows furrowed and how her feet tapped the cold bare floor rhythmically.
* * *
September 1953
“But Wofa, you have known this all along. I have always wanted to attend Secretarial Training School right after form four.”
“Yes, my dear, and now that you are going to stay with him in Accra, you can attend the Government Secretarial School. He will fund your education. See, he went to school in the white man’s land. He would want you to be very well-educated. That, I can assure you.”
“I don’t think I can combine being a wife and a student at the same time.”
“You are only giving excuses, and you know it! Don’t let this opportunity pass you by. The government pays him good money to stay in the country.”
“But I don’t even know him. I have never seen him before. I don’t know how he looks like. I don’t even know how he is like!”
Taking his reading glasses from his breast pocket, her uncle took out an Air Mail envelope. After scrutinising a couple of monochrome pictures, he handed one to her. It was a picture of a young man who looked to be in his early thirties.
“Wofa, how old is he?” she inquired.
“Thirty-two.”
“Thirty-two?!” she exclaimed. “I am only twenty-one. He is too old for me.”
“Yes, he is a mature man, not one of those wayward myopic hooligans who parade this town and deceive young girls with bright futures with that infantile concept they call ‘love’.” He pointed a wrinkled finger in her face. “I hope your next excuse is not going to be that you don’t love him.”
* * *
March 1954
“Tweadeampong!” “Nsa!”
“As our daughter is going to a new land, be with her.” “Nsa!”
“May she be his backbone.” “Nsa!”
“May we never hear of any misfortune.” “Nsa!”
“May her womb be open and be made fertile.” “Nsa!”
“May you bless them with all that we lack and more.” “Nsa! “
The car, overloaded with foodstuffs and all her movable property, revved and took off.
It left behind a cloud of dust as opaque as the future that lay before her.
The farewell ended when the door was shut.
He drove a government car. She knew this because Ma’s older brother, Wofa, drove one too.
To ensure her carsickness did not manifest, she forced herself to sleep. Leaning her head slightly against the door of the white Peugeot 403, she found a perfect position.
Then there was a light tap on her shoulder. It was almost dark. Her surroundings looked strange and she was disconcerted. Sleep had begun to gradually depart from her eyes. She looked up, and there was a frame of a young man at the door, waiting to usher her in.
Reality resumed.
She was the wife of the man. She tried to stand but her feet were wobbly, crippled momentarily, by the long journey.
The man held her and helped her up. He gathered her into his arms and carried her. She had never been carried that way and it felt unusual.
He set her on a couch. His bungalow was exactly like Wofa’s, but more spacious. She noticed that he had already unpacked her luggage into the house. He helped her up and led her to the room, leaving her to freshen up and prepare for bed.
The gramophone standing majestically on a table close to the window caught her attention. It was more magnificent than any she had ever seen.
The gramophone back home was in the living room, only for decoration, and it was an older model.
When she lay on the bed, her eyes rested on a colour photograph of her new husband, positioned beside a portrait of Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth.
She got up to take a closer look at the picture. All the photographs she had seen in her life were black and white, so she instinctively ran her fingers over this coloured one. It was dated 25th March, 1949, and inscribed beside the date was “Oxford University”.
* * *
March 1954
She was a light sleeper. A muted voice over the wireless woke her up. Curiosity led her out of bed.
She peeped through the door which had been left ajar and there he was: bent over a drawing board. His back was arched and his biceps were moving at a steady rhythm. He did not hear her walk in and stand beside him. She stood there awhile, observing how he dipped the tip of his pen into an ink jar before drawing lines on the translucent paper on the board.
“What are. . .” she began but she startled him. He dropped the ink jar from his desk and the blob of ink against the carpeted floor made quite a mess.
She quickly bent down in an attempt to clear up her mess. He only smiled at her as he fetched some blotting paper. She watched on as he soaked the ink using the blotting paper, feeling like she wasn’t going according to the industrious wife script. Ma had told her that it was her job to clean and make him feel at home. But then again, it was only the first week, she would pick up soon.
“Your uncle mentioned that you wanted to attend the Government Secretarial School.”
She nodded.
“Could you speak when I talk to you?” He smiled at her.
“I – I do,” She stuttered.
“We’ll go to see Miss Alice Morgan when you are ready.”
* * *
November 1954
She winced; the pain was unbearable. She groaned and sobbed. He woke up abruptly and sat up.
“What’s the matter?”
She couldn’t speak, all she could do was place her hand on her abdomen. The lights from the corridor illuminated the room. He got up to switch on the light. There was a dark brown stain on the sheets. She lifted her head to follow his terrified gaze. She passed out at the sight of so much blood.
* * *
December 1954
Setting the tray on the side table, he drew the curtains to let in some light.
“Here, drink this.” She sat up and sipped the warm water he offered her.
“Thank you. Did you ever hear from the Government Secretarial School while I was in the hospital?” She enquired.
“Not yet. We would follow up when you recuperate, alright?”
* * *
March 1957
He had been invited to the Independence Gala. He would have gone with her but, she had to stay home and mind Baby.
Or perhaps, he had forgotten about it? She was making excuses for him. But this was not possible.
He never forgot anything; he was too meticulous. And, from the unnoticeable drawer she found it in, it was as if he was concealing the envelope. But why would he?
The lump in her throat felt bigger: in her hand was her admission letter to the Government Secretarial School which she applied to before getting married.
Baby was awake, and the cries for attention drew her back into reality. He did not know that she knew where he kept his money. She would have been able to make hers if he had allowed her. And yet, all she did was to cook, clean and do his bidding.
Carrying Baby at her back, secured with a cloth, she walked out of the house. As soon as she stepped out, a wind of liberation blew about her, like nothing she had ever experienced. The moon’s glow was just enough to illuminate the night sky, leading her to an unknown future.
Akorfa Dawson is a short fiction writer and a two-time published author under the auspices of the Ama Ata Aidoo Centre for Creative Writing's thematic anthologies.
Her career goal of practising intellectual property law and creative enterprise development stems from her inherent passion to contribute to the creative economy of Ghana. In line with this, she has an LL.B (Hons) from the University of Ghana.
She spends her spare time assisting emerging creatives hone their creative expressions; whether to the ends of a creative career path, for social impact, or as a therapeutic endeavour.
