THE KAYA GIRL BY MAMLE WOLO (CHAPTER 2)

[0:16]The Kaya-Girl, Chapter 2. When I got back to Auntie's shop that day, it was like magic wearing off. Auntie Lydia just had a way of squeezing it out of things, like wringing water from a rag. Faiza that became nothing but a Kaya you once again. Auntie did not know whether to be amused or annoyed that I knew her name. You followed that Kaya you to the car park? She asked in disbelief. I had not had the time to make up a better story, so I told her I had been worried she might drop our goods because the bowl was so heavy. Those girls drop something, she snarled. Their neck muscles are made of steel. You don't know the things they carry up where they come from. Gifted snake head. She was Auntie's maid, a daughter of one of her husband's many poor relatives from a village somewhere in Eastern region. Now, make yourself useful, and get on the internet and open that email account you set up for me. Auntie continued. I wanted to ask what the Kaya girls, or whatever they were called, carried where they came from. But did not want to sound cheeky and anyway, I had a feeling she would not be interested in going into it. Moreover, I did not want to give Gifti the satisfaction of snagging at her again. And I needed to get back into Auntie's good book after wandering off like that without any warning. However, I asked Faiza that question as soon as we had enough language between us. She was learning tree and broken English rapidly because of her work in the markets. I was helping her with both, and even picking up a few words myself. We carry water, she said. Water? I asked. From where? From the stream, she said logically. To our homes. Sometimes, we walk the whole morning with balls on our heads like this one. Full of water. I could not believe it. How could anyone carry that? And for hours? It was hard to imagine when all I ever had to do was turn on a tab. And firewood. What? We carry firewood. From where? I echoed myself. From the trees, she laughed. Ha! Is that not where it grows? She had a cheeky streak, Faiza. But you would never know it, if you only saw her as the Kaya you. We cut it from the trees, and take it home and make fire for cooking. As I learned more about her life, I found out that she also carried food stuff, when she went to the farm with her family. That's, corn, millet, yams, granites, beans, and she carries sha nuts, too. That one was tough to understand. She kept repeating the name, but I just didn't know what she meant. In the end, she grabbed me by the hand, and led me to a section of the markets where they sold shea butter. I nodded with comprehension. And she asked me if I had ever used it. I said, no, and wriggled my nose because I didn't like the smell of it. She laughed at me. Where I come from, we eat it, she said. I felt disgusted by the idea, but at the same time, a little disgusted with myself for wriggling my nose at something other people eat. I did not know why I cared about this. I was sure if I had been with my classmates at school, we could have loved it off quite comfortably. Come with me, she said again, and this time, she led me to a part of the market, where women in colorful veils were cooking all sort of things. I felt my mouth was watered and remembered it was lunch time. That was why I had been able to go looking for Faiza while Auntie took her lunch break. I'll eat mine later, I had called over my shoulder, trying to get out before she stopped me. This is kuli-kuli, said Faiza. This time, it was me who had pulled her, following my nose. I looked at the crooked brown circles that had just been lifted out of a sizzling frying pan, and wondered what could smell this good. It was made of granites, she told me, miming the rolling of the piece and twisting her imaginary strap into a ring. I pulled out a coin from my pocket, and was surprised how many of them I got in exchange. From the first bite, I knew I had found a favorite hunt. Faiza also pulled out a coin, a smaller one from the knot of her wrapper cloth, and went over to a different food seller, squatting on her hunches, and greeting her respectfully. She came back with two blocks of something I had never seen before. It looked a bit like soft soap, but it smelled good, and I was hungry. Try it, she said, handing me one. I bit off a chunk, and licked a tight oiliness off my lips. Mm, I said, licking it without the faintest idea what it could be. What is it? Steamed beans cake, she said. I would never have guessed it was made from beans. I finished it off and looked purposefully in the direction of the seller. Then, she added with a crafter look in her eyes, with melted shea butter. I looked at her thinking she was joking. She was laughing at me all right, but I could see she was serious. That was something we were able to tell with each other right from the beginning. I tried to describe the beans cake to Auntie Lidia later on, but she cut off my description with, house of food. So now you are eating with a house girl, that Brunie and the Kaya you. Gifti taunted under her breath. I knew she was jealous because she considered Faiza, a bush northerner, and just didn't understand what I saw in her. Although she was also from a village, she was a southerner, and I knew she was puzzled that I should favor Faiza's company to hers, especially when we were family in a way. She called me Brunie, although I was darker skinned than her, to show that she did not consider someone as privileged as myself, a true Ghanan. It was her way of getting back at me. I tried to tell Auntie that Faiza was not a Houser, but a Dagomba. Not that I knew what the problem would be if she was a Houser girl anyway. But as always seemed to happen when the topic of Faiza was raised, I could not seem to hold her attention beyond one sentence. Even if she took a fleeting interest, other things always seemed so much more important as soon as I started to talk about her, that I would feel embarrassed for doing so. Like some green horn, who didn't know such things were of no interest to people who had better things to do. I thought more about this feeling when business was slow in the shop. Should I be embarrassed? I wondered. It was certainly odd for a girl like me, a doctor's daughter, a pupil of the American school to be striking up a friendship with a Kaya in Makola Market. Was it really a friendship though? I asked myself. Half of me shaking my head quickly. Of course not. And the other nodded slowly. Yes, of course. I knew I could never describe it as such to my mother or my friends at school. A word like acquaintance seemed more apt, when I thought of ever discussing it with such people. But in my heart, I knew it was friendship. I had known it from that first smile we exchanged, and it was not just any friendship either. Faiza seemed to know what I was thinking about before I said it. We hardly needed language to communicate. I loved her sarcasm. The way she would make a question seem idiotic with a simple haba. But the laughter was always for both of us, and how much of it there was. I never knew there was so much freedom in laughter, until I met her. It will well up like millions of tiny bubbles, filling us up with lightness till we felt we could float away, fly in the sky, free as the birds. When I got back to the shop, I will be smiling at the customers, chatting with Auntie, until I asked if someone was paying me per word. One of the many affectionate reprimands with which she simultaneously loved and disapproved of my ways. I knew that her own children, when they were children, will not have chatted on and on to her as if she were one of their mates. They never went to an expensive school, full of brones, but to a strict Ghanaian boarding school, where homo was a verb that meant bullying. And children were terrified of people a year older, let alone adults. Auntie tolerated a lot in me with her unique brand and grumpy affection. She would allow Faiza to hang around outside the shop, chatting with me in between customers. I was sure became her station, so she no longer had to roam around the market looking for random customers. She also carried goods for the Nigerian ladies customers from the shop next door. When business was slow, she would turn her huge silver bowl upside down, and use it as a seat. While I paste on the step outside the shop. The chilled air sipping deliciously into my back from underneath the door, speaking tree, peppered with English, Dagbani and sign language. It was astonishing how fast Faiza had picked up tree and English. If we spotted a customer heading our way, we would break off quickly, and I would lead them in while she melted like a chameleon into the background, waiting to be called if she were needed. I often accompanied her to the car park. Auntie had given up protesting. Sometimes, when we were out of her sight, we would stop, and I would make Faiza transfer the bowl to my head. It didn't seem fair to me that somehow she should always carry it. She was just a tiny girl, a full head shorter than me, and so skinny. I often forgot how small she was because when she talked, and when her face flinched into the huge smile, that was almost too big for it, she just seemed the same size a person as anyone else. It was when I saw the bowl on her head, ridiculously dwarfing away, that it struck me how little she was. But she let me do it because she saw how proud I was, when I was able to balance and carry it more than a few paces, and she did not want to spoil my fun. It was more to humor me than to help her, because I struggled under it far more than she ever did. That was why she was a Kaya you, I guess. As she explained to me, Kaya means load or goose and Houser. And as I already knew, you meant girl or woman in gun. I did not wonder at this odd mogral, of a word, until much later. For now, I just marvelled how such a tiny girl could carry such heavy loads. There was something so strong about her smallness. I envied it, although it did not seem to make sense for a girl like me, to envy everything about a girl like her. I also envied her freedom. One day, I told her so much and she laughed. You envy me? Yes, I said. You just run your own life, without anyone telling you what to do. Ah, you think you are the only one with an auntie, don't you? You have an auntie, too? I asked. And then immediately felt silly for asking such a question. Of course, everyone had aunties. Any moment she was going to say Haba and look at me with dancing eyes, but she didn't. And when I looked up, she just simply said, You want to know my story? We were sitting in our usual place, she on her up and ball, and me on the step. I nodded.