Growing Yams in London (12 page)

Since selling those recipes to the supermarket, Nick had been trying to come up with some more, but now everyone was making smoothies, so it had become more difficult. Delphy
kept telling him to diversify or something.

‘Makeeda?’ Mum yelled.

I ran out of my room and raced downstairs to talk to Mum. Five minutes later I returned to find Delphina sitting at my table, typing away on MSN.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I asked, surprisingly calmly.

‘I’m just chatting to your friends,’ Delphina said, still tap-tapping away.

‘You don’t have to hammer at my keys like that! Just move before I call Mum. If I catch you in here again, I’ll destroy your blue collection.’

Delphina had two collections of hair bobbles and hairbands – one was blue, the other was pink. She gasped in horror and ran to her bedroom.

I looked at the screen and couldn’t believe it. In the space of a few minutes, Delphy had destroyed any street cred I had!

I was so furious I shut off MSN altogether. I needed to sort out my essay anyway and there was only one person who could help: my grandmother, Nana-Amma in Ghana. She used to be
a headmistress, so maybe she could tell me a bit more about Yaa Asantewaa. I decided to call her.

I usually messed up the pin codes on the phonecards. Mum would kill me if I didn’t use them though.

‘Hello?’

‘Good evening,’ Nana-Amma said.

‘Can I speak to Nana, please?’ I knew it was her but I had to be really polite or she’d tell me off.

‘Speaking. Makeeda, is that you?’

‘Yes, Nana,’ I said.

‘How are you?’

‘Fine, how are you?’

‘Well, I’ve just come back from a funeral in Accra. How are Delphina, Tanisha and Nick?’

As far as I could tell all Nana-Amma seemed to do was go to outdoorings and funerals.

‘Yeah, everyone’s fine. I really need your help though.’

‘OK.’

‘I’m writing an essay about Queen Mother Yaa Asantewaa and I’m stuck on . . . hello?’ I said.

‘Carry on, I’m here. I’m curious, Makeeda.’

That’s not such a good thing. Nana-Amma’s curiosity was usually followed by a question or statement that made you look stupid.

‘Why are you writing this essay?’ she asked.

‘It’s for a history assignment on inspirational women,’ I said.

‘So your teacher asked the entire class to write an essay on Yaa Asantewaa?’ Nana-Amma questioned.

‘Well. . . no, not exactly, Nana.’ I told her how I was writing it against Mrs Hipman’s wishes.

‘Makeeda, you still haven’t answered my question. Why are you writing this essay?’

‘Oh . . . I don’t know, she sounded really interesting. A brave, inspiring woman, who fought to protect our identity,’ I said.

‘Are you reading that from a book?’

‘No!’ I said, shocked. I put the book down. ‘OK, maybe the brave bit, but I thought of the rest myself,’ I said, making Nana-Amma laugh.

‘Oh, Makeeda!’ she said. I could hear the happiness in her voice. ‘Right, what do you need to know?’

I told her about my confusion over Yaa Asantewaa’s true motives for going to war.

‘Why are her motives so important?’ Nana asked. ‘You should also be discussing her legacy.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, think about it. She may not have won the war, but she must have achieved something, Makeeda,’ Nana-Amma said.

‘Nana, she ended up in exile with Asantehene, King Prempeh I, and all the other chiefs, including her own nephew.’

‘I know all that, Makeeda!’ Nana-Amma said. ‘Now, start thinking about her legacy and you’ll understand exactly what I mean,’ she added.

‘Can’t you just tell me?’

‘No. Then, I’d be doing this essay for you, wouldn’t I?’

‘I suppose,’ I said. I hate it when she does this.

‘You can do this, Makeeda. Keep going and show that teacher of yours!’ she said.

‘OK, but can I call you when I’ve finished?’

‘I want a copy of your essay when you’ve finished! You can bring it with you at Christmas . . .’

Whaaaat? I’m not going to Ghana for Christmas.

‘Don’t you mean Tanisha, Nana?’

‘I’m not senile, Makeeda! I want you to come to Ghana over Christmas with Tanisha. Think about it.’

‘Um . . . OK. I’d better go now.’

‘Fine. Tell Nick to call his Nana-Betty She said he hasn’t called in ages.’

‘I will. Say hello to her from me. Thanks, Nana. Bye’

‘You’re welcome,’ she said, hanging up.

Ghana? Ghana? What’s going on? That came totally out of the blue! If I don’t mention it, maybe Mum and Dad won’t either. I don’t want to go to Ghana for Christmas!
Ohmigod! That would mean leaving Nelson. I mean what if he said he wouldn’t wait for me?

I stepped out of the car and stared at Delphina. She was wearing the same ntoma as me and we looked awful in my opinion. It was always better when we weren’t wearing the
same fabric. The ntoma was lilac and pink and, whereas Delphy’s had been cut into a simple dress, mine was in a top that had huge lace cuffs that kept getting in my way and a skirt that was
difficult to walk in. I knew I’d be fine as long as I didn’t have to move my hands too quickly – there was a small risk of me becoming airborne if I did. Thankfully, Mum was not
happy with my ntoma either and vowed to speak to the tailor in Ghana.

I looked across at Mum. Under her coat, she was wearing ntoma in the style of a loose lemon dress, with a matching duku that was criss-crossed across her head. Dad was wearing a shirt of white
fabric over trousers and his best shoes. It had just stopped raining, so we were all dodging the puddles and clutching our coats just that little bit tighter against the cold weather. We walked up
the road passing clusters of houses until we reached the loudest one, Uncle Larry and Aunt Anita’s place. The sheer volume of noise seemed to envelope us well before we reached their open
door.

We walked in and were greeted by Aunt Grace, who was wearing pink lace in the style of ntoma.

‘Thank goodness you’re here. We can start now,’ Aunt Grace said rushing back in.

‘Oh no, the time!’ Mum said, realising how late we were. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Mummy, it’s eleven-thirty. Why was Aunt Grace worried?’ Delphy asked, puzzled.

‘Your aunt was just concerned because we never perform the ceremony in the afternoon and they were running out of time,’ Dad interrupted.

We entered the room and shook everyone’s hands, starting from those sitting on the right side of the room. I looked up and Afua was smirking at me, waiting for me to shake her hand.

‘Nice outfit,’ she whispered, then sniggered.

Great, that’s all I need. Afua is a petite girl who always looked sophisticated wearing ntoma. She never gets it wrong and that day was no different: she wore pale blue ntoma in the style
of a simple A-line dress. Her family took her everywhere, so she could speak in Twi effortlessly. I heard a rumour that she could also speak in another Akan based dialect, but I was hoping that
wasn’t true. Everyone our age envied Afua’s linguistic abilities because it meant that she could understand what the adults were saying. Who wouldn’t want to know in advance
whether to avoid their parents? She wasn’t exactly my favourite person to hang out with, but we kept getting lumped together because we’re the same age. I’m not even sure if
we’re related, but I’m praying we’re not.

I took my seat on the floor next to Delphy, in front of Mum and Dad, as all the adults and Afua had taken up the real seats. I looked over and saw Uncle Larry and Auntie Anita smiling broadly as
they handed over their daughter, Baby Akosua, to Aunt Grace. She was going to conduct the ceremony. Uncle Larry was Dad and Aunt Grace’s cousin, their fathers were brothers.

Aunt Grace began her speech and then called on Delphina to help.