Kiin Kiin Kiin by David Agyei-Yeboah.

Kiin, kiin, kiin.

You wake up at 5:00am. There is a swarm of flies finding light outside the window. Your two toddlers are sound asleep, swaddled in patched up clothes. They yawn unexcitedly. The dog beneath the table drools. Before it is a plate of mashed kenkey.

Kiin, kiin, kiin.

This persistent, throbbing sound awakened you. It always did, every dawn. It is your clock. Your signal for a new day. Couldn’t Wofa Yaw perform his carpentry far away from you? Why did he have to be such a full blown out menace?

You wake the toddlers. Together walk into the public washroom. Algae smile out at you. The walls are a crude brown and the water a pale grey. The toddlers scream as you force bathe them.

You don’t bathe. You grab your wrapper; place four stained 50-cedi notes in your brassiere and trek to Madina for some plantains. On your way, you drop your toddlers with Serwaa to babysit. Serwaa complained the last time that your toddlers stank like a manhole. You hate her so bad. But you need her so bad. It’s going to be a stressful day. The kids can’t stay with you.

Off you go. You get the plantains, a rich mustard yellow as you love them. Walk a few miles ahead and set up camp. You peel your plantains. Gather your hot charcoal. Straighten your wire mesh. Place your plantains atop the mesh. A charred sweetness swirls up in the air.

***

‘Kɔkɔɔ^[1], four’. A 4-wheel drive parks close. Out stares the driver. He doesn’t seem to have that CEO swagger. You are grateful for your fourth customer. This one hasn’t been here before. You hand him the plantains wrapped in newspaper. They are crisp and hard. They are stained brown and yellow. They glisten in the moonlight.

He pays up. Then tips you. You are grateful. Before he enters his car to drive off, his hands peel into your skirt. You wince. Then smile like a dummy, gently placing his hands away. He smiles back and gets in the car. Drives off.

A tear escapes your face. You stiffen and force a smile.

‘Yeeees, kɔkɔɔ*’ roars out your mouth, like a well programmed robot. Your pain is a deaf and dumb sister.

***

You walk into Serwaa’s beat down room. Your toddlers are screaming. Serwaa is hitting them with a wooden rod. You run to Serwaa. Strike her across the cheek. ‘How dare you?’ Serwaa says. ‘I feed and clothe your kids. This once I hit them and you are mad?’

You feel in your gut Serwaa lies. ‘How dare you?’  You retort. ‘You have no fucking right to use a rod on my child. Any child for that matter.’ You toss your day’s earnings at her. ‘Here’s for your help this month.’ Madness rages in your eyes.  ‘Don’t you ever touch my kids.’Your toddlers run to you. They hug you tight. That night, you carry them both on your arms home. They whimper as you cuddle and you wonder when things will ever get better.

***

Wofa Yaw sees you before you walk in.

‘Eii, won’t you touch me today?’

You wonder how your dignity is reduced to fleeting moments.

‘I am tired, Wofa. Come at dawn.’ You mutter.

He walks away, smugness cloaking his bloated body.

The day you realize that your body is not yours was the day Kumi flung into you with such ferocity, your hymen splitting almost instantly. The day he spooned out of you a promise. That you would shut the hell up because if anyone heard that your cousin had sex with you, it would be the end of you. The whole compound house would not believe you because Kumi was the second-class upper graduate of Chemistry who doubled as a teaching assistant. Who would they believe? The upstanding member of the extended family or you who had nothing else in your favor except your banging body which people constantly typified with smut. You became synonymous with the word, ‘sex’ by mere existence. And the way they hammered home their pigeonholing of you. Fit for sex. Like bubblegum popped. And the way you had mixed feelings about it. Like a lake of rust copper tinkering with gold.

The day you realize that the poverty of your parents was not an excuse to lean into your sexuality and depend on men for survival would also come too late. It would come with a heinous bundle that would morph into joy and misery. Two children – twins that you would introduce to the very life you were running away from since childhood. Addled poverty. You would have to come up with a plan and it would have to look realistic because you are well into your late forties and your body is wearing out. You decide to be a plantain seller by day and C grade prostie by night. After all, you were an escort in your twenties and thirties. An escort too dumb enough to save your earnings for the future. An escort bamboozled by the sight of old money. An escort that would blow it all till she lost it all because she was no longer fresh meat.

The day you realize your body is not yours, Wofa Yaw would treat it like a loaf of bread, just like the others. He would lunge at it and do whatever he pleased. He would tear apart your panties and dig in and wreck your soul with his foul breath and tense strokes. You would lay still and weathered as he counted a few notes and plopped it on your bed. The toddlers would be sound asleep because you would drop sleeping pills in their milo cups before their bedtime.

Wofa would always devour your soul before he got to his carpentry, every morning at 5:00 am.

***

Kiin, kiin, kiin.

Another day awaits.

You awake. Sadness burns your chest. It’s time to expand your clientele. You need more Wofa Yaws.

{1} kɔkɔɔ – ripe plantain

David Agyei-Yeboah.

 Image: Google Images. – Bunches of yellow plantains