Kofi raised his hand. Comfort slapped at a mosquito. Auntie stood looking around as if for a mop. You assumed, perfectly logically, that Uncle had finished eating and left the tray for Kofi or Ruby to come collect. Progress has been made — girls are in school for longer , more girls have social and economic protection, and sovereign states are tackling child marriages. Uncle and a woman, a fair-skinned Nigerian, the photographer, drove you to the airport. That image in the air. The scarf is tied tightly, pulling her skin towards her temples, making her cheekbones jut out like a carved Oyo mask. It is the opposite.
Kofi raised his hand. Uncle, unconvinced, worshipped and adored his little sister and the two were inseparable growing up. She padded into the kitchen, stretching her arms with a yawn. She returned a moment later with a clean fitted sheet. They both turned to look at you now. In the same years Uncle won the scholarship to study in Detroit and left Ghana, himself, for a time. You set down the photo and glanced out the window. Bright knives in the dark of her irises. Still now there is something about those nights that you miss; maybe the promise of your mother in the morning? His face blazed an unnatural pink when he shouted, like the colour of his hair, or his skin after visits. It scares you for some reason. The thought was just forming: You approached and peered in the slim opening. She stands like this often, with her hands on her hips, bony elbows pushed back like a fledgling set of wings. In the study — as in the parlour, as in the dining room, as in the drawing room — this furnishing serves to mute footfalls. The whirring contraption put too great a strain on the power supply, waning in Ghana. Now he saw you, mute, at the door. The sound she made reminded you of cloth sloshing in buckets, as rhythmic and functional, almost mindless, and wet. Meanwhile, a stranger with a camera is trying to take a picture. You sat in the back, silent, with Auntie. That image in the air. You are waiting with your mother on the sidewalk outside. The house staff, forbidden, use the kitchen path. Perhaps it pushed out to some Neverland? You gave her the sheet, which she shoved into the washer. She is a self-identified Afro-feminist.
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