my name is butterfly

8/2/2019 My Name is Butterfly

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The word Trokosi comes from the Ewe words tro meaning

deity or fetish and kosi meaning female slave.


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I only ask to be free. The butterflies are free.

-Charles Dickens


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After

New York City

Summer 2009


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Prologue

Harlem, New York 2009

On the morning of the day she killed him, the sun lay in long,

yellow slats across the sidewalk.

Abebe strolled down 145th Street; the hem of her multi-colored

skirt swept the ground as her flip-flops smacked musically against the

pavement. The large silver-hooped earrings she wore bounced against

her fat cheeks as her wide hips swayed to a rhythm as old as time. On

her shoulder, she carried a gold and purple purse made of straw which

contained four bottles of homemade hair oils, a magazine, a letter from

her aunt Thema, a cell phone, and a rusted screwdriver with a red and

black rubber handle which she carried for protection. In all of the years


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green monstrosity illuminated with red lights. Standing beneath the sign

was Mohammed, an elderly man the color of black sand, with a beard as

white as cotton. His back was bent, but his eyes were effervescent with

life. Mohammed sold roasted peanuts from a silver pushcart, and he and

Abebe were passing acquaintances. Abebe knew that Mohammed was a

widower, had three children and eight grandchildren and that he had

been in these United States for half a century, never once returning to

his homeland of Ghana. He knew that Abebe was married with two

children and that she worked as a braider and had not been back to

Ghana since she arrived in New York in the winter of 2003. Those were

the things they knew about one another and not much else.

When Abebe spotted him, she raised her hand in greeting and in

that moment she realized with great horror that she knew something

else about Mohammed; she knew the man standing beside him and her

heart jumped into her throat and her bladder let go. Urine streamed

down her legs and puddled on the sidewalk at feet.

His name was Duma and shed known him as intimately as a man

of the cloth knew his God - or more appropriately, the way a sinner

knowsAnyen the devil.

Abebe watched, frozen, as Duma tossed a roasted peanut up into

the air, tilted his head, and opened his mouth. The nut bounced off his

lip, fell to the ground, and rolled across the pavement toward Abebe.

When the nut bumped the rounded rubber toe of her flip-flop, she


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uttered a strangled cry and leapt into the air.

Mohammed gave her a curious look and the smile on his lips faded

to a frown when he saw the frightened expression on Abebes face. His

eyes swung to Duma and then back to Abebe who by then was charging

toward them with the screwdriver in her hand, raised high above her

head the rusted tip of the tool glinting brilliantly beneath the morning

sun.

Before

Accra, Ghana

1978 - 1983


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Chapter One

In 1978, Abebe was two years, eight months and 23 days old. Her

first memory was of her waking in her parents bed, a large, mahogany

monster with posts the size of elephant legs. The room was shrouded in

the gray haze of early morning. Outside a car engine roared to life, the

rusty hinges of the wrought iron gate squealed open, and a choir of

roosters began to croon.

Abebe rubbed the sleep from her eyes, searched the room for

signs of her parents, and in her quest, caught sight of her reflection in

the oblong-shaped mirror that hung over the chest of drawers. She had

a button nose and large inquisitive brown eyes. Her small lips formed

the shape of a heart, her skin was the color of night, and her hair was

corn rolled into a peak and secured with a blue, glass bobble.


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Abebe yawned, bringing her hand to her mouth the way shed

seen her mother do, before calling out, Mama! over and over again

until her mother, Lemusi Tsikata, appeared in the doorway.

What is all of this noise, little one, heh? Lemusi pronounced in a

voice that was filled with light. Abebe grinned and raised her arms.

Lemusi was slight in build with a mass of thick hair that she kept

pulled back into a ball. She had the fingers of a pianist - long, thin and

elegant. Her skin was smooth, dark and scented with cocoa butter. She

lifted Abebe from the bed, placed her on her hip, and carried her into

the dining room where she placed Abebe into a chair directly across the

table from her father, Kwasi Tsikata.

Kwasi was reading The Daily Graphic Newspaper. Abebe could see

his shiny, creased forehead floating above the top of the page.

Good morning, Papa! she sang.

Kwasi lowered the paper to reveal a square chin and wide flat

nose that barely supported the thick, black framed glasses he wore. He

smiled his gap-toothed smile and said, Is that little Abebe?

Abebe shook her head vigorously up and down. Yes, Papa, it is

me!

No, you cannot be Abebe, he teased. Abebe is a sleepy head

who never rises this early.


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Its me, Papa, its me!

Lemusi laughed and placed a loving hand on her husbands

shoulder. Hurry now, you dont want to be late.

The Tsikata family lived in an affluent area of Accra known as the

Airport Residential district. It was a neighborhood comprised of

expensive homes shaded by the fronds of towering palm trees. They

lived in a lovely one level, mahogany shingle with sweeping front and

back verandahs, hardwood floors, and louvered windows. The kitchen

was spacious and fitted with all manners of modern conveniences,

including a refrigerator that dispensed water from the door and created

ice cubes in the freezer.

Kwasi and Lemusi were from the village known as Pram-Pram,

located in the Volta region of Ghana. Kwasi had been educated in

England and after graduating from university, found employment as an

accountant in the governments treasury department. He drove a silver

Mercedes and had his eye on a piece of beachfront property in Takoradi,

where he hoped to build a family vacation home. Lemusi was a teacher,

but before she was a teacher she was a model and her face had graced

the covers of many West African beauty magazines.

They were practicing Catholics who attended church most

Sundays. The worn leather bible that rested on the nightstand, along

with the demure gold crosses all three family members wore around


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their necks, publicized and punctuated their belief in the one, true God.

Chapter Two

The summer Lemusis sister came to visit, Abebe was an

impressionable, five-year-old. Serwa Zinga was four years younger than

Lemusi and possessed the same cinnamon-colored complexion and

wide-set eyes. But unlike Lemusi, Serwa was curvy; bottom and top

heavy and favored clothing that accentuated those attributes: Mini

skirts, low cut blouses, tight jeans, and high heels. Serwa drank and

smoked and had a wantonness about her that made other women

including Lemusi uncomfortable. Her years of living in America had

imparted Serwa with a twang that made her sound like an Obruni a

white American.


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She loved music, both the popular Ghanaian High-Life and the

American R&B and Disco. She came to Ghana with a black case filled

with music cassettes, which she played one behind the other, raising the

volume on Kwasis stereo higher and higher until the music filled all the

rooms of the house and could be heard out on the street. During those

times, Serwa would grab Abebe by the hands and the two would dance

until they were both drenched in sweat.

Abebe was enchanted with her aunt.

One day, Abebe, Serwa tweaked her nose and announced, I am

going to send for you to come and spend a vacation with me in

America.

Really?

Uh-huh, and Ill take you to McDonalds and Burger King

What is that?

You dont know?

Abebe shook her head no.

Well, theyre wonderful restaurants that make delicious

hamburgers and milk shakes!

Abebe licked her lips.

Lemusi waved her hand. That food is garbage. American trash

and I wont have my child eating it.


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Serwa and Lemusi looked at each other and something passed

between them so heavy that it cut the air and Abebe felt a breeze

against her cheek. The two sisters glared at each other for a moment

before Serwa returned her gaze to Abebe and said, So tell me, do you

have a boyfriend?

Abebe made a face. Yuk!

Serwa laughed. So you dont like boys?

Abebe shook her head no.

Dont worry, one day you will. One day you will love them.

***

Months after Serwa had returned to her life in America, Lemusi

realized that she was feeling more drained and lethargic than usual. She

was a severe anemic and the disorder had always played havoc with her

menstrual cycle, and so she did not think anything was wrong or in this

case, right when two months passed and she still had not seen her

period. It was the light-headiness and the nausea that washed over her

whenever she smelled cooked meat that and the unmistakable flutter

deep down in her belly that finally put her on alert. Lemusi had had so

many false alarms in the past that she dared not say anything to Kwasi

before she was one hundred percent sure. When Dr. Benga confirmed

that she was indeed with child, she broke down and wept in his arms.

That evening she shared the news with Kwasi, and his face lit up like a


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candle.

Are you sure?

Lemusi nodded her head while stroking her husbands hair.

Kwasi lifted Lemusis blouse and gazed at her stomach in wonder.

I cant believe it. His words were choked with happiness. After so

many years, finally...

Ten years, Lemusi said.

God has finally answered our prayers.

I always knew that he had not forsaken us, Lemusi said.

All in his time, Kwasi whispered through his tears as he leaned

in and kissed the warm flesh of Lemusis belly.

Mawuli was born in the spring - a round, brown boy with pink

gums and sparkling eyes. Kwasi finally had a son; he could not have

been more proud. His family was finally complete.

Abebe spent all of her free time staring at Mawuli. He was the

most wondrous thing that she had ever seen. She rocked, fed and

changed him and never tired of combing her fingers through the wispy

hairs on his head. I love you more than crisps, she whispered in

Mawulis ear. That said a lot because crisps were Abebes absolute

favorite treat.


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Chapter Three

It was dinnertime when the call came from a cousin in Pram-Pram

whod walked ten miles from his village to a pay phone. Thunder

boomed a town away, the air was suddenly thick with the scent of rain,


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and an angry, evening wind began to whip the palm trees just as Kwasi

pressed the phone to his ear and said, Hello?

Your papa has passed away, the cousin announced thinly.

Kwasi dropped the phone, stumbled to the couch and fell down

into the cushions.

The next day he packed his family into the car and drove to Pram-

Pram. The trip took four hours, and when they arrived, the vehicle was

covered in red dust. When they entered the village, a group of children -

the boys indistinguishable from the girls - began running alongside the

car, tapping the windows and waving. Kwasis mother was seated

outside of her hut, a gourd bowl filled with dried peas rested on her lap;

her fleshy hips spilled over the sides of the stool she sat on. Kwasi leapt

from the car and bounded over to her. Lemusi followed and the two

threw their arms around her shoulders and kissed her cheeks.

Abebe had only been to Pram-Pram a few times. Those visits had

been a time of sheer delight for her as she swam naked in the lagoon,

chased chickens, hugged goats, and squealed when her grandmother

aimed the cows utter at her face and squeezed the milk into her open

and waiting mouth.

Abebe climbed from the car clutching her Walkman protectively to

her chest. The circle of children closed in around her, pointing and

chanting, What is that? Can I have it, sister? What is that?


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Abebes grandmother reeked of sweat, grilled meat and

melancholy. The old woman squeezed Abebe, kissed her cheeks, patted

her backside, told her that she was too thin, offered her a mango, looked

at the silver and black contraption that Abebe held in her hands, and

shook her head in dismay.

The grandmothers home was a three-room thatched roof mud

hut. The front room held two metal chairs with tattered, green cushions

and one short square table made of wood. An aged, yellowed, calendar

depicting the deceased Ghanaian president, Kwame Nkrumah, hung on

the wall near the door. The back rooms were furnished with twin-sized

beds, grass sleeping mats, and nothing else. The cooking area was

located behind the house and was comprised of three piles of stones

beneath an awning made of grass. There was no indoor plumbing, just a

standpipe located in the middle of the village where the women lined up

daily, to fill their buckets with water for cooking, drinking and bathing.

They washed their clothes in the lagoon. The toilet was a concrete box

with a wooden door. On the floor of the structure was a hole, which one

would squat over to relieve themselves. It was shared by four other

families.

Abebe and her family remained in the village for one week,

making many trips into town to be fitted for the special funeral

garments. Kwasi fought long and hard with his brothers about the color

and pattern before they finally agreed on red and gold Bubus.


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An art coffin was constructed from walnut wood and carved with

intricately detailed images that reflected the senior Tsikatas life as a

husband, father and farmer. The cost was a staggering 3000Cedi. Kwasi

said he didnt care if it was 30,000Cedi; his father deserved the best.

The nights in Pram-Pram were long, black and filled with sinister

sounds. In Abebes mind, mating cats became feuding lions, the patter

of feet - a charging elephant. She pressed her trembling body against

the bulk of her grandmothers and was eventually lullabied to sleep by

the music of the old womans beating heart.

On the day of the funeral, large black and red tents were erected

at the graveyard. Vendors sold handkerchiefs and beer to the mourners.

The old women of the village beat their breasts and wailed. Tables

draped in red cloth were placed to the right of the coffin, where people

could place their offerings of money, food and liquor. The funeral

attendants handed out laminated programs that pictured the deceased

Tsikata. Abebe stared down at photograph of her grandfather; his black

eyes watched her from beneath his furrowed brow. Her memory of him

was as faint as a dream. Bored, she bounced the card against her knee

until Lemusi took it from her and placed it in her purse.

After the ceremony, the body was interned, which signaled the

end of the mourning period and the beginning of the celebration.

Agboba drums accompanied byAxatses rang through the air as people

gathered around the large tables laden with a variety of traditional


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Ghanaian food and piled high their plates with red-red, fufu, fried fish,

pepper stew, breads, and fresh fruits. Libations were opened, spilled in

honor of the deceased and then consumed.

Abebe and her cousins ran circles around the mud huts and

played hide-and-seek in the brush as the adults flung their hands into

the air, stomped their feet, and swung their hips in a fit of joyful dance.

The merriment went on until the darkness seeped from the sky and the

suns yellow head peeked over the horizon. The sun was a high yellow

ball in the sky when Lemusi and Kwasi finally crawled onto the tiny bed

and wrapped their arms around one another. Kwasis breath was sweet

with Schnapps, his words thick with sleep when he announced, I will

bring Mama to stay with us for a little while.

Lemusi tightened her arms around his neck and planted a tender

kiss on his lips. Of course, Kwasi. Whatever you think is best.

Chapter Four

To Grandmother, Accra smelled of smoke, steel and shit. She

thought her sons house was too grand and reminded Kwasi that he was


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nota king or a chief, so all of the rooms were unnecessary, especially for

a family with just two children. The grandmother had raised eight

children in her modest hut.

And why is the food cooked inside the house? she asked.

Kwasi shrugged his shoulders, Thats just the way its done here,

he said.

In an effort to appease her, Kwasi went out and purchased a

television, which he placed on the small wooden chest in the

grandmothers bedroom. Grandmother eyed it suspiciously. The last

time she watched television was a decade earlier when she went to visit

the family of her daughter-in-law. It was a small black and white Zenith,

with a dial. The antenna was a wire hanger wrapped in foil. Kwasi

proudly handed her a remote control. She looked at the white, oblong

object, folded her hands defiantly across her breasts, and said, What

am I to do with that? And so the next day, Kwasi bought her a radio.

Grandmother spent her days roaming the house, examining the

knick-knack souvenirs that friends had purchased abroad and given as

gifts to the Tsikatas: A white man on a surfboard, a pointed tower, a

grand clock. The words stamped on the souvenirs - Hawaii, Paris, London

meant nothing to Grandmother because her language was Ewe and

her English was limited to hello and good-bye. She spoke some Twi,

but not much.

Grandmother went into Abebes room, picked up and then tossed


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down the stuffed animals that were neatly arranged across her bed. She

reached for the snow globe on the nightstand, shook it, and watched the

bits of white plastic swirl and settle on a tiny castle. She pressed her

fists into her hips and stared at the poster of a galloping pink horse with

a spike jutting from the center of his forehead. Such frivolity, the

grandmother thought and then sucked her teeth in disgust.

In the evenings, Grandmother enjoyed hiding behind the curtains

of her bedroom window, eavesdropping on conversations of the

unsuspecting neighbors. During the day, she sat on the front verandah

in a folding chair and gazed down at the people dressed in their western

clothing who moved up and down the sidewalks. She complained that

the cook, a young girl called Abba, did not know what she was doing.

Lemusi and Kwasi smiled and listened respectfully to the old womans

grievances, but did nothing to change the situation, and so one day

Grandmother changed it for them.

Kwasi was at work, Abebe was at school, and Lemusi had taken

the baby for a visit with a friend. When Grandmother heard Abba set the

large, metal pot onto the stove, she emerged from her room like a crow

and flew into the kitchen squawking demands. Show me how to work

this stove. Fill this pot with water! Chop thiscut that!

A flustered Abba complied without question.

When Lemusi returned home, Grandmother was standing over the


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stove, stirring a pot of stew and Abba was cowering in the corner.

Mama, what are you doing? Lemusi asked. We have Abba to do

that.

Her food tastes like pig slop. Anyway, what am I to do, sit in that

room all day listening to the radio and staring at the picture box?

Grandmother stated without looking up from her task.

Of course we dont expect that. But youre here to rest, not work.

Take a walk. The streets are safe, very safe. No harm will come to you.

There are eyes everywhere. Our neighbors know who you are.

Grandmother dropped a pinch of salt into the stew and swirled the

wooden spoon around the concoction a few times before bringing the

spoon to her lips for a sample. Satisfied, she nodded her head and then

looked at Lemusi and said flatly,

You should have left me to die in Pram-Pram. This place is hell.

Later on, in the privacy of their bedroom, Lemusi gently massaged

the arch of her husbands back. Kwasi was tense, but not for the reasons

Lemusi suspected. Having his mother there had not been easy for any of

them. Grandmothers adjustment to city living had been slow and

painful and was at times a weight on the family but that was not the

source of the knot of tension in his back.

Itll get better, Lemusi whispered. Everything is new to her. Its


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just going to take more time than we thought.

Kwasi nodded his head; his mother was the very least of his

worries. What was paramount in his mind was the allegation that had

come down from the director of the treasury accusing Kwasis manager

Ota Nweli - of diverting government money into his secret, personal

account. Otas passport had been seized and he had been placed under

house arrest while the police investigated the charges.

Kwasi had been summoned to the directors office and questioned

about the matter.

I had no idea, Kwasi said and shoved his trembling hands into

the pockets of his pants. He did not understand why he was so nervous

because he was in no way involved and knew nothing of the theft. But

still, perspiration gathered in beads across his forehead, and his tongue

turned to sand paper.

Really? None at all? the director said in a gruff voice. You were

his right hand man, and you didnt notice that these funds were missing

from the account?

No, sir, I did not. Those particular books were not put in my

charge.

The director eyed him warily. The truth will be revealed. He

dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Did you hear me, Kwasi? Lemusi had brought her lips close to


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his ear. Her warm breath fanned across his cheek. Kwasi turned and

looked into her eyes.

Im sorry, Lemusi, he said as he placed his palm on her cheek. I

was thinking about something. What did you say?

Lemusi grinned. I said, stop worrying yourself about your mother.

Everything is going to be just fine.

Kwasi nodded his head. Of course it will.


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Chapter Five

When Lemusi came wobbling into the house supported by her

husband and a pair of crutches, Grandmother tilted her nose into the air

and said, That is what happens when you wear those awful high-heeled

shoes.

Lemusi ignored her comment. It was the silliest thing. I go up and

down those steps at least once a week. How I missed the last step, I

dont know. Thank God I wasnt carrying Mawuli!

Kwasi helped Lemusi down onto the couch, turned to his mother

who had followed them into the living room, and announced, The

doctor said shell be in the cast for about six weeks.

Six weeks? Grandmother retorted with a huff. With that thing

on her leg?

Yes.

Grandmother shrugged her shoulders, turned and went back into

the kitchen where she seemed to spend most of her time now. Lemusi

could hear her through the wall mumbling about high-heeled shoes and

tight skirts.


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During the second week of Lemusis convalescence, Kwasi came

home in the middle of the afternoon. His face was limp with worry.

They have suspended me, he said as he walked to the cabinet, pulled

the bottle of Schnapps from the shelf, and poured himself a drink.

Suspended? But why? asked Lemusi.

They think I have something to do with the money that was

stolen.

By that time, Lemusi had already known about the theft, because

news of it had reached the newspapers. Even as the reports gained

momentum, Kwasi had kept the fact that he was being investigated a

secret from Lemusi. But now all of that had changed.

Thats ridiculous. Youve been working at the treasury

department for ten years, and not a cent has ever gone unaccounted

for.

Kwasi drained his glass and poured another. Lemusi watched

quietly as he drank. When hed drained the second shot, he looked down

into the empty glass as if his life had fallen down into it.

Lemusi asked, How long will you be suspended?

Until the investigation is complete and they find me innocent.

And how long will that take? Now a slither of panic could be


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heard in her voice.

I dont know, Kwasi announced dryly.

What will we do for money?

Kwasi sighed. I will still be receiving some of my salary.

Some?

Half.

Half? We cant live on half!

Kwasi scratched his head. We have our savings, well be fine. I

cant imagine that this investigation will go on for more than a few

weeks.

Lemusi uttered a bitter laugh. Have you forgotten where you

live? This is Ghana. What might take a few weeks in other countries can

take months or even years here.

Lemusi shifted uncomfortably on the couch and then timidly said, I

can go back to work.

Kwasi grunted and pointed a long finger at her cast.

Itll be off soon.

He shook his head. No, you need to be here with the baby. I said

not to worry. We are fine.

***


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Days later, Mawuli fell ill. His body raged with fever and boils the

size of eggs broke out on his skin. Kwasi took him to the doctor, who

prescribed ointment and antibiotics.

Grandmother did not trust westerners or their medicine and so she

sent Abba to the market for herbs, which she then pounded into a paste,

placed in a pot of water, and set to the boil. The concoction made a

stench so strong it could be smelled for blocks. After a few minutes,

Lemusi appeared at the doorway of the kitchen with her hand pressed

over her mouth and spoke through the slats of her fingers, What is

that?

Medicine for the child.

Bush medicine?

What else would it be?

Lemusi wobbled over and peered into the pot.

Is he to drink that?

No, it is for him to wash in.

Lemusi backed away from the bubbling mixture. She removed her

hand from her face and inhaled. The scent was so caustic it made her

cough even though it seemed to have no effect on Grandmother at all.

I I, Lemusi began respectfully, I dont think that this is a good

idea. The medicine that the doctor prescribed will start to work very


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soon, so Her words dropped away under Grandmothers icy gaze.

You trust the white mans medicine over that of your own kind?

Lemusi was flustered. Well its not about trust...I just think that...

Grandmother slammed the spoon down onto the stove. What do

you think? Tell me.

Lemusi face turned scarlet, her lips continued to flap, but no

words emanated from her mouth. Finally, embarrassed and ashamed,

Lemusi retreated to her bedroom.

Hours later, she woke to Mawulis terrified screams. Grandmother

had poured the mixture into the tub and had set Mawuli down into.

Mawulis cries echoed through the house, pulling Lemusi from her

afternoon nap. For a few moments, Lemusi floundered helplessly

between sleep and wake, unable to decipher whether or not she was

dreaming. When it was clear that Mawuli was in peril, Lemusi jumped

from the bed and landed on her wounded ankle. Pain exploded behind

her eyes, and she went crashing down to the floor where she lay

moaning as she cradled her foot.

When the pain ebbed to a throbbing ache, she crawled from the

bedroom, down the hall, and into the bathroom where Mawulis cries

bounced off the tiled walls like balls.

Mama! Mama, what are you doing? Lemusi screamed as she


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dragged herself into the bathroom.

Grandmother had one meaty arm wrapped tight around Mawuli,

holding his squirming, naked body down in the water. With her free

hand, she dunked a sea sponge into the pot of the concoction shed

boiled and then raked the sponge across Mawulis skin, dispersing the

green liquid over his flesh, rupturing the boils. The infection had seeped

out and was floating atop the water like yokes. Mawulis face was red

and wet with tears, and his mouth was stretched wide open as a fresh

scream climbed his throat.

Lemusi struggled to right herself and dragged her injured foot the

last few feet until she was standing, unsteadily before Grandmother. The

old woman looked up in surprise, but it was too late, Lemusi already had

her by the wrist, pulling her arm back until Grandmother fell off the stool

and hit the floor with a thump. Lemusi then snatched Mawuli from the

water, and did not even glance at Grandmother as she hobbled from the

bathroom, back down the hallway, and into her bedroom.

When Kwasi arrived from his hearing at the treasury department,

Grandmother was seated on the verandah, solemnly plucking the

feathers from the body of a decapitated fowl.

Mama, Kwasis tone was tired. Ive asked you a hundred times

not to do this on the front verandah. If you must buy and kill live fowl,

you can do so in the backyard.


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Grandmother raised her head. Her lips were pressed into a thin

angry line.

Whats wrong? Whats happened?

Your wife hit me.

Kwasi was sure hed heard wrong. He set his briefcase down,

loosened the knot in his tie, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of

the gray slacks he wore, and said, What did you say?

Grandmother flung her arm out at Kwasi, revealing the

impressions of Lemusis fingers pressed black and blue into the flesh of

her wrist. Kwasi stared in quiet astonishment.

Lemusi did this? he asked unbelievingly.

To Kwasi, it seemed that his life was unraveling as quickly as a

ball of yarn. The officials at the treasury department claimed to have

incrementing evidence as well as an eyewitness who could confirm

Kwasis involvement in the theft. When Kwasi asked to see the evidence,

and for the name of the eyewitness, the officials had stammered and

stuttered, and in the end had not granted either request. Instead, theyd

thrust an affidavit under Kwasis nose and urged him to sign it. We can

make this go away for you, Tsikata. No prosecution and no jail time, just

dismissal.

Kwasi quickly understood that they didnt have anything on him,

but were looking for a scapegoat to take the fall. The Ghanaian


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newspapers were demanding that the treasury department bring the

coconspirators to justice and criticized the snail-like progression in which

the investigation was progressing.

Some of those articles had been reprinted in European and

Chinese newspapers, which painted Ghana in a less than favorable light

on the worlds stage.

Kwasi refused to sign the affidavit and instead had gone straight

to an attorney whom he paid a ten thousand Cedi retainer. That had

taken little over half of what was left of their savings. And now hed

come home to find that his wife had attacked his mother.

Kwasi left his mother on the verandah and marched into the house

to his bedroom. The door was closed and locked. Kwasi knocked and

when Lemusi did not immediately respond his temper boiled over and

shouted, Lemusi, open this door now!

The lock clicked open and Kwasi barged in. Lemusi was seated on

the edge of the bed; her hair was flayed about her head like that of

madwoman and her eyes were red and puffy from crying. Mawuli was

beside her, fast asleep.

What have you done?

What have I done? What have I done? With each question,

Lemusis voice climbed to a hysterical level. Your mother went against

my wishes and bathed our child in bark, and weeds and Lord knows


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what else, so I did what I had to do!

Kwasi opened his mouth to speak, but Lemusi wasnt done yet.

Look, look at your sons skin. Look at it!

Kwasi gazed down at the gaping purple craters on Mawulis body

and then he turned back to his wife and said, They look like theyre

healing. Isnt this what we wanted?

Lemusi was up and in his face before he could utter another word.

The slap was sudden and harsh, temporarily blinding him.

L-Lemusi! Kwasi cried as he caught her by her small shoulders,

whipped her around, and then slammed her against the wall. The mirror

shook and slipped off of the wall and crashed loudly to the floor. Have

you taken leave of your senses?

I want her out of this house. Today, right now! Take her back to

Pram-Pram! Lemusi screamed hysterically.

Have you gone mad? Stop it! Kwasi yelled as he shook her.

Lemusi kept screaming and Kwasi kept shaking her. But Lemusi

would not stop screaming, and Kwasi finally unfurled his fingers from her

shoulders and stepped back. They glared at each until he mumbled an

apology. Lemusi did not respond; she hobbled shakily away from him,

and fled to Abebes room where she remained until Abebe came home

from school.


36/37

That evening, the family ate dinner in silence. The tension hung in

the air like syrup. Abebe longed to escape it and so hurried through her

meal and then asked if she could be excused.

Sometime during the night, Abebe woke to use the bathroom and

heard the hushed voices of her father and grandmother. They were

conversing in Ewe, a language that Abebe was not quite familiar with

and so she was only able to make out a few words. Her name was

mentioned a number of times along with that of her mother and her

aunt Serwa. The grandmother made a remark about bad luck, which was

followed by a million words, Abebe did not understand.

There was urgency in her grandmothers tone, but her fathers

responses sounded unsure.

I hope youve enjoyed this excerpt of My Name is Butterfly.

For a limited time only you can purchase the ebook for .99cents on

Amazon, B&N and Smashwords.

Other books by Bernice L. McFadden


37/37

Gathering of Waters

Glorious

Nowhere is a Place

Camilllas RosesLoving Donovan

This Bitter Earth

The Warmest December

Sugar

Visite the author at: www.bernicemcfadden.com
http://www.bernicemcfadden.com/http://www.bernicemcfadden.com/

my name is butterfly

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