Araba Bondzie

About Araba Bondzie

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Don’t Bet Against Me – Final Part

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I entered my first year in the University as the very definition of a green horn but Nii broke those horns off my head.

I could feel his manhood finally go through me after several minutes of teasing. Quite a number of rhythmic thrusts, spasms of pleasure, and he was collapsed on the floor beside me, looking away like I was not even there. This look like regret or disgust always shown on his face each time we had a sexual encounter. At first, it bothered me a little, just a little. And when it began to bother me a little over a little, I asked him about it. “Oh, you just really keep me going until I’m really exhausted!’’, was his answer. So it was a look of exhaustion? I considered it a compliment. “I surely seem to be good at this”, or so I thought. Nii was my senior in school; a fourth year student and that was our umpteenth round of sex. I was the fish that was caught in his ‘October Rush’ net and my, how happy I was to be that lucky. Each year, after the freshmen’s matriculation by October, many lady first year students were ‘grabbed’ by seniors and became their girlfriends. But, I would not say our story was the same, it was not this mere. The beginning of our relationship was magical, even though it is not exactly the same now. October Rush or no October Rush, Nii and I were made for each other. He was my first love and I shared my pride of virginity with him without regrets. My life revolved around him, so much that I could go a week without talking to my father, ignoring his calls because Nii filled my mind, at the expense of my grades. Nearing the end of the final semester of my first year, I was in Nii’s room for the weekend. I was just going through pictures on his phone when a message popped up. “Missed you badly sweetheart, when are you dropping by again? I love you”, it read. My heart skipped a beat, then a thought flipped through my mind, “It might just be his sister or something.” “Get real Kukua, why would his sister send such a message?” another thought made way. “Nii”, I was trembling like the morning Mama left us, “is there someone else?” “Someone else where?” he asked with a suspicious look. “Do you have another girlfriend? Someone just sent a message about missing you and loving you.” “Did I ever say that you had the right to go through my messages?” “I…I wasn’t going…” “Give me back my phone!” he cut in. “What do you take me for?” I blurted out with pain and anger in my heart. “I have another girl, so what? Am I the first guy to do this? We were just goofing around anyway”, he said with his back to me. I could say no more. I picked up my bag and left – dumbfounded.

Thankfully, I didn’t get pregnant. My menses came for the month of July after our break up in May and it was much heavier than usual with sharp pains but I made nothing of it. Then in September, I bled continuously for 15 days – a very heavy flow amidst that sharp pain. Papa was so concerned; he took me to see my mother’s gynecologist, the same one who had delivered me at birth. He run some tests including an ultrasound and arrived at a probable diagnosis: he suspected cervical cancer. The journey back home was a long quiet one. “It took your mother away”, he broke the silence, “Mama died of cervical cancer, but this time. It will not have its way. We are beating this thing.” That was the first time we had spoken about Mama since the morning she died over a year ago. Cancer can be hereditary in some cases and early indulgence in vaginal sex can increase a woman’s chances of developing the cancer; both were true in my case. Two days afterwards, I underwent a procedure called Pap smear which confirmed my status – it was positive.

The months following this were painful. Often times, I felt unseen by God. Though they caught the disease in a not so bad stage, I had to go through chemotherapy and thorough treatment to ensure that we took it out from the roots – Papa would definitely see to that. I was often sick and seldom active, my skin was bare of any body-hairs and I had to stay out of school.

It’s in the darkest night that little lights shine the brightest. It was in these times of pain and hardship, as I watched Papa sacrifice so much to get me quality medical attention, as I determined to go through treatment and get well, that I developed my tough skin. No more timidity – I decided and declared to each day that came, as if to make sure that day went exactly according to my plans. More so, Mama was hard against timidity, she said God wasn’t for it and had written in the Bible to me that I must overcome timidity. I remember her opening up that page where it was and reading it out, only I cannot remember exactly what it said.

Overtime, I began to regain my strength. In the third week of November that year, I was scheduled to take a test which would show whether or not the treatment had been effective and the malignancy had been taken out. I was home with Papa the day after the test when the telephone rang. Papa answered and I could tell it was my doctor on the line. I tried to read the expressions of his face to decipher what they were talking about. But I was hopeful and sure that I was cancer-free. I was only waiting to hear the confirming good news at the end of their telephone conversation. Finally, he got off the phone. “Kuks, you’re a good fighter and you have done so well during this trying time, but we’re going to have to keep fighting.” The tests came out positive – I was not cancer-free, at least not yet, but I will be! The devourer cannot win twice. “You took Mama, but you cannot take me!” I exclaimed. “Exactly dear”, Papa said, and took me into his arms. “I miss her Kukua; I miss your mother so much.” “I miss her too”.

We went through another month of painful treatment and then it was time for another test to check my progress. To the center for testing, Papa and I wore T-shirts on which a seamstress friend of Mama had made embroidery writings that read “Cancer-Free”. Faith moved the mountain; my results came out negative – I was cancer-free! For the first time in a long time, home really felt like what is actually is. I was so happy, I cooked; a gift I had abandoned since Mama passed.

When I returned to school, though I had had to defer my course, I walked the streets of campus with a different spirit – a spirit of victory and pride. I was ready to face any circumstance and beat it!

“Who says it isn’t possible?

Who says you are not capable?

Who called it merely probable?

Realistically, maybe, you really aren’t capable.

But don’t fret, God is.

He is capable and He makes it all possible.”

Those were the final words of my Valedictorian speech on graduation day. Papa was so proud; he stood in the audience throughout my speech.

It’s been five years since that day. I work as a Senior Partner with Design Bit – a renowned international architectural firm in Ghana. Papa is a retiree, we live together in our home (designed by yours truly) at Kanda, a suburb of Accra. Two years ago, we started the Don’t Bet Against Me Foundation; an NGO which is focused on creating awareness on cancer and helping to increase the arte of survival among cancer patients. Each year on Mama’s birthday, we put on our ‘Cancer-Free’ shirts and distribute free freshly baked Awula Bonjour recipe loaves of bread to the homeless on the streets of Accra.

Out of Hiding

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It’s all so mounted up

It’s gonna run like a fountain

Its boiling up

The world is thirsty for your water

Quit turtling up

There’s so much inside you

Pour it all out

 

Ain’t it been in there?

Right from the onset?

Been fed, nurtured

And now matured

It’s all grown up

Quit bottling it up

Pour it all out

 

Gifted, talented

For how long should you be motivated

To set it flowing

Stop caving it in

It’s time to let yourself out!!

 

Don’t Bet Against Me 2

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Everything had changed; my life had taken a new turn. It was a week after my mother passed and I still did not know why she had just left, not because the cause of death was kept from me; I just could not bring myself to ask how and I decided to keep it that way. Papa was devastated. He shut himself up to world. I guess I was not the only one bad at handling grief. The only thing that forced us out of our rooms was news from Aunt Philo that sympathizers had arrived to share in our grief to some minute extent of course. Whatever good could “God knows best” and “It is well” do to us? The statement I hated to hear the most was “She is in a better place.” What is that even supposed to mean? Where else could be better than with me, with us; baking for sale the neighborhood’s favorite bread. Jamestown folk called her Awula Bonjour. The story is told that before Mama was even married, in her youthful days as a fishmonger by inheritance, she travelled to Abidjan in search of greener pastures. It was there that she learnt to bake and on her return, she switched from greeting in the local dialect to greeting “Bonjour” at whatever time of the day to every single person with her head held high. She could not speak English because her fisherman father believed that schooling a girl-child formally would grow her horns. So if now she could ‘speak’ French, everyone had to know and her beauty was complete! And there was her bread, it was such a delicacy. My father, Fanti as he is, loved to eat her freshly baked bread with freshly steamed fish. So my heart was screaming, the best place for her was home, in Jamestown, in the lighthouse city. She has no other home!

I was not expected to entertain such thoughts. The very woman whom I grief took me to church, taught me Christian songs and raised me with Godly principles. But somehow, in those moments I found no solace in that. Probably, that would not be the manner in which she would have liked for me to react, but at that point, all I wanted was to have my mother back. I wanted her to be the one to console me. It was she who had consoled me during my first heart break after scolding me for falling in love with my classmate at age 13 and giving my snacks to the boy who later told the entire class that I was just being foolish. The only thing that bought me back any dignity was the fact that I was always at the top of my class academically. Mummy would rub my tummy through the night when I began experiencing menstrual cramps. She boiled all kinds of herbs just to soothe my pain.

It was two weeks to Mama’s burial and I was still not finished with writing my tribute. I had been seated on my bed behind a notepad for about two hours. I lifted my pillow, placed it vertically behind me and rested on it while leaning against the wall to relieve me of the backache I had developed over time. Tears filled my eyes and rolled down my cheeks as I recounted my memories of her; it was the most difficult piece to write. It was so hard to stay focused on passing my Senior High School final exam. Thankfully, I made it to study my preferred course – Architecture. I entered my first year in the University as the very definition of a green horn but Nii broke those horns off my head.

Don’t Bet Against Me

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Papa was my first love; I was the only fruit he bore after twelve years of marriage. He had waited long enough for me; it was only natural that I was the very apple of his eyes. The most exciting moments of my childhood were the nights when Papa would return home from work at the Accra High Street Post Office and sit me on his laps while we watched the news and afterwards, some local drama. I did not understand the shows much, all I loved was that, Papa would soon fall asleep while I still sat on his lap and there, I would have my chance to blow air into his bare navel; making funny noises until he carried me off to bed so he could catch on his sleep too. There are still times I wish I could play my life back to twelve years ago when this was my daily evening routine.

I thought my love for my parents was all channeled only to Papa until one Saturday morning, I woke up and everything was unusual. I was home for holidays during my final year at secondary school. Aunt Philo, Mama’s help, was alone in the kitchen. Mama never allowed her to single-handedly cook any meal. I could not hear the sound of the radio in the porch, neither was Papa seated there whistling the tune of his favorite Bob Cole songs. Everyone loved Bob Cole’s music, I was told. He was one of the best Ghanaian composers of his time. “Auntie Philo, where are Mama and Papa?”  “Oh I think they are resting in their room.’’ Mama’s still in bed at 6:35am? And she had not sent Auntie Philo to hold me by the ear and pull me out of bed by 5:30am? In a typical Ghanaian home setting, it was unheard of for a woman to stay in bed until the sun came up. Such a woman is condemned – lazy, cannot keep a home, and woe unto she that mothered that girl; she will be rendered utterly irresponsible.

“Papa, can I come in?’’, I asked my father from behind his bedroom door. “What do you want?’’, it came out as from a man in anguish. I opened the door, my sixteen year old mind filled with questions and curiosity I longed to satisfy. Mama wasn’t in sight. Papa lay on the bare floor, motionless; his face buried by his elbowed-out arms. “She died”, he let out. Suddenly, it felt as though “Motionless’’ was a spirit that had filled the room together with everything that occupied it. We stayed that way for what felt like a whole hour. Then, I begun to tremble, weeping uncontrollably, and my mind flooded as never before with questions, yet my lips seemed to have no strength to speak.

 

next bit will be published on the 14th…stay tuned

Go Harpazo

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My Soul, in need of a snatching

She came after me, running

To every excuse, a counter reason

To every trial of escape, a seizing

Escape? More of falling deeper

Deeper into the uncertainty that births eternal punishment

Where lost souls face an unending predicament

 

She took hold of me

That believing lady

She was out to compel me

That Christian maiden

“There’s a place prepared for you”, said she, “a place prepared by the King”.

Stained crimson red,

Burned black coal,

Yet, washed white snow!

 

My judgement, changed

My death sentence, waived

My soul, saved

The soul snatcher

Who never ended her quest to HARPAZO

 

Snatched to snatch

That was the plan

Saved to seek and to save

That was the hatch

Many wasting away

Several to the fall

Down to the flames

Thick and fiery

From thence you must snatch

That is a must!

 

So tell me…

How many to your credit?

Engage me

How many since your merit

Of the Savior’s washing

Go Harpazo

Fulfill your call to duty

Go asnatching

Wear your honorary title of sainthood.

 

inspired by Rev. Ellis Cofie

Hey Marriage…

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I don’t want just a marriage

Where I will just manage

I want one that pleases God

That will fight all the odds

 

I don’t want just a mansion

I want a home where I will function as a woman with an unction

To submit

Not to fight to merit

A position that’s a misfit

 

I don’t want just a name

And then end up in the drain

I want a marriage that’ll go through the strain

Yet, not disdained

friends

Matters Arising

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Episode 1

We’ve been friends since creation but we physically met in junior high school. We are a group of four, each crazy in her own way. I’m not much of an English scholar; not even close, so pardon me if you spot any grammatical errors in this my account of our ups and downs, and lefts and rights. It’s Claire who is good with English, the spoken type I mean. Mawuena is the writer. Rita is sort of the thinker; always coming up with great ideas. If her father were to be some rich man, this girl would have several lines of businesses by now but because of poverty, she has to build from scratch. Good thing Claire was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. Maybe she can sponsor her small-small, instead of wasting her huge allowances on her crazy fantasies and Jude; the guy who she would do anything for. I’m Nhyira, the talker, the speaker and the boss lady of the group. They always say I’m “too known” or something; but deep inside their hearts, they do believe, that had it not been for me and my quality leadership skills, this group would have fallen apart. I’m like our relationship glue, take me out and nothing would hold.

In February of 2007, my mother decided that at age 12, I needed more female friends.  She said hanging around boys all the time was not good enough, especially now that I had had my menarche. What was the big deal anyway? To me girls were just too girly; always concerned about pretty, pretty, pretty. What annoyed me the most was their obsession of the colour pink! Boys were fun; they always had important stuff to talk about and they seemed to be so loyal to one another, unlike the girls who always grouped together to speak ill of another girl, and it was often because she had something they didn’t have.

I felt like I was living a nightmare when my mother told me she wanted to me to join the Girls’ Guide club. And when mother wanted something, she always had it. So there I was, spending two hours every week with a group of girls in blue dresses and yellow scarves, singing songs and talking girly. Weeks passed and someway, somehow I got used to the club’s activities, and though I would love to deny it, the truth is that I enjoyed some of them. In my defense, I enjoyed some, not all and I’m a girl too after all. During the summer vacation in August, the Girls’ Guide club organized a one week camp. The camp commander, talked about it for weeks before vacation, she made it so attractive, full of activities that I loved; bonfires, a trip to a lake for boat rides and sporting activities, so I decided to attend. Mother was excited – her daughter was finally learning to love the company of her own kind.

Alone with girls only for an entire week!  By now, I had made a few friends, like-minded to some extent of course, so it wouldn’t be too bad, I hoped. It was going to be a week filled with emotions that I never knew I had.

P.S.: Stay tuned to be jisted.

san

I can’t find MY sanitizer!

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I was aboard a public vehicle (trotro) about three weeks ago. After taking my change from the bus conductor, like I always do, I picked my sanitizer carefully out of its reserved pocket in my handbag and applied it in the prescribed fashion. The trotro arrived at my get-off bus stop and I alighted. On reaching my destination, I decided that I needed another round of sanitizing but my sanitizer was not in its pocket. “It must have dropped further down in the bag”,I thought. Alternatively, I went to the washroom to get my hands washed. Thereafter, I searched through my bag for my little bottle of hand sanitizer – it wasn’t there. I begun to regret using it in the vehicle; I was upset about the fact that I had lost it. If I hadn’t picked it out, I would still have it. I mean, it’s valuable stuff in this time.

A whole week passed, and I remembered that incident of my little bottle of sanitizer, then I felt bad, very bad. How selfish I had been! The what ifs begun to pour into my mind, feeding my thoughts. What if someone was saying a little in-heart prayer just for a small bottle of sanitizer? What if it had been the elderly man who sat on the next seat in the trotro, thinking to himself how he wished to be able to afford a small bottle of sanitizer? What if my leaving that bottle behind was a genuine prayer answered, because the truth is I had replacements.

How much experience have you got with selfishness. Have those experiences turned into lessons or remained just another day of being you?   🙂