“Kwesi! The big man returns from the coast,” Osei said, leaning his elbows on the window frame. His breath smelled faintly of fermentation. “We heard you were swimming in cocoa beans.”
“Just working, Osei. Just working,” Kwesi smiled, reaching out to grip his cousin’s hand. “How are things? I haven’t seen you since I left.”
“Oh, you know. The system is hard,” Osei shrugged, his eyes darting to the interior of the taxi, noting Kwesi’s suit, his briefcase. “Some of us are not as blessed as you, Kwesi. Not everyone fits into the corporate world.”
“It’s not about blessing, Osei. It’s about finding your place. Have you checked on that vacancy at the transport yard I told you about?”
Osei’s smile faltered. “The transport yard? Being a taxi station bookman? Kwesi, please. I am made for better things than shouting ‘Adum, Adum’ all day.”
“It’s a start, Osei. Honest work.” Kwesi hesitated, then decided to share a sliver of his joy, hoping it might encourage him. “Things are looking up at the office. Big changes coming. If you settle down, maybe I can find something for you later. A clerk position, perhaps.”
For a second, Osei looked genuinely interested, but then a shadow passed over his face. “A clerk. Working for you. That would be the day, wouldn’t it? The whole family would love that. ‘Look at Kwesi, helping his poor, useless cousin.'”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Kwesi said gently.
“I know, I know. You never mean it like that. You are the good one.” Osei pushed himself off the car. “Go on, ‘Director’. Don’t let me keep you from your important business. Say hi to Uncle for me.”
“I will. Come by the house later? We are celebrating.”
“Maybe,” Osei said, turning back to his friends under the tree. “Maybe.”
As the taxi merged back into traffic, Kwesi watched his cousin in the rearview mirror. Osei hadn’t returned to the game; he was just standing there, watching the car disappear, a solitary figure amidst the camaraderie of the group. Kwesi sighed. He couldn’t save everyone, he knew that. But he hoped, once the promotion was official, he could at least lift his family up with him.
The taxi turned off the main road and navigated the narrower, potholed streets of Bantama. The neighbourhood was lively, filled with the sounds of children playing football in the dust and the rhythmic pounding of fufu pestles. This was home. He directed the driver to a modest compound house with faded blue paint, the house his father had built forty years ago.
It wasn’t a palace, but to Kwesi, it was the most important place in the world. He paid the driver and stepped out, adjusting his suit one last time. He wanted to look his best for the old man. He pushed open the metal gate and stepped into the courtyard, calling out the traditional greeting.
“Agoo! Agoo!”
