“Ame-eh!” a voice cracked from the darkened doorway of the main chamber. It was a voice thin with age, brittle like dry harmattan leaves.
A moment later, Opanyin Dankwa shuffled out into the late afternoon light. He was leaning heavily on a wooden cane, his frame appearing smaller and more fragile than Kwesi remembered from just four months ago.
When the old man’s eyes adjusted to the light and landed on his son, the cane clattered to the concrete floor.
“Kwesi? My son?”
“Papa,” Kwesi breathed, crossing the distance in two long strides. He embraced his father, feeling the sharp protrusion of shoulder blades beneath the thin fabric. It was like hugging a bird—all hollow bones and trembling energy.
“You are back,” Opanyin Dankwa murmured, patting Kwesi’s back with a rhythmic, comforting thump. “Nyankopon ne adom (By God’s grace), you are back safe.”
“I am, Papa. And I have news. Big news.”
They sat on the porch, on the familiar cane chairs that had been part of the household since Kwesi was a boy. The woven seats were sagging. He looked around the compound. The paint was fading like sunburned skin, and the small garden patch where his mother used to grow garden eggs and peppers was overrun with weeds.
“You look… tired, Papa,” Kwesi said gently, loosening his tie. “Have you been eating well?”
“Oh, you know me,” the old man waved a hand dismissively, though his eyes failed to meet Kwesi’s. “I eat like a king. Daavi next door brings me food every day. I am fine, Kwesi. Just old age catching up with these bones.”
But Kwesi’s eyes were drawn to the small table in the corner. There was a metal bowl covered with a plate. He lifted it. Inside was a single, small ball of kenkey, a dry, headless fish and a bit of shito. It was a reasonable meal, but not one fit for a king.
A lump formed in Kwesi’s throat, hard and painful. While he had been in Tema negotiating million-cedi contracts, securing the future of Ghana’s cocoa trade, his own father had been rationing kenkey. The guilt washed over him, cold and sharp.
“Papa,” Kwesi said, his voice thick. “Why didn’t you tell me things were this bad?”
“You were working, Kwesi. Important work. I didn’t want to worry you with an old man’s stomach.” Opanyin Dankwa smiled, a toothless, genuine expression of love that broke Kwesi’s heart. “But tell me your news. You look like a man who has conquered a mountain.”
Kwesi took a deep breath, pushing the guilt aside for a moment. He would fix this. He would fix everything.
“The shipment was a success, Papa. More than a success. Mr. Mensah called me into his office today.” He paused for effect, just as he used to do when bringing home his report card. “He is recommending me to the board. For Regional Director.”
