The morning sun in Bantama was less forgiving than the previous evening’s golden glow. It beat down on the corrugated iron roofs, promising another sweltering day. But inside Opanyin Dankwa’s compound, the atmosphere was different. For the first time in months, the heavy, cloying scent of worry had been replaced by the rich, spicy aroma of hausa koko (millet porridge) and the yeasty sweetness of bofrot (fried dough balls).
Kwesi had risen early, long before the roosters had finished their dawn chorus. He had gone to the market, returning with bags laden with provisions, tin tomatoes, rice, oil, yams, and a large, live rooster that now protested its captivity from a corner of the yard.
Opanyin Dankwa sat on his porch, a steaming calabash of koko in his hands. He was dressed in his Sunday best cloth, a vibrant kente print that seemed to have absorbed some of the morning’s brightness. He sipped the porridge slowly, savouring the ginger and pepper, his eyes closed in contentment.
“My son,” he said, opening his eyes to look at Kwesi, who was busy arranging the groceries on the small table. “You have turned this house into a palace overnight. I feel like a chief.”
Kwesi laughed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. “You are a chief, Papa. The chief of this house. And a chief should not eat dry kenkey.”
“True, true,” the old man chuckled. “But be careful, Kwesi. When the pot is full, the flies come.”
As if on cue, the rusty metal gate squealed open. A head popped in, a woman with a tray of boiled groundnuts balanced precariously on her head. It was Maame Serwaa, the local gossip and unofficial town spokeswoman of Bantama.
“Agoo!” she called out, her eyes darting around the compound, taking in the bag of rice, the crate of soft drinks, the festive air. “I heard our learned son came here last night. Is it true our Kwesi is back?”
“Ame-eh, Maame Serwaa,” Kwesi replied, stepping forward with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He knew her type well. “Yes, I am back.”
“Ei! Look at you!” She set down her tray and clapped her hands. “You look like a big man! A whole Director, they say?”
“Just working hard, Maame,” Kwesi deflected. “Please, take some bread for your children.” He handed her a loave of the fresh sugar bread he had bought.
She accepted it greedily, her eyes still scanning the yard. “God bless you, my son. God bless you. But tell me, is it true you brought millions? People are talking.”
“People always talk, Maame,” Opanyin Dankwa interjected from his chair, his voice firm. “Let them talk. My son has done well, that is all.”
Maame Serwaa laughed, a shrill sound. “Of course, of course. We are all happy for you.” She picked up her tray. “I will go and tell everyone the good news.”
She left, but the gate didn’t stay closed for long. Throughout the morning, a stream of neighbours trickled in. Some came with genuine smiles, happy to see the prodigal son return. Others, like Mr. Agyeman, the shopkeeper, came with different intentions.
Agyeman was a short, stout man with a permanent sheen of sweat on his forehead and eyes that were constantly calculating. He waddled into the compound, wiping his hands on a face towel that had once been white.
“Opanyin!” he boomed, ignoring Kwesi at first. “I see smoke rising from your kitchen. It smells like a festival!”
“Kwesi is back, Agyeman,” Opanyin Dankwa said, gesturing to his son.
