“OnSa Sshwε mbSframa ebien sika ye Sdze brε mi Sboso a? Sε wannfa ba nkε oye!” Grandmother stuttered in her frustration, fussing about the meager amount of money my father brought for our upkeep on his sporadic visits. My father’s visits always evoked such outbursts from Grandmother though none were ever expressed in his presence. Grandmother had custody of my younger sister, Sheela and me, after our parents split up and both decided to go work abroad; Ma went to Liberia and Daddy went to Germany. This man, my father, was like a distant relative who, never remembering actual anniversaries, bundled any and every celebration—First Communion or Confirmation, speeches or performance debuts—into these sporadic visits. One particular visit rose to mind. I was preparing for Confirmation and Grandmother had put in a call to his office to inform him of this. This was her usual subtle way of telling him his children needed something—white linen material for my Confirmation dress in this instance. His latest wife owned a material store and rumor had it, she allowed him to take all the materials that didn’t sell and distribute them to his children. He had six from five different women. This was a cheap way of fulfilling his child-support duties without spending too much actual money.

2 thoughts on “Another piece of the memoir

  1. I just love your grandmother. Is she still alive, by any chance? Strong old lady and like so many, quite reslilient in her struggle to make life comfortable for her grandkids.

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