I appreciate it all. I really do
prologue
MAYBE ALL THIS HAPPENED BECAUSE MR. ADDISON tried to rape me. For a man old enough to be my father, he sure was strong.
Mike would have slapped his palm against his forehead if he had found out. Then he would have hugged me or something, and then after, gone to break Mr. Addison’s jaw. Mike was wonderful like that. When I asked him what he saw in Hannah, he said she was “some woman.” Noticing my expression, he added, “You’ve always been more person to me.” Half an hour later he married Hannah in the suit I had bought for him.
So maybe it was Hannah after all.
A cold gust brings me out of my thoughts. I am cold and numb. My throat is dry and cries out for something warm and sweet and comforting. Uncle Johnny gave me my first taste of wine when I was fourteen. I remember that night so vividly.
Maybe it was Uncle Johnny, rather.
I bite back the tears welling up behind my eyes. Kind of the way Augustine had attempted to. Augustine had not been one of my best decisions. I hadn’t told Wolf this, but Augustine had sort of gone off the rails afterwards. I had not been good for Augustine.
Wolf—maybe it was him.
Or maybe his father or his mother?
Or Nii?
Or was it the cancer that took my father?
Or the miscarriage?
Maybe it was Junior.
Maybe it was Jeff being so self-absorbed.
Maybe it was the Fire-Eater’s animosity towards me.
Or maybe, maybe it was me.
Maybe all this happened because I was me. But then could I be anything else?
I shake my head. I’m beginning to sound like Wolf already.
Another chilly breeze hits me.
“Ͻdɔ!” calls the young dreadlocked man in the BMW to my left. He licks his lips. His invitation hangs in the air like a disembodied hand, caressing my chin and beckoning me towards warmth.
I look around the filling station in the middle of nowhere. I have to find somewhere to go soon, but everywhere—Cape Coast, Accra—is the deep blue sea. And the sea has proven to be anything but warm.
The devil is still looking at me, all of the me he can see.
I wrap my arms around myself. Boy, is it cold out here.
Boy, am I cold.
1
MR. ADDISON SEEMED GENUINELY NICE WHEN HE hired me five minutes into my interview, not even asking what happened with my old job in Accra.
When I told him about my mother and I having to relocate to a dingy compound house after my father died, he gave me a cosy little colonial era bungalow to live in. He then suggested a fun trip to the Grand Cape resort in Elmina that Saturday night, after I had moved in.
And it was fun at first.
Then came the touchiness—holding my hand, wrapping another round my waist, then “playfully” smacking my rear. Nevertheless, I followed him up to the hotel room. Maybe I wanted to believe that he would turn out different, that Cape Coast would be different, a fresh start. Anyway, what saved me was his heart giving up on him.
In the emergency room after the heart attack, the nurses rushed past, and each one of them gave me the eyes. It was not hard to know what they were thinking. He was married and old and rich. I was unmarried and young and my dress was high above my knees.
What the nurses thought, Mr. Addison’s driver said. When he dropped me off at the junction leading into West End Ridge, he muttered “Ashawo” before slamming the door and speeding off.
My house, number 3, sat atop the ridge and was the farthest from the main road. But fortunately, West End Ridge was a small neighborhood with the houses far apart and surrounded by trees and shrubs. I hadn’t seen a single neighbor since I moved in the day before, and I was glad no one was around to see my puffy eyes and the bright red stain on the white, polka-dotted dress I was wearing.
I had met many Mr. Addisons; I just never learned. The doctors said this latest one would be fine but he would have to live life at a much slower pace. Not that I cared anyway. I just wanted to fall into bed and wash the previous night’s events from my memory.
But it was then that I met my first neighbor.
The bungalows in West End Ridge all had the same basic format. Two bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, and living room. The back door opened into a garage, and the front door opened into a porch bounded by a low wall and a small wooden gate. Well, perched on my porch wall was a little boy.
He looked no more than ten or eleven, and he sat perfectly still. I dragged my feet to get his attention, but he kept on staring off into the distance. Even as I unlocked the porch gate, he just sat there, unmoving.
“Hello,” I called out.
There was no response.
I took cautious steps towards him. Nothing.
He only reacted when I tapped him on the shoulder. His thick, bushy eyebrows slanted down towards each other, and his large, bulging, owl-like eyes fixed themselves intently on me.
“‘Nevermore,’” he whispered.
“What?”
“‘Thus quoth the raven.’”
“What?”
“Never mind,” he said. He hopped off the short porch wall and into the grass. “I don’t think you’re coming from church.”
I folded my arms. “No, I’m not.”
“I saw you yesterday. You went out with Mr. Addison. Is this your house?”
“Yes it is,” I replied. “Who are you? What is your name?”
“My name is Wolfgang. But you should call me Wolf. It’s shorter. And . . .” He paused and mischief crept onto his face. “Do you want me to tell you a secret?”
My curiosity got the better of my desire to just fall into my bed, so I nodded.
He beckoned me closer and whispered into my ear. “I may look like one, but I’m not a human. I’m a wolf.”
I laughed and he set his jaw and balled his fists.
“Look, little boy,” I said to him. “Where do you live?”
He pointed behind me. I turned to look.
“Number 4. That’s my house.”
“I see. Well, you can’t
