And some faces glared at us as if we were the reason they were in the back of the truck.
Then a hand squeezed itself through the mesh and opened in our direction.
Wolfgang ran up to the truck, reaching into his schoolbag.
“Herh!” I cried.
The boy pulled out his food flask and offered it to the hand, which grabbed hold of the flask by the handle. Several more hands appeared through the mesh and gasped at the flask. The truck disappeared around the bend with the hands holding the flask against the mesh.
“Why did you do that?” I asked him. “Don’t you know they are thieves and murderers and rapists?”
He shrugged. “It’s boiled yam and kontonmire. I hate that stuff.”
We started walking again. “Your mother is going to kill you when she finds out the flask is gone,” I told him.
“She wouldn’t dare,” he said. “No one can touch me.”
He then ran ahead to the fork that split the road into two, one leading to my house and the other to his.
“Come!” he cried and gestured. “Come to my house and meet my daddy.”
Number 4, West End Ridge sat about a hundred meters opposite my house. Although the bungalows were identical in every way, this one looked considerably older than mine. The asphalt path leading up to it was weathered and potholed. The large wooden garage door had started to rot at its base, and black fungi ran down its walls, looking like mascara tears.
In the driveway was a gray pickup truck. A big and imposing man I presumed to be his father walked around it, inspecting the wheels. He moved with the authority of a person who was aware he could beat any obstacle into submission. I felt small and awkward as I approached him.
“Good afternoon,” I said.
He turned around. “Afternoon.” His voice was as authoritative as his manner, and his eyes regarded me suspiciously.
“She’s a new teacher at my school, Daddy,” explained Wolfgang. “She teaches JSS.”
His father shot him a look that scared even me. “No one asked you, young man. Go inside and study.”
“Goodbye, Desire,” he said, and waved. “See you tomorrow.”
“Desire, eh?” asked his father.
“Yes. Desire Mensah. I teach at your son’s school like he said.”
He took my hand and shook it. “Stanley Ofori. I’m a lecturer at the university.”
“That’s impressive. What do you teach?”
“Metamorphic petrology. I’m a geologist.” He pointed to boxes in his pickup. “I’m just returning from the field, as you can see. Those are my samples.”
“That’s interesting. Can I take a look?”
He pulled out a pocket knife and cut the tape sealing one box. Inside were small, roughly fist-sized rocks. Most were dark colored, almost black. But one caught my eye. I picked it up to take a closer look. It had black and white stripes and red spots scattered all over it.
“I had always thought of rocks as hard, dirty brown things,” I said. “So what will you do with them?”
“Many things, petrographic studies, chemical analysis. But these are things you shouldn’t worry your head with.” He took back the rock and threw it back in the box. He then yelled “Junior!” so loud I jumped.
A man roughly my age emerged. “Yes, Da.”
“Come and pack these things inside.”
He obliged. I stepped backwards to give him way.
“This is our neighbor, Mrs. Mensah, by the way,” his father said.
“Miss,” I corrected.
Junior nodded at me. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” I replied, but he had already turned away.
“That’s my firstborn,” Mr. Ofori said.
“Oh.”
“So why aren’t you married?” he asked me.
“Well . . .”
“Don’t tell me you are one of those so-called feminists,” he growled. “You don’t believe in marriage, eh? You don’t want to submit yourself to a man?”
“No, I just—”
“Let me tell you something. I know women like you. You be there and be following these white people blindly. Those people don’t have any culture. You’ll die alone. Nobody will marry you oh. Yoo.”
“Oh, I have nothing against—”
“You this young generation, abandoning your culture for these sick Western ideas. Look at their societies, look at their divorce rates. Go and find a man and be a wife. No African man will tolerate this nonsense.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Me, I’ve said my own. Goodbye, Miss Mensah.”
He turned and left me there, feeling quite foolish and sorry for myself.
4
IN THE COMMON ROOM THE FOLLOWING DAY, I FOUND out why the primary school was in such a better state than the JSS.
“Have you heard of Wolfgang Ofori?” Baiden asked me.
“Yes. I’ve met him. He lives opposite my house sef. He’s an odd child.” I briefly considered telling them about the salute but decided against it.
“The boy is a genius,” said Baiden.
“I noticed.”
“The guy just wins quiz after quiz for the school. When you consider the grants and prize money he has won, it’s like he has singlehandedly renovated the school. He’s like the duck that lays golden eggs.”
“As for me, I think that boy has an evil spirit,” said Felicia, the social studies teacher.
“Hoh!” went Baiden.
Felicia turned in her seat to face us. “No, see, that child is very strange. He’s not normal.”
I frowned. “I think he’s just playing most times. He is a child, after all.”
“Why, you have also seen some of his things, eh?”
“Well, yes,” I replied slowly. “He was playing with some of his mates.”
“Aha! Did you see how much control he has over them? They fear him. You know what me
