If you haven’t read the first part of this story, here’s the link. Kindly read it before starting this one.

The next morning, I ran out of home, went back to my school and spoke to Madam Beatrice about it. She was so livid she followed me home. My mom said, “Do you think you love her more than me? I’m her mother for Christ’s sake. She’s lying. I live with her and I know better than you.”

Beatrice left with her face down but from the look in her eyes, I knew she believed me.

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When my results came, I did very well. Madam Beatrice knew I wouldn’t be able to go to S.S.S as it was then called. She talked to her husband on my behalf and they both came to speak to my mom about taking me to school. My mom agreed and for the first time in my life, I left that village with a pungent desire not to come back the same person.

During vacations, I would go to Madam Beatrice’s house to help them. I was sleeping there but would go to my mom to say hi. One day, my mom came to Madam Beatrice’s house to display there, accusing her of stealing her daughter from her. She came with the iroko man. Immediately I saw him, I started vomiting. I felt the strong urge to attack him but I couldn’t.

When I got back to school, I didn’t come to the village again until I completed. My elder brother had relocated to Accra and was living in his small apartment. He housed me and also started contributing to my welfare. After my final exams, I went back to the village to say thank you to Beatrice and her husband. I didn’t go home. I spent three days with them and travelled back to Accra to stay with my brother.

My brother was doing a factory work. He forced to get a role there for me too. I worked for three years, saved money and went to the training college. I chose the training because of the allowance the government was paying us. It helped me a lot.

I was in school when I got the news that my father had died. I was on vacation during his funeral. My brother was getting ready to go for the funeral. He asked me, “Are you not going? Why are you not getting ready?” I answered, “To where? I don’t know him.”

He went to the funeral and came back with messages from my mom and my dad’s family. I listened to it in one ear and let it escape from the other. The only person I knew was Madam Beatrice. I prayed for her. I sent good wishes her way. I visited and spent days with her without going home. Even when she pleaded with me to go and see my mom, I told her, “The only mom I know is you.”

In 2011, my brother went home and came with my mom. I was then a teacher in Suhum. He called and said, “Mom is here. She wants to see you. Come around on the weekend to see her.” He gave her the phone to talk to me but I cut the call. My brother was angry with me. He called; “She’s all we have now. Forget the past and be here to see her. Do you want to tell me you haven’t wronged anyone in your life?” I responded, “I have. But I haven’t given my daughter away for another man to abuse her the way she did. You should be in my shoes before you can judge.”

She spent a whole month with my brother but I never went home to see her. I was in South Africa in 2016 with a man I met online who wanted to marry me. My brother called to tell me mom was sick. I told him, “Take care of her. Is she not your mom?” He said, “You don’t understand. It’s very serious.” I answered, “You know I’m not a doctor. What can I do?”

I came to Ghana a week later. Two days after my return, my mom died. My brother called me on the phone crying but I never felt I’d lost anything. It felt like seeing the obituary poster of a stranger on the wall. You look at it casually and walk away with no mark of hurt or grief. My brother said I was a devil. He called me a stone without a heart. Maybe that’s what the iroko man did to me that afternoon when birds were taking shelter away from the sun.

I told my brother, “She’s your mom and I’m sorry for what you’re going through but please do me a favour. I don’t want to hear anything about her funeral arrangement. Don’t talk to me about it.”

My brother blocked me after that call. I didn’t blame him. He was the one feeling the loss. Madam Beatrice in her old age called, “Come and say goodbye. She’s still your mom.” Our Family head called, “No matter where you go, you’ll one day come home. We’ll do to you what you’re doing to your mom.”

I didn’t go to the funeral. They buried her.

I didn’t want to lose my brother so a few months after the funeral, I went to knock on his door and entered. He frowned when he saw me but his eyes were fully dilated. He missed me I knew it. We talked like siblings who have had a fight. He said he was scared of me because one day he would wrong me and I’ll never forgive him. I told him, “If you do anything beyond what my mom did, I won’t forgive you but I don’t think I will survive it for us to talk about forgiveness.”

We both went silent. He entered his bedroom and left me to watch TV. Under his center table, I saw a little booklet with my mom’s photo on it. Her funeral brochure. I went through her biography, they said sweet things just like they say to everyone who dies. I looked at her age, 62 years. I looked at children and saw my name there. Tears fell. I closed it and put it back like I never picked it up.

I sat in a car back home and couldn’t hold myself back from the tears. No I wasn’t crying because of my mom. I was crying about my childhood. That girl who did nothing wrong but had to go through so much pain just to survive. I cried about that afternoon. I was broken all over again. When I got home, I called my brother and was still crying; “You didn’t understand my pain but I forgive you. You had your own pain to deal with but I envy your strength. I’m going to need you close so that this strength will rub on me.”

Maybe he cried too but I didn’t see it. I felt it. I have my brother on my side now. He was there as my dad during my wedding. He held my hand and gave me away to my husband. Madam Beatrice was my mom that day. She put the veil over my head and prayed for me. I remember what she said, “God you know the heart and story of my daughter. Give her happiness in this journey because she has suffered a lot.”

Three Months After Our Breakup, He Got Married

I was about to cry but I saw the tears in her eyes and shushed mine. I’ve forgiven my mom long ago. I think that tear I shared while reading her biography was a testament to forgiveness from deep within. I don’t regret how I treated her. If anything, I’m happy she died knowing the depth of pain she caused me.

—Maame Luu

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