There is a saying in the Akan language that goes, Abaa a yede bo Takyi na yɛde bo Kofi, to wit, the stick that is used to beat Takyi is the same stick used to beat Kofi. What is fair for one should also be fair for another. People say it casually, but they don’t know how heavy that saying can become when life decides to test it.

Some years ago, my mother was hit by what I still consider the deadliest illness. I received a call and rushed there. When I got there, my mother. My big mama. She lay there like a log of wood. One side of her body had gone still. Her mouth was slightly bent, her eyes trying to speak but her lips refusing to cooperate. I held her hand and it dropped, just like that, like it did not belong to her anymore. I called her, “Ma… Ma…” what came back was a sound that did not sound like her.

The room smelled of medicine and wet cloth. There was a bowl of water by her bedside, already cold, like it had been sitting there too long. The doctor said the stroke had passed a terrible stage.

My cousin had been helping, but she was about to get married. I could not hold her back. I stood there looking at my mother and I knew it was now my responsibility, fully.

So I called my wife. I said, “Wife, I am bringing my mother home so we can take care of her.”

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She refused. “Doesn’t she have a house? take her there.” At first I thought it was one of those reactions that would soften with time. You know how people say no first, then later they agree. But no. As the days went by, she grew colder. She moved around the house like I was not there. At night she turned her back to me, no words, nothing.

We argued. She said, “If she needs care, take her to the hospital, not here.” I asked why, but she never gave me a straight answer. Just going round and round, talking but not saying anything.

I got tired of asking to help my own mother, so I brought my mother home.

From the very moment she entered, something in the house changed. I was the one doing everything. I would wake up early, heat water, test it, carry it to her room, lift her gently, bathe her, change her clothes. I made sure she was comfortable, that she had food, that she had water. I would go to work and come back intermittently just to check on her, sometimes leaving in the middle of the day because my mind would not rest. Sometimes she would cry, quietly, maybe not even from pain, but from the shame of it. A whole woman reduced to this, needing her son for everything.

And my wife…. She would sit in the living room, chewing popcorn, watching television, laughing at things that had nothing to do with what was happening in the next room. I would pass her carrying soiled cloths, and she would not even look at me. Not once did she come to check on my mother. Not once did she ask me how I was coping. It was like we were living two different lives under the same roof.

That thing broke something small inside me first. Then it kept breaking more.

I would stand and look at her sometimes and ask myself, is this really the woman I married? The resentment did not come all at once. It built slowly, quietly, until I could feel it sitting heavy in my chest.

One morning, after a long night where my mother had not slept, I made a decision. I dressed my mother up one morning. Gently. The way she used to dress me when I was small and could not do it myself. I spoke to her, even though I don’t know how much she understood. I took her to the village to stay with a relative. That journey… I cannot even explain it well. Every bump on the road felt like I was failing her. I left her with a relative. I visited when I could. I would sit by her, feed her, talk to her. Sometimes when I got up to leave, her eyes would follow me.

Until she died. I grieved like a child. I did not even know I could cry like that. I cried for the woman who raised me alone, who went hungry so I could eat, who fought for my education like it was the only thing that mattered. I cried because I brought her into a house where she was not wanted.

You see, I am her only child. My father died when I was very young. It was just the two of us. We struggled, ah, we struggled. There were days we begged neighbours for food. Days we slept hungry. But school, school was serious to her. She would chase me with a cane if I refused. If I failed, she would deal with me. That woman did not play.

When it was time for university and she said she could not afford it, I understood. I worked as a pupil teacher, saved money. And she, that same tired woman, went around washing people’s clothes to support me.

After school, the tide finally turned in my favour. I worked as a service person for one major company in Ghana. After service, I was permanently employed. I did side business too. I started sending money to my mother. I bought her fabrics, took her out to eat.  Then I got land and built her a house. Something I could point to and say, your suffering was not wasted.

Then I found my wife. I brought her home, and my mother opened her arms wide enough to accommodate her.

After the wedding, my mother pulled me aside. “Rent a place for me and your cousin so your wife can have her privacy.”

Years later, that stroke hit her. My wife did not lift a finger to help. And my mother died a bitter death. That is the wound. That is where everything sits. I only know that after that, I developed a deep anger towards my wife. Her presence annoys me. I cannot stand her breath. I could not stand the heat that comes out of her. It began to affect everything, even the children. They vexed me more than anything. They were reminders that I had something tied to my wife for the entirety of my life. I had to take a pause, because of where it was going. Grief was trying to turn me into a bitter person, and I was working on it.

Now this is where my problem is. Two months ago, my wife’s mother also had a stroke. Now my wife understands what care means. Now she wants to bring her into the same house, the same rooms, the same space where my own mother lay and was ignored.

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The same house. I said no.

Her family came to talk about it. I did not even let them finish. I chased them out. Now they are calling me wicked. But I keep asking myself, am I wicked, or am I remembering too well?

Because the stick that was used on Takyi is still here. Fairness is fairness. If my mother was not worthy of care in this house, then no other mother is worthy of care in this house. Or am I wrong?

—Joshua

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