E SAT UP THE STAIRS LIKE A DRUGGED HEIFER WATCHING THE WORLD 
through a fog of stupefaction. The big head thinly haired had long given 
«L , t f ° m P ! X P r ° c e " e s o f g^ering, analysing, storing, assimilating, 
and utihsmg data on this unfathomable world. His big head, big stomach, 
Tehteh ??2 *.'9 / h e e k s ' w e r e enough data in themselves which remained in his fog. 
Manu, son of Morkor. He was one week short or rather one week beyond his first birthday 
h r " * * 
In the labour ward th7nn j streets of Accra. A passer-by managed to hold her before she hitthe tarmac, 
labour ward, the pa.n was murderous, horrible! It was sheer torturellhey gave all sorts of reasons why she 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts 
VoLl/N03
Morkor should suffer so - under 
age, malnutrition, failure to 
attend ante-natal clinic, etc. 
But why should she suffer 
just because of a baby she 
didn'twant-a useless, worthless 
baby? Her plans to desert the 
baby immediately after the 
childbirth came to naught only 
because she felt too weak even 
to keep her eyes open. By the 
time she could sit up on the 
bed, the nurses had firmly 
inflicted her baby on her. Just 
not to come into conflict with 
the law, she had to live with the 
baby. 
The cracked stairs led to 
a couple of similarly cracked 
rooms which were barely lifted 
above the slum compound of 
stagnant moss-infected marsh 
and almost carpeted of poultry 
droppings. The house itself 
seemed to be giving up the will 
to support itself above such 
luckless grounds. But it was in 
good company as some two 
hundred of such human 
dwellings built of mud bricks, 
plastered with cement and 
roofed with rusted corrugated 
iron sheets, spread out uglily in 
this old part of the city. Nima. 
What was left to be said 
about the slum of Nima? 
Nothing. What was left to be 
done? It was all there on paper. 
Had been for a couple of 
decades. The big houses to 
line the arterial road had started 
springing up. But they said the 
hundred thousand or so 
inhabitants could not be lifted 
up above the luckless grounds. 
They had to be hidden behind 
the camouflage mansions 
rooted in the market forces. 
Far removed from the 
traffic-jammed road the din 
could still be heard of the traffic 
and the buying and the selling 
of every conceivable thing - 
bleaching soap and alagbin 
analgesic, crab and bales or 
pieces of calico, plastic buckets 
and pocket knives, mosquito 
netting and chamber pots, 
Mexicano jeans and cerelac 
baby feed, high density 
diskettes and Michelin tyres, 
American dollars and iced 
yoghurt.... 
The boy sat there on 
the stairs holding on to his 
quarter ball of kenkey as if 
waiting for it to be 
transformed into a crystal ball 
by all that din. 
The fish piece was 
gone. He didn't know 
whether he had eaten it or 
lost it to the predator fowls. 
Or perhaps he wasn't given 
any at all by the mother who 
was in too much hurry to 
catch the tro-tro vehicle to 
Makola to hawk her petty 
assorted items: razor blades, 
camphor balls, blue washing 
powder, hair plaiting 
threads, et cetera. The kind 
of items that brought more 
losses in net than in gross 
profits and got the seller into 
fights with her creditors. 
The fish was gone. The 
kenkey remained. That kind 
of data was sufficiently selfsaving 
so the boy din not 
need to make any effort to 
store that in his big 
kwashiorkor head. Poor 
Manu. But there was nothing 
poor little Manu could do. 
He sat still, balanced between 
action and inaction. On the 
Stairs.
Kweiki was the little 
cousin that was to look after 
Manu on this occasion. It 
took Morkor many days of 
sweet talking to get Kweiki to 
agree to this repugnant task 
of baby-sitting Manu. The last 
time she did Morkor that 
favour, Morkor showed up 
late in the night. It was not a 
favour done without failings 
as Manu was again 
abandoned to the 
grandmother who barely had 
strength to hold a walking slick 
Kweiki heard from the 
grandmother how late Morkor 
returned and immediately she 
assumed the rightto reprimand 
Morkor 'If you want to stretch 
your back for another baby, 
please take this one along ' 
'I won't let you insult me 
Kweiki I am your elder sister.' 
Psst With a caricature 
like that baby you can talk 
about age But it is a question 
of gumption You don't start 
opening your legs until you 
are sure that goat won't dare 
slip through again.' 'I say I 
won't stand here for you to 
insult me, Kweiki.' 
Predictably, it ended up 
in a fight. It wasn't the first nor 
would it be the last. As always, 
it was Morkor who took the 
initiative to patch up. She 
needed to borrow money from 
the relatively better-off Kweiki. 
Just enough money to get her 
onto a tro-tro van for her ritual 
petty hawking. 
'You better carry your 
own baby, Morkor.' 
'I beg you Kweiki. Just 
this once. I've got to see Aunti 
Dora today and she's ten miles 
away. And I have to walk. I 
don't have money ' 
'Tie him onto your back. 
You always do.' She did that 
even as she hawked. Looking 
other slight physique, it was a 
wonder she had enough 
strength to carry another 
human being even if underweighted 
like Manu. She had 
to tie him to her lean back and 
run and dodge as the city task 
force men appear suddenly to 
drive hawkers like her off the 
street. 
Naturally, Morkor was 
lighter and a shade taller than 
the average woman. Her long 
face and thick lips meant she 
had to work hard to attract 
men. She hadn't done too 
African Quarterly 
on the Am 
Velll NO 3 
badly by her expectations 
The only thing was the one 
fatherless child Manu. It was 
a name she picked for him in 
defiance of tradition and 
customary practice Manu 
was a common Akan name 
and she was insisting the 
father wasAkan If she would 
be absolutely honest with 
herself (which she never was), 
she picked that name because 
that was the name of the 
richest man who ever slept 
with her He rode a brand 
new Honda bike and he 
worked with a courier service. 
Unfortunately, he was only 
interested in a one-time scene 
The curtains fell and he always 
zoomed past Morkor as if she 
was a litter bin. But he etched 
the name Manu indelibly on 
her lusty mind. 
'Why don't you ever 
do me this favour Kweiki. I 
always ask and you always 
refuse.' 
'You wanted a baby 
and you have it. Wanted this 
ugly thing.' 
'You know damn well I 
didn't want him ' 
'I never believe you. 
How can a serious abortion 
fail, eh?' 
'Must I repeat my 
curse? This boy here is a 
devil. I used all the herbs. I 
doubled the coffee. I almost 
killed myself with the 
chloroquine overdose. This 
baby stuck to my womb like a 
mistletoe.' She gave Manu a 
knock on the head to make 
her point. Kweiki liked that. If 
a baby wasn't wanted 
antenatally it wasn't wanted 
post-natally. She deliberately 
teased Morkor about the 
failed abortion to make her 
beat the baby. She had a 
mysterious satisfaction of 
seeing the baby beaten. 
Perhaps it was the 
unconscious fear that it could 
03ORA r«vl«w
also hqppen to her. To her, 
babies like Manu had no 
business messing up with 
young girls like her. 
That was not to say they 
had no business in the 
pleasures of making babies. 
No, no. How else could they 
eat and perm their hair and 
wear their second-hand 
clothing and second-hand 
shoes and go to watch the 
latest films and be a little betteroff 
than Kweiki? It was their 
life - the only kind they knew. 
Grow up to thirteen, just past 
or even right in the thick of 
puberty, drop out of school 
and drop under a new kind of 
tutelage - the business of 
handling men. You got fruiting 
buds on your chest to show for 
this kind of fortuitous age, you 
got the well-rounded and 
unruly arse to support yourself. 
Parents would give up. Some 
would even nudge you on. 
You had a whole range of 
men. You got to be smart and 
know how to milk well. 
Carpenters, drivers, masons, 
just call them artisans. Of 
course some office staff too - 
salaried workers shifting files 
redundantly in public offices. 
Or even good 'should-havebeen-
responsible' men - the 
type they called senior staff 
with office desk and chairs for 
visitors. It was like climbing a 
ladder. The bottom rungs were 
there to step on first - the 
apprentices in trade such as 
the drivers' mates. You learnt 
fast that way; learning to do 
things in back seats of vehicles 
in which the apprentices had 
to sleep against thievery. Or 
simply taking appropriate 
positions in dark corners. You 
got for the troubles enough to 
buy a couple of meals of 
kenkey and fish the following 
days. There was always the 
African Quarterly 
on the Am 
VoLllNOi 
urge to go for something better 
and something bigger. 
Especially watching the good 
life adverts on beers. That kind 
of ambition had no space to 
hold a baby. Every baby got 
toknowthat. It was what made 
you smart to get around two or 
three permanent men to raise 
the income. All the time you 
refined the lies if they should 
get jealous. More importantly 
you had by then graduated 
way above apprentices. The 
masters invariably were even 
handing over to their betters. 
Already, the hair was permed 
and the lip-stick was riotously 
red and thick; and the secondhand 
clothing had adequately 
brought out the teenage 
resources available, and 
everybody heard this girl in 
that neighbourhood had 
grown up into such a juicy 
one. You were open to all 
categories of men upwards. 
That surely was the way to the 
top. At thirteen. 
Still, only you and your 
friends knew how very grown 
up you were; how very tidily 
you handled the messy things 
like babies with your own 
antedotes which often would 
and could not fail. Until curses 
like Manu incarnated. 
Of course there was a 
father - often fathers in fact. 
How could there ever be none? 
In the case of Manu there 
certainly was one. Morkor 
chose a father who had two 
wives and a fitting workshop. 
Forty-three-year old, father of 
eight children, tenant of one 
chamber and one hall 
apartment in a compound 
house, drinking often and not 
quite able to stay many days 
without getting drunk, he 
refused flatly that he was the 
father. 
After Manu's birth 
everybody said the baby 
resembled him. But his 
business was collapsing and 
he was loosing his clients to 
smarter and more sober 
competitors. Even his expertise 
in Japanese vehicles was 
waning like his youth. He 
refused fatherhood to the end 
standing on the ground that 
he knew three other men who 
as he put it, ate in the same 
cooking pot with him. How 
could he distinguish meat 
cooked for him from meat 
cooked for the others? Morkor 
threatened him with civil action 
at the family tribunal. He just 
laughed and stuck to his 
denial. He had been 
summoned to family tribunals 
on countless occasions. 
Rumours had it that, his first 
wife of thirty-seven who was 
invariably the main prop of 
his family swore to pack bag 
and leave him if he accepted 
the child with the sixteen-yearold 
whore. He didn't even 
need that kind of threat to 
make him deny his son to the 
very end. As it were, he had 
chewed a piece of sugarcane 
and he was left with some 
bagasse. It was up to him to 
decide whether to let it remain 
bagasse and discarded, or 
gathered for the home for some 
good work. That was a simple 
decision to make really. Let 
bagasse remain bagasse. 
But, well, right now it's 
very much okay. It's another 
plausible index of life of the 
suburb in addition to the 
others: drop-out rate by end of 
second-cycle education, thirty 
per cent for boys, sixty per 
cent for girls; infant mortality 
rate, 120 per thousand births; 
teenage pregnancy, fifty per 
cent of girls give birth well 
inside their teens; average 
number of persons inhabiting 
a standard ten feet by twelve 
feet room, eight. The 
additional index of fatherless 
children (including those 
claimed but with shirked 
responsibility), those left for 
bagasse, only tidies up on 
the figures of demeiit. Sixty 
out of every hundred! 
It was like... Morkor 
dumped him up the stairs, 
thrust the quarter kenkey in 
his hand and waved 
goodbye. Manu was crying, 
Kweiki was applying 
bleaching soap to the face 
with a broken mirror. She 
was chewing stick. She took 
outthe stick, spat and shouted 
at Manu to stop sneezing 
bad luck into her day. 
'Shut up there! Devil. 
You said you wanted to be 
born. You've been born. 
What again? Your mother is 
gone. Even if she were here 
I could still beat you at will. 
Shut up!' As if Manu was a 
grown up, not a year-plus-orminus-
old baby incapable of 
handling data about his living 
world, Kweiki went up the 
stairs to put her bleaching 
face close to Manu's 
kwashiorkor face. 'Alright, 
don't stop crying, okay. Cry 
all the tears and fill the Volta 
up. Maybe it will reduce your 
kwashiorkor head.' Kweiki 
pulled the ear sharply to make 
Manu give a yelp. 
'Tears will not bring 
back you r mother. As for your 
father, whoever he is, he is 
as good as dead. Nobody 
cares one hoot about you. 
Why don't you just die? 
Nobody will even notice 
when you stop crying. So is 
this world and you chose to
come in. You've g£t to suffer 
for it. Hei, I say stop sneezing 
bad luck into my day, devil!' 
She gave the baby a whack 
almost dislodging the kenkey 
from his hand before turning 
to dance away from him, as 
he seemed to choke on his 
tears. Oh how good she felt 
when she saw this devil in 
such anguish! That would 
teach all babies to think twice 
before pulling tricks on 
unsuspecting girls. Stupid 
babies! Agents of witchcraft! 
In real good spirits, she 
lifted up her broken mirror 
and turned to her facebleaching. 
Kweiki was a pretty girl. 
Far prettier than Morkor her 
cousin and younger by a 
couple of months. She was 
black (a complexion she 
hated). With persistent 
bleaching she had browned 
in the face, neck and on the 
arms. She had a supple body, 
and apart from the round, 
pretty, smart face, men 
couldn't easily tear their gaze 
from the flourishing busts that 
rolled under her blouse when 
she walked. She knew this too 
well and she missed no chance 
to use them as her prime 
weapons in her war on men. 
The arse and the thighs could 
only have been fashioned for 
her to immobilise her victims. 
Altogether she hadn't 
done badly in the 
neighbourhood and beyond. 
She had graduated into 
working the streets by night. 
At circle, she made good 
bargains to come home with 
some thousands of good cedis. 
She'd begun dreaming of night 
clubs. But that would come 
with time. She's got to have 
the right spots, the right 
connections to join the 'old 
women' (her own term) 
working there. With that 
visionary goal why should she 
condescend to a life with 
babies? Indeed she would 
forever remain in raptures to 
see nuisances coming in the 
name of babies placed in 
physical hell. To her, Manu 
was the personification of all 
the hateful babies rolled into 
one. 
So, as soon as some 
friends called and the talk 
was serious enough to excite 
her (on ly talks about men were 
serious talk), she rushed off to 
clothe herself and leave 
giggling with her friends. 
Manu was totally forgotten. 
Even if she had remembered, 
would she throw a chance to 
meet a new man for a baby? 
Madness! 
He was king of the 
house which was empty but 
for the livestock - rebellious 
chicken, goats, cats and dogs 
and...well the houseflies. 
There were grandmas and 
grandpas and many other 
adults but they were gone to 
their multifarious businesses. 
The grandma and grandpa 
had a funeral to attend. The 
aunties and uncles had this 
and that to do to snatch a 
square meal for the day. This 
was life in the city; life in the 
margins. There were cousins 
of all ages scattered onto 
various trajectories from the 
house. Manu was the only 
one left of a house inhabited 
by at least fifty human beings 
- old people, middle-aged 
people, young people like 
Morkor and Kweiki, children 
and babies younger than 
Manu. It sometimes 
happened. By day, the whole 
house was deserted. In the 
night it filled up for the filthy 
compound to become 
sleeping places to the 
immense joy of mosquitoes. 
What was the use of 
crying? Kweiki was right. Who 
cared? The tears stopped 
automatically. The eyes were 
left clear to stare at a blank 
world of emptiness. When the 
senses connected the blank 
images there remained this 
fog of stupefaction. It was a 
kind of fog which made it 
impossible for his kind of brain 
to distinguish between a real 
world and an unreal world. In 
any case what was his point 
of reference? That kind of fog 
permitted no access to any 
baseline data even if he could 
assemble, analyse, store, 
retrieve, disseminate, handle 
such data like any functional 
neural system. 
He sat on his stair still 
clinging to his kenkey as if it 
was his only reality. The flies 
were also reality enough. They 
were doing their concertoes 
on the kenkey and on his 
stupefied hairless head and 
all over his kwashiorkor body. 
For he had soiled himself. The 
sun was also exacting its own 
penance in a snow-balling 
reality. The rays hit him like 
bullets of AK47. The hairless 
head, the parched skin, the 
running nose and tear-dried 
eyes felt like skewed meat 
thrust onto an open fire. 
Because of that he 
decided to descend. His 
crawling even at his first 
birthday showed very little 
confidence. Healthy children 
walked. He was careful and 
hesitant. He debated how to 
do it with the kenkey in hand. 
He was still debating when 
his grip on it failed and he 
saw the kenkey roll down the 
stairs. He watched it with an 
involuntary gape. The 
rebellious chicken met it half 
way on its fall and preyed on 
it. The dogs jumped on them 
to snap it away. That was the 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts 
VolllNOi 
end of a kenkey meant more 
as a companion than a means 
of meeting the need for food. 
Manu waited as if 
ruminating on this bit about 
the end of his kenkey before 
finally continuing his descent 
Everything for him was 
uncertain. Where was he 
going? Why was he goinc; 
where he was going? What 
was the objective? What were 
the chances? What were the 
options? What principles, 
what ethics, what rights were 
involved? Probably by a 
cosmic intuition he would 
know that such abstract things 
- ethics, rights, etc. - existed. 
But how would he def i ne them 
with reference to his reality? 
It was all a tumble of 
strangeness. For the din of the 
capital city life was reaching 
him, the life of traffic and 
commerce and... generally 
society. Right around him, in 
spite of his fog, there was the 
burning sun and flies, and his 
own excreta and desertion of 
every human being. 
He fell on the last but 
one stair which would have 
brought him into shade and 
into more flies and a filthy 
marsh and the stench of 
putrefying things. He didn't 
even have the will to cry 
although he felt some kind of 
pain somewhere in his body. 
He was just content to lie flat 
on his thin back and swivelled 
buttocks and look up to the 
roof which was rusted and 
peeling away. As he looked, 
he did not miss the ubiquitous 
brightness of the sun and it 
sent him squinting with tears. 
A dog came to lick his 
ear. 
The children who came 
to the house to find him 
prostrated thus were oj^their 
normal truancy from school.
School was such a pain in the 
throat. They didn't need an 
excuse to run from it. What 
they needed was the will. 
Fortunately, the fathers and 
the mothers who had to 
obstruct their truancy from 
school were partly on their 
own manner of thinking that, 
school was such a pain in the 
throat- a pain stuck somewhere 
internally, where one simply 
could not reach with the hand 
and excise. 
Back from school they 
would hunt in every corner of 
the house and if necessary 
break into locked containers. 
If there were mon ies, they were 
the lucky ones. The aunties 
and the uncles would come 
and scream, shout ar.J curse 
and threaten lightening by the 
power of voodoo and other 
principalities, the monies 
would remain stolen. 
That day, the children 
were frustrated. There was not 
acedi anywhere. ItwasManu 
who had to suffer for it. Coming 
down the stairs they saw him 
lying there with his faithful 
flies. One child suggested his 
head gave the best promise of 
a goal-kick. Ha-ha-ha-he-heh 
e l l ! He liked creating 
laughter. And, he also liked 
doing things to show how 
tough he was. So, he took his 
time to march down the stairs 
and took a footballer position 
behind Manu's head. Ha-haha-
he-he-he!!! 
It as his toes which bore 
the brunt of the kick. It sprained 
and he squealed so cowardly 
the others laughed and 
laughed. Manu was crying 
and as he struggled to get 
onto his wasted buttocks, the 
children thought at least each 
of them should try finding the 
besttechnique to kick his head 
without a pain to himself. One 
pushed the struggling Manu's 
African Quarterly 
an the Arts 
Vol.11 NO 5 
head down, the other took 
position and kicked. As the 
baby shrieked, the children 
squealed with laughter. Oh 
what fun! 
It was the 
grandparents .who came to 
save him and drive the 
dangerous gang away. The 
grandma picked the baby, 
raining insults on the mother 
for leaving the helpless thing 
to fend for itself. When she 
noticed she would have to 
do some work on Manu, 
clean him of his excreta, she 
snorted at Manu and turned 
her scolding on him. 'Silly 
baby! always shitting and 
soiling himself! I have never 
picked you clean without 
stench. It's jinx on you Manu, 
shame!!' She screamed at 
him to shut up as she found 
some cold water and threw it 
at him.
The grandpa went up 
the stairs grumbling that the 
wife was not minding her 
own business. If Morkorcould 
not look after her own child, 
who was she an old hen to 
take over that job? Did 
Morkor ever give them a 
morsel to eat knowing that 
once in the house they could 
be of some use? He stood up 
the stairs berating his old 
wife. It was the exact position 
where Manu sat a while ago 
wielding a piece of kenkey 
like a talisman. The old lady 
climbed up after her husband 
holding the crying Manu like 
an abominable package not 
bothering to wipe the water 
off him. 
Because the baby 
cried, the stranger who 
entered the house had to 
raise his voice several times 
to announce his presence. 
Grandma came out to invite 
him into the room where they 
sat. It was a very spare room 
indeed. There was a hard 
bed which sometimes doubled 
as a seat for both of them. They 
had a couple of stools and a 
small table. Even if they needed 
more than these furniture, 
where was the money to buy 
some more? Through and 
through, they had grown very 
used to this room and its 
meagre furnishing. 
The arabic dressing, the 
staff on which the big luggage 
hung gave the identity of the 
stranger away. Here was a 
foreigner fortune teller coming 
to visit them. Grandpa openly 
grumbled that his peace was 
being disturbed. He shouted 
at Manu to at least shut up for 
some peace! Grandma 
struggled with a dilemma. She 
did not like these foreigners. 
They always begged for alms. 
Yet, they had the gift of looking 
into the future and she had this 
deep crave for peeping into 
the future to see what lay in 
store for her before she died. 
This man could tell a good 
fortune for them. She ignored 
her husband's grumblings and 
invited the stranger into their 
room. 
The fortune-teller asked 
for his palm to be crossed. 
Those who looked into the 
future of others needed the 
mark of approval. Moreover, 
one could not see fortunes with 
dry eyes. Tears of gratitude 
needed to glaze these psychic 
eyes to make them see better. 
They were waiting for a kind 
niece to come and give them 
food. The fortune teller still held 
out his hand for the crossing 
and the woman untied from a 
corner of her cloth, her last one 
cedi note which even her 
husband did not know she had 
and put it in the hand of the 
stranger. 
He grunted and 
murmured blessings barely 
within comprehension. He told 
their fortune. He told them of 
the unlimited wealth waiting to 
pour from above into their 
laps They were not meant to 
die so poor; why should the 
Good Allah keep them living 
this long? They were good 
people and in their hearts he 
saw whiteness which Allah 
himself would reward from 
above. But, it was not just 
witchcrafts holding back the 
rains, so to speak, it was their 
own inaction. Grandpa was 
forced to abandon his 
cynicism, and pull a stool to 
where grandma sat with the 
stranger Together they gave 
all their ears. 
The stranger mentioned 
as an afterthought, a woman 
who needed a child. Was it 
possible they could help? 
'She wants to take a 
maid?'
'Whatever. Maid, 
houseboy, babies....' 
Babies?' 
'Yes, babies.' 
Is she barren?' 
'Yes. She wants a child 
to have as her very own. In 
fact she prefers a child just 
about a year - just walking.' 
They looked at each 
other and being marred for 
so long, forty-eightyears, their 
minds worked as one. 'The 
one we have here is barely a 
year. Probably a year. 
Nobody knows. But he is not 
walking Not even crawling 
properly - dullest of babies.' 
'That's even better,' the 
fortune teller said through his 
cola-nutted teeth. 'If you are 
willing....' 
'Well, the mother is not 
here....' 
'If you have to bring in 
the mother then forget it. She 
never deals with mothers. It 
was a terrible and reckless 
way to approach a dangerous 
deal as this one. But the 
stranger had used it often and 
he knew it worked Perfectly.
The grounds for its success 
were prepared during the 
fortune-telling. The whiteness 
he foretold in their hearts were 
pure whiteness of greed. 
Then she has bought 
babies before', the old man 
shot back at him. It was quite 
a surprise that the oldman 
could match his daring and 
bring it all in the open as if 
they were discussing the 
tapping of a palm tree. 
'Well...okay, yes she 
has bought babies before.' 
He looked directly into the 
eyes of the oldman, exposed 
the redness in his gums and 
teeth and added impersonally, 
'but they are all dead.' 
Would the oldman dare 
to continue along the path of 
truth? It was a challenge he 
waited for him to take. 
The silence which 
discended was a replica of 
the grave's. 'They are all 
dead.. .all dead.. .dead' It was 
the key thing they needed to 
know before coming to the 
decision. The fortune teller 
waited, happy and he had 
passed on the burden to them. 
Some of their likes were so 
cunning they would leave you 
with the burden of guilt though 
strictly speaking they made 
all the decisions and made 
the deal possible. The old 
couple looked at each other 
and then at Manu lying 
forlonly on a torn mat in a 
corner of the room, sobbing. 
Each waited for the other to 
speak.
'How much?' asked the 
old man. He was the man, he 
would play his manly role. 
'You quote your price', the 
stranger spat out cola mucus. 
They mentioned their 
price. Sky-high, enough to 
repair their leaking roof and 
to leave some cash for square 
meals for sometime. They were 
surprised the stranger did not 
flinch. Nor did he ask for any 
reduction. He immediately 
reached into his luggage to 
count the money. They were 
so surprised they kept gaping 
and letting flies into their 
mouths freely. That was the 
kind of scenario which met 
Kweiki as she entered the 
room. 
Occasionally she 
brought her men to the house. 
This one did not appear to 
need much time. She had to 
pass by the old couple's room 
before getting to her door. 
She saw their door opened 
and she knew that they had 
come from the funeral. When 
she entered, sighted the 
money, and sighted the 
stranger, she knew something 
was amiss. Ifshe wasted time, 
if she played dull, ifshe missed 
a false step, she would miss a 
chance to take a good cut of 
the deal. 
Fortunately, she had 
heard the rumours that these 
foreigners had been buying 
babies. She didn't believe 
grandpa and grandma could 
be up to that sort of thing. But 
all that dealing with men had 
made her discover things 
about the unpredictability of 
man. 
She went straight to 
where the stranger was 
counting and picked two 
bundles. 'That's my share of 
the Manu's fortune' the 
oldman jumped at her. 'You 
put that money down.' 
'I could put it 
down...here. See, you have it 
back. I'm going to the police.' 
The old woman jumped up to 
block her way, pleading. 
That was how she got 
her suspicions sealed. She 
went on to force the truth out 
of the oldwoman who knew 
for a fact that Kweiki would 
be all for the deal. If nothing 
at all, they would all be rid of 
the dullest baby on earth - 
Manu.
Yet, contrary to their 
expectations, she declined 
picking her share of the money. 
When the stranger looked at 
her, she smiled and told him, 
'I think we can have a little 
chat together. You tell fortune, 
don't you? Come into my room 
next door. No, not right away. 
There is a man with me. In 
about five minutes, I'll call you. 
Come tell my fortune.' She 
eyed the stranger's money bag 
and gave him a lipstick smile. 
Grandpa and grandma 
wondered what tricks this 
shameless tart had up her 
sleeves. The stranger knew 
what it was all about and he 
was happy1 ""ne prepared 
for everything. 
'Tell me my fortune first.' 
'You must cross my 
palm' 
'You are going to cross, 
really cross, my palm.' She 
was happy to place the 
emphasis where it ought to 
be. She was extremely happy. 
'This is fortune telling. Very 
spiritual. Ican'tseeany fortune 
if my palm is not crossed.' 
Kweiki gave in and 
pulled a two-hundred-cedi note 
from what her man had given 
her. She made a mental note 
to be sure she demanded that 
specific cedi note back in 
addition to whatever she took 
from the man. She placed it in 
the hand of the stranger. They 
both seemed to take it all 
seriously as if her life 
depended on it. She listened 
to the prayer and blessing. 
She spread out her palm and 
listened keenly to the fortune 
told. 'You are the tigress 
incarnated set to devour the 
feeble in the jungle. You must 
know your catchment of the 
cosmic force is greater than 
you can contain. Don'tdestroy 
yourself by riding roughshod 
into the heart of tornadoes. 
You will succeed anyhow and 
no force can hinder you except 
your own.' 
There was a sense of 
mystery and fatality and it 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts 
VUI/N03 
made it all the more believable 
and feasible for her. She was 
satisfied. Her fortune had been 
told. She was a tigress and 
she deserved to devour all 
babies. The truth rang in her 
soul. Death to all babies. 
Death to all babies! 
When it came to her 
mentioning her price (for her 
palm to be -rojsed), the 
stranger was surprised she 
acted out exactly her tigress 
part. She insisted on three 
times what her grandpa and 
grandma took. As soon as the 
stranger paid, she led her out 
and personally went and 
picked up the dozing Manu 
and handed him to him. This 
time she held Manu tenderly 
for he had brought her a sum 
more than all the men in her 
life had ever done. She could 
also afford to be tender since 
it was the last time she was 
seeing him. 
When the stranger was 
gone with the baby drugged 
into his luggage (he kept a 
bottle of chloroform on him), 
Kweiki remembered Morkor. 
She ran up to the old couple 
who had immediately locked 
themselves up to recount their 
money. 
Kweiki laughed at them 
pouring scorn on them 'at 
your age, what do you want 
that kind of money for? You 
give me my cut, right now.' 
'But didn't the stranger 
pay you?' asked grandma 
incredulously. 
'I only invited him to 
come into my room and tell 
my fortune.'Grandma looked 
dubiously at her. Grandpa 
felt like running after the 
stranger and asking him. He 
knew his grandchild was as 
greedy as a hyena. 
'So how much do you 
want?' asked the grandma, 
grandpa looking at Kweiki 
with distaste. 
'I like my bundle. What
I picked.pnd grandpa wanted 
to eat me up.' It carried the 
highest denominations and she 
was taking more than half the 
money. Grandpa wanted to 
protest, grandma not wanting 
trouble with Kweiki personally 
picked the money and handed 
it to her. 
'That's very good. 
You've done the right thing 
now. But look let's look-ahead, 
right. Sit down grandpa, and 
you grandma sit down. I'll sit 
here.' 
'What else do you want, 
Kweiki?' Sheer loathing for 
their grandchild was making 
their skin twitch. 
'Softly, softly, grandpa. 
Walls have ears. See, what 
do we do to Morkor?' It was 
clear they hadn't seriously 
thought of the question. 
'Nothing,' said 
grandpa furtively. 
'You mean Morkor will 
come back home here and 
when she asks for her Manu, 
each of us will look into her 
face saying rothing. Doing 
nothing?' 
'We'll tell her the baby 
is lost,' said grandma trying to 
settle the matter convincingly. 
And she wouldn't ask how 
the baby got lost? Who carried 
him the last time? Where the 
baby was lost? I mean not that 
Morkor is that intelligent but a 
mother is a mother. She has 
rights where her baby is 
concerned. You know that.' 
'She did hate giving 
birth to the baby.' 
'Right on target, 
grandma. So, we take it from 
there. We act on that basis. 
That is our best defence. Our 
best hope. We don't hide 
anything.' 
'But,' the old woman 
was alarmed. 'How can we 
tell her?' 
'You put her share of 
African Quarterly 
on the Arts 
r . v * . ~ | Vol.ll NO 3 
the money in her hands, 
before you open your mouth 
with the truth. I swear, she'll 
quickly make another baby 
and give it to you to sell.' 
So again grandpa saw 
their money cut down by the 
half of what ever remained. 
They could not protest. They 
could not talk. They just prayed 
that Kweiki would be done, 
gone out of their room and 
leave them in peace. 
'See how cleverly I've 
handled everything for you? 
You should cross my palm in 
gratitude.' At that point, 
grandpa would have thrown 
the money at her and strong led 
her. But she was only joking 
and she danced, actually 
danced merrily out of their 
room, overjoyed at the birth 
and sale of Manu. 
Morkor returned in the 
night pretending to be sorry 
for overstaying, Kweiki, made 
sure she would get her to talk 
to immediately before anyone 
else. Not that the old couple 
were up to the task. 'Why did 
you always have to come 
home this late, Morkor? Go 
ask the time. It's nine o'clock.' 
'I tell you, it's my 
customers. And I couldn't get 
vehicle.' Morkor tried to make 
the lies genuine even as Kweiki 
pretended she was open to 
conviction. 
'You have put me i nto a 
terrible situation, Morkor. I 
don't even know how to 
begin.' 
'What is it, Kweiki?' 
'Aren'tyou going to ask 
of your baby?' 
'Oh that!' She made a 
face and apologised for 
burdening Kweiki with that 
despicable thing for so long. 
She was afraid she would get 
into a fight with her cousin. 
'Kweiki, I'm terribly sorry I 
came this late. But I managed 
to make a little extra, so here. 
I'll pay your loan back and 
ton put her share 
of the money in her 
hands, before you 
open your mouth 
with the truth. I 
»ueai-, shell quickly 
make another baby 
and give it to you to 
sett.' 
add a little extra. Thanks for 
your patience.' 'You put the 
money down here, but you 
must know I've lost the baby.' 
'You've lost Manu?' 
Morkor's surprise was 
completely undefinable. 
Instant shock and instant 
pleasure! She had the good 
sense not to rejoice openly. 
She was free of the leech. 
Free. Freedom at last! But 
Kweiki was smart to notice. 
She saw that it was safe to go 
on, 'I took this your stupid 
baby out with me. I had a 
man. He was talking a lot of 
money!' 
'Oh yeah!' Kweiki 
caught the glint of envy in her 
cousin's eyes. She went on, 
'he had to take me somewhere 
where we could be alone. 
You know where this rich man 
took me?' 
'How would I know? As 
for you, you're always lucky 
with men.' Morkor was happy 
to be taken into confidence. 
She was all ears waiting to 
hear about the good time with 
the rich man. 
Kweiki told her about 
the baby instead. 'I left Manu 
under a tree.' 
'Please tell me about 
your" richman' 
'Please listen to what 
happened to your baby first.' 
'Forget him, Kweiki' 
'I can't forget the poor 
thing, Morkor. When I came 
back, he was gone. I was 
confused. I rushed to my police 
friend. The officer. He told me 
if I should bring the mother to 
make a report....' 
'Me, Morkor...report? 
For what?' 
'And of course find 
some money to bribe the 
officer on the job....' 
'Idon'thaveapesewal' 
'Hoo! You should have 
rested your soul, Kweiki. Me, 
go to the police tc report?' 
Kweiki knew it, she would do 
anything on earth to stay clear 
of the police. 'And the bribe. 
Where am I supposed to get 
the money from. If the thief 
had come to me personally 
and asked for him, I would 
have gladly given him this 
one....' She continued to 
speak the language Kweiki 
wanted to hear. Thoroughly 
satisfied with herself, she 
decided it was time to 
celebrate. 'Well, Morkor, I'm 
sorry your baby is lost. But let 
me tell you of my richman. Go 
take your bath, put on your 
best second-hand dress and 
let me take you somewhere 
we can have a beer.' 
'You offering me a beer! 
You really did have a 
richman!' 
'Hurry up Morkor and I 
take you to where he took me. 
If you are lucky, you can get 
a man. It's time for another 
baby.'
'Oh no! damn, damn 
all babies. Damn all babies 
forever!' 
Each in her own way 
was so happy with the fortune 
of Manu that they came 
together and danced out, 
singing a popular hit with an 
arm wrapped round the 
other's neck. The people of 
the house saw the two enemies 
mysteriously happy and united 
and wondered. Grandpa and 
grandma smiled to each other 
happy to know the secret and 
happy that their good old age 
had given them wisdom to 
take a chance on a baby, 
when that chance came their 
way. GR