Reunited: Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

I had expected the majority of the people on the bus to be white but there were all shades of white. And most of them looked like the Lebanese people in Ghana. I saw a lot of Indians; some of the men in turbans and the women in their saris but with jackets.

“But isn’t Canada supposed to be white people’s country?”

She laughed. “Tina, Montreal is not like Kumasi where you see mostly black people. There are people from all over the world in this city.”

“Do they speak everybody’s language or what?”

“Not in the offices and public places. People speak their languages in their own communities or at home but in school and work and in the government places it is either English or French. Actually, it is more French in Montreal because we are in the province of Quebec.” She looked at me. “How’s the French? I asked Akos to let you take French lessons; you’ll need it for school?”

I had a private French tutor from Abidjan who used to come home to teach me.

She pointed to a sign when the bus stopped. “Can you read what is written there?”

“Arrêt...” I said looking away from the girls staring at us from the opposite seats. “It means stop,” I added before she grilled me for the meaning to the hearing of our audience.

She smiled and her cheeks puffed up like any proud mother would. “You will be fine here then. Pierre is French so you will have someone to practice with when he comes.”

I looked straight on top of the heads of the passengers in front of us. The driver said something I didn’t catch, it was fast. I looked at her and she smiled. And I saw the passengers in front and behind us rise from their seats.

“This is the last stop. We’re going to take the metro.”

“Okay.” My voice was faint, I didn’t know what metro was but I would not ask her. I didn’t want to hear any more about her Pierre. I wanted my father; maybe he would be better than her. After all he came to see me in Ghana, five years ago.
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My first ride in the metro was a novelty. I had read about the subway in America and watched it in movies but I never saw one before. There was no metro in Ghana. We got out through a winding alley full of shops and took a folding stairs to another level of stores. I had to hold on the moving sides as she laughed at me. She called the place ‘Eaton Centre.’

“I shop here most of the time because you get everything you want. Next time I will bring you to St. Hubert’s street. There are a lot of stores there too.”

“Oh look at those jeans and the Nikes,” I said despite my resolution to keep quiet. I never saw so much nice things in one place like that before. My eyes flew from one store to the other imagining how I’d look in the clothes and the shoes.

“I waited to see you before buying your clothes, because I wasn’t sure of how you looked like. Except for the pictures, I had no idea but sometimes pictures could be wrong.”

You’re right on that, you don’t look anywhere near your picture, I wished I could tell her that. “Can I have this jean?” I put the faded blue jeans on myself, trying to measure the waist to mine.

“You can have three jeans and a jacket for the winter. I have a lot of sweat-shirts and turtle-necks I bought last year so we don’t have to buy any. They may be slightly bigger for you because I am now four sizes down.”

“Oh thank you for the jeans,” I said excited at the prospect of three jeans.

“Maybe you’ll fit into some of mine, I have a lot of designer jeans but since I reduced none of them fits me anymore. You know Pierre was not happy with my weight so I had to go on diet, plus it’s healthy to lose weight.”

I moved away from her to check other things in the shop. I fingered the sneakers and checked the different brands. I couldn’t bear another mention of Pierre.
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We took the metro back to where the bus had stopped but we did not take the bus. We walked to the African Market.

“Oh they have yam, and plantain, and garden-eggs, and egushi and milo...” I was suddenly feeling like I was back in Ghana.

“I told you it’s a little Ghana within Montreal.”

“Ma—look at the price, the Milo is $5 here?” I said wondering why it’s so expensive. “And the yam is ten times the selling price in Ghana?”

Her eyes were sparkling and her face looked like when she had first called me “Tina” at the airport. She was smiling and removing items into the cart without consideration. Then I realized that I had made the effort to call her like my mother. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to give her the full title: Mama.

“Samelia...” someone called, and she turned. From the way they hugged and remained in each other's embrace over five minutes, it looked like they haven’t seen each other for a long time.

“Naa Serwaa,” my mother said. “Come Tina, come and greet Naa Serwaa.”

“Ei, she is now a woman,” Serwaa said. “Samelia, how many years now?”

“It's been thirteen years since I last saw her.”

“Oh you’re lucky, now you won’t have to worry again.” Serwaa shook my hand and added: “Come visit us once you settle in. We live in the south shore so I don’t get to see your mother that often.”

“Say you don’t see me anymore because Kobi left me for our best friend. Don’t lie to the child.”

“Oh Samelia you know that’s not the case, it’s because we live far away from you.” The woman looked embarrassed and fled from our presence when another black woman, obviously Ghanaian, called her and started speaking "Twi"—the common Ghanaian language—with her.

“Let’s get some phone cards so we can call Akos.”

“Yes,” I said excited.
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On our way home I decided to hear her out about whatever happened between her and my father. From the way Naa Serwaa acted, it looked like my mother was not to blame for whatever happened. But I didn’t want to hear any more Pierre nor see his face. Now I was beginning to like this woman. She was beginning to look like a mother but still I have a Mama in Ghana.
Maybe I should split the title and give her half, like I did unconsciously; Ma—it’s after all a better title than nothing at all. In my mind Ma—sounded fair for the mother who just bought me three jeans, a Nike sneaker, a dozen underpants and socks, a schoolbag and a heavy winter jacket.

“Tomorrow, I will bring you to my hairdresser to braid your hair for you.

I looked at her, my eyes widening.

“Why don’t you want braids? You can perm it if you like or maybe do a weave.”

“My eyes were becoming bigger and bigger with excitement and I started grinning. My grin turned into a smile and it felt like I was going to explode.”

“What’s funny?”

“We are never allowed to do our hair for school in Ghana?”

“You’ll have to do your hair here, you can’t go to school like that...also the winter is drastic you’ll need to braid your hair to give you warmth.”

I almost jumped unto her laps on the bus but I stilled myself. She wasn’t Mama and I didn’t know how she’d behave. I leaned unto her and she wound her arm around me. It was starting to feel like I was with Mama.
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“That is Pierre’s car, what is he doing here?” She pointed to the Lexus SUV in the circle and hurried ahead of me like she did at the airport.

My stomach churned and my excitement evaporated. I thought it was getting better and here comes Pierre. I lagged behind, suddenly finding it difficult to lift the eco-friendly shopping bag with African food stuff.

“Oh Tina, I think we’ll have to cover the food items. Cover it with your jeans? I don’t want Pierre to think that I’d started eating all those carbs again.”

I gave her a dirty stare for having to cover that smelly stuff with my new jeans.

“Tina, you don’t understand. You’re new; it's not easy to look fat here.”

“In Ghana people put on weight to look beautiful.”

“No not here, nobody will call you beautiful if you intentionally put on weight. Try not to show the "gari" and the "kenkey"—”

I made a snorting sound.

“Watch it young lady! I won’t have you disgrace me...now act civil and come in with me. Pierre must be waiting.”

I followed her into the elevator making sure the tip of the bag of "gari" and the "kenkey" jutted out of the shopping bag.