Chapter 1: Chapter 1

This cool September breeze swayed off trees and rustled leaves outside the glass windows of the two-bedroom semi-detached Swish wooden House situated in a middle-class Accra suburban. The mood was jumpy but the atmosphere was very peaceful. The night began to go blue-black and the wee hour’s velvet beckoned by the stars under the glow of a full moon produced a weird sense of mystery. Ama laid on the bed in one of the bedrooms, reading a book entitled “In His Journey To Fame”. On top of a table beside the bed was an IPad connected to speakers toned down to play a piece of cool country music from one of Kenny Rodgers's pieces. Her mind wandered about making concentration very difficult. The soothing rhythm of the country music could not relax her. She tried to force asleep, but the sleep will not come easily. As she began to close her eyes; there was a knock at the door. “Come in”. Ama responded. Immediately the door swung open, Mrs. Donkor shoved herself in and closed the door gently behind her. Ama quickly sat on the bed, folded the sheet into two, and slowly closed the book onto the table. Mrs. Donkor stood aloof watching her daughter and continued to stare at Ama quizzically. This action from Anastasia Donkor made Ama felt uncomfortable and wondered what the problem was but kept mute in order not to attract any reproach from her mum. “What’s the problem, Ama? You appear odd these days.” She probed.

“I can’t sleep, mum. I can’t rest. I can’t concentrate. I can’t do anything, these days.” Ama replied. Mrs. Donkor sat down on the bed and placed her right hand at the shoulder of Ama in a placatory posture. “My daughter, take heart! I wish I could bear the brunt of the agony you are going through. But I can’t. The only thing I could do is to share your pain.” Ama solemnly looked on the floor as she continuously nodded her head in agreement with her mother. Mrs. Donkor continued, “Misfortunes are a prominent part of life, so the earlier you learn to accept whatever fate brings to you, the better it would be for you and everyone.” Ama gathered the courage to answer her mother. “I am not so much worried about the death of the Uber driver; mum, as about the sheer injustice in this particular case. How do I comfort myself when the man I love so dearly and willing to sacrifice the rest of my life with is convicted and sentenced to death? How? Life is not fair.” She began to moan.

Mrs. Donkor tried to appease her, “Tears will not do you any good! My daughter, they will not just do. But you may do yourself a lot of good to assume that if Martinson is innocent then the ever knowing just God who sees the beginning and the end of every matter will vindicate him and set him free.” Ama banged her fist on the table to scatter the book and the IPad onto the ground. “I swear by my last breath that Martinson is innocent.” Mrs. Donkor sprung up from the bed and stood akimbo watching her. “Stop, Stop, I say stop it! It is unethical to swear. Never swear in your life again my daughter. I didn’t train you that way. The time you spent at the boarding school has not been very beneficial to you. You had cultivated so many bad characters of which I have to work hard to bring you online once again.” Ama tried hard to protest and convinced her mother that attending boarding school has done more good to shape her character than harm.

”But Ma, he is so sweet and gentle that he can’t even harm a fly.” “I am only asking you to assume his innocence, but if horses were riches, beggars will ride. Indeed, the court of the land has spoken. Just forget and let sleeping dogs lie.” Mrs. Donkor advised. “Would you allow sleeping dogs to lie if it were your son, brother, or father that is being marched to the gallows, mum?” Mrs. Donkor grimaced and glanced at Ama offensively. “That is not a nice thing to say to your mother, Ama.” She turned to take a glimpse at her mother momentarily and quickly looked away. She fetched a handkerchief under the pillow and blew her nose into it and said softly. “I am sorry, Mum.”

Mrs. Donkor turned away from Ama to move out of the room. She held the doorknob and swung it open. She met and nearly bumped into her fifty-something-year-old husband clad in a pajama top and down at the doorway. Mr. Donkor slipped past his wife and stepped into Ama’s room, wearing a frown of anger on his face. He glanced at Ama, and then looked at the time on his mobile phone. “What is going on here at this time of the day?” His wife quickly snapped in, “Please Greg, this is girls talk.” Mr. Donkor fingered his mobile phone. “I am talking about the time! It is forty-three minutes after midnight and you are here with Ama chitchatting. What at all is going on that cannot wait till morning?” Mrs. Donkor replied that she is just having a serious talk with her girl: a mother-daughter frank discussion. She indicated to her husband that the conversation had been concluded and further intimated her husband to lead her to bed. However, Mr. Donkor was adamant and insisted to know what they were talking about. At last, Ama decided to let the cat out of the bag. “Okay Daddy, it is about Martinson, I think he is innocent.” Mr. Donkor quickly replied, “The murderer! What about him? As far as I am concern, the die is cast. He has been sentenced already. At least he knows his fate and let me tell you, my darling little Angel, stop wasting your precious time, effort, and energy on that boy.” “But daddy, have you condemned him already?” “No, it is the system that had condemned him. Now, remember that you are in your father’s house, which means you should be mindful of your limits, as well as your engagements in and outside the house are a concern.” “But daddy, are you saying that, at 20, I cannot manage my own affairs?” “Why didn’t you say at your age, you are on your own: living in your own house with your own husband?” “Daddy, what is all this about? You are embarrassing me. In my present state of mind, the last thing I expect from you is love and tender care.” “No, my daughter! Love, I have for you: Care, I give to you all the time; everything else you have brought upon yourself.” Mr. Donkor attempted to leave Ama behind, so much that his last words were inaudible. In silence, Mrs. Donkor followed her husband out and the door was banged from inside.

Mr. Donkor led her wife through the corridor to the living room. He sat on a couch and beckoned his wife to sit by his side. She placed her right hand on his lap. “Greg.” Mrs. Donkor called. He quickly turned to look straight into her face, trying to read her mind from the outside. “Yes, darling Anastasia!” Their eyes met, which developed into a burst of uncontrollable laughter between the two lovebirds. For two minutes they were laughing and giggling like a crook who had managed to outsmart another crook by using counterfeit money to buy some contraband marijuana. This is as simple as when a thief stole from another thief; God laughs in the higher heavens.

When the fun died down, Mrs. Donkor began to interrogate him. Indeed, she was a typical Ashanti woman who knew the secret to her husband’s heart. She unleashed her secret through his stomach by giving him his best meals in the day and capped it up with very good sex on the night. Today is no different. The fact that Mrs. Donkor has placed her hand on his lap signifies only one thing: sex. After twenty-two years of marriage, the Donkors understood these little pecks from each other. Mrs. Donkor repeated, “Greg, what is the matter with you and your daughter these days?” “Oh darling, do not spoil the fun with Ama’s issue. I have no qualms with her. My beef is with Martinson, the condemned murderer. But Anas, can’t a father discipline his little daughter without any interference?” Mr. Donkor burst out. “You do not mean I am interfering when it comes to correcting our only daughter, Greg?” Mrs. Donkor retorted. The tone and tempo of Mr. Donkor’s voice increased. “It is your kind of discipline that makes Ama behaves the way she does.” However, Mrs. Donkor disagreed with her husband “Greg, please, do not start anything that will mar our fun! Have l been pampering her? Or do you have to cut her throat before you can know you are disciplining her?” Mrs. Donkor fumed as she bursts up from the couch. She faced her husband squarely with her intimidating posture and commandeering frame, which overshadowed Mr. Don-kor’s, who was still seated on the couch. She continued to say that she does not know what to tell, Greg, and as such if all men were unreasonably stern at dealing with their children, particularly the girl-child, then she wondered what sort of adults these kids might grow into.

“Whenever, I am trying to put my feet on the ground, with regards to our child, I know just what I am doing. So please, stay out and watch me.” Mr. Donkor intended to stamp his authority as the man of the house. However, Mrs. Donkor was quick to answer her husband with a chuckle. “You are too authoritative. I am the right person to point it out to you. Gentlemen don’t behave that way, since it takes all the peace out of the house. Always tension! Always fear in the house! You are becoming a monstrous caricature in your own house driving away children. If you do not stop such attitude, people will call you names like Papa Big-stuff, Lion king, Mr. Gyata-mposuro, and Sasaboronsam.” “Hey, Anastasia, watch your mouth! Do not put my temper to the test, okay? You mean there is no peace in this house?” “I do not need to tell you this, Greg? You should know it by now!” She snapped.

Mr. Donkor got up from the couch, looked about the living room, and moved his hands about with surprise on his face. “You mean, with all these comforts and luxuries I have worked hard to provide you and your daughter; there is still no peace in this family? What more do you want me to do for you, Anastasia?” By this time Mrs. Donkor has walked to their bedroom door. She tried to open the knob but was hit by her husband’s last words. She then turned around one hundred and eighty degrees towards him. “All we need in this house is a little breathing space. I am telling you the truth! Start loving your child for she is your flesh and blood. Hate her, and you hate yourself.” She walked away briskly and closed the bedroom door behind leaving Mr. Donkor alone in the living room staring after her at the door. Mr. Donkor angrily talked into the vacuum. “And do I prevent you from breathing? Do I gag you or put cotton wool in your nostrils? No, Anastasia, I do not hate my family, but you will not understand. Women, women, women, what at all do they want from life?”