CHAPTER ONECROSSING THE THRESHOLD
If someone had told me a week ago that I was a weird reincarnation of the late Mother Earth, I probably would’ve searched for the nearest exit.
If someone told me now? I would probably interrogate them to see if they were one of the abosom, one of the Nsamanfo, or some monster in disguise. If they fell into the last category, then I might have to chop them up with my akrafena.
Here’s a free tip for you. When you get a moment, open your hands and study those lines embedded in your palms. If they make a strangely coherent shape, do some research on it. Use encyclopedias, almanacs, anything you can get your hands on. Google works too, I guess.
Chances are, you’re fine. It’s probably just a random marking—bonus points if it looks funny.
But on the off chance that your palm pattern means something more? Then you need to read on. And maybe if you’re lucky, you won’t need an akrafena yourself.
* * *
“KWAME! THEY’RE HERE!” MA’S voice floats up from downstairs, along with the scents of cinnamon and sugar. I know what those delicious aromas mean—there are freshly baked pastries in the kitchen, calling my name.
The real tragedy? I have absolutely no chance of enjoying any of them. Ma’s cinnamon rolls are reserved for special occasions—delicacies used to trick unsuspecting guests into thinking that we’re a fun-loving family.
Oh, hi, welcome to our house! Take a cinnamon roll that we just happened to make right before you arrived!
Not you, Kwame. Go put them dishes up.
I wipe my brow. A thick cloud of humidity has settled in my tiny room, despite the best efforts of my clunky air-conditioning unit. The Sunday afternoon sun trickles through my streaked window and shines light onto my Miles Morales poster, which features the hero fearlessly swinging through a futuristic neon city.
Light footsteps ascend the stairs. My heart performs a cartwheel in response. I steal a glance at the very empty maroon suitcase resting on my twin mattress.
I’m in trouble.
“Boy, didn’t you hear me?” Ma’s tall, athletic form almost fills my doorway. Her face is twisted into a frown, and her arms are folded across a black shirt that reads, EDUCATORS ARE THE REAL SUPERHEROES. “Autumn and her folks are here.”
According to, well, practically everyone, I’m the spitting image of my mother. I like to say that she stole my look. Either way, people love to point out the resemblance with wide eyes and goofy grins, as if it’s my first time hearing the comparison. They go out of their way to compliment my perfectly arched eyebrows, but they completely ignore the mustache that I’m starting to grow.
Now, I’m big enough to admit that I have always looked like Ma in the face—deep brown skin, sharp jaw, brooding eyes—but over this past year, I’ve inherited her thin frame and long limbs. Unfortunately, my body seems allergic to muscles, so me getting taller only makes me look more and more like that terrifying Slender Man monster that Autumn likes to send me pictures of out of the blue.
“Sorry, Ma.” I avert my eyes, open my hand, and trace the pattern on the inside of my palm—two stylized hearts, one atop the other, locked in an eternal headbutting competition. I was born with the palm pattern, so I’ve seen it a million times … but it’s still safer to look at that than it is to make eye contact with Ma right now.
Not only did Ma just have to repeat herself, but I also haven’t accomplished any of the tasks she gave me. I was handed very explicit instructions to follow before Autumn arrived: pack my suitcase for the flight and an overnight bag for the sleepover. At this point, zero out of the two are complete—and I don’t even have an excuse to fall back on.
Ma makes her way into my room. Her frown deepens as she sidesteps open comic books and half-eaten granola bars. She’s wearing that principal gaze, the kind of face one might make if they’re reading an essay consisting of nothing but misspelled words. It’s the same look that makes the other seventh graders flee into the nearest classroom before they can incur the wrath of Principal Powell.
Yeah. My mother is the principal of my middle school, which means she runs my household and my school. She’s known among the student body by many names, including but not limited to: Principal Powell, the Supreme Commander, the Breaker of Wills, and the Deliverer of Detentions. Imagine being given detention by your mother, and then having to ride home with her. If my life was a story, it would be one of those try-not-to-cringe threads you might read on social media.
To make matters worse, Ma seems incapable of separating home and school. Whenever I forget to take the chicken out of the freezer, she lectures me—and then proceeds to prosecute me for forgetting to turn in my language arts essay.
Ma trains that deadly, all-too-familiar gaze on me. I find myself sitting up a little straighter.
I know that I’m going to get a lecture about the things I forgot to do—that’s without question. But as an expert on getting crucified by lecture, I wonder what approach she’ll take.
Will she launch into a Comedy Central–style roast session where she talks about my suitcase, my messy room, and the stack of dishes in the sink? Will she opt for something a little subtler? Or will she just stand there and wait until I burst into tears?
Ma doesn’t do any of that. Instead, her eyes soften. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. Never been better.” I keep my voice steady while I tell the bold-faced lie.
It’s been three weeks since Grandma passed. Whenever anyone asks how I’m feeling, I try to throw on a lopsided grin and claim that I’m not feeling anything—even though I secretly am.
Grandma is—was—one of my favorite people in the world. She had a great sense of humor, she could throw down in the kitchen, and she was surprisingly good at video games. The weird thing is that recently I’ve found myself missing the smaller things: the gyil recordings she would play in her apartment, her super-throaty chuckle, and the wild stories she used to tell.
Grandma must have told me about a million unsolicited half-English, half-Fante stories about everything from our family to mythology. She had this weird habit of getting really into her stories. She would stand on furniture and put on funny voices for different characters, all while her eyes sparkled like jewels. I remember making fun of her for it when I was younger … but looking back, it was pretty cool.
She’s gone now. And I’m never going to hear another story from her again.
I shuffle my feet. “Yup. All good over here.”
Ma holds my gaze for a beat before glancing at the empty hand-me-down suitcase. “I thought I told you to have this packing done yesterday.”
Uh-oh. I may have spoken too soon; the indictment starts now.
“You know,” Ma begins, “it’s this same carelessness that gets you zeros on your assignments. Even if you turn them in late, you can still get at least half credit.”
Turns out Ma went for the old double-roast strategy—a classic.
“I, uh, I still got tomorrow morning to pack, though, don’t I?”
“Right before the flight? I don’t think so.” Ma’s eyes are sharp enough to draw blood. “I told you to have this done yesterday. Stop procrastinating and get it done now.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I begrudgingly rise from my marshmallow chair and dart around the room, pulling comic books and toiletries into my suitcase like a speed-packing vortex.
“Don’t forget to pack some shirts,” Ma orders, pacing like a scrutinizing coach.
I snag an armful of graphic T-shirts and stuff them into the luggage.
“Some nice shirts.”
I throw one dress shirt in.
“And some pants that fit.”
A pair of light-wash jeans makes the cut along with some swishy sweatpants. I anticipate Ma’s next request and Kobe some socks into the open suitcase.
“Are you bringing your jacket?”
My eyes sweep my bedroom floor until I spot Dad’s old varsity jacket. It’s a relic dating back to when Dad was in high school, way back in the 1900s. It has a crest that reads NHS embroidered in pale yellow stitching, and brassy state championship pins that look vibrant against the jacket’s black fabric. It’s my go-to outfit enhancer, and today is no exception. I scoop the jacket up and throw it on over my pine-green T-shirt.
I finally muster the nerve to ask the question bouncing around in my head. “Ma … do I really have to go?”
“To Ghana? Yes, you do. It’ll be good for you to honor your grandmother.”
Ma does that a lot, just saying what she thinks as if it’s a universal fact rather than her own opinion. For some reason, she’s convinced that Ghana will be some amazing, emotionally groundbreaking experience for me.
I’m not so sure. I mean, I know Grandma loved it there—she would have been a mascot for Ghana if she could’ve. She used to say that we weren’t Black because that was just a color. In Grandma’s eyes, we were Ghanaian, and we should honor that heritage every day of our lives.
But my Ghanaian extended family disagrees; to them, I’m not actually Ghanaian. At the family reunions that Ma strong-arms me into attending, my relatives jokingly call me white because of my American accent. They quiz me on food I’ve never heard of and then shake their heads in disappointment when I inevitably fail. They make inside jokes in Fante and then stare directly at me to encourage optimal discomfort.
To them, I’m not Ghanaian; I’m just this kid they have a loose, questionable association with. They don’t want me there, and I don’t want to be there—so me not going to Ghana seems like a win-win.
“You know I loved Grandma—”
Ma nods.
“—but can I please just stay at Autumn’s until you all get back? I promise we won’t get into any trouble. Just into a healthy helping of pizza and video games. And Autumn’s parents would be chaperoning the whole time!”
Ma’s eyes narrow as she studies me. I fight the urge to shrink into the floor. I wonder how many problem students cave and confess their deepest, darkest secrets after just a few minutes of trading stares with Ma in her office.
“We’d even be getting some reading done for eighth grade…?” I add, trying to sweeten the deal enough to rival the cinnamon rolls downstairs.
“No. You’re coming with us,” Ma decides. “Your grandma wants you to be there.”
My heart sinks to my ankles. “At her funeral?”
“At her celebration of life,” Ma corrects, that principal gaze slipping back on. “Your grandmother would have hated having some melancholy American-style funeral. So we will celebrate her life and all she’s done—and hopefully we can make her smile.”
I stare. “Make her smile … from the grave?”
Ma’s eyes are unflinching. “Your grandmother is not gone, Kwame. She is still with us, watching over us from the afterlife. From Asamando.”
Asamando was one of the story-time subjects that Grandma would talk about, this magical underworld where age, sickness, and pain don’t exist—where the ancestors dance with the abosom, the Ghanaian gods and spirits.
It makes for a good story, but I don’t believe Grandma’s sitting in the sky, watching everything going on down here. In fact, I don’t even believe in any kind of life after death. Grandma’s not frolicking around in some divine paradise. She’s in the ground, forever, and my life feels almost … empty without her around.
I open my mouth to say something about it, but I hesitate. Ma’s eyes are a little puffy, and I remember how hard Grandma’s passing has been on her over the past few weeks. She’s even gone down to working only forty hours a week instead of her usual sixty.
I sigh. “Sure, Ma. Grandma’s watching us.”
“That’s right,” Ma says, straightening up. Her eyes fall to the darkness of the open closet behind me. “And she would love to see you wear that dashiki.”
“You remembered,” I grumble.
As a late birthday present, Grandma had hand-sewn me a dashiki that was lime green and royal blue—my favorite colors. The dashiki was even made to be a little big so I could grow into it over the next few years. I didn’t think that I’d like it, but part of me (very, very low-key) loves how it turned out.
I think Ma noticed because she tried to get me to wear the dashiki on one of our dress-down days during the last few weeks of school … but honestly, I would rather dislocate a shoulder. The kids from school don’t see dashikis as exactly fashion-forward—they see them as a gold mine for insults they think are clever.
Exhibit A: Elijah, one of the five Black kids in my grade, wore his dad’s dashiki to school on the first day of Black History Month. He was styling and beaming with pride until he got spotted by some of our classmates. They didn’t hold back—they made fun of how he looked, they mocked his father’s Nigerian accent, and they topped it off by tugging at the dashiki until it ripped. After the Elijah roasting, I buried Grandma’s dashiki deep in my closet and hoped that Ma would eventually forget about it.
Copyright © 2024 by Craig Kofi Farmer
Copyright © 2024 by Serena Malyon
