A Blessing of Sorts

It was a long line, with screaming babies and shuffling shoes and droning beeps. In front of Nhyira was a woman, with sandy, blond hair and blistering red arms. Behind her was a man with the neck of a giraffe creating a cloud of heat above her. Occasionally, he would rain down a waterfall of spit as he spoke to the poor woman who stood beside him with a rusty wedding band on her finger. She looked to her left, and then to her right but she was choked. She craned her neck out to watch those lucky enough to spend an extra 100 dollars on priority tickets, strolling past the queue.

She closed her eyes, and rested her arm on the handle of her tiny, tattered suitcase. It belonged to her mother, who pushed it into her arms, insisting that she finally put it to use. Nhyira smiled, as she remembered the glee in her mother’s eyes, waving and crying until she was swallowed by the crowd around her. She smiled apologetically at the man with the giraffe neck when he tapped her forward. The line was finally moving, and her body marched on.

Her fingers were clutched around her little green book, within which was a long rectangle of thin paper sticking out the tail end. Her heart pounded as she approached the woman in white and red, with a smile plastered to her face. Her hair, silky brown like that of the women in the movies, was tied neatly into a bun. “Passport and boarding pass please,” she sang. Nhyira nodded, shoving her documents into her hands. Next thing she knew, with a chirpy beep and a cheerful nod, she was ushered down the jetway.

Out the window, planes whooshed up and down. The sun popped in and out of clouds, spilling pink and orange onto the dark blue sky. For a moment she stood there, mesmerised. This is where those giant, loud birds came from. She watched a flurry of orange and green vests run up and down as they checked the engines and loaded the suitcases and removed the cones. She heard the rumble of suitcases behind her; she heard the stern speaker announce the last call for boarding, and still she stood there, watching the sun drown in the dark purple sky. From her eyes fell hot drops of water her cheeks.

This was it. This was the one chance she had to make a living for herself, and for her family. She crouched and wiped her tears and her snot, suddenly aware of the incredulous stares of those who, like her, were boarding the flight. But they had no idea about her life; they did not know that her story was just beginning.

Nhyira was the first of four children – or rather, the first to live past five years of age. Before her were three boys, one who died before meeting the world, another who couldn’t cry and the one who shattered any hope her mother had. When Nhyira was born, her mother refused to name her. “Ah well,” she was told when the girl came crying out, “this one sef is not even a boy, so the loss will not be that great.”

So, she laid back down and refused to look at the child. The midwives oohed and aahed over the girl’s big brown eyes, but still, she would not turn. Instead, she closed her eyes and mourned the day that this girl too would pass.

“This is your captain speaking,” said the booming slurred voice, “welcoming you all to this KLM flight to Amsterdam.” Nhyira’s knees were locked, her neck stiff, and her eyes searching. She was sat at the tail end of the middle row, with strange men – one balding, and the other squished into his clergy collar – seated to her right. To her left were those lucky enough to look out the window, but still, she would watch. She stretched her neck and peered out the window, watching as the plane leapt off the ground. Then, she caught her breath and hid her thumbs in a fist until she could see nothing but the blinding blue of the ocean. Everything would be just fine.

On Nhyira’s fifth birthday, her mother scrubbed her in the large metal basin that sat in the compound, and she sobbed ceaselessly. “Oh my child, oh my child,” she wouldn’t stop wailing. All the women on the compound came out to see what the commotion was. They saw Nhyira, perplexed, standing in the basin, covered in soap; then they saw her mother, singing as tears shot past her cheeks. Upon seeing them, she sang louder, “My God has not snatched my child! Oh yes! My God has blessed me!”

Her father would come home to a jubilee of sorts. The women kneaded banku and boiled a pot-full of soup; they fanned the flames when the charcoal died down, and they hushed their own screaming babies.

“Ah,” Aunty Abi sighed knowingly, “me I told you this one will survive nau.”

“Ehn,” Aunty Ama chimed, “God cannot give you girl and then now come and take that one too.” Tied to her back was a baby boy who cried constantly and kicked himself out of the tightly knotted cloth.

“Me all I know is,” said Nhyira’s mother, thrusting her fists joyously, “If it’s a boy oh, if it’s a girl oh, this child is my very own blessing.” The women nodded and murmured in agreement.

The priest nudged Nhyira and gave her a reassuring smile. He looked so much like her father, his eyes smiled even before his lips did. “You travel often?” He asked. His skin was dark like hers, and his face was round and flat like a pancake. But his voice was high-pitched, and he ended every statement with a question mark.

“No sir,” was her response, “this is my first flight.”

“Oh, I see, Amsterdam is your final destination?”

“America, sir. I am going to study.”

“Oh, me too,” he grinned a toothy smile, looking very pleased with himself, “but I’m going to teach.” He had come to Ghana as a missionary and was returning home to continue his ministry. She nodded at him with a polite smile.

“Well anyway,” he continued, “what’s your name?”

“Nhyira, sir.”

“Oh, that’s a beautiful name… what does it mean?”

She tilted her head at him and beamed.

“It means Blessing.”