The boy nextdoor

                                                            

Right next to my uncompleted building was my childhood friend Ato. We’ve been friends since when both of our parents decided to come to Accra to seek greener pastures. My dad was well known for his Johnson Brothers Limited. One of the wealthiest men in Chiraa. The other women tripped our house for help. They always got loans which they rarely paid back from my mom. She owned the biggest jewelry shops and supermarkets. But in grade 3, my parents lost everything. Whether fate or destiny or coincidence, I cannot tell. My “business man now laborer” dad got us the uncompleted building which we made our home. Coming from Adjumakoma is my friend Ato and her widow mother. His father had died when he was three. And his eight other siblings were at Adjumako each living a life of their choice under the supposed care of a grandmother who cannot see or talk, and “shits” on herself. All the eight had different fathers. Ato’s mom was indeed a super woman. Having one child with the Okyeame of their village, another with that cocoa farmer, that hunter from the next village and on. I don’t know what and how, but whatever pulled Ato’s mom to come seek greener pastures in Accra really saved Ato. Not saved as in free, healthy and wealthy, but he would have been a terrible thief who had impregnated six girls in a week back home. That was life at Adjumako. The struggles are even worse in the streets of Accra. Ato and I sell from dawn to dusk. On days that we had lessons in the morning, we sold throughout the day. That was just not it. We cleaned and labored to get money. He bought books and supported his mom with his gains. I did same to support my “house-cleaner” mother, my three siblings and my “laborer-drunkard” dad. But this one thing always beat my mind. The joyful face Ato always wore. He always talked about hope. A hopeful future when we wouldn’t be sweating under the scorching sun anymore, a time when we will eat what we want, not gari and water. It sounded to me a stupid hope. But what got me pissed and always made me change the topic was the source of his hope. Ato never stopped making noise about God. To him, God loved us, us all. He knew the purpose of our lives and will take us to a joyful end only if we followed His ways. No wonder Ato always read his bible, never missed church and smiled even when he was insulted and mocked, and shared his water with the other children in school. None of these made sense to me. Where was this God if I went through only hard times, when I lost the most important person in my life, when I had to sweat under the sun to fill my stomach with wet gari, when life made no sense. I cried as I walked with Ato towards the airport gate. I was going to miss the one person who made feel human. The only person who I spent my every time with. He’s on a sponsorship by one of his church elders to study in South Africa. This was what Ato told me as I hugged him for minutes: “Dede, there is a God who knows the destiny of His children. He will bring you to a joyful end only if you accept Him and follow His ways. Accept Him into your life and let Him have His way”. These words that Ato said to me run through my mind as I walked home. I began questioning myself. “So, was there a God who really loved me? Who will accept me and bring me joy if only I accept Him?” “Dear God, forgive my sins, I accept you into my life. Your will be done”. These words I said as tears rolled down my cheeks. For once, I thought, if there was any life I would want to live, then that will be the Ato- type of life.