Or maybe she was thinking about my mother, about the real reason I was stuck in Ghana that summer, sweating in a stall with an aunt I hardly knew while my mother healed at home in Alabama. Maybe she thought there were no crazy people in America, that I had never seen one before. In my three months there, we sold only four bags.Įven now, I don’t completely understand why my aunt singled the man out to me. My aunt nodded, satisfied, and we kept walking past the hordes of people gathered in that agoraphobia-inducing market until we reached the stall where we would spend the rest of the morning attempting to sell knockoff handbags. The man continued past us, mumbling to himself as he waved his hands about in gestures that only he could understand. My aunt was speaking so loudly, and the man, tall with dust caked into his dreadlocks, was within earshot.
While there, I was walking through Kejetia Market with my aunt when she grabbed my arm and pointed. The first time, I was sent to Ghana to wait her out. For months on end, she colonized that bed like a virus, the first time when I was a child and then again when I was a graduate student. Whenever I think of my mother, I picture a queen-sized bed with her lying in it, a practiced stillness filling the room. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil. The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
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