In Kumasi, my mother’s hair bobs around her head like the bulb of a perfect mushroom. She wears elaborate black and white gowns that loosely hug her figure, which flows softly outwards from breast to belly.
In the mornings, she stands by the gate and drapes her arms around my shoulders before I depart for school, and never fails to wish God’s divine guidance upon my soul. In the evenings, she serves me delicious feasts I can never finish before retreating to the living room, where she watches television on the carpeted floor and listens to the portable radio she props firmly on her lap.
While teaching gospel hymns, she passionately swings her hands back and forth as she sings off-key. As she closes her eyes, she must imagine that her God is inside me somewhere, because whenever she looks at me, she smiles.