"Today, come home early ohh," my landlord said as I walked along the corridor, adjusting my tie. He added,"We go chop Takoradi fufu so come on time."
"Okay oh," I responded, in a broad smile which was anything but a sincere one.
"Efo, don't chop ohh. Come home with empty stomach and come early," I could hear him say as I shut the main gate.
It's almost a month since I moved in here. Takoradi people have a unique lifestyle. Everything about them is different. Their Fante is different. Their music taste is different; nine out of ten Takoradi boys can sing all of Pappy Kojo's songs. Their kenkey is different; I can't describe the taste. Their pepper is wild. Their koko is yellow or red or white; the day I'll see the black type, I may just collapse. Their girls are also different. In Accra, it's sometimes strange seeing beautiful girls roaming purposelessly on the streets, but over here, no matter the time of the day and the type of girl you fancy, you'll see many of them loitering around. I never said anything about having one of them as a fling for the period of my National Service, but one of my new friends had already advised me to always have protection on me because some of the nice girls have HIV.
We approached a police barrier. As the trotro driver folded his usual bribe of One Ghana Cedi which he'll give to the policeman through an innocent (and unnecessary) handshake, permit me to delve into my landlord's personal life a bit. He has two wives. One has a baby, the first wife is yet to have a child. However tensed the relationship between the two wives may be, they live in harmony and they never shamed Mr. Jude's hard-earned reputation in the neighborhood. I'd never heard them quarrel. One sells sobolo by the roadside, while the other sells her cassava and yams at the Kwesimintim market. When the day ends, whoever's supposed to prepare supper does so without any issue. Mr. Jude himself is in his late forties. His occupation, he says, is to be a landlord. When the month ends, he comes round for his rents which according to him is his salary. He never collects advance-rents. And that's how it has been for the last ten years. People who had come to live in Takoradi and wouldn't want to stay in those buildings that were as ancient as Kwame Nkrumah's legacy would opt for the modern, well-maintained houses put up by Mr. Jude and his competitors. A single room with a shared bathroom is Ghc80 per month.
"Because you're Efo, I don't want you to take me to Nogokpo, so I'll accept Ghc60," he had said in all genuine friendliness.
The day came to an end. It was a no-show day at work. Takoradi Fufu was on my mind. I had to get home early to contribute my quota by helping with the pounding. The best part of the matter was that, I wouldn't be spending on food that evening. The aroma of the soup welcomed me. I could smell it all the way from the roadside. I was bubbling with excitement.
"Aunty, good afternoon," I greeted his elder wife, who was rinsing the mortar.
"You're back already?"
"Yes Ma," I smiled-out my response.
The cassava was ready. Mr. Jude emerged from his room, bare-chested. When I heard the soft thud of the mortar and pestle, I came out.
"Mr. Jude, ma mmin wor."
"No No No No No. If you pound it, it'll no longer be Takoradi fufu. It'll be Volta or KNUST fufu. So go to your room and rest."
He refused to give me the pestle no matter how best I negotiated. After a short while, I heard a knock on my door. It was his wife. She was holding a bowl of soup. The soup had an entrancing smell. There were three pieces of chicken resting obediently in it, garnished with garden eggs, and some other things (I am not familiar with the names of the ingredients). My mouth begun to water.
Then I heard a crushing sound outside accompanied by a shrielling OHHH!!! The younger wife's baby had crawled into the table sending the pounded food to the ground. After some seconds of shock, the wives insulted each other. One said the other was careless and useless, the other said the other was barren. I felt sorry for Mr. Jude, especially considering the righteous expectations he had had for this fufu.
I stared at the hot soup. My eyes fell on the gari I'd bought on my first day in Takoradi. It was smooth; so fine in texture that whenever I added sugar and water to it, it seemed as if I had poured a whole tin of Nido on it. It was the best thing to ever happen to me in recent times. If it was a girl, it would've been called Anastasia. So, I got some hot water, and prepared eba....
and ate with the delicious soup...
...the evening was a quiet one... as we all mourned our fallen fufu!!!
