Chapter 1 Ofosua
CHAPTER 1 OFOSUA
ADINKRA SAYING: (Nkonsonkonson) A symbol of unity, community.
HELEN ADDO: Marriage is not about you the person, but family. You will know happiness when you grow your family… especially if you pick someone from a good home.
TWO YEARS LATER…
I would have done things differently if the choice had been mine. But it wasn’t.
I had no say in any of it.
But I forced myself to swallow. Panic was not welcome here today. I was not going to lose my shit.
I was getting married.
Utilizing my breathing techniques didn’t change the fact that my mother and my mother-in-law-to-be had turned this perfect fall day into a spectacle. Worse, the monstrosity going on a few yards away without me was just the traditional marriage ceremony. It wasn’t even step two, the white wedding.
Since my mother, Helen, claimed mostly her Ga side and not her Kwahu roots, we were doing a traditional Ga wedding, otherwise known as an engagement, only because it came before the big white wedding most couples also had.
In Ghanaian culture, traditional marriages were just as binding as a marriage ceremony is in Western culture. We just also liked the white wedding in the church for flair. This traditional ceremony meant the two families would be joined forever. And the official white wedding ceremony? That further cemented the permanence of it all in front of God. But honestly, it was a colonialist holdover, because traditional marriages were blessed by an osofo, or priest.
Glancing out the window at the three hundred or so guests outside, I couldn’t believe the white wedding would be an even bigger spectacle than what was happening under Central Park’s Wisteria Pergola right now. We had so many people, we’d spilled onto the main lawn of the Conservatory Garden.
It was all too much. In most instances these days, the couple didn’t even have to be present at the ceremony. There was just a nominal exchange of, Oh, yes, you know, the family bought these jewels and these clothing items . And the other side would say, Oh, look, we brought a cow, and money . The cow would be a real show-off item.
No one brought a cow these days.
But when my mother was involved, there was no such thing as simple. Our ceremony was taking up half of Central Park. Every influential Ghanaian from Accra to London to New York was in attendance. Hell, a hundred of the guests were parental invites of business associates, dignitaries, Fortune 500 titans of industry.
I didn’t even know them.
My mind was spinning at the expectation that we were going to go next level from this for the actual church wedding.
I had wanted to do this in Accra. That had been the original plan, but at the last minute Yofi said he couldn’t get away from work, which I hadn’t understood. He was Yofi Tutu. Forbes had named him Up-and-Comer of the Year. Surely he could dictate his own vacation.
All I could do was sit and worry silently as my auntie Ruth finished rebraiding my hair into the tightest cornrows of my life. She wasn’t my actual aunt, but one of my mother’s friends. Half the time, I wasn’t even certain who was actually related to me and who wasn’t. Every person who was at least fifteen years older than you was auntie or uncle.
She didn’t like the hairstylist’s work, so now she was redoing the braids toward my crown, then releasing the hair in a massive Afro with extensions to make it even bigger and fuller. My hair was intertwined with pieces of kente cloth with the family colors we chose of green, fuchsia, and cream.
My mother had insisted that only the best would do. Her idea of the best, not mine. I knew this was what she was used to. In Ghana, every celebration was over the top, from weddings to outdoorings, which were traditional presentations of new babies to the friends and family, to funerals. But, God, not a single person, not one , had asked me what I wanted.
My only contribution had been selecting Yofi. Luckily, I had done that myself.
Our parents had been friends for years. I had been aware of him because we were in the same circles and always at the same events.
Handsome Yofi had gone to Harvard, was an investment banker, and came from money. He was also one of those guys who seemed like they’d never settle down. But two years ago, he had. With me.
I’d been bored stiff at a Ghana Association dinner, when Yofi had sat down beside me, asking me why I looked like I wanted to poke an eyeball out. Instead of the simpering flirtation my mother would have preferred, along the lines of how my night was better now that he’d shown up, I’d been truthful and direct.
I told him I would rather watch paint dry in a humid room than be at this dinner.
To this day, I remember his laughter at my answer. Full-bodied, head thrown back, arm placed over his trim waist, his amusement had been infectious. His gleaming white teeth were a stark contrast to his smooth, ebony skin.
To say that Yofi was attractive didn’t even begin to hit the mark. He was what I thought of when I heard tall, dark, and handsome . He looked like a very tall Michael B. Jordan, that actor my auntie Ruth lamented she should have married.
And honestly, finding a Ghanaian man over six feet tall who didn’t think beer was a food group and didn’t eat fufu for every meal? That was like winning the lottery. Add gorgeous on top of it all?
He seemed perfect. But more important, he was perfect for Ghanaian moms. For the first time in my life, I’d managed to satisfy my parents with my choice.
Yep, I’d landed the Holy Grail and everything that came along with it, including the circus I could hear going on outside.
My okyeame—the linguist meant to be the intermediary for us—was negotiating my bride price with Auntie Wenda, Yofi’s family’s okyeame. I loved the idea that it was two women who were getting what could sometimes be a tense negotiation done.
For a lot of tribes, okyeame were usually men. But the Gas were more matrilineal, so we had women. My mother had told me to keep my mouth shut around them, though, because, God forbid, I might let slip the radical things I believed, like that love was love and that people should be allowed to marry anybody they wanted.
No, no. Never say that.
I had asked for someone open-minded. Mom and I had fought bitterly.
I had lost.
Now my auntie Phoebe was loudly talking about how I was pious, served Christ, and would make a good Christian wife who would listen and obey. Little did she know that I had asked Yofi to strike the word “obey” from my white wedding vows. Because if we were all being honest, everyone knew there was no way in hell that Ofosua Addo was going to obey anyone.
I had a mouth. Sometimes it said things.
I relaxed a fraction when she moved on to how my future husband’s family was going to have to show that they were worthy, that they had the gifts and the means to look after me.
There was a commotion outside the door, but I ignored it and forced myself to breathe despite my far-too-tight kaba and slit. The traditional blouse and skirt set was made of white lace, with a patchwork of kente woven around each piece of lace. It was stunning.
The top was strapless, showing off my shoulders. My mother had been scandalized at first, but she’d eventually relented. It was basically a corset, shoving my boobs up under my chin, which I honestly felt was false advertising. Yofi knew what he was getting.
Hell, we lived together. None of this would be a surprise.
Finally, the commotion outside broke through my thoughts when the door was jimmied open. “Cuuuuzzz!”
I had to laugh. My cousin Kukua was not known for her subtlety. Her mom and mine were sisters. Her father did something for the World Bank, as was the way. They were Ghanaian, but her mother was half-American, so she had been raised to believe in freedom of choice in what you were going to do and study, and how you were going to grow up.
So Kukua became an artist and the wild one in our family. Every rule I at least attempted to follow, she blatantly broke. Hence, she was my favorite cousin.
“How are you, my darling? Are you ready to be shackled forever?”
“You make marriage seem amazing.”
“Mark my words, I am never getting married. I prefer freedom of choice, freedom of movement, freedom of dick .”
I snorted a laugh, which set Kukua off into a fit of giggles until she was snorting too.
And that was when my mother walked in. “Oh my God, the two of you. Can you keep it down? The okyeame are about to present the gold and gifts.”
Most couples just presented jewelry and traditional cloth that the bride’s mother already had in the house, but not my parents. My mother had insisted on a new gold wedding jewelry set to show what a good home I came from.
Some of the pieces were so intricate, heavy, and ornate that I’d never wear them. They were more showpieces. After that was done, Yofi and his family would arrive in style from the west side of the park. If we had been in Ghana, they would have had a massive caravan, likely stopping traffic in Cantonments, the posh neighborhood in Accra where my parents had their compound. With traditional marriages in olden times, the richer you were, the more likely you were to have cows to offer your new bride.
The exchange of drinks would be next. The drinks sealed the deal. For some reason, over the centuries, schnapps had become a vital part of the drink exchange, but in Yofi’s case, they’d also bring Lagavulin and Macallan. He knew my father loved scotch. I knew for a fact there would also be a bottle of 2013 Go?t de Diamants in the drinks they brought. Yofi had been so excited to show it off. But it felt like such a waste. Who needed a million-euro bottle of champagne? It was all for show.
In traditional marriages, on the off chance you were granted a divorce by the families, all you really had to do was return the drinks and fill out paperwork for the court. But getting one granted was so difficult.
And I always wanted to know what happened if you drank all the drinks at the reception.
My mother looked stunning in an elegant mother-of-the-bride off-shoulder kente kaba and slit in green, fuchsia, and cream. She also wore beaded dangling feathers from Kenya in her ears, and around her neck was the simple gold cross necklace she always wore.
But even now, she was busy bemoaning the fact that there wouldn’t be cows. I should’ve known she hadn’t really made peace with doing the ceremony in the States.
“Be practical! Where the hell were we going to find a cow in the middle of Manhattan? And where would we put said cow, honestly?” I asked.
I know she thought if Yofi wanted to show off appropriately, his family would have found a way to bring one. Kukua wrapped her arm around me. “Auntie Helen, look at your beautiful daughter. Can’t you leave her be for one small moment?”
My mother sniffed and gathered herself. “I have never been prouder of you than in this moment. When your child looks beyond themselves to the future and future generations, it’s a beautiful thing. I have done what a mother is supposed to do. Soon it will be your turn.”
I heard a lot of hooting and hollering and laughing outside. Kukua leaned toward the window. “Ah yes, they’re presenting the jewels.”
My head throbbed, the stress of the day seeping in. “What are they saying?”
“That before your husband presents these to you as you lay naked on the marriage bed, which is what got all the aunties hollering, he will present them to your family to show that he is worthy of you. Did you know they brought you boudoir clothes to tempt your husband?”
My eyes went wide. “No, they did not.”
Auntie Ruth stepped back, and I propped myself up just in time to see Auntie Phoebe pull something out of the adinkra-decorated chest and hold it up… Oh my God, was that a lace teddy?
My mother laughed. “Ruth, how are we coming?”
I could hear the smile in her voice. “Auntie, we’re almost finished. Doesn’t she look beautiful?”
Mom glanced down at me, and for once, I saw satisfaction on her face. I was making her proud by doing this, by letting her go as wild as she wanted. I loved her. I did want to make her happy. It was just that usually what filled her with joy and what revved me up were at opposite ends. I really hoped this would be the exception. “Are you happy, Mum?”
“As long as you’re happy, that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Kukua tried to hide a giggle behind her hand, because we both knew that what she really meant was that as long as I was getting married to a man like Yofi, she was satisfied.
I loved my parents, but as long as I had been alive, I had never done anything to satisfy the Doctors Addo. There was never a straight-A report card that was enough. The question was always… How can you be better?
Mom made her way back to the door as Auntie Ruth released me. “Ah, and you are finished, my dear,” Auntie Ruth said.
Kukua helped me to the mirror. Wow. The makeup artist had highlighted my cheekbones to perfection. And my hair really did look like the best kind of crown.
I turned to see Kukua was beaming at me. She took my hand as the commotion outside swelled once again. Yofi and his family were arriving. I could feel the drums in my blood, thumping through my veins. I could almost picture the dancers because I had watched them rehearse a thousand times. I moved my feet in time with the beat as I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
When I released my breath and opened my eyes, Kukua met my gaze. “Before we go out there, you know as your cousin and your maid of honor… Honestly, let’s face it, I’m no maid. I like woman of honor , personally.”
I laughed. “Okay, woman of honor it is.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
My brow furrowed. “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
Her brown eyes bored into my soul. “I’m not saying you don’t, but I know you. You have this deep need to keep your word and see things through. If you have any hesitation whatsoever with any of this, now is the time to say so because I will sneak you out of here so fast.”
Unexpectedly, there was a part of me deep down inside that wanted to scream, Oh my God, yes, please . But that was one percent, the part of me afraid of the unknown, afraid of things that weren’t in my direct control. I was getting married today.
I wanted to get married. I loved Yofi. I did.
I did.
But then a sneaky memory barged in.
A kiss from long ago, from someone who was not Yofi. From someone before Yofi. And just the memory was enough to make me feel ashamed. Deeply. But I swallowed it. From this point forward, I would think only of Yofi. “No. I want to do this. This is the right thing to do.”
Her gaze searched mine, but then she relented. “Okay, if you say so.”
I nodded. “I do,” I said, grinning. “See what I did there?”
She may have rolled her eyes at me, but still, I let my cousin take my hand and lead me toward the drumbeats. I was getting married. And nothing was going to ruin this day for me.