Chapter 8 Ofosua
CHAPTER 8 OFOSUA
ADINKRA SAYING: (Gye Nyame) Fear nothing except God.
HELEN ADDO: And your mother. You should fear your mother small, small.
“Wait, so after he’s basically tormented you for two years, you have to work directly with him? Like, on every project?” Cora asked me as she perched on the kitchen counter.
I bent over and pulled the garlic bread out of the oven as Megan leaned against the doorjamb. “Yeah, it would seem that way.” I still couldn’t process it all. On the one hand, I was so excited. My own imprint! It had to be a dream. On the other, I felt the albatross around my neck. “This is a huge opportunity, so I had to be really careful with what I said. I didn’t want to look ungrateful.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“For now, I’m going to stack my team with people who will be just as passionate as I am and prepare for battle. I’m not going to let him ruin this for me.”
Megan sauntered in and poured herself a very large glass of wine. “Or maybe Cole will see the error of his ways. You know, realize that you are amazing and that you know what you’re doing. This could be a good thing.” She slid me a sly smile. “Or maybeeee…” She drew out the word. “He’ll finally remember what happened between you two.”
A hot flush of embarrassment crept up my neck as I transferred the garlic bread onto one of our fancier serving plates. Only Megan, Cora, and Kukua knew what had happened between us. They’d come to see me at the office one day, and the three of them had nearly tripped over themselves when they saw him with his fuck me hair, tailored suit, and cocky smile. So I’d had to explain the rules and the whys.
We did not drool over assholes who had ghosted and forgotten me.
That night felt like yesterday. My first publishing party. The hot guy on the balcony.
I could still remember—vividly, damn it—the first time I’d seen Cole. That kiss we shared and the promise of something I’d only ever dreamed of until then.
Growing up, my parents had been quite particular. “Boyfriend for what?” was my mother’s favorite phrase. Yes, I’d been allowed to have dates for proms and things like that, usually with one of her Ghanaian friends’ sons. But my parents had been old-school. No dating. And then suddenly, I entered college, and my mother acted like I needed to be on a husband hunt.
Sure, I’d been kissed before that night. In that sort of hurried, exploratory way of teenagers who knew their parents could be around the corner at any moment. Ethnic parents to boot. So that usually meant a beating was coming if you got caught.
My first kiss had been in Ghana, at Achimota Junior Secondary School, when I’d been in year nine, or what would be eighth grade in the US. Kwame Blankson and I had been caught by a prefect, and I’d had to do Eunice Quashie’s laundry for two months as punishment for being a “bad girl,” so she wouldn’t tell the headmaster.
But the kiss with Cole was nothing like that. It had been a meandering, slow discovery.
That night had ended on such a high. And like a fool, I’d actually expected him to track me down and call. But he didn’t. And I wasn’t going to lie and say my feelings hadn’t been hurt. They had been.
For days I’d been gutted, replaying the night over and over and wondering what I’d said or done wrong. Then I’d let it go and chalked it up to an experience every woman should have at least once: a swanky party complete with a hot mystery man and an even hotter unexpected kiss. A single-in-New-York story I could tell my friends over drinks.
Fast-forward eight months to when I started at Drake full-time, and my boss had introduced me to his nephew, Cole, who would be joining the team. My brows lifted in expectation of some kind of recognition, even a blush, but his face had been blank. He’d just sort of stared at me, but not in recognition, more like I wasn’t worth his time. And that’s when my heart truly, finally closed forever to Cole Drake. And when I decided my dating life needed to stay in a more traditional direction.
See how well that went?
Ghanaian guys were a known quantity. A few well-placed questions and you had everything. But Ghanaian men were notorious for their mistresses. Not just the older generations, but supposedly modern, enlightened men as well. It was some macho virility nonsense. Hell, many of them even cheated on mistresses with girlfriends. Culturally, having many women was supported by being able to have several traditional wives. As long as you could look after them financially, no problem.
But Yofi had been different.
Not different enough.
“Look, I know how this goes. I launch an amazing new imprint, then he takes credit as the Drake on the project. Or worse, he’s been put on my team to keep an eye on me to make sure I don’t screw up, but that is ludicrous given that (a) he is not an editor, and (b) he knows nothing about Black commercial fiction. I just have to figure out how to handle him without losing my shit. Because I cannot lose it at work. Ever.”
The front door opened and closed, and I braced myself for my mother. But instead, it was Kukua. She held up a bottle of wine. “I heard you needed wine. I’m fresh from Brooklyn and I brought reinforcements. That chef I was seeing brought it to my place the last time he was over. But I figured you could use it more. Now, what’s this about Hot Cole being assigned to you? Is this the start of a very sexy forbidden office romance where you pretend to hate each other, then bone on the conference room table? Because if it is, please, cuz, do not leave out a single detail. Please tell me that there’s some kinky element to this.”
I shook my head at her. “Hand me that wine.” Chilled to perfection. She knew me well. I wasn’t one of those girls who pretended I could tell you about hints of bougainvillea and leather or some sort of nonsense. I wanted my wine to taste good, and I wanted it to be cold.
“Have I told you lately that I love you?”
She immediately finished the song quote for me. Singing off-key about no one above me.
I rolled my eyes. “Ugh, God, why do you have to remind me?”
She gave me a chuckle. “Hey, like I keep telling you, this eight-month drought you have going is self-imposed. Now, about Hot Cole.”
I scrunched my nose. “You know how I feel.”
She scooted her ass up on the counter, grabbed a glass for herself, and poured some of the Barefoot wine. “I know you’re still feeling it over Yofi. I say the fastest way to get over a guy is to get involved with someone else. And you and Hot Cole have tension. This is an opportunity in more ways than one.”
Somewhere deep in my body, the forgotten remnants of my libido stirred to life just thinking about him. No. No! I was not going there. Hot conference room fantasy or not. “Right. Except, I don’t need a guy. I’m perfectly happy.” But, while I didn’t need a man, it would be nice to not feel like this all the time. Like I was perpetually broken, somehow. Unlovable.
She laughed. “Sure, because you’re the poster child for what happy looks like. All I’m saying is maybe you and Hot Cole can set aside your differences.”
I had to choke out a laugh at that. “Oh, that is never ever going to happen.”
“Never say never, love,” she said with a wink.
“I think it’s safe to say in this case. He’s my archnemesis. I loathe him. He loathes me. We are not a match.”
“But he’s so pretty. Maybe you can muzzle him and still bang the hell out of him,” Megan suggested hopefully.
“Like I said, never going to happen. This is just an opportunity.” I took a sip of my wine and moaned at the bubbly sweetness. “But maybe you’re not wrong entirely about my dating life.”
Megan paused with a piece of garlic bread on the way to her lips. Cora choked on her sip of wine. And as for my cousin, well, she stared at me agog.
Cora spoke softly as if she were approaching a spooked horse. “You might be interested in dating again?”
My cousin had less finesse. “Please revenge-date Hot Cole.” She proceeded to make a crude gesture with her hand as she poked her tongue on the inside of her cheek.
“Gross,” I said with a shudder. But that little flutter of butterflies in my belly would not be ignored. “We don’t do smug white boys.”
“He is smug,” Cora agreed. “But the way he fights with you, he wants you.”
“As exhibited by the fact that he seems to have forgotten that we kissed? Doubtful. But enough of Cole. I’m thinking maybe it’s time I start dating again.”
Cora clapped. “I have just the guy.”
I lifted a brow. “Oh no. Don’t get excited. I’m only thinking about dating. Not actually doing it. Baby steps.”
“Auntie will be so pleased.”
I shook my head vehemently. “No. You cannot tell her. You guys shut up. Not a word. I’ll be inundated with doctors and lawyers.”
Kukua snorted a laugh. “Only you would try to avoid a doctor.”
Speak of the devil.
I heard the door open and saw my mother in the doorway, draped in a mustard-yellow bubu, cinched at the waist, the draped fabric giving her knockout curves. Only my mother could make a caftan-style dress look good.
I lowered my voice and hissed at them. “Promise me. Not a word to my mum.” I met their gazes. “All of you.”
They all put up three fingers for scout’s honor. My mother sauntered over to the kitchen. “What’s this? Pasta? How is that dinner? You need proper food. I brought some things. I’m going to cook.”
I’d already reheated the gnocchi, so I stared at my mother. “No, Mum, we’re going to eat this.”
“Ah, but your friends don’t want this—”
I shook my head. “Today is not the day, Mum. I made this gnocchi, and we are all going to eat it.” Okay fine, I’d heated it up. But still.
Cora and Megan looked back and forth like they didn’t know what to do with us. My mother barging into the flat was a constant occurrence. So in instances like this, they didn’t seem to know what they could actually do about it. She owned the place, after all.
Her living so close didn’t help either. Twelve years ago, the unit next door had become available and my parents had snagged it, with the idea that they’d knock down the walls and make one giant unit.
But I’d been headed to college and Dad’s travel schedule had been busy, and my mother’s enthusiasm for construction had waned.
“Is this how you talk to your mother?”
“Mum, I’ve already cooked. You are welcome to join us, but we’re not changing our plans to accommodate a late entry.”
She huffed and placed down a pot of something that smelled like light soup, with its ginger, garlic, onions, and pepper. One sip was guaranteed to clear your sinuses.
Mom made it when I was depressed. Except I didn’t want light soup. Actually, I quite hated it. Light soup was sort of a spicy-as-hell chicken soup.
She narrowed her gaze at me. “You watch your mouth.”
I felt immediately guilty. I was in a mood, and she didn’t deserve to have me take it out on her. “Look, join us for dinner, why don’t you?”
I didn’t really want that, but she was my mum, and with my father working all the time, I knew she was lonely. “But we’re still not having soup. We’re having gnocchi.”
“You’re not having this garbage. That’s unhealthy.”
I forced myself to take a deep sigh. “Mum, please, you can join us or not. It’s up to you.”
She stared me down, and I knew this was a test. Because normally, to avoid an argument, I would give in to her, but I was tired of giving people their way. I was very tired of making myself small so everyone else could feel comfortable.
“This is it. Let me grab you a plate. We have garlic bread too.”
“Garlic bread, what is this nonsense?”
“Actually, I made the bread myself. Watched it rise and everything.”
She stared at me. “Heh, when did you start baking?”
I sighed. “I’ve baked for a while now, Mum.”
Kukua jumped in and winked at me as she grabbed the goodies my mum brought. “Auntie, come and sit with me. I’ll take some of that soup home. I hope that’s okay.”
Dinner was mostly fine, as everyone was preparing to watch The Bachelor . It was a train wreck waiting to happen, but none of us could look away. When the show started, my mother frowned. “What is this?”
“Mum, have you really never heard of this? It’s called The Bachelor . It’s like that South African dating show we were obsessed with on M-Net last summer when we went home. One guy dates all these women looking for love.”
“I like the South African one better. The discarded women vote on who he should date next.” She squinted at the screen for a moment. “Heh, it says here they’re taking applications. Ofos, you should apply.”
“Mum, I’m not going to be on The Bachelor . Once you see what these girls do, I’m pretty sure you’ll have whiplash.”
Kukua chuckled. “Hey, Auntie is not alone on this idea. We could do the application for you.”
I glowered at her. “Don’t you dare start.”
My mother nodded enthusiastically. “Eh, tell your cousin. Because I’m trying to get her to meet people, but every time I bring someone to her, she makes a face. See, eh, that’s the face right there.” My mother pointed at my scowl.
“Well, maybe, Auntie, if you ask her what her type is, she’ll make less of that face.”
My mother waved her off. “Her type. Nonsense. I know what her type is.”
I couldn’t help it; my mother had poked the tiger. “Do tell, Mum, what is my type?”
“All right. Ghanaian, obviously. Ivy League–educated, of course. If not Ghanaian, at least African. Except Nigerians. How they will worry you. Black Americans are next. Then Europeans. Everyone else after. White Americans and white South Africans don’t make the list, obviously.”
I groaned. “Mum, this is your type for me. This isn’t my type.”
She ignored me and kept talking. “A lawyer, a doctor. Finance careers are good too, but like tech guys, they work too much.”
I frowned. “And a lawyer or a doctor won’t?”
“I’m saying the ideal match. Especially if you’re not going to go and get your master’s. You also know they’ll look after you properly. You won’t have to keep working this nonsense job.”
Aaaaaand my roommates tapped out.
Megan bounced up. “Um, I’m going to get some more wine.”
Cora suddenly had to take a very important phone call. “It’s Travis. I have to let him into the building.” Way to use her perfect boyfriend for escape.
Kukua was the only one who stood by me. “Um, look, Auntie.” She put her hands on her hips. “Didn’t you hear that Ofosua just got her very own imprint? She’ll be curating the whole thing. It’s a big deal.”
My mother frowned at me. “What is this imprint?”
“African American women’s fiction.” I let a small smile peek out. I wasn’t going to let on just how excited I was, though. “It’s a pretty big deal that they are trusting me with this.”
Her brow furrowed with her displeasure. “But you’re not African American. Why couldn’t they put you in charge of an African fiction line? That is work that needs to be highlighted. See, this is why you need to go and get that master’s. Then you can work on more academic pursuits.”
My teeth clamped down to force the bite of disappointment to the back of my throat. “I know that it bothers you I didn’t get my master’s, but you don’t have to make me feel like shit about it every single time we talk.”
She frowned. “Language.”
“Mum, if you keep on doing this, I’m going to use the full breadth of my English-language vocabulary that you paid handsomely for.”
She sucked her teeth and waved me off, gathering her scarf and her purse. “Eh, one of these days you’ll listen to me and realize it’s important.”
“Important for what, though? I really don’t need a master’s degree in my profession.”
“Yes, but your prospects are limited if you don’t have it.”
“I don’t think you’re getting what I’m trying to say here. But anyway, you know, thanks for your congratulations and everything. I’m going to get another glass of wine.”
“No need for dramatics. I’m going home.”
“I’m telling you, there should be a show called An African Mother ,” I muttered under my breath to my cousin before I walked over and gave mine a kiss on the cheek. “Good night, Mum. I’ll see you later.”
She studied me. “You know I am proud of you. But I know you can do better.”
And there it was. The resounding vote of confidence I needed. “Right. I can do better. Of course.”
That seemed to be the motto of my entire life. I could do better.
When she left, Kukua wrapped her arms around me from behind. “I’m sorry, love.”
“It’s not your fault. You’re not my mum.”
“Yeah, but I know what it’s like. The constant crushing disappointment and never feeling good enough. It sucks.”
“Yeah, it does suck.”
“But you’re amazing. This promotion is exactly what you need to remind yourself. And I personally think you should enjoy working with Hot Cole. Use him. Well, not use him in a fun way, but use him. He has a shorthand with his uncle and the higher-ups that you obviously will never have. Use his shorthand while maintaining that you’re in charge.”
“Will you be happy and let this go if I tell you I will?”
“Yes, I will be. You see, unlike your mother, I’m easy to please.”
She scooted out of the way as I went to swat her. But then she plopped back on the couch. “Cora! Megan! The coast is again clear!”
After reemerging, Cora glanced first at Megan and then at Kukua. And finally at me. “So you remember Travis’s friend Omar?”
Oh God. Her boyfriend, Travis, had mentioned his friend, a lawyer or something. They’d gone to Morehouse together. I was hoping it would take her a while to go into fix-up mode. “Oh no.”
“Oh yes. You said you wanted to dive in. Why not now?”
The truth was I didn’t have a very good reason for why not now. Except fear. Which, while valid, I wasn’t going to use. “No. Thank you.”
“You met him last year briefly at Travis’s birthday. You guys would be perfect.”
I lifted a brow skeptically. “Perfect?”
“No one’s going to force you, honey, but Omar is a good first foray back into the pool. He’s smart, sensitive, and kind. And Travis would murder him if he tried any funny business. And we’ll do a casual meetup, so there’s no pressure.”
Except that’s exactly what I felt. Pressure threatening to suffocate me. But I had said I wanted to go back out. I’d been hiding too long. “Okay, fine.”
She beamed at me.
I did not beam back.