Akwaaba

My dear Esi,

By God?s grace I have finally arrived in Her Majesty?s land, my battered old portmanteau in tow. I must I say hardly slept a wink all night during the flight, which was my first ever. For a start, as we gained altitude, my eardrums were splitting with an intense ferocity, akin to a carpenter hammering six-inch nails into them. As if that was not bad enough, from time to time it seemed as if the aircraft was literally falling down from the sky-my stomach kept doing somersaults with the suppleness of a Chinese gymnast, and all the yoo-ke-gari I had eaten earlier in the day threatened to tumble out. But eventually, we landed at Heathrow in one piece, thank goodness. You can imagine my relief on getting back to solid ground once more.

My host to-be, Nana Amponsah, was nowhere to be found when I wheeled my trolley out of customs, scanning the sea of faces of on hand to meet relatives and friends. My sister, you should have seen the utter panic written on my face as I struggled with a payphone on countless occasions to call him on his mobile-yet it was permanently on voice mail. I fought my self to stay calm. What next? Stuck at the airport all day waiting? What if immigration officials spotted me loitering around and started causing me trouble? A thousand thoughts clashed in my mind and spun my brain cells around like a village ?nika nika?.

Luckily, my old schoolmate Kwame Dadzie was on the same flight from Accra. He was being picked up by his brother Peter, who arrived about forty minutes after we came out of customs. I explained my situation to Kwame, and he had a word with Peter, who agreed I could come to his house and to be picked up by Nana later in the day. But he warned me that I would have to leave his house that very day. I happily agreed, confident that I would be able to speak to Nana before the end of the day so he could come pick me up.

Later in the afternoon, I called Nana again from a payphone. His voicemail was full. This was getting serious. What was going on? I did not even have his address, so that I could make my way there and camp outside if need be. Maybe he had even got to the airport after I left. Maybe he was also frantic with worry, or had even lost his phone. Or maybe he was simply no longer interested and had decided to switch numbers. A thousand maybes came and went, and none made much sense. Whatever the maybe, the reality was that I was on the verge of homelessness in a country I had only just set foot in.

I called Nana every 30 minutes. Eventually I gave up-I was simply wasting money. I begged Peter to allow me to stay for a few days whilst I tried to resolve my situation and if possible, make alternative arrangements. He was unhappy about the idea, but I think he balked at the idea of throwing me out like a rag doll. He took Kwame to his bedroom, and I could hear him ranting like a maniac, giving him an earful for burdening him with someone?s problem, why his house was no refugee centre nor did he run a charity, and particularly how he had taken in someone else on a similar basis a year ago and it had taken him six months to peel this person off his back, only for the person to badmouth him later. He rounded off by giving Kwame a three-day ultimatum to get rid of me. When he came out, Kwame looked as if he had been given the death sentence. I assured him I would be out within three days. His brother hardly spoke to me that evening, and when he did, he barely grunted. I could actually feel his hostility, and it made my flesh burn and tingle. I have never felt so low in all my twenty-two years on this earth. That night, curled up on the sofa that was my temporary bed, I wept. If only a house was as portable as a box, they say?

The following morning, I resumed my hunt for Nana. I kept hitting blank walls. This was getting serious. I did not want my mate Kwame to get into trouble with his brother. I decided to go into town. I just hopped on a bus going towards Trafalgar Square. I wanted to think. I saw, but hardly noticed, the rest of the world zoom by-everyone in a hurry to go somewhere, everyone seemingly having warm bed to go to, except me, an immigrant in London, straight from Africa.

I wandered around the heart of London, buried in a world of my own, trying to grasp what my fate was, and in the process feeling rather crushed by the weight of all-the giant concrete and glass edifices, the humming traffic and sheer throng humanity seemingly moving en masse. I felt completely lost and insignificant in this mechanical jungle . Finally, exhausted, I lumbered into the KFC at Piccadilly Circus and ordered the most familiar item on the menu- a meal of two pieces of chicken chips and a pepsi. I took my tray and sat by the window.

My ears pricked up suddenly when I heard the two young guys on the next table speaking Ga. The language was music to my ears. Ghanaians! I thought to myself, as if they were a curious, exotic breed. I summoned up the nerve, went up to them and blurted out my story and my desperate need for help. I had nothing to lose. One of them, Armah, finally agreed to take me in till I was settled. That man is an angel, I tell you. He accompanied me to get my stuff. I thanked, Kwame, and Peter, and then left, promising to get in touch. After all, they had hosted me for one night, and that was something I would not forget in a hurry.

So Esi, this is the story of my welcome in England, my ?rough landing?, if you like. I have been living with Armah for almost two weeks. I am still trying to settle in and get unto my own feet, for I do not want to overstay my welcome.

I will definitely write again to keep you posted of any ?filla?. Take care and God bless.

Your kid brother, Fiifi

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