Whispers of Phoenix Ch. 25
The Rift
Botse sat in his wheelchair, tight with tension.
Kessewaa sat beside him in a nearby sofa holding his right hand in her left, her palm damp in anxiety. What was that conversation? Botse couldn’t wait to ask his mother who was now entering the living room.
Mrs. Amponsah or Aunt Araba, as her family called her, walked in wearing a long colorful agbada, with brightly painted red toenails in slippered feet. Kessewaa stood in respect as she entered the room, “Good evening, Mommy.” Aunt Araba headed straight for her son with a warm smile and hugged him affectionately.
“My only son has finally come to visit me. I have missed you so much,” she took him in with a thorough glance as only a mother could. She then turned towards Kessewaa, who was still standing, with a smile, “Thank you for bringing him here, dear. You are welcome. Please sit down.” She gestured for Kessewaa to sit down.
“Thank you, Mommy,” she responded politely and sat. Kessewaa had chosen to wear an Ankara flare sleeve dress that made her feel free and comfortable but when she noticed her mother-in-law studying her figure for a pregnancy bump, she presumed, she was so glad she had worn the flowing dress.
Feeling like an ant under a microscope, she felt instant relief when Botse cleared his throat beside her, drawing the woman’s attention away from her.
Botse had observed his wife’s quiet discomfort and had decided it was time to broach the subject they had overhead in the car.
“Mom,” Botse went straight to the point, “we overheard something in the car. I-, we want an explanation.”
Aunt Araba’s eyebrow raised up in question, “An explanation to what in particular?”
She then turned towards the kitchen, shouting in a loud voice, “Kukua, bring them some water and some drinks.”
“Oh, Mom, that wouldn’t be necessary yet,” Botse said firmly.
Surprised, his mom narrowed her eyes, “And why is that?”
“Because your response to the question I’m about to ask you will determine whether we stay or leave.”
Botse saw Kessewaa’s head snapped up to glance at him. His mother slowly exhaled.
“This is serious. Ask your question.”
Botse shifted in his chair and leaned forward.
“We heard Kukua ask you about when you are going to let us know that our marriage is fake.” A look of alarm flashed over Aunt Araba’s face, which she quickly hid. “Mom, your response indicated that our marriage is fake. Now, can you explain yourself? What were you talking about?”
Aunt Araba sat with a careful expressionless face. She sat silent for a moment, in deep thought. The atmosphere was tensed as both Botse and Kessewaa held their breaths.
A slow smile began to spread on her face as she stared at Botse. The smile turned into laughter, as Botse and Kessewaa glanced at each other, confused.
“Botse, my son,” she laughed again, “My son, why are you pretending? Why are you behaving like you don’t know what is going on”?
Botse shook his head, confused. “I don’t know what you are referring to.”
Aunt Araba replied, “There is no need to pretend now. We’ve been found out.”
Botse saw Kessewaa’s face changing, with questioning accusation in her eyes. He needed to be careful and manage the situation well.
Kessewaa interjected, “Mommy, what do you mean? What are you saying?”
“What I’m saying is that, yes, your marriage is not real! And Botse knows that. We planned it together. I can’t believe you are sitting here trying to make look bad, Botse.”
Botse’s mind went blank. What?! What was this woman saying? His mind was stuck at the part of their marriage not being real. How was that even possible? They had had a ceremony. A barrister had been present. They had signed the marriage certificate. They had a copy of it in his drawer. His mind could not process what was going on.
The slamming of the front door jarred him out of his thoughts.
Kessewaa was sprinting towards the car. In a few seconds, she spun the car and headed straight out of the gate, which was miraculously open, before he could react.
Botse was stunned, speechless. He needed to go after his wife! But here he was, sitting in a stupid wheelchair with no mode of transportation. He had never hated his disability as he did right now.
Botse turned to his mother in rage. “What were those lies you just told?!” he shouted.
Aunt Araba responded, a triumphant glint in her eyes, “I only told the truth. The two of you have never been married! You were just an experiment.”
Kessewaa didn’t remember climbing into the car. All she recalled was the urge to escape her world that was shattering around her. She didn’t know where she was headed. She couldn’t even see where she was going. All she saw was a road blurred with salty tears that were pouring out fast. All she wanted was to get as far away as possible from Botse and his mother. Thinking back on the conversation, her body began to shake uncontrollably.
It couldn’t be true.
It just couldn’t be true.
Botse would never pull such a stunt.
It can’t be!
Horns of cars began to blare as one. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, clearing her vision to see a huge tipper truck narrowly miss her. She had been straight in the middle of the road, right in the path of the truck. She slammed her brakes sharply in panic, sending her car into a spiral before it came to a screeching halt, unharmed.
Kessewaa panted heavily, sweat and tears washing her face.
A sharp knock on her window jolted her.
She looked up slowly.
Staring down at her was a burly police officer who looked incredibly angry. He gestured her to bring her window down.
“Madam, w’abodam anaa?” pointing to his temple to emphasize his question about her sanity. The man seemed oblivious – or indifferent - to her distress. He lit into her for driving recklessly on a busy road. Kessewaa stared at the man, looking straight through him, lost in space.
The police officer finally said, “Madam, give me your license. And the papers of your car too.” Kessewaa fumbled through her bag, looking for her license. She couldn’t find it. She rummaged through the letter box, searching for her license. She turned to the back and found Botse’s gym bag on the car floor. Instantly, she broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.
The police officer looked on helplessly. A female police officer came to the scene. She took one look at Kessewaa and took charge. She ordered the police officer to continue traffic control and leave Kessewaa.
“Madam,” she said soothingly, rubbing her back, “It is well. Everything will be fine. Please calm down.” She continued making comforting statements till Kessewaa wiped her eyes.
“Madam,” the policewoman continued, “You can’t drive home in this state. Please, let me call someone for you.” Noticing the ring on Kessewaa’s finger, “Perhaps, I can call your husband.”
Staring at the ring, Kessewaa shook her head.
She no longer had one.
In fact, she had never had one.
Jonathan handed his wife, Sakyiwaa, a cup of chocolate ice cream. She was curled up in the couch, her eyes fixed on a movie – Prophet Suddenly. He loved that she was resting. Being a doctor, she rarely gave herself time to rest. Her health was always an afterthought, but with her pregnancy at 8 months, she was giving herself permission to slow down.
He settled in the couch beside her, laying his head on her lap carefully. It was his favorite place. From here, he could feel the movements of their son in the womb. It was a precious thing.
A phone rang from the kitchen…
“I think, that’s your phone. Mine is here,” Sakyiwaa murmured, her voice lazy.
Jonathan groaned. He had just gotten comfortable.
“I’ll call whoever back.”
“Okay.”
A few minutes later, the phone rang again.
Sakyiwaa shifted slightly, “I think you should get it. It might be important.”
Jonathan headed for the kitchen. He found the offending device and with a few taps, found that it was an unknown number. The phone began to ring the third time with the same number. He answered.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, sir. Am I speaking to Mr. Jonathan Kusi?” A woman’s voice, calm and official, was speaking.
“Yes please. This is he.”
“I am Inspector Ansah, calling from Atomic Police Station. We have a woman in our custody who asked us to call you. She requested you to come and that your wife not know about it. We will be expecting you shortly.”
A woman? Not to let his wife know about it. Was someone trying to play a prank on him?
“Madam, what is this woman’s name?”
“Pardon me. She is called Tracy Kessewaa Boateng.”
“Kessewaa?”
“Yes sir. We are at the Atomic Police Station. Thank you.”
“What happened with Kessewaa? What was that about?” Sakyiwaa stood behind him.
Jonathan was torn. The two sisters were close. If he did not tell Sakyiwaa, she would pester him. If he did tell her, she would worry. Why was Kessewaa putting him in a difficult position?
“Let’s go. I will explain what I know.”
Botse listened to the shouting match occurring between his mother and his sister, Tanowaa. His head throbbed. What he needed was to go out there and look for Kessewaa and not sit in his wheelchair like a helpless loser.
Tanowaa had arrived by a taxi with her kids, explaining that Asante had the car and would be late. Upon hearing what had driven Kessewaa to flee her mother’s house, she had firmly taken to Botse’s side and defended him. The animosity between mother and daughter was glaring. Botse finally understood that there were ugly truths about his mother that were hidden and that had caused the rift between mother and daughter. This fight was not because of the day’s occurrence; it went deeper than that with years-old conflict resurfacing.
“Mom! Tano! Cut it out! This is not helping anything!” Botse shouted at the two women, trying to halt the chaos
“No! This woman needs to know when she has crossed the line.” Tanowaa insisted.
“I said, drop it!”
Asante’s headlights shone into the compound.
His children squealed, “Daddy is here!” and started towards the car.
Tanowaa and Botse exchanged a look of mutual relief and as one, headed for the door, leaving their mother alone in the living room. Tanowaa held her youngest child’s hand and went to meet her husband. Botse watched as she hugged her husband tightly and whispered to him, presumably, explaining the situation at hand.
“Get in the car with the kids. I’ll help him in.” He heard Asante’s voice.
He got out of the car. Botse rolled his wheelchair to meet him.
“Botse.” He stretched out his hand for a handshake. Botse shook his hand.
“Asante. You need to help me find Kessewaa.”
“Sure. Let’s go.”
Asante assisted him into the front seat of the car, secured his wheelchair in the boot and headed to Botse’s house. Botse leaned into the car seat, praying silently.
Help us, Father. We have come too far to fail. Show us mercy, Father. Let the enemy not prevail over us. Help me find her.
His phone rang.
He quickly slid to the side to answer without checking the caller ID.
“Hello?”
“Botse. This is Jonathan.”
“Oh, hi Jonathan. How are you doing?” Botse tried to mask his disappointment. He had wanted to hear Kessewaa’s voice on the other side.
“I’m good, brother. How about you?”
“I’m okay. What’s going on?”
“I received a strange call from the police station, concerning Kessewaa.” Botse sat up. “They have her in their custody. I don’t know what for but I am headed there. I thought to let you know.”
“Which police station is it?”
“Atomic Police Station. Okay, we are coming there.”
Botse quickly relayed the information to Asante and they changed their direction towards the station.
Kessewaa had asked for Jonathan only, because she hadn’t wanted to disturb Sakyiwaa in her late pregnancy, but she was relieved when Sakyiwaa was the one who entered the office.
“Sakyiwaa,” she whispered.
She went straight to her sister, sobbing. She clung to the person she knew she was safe with. The comforting arms of her sister were a balm to her raw soul. Amidst her tears, she sobbed out her horror story. Sakyiwaa wept with her.
What a mess.
How had she gotten to this place?
She, Kessewaa, who was diligently waiting for the man the Lord had prepared for her.
How had she fallen into the hands of wicked and deceitful people?
Jonathan came in quietly, concern etched into his face by what he had been told by the police.
“You’re free to go,” he said gently. “They won’t press any charges. The officer just brought you here for your own safety.”
He turned to the policewoman. “Thank you.”
The officer nodded. “Just doing my job.”
As they gathered their things, a young police officer came in to whisper to Inspector Ansah. She nodded and waved her away.
She looked at Kessewaa and said, “I’m informed your husband is here to see you.”
Kessewaa shook her head emphatically, “I don’t have a husband.”
Jonathan, surprised, asked, “It’s Botse. I called him on the way here.”
Sakyiwaa intervened, “I’ll speak with him.” She guided her husband outside the office and explained to him.
When he saw the expressions on Jonathan and Sakyiwaa’s faces, he knew.
Botse felt his heart break. “She doesn’t want to see me.” He sighed heavily, rubbing his face in frustration.
“Botse, I don’t understand this whole thing, but I think you need to give her some time.” Sakyiwaa said, sadness breaking her voice.
Botse shook his head. Giving Kessewaa time to stew was just giving more time for the ideas his mother had planted to settle more deeply.
“I agree with Sakyiwaa, Botse.” Jonathan opined. “She is very broken about this issue. We will take her to our home. Tomorrow morning, you can come and talk things out with her.”
Botse felt defeated. He felt helpless. He hated feeling helpless. He felt Asante place a hand on his shoulder. He turned his wheelchair away and headed for their car.
Author’s note:
We are slowly coming to the finishing line. I am very glad and, honestly, relieved by that. Botse and Kessewaa’s story has felt like a burden that wouldn’t leave me until I write it out. I carry it everywhere I go.
I have decided to publish this novel, after it is completed, properly edited and formatted. I have also decided to make it a series. The second will be Akosua’s story. She is one of my favorite characters. I love her personality and she has a wonderful backstory.
But, before her story, I will share another story that has been burning in my heart for two years now. So, yeah, a lot is lined up for us.
Now, I have a question for you.
Do you think I should create a separate Substack for Fiction? Let me know down here.
Me too. I really wish she had.
I wish Kessewa handled the situation better.