Reunited Chapter 1

This a novella I want to write on site. It is based on my research on reunification experiences of immigrant children and their mothers. I will add on it daily.

CHAPTER ONE

I thanked God when the airplane touched down at Montreal on that November evening. It was the year America got the first black president. My breathing quickened and I felt like I had to go to the bathroom; like my stomach was in knots and my heart beat like the sound of drumming as I left the customs area and removed my suitcase from the conveyor belt. At last I was going to meet her, the woman in the picture, my 'photo Mama,' my birth mother.

I studied the face smiling at me from the waiting crowd at Dorval airport and checked the crumpled photograph in my hand again.

"Tina, Tina," the woman with the strawberry weave called, gesturing for my attention. "This way Tina." She elbowed the person in front of her, grabbed my hand and pulled me into a hug. My suitcase fell with the chequered bag that contained provisions from Ghana--smoked-dry snails and fish, dried pepper, shrimps and yams.

What should I call her? I asked in my head. She didn't look like the woman in the picture although it was taken only last year. It came with my "barrel" parcel from Canada for last Christmas. That was when it became clear that I would leave Ghana on my fifteenth birthday. It was all that the voice from the cassette player included, talked about.

But this skinny, strange-haired woman could not be her; the woman in the picture was plump and had braided hair. I would be heavier than this woman in my one-hundred-and-thirty pounds weight although we were of the same five-feet-five inches height. She had a lighter complexion than my dark ebony. Her skin-tone looked more like Eric's mother in Ghana, who thought she was white because she had lightened her skin with those medicated soaps and lotions. Bleached skin--that's how my friend Pomaa described it.

"How's Akos?"

"Mama is fine," I said fast returning my thoughts to the present as I dragged the checquered bag. She had removed my Samsonite suitcase from me. I pulled my cotton shirt over the silk blouse. It was getting cold with each step we took towards the sliding doors. I felt like talking to take my mind off the awkward situation, this woman was not the mother I had imagined. "Mama asked that I call her as soon as I reach here."

The woman did not respond, her smiling face that greeted me changed into something puffy; her nose began to inflate like a balloon and she looked straight ahead. I sensed the woman might have seen something unpleasant and tried to take her mind off it by talking. I continued, "Mama says..."

"Enough," she cut me in a sharp, low voice, without turning to look at me. I shivered and almost dropped my purse. "Could you wait till we get home? It's cold let's get home first and we'll talk." She moved faster than me winding through the crowd and only stopped a second for me to catch up.

I felt unsure, scared and sad at the same time. Did I do something wrong? I stopped dragging the heavy bag and tried to lift it up. She was still walking, fast. Did I say something wrong? Or didn't people in Canada talk about family in public places? I looked around; people were talking and laughing and kissing.

Kissing? I looked again to be sure: two youngsters, about my age were kissing near the telephone booth. Fifteen year-olds kissing in public? My questioning mind went wild. My eyes might have shown the shock, because an adult black man, waiting in line for the telephone smiled at me in a funny way, as if to say: welcome to Canada.

The only time I tried to kiss somebody was in a bedroom but even then, Eric and I couldn't bring ourselves to share saliva. We had stopped at touching lips. I wanted to cry at the thought of Eric. Would he go for Dede now? I moved fast to overcome the pain of separating from him. I wished Pomaa was here, to crack jokes out of it. Like when I received the anonymous note that Dede was after Eric and she had described every hilarious scenario she could imagine of Dede and Eric as an item.

I tripped over a plastic bag and my slippers fell off my feet making a 'tweeking' sound on the smooth airport floor. My left foot twisted when I sped to catch up with the woman and I bent to straighten it.

"Why did you travel in those clothes and those slippers?" The woman said when I managed to reach her. She had stopped on the pavement waiting for a taxi. I curled and uncurled my toes to fight the cold. "You'll freeze to death, the temperature has fallen, it's below average tonight."

I didn't understand what she was saying; my teeth were gnashing and my spine felt like a tube of iced block. I hurried into the taxi, covered myself with my hands and rubbed my palms on my arms. The woman sat in the front and gave the address to the driver.

Staring at the back of her head, I wondered why I ever looked forward to this: to living with my mother, a woman I had never seen. Mama said she was my mother but I couldn't remember eating breakfast or supper with her. She never helped me put on clothes, tie a lace or combed my hair. We never shopped nor attended church together. She was not there to comfort me when I broke an arm fighting with Dede and when I had malaria and remained in bed. She didn't even know any of the parts I acted in my school plays. These were things I did with Mama Akos.

My mind raced to the day Mama came home shouting that her sister had sent everything to the Canadian Embassy and my papers were ready for me to join my mother. I had asked; which mother? Because all I knew of a mother was Mama. But Mama had often talked about my other mother in Canada, her younger sister who sent us money and "barrels" of supplies every year.

Mama had never been emphatic on "your mother in Canada," until after the letter to the Embassy arrived. It was as if she was preparing me for this reunion but I couldn't bring myself to imagine this woman as my mother. The woman's voice from the cassette that came with the "barrel" parcel had said, she was ready for me to come and live with her. Since we listened to the cassette, not a day went by without me fantasizing about living in Canada. My fantasies had been happy, warm, and with lots of hugs like I was used to get from Mama.

Despite my excitement to settle in Canada, I began to wonder if I wanted to live with this woman? Do I even want to live in this cold? Then the tears started streaming down my cheeks; I wasn't sure whether I missed Mama or it was the result of the strange climate that welcomed me to Montreal.

I missed Mama's loud laugh and her warm embrace which sheltered me in a hug even when I had done something wrong. And when I would hide inside her bedspread to spend cold Harmattan nights beside her on the wide mahogany bed. Where would I sleep tonight?

...........................................


"You must go to bed as soon as you get something to eat," the woman said as she led me into a room and went out. "We'll talk tomorrow. I have all morning free."

We had entered a tall building and taken the elevator to the fourth floor. I didn't take a look around because my mind was still in Ghana: going around Mama, Pomaa and Eric. The thought on that last name hurt more than all. My first love.

She brought my suitcase to the room and said, "my night shift starts tomorrow so we'll talk in the morning." And she closed the door.

I sat on the bed with the mud-brown cover and watched my wet face in the mirror opposite me on the blue dresser. And I questioned what reunification with a biological mother meant. That was what they had told me at the embassy.

"Tina, you must come out, food is ready." The woman stood in front of my room holding the door back.

"I am not hungry," I said and looked down. The woman stared at me. I didn't want to raise my head. She would see it in my eyes. I couldn't eat since the airplane left Europe. I was eager to meet my birth mother but now I felt like meeting her was a mistake. And the pain of separation from Mama, Pomaa and Eric was unbearable. My stomach protested in a hollow rumble.

"You should take something. It was a long trip." The woman's tone was stern.

I followed her outside to the sitting room attached to the small squared kitchen. It smelled funny. She beckoned me to the table and dished the food into the plate opposite of hers. The table was properly set with cutlery and linen napkin like we did at a home science class.

"Aren't you eating?"

"I don't like it. We don't eat "talia" alone like this, we eat it with rice."

She laughed. "Tina this is not "talia", it is spaghetti. Children here like it. Eat, it's nice."

"I can't. It's like worms and I can't...don't ask me to eat it," I cried, she laughed. I got up and slammed the napkin on the table, kicked the door open and slammed the door closed."

"Tina come back..."

"Just leave me alone...and eat your food." I locked the door.

The woman banged on the door.

"Leave me alone," I yelled.

"Listen to me young lady," the woman's voice came through clearly. "I will not tolerate any of that behaviour in my house. You must respect me because I don't take rudeness from anybody. Let alone a child I have to overwork myself to bring from Africa. Now open the door and come out to finish your food."

"I will not come out and I will not eat the "talia".

"I am giving you five minutes, come out from the room or you will wish you never met me..." She paused, I panicked and looked for a corner to hide. No adult had threatened me like this before--Mama wouldn't allow it. "Come out Tina, I am waiting."

I squeezed in-between the closet and the bed and remained in a fetal position gulping tears with my blouse covering my mouth.

The telephone rang at the same time and I heard her say, "just a minute." I heard footsteps stamping away from my door and the apartment front door opened. Within five minutes another voice came up, like a woman's voice.

"She is in her room, I think she is a little bit shy and everything seems different to her," the woman supposed to be my mother said.

"Oh, but I came to welcome her..." the visitor said.

"She seemed tired so maybe you can come another time...tomorrow morning..."

"And also I wanted to ask Pierre something...but you were eating..." the visitor said and paused mid-sentence.

"Yes but she didn't like pasta so..."

"You should have given her something she's used to...something Ghanaian?"

"And what precisely is something Ghanaian, Lia?" My mother's voice sounded angry.

"You know the fried plantain and rice you cooked for Pierre and I last week would be nice, didn't you say it was a Ghanaian delicacy?" Lia asked. Then she paused before adding, "you should take time to introduce her to the food here. I'm taking a course in immigration studies, and one of the things the professor talks about is the shock immigrants face when they come into a new culture."

"Well, thank you Lia, I'm tired and Pierre is visiting his parents so maybe you can come in the weekend."

"I wanted to meet your daughter?"

"Make it tomorrow...she's tired and she needs sleep--you know the different time zones and the traveling. It took her her over nine hours to get here."

"I know...but..."

"I am tired too, Lia," my mother said interrupting Lia. "I worked from last night to this evening...I need sleep."

"Right then, I'll come tomorrow."

Their footsteps moved away from my door and their voices died. I heard the door close and later the click of a key. And I panicked for what would follow. The five minutes she gave me to come out was over. I wasn't going to face her, I said in my head. She should think about Lia's words.

I squeezed more into the corner, trembling, not knowing what would follow.