Growing Yams in London Read online

  Sophia Acheampong is a British-born Ghanaian. She lives and works in North London and studied at Brunel University. The second novel about Makeeda and her friends, Ipods in Accra, is also available. Like Makeeda, Sophia is still learning about her culture.

  Praise for Growing Yams in London:

  ‘Sweet and funny.’

  Mizz

  ‘Acheampong accurately captures the roller-coaster of young teenage emotions . . . There is still an urgent need for novels reflecting different cultures within Britain and this is a welcome new voice.’

  Books for Keeps

  ‘A complete delight from start to finish.’

  Chicklish

  This is dedicated to Mum, Dad, and Gerald.

  Thanks to Brenda, Yasemin, Anne, Melissa and

  the rest of the team at Piccadilly Press.

  Dr Thomas Mensah for all things Asante

  and everything else.

  Dr R. Asuboah AKA Nephew and Mr Danso

  for the insight into yams and Asante history.

  Dr Rose Atfield, Ms E. Aryee, Mrs A Mensah,

  Major Elizabeth Osei-Wusu (retired), Mrs Mary Osei,

  Mr and Mrs Addai, Mr K. Acheampong for their support.

  First published in Great Britain in 2006

  by Piccadilly Press Ltd,

  5 Castle Road, London NW1 8PR

  www.piccadillypress.co.uk

  Text copyright © Sophia Acheampong, 2006

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  The right of Sophia Acheampong to be identified as Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978 1 85340 872 4 paperback)

  eISBN: 978 1 84812 324 3

  3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Printed in the UK by CPI Bookmarque, Croydon, CR0 4TD

  Cover design and text design by Simon Davis

  Cover artwork by Catell Ronca

  Typeset by M Rules, London

  Set in Lettres Eclatees and Stempel Garamond

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Guide to Ghanaian Terms and Phrases

  Chapter 1

  Mel’s Party

  ‘Tinted lip-gloss? Check. Mascara? Check.’ I spread my makeup out on to the back seat of the car. I caught Dad rolling his eyes at me in the rear-view mirror. He didn’t think I should I wear make-up till I was eighteen, but Mum had let me wear mascara and lip-gloss, plus the free sample she got when she bought her favourite perfume. I had to make an effort tonight. It was Mel’s fifteenth birthday and she always had guys at her parties, unlike my other friends.

  ‘Don’t take any drinks from a boy,’ he said, looking at me in the mirror.

  ‘Dad, Auntie Angie and Uncle Kevin will be there,’ I said. ‘Actually, do you mind dropping me off the road before Mel’s?’

  I couldn’t have him dropping me off at the door. I’d look like a right baby!

  ‘Why, has she moved?’

  ‘Well, no, not exactly . . .’

  ‘Makeeda, are you ashamed of me?’

  ‘No, Dad!’

  ‘The car then?’

  ‘No, Dad,’ I replied truthfully.

  Dad’s a mechanic. He owns a garage in Kingsbury, and we have a great car. I looked up and saw him smirking in the mirror. He was just winding me up.

  ‘Makeeda, I’m not dropping you off on a different road.’

  What’s the big deal? He’s not the one who’ll get cold.

  ‘OK then, on her road but not outside her block.’

  ‘Only if I follow you till you get in.’

  ‘Done,’ I said.

  I was just grateful that Mum wasn’t with us. She wouldn’t have just taken me to the door. Mum would have gone in with me, picked out potential troublemakers and stayed for a cup of coffee with Mel’s parents.

  As I walked up the steps to the entrance of Mel’s apartment block, I could hear the gentle thud of music. I hoped that my choice of sparkly cranberry top, black corduroy trousers, teal bolero, and dangly earrings looked OK. I pressed the buzzer and saw Mel’s stepdad racing down the stairs.

  ‘Hello, Makeeda! You look great.’

  It didn’t count if your best mate’s dad said it, but it was nice to hear.

  ‘Hi, Uncle Kevin!’ I said, giving him a hug.

  I never called Mel’s parents by just their first names, as it’s considered disrespectful for Ghanaian kids to do so.

  ‘Is that your dad?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He went outside to chat to Dad and I went upstairs. As soon as I reached the front door, I could hear the sounds of people laughing and a slow song in the background. I gently pushed the door open and saw Mel’s cousins, people from our school, and guys from the local boys’ school, St Mark’s. There were so many people I could barely see the other end of the room. There were lots of thick wires and multicoloured lights beaming across the walls.

  ‘Makeeda!’ Mel said, startling me.

  She was wearing a gold halter-neck top, a knee-length denim skirt, boots and lots of gold jewellery.

  ‘You look fantastic!’ I said.

  ‘Thanks. Dad only let me buy this top if I promised not to wear it out,’ Mel said.

  I wasn’t that surprised. Mel, like all my friends, seemed to be speeding through puberty, leaving me and my flat chest seriously behind.

  ‘Yep, and he’s already begged me to change twice,’ Mel added, rolling her eyes.

  ‘You’re not going to, are you?’

  ‘Hell no! I’ve already got two phone numbers. It’s not bad being fifteen, you know!’

  We both laughed.

  ‘Anyway, happy birthday!’ I said, giving her a hug and then holding up an envelope.

  ‘Thanks!’ Mel said, ripping it open. ‘TopShop!’ she said, hugging me again, before disappearing.

  Great! The only person I can talk to properly, and she’s just deserted me. With Bharti at her cousin’s engagement party and Nick, my other good friend, spending the weekend at his brother’s university, I only really had Mel to talk to till my cousin Tanisha arrived. My mobile beeped so I headed into the kitchen.

  Tanisha:

  There in 10 mins!

  Me:

  Gr8 stuff!

  Tanisha’s my seventeen-year-old cousin. She used to live with us about five years ago, just after her mum died. Her mum, Auntie Jennifer, was Mum’s younger sister. I still remember the day Tanisha came to stay. Her dad, Uncle James, was in tears. He left for a job in America within hours of dropping her off. Tanisha never cried in front of us. Dad told me once that sometimes grief was like that. Tanisha shared my room, so I couldn’t escape the weird sobbing sounds she made when she thought everyone was asleep.

  After about a year, Tanisha joined Uncle James in America. I hadn’t seen her since, but now she’d just arrived in London to stay with us before doing her voluntary work in our grandmother’s old village in Ghana.

  As I was about
to shove my phone away it beeped again.

  Bharti:

  I’m soo bored! Why did my cousin have to have her party this weekend? So, met any gorgeous blokes yet?

  Me:

  Give me a chance!

  Bharti:

  Whatever you do, don’t end up fancying the DJ. It’s just sad.

  Me:

  There isn’t one; Mel’s mum didn’t want the neighbours complaining.

  Bharti:

  So you’re safe. Gotta go, about to be sprung by an auntie. I told her I was catching up on homework I missed, but she’s discussing it with my mum and now I’m getting evil looks.

  Bharti had been my friend for what felt like ages. Along with Mel, she was one of my closest mates. She had an older brother, Tejas, and fancied his best mate, Hitesh.

  ‘Could you pass me a glass, please?’ said a voice behind me.

  ‘Sure,’ I said, clicking my phone shut.

  I looked up to see a sweaty guy about my age: tall, dark-skinned, with hazel contacts, wearing a Chicago Bulls vest and looking gorgeous. He was sweating as if we were in the middle of July and not in September. Mel’s parents had the heating on, but it wasn’t that hot in here. Mel and this guy were the only ones in sleeveless tops; Mel was showing off, but it was her birthday. This guy had no excuse.

  ‘Thanks, I’m really thirsty,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, I can see that,’ I said, watching him gulp down the water in seconds. ‘I said that out loud, didn’t I?’ I added.

  ‘Yep!’ he said, smiling. ‘Are you a friend of Mel’s?’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve been friends since nursery . . .’ I began.

  ‘The CD’s skipping!’ interrupted a guy with red hair and a combination of freckles and acne across his cheeks.

  ‘Damn! Cheers, Stephen,’ he said, leaving his glass of water behind. The red-haired guy got himself a drink.

  ‘Excuse me, where’s he rushing off to?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s the DJ, duh!’ Stephen replied.

  ‘DJ? But I thought . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I replied, confused. I left the kitchen and headed into the living room as the sounds of the latest number one track flooded the flat. I was immediately whisked to the centre of the room with the other dancers by Mel and her cousins. Within seconds we were all screaming ‘Free!’ along with the track. I noticed the decks in the far corner, with multicoloured stage lights that danced across the room.

  ‘Hey, Makeeda!’ Tanisha said, with a slight American accent, as she suddenly appeared in front of me.

  ‘Ohmigod!’ I said, hugging her.

  ‘How do I look – English with a dash of American?’ she said, pirouetting.

  ‘More like American with a dash of English!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, you look so different,’ I replied. That was an understatement. The last time I saw Tanisha, she had braces, thick eyebrows, a flat chest and her hair in cornrows with beads. I stared at her boobs. Either she was wearing a push-up bra, or Uncle James had let her go under the knife.

  ‘I know, I got them done!’ she said.

  ‘Seriously?’ I said shocked, staring harder.

  ‘These are genetic, sweetie, not cosmetic. I meant my teeth!’ Tanisha said, laughing.

  ‘Hey, the DJ keeps looking over here, and I know he’s not after me, because I already tried.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh Makeeda, puhlease? I gotta maaan!’ Tanisha said in an exaggerated American accent.

  She hadn’t completely lost her English accent, so some words came out sounding like a hybrid of both countries. Tanisha showed me a photograph of a guy who looked at least twenty-two.

  ‘Ohmigod!’ I gasped. ‘He’s gorgeous!’

  ‘Hmm . . . I guess so.’

  ‘You guess so?’

  ‘We had a fight before I came over,’ Tanisha said.

  Her expression reminded me of the look she had when anyone mentioned her mother. It wasn’t sad exactly, more a blank look.

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  I still hadn’t worked out how to break Tanisha’s look and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  ‘Seriously, he keeps looking over at you.’

  ‘No way!’ I said.

  ‘Do you think he’s cute?’

  ‘Yeah, but he’s not interested in me,’ I told her.

  I only ever attracted weird boys. Never popular ones like the DJ.

  ‘Hmm . . . we’ll see. Come on, let’s sort out your love life!’ Tanisha said, smiling.

  ‘What love life?’ I protested as she dragged me towards the DJ. ‘Tanisha, what are you doing?’ I squeaked, attempting to walk in the opposite direction.

  It was too late. We were standing to the side of the decks. The heat was so intense I could feel my make-up melting, so I quickly wiped below my lower lids as my mascara wasn’t waterproof. I noticed tiny beads of sweat slowly travelling from the DJ’s chin to his chest.

  ‘Makeeda? Makeeda?’ Tanisha said, poking me in the ribs.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ohmigod, just ask him for a song,’

  I looked blankly at her.

  ‘Something that I’d like, not that weird stuff you and Nick call a tune. OK?’

  If it wasn’t rap, hip hop or soul, Tanisha’s ears blocked it out.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, staring at him. He didn’t reply, so I turned to Tanisha. ‘Ohmigod, he’s ignoring me,’ I whispered.

  ‘No he isn’t. He’s gotta put a track on before he can chat,’ Tanisha whispered back.

  ‘So, how am I doing?’ he said, shifting his headphone from the ear closest to us. It was lopsided but looked incredibly professional. He was huddled over the decks with an endless number of cables that stretched like huge tentacles around the room. There were records in three piles and a few CDs.

  ‘Um . . .’ I hadn’t paid much attention to his deck skills.

  ‘What, that bad?’ he said, smirking.

  Tanisha stepped on my foot.

  ‘Owwreally good! I mean you’re really good,’ I said, shooting Tanisha a look.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, seeming slightly puzzled as I rubbed my foot.

  Tanisha gently prodded me and I stopped. I suddenly realised how totally weird I looked.

  ‘Did you want a song?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, as Tanisha left to say hello to an old friend. “Last Kiss”?’

  ‘By 221?’ he asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘OK, after this one,’ he said, smiling. His contacts seemed a little brighter when he smiled.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, hurrying away.

  I realised I must have been staring at him. He had a cute smile, but I wasn’t telling Tanisha. She was always right. Besides, I’d probably blown it, rubbing my foot and stuff.

  ‘Well?’ Tanisha said, grabbing my arm.

  ‘Hey, what did you request?’ Mel said, interrupting us.

  ‘“Last Kiss” by 221.’

  ‘Ohmigod, that’s a slow song!’ Tanisha said in disgust.

  I could tell by the look on her face that Mel felt the same way as Tanisha.

  ‘He’s good, isn’t he?’ Tanisha said with a grin.

  ‘Uh huh,’ I said.

  ‘He’s good looking too,’ Mel added.

  ‘I hadn’t noticed,’ I lied, pulling my eyes away from him.

  ‘Yeah, right!’ Mel said, exchanging looks with Tanisha.

  ‘So why did you choose a tune guaranteed to clear the dance floor?’ Tanisha asked.

  Ohmigod! If no one dances, he’ll get a bad reputation and lose work all because I asked for a slow song. Great. I’d totally messed up, and Tanisha was right again!

  ‘Anyway, I thought your parents wouldn’t let you have a DJ?’ I said, attempting to change the subject.

  ‘I told them that if I didn’t have a DJ, they’d end up having to send me to therapy for years because I’d be a Norma No Mates. They chose the cheaper option. Anyway, you should
be grateful!’

  ‘Can’t believe you chose “Last Kiss”,’ Tanisha muttered.

  ‘What’s the big deal? It’s not like I fancy him or anything!’ I said angrily.

  I stormed off towards the balcony. I hated it when everyone assumed they knew how I felt, better than I did. Mel lived on the top floor of a luxury apartment block that had a balcony with amazing views. I undid the latch and was confronted by a girl with long micro braids, who was kissing a boy with intricate cornrow plaits that criss-crossed his scalp.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, embarrassed.

  They reluctantly pulled away from each other, and I received a dirty look from the girl and a grin from the boy, as she dragged him back into the living room.

  The door closed and the music became a distant thud.

  There were two chairs and a small coffee table surrounded by huge plants. I sat and watched rooms in the flats opposite turn shades of yellow and amber as lights were switched on. A cold breeze swept across the balcony, rustling the plants and sending an icy shiver down my spine. I was freezing.

  I heard the door open and felt the music from the living room flow over me, but I stared ahead thinking that Tanisha had probably come to get me.

  ‘Hey! Your cousin asked me to give you this,’ said a male voice behind me.

  I turned to see the DJ. He was holding a blanket.

  ‘Um, thanks,’ I said taking it from him. I was just grateful that he didn’t attempt to drape it across my shoulders. That would have definitely qualified as what Bharti calls an RM (romantic moment) or what I call a CM (cheesy moment). I expected him to leave but he took the seat beside me.

  ‘So, how come you’re out here?’

  I got fed up with everyone saying I fancied you! ‘I needed some fresh air,’ I said. ‘What about you?’

  I noticed that he had put a black V-neck sweater on. He must think I’m really stupid coming out here in a flimsy cardigan in the middle of the coldest September on record.

  ‘I . . .’ he began, but we were interrupted by another couple kissing and almost falling over us as they burst through the balcony doors.

  ‘Sorry, mate!’ the guy said, apologising as they went back into the living room.