Brema and her family were outdoors, seated between two lit mosquito coils, waiting for the lights to come back on. Papa’s shirt turned a fan, whirling to cool off Maa, who kept complaining about the heat. The moon hid itself. The majestic motions of the night sky intrigued the children, who whispered stories to each other and laughed. 

“Stop that!” Maa said after watching them go on and on with their whisperings and giggles. 

Brema and Kwame looked at each other, snickering. 

From their neighbors’ porches and windows, torchlights and lanterns flickered. Brema’s family sat facing the main gate, left ajar, for fresh air. The compound was brimming with people. Women warming leftovers on coal pots. Men sleeping on benches or leaning on walls. Squabbling, the neighborhood kids gathered outside the gate. They couldn’t agree on how many windows God had.

“One billion”

“Thousand-million-million”

“Infinity”

“Infinity plus one” 

Most godlike – infinity plus one. Opulence. More. Windows so large that all can fit in. 

Brema wished she could go and play with the children. God’s windows were billions-of-thousand-thousand-billion. She looked over her back to count their three creaky grey wooden windows which were never shut except when it rained.

God is always watching, Maa said to Brema whenever she denied putting more than two cubes of sugar in her koko. Maybe God watches through his windows. A keening mosquito broke Brema’s thoughts. She slapped it dead on her arm. Burst forth to show Papa. Kwame was impressed. Papa wasn’t.

“One down, infinity plus one to go,” Kwame cheered.

“Brema, why don’t you tell us a story,” Papa said.

Brema knew the story to tell. Her friend at school swore it was a true-true story, but no one believed her friend. 

“Good evening o.” 

The catechist with the smelly mouth entered the compound, the beam of his flashlight scurrying ahead of him from the main gate. He cleared his throat when he got closer to Brema’s family. Standing over them, the catechist cast his eyes down to Brema, lingering, as usual, like she owed him something.

Papa nodded to his greeting. Maa couldn’t just follow Papa. She started an entire conversation. 

“Good evening o, catechist. Welcome to the usual darkness. Every day, light off but as for the tariffs, they keep increasing.”

“I tell you, my sister, this government is full of thieves. No better than the previous one.”

“Ah! They all graduated from the same school. Let them sleep in their air conditioners. We will sit in mosquitoes and get malaria. God punish them.”

“God surely will.”

“Brema, we’re waiting,” Papa said, ending Maa’s chatty chat with the catechist.

The catechist’s face turned stern, hurrying to his room, which was next to Brema’s family’s dwelling. 

Brema started the story the same way her friend told it:

“Grandma says when a story satisfies you, it satisfies you for the rest of your life. That is why we eat stories for dessert. Dinner is always rice and ground pepper but…” 

“Brema, what kind of dreary story is that?” Papa interrupted.

 “It’s a true-true story, Papa, my friend at school told me. She lives with her grandma, and she brings sugar-water to school. Sometimes she gives me some.”

“Why are you eating someone’s food? Don’t we give you enough money for school?” Maa didn’t just raise her voice. She clapped. Everyone tensed up. 

“Maa, it’s not food o, sugar-water.” 

That was the wrong thing to say. Nothing was the right thing to say when Maa started to yell. Seething, Maa turned to Papa.

“Won’t you tell your daughter anything?” 

“Brema, who is this girl you are drinking from? Sugar-water is bad for you. Poverty is contagious. You must try to avoid both. Now, tell me another story. I don’t want a true-true story.”

“Ananse and the pot of beans, tell that one,” Kwame suggested, his cheeks bubbling.

“No, use your imagination,” Papa said.

Brema found nothing new in her big konko head, only true-true stories swirling around.

“Why the crab does not have a head. Brema, tell that one,” Kwame kept offering.

She rubbed her forehead, starting a story – true in some parts, but Brema changed the beginning. Otherwise, Maa would have known that it wasn’t made up.

“There was a big church with a tiny door at the back, so small it looked like a door for a mouse. A seven-year-old boy quietly crawled through it into the catechist’s office. He loved Jesus a lot and was looking for His body to eat, like they did at church. The room was dark, but the boy could see a woman kneeling in front of the catechist. A candle on the desk flickered, making big, scary shadows on the walls. The catechist’s pants were down, and he was pulling the woman’s head closer with his hands.”

Maa choked on her breath; coughing so hard that Papa had to get up to hold her. Something was wrong. Kwame shut his eyes – he always felt it when something was wrong. Brema held her brother’s hand. He was resisting the urge to cry. Kwame feared all things –insects, empty threats, odd noises. He needed holding. He cried too much. Even more than Brema, Maa often said. Brema ran inside to bring Maa a glass of water, Maa didn’t take it. Papa took the glass and asked the children to go to bed.

Kwame cried into his pillow, calling for his mother.

“Boys mustn’t cry,” Brema told her brother.

Papa came into the children’s room to hold Kwame.

“Maa only has a fever,” he tried to reassure the children.

“Papa, is it my fault?” Brema asked.

“No, don’t be silly, it’s not your fault.”

Brema’s story was a storm that left nothing standing upright. She didn’t know what telling it would bring, but she wanted to understand what she saw through the tiny window – holy hands, pelvis thrusting, large shadows, head bobbing, candle lights flickering.

Her thoughts wandered back to the year before, on her birthday. Maa had taken her to evening Mass. Father Nicholas, the parish priest, sprinkled holy water on her, smiling as he blessed her. His voice was serious, but Brema couldn’t stop giggling. She felt special in her purple birthday dress. Before then, Maa always went to Mass alone, but this time it was her day.

After Mass, while Maa prayed inside, Brema wandered outside and spotted Father Nicholas’s pickup truck parked under the neem trees. Like always, she wanted to climb, to be high up where she could see everything. She stepped onto a stump, then clambered onto the tire, pulling herself into the bed of the truck. The night felt big and full of scents, like Papa’s cloth around her, and the stars twinkled above, winking at her.

In the truck bed, she imagined she wasn’t in a churchyard anymore. No, she was a strong farmer loading sacks of sweet corn into the back of the truck. The corn talked to her as she threw each imaginary sack into the truck. They complained. Some sacks were too heavy. Others begged her to be careful – “Don’t toss me too hard!” they said, grumbling about the weather and the insects always trying to eat them. She giggled, feeling the weight of each invisible bag.

“Brema, get down from over there!” the catechist’s voice snapped her back to reality. She saw him walking toward her with Father Nicholas, his face all tight like he had just eaten something sour.

Father Nicholas just smiled. “Birthday girl,” he said, scooping her out of the truck and lifting her into the air for a moment. “Are you going to behave?”

“Yes, Father,” she replied, trying to hide her face in her hand.

“Good!” He set her back down, giving her cheeks a gentle tug before turning to walk away.

The catechist wasn’t so amused. He frowned and motioned toward the church. “Go to your mother,” he said sharply.

Brema skipped toward the entrance of the empty church, unbothered by the catechist’s scowl. She found Maa kneeling in front of Mother Mary, deep in prayer.

“Everybody is gone,” Brema whispered, but Maa didn’t answer.

“Go and sit at the entrance and wait. I’m coming,” Maa said a while later without looking up.

Brema did as she was told, but the world outside the church was more interesting than sitting still. The twin neem trees were swaying softly in the night breeze, whispering to each other. Brema stared at them, wondering which one was the Panyin and which one was the Kakra, the older and younger of twins. The longer she looked, the more the trees started to change. A crown of moonlight formed around them, and their branches twisted into the shape of two giant faces – monster faces.

Brema froze. The monsters were watching her.

She tried to go back inside the church, but the doors were locked. Her heart pounded. Where was Maa? She ran around to the back of the church, looking for her.

There, through the small window of the catechist’s office, she saw Maa. Kneeling, just like when she prayed the rosary, but this time it was different. The catechist was there, too. His hands were moving strangely. Maa’s head bobbed up and down, but there was no “amen.” Brema watched, confused.

She climbed down from the table where she had been peeking through the window. Her eyes caught sight of a plastic pipe on the ground. In her hands, it became a sword.

Back at the front of the church, she raised her sword high, ready to face the monsters. She wouldn’t let them get her. The monsters in the trees recoiled, shrinking away from her fire-spitting sword. One of the faces shifted, becoming softer, like a baby’s.

Just then, she heard Maa’s voice. “Come on, let’s go.” Maa tapped her gently on the head. Amen.

Brema now lay in bed, clutching Papa’s cloth, her mind circling back to that birthday memory. Had she misunderstood something? She wanted to finish her story and tell Papa everything, but there were things she didn’t fully understand yet.

Although the family didn’t hold hands in Maa’s long prayers before going to bed as usual, Brema whispered to God. She prayed that He should take Maa’s fever and give it to a bad person instead. Someone who deserved it. Like a murderer or a dirty woman. Maybe it would help.

The house whimpered as the night wore on; Maa’s coughing continued. Papa was afraid – Brema could tell by the way he paced from their bedroom to the children’s door. The ache in her heart increased with each of Papa’s footfalls. If he had come back to the children’s room, she would have finished the story stuck in her throat. She needed it out – desperately.

To soothe herself, Brema buried her face in Papa’s cloth, breathing in its familiar scent. Coffee, brandy, Eau Sauvage, and groundnut – all of Papa’s favorites, all mixed together. The blend was always the same, no matter how many times Maa washed it. It was faithful. Brema clutched the cloth close, wishing she could sleep beside him.

Covered in Papa’s scent, Brema curled into herself, crying into her stomach. She waited for the day to break, hoping that maybe by then she could finish her story. Like God, Papa was mightily fond of stories. Papa once told her that long ago, no one could tell stories because God kept them all locked in a wooden box. But then Ananse, the clever spider, went to God and asked for the stories. God made Ananse complete impossible tasks: capture the python, the leopard, the hornet, and the invisible fairy. And when Ananse did, he brought the stories down to earth so people could share them forever.

When Brema and Kwame woke from their sorrowful night, the house was unnervingly quiet. Early morning sunshine spilled through a window into their bedroom. Nobody was yelling about being late for school. Papa was already in the kitchen, serving breakfast. He buttered the children’s bread on both sides – Maa would have only spread one side. He fried an egg each for Brema and Kwame, though Maa would have sliced one egg into two. Papa didn’t even chide Brema for eating slowly, like a snail.

Maa was still in bed. She didn’t come to check if Brema had combed her hair well. There were no usual reminders to be careful on the road. All Papa said as they left the house was “goodbye,” heaving a big sigh as they stepped out the door.

When the children returned from school, Maa had not died. She was in the kitchen, humming a Catholic hymn. Brema made the sign of the cross and thanked God for healing her mother. But when she greeted Maa, her mother only shook her head. The hymn continued. Brema joined in, singing softly, “I come to you once more, my God. No longer will I roam.”

After changing out of her school uniform, Brema went to the living room to do her homework. But all she could think about was the unfinished story. She was desperate for night to fall, for Papa to come home so she could finally tell him. There were so many things she hadn’t said yet – how the woman behind the curtain sounded like Maa, how the catechist kept saying, ‘Jeeeeeeeeesassay, Jeeeeeeeeesassay, Jeeeeeeeeesassay’ as the woman’s head bobbed.

She needed Papa to explain it. The holy hands, the pelvis thrusting, the large shadows, the flickering candlelight – she wanted to know what it all meant.

By the time Papa returned home at 9 pm, stumbling up the stairs, Brema could already smell the alcohol. The smell always came before the arguments. Her parents’ voices soon rose, scorching her through the walls. Papa sobbed the way he did when they fought, and Maa prayed the rosary aloud, asking for strength. Brema listened to it all – the sobs and the prayers – but wondered again: where was God?

When the night finally fell silent, Maa and Papa moved to the living room together. They sat on the large sofa facing the door. Brema was called – Maa used all three of her names, pausing between each one. That was always a sign of trouble. The living room door squeaked as Brema opened it, the doorknob cold in her palm.

Papa’s eyes were red, like ripe tomatoes. They always turned red when he drank too much or cried. Brema looked at the ceiling, trying to avoid Maa’s gaze, wondering what she had done this time.

A housefly buzzed in the room, settling on Papa’s nose to rub its legs. It seemed to know the trouble Brema was in. It wandered over Papa’s face, then flew to the framed picture of baby Jesus in his mother’s arms. The fly left Jesus and came to rest on the wine-colored sofa beside Brema’s parents.

“Brema, what do you have to say for yourself?” Maa snarled, her right hand raised as if to hit her.

“Say?” Brema whispered, barely able to find her voice.

“Don’t play dumb. Who have you been talking to at school? Who told you that demonic story?”

“Uhm, no one…”

“No one? How can a child make up such filth? You’ll surely end up in hell.” Maa’s voice grew louder. “Demons have taken over her. Demons have taken over her, whispering profane stories into her ears. Drawing her closer to hellfire. Demons.”

Brema was confused. She wanted to say something, to explain. It wasn’t really a little boy who climbed up the window. No one had told her anything. It was a true-true story. But now her story felt scary – it was hurting Papa, making his eyes red like tomatoes.

She looked at him, sitting there with his face in his hands. He wasn’t looking at her. His shoulders were low, and he was breathing heavy. Papa always cried when things got bad. And now, because of her story, things felt bad. If she hadn’t told the story, maybe Papa wouldn’t be so sad. Maybe Maa wouldn’t be yelling. Maybe they would be sitting outside still, killing mosquitoes in the dark, counting God’s windows.

Maa motioned for Brema to go and stand in the right corner, the lines on Maa’s forehead deepening.

“Hold your ears and do m’aso-yԑ-den, hundred times.”

“M’aso yԑ den, mennte asԑm, one. M’aso yԑ den, mennte asԑm, two. M’aso yԑ den, mennte asԑm, three. M’aso yԑ den, mennte asԑm, four. M’aso yԑ den, mennte asԑm, five…”

Snorting, crying, singing her repentance, Brema went up and down in a hundred squats, her legs quivering. Maa and Papa sat stiff, unmoved like prison guards. Brema did what she was taught to do after a punishment. A small curtsey.

“Thank you, Maa, for punishing me. Thank you, Papa, for punishing me.” 

Her parents nodded like lizards, watching Brema go to bed, never to finish her story.▪