Daughter in Exile


 
 
 
 
 
 
 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Contents
 Sesa Wo Suban 
 Part One
 Ɛse Ne Tεkrεma 
 Bi Nka Bi
 Menso Wo Kɛntɛn 
 Nkyinkyim 
 Kɛtɛ Pa
 Mmere Dane 
 Ananse Ntentan 
 Akokↄ Nan Akokↄ Nan 
 Mmusuyideɛ 
 Boa Me Na Me Mboa Wo
 Dame-Dame 
 Nyame Biribi Wↄ Soro
 Funtunfunefu Dεnkyεmfunefu
 Mate Masie 
 Ↄdↄ Nyera Fie Kwan 
 Nsaa 
 Aya 
 Nyansa Pↄ
 Ↄwↄ a Ↄreforo Adↄbɛ
 Hye Wonhye
 Hwɛ Mu Dua 
 
 
 Part Two
 Bese Saka 
 Nsoroma 
 Akoma Ntoaso 
 Ↄtamfo Bɛbrɛ
 
 
 Part Three
 Owuo Atwedeɛ
 Fofo 
 Nyamedua 
 Wo Nsa Da Mu A 
 Dεnkyεm
 Mpua Nnum
 Ɛpa
 Dwan Ne Mmɛn
 Sesa Wo Suban 
 Mpatapͻ
 
 
 
 
 Acknowledgments
 A Note on the Cover
 About the Author
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 
 
 
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 Dedication
 
 
 For Tolu and Tayo
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Sesa Wo Suban Change Your Character
 
 
 May 2007
 
 After the trial, I’ll no longer be a woman without a country. I’ll either live legally in America or be deported back to Ghana
 within six months. I welcome either choice. I’m weary of peripheral living.
 
 
 I’ve never voted in my life. When I was growing up in Ghana, the voting age was twenty-one. By the time they changed it to
 eighteen, I had already left. In America, I pay taxes but can’t vote. I’m a skeleton of a resident without the flesh of belonging.
 
 
 I’ve been up since three a.m.
 
 The letter my mother wrote a week ago lies unfolded on my bedside table. I’ve read it so many times that even when I close
 my eyes, I can still see the looping cursive swimming before me:
 
 
 
 
 
 February 9, 2007
 My dear Akua,
 It is a pity that you have not seen fit to write to me, your mother, for such a long time. I hope you are doing well.
 As for me, I am nearing the end of my life. Now my hair has hoary streaks. I am afraid you may never see me again. I don’t
 know if you hold the nuggets of wisdom I tried to impart to you through those Adinkra symbols of our Akan people, but I cling
 to the hope that you’re living a good life.
 
 I pray that the almighty God takes care of you and keeps you safe when I am no longer here.
 Your loving mother,
 S. D.
 
 
 
 Ten years. That’s how long I’ve been away from home. Akua is what my family called me because I was a girl born on Wednesday.
 I used to hate it. What scant appreciation I had for our culture then.
 
 
 I hated my Western name too: Olivia. My mother’s obsession with the name felt like a nutmeg grater on my skin. I didn’t care
 that it had belonged to her childhood best friend who died. My parents had given the name to my big sister who had died at
 age three or six, no one is sure exactly when. When I was born, they affixed the same name to me, which left me feeling that
 I was supposed to be a replacement for my dead sister. I felt no connection to her, no sense I’d been on earth before. The
 whole business kept me awake at night. I