The Door of No Return

THE STORYTELLER
There was even a time is how my papa’s father, Nana Mosi, the village storyteller, begins most of his fireside tales
always starting in the middle of a thought like we were to know what even came before
always speaking in slow, deliberate spurts about the past like it lives in him, like it still matters
always repeating some things and pausing at other times, with a toothy smile that raises one eyebrow, right before the thing he knows we cannot wait to hear.
Though he is nearly eighty now and seldom speaks, when he does, I hang on to all his words, the lulls in between, and I remember the stories
like a pigeon remembers its way home.

IN THE DREAM
I sprint across the clearing, past a leopard teaching her cubs how to count to ten.
After I grade them, I dart between the maze of forest trees and discover a pot of boiling plantains by the river.
Picture me running over rocks and grass swept up in the cool breeze rushing to the water diving off the back of a-

SCHOOLED
Offin, how old was beloved Queen Victoria when she became heir to the throne? Mr. Goodluck Phillip, our teacher, asks, startling me out of my dream.
My cousin,
who thinks he is better than me at everything, giggles, then shoots his hand up fast, but Mr. Phillip is talking to me, staring at me, daring me to answer incorrectly. I will like Kofi Offin to answer the question, please, he says.
Dunwotwe, I proudly answer, standing among my classmates, smiling like I just bit into the sweetest mango.
I do not see the lightning almost slice the skin from my palm, but I do feel the scorch of the rod across my hand and in my bones. I even taste its sting in my mouth.
Queen’s English, please, Mr. Phillip says, as calm as rain, like he did not just attack me with his jagged cane.
Eighteen, I say quickly. That is correct. The Queen was eighteen, he adds, looking at the whole class, when her uncle died of pneumonia, making her the rightful heir.
I am not teaching you to count in English for nothing. Sorry, Mr. Goodluck Phillip, I say, looking down at the purplish welt burning my sable skin, and trying not to cry in front of everyone, especially Ama, and my cousin, who now looks like he is happily eating my mango.