Email from Sandra: All because of Akorfa
Two Novembers ago, my friend Akorfa lost her father. All those who attended that funeral acknowledged the fact that Akorfa had honoured her father in his death. And indeed she did!
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Being the only child, and the only person in her extended family who earned a little bit of an “interesting income”, that funeral was big. Apart from the fact that it was attended by close to 350 people, refreshments took the mode of “serve yourself” – drinks, food, water and all.
Her father had been interred in a polished mahogany coffin. The whole life celebration of the old man, who had retired as an assistant in a shop at Adabraka, was awesome.
Talks on the four hour journey back to Accra from that funeral was all about Akorfa and how well her father’s funeral had gone. And we wondered how she managed to raise that money to throw such a fete.
So, well, when she returned to Accra (of course, she had stayed behind for a week at her hometown to sort a few things out with extended family members), two of us, Frema and I, went to see her to make a few enquiries. At least, we each had a parent still alive and therefore needed to know what kpa kpa kpa moves to make in the event of any such eventuality.
When we threw the big question to our fatherless friend, she smiled and said, “when we ask you people to take insurance for every little thing, you make fun of the whole thing. I took a funeral insurance policy for my father. That money took care of almost everything that you ate, drank and saw at the funeral … and the interesting thing is, you receive your claims within 48 hours of request”.
Boy, were we not shocked! We needed to know what sort of policy that was. Akorfa took her time to explain everything that we needed to know. By ten o’clock the next day, which was a Monday, Frema and I, like a duo on a juju-consultation errand, had our policies in our hands. We planned to “Nichodemously” conceal our documents away from any kokonsa eyes, pay our contributions religiously, and yet, pray for good health, long life and peace for our aged parents. And that is what I don’t like about insurance companies.
Sometimes I have this feeling they garner it off innocent clients. You take a car insurance cover but never hope to have an accident. You take travel insurance but don’t hope to fall ill on your trip, have your trip cancelled, be involved in a flight accident etc. So then what happens? The insurance company keeps all the cash to themselves because you were safe, right? Ebeii!!! In our case, we took the funeral policy and have been praying ever since, against that “unwanted” day. Anyway.
We stealthily have kept our documents under lock and key since that warm November morning. On Saturday afternoon however, I was cooking when Frema called my phone. She was crying desperately and couldn’t even speak. My trepidation heightened at her nonverbal expression; my heart started to beat faster.
“Is everything okay?” I asked. Budii. Should I come over? Who is there with you?” Budii. Thankfully, Obodai had gone out without the car. So turning off the stove’s fire, I picked my keys, bundled Naa Atswei into the back seat, and sped off to Achimota, where Frema lives.
Having phoned her to let her know I was close to arriving at her gate, she was at the front to meet us. She hugged me tightly and said, “Mimi has killed me oooo, Ablah, Mimi has killed me”. Mimi is her four year old daughter. I managed to calm her down as we still stood at the gate and got her to narrate her reason for getting me out of my home the way she did.
“Ablah, my mum is here on a visit. She and the kids have been having fun – you know how she gels with them, especially Mimi. This morning, whilst I was away at the market, I hear Mimi went to pick out some old photographs of my mum and dad, to show to the old woman.
I still don’t know why she did that because those were pictures I had carefully tucked away in a drawer in my wardrobe. And you know how open we are in this house – we rarely lock our inside doors, and wardrobes. So she had free access to my wardrobe. That was where I had kept the funeral policy for my mum.”
Before she could complete the sentence I placed both hands on my head and left my mouth agape in utter shock. “Don’t tell me it’s what am thinking”, said I. “Ablah”, she said, “this girl brought out all the documents together with the photographs, and dumped them on my mother’s laps”.
I was still at the market when my mother phoned to condemn me that I wanted to kill her and so I had picked up a policy in her name. I have said all I can but this woman doesn’t want to understand. As I speak, she has packed her stuff and actually phoned one of my cousins in Tema to come and pick her to his house.
“I have phoned my cousin to explain what the document is all about but he also doesn’t understand me. He is blaming me for even thinking of my mother’s death, way before her time. Ablah, please come and beg this woman for me ooo”, she held my right hand and dragged me through her gate, ignorant of Naa Atswei’s presence in the car.
My baby who thought I was abandoning her in the car began to cry. Getting her out with haste, I locked the car up and rushed in with her; making her stumble, almost falling, as she doubled her little steps behind me.
I virtually lay prostrate before Frema’s mother as my gaze met hers. “Maa we beg … Maa please don’t go … Maa, understand Frema, she doesn’t mean any harm …” were my pleas.
As she held me up with her “my daughter, you haven’t done anything wrong. Get up”, I managed to explain things properly to the woman who claimed her blood pressure had even gone up as a result of the document, and told her I also owned one of that document. She wept as I, using Frema’s phone, called her cousin in Tema, to let him know there was no need his picking the old woman up. Hmmm …