Short Story: The Hand of God

THE HAND OF GOD

My mother used to tell when I was growing up, “Akua, a hand that does not work must not eat.” I grew up thinking of my hand as the most important part of my body. She would scream when I was washing her clothes as well as that of my brothers; one who was a mechanic and the other a trotro driver, “Akua wash it well, why do you wash as if you have no bones in your hands? This is not how girls wash things… Wash it well, wash wash, wash wash” and she will use her hands to hit my head. I hated it when I was cooking and she was around, “Don’t you have hands? Stir the food well or else it will get lumpy. You are not beautiful so learn how to use your hand well.” Often I sat down asking myself if there was anything wrong with my hands. There were long nights I spent studying my hands carefully over the flickering lights to see if there was a blemish in there that made every conversation in the house to be about my hands.

The situation was no different at school. My teachers said I had a very terrible handwriting; one of them even said that she got a headache whenever she read my work. Later she said she kept on failing me on purpose because of my handwriting. “What do you have in those little hands of yours that you can’t write well Akua? What at all? Use your hands to hold the pencil well, hold it firmly, hold it femininely, write boldly……..write boldly………Write your A like this…..Do not slant it. No… It makes it unreadable. I say again write boldly.” So I stopped school wondering if I was not intelligent because of my handwriting or because I was actually a dull student.

My brother used to tell me that the only thing I was good at doing with my hands was being a trotro mate (conductor) and in truth I loved this job in every sense of the word. The other trotro mates always made snide remarks when they saw me. They said I was a girl and a girl had no place in a man’s world. I didn’t care, once I was getting money and doing something which my hands knew how to do best, there was nothing they said that brought my spirits down. Some of the trotro mates sneaked on me and fondled with my breast, I fought those ones and sometimes beat the hell out of them. “Your hands are strong, they are not that of a woman, you must learn to make it softer and and and……..” I would watch them pant and hear their voice trail as I beat them. It gave me joy when other mates laughed at the boys I beat.

“She is not a girl! She fights like a man.” They would say as a defense.

My brother would call me and tell me not to pay them any attention. He had no idea how it felt to be laughed at something you did so well. I had a bad handwriting so I felt uncomfortable at school, my mother said I couldn’t use my hands to do what girls are supposed to do so I felt I didn’t belong at home either.

After advising me, I would enter the room in the mind and scream, “Brother, you don’t know how it feels to be dragged out of where you belong. I belong here and I am going to fight till I am accepted.’’

“Akua they will stop teasing you, they will later accept you. You remember when I was once a trotro mate? They used to laugh at me, they said I was dirty, they said I reminded them of a dwarf who lived on the mountains. I didn’t fight them, I accepted the insults, I took it in and laugh it off. That is what you should do. Laugh it off. This is what everyone does. Laugh it off.”

“But I am a girl and they say they will never accept me if I don’t fight.” He would look at me and smile. He always said he loved my spirits because there was absolutely nothing that could break it. Absolutely nothing. He had never seen a girl with a spirit like mine.

I would frown and look at him. He is just a boy and doesn’t know how much it hurts being a girl who is undeserving in everyone’s eyes but his, a girl who knows not to do things other girls knew how to do perfectly with their hands. How often did I have to tell him I was fighting for a different kind acceptance in a world I didn’t belong? He didn’t understand me; in fact, he never did. At times I wondered if he saw me as a girl. I never blamed him; we grew up together, wore the same clothes, played the same games and tricks. Deep in each of our hearts, I was not a girl.

And one day we were on our regular trips looking for passengers in our rickety car. It was nothing better than scrap. It had been pierced together by several adhesives. For example, the front seat easily gave in when a passenger relaxed too much in it. You could not afford to be careless and sleep while you sat at the front seat. You may end up falling on the legs of other passengers sitting at the back. The car could only be sparked by joining series of wires together.

There was nothing special about the day, it was just a Sunday --   people had closed from church. I stood at a vantage and watched other girls walk majestically in their pencil heels and fanciful dresses. I asked myself how it felt to be like those girls who walked as if they were walking on a thin thread. I sighed and shouted, “K-tia, K-tia, K-tia.” It was only twelve o’clock so business was a bit slow. I had told my brother to let us wait for a while before setting off to look for passengers but he said business was going to be good at that time. Who was I to argue? With a hand like mine, what aim did I have in life?

We spent more than ten minutes at Tech Junction and the six passengers we had already gotten were getting impatient. They murmured and threw naked faced insults at me. The insults were nothing to me, I had been insulted over and over so I smiled at their insults, they were nothing compared to those that nearly made me commit suicide.

“Ei driver, this your mate dier he is very aggressive.” One of the passengers shouted. I heard it but I didn’t mind her. I was so used to be called a boy. Many passengers did not actually realise that I was a girl, they were also so much used to the concept of a male trotro mate that the idea of a girl trotro mate was a bit hard to picture.

“She is a girl ooo not a boy.” Another passenger corrected. I smiled, he was one of the few passengers to notice I was a girl.

“A girl trotro mate? Interesting.”

Then I heard my brother horning signaling me to come. I had always maintained that my brother had a soft heart. He can’t stomach it when passengers shouted on him. Sometimes I wished I could give my brave heart to him. Sometimes I wish he could trust me and teach me how to drive. Secretly I tried to learn but each time he saw me, he got angry and shouted, “Akua, I know you are ambitious but no, you can‘t be a trotro driver! Have you seen a female trotro driver before?”

“But brother, I can be the first one. There is always a first one.”

“No and get out of the seat.” I always hated it when he was always angry. It took the charm he had in him.

After two passengers had entered the car, I went and sat inside and my brother drove off.

“Yess.” I hissed slowly and the passengers started pulling money from their bags and pockets to pay me.

“Mate, how much is the fare from Tech Junction to Amakom?”

“One Cedi.”

“This is not true! I just took one this morning and it was only 90p. You are the only one charging One Cedi” the passenger sitting right next to me angrily shouted.

“Madam please the fare has always been One Cedi, maybe the trotro mate was so touched by the holy spirits that he decided to reduce it by 10p.”

“Don’t be silly – “ she retorted.

“Akua just collect the 90p.” my brother intervened.

“Ah ha. As a girl you should be as smart as your brother.” She teased.

“Are you trying to – “

“Akua! Just shut up.” My brother intervened before I could launch the beginning of the Third World War. I kept quiet and collected the lorry fare from the other passengers.

“Mate, I will alight at the MTN Office at Susanso.” One of the passengers shouted from the back of the car. My brother stopped in front of the MTN office and as I was opening the door it fell on my hands and I came crushing down with the door on me. Everything happened in a flash that the pain started like how fire starts – slowly till it reaches a wildfire. I looked at my hands and my hands were deeply cut. I saw blood dripping down and I looked up to the skies and screamed, “Oh my God my hands, my hands, my hands.”

I heard my mother’s laughter in my mind as if she was standing just next to me, “A hand that does not work must not eat.” I also heard a small voice rejoicing, “Now that your hands are hurt how are you going to eat?”  Oh my God, was I going to lose my hand? What was going to happening to me when my hands were completely rendered useless? What was going to be my use?

“Oh my God, this can’t be happening to me.”

I was screaming not because of the pain I felt but because of my hand. A hand that people said were useless. A hand that was the only thing I ever known in my life.

The passengers got down from the trotro and circled around me. One of them had a perfume in her bag, she took it and had the rest hold me, she sprayed it generously on my hand, I felt a severe pain moving through my body and I heard my mother’s voice again, “A hand that does not work must not eat.”

“Oh my God my hand, my hand, my hand……………my hand.” I screamed so loud I could feel God feeling sad for me.

Other cars stopped and they inquired what had happened. “Oh the gate fell on her hands.” Someone would take up the invitation and explain how the event all happened adding a little detail here and there. I was not in the mood to correct anything.

I knew the wound was going heal with time but what was the scar going to remind me of? A failed adventure of being something I was good at? Seeing the naked meat of my body I asked myself what was I labouring for? What was the difference between an animal and I? We all are same meat, as sweet as a food when spiced correctly. So why the constant suffering and the constant insults I received from everyone? Was an animal ever useless? Then why then everyone except my brother make me feel useless?

“Oh my God my hand, my hand, my hand…………….”

Why did everything in this world had to be about the hand? Is the face also as important than the hand? God used His hands to create life. Eve used hers to pluck the forbidden fruit from the tree to bring death. Jesus used his to perform miracles. What would I think of myself everything I see the scar? Would I become useless as everyone thought of me? Oh my hand, my hand, my hand. Is there anything as important as you?