Nana Offrata arrived earlier this afternoon at Gatwick Airport. His arms and feet exposed to June’s torrential rain.
His greeting, after all this time, is a complaint. British summer, he seethes. Rain drips past his bald head, clumping his eyelashes. The eternal sun he abandoned at Kotoka Airport should have travelled with him, was his honeyed black skin made for such cold?
He pulls up the soaked red and orange kente cloth slipping off his right shoulder. Gold bracelets clang, gold rings glisten. No hug, no kiss. E. T. Mensah sings away the silence.