Honorable mention in the 2017 Tom Howard/John H. Reid Fiction & Essay Contest

It's Sunday, the crowdest day in Kumasi central market. Aaron, a nine-year-old Ghanaian boy, is on his way to his mom's clothes stall. Little does he know this is the day he will encounter an obroni for the first time... A white man!

Read the beginning below.

The elders, they say anyone who knows their way through the Kumasi central market will have earned their path through life, all the way to heaven. Me, Aaron, nine years old, I've always known it: I'm going to heaven. The elders say heaven is full of ripe papayas and mangoes, and you can bathe in coconut juice there. Maame even told me, "Son, there's no way God would manage to keep you outside the gates to heaven with such attitude!" She said it like "attitude" is a bad thing.

"But Maame, you don't understand! I have songs playing in my head! There's the beat of the djembe, and the singer goes 'azonto, azonto, azonto.' I don't have no 'attitude'!"

Sunday. The market is full of people. They run around like the chickens in our backyard. Maame once said the market is as big as four soccer fields. That's pretty big, I guess. One day, I'll have a house as large as four soccer fields! I sprint through the trotro station. The orange soil is still muddy from the rain last night but the sky is blue, like the eyes of the girl I'll marry. I zigzag between passengers getting off. There's my favorite trotro, a rusty, green one. It says "God Bless Ghana" in yellow bold letters on the rear window. Prince, the driver, sees me as he's reversing and the people chatting behind the minibus have just enough time to scramble out of the way.

"Aaron!" he shouts. "Where you flying to, my boy? Say hi to your mama, will ya?"

A metallic boom erupts from my right. An old lady in bright green clothes—she looks like a wrinkled cucumber—is pounding Prince's trotro with both her hands, "Can't you look where you're going, you idiot? Why do you think God gave you eyes?"

I break into a run as Prince apologizes to the old lady. I sprint toward the south entrance of the market, where the clothes stalls are. Maame's going to be in a bad mood this morning; she's been complaining the rain and mud are losing her business. She said Ghana will be "developed" when they build an indoor market.

"Why," I asked her, "you don't want to see the sky, Maame?"

Maame is busy as usual, talking to clients and negotiating her prices. She grimaces as her client announces a low price. She waves her hand and looks away. She looks insulted by the offer: she could have been a Nollywood actress for sure. Her eyes go round as she sees me.

"My boy! Come here, I need your help!"

I stoop and tiptoe below the wooden counter on which Maame displays her T-shirts. She is waiting on the other side with her arms open and gives me a hug. Maame's hugs are always strong. Her dark skin is always soft. It's the best feeling in the world.

"I'm running out of plastic bags, son. The black ones. Go to Auntie Nana's and buy me a hundred, will you? Then get us chicken stew with rice and plantain for lunch. You remember where Abina's stall is?"

I put my fists on my hips. Of course I do! I'm sure Maame will give me an even bigger hug once I complete her errands. She hands me a bill—twenty Ghana cedis, not ten, but twenty! —and my hand shakes a little as I grab it. Now, Maame is staring down at me.

"What are you waiting for, son? Off with you!"