“Champion, turning eight is a big deal, soon you’ll be ten years old! It means you’re becoming a man.” He smiled.

“Dad, does that mean I get to go on the Eagle Marine Fleet just like men do?” I asked. 

Without replying, he carefully placed the box in my hands and wrapped one arm around my shoulder. I opened it and couldn’t help my smile. I lifted the kite fabric to my nose and inhaled its plastic smell. I noted the sharp-bladed scissors, the untouched kite rods, and a spool of strong polyester strings. I continued smiling feeling the newness of every item with wonder. These were the neatest building materials I had ever seen.

The month of May brought with it a new season; the sun stayed in the sky until early evening, and the days were warmer. But my dad remained in bed, much like our neighbour’s cat that slept all day. When the first Saturday of the dry season brought the perfect flying wind, he still wouldn’t come out of his room. I had woken that morning, determined to fly my kite, and barged through his door with the new craft box. The familiar, gravelly voice of the newscaster announced a forecast of eight to 20 knots per hour. I gave my father a meaningful look.

“Perfect weather!”

He looked at the box as if he’d never seen it before, as if it had lost all the significance it had once held when he gifted it to me on my birthday. 

“Not today,” is all he said.          

I took the box outside, and in my rage, I tossed it under the shed.  

A few short weeks of school remained, until the term ended, and we went on our summer vacation. During assembly, our Cultural Arts teacher passed out permission slips to students who were interested in taking part in the upcoming Asafotu Festival. The ceremony was held in August: festival season. It was a celebration of fighters from different regions of Greater Accra, Ashanti and Tamale. During its heady days, people from all over were dressed like warriors from the Ashanti, Ewe, Fante, and Mole-Dagbon tribes. We all looked forward to spotting the eight-foot tall masqueraders, the royal clan, and the indigenous chiefs in the throng of the crowd.

I collected a permission slip, anticipating my parents would let me join the festival, I raced home to tell my father about the event. I hoped we had enough time to construct a big enough kite in time for the festival. I imagined my father cheering me on from the crowd, and the feeling of happiness grew in me. The more I pictured this scene: my father’s laughter, his pride, the faster I raced through the streets. I bolted through our gate and to the front door, racing down the passage to open my parents’ bedroom door. “Dad! Dad!” I called out. But the bed was empty.