I tried taking an afternoon nap, but my body ached. I sat up in bed and from my room I spotted the craft box lying beneath the shed. I walked outside and set it on the table. I opened it. Inside were all the new materials I had not used. I closed the lid and pushed it aside. As I sat under the shed staring into nothing Ama called out for me to join them. I shrugged, and Ama ran off with her friends. My old kite that had been destroyed rested against the wall. I picked it up and loosened the strings. Now covered in dust and its fabric shrunken, the kite was like a carcass in my hand. I pulled on an angle and it ripped in half. I tossed the kite aside and looked into the clouds. Before my eyes the sky appeared grey and a surge of sadness overpowered me. I had lost my superpowers and felt like a bird without wings.

When I ventured back inside, my mother was resting on the mat in the centre of the living room. She was exhausted, almost as tired as my father as he slept in hospital. I hated the black dress she wore. I hated how its edges closed around her neck and her wrists so that no part of her body was exposed save for her sunken face. I hated the black head scarf she wore to cover her shaved head. I hated how her sadness widened the void around us. Our laughter was gone and we sat looking at each other with long faces.

Mother watched from the living room. Her arms were folded, face buried in one hand. And the look she wore reminded me of the chaos of my father’s funeral. On that day, women from his village had screamed, Papa Cudjoe wake up! Wake up! And men took off their hats and bit their lower lips. My father’s brothers and sisters wailed, following the procession of the hearse. It felt as if the whole world was mourning.

Three weeks had passed since the burial rites.The Asafotu Festival was mere days away. One morning, I lay in bed listening to the birds. Outside, two brown robins perched on my craft box. I watched them chirp like choristers. Their lively sounds caught my ears and I continued observing them settle on my box. As they flew away, I became curious as to what a bird was without its wings. A bird was nothing without them. The magic of flight freed the bird, and I imagined that same freedom each time I manoeuvred my kite through the sky. Whenever I raced through Asaba Field and unfastened the strings of my kite, when the sensation of the breeze brushed against my face, I felt a rush of exhilaration. I was free. In that moment I longed again to feel this way. I left my bedroom and walked to the shed.

I spread a sheet of silk over the work table. I recalled how my father had measured each angle after cutting the fabric to give the kite its form. I measured the sides and inserted the plastic rods through them, each string finding its loop. Lastly, I wrapped the fibre strings around a spool to form a bundle. I was ready. 

Mom sat on her mat in the centre of the living room. She looked up from where she had been positioned since the mourning period and smiled. It was the first time she’d done so since she had begun wearing black. I sat with her. I wanted her to know that she was not alone.

On the day of the festival, noise from the street filled our home. I stood by the window, watching a group of boys parading their Kente dresses through the carnival procession. I had not seen Ama all morning and knew she must have been out with the neighbourhood children dancing to the festive sounds. By evening, countless floats and revellers in costumes had passed our streets chanting the famous Asafotu song. In the midst of their jubilation I heard the thunderous fireworks explode, and watched its spark emerge into a burst of colours in the sky. As the display continued, I thought of Kwesi and Afi running across Asaba Field along with my classmates, perhaps placing bets on who had the best kite. I was missing out.