Page 35 - Obruni In Ghana | Amber Lockridge

OBRUNI IN GHANA 33
suppress the urge to scream and throw them all off me.
“Breathe,” I thought to myself. I remembered reading that hyperventilation was an anesthetic. “Breathe,” I thought again, forcing my chest in and out, straining my neck to keep my head still against the incessant tugging from six different directions. I willed myself to ignore the sticky, dirty feeling that covered my body and returned to my book.
I was temporarily saved by the appearance of my sister in the doorway of the salon. I prayed she wasn’t a heat and delirium induced mirage. How long had I been here? She motioned me to come and I gladly extricated myself, tripping only a little as the feeling worked itself back into my legs. Indiscreetly, I peeled the bands of my underwear out of the grooves they had embedded themselves in.
“Good afternoon,” I said. “What are you doing here?” She informed me that she had to rush to Accra, at best a four hour journey, to get some school papers signed for another of my sisters. One of the girls would take me home and had I eaten lunch yet.