The Satchel

The lunch bell blared and the class rushed to get in line. But Kojo lingered, dilly-dallying at his desk to make sure that he was last.

“Come on!” “Hurry up!” his classmates coaxed and Kojo finally fell in place as they made their way single file down the hall to the cafeteria. He was not looking forward to the lunch break at all.

Kojo’s classmates carried cool looking lunch bags: sleek, colorful, zippered bags containing all kinds of delights and delicacies. Some lunch bags were plain. A plain old brown paper bag and a plain old sandwich were what Kojo longed for. Instead, he carried an old satchel because his grandmother made him. Kojo trudged, head hung down, shoulders drooped, dragging his feet and his satchel behind him.

In the lunchroom, Kojo placed the beat-up old bag on his lap and reached inside. He single-handedly opened and unwrapped his food, pinched off bits and pieces, and stuffed the tasty morsels into his mouth. Kojo was just not comfortable enough at his new school to let anyone know what he was eating. At his old school things were different. He remembered how his classmates admired his bag. No one else had anything like it. His friend Jacob had liked the distinct features of the bag. The satchel was sturdy but worn. Its metal buckles had lost their sheen, the stitching around the edges was frayed, and the material had faded.

Some days, at his old school, the cafeteria looked like the International House of Culinary Cuisine. His friend Kim brought her lunch in a rectangular container with compartments holding fresh green peas, chicken in soy sauce, and a mound of white rice with a red pickled plum on top. It was her obento, her honorable lunchbox. His pal, Syd, ate lentil pancakes and chickpea curry almost every day because it was his favorite.

Here, at the new school, students ate the school lunch or brought a sandwich from home.

“What are you eating today, Mojo, fried grasshoppers?” Christopher piped from across the lunch table. Some classmates snickered nervously. Christopher was known for his unkind remarks, his cruel teasing, and his supposedly accidental shoves and pushes. No one wanted to be at odds with Christopher. 

“My name is Kojo, and it’s none of your business!” Kojo glared at Christopher, who smirked, turned in his seat, and took a huge bite of his corndog. 

Although Kojo had mustered up some courage to address Christopher, he hastily wrapped up his food and  placed it back in his satchel. He wanted to slide under the table and disappear forever. With him feeling so out of place, how was he ever going to stand in front of the class next week and give a report on a topic of his choice? 

Kojo had not settled on a topic, but he wanted to do his best, he wanted his presentation to be interesting, and he wanted to get a good grade. He had done this before, but this place and these people were new. 

Lunch was over and Kojo was back in the classroom, staring out the window, thinking…

“Kojo… Kojo! Number seventeen, please.” Kojo heard his teacher’s voice echo as if it were coming from a distance. 

“Um, uh, oh, uh,” he stammered. “One hundred and thirty-seven,” Kojo answered and continued to gaze with his eyes wide open, lost in his thoughts.

The afternoon took forever to come to an end and after school Kojo made sure that he walked home alone. Once there, he entered through the back door so he wouldn’t trample in dirt and mud. His grandmother kept the house sparkling clean while his parents worked at the hospital. In the kitchen, he dropped his backpack on the floor and flung the satchel across the room where it landed soundly on the counter with a great thud. At that very moment, his grandmother entered the kitchen holding his baby sister, Haniah, who was delighted to see him. This time, Kojo did not reach out to lavish her with hugs and kisses.

“Don’t fix me any more lunches; I’m not eating them anymore,” Kojo announced to his grandmother as he tried to slide past her.

“Wait!” his grandmother demanded, speaking to Kojo in her native Ghanaian language. “Who is this who thinks he can talk to me in such a tone? Somebody, please find my grandson and bring him to me because this child is not the one I know.”

Kojo understood his grandmother. He also knew how to speak Twi, the dialect spoken in southern Ghana, but he replied in English. “Oni, you don’t understand, no one brings this kind of lunch to school and no one brings lunch in an ugly bag that looks like this! This school is different; it’s not like the school I used to go to.”

“Son, come sit right here.” His grandmother pointed to a chair at the table and Kojo slid into the seat. He frowned and tried to look as dismal as he could so his grandmother wouldn’t make him carry that old bag to school.

She just does not understand, he thought. If only he could convince his grandmother that a bologna sandwich in a paper bag would be ideal. He would certainly be okay with that. Somehow, he just had to help his grandmother see that a funny looking lunch bag and her home-cooked meals were not working for him. He began to speak, but his grandmother was quick.

“No, no, it is your time to listen,” she said in her grandmother voice and Kojo knew he was to be quiet while his Oni spoke.

“Your great-grandfather was a strong man and honorable,” she began. “Nothing was more important to him than caring and providing for his family. He made a living as a fisherman and sold what he caught to markets throughout the city of Accra. He taught the young men to fish and repair the nets that broke under the weight of their great catch. He worked hard and encouraged his children to study and do their best. In the evenings, after dinner, you would find him in the yard playing soccer with the children. He passed his love for family and belief in hard work on to his son, and to your father.”

Kojo sat up straight. He listened closely to what his grandmother was saying. This was not like the folklore stories she usually told him. This story was different: it was true. 

“This ugly bag was made by your ancestors and it has come a long way,” his Oni continued. “You are concerned about what others may think of you! What they think does not matter. Three generations have carried this satchel. You are the fourth.” Oni placed Haniah in her highchair and stood with her hands on her hips as she shared with Kojo a most amazing story. When she finished, Kojo knew what topic he would choose for his upcoming oral report.

The next morning, on his way to school, Kojo thought about the story. He imagined the sights, and sounds, and smells that his grandmother spoke about. He thought about his ancestors and could see himself in the village his great-grandfather had lived in as a young boy.

He envisioned the crowded tents, makeshift huts, colorful umbrellas, and merchants selling all kinds of goods. Clothing, yards of fabric, hats, ceramic bowls, and household items were piled on tables for buyers to sort through. Women wove baskets with nimble fingers, threading the straw to create detailed designs, while children played tag and catch. Goats bleated in the distance. Chickens escaped their cages, causing their owners to chase after them, arms outstretched, ready to scoop up the squawking, scampering fowl. 

What a merry, noisy, colorful, hectic, magnificent place! And the rainbow could not be more colorful than the fresh fruits and vegetables that spilled from containers and tables onto sheets of cloth spread on the ground. There was corn, okra, carrots, tomatoes, mangoes, cabbage, yams, all kinds of peppers, and bunches of plantains.

In his mind, he could see people preparing all kinds of food over open flames: beans and rice in large pots, grilled fish, roasted corn, and groundnut soup. Some made fufu, a mixture of plantains and cassava pounded and mixed with a long wooden spoon until it was smooth and supple. Roasted plantains and peanuts were a favorite, and people stood in long lines to purchase the tasty snack. 

Women carried babies wrapped tightly on their backs while balancing large baskets laden with their purchases on their heads. Their arms swung freely, and Kojo wondered if his grandmother knew how to carry a basket on her head with no hands.

Still deep in thought, Kojo imagined the people wearing woven material in lively shades of gold, green, red, and blue like the outfits his mom and grandmother wore, made from material called kente cloth. He knew that the cloth spoke of the history of the people and recognized that one design roughly meant, ‘we can live together.’

“Hey! Hey! Young man! Watch where you’re going!”

Hearing the warning, Kojo jumped and realized that he was inches from having a head-on collision with a light pole.

The crossing guard held his traffic sign high, and Kojo safely crossed the street. He securely held the strap of his satchel on his shoulder and entered his classroom just before the late bell. The morning crept by ever so slowly. Kojo completed his math problems, whizzed through his reading assignment, studied his spelling words, and fiddled with his art project. 

Eventually, lunch time arrived. Kojo was hungry and looking forward to his noonday meal of leftover jollof from last night’s dinner: rice mixed with chicken, tomatoes, ham, cabbage, beans, onions, and spices. His mouth watered just thinking about it. 

When he entered the cafeteria, Kojo discovered that someone had placed a picture of a grasshopper on his assigned seat. Kojo picked up the paper, crumbled it in his hands and tossed it in the nearest trash bin. 

Christopher, seated at the end of the table, and a few others could be heard laughing and murmuring among themselves. 

Kojo carefully placed his worn, scruffy bag on the table and spread his meal before him. He could hear whispering, but no one said anything to him, so he turned his thoughts once again to the story his Oni had shared with him, savored his meal, and devoured the delicious African cake full of plump, juicy raisins. 

Kojo zipped through his afternoon work and even helped a classmate who was having trouble getting logged in and set up for a group assignment. The bell rang and everyone hastily retrieved their jackets and backpacks and headed out the door. 

“Hey! Where are you guys going?” Kojo called after his friends.

“I’m taking the bus home today.”

“Soccer practice. See ya later.”

“Shopping with my mom.”

Kojo stared down the hall and watched his friends as they dispersed and went their separate ways. After a moment, he also headed toward the door and out of the building, wondering if his friends were now siding with Christopher. Did they think he was different? Did they think that his ethnic food was weird?  

“Hi, Oni,” Kojo grumbled when he entered the house.

“Your sister is napping. Why is your face so sad?” his grandmother asked.

“I’m okay,” Kojo said. He felt better when he saw a platter of fried plantains on the counter and reached to take some, but his Oni caught his hand in midair. “Wash your hands first,” she said. “Listen for your sister if she wakes up; I’ll be outside.”

Kojo munched on his plantains and watched his grandmother through the kitchen window as she stooped to pick tomatoes from her small garden. She also grew collard greens and yams. But she was especially proud of her herb and spice garden. The hot chili peppers were used in most of their meals. When his family had lived in the city, Oni was not able to have a garden. She had kept a few pots of herbs in the window and longed to have a vegetable patch like she did when she lived in Ghana. Kojo had heard his father promise that one day she would have a garden again.

Kojo thought about his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather who all carried the satchel that he now owned. Kojo finished his snack and went to his room to finish his homework and work on the special assignment. 

The following week, Kojo was nervous as he stood in front of the class to give his report. He cleared his throat and began.

“My great-grandfather was a noble man,” he said. “He left his village in Ghana early mornings to walk to school. In this satchel he carried a snack his mother prepared for him, sometimes fruit, sometimes chin-chin.” Kojo held the satchel high. “After school, he helped his father with farm work. Farming and fishing were the ways his family earned their wages. Once home, his mother always had a delicious meal waiting, fufu and groundnut soup.”

Kojo continued to tell how his grandfather used this satchel to gather vegetables from the garden and how his father carried it while attending university. 

“My dad almost did not get to have this special bag and then I would not have it today. One day, while visiting the market with his family, my great-grandfather met up with some friends and placed the satchel down to play. When he returned to where he had left it, it was not there. He searched and looked everywhere, but could not find it. The satchel was needed to help carry home some of the groceries the family would purchase that day. Everyone searched and asked if anyone had seen it but they had to leave the market without the satchel. It was nowhere to be found. 

“Several weeks later, when my great-grandfather and his family were at the market, a woman who had been weaving placed her basket down, ran to my great-grandfather, and said, ‘You left this when you and my son were playing. We’ve been holding it, hoping to see you again. That is a well-made bag you have there. Take good care of it.’

“This is my satchel now and I will pass it on to my son, too,” said Kojo. “I don’t know what he will carry in it… snacks, books, or maybe a lunch of jollof rice. But he will know of his ancestors and the many miles this satchel has traveled.”

The sound of clapping echoed around  the room when Kojo was done and there were lots of questions.

“How many miles did your great-grandfather have to walk to school?”

“What is chin-chin?”

“Do you ever eat hot dogs?”

After all questions were answered, Kojo held up his satchel so that his classmates could see and have a chance to touch it.

“It’s so smooth.”

“Soooo cool.”

“Nice!” 

“I’m not touching that!” Christopher exclaimed when the satchel was passed to him. “Get it away from me!”

Kojo ignored Christopher’s remarks and continued chatting with his classmates as they passed the satchel around the room.

Hesitating, but still trying to convince his classmates, Christopher said, “You’ll get germs.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!” Shannon swiveled in her chair and faced Christopher. “I’ll get germs in my ears just listening to you!” she said, and the class erupted in laughter.

“It’s true,” Christopher tried making his point. “It’s grimy,” he said. 

“You’re pretty grimy, if we want to be real about it,” Jacob replied, stirring more chuckles around the room.

“That’s enough. There will be no such talk in this classroom,” their teacher warned.

Even those who were easily swayed by Christopher’s jeering paid no attention to his comments. Christopher slumped in his seat and sheepishly looked around. 

“Are you… ” Shannon exclaimed, noticing the water that welled up in the corners of Christopher’s eyes. 

“I… I have allergies,” Christopher sniffed. 

Shannon placed her hand over her mouth, raised her eyebrows, and opened her eyes wide as if to say, I think he’s actually crying.

More reports were presented and the afternoon was a success. The bell rang; everyone collected their belongings and headed out the door. Seeing Christopher alone, Kojo lingered a bit and walked out with him. When they got to the doorway, Christopher stopped and looked at Kojo. He extended a fist. “Sorry, man,” he said, and Kojo nodded, then bumped fists with him.

“So, how did your report go today?” his grandmother asked when Kojo arrived home.

“Terrific,” he replied. “Thanks for telling me that story, Oni.”

“I want you to know of your legacy. If I don’t tell you, it will not be remembered. Come now, wash your hands and help me make African salad.”

Kojo helped his grandmother mix the beans, potatoes, sardines, tomatoes, and onions. He wanted to make sure there was plenty so he’d have enough for lunch tomorrow.