Praise Song for the Butterflies. Bernice L. McFadden

she had covered in layers of Saran wrap and tinfoil for the journey. The bread was soggy and the meat cold, but Abeo gobbled it down anyway. When she was done, a mayonnaise-glazed smile spread across her lips.

      After dinner, the family piled into the living room to watch The Wizard of Oz. Abeo was fascinated by the movie—she barely made a peep the entire time—and when it was done, she applauded with great vigor.

      * * *

      If not for Serafine’s visit, Ismae would have remained in the guest room until Wasik banished his mother back to Prama.

      But despite their differences, Wasik and Ismae agreed to call a truce—at least while Serafine was in town.

      So Ismae returned to their marriage bed.

      That night, when Wasik reached for her, Ismae did not refuse him. Their lovemaking went on for hours. The following morning, their night of passion could not be concealed. Ismae wasn’t just glowing, she was absolutely pulsing with light.

      * * *

      For the next few weeks, Abeo essentially became a tourist in her own country, seeing it through Didi’s American eyes and experiencing it as she did.

      It was only on the rarest of occasions that Abeo took public transportation—her father drove the family everywhere. So to Abeo, riding in the colorful, dilapidated minibuses known as tro-tros was as thrilling as an amusement park ride.

      Day after day, the trio, hands linked, left the Kata homestead and headed toward the commercial district where Serafine waved down a tro-tro and the three happily crammed themselves in alongside people and livestock. One time Didi found herself sitting next to a woman who held an irate chicken in her lap and it pecked Didi from the time they climbed on until they got off.

      On a cloudy Thursday morning, Abeo, Serafine, and Didi boarded a bus that took them across the border into Ghana and on to Accra.

      Abeo had visited Ghana just twice in her young life. The first time was when she was barely a year old. Her parents had taken her by car to attend the wedding of a family friend. She was too young to remember the trip, but there was an album full of photos of Abeo, cradled in her mother’s arms, grinning into the camera; all gums and cheeks, adorned in a gold-and-purple dress, her bald head wrapped in a matching head tie.

      The second time she was six years old. She and Ismae had traveled to Ghana in the church van, along with other members of their congregation, to have a day of prayer and celebration with an affiliate house of worship in Accra. The trip had been long and hot. They rode with the windows down, fanning themselves with handkerchiefs and church programs. The van was old; it coughed black smoke, sat low to the ground, and was in need of new shocks. The driver had a gift for sighting potholes, but not avoiding them. When someone needed to urinate, they had to do so in the scrub that bounded either side of the road.

      Now, in the air-conditioned coach, complete with a tiny bathroom, Abeo peered out at the rolling green savanna, bouncing her leg with excitement, half listening to Didi who was babbling at warp speed, jumping from one subject to the next, pausing only to flip through the pages of her guidebook. Serafine, the sponged headphones of her Walkman covering her ears, spent the three-hour journey bopping her head to the music of Shalamar, Khalif, and Mtume.

      At Black Star Square, Abeo posed for a picture beneath Independence Arch. On a trip to the W.E.B. DuBois Centre, in the sitting room of the former home of the great thinker, Didi turned to the crowd of mostly white tourists and bellowed dramatically: “One ever feels his two-ness—an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two reconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder!”

      Serafine flashed an apologetic smile at the visitors who stood staring.

      Abeo giggled into her palms.

      Serafine caught Didi by the wrist and dragged her away from the buzzing crowd. “What the hell was that?”

      Didi smiled sheepishly. “Girl, DuBois’s spirit must have jumped on me,” she giggled. “These white folk need to know!” And with that she threw a wink at Abeo, who was still laughing.

      At the Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum and Memorial Park, erected in memory of Osagyefo (the Messiah) Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, the first president of Ghana, Abeo was struck mute by the structure—where the bodies of the great leader and his wife were laid to rest. She listened in awe as the tour guide explained that the design was meant to represent the Akan culture’s symbol of peace—an upside-down sword. She was equally enchanted by the magnificent golden fountains in the park.

      At the Tetteh Quarshie Art Market, Didi haggled over the price of a wooden sculpture of a naked man seated on a tree limb. Serafine covered Abeo’s eyes when she saw her staring at the penis.

      With each stop they made, Didi shared small nuggets of knowledge. In the marketplace, she pointed to a bolt of colorful cloth stamped with a running motif of diamonds encased in rectangular boxes. “See this, Abeo? This cloth is from the Ivory Coast, from a town called Korhogo—”

      “It is?” Serafine cut in, stepping over to examine the fabric herself. “How do you know that?”

      Didi ignored Serafine, extended her hand, and ran the tip of her finger along the geometric design. “This represents the talking drum,” she informed Abeo.

      “Talking drum?” Abeo batted her eyes in confusion.

      “The lunna!” Serafine cried with delight. “Heh,” she laughed, “at least I do know that!”

      “Yes, you’re right, Serafine, it is the lunna drum,” Didi confirmed.

      Abeo brought her ear close to the material, closed her eyes, and listened, but all she heard was the busy Accra traffic blaring all around her like white noise. “I don’t hear any drum,” she sighed, her voice dripping with disappointment.

      “You don’t?” Didi’s eyes twinkled mischievously. She bent over Abeo, pressing her own ear to the material. Her face tensed with concentration. “I hear it. Maybe you have to listen a little bit harder.”

      Abeo’s eyes stretched.

      “Go on,” Didi coaxed, “try again.”

      Once again, Abeo closed her eyes. The shopkeeper, an inky-colored man with a line-thin mustache, eyed them with great amusement from behind his wooden counter.

      Abeo pressed her ear firmly against the fabric. Soon, the blare of horns, screeching tires, and cries of street vendors hawking their wares began to fade, and for one crystal moment there was nothing but silence. And then a faint sound echoed in the hush. Abeo wrapped her arms around the bolt of fabric, pushed her ear deeper into the material. The faint beat of a lone drum reverberated in her ear; the sound gradually swelled until it seemed her entire body throbbed. Surprised and shaken, Abeo snatched her head away and turned startled eyes on Didi.

      “Did you hear it?”

      A speechless, shaken Abeo could do little more than nod her head.

      * * *

      That Sunday the entire family attended church—well, all but Grandmother, who refused to because she claimed a white god was no god of hers—where Abeo made her First Communion. She looked like an angel in her white dress and matching patent-leather shoes. For the occasion, Ismae had taken Abeo to the hairdresser, where Abeo grinned all through the wash, dry, press, and curl.

      At the church, Ismae welled with pride as she watched Abeo prepare to take, for the first time in her life, the body of Christ. Ismae squeezed Wasik’s hand, but when he didn’t squeeze back in response, she looked over at him to find that he was staring down into his lap, his face void of emotion.

      Abeo stood tall and proud before the priest with the palms of her small hands pressed tightly together. The priest used the thin wafer to make the sign of the cross over her head and then held the wafer inches from her lips, announcing with great reverence, “The body of Christ.”

      Abeo