She was wearing the same ntoma as me and we looked awful in my opinion. It was always better when we weren’t wearing the same fabric. The ntoma was lilac and pink and, whereas Delphy’s had been cut into a simple dress, mine was in a top that had huge lace cuffs that kept getting in my way and a skirt that was difficult to walk in. I knew I’d be fine as long as I didn’t have to move my hands too quickly – there was a small risk of me becoming airborne if I did. Thankfully, Mum was not happy with my ntoma either and vowed to speak to the tailor in Ghana. I looked across at Mum. Under her coat, she was wearing ntoma in the style of a loose lemon dress, with a matching duku that was criss-crossed across her head. Dad was wearing a shirt of white fabric over trousers and his best shoes. It had just stopped raining, so we were all dodging the puddles and clutching our coats just that little bit tighter against the cold weather. We walked up the road passing clusters of houses until we reached the loudest one, Uncle Larry and Aunt Anita’s place.
