You're listening to Radiotopia Presents from PRX's Radiotopia.

She tricked me.

She totally played me. I stare at my mom Agnes.

The dusty hammerton winds straight from the Sahara don't do anything to cool the room.

Sweat rolls down my neck, and the huge peacock tattoo curling around my mom's left shoulder

glistens.

She sighs and says it again,

This apartment is yours.

Your daddy and I want you to move in.

Mom directs her gaze past the swanky marble floors and recess lighting to the tropical greenery outside.

She sweeps long braids away from her face and reclines in her white plastic chair, the kind that has ubiquitous

gien yame god symbol twisted into it. God is everywhere in Ghana. He

literally has your back, especially if you're my mom.

What is there for you in America, Mamie if you?

Hmm?

She laughs.

Her silver earrings and bracelets jangle merrily. Scratch that.

Menesingly. I should have known. When I first graduated from college and moved out to Philly for a job, my parents

happily offered to drive. And as they headed back, they happily handed me the receipts

for their gas and tolls.

She's just so good at this.

A minute ago we were celebrating.

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