The day Amala left home, she didn’t understand that she was leaving. If she knew, she would have prepared better and said different things.

She would have gone house to house to tell each of her friends that she was leaving, and this time she would have added “and I will probably never see you again.”

She would have admitted to Yenzu that she both loved and envied him. She envied how drawn everyone was to him, how special he seemed and how much she wish she too could be special.

She hadn’t quite understood what leaving meant then. If she had understood better, she would have walked from Bacchat down to Beecham road twice more and stopped for chinchinga. She would have had one more plate of her favorite waakye and written down every tolie she ever heard.

She would have told Tawia: “We are moving to America” but this time she would lose the smile. She’d make space for the grief of leaving home and never returning. She’d tell Tawia that she was the best confidant she’d ever had and that she’d always think of her.

She would have gone to Papa’s grave to tell him she’s sorry he died alone and afraid. That she wish she’d been there and she’s sorry she’d never see him again. She would have sat with Papa and said I love you, Paa. She’d never once said that.

She would have cared less that she was finally going somewhere others had not. That she’d earned the boast of a lifetime and had finally become someone worth envying. “I went and lived in America.” Can you top that?

She would have still listened when mama said “America is the dream and you are the luckiest person in the world”

But this time she would have taken a map with her, so that someday if she dared be lucky again, she can have her own dream.

A dream of being home.