Arriving…

Upon seeing the phone turn into a camera in my hands, the piece of baked salmon falls off the fork on its way into mother's mouth and onto the floor. We laugh. It is closer to my feet. She tears the paper towel. I pick up the pieces. Clean the mess.

"My grandfather, your grandma's father, he never ate with his hands," she tells me.

We sit at the dinner table. Two plates. One glass for her. A mug for me. Church worship songs from the TV speakers for her. An interview titled "Why Society's Timeline is a Scam in Ghana" in my ears.

The water from the faucet is hot today. Mother complained a few days ago. Recently the hot water sometimes stops. Today it is hot. It fills the bucket. I sit on the stool. There is a shower, but to sit feels much better. My bucket is not full yet. I scoop anyway with the old popcorn bucket turned pail.

I remember a phrase from a movie picture series I watched earlier. Here is the scene:

A Xhosa father reconciles with his son and daughter after years of estrangement. The father tells a lie to protect them. He tells them the truth would have hurt much worse. They think his truth is actually the lie until they discover that his lie was actually the truth. A son and daughter reconcile with a father over a life they thought he led to hurt them. Their mutual resentment fading, they begin to talk gently to each other. The son says something in English, stringing his words succinctly and very proper. The father exclaims: "Now this is all the fees I paid! I do not understand but I am sold!" A parent and his children reconcile in laughter.

The interview I was watching prior to taking my bath speaks of allowing children to become who they want to become. It says parents should allow their children to choose their futures. Are futures not synonymous with what brings value to the world when the children become adults?

I cannot help but wonder: why did my great-grandfather choose to use a cutlery set to eat all his meals, which were often very traditional? Was value—and perhaps "arriving" in his time—synonymous with being able to conduct oneself like the white man?

Did the Xhosa dad exclaim with so much joy when his son strung a succession of seemingly sensible sounding speech because "arriving" was synonymous with being able to articulate efficiently in the tongue of the people who once ruled over him? Was it synonymous with his children being able to rise to the financial apex that he could have never imagined possible for someone like him?

What about my great-grandfather's father? What did arriving look like for him? Was it his ability to own lots of land with lots of workers, a couple partners, and lots of children? Was arriving his ability to build a house with 20 rooms and businesses that thrived? Was the ability to speak a language other than that of the uterus and loins that birthed him any part of this?

What about his father? And his father's father?

What does it mean to arrive?