He arrived in London on a bitter January morning in 2002 with one suitcase, a six-month visa and a twelve-month plan.
It wasn't his first time in England.
But this time was different.
This time he had no intention of going home when the stamp in his passport said he should.
Twelve months.
That was all he needed.
Twelve months of serious work. No girlfriends. No drinking. No foolish spending.
Work.
Save.
Go home.
He had calculated everything before leaving Accra.
If he worked hard enough, converted the pounds into cedis and resisted the temptation to live like the people in the photographs they sent back from London, he could return with a small fortune.
Enough to fix Mummy's house.
Enough to put some money in her hands.
Enough perhaps to start something for himself.
One year of suffering to change the rest of their lives.
It sounded sensible when he said it slowly.
At Barking station, Auntie Conny was waiting for him.
She was one of those Ghanaian aunties who had been in London long enough to know every bus route in East London but still measured all serious matters in Ghanaian terms.
"You have grown!"
She hugged him.
Then immediately complained about the size of his suitcase.
"Ei! What have you put inside here? Stones?"
The arrangement had been made through his uncle back home.
They had sat on the round porch in Accra discussing London as though it were a place where money grew behind supermarkets.
"Auntie Conny and Uncle John will meet you at the station," his uncle had said.
"You will stay with them small. When you settle, you find your feet."
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