Describe a story a family member told you

I want to talk about a story my grandmother told me. Her name was Adwoa and she was my father's mother. She lived in a village near Kumasi, and she was very good at telling stories.

The story was about how she met my grandfather. In 1968 she was a young woman and she was selling oranges in the market in Kumasi. One afternoon it started raining strongly, and a young man came and asked if he can stand under her umbrella. He was a teacher and he missed the last lorry to his village. While they were waiting the rain to stop, he bought all of her oranges, the whole basket. After that he came back every Saturday for buying more oranges. Later she found out that he didn't even like oranges, he just gave them to the neighbours's children.

I heard this story when I was twelve years old. We were spending Christmas in her house and there was a power cut, so all the family sat around a kerosene lamp and she told it. Everybody was laughing.

I remember it because it is funny and romantic in the same time. Also, my grandmother passed away two years later, so this is one of my last memory of her. When I think about it, I can still hear her voice.

The story I want to talk about was told to me by my grandmother, Adwoa, my dad's mum. She lived in a village just outside Kumasi and she was a brilliant storyteller; she could make even a trip to the market sound like an adventure.

The story was about how she met my grandfather. Back in 1968 she was selling oranges at the big market in Kumasi, and one afternoon there was a sudden downpour. A young man ran under the awning of her stall to get out of the rain. He turned out to be a teacher who'd just missed the last lorry back to his village. While they were waiting for the rain to ease off, he bought her entire basket of oranges, and after that he started turning up every Saturday to buy more. It was months before she discovered he actually couldn't stand oranges and has been giving them all away to the children in his street.

I heard it when I was about twelve. We were spending Christmas at her house, and there was one of our famous power cuts, so the whole family ended up sitting around a kerosene lamp while she told it, and everyone was in fits of laughter.

I think it's stuck with me partly because it's so funny and sweet, but also because she passed away two years later. It's one of the last clear memories I have of her, and whenever I eat an orange, I can practically hear her telling it.

The story I'm thinking of was told to me by my grandmother, Adwoa, my father's mother, who lived in a village on the outskirts of Kumasi. She had a gift for it; she'd lower her voice at exactly the right moment, and the whole room would lean in.

It was the story of how she met my grandfather. In 1968 she was a young orange seller at the central market in Kumasi, and one afternoon the sky turned black and it started to pour. A lanky young man dashed under the awning of her stall, soaked through, and explained that he was a teacher and had just watched the last lorry to his village pull away without him. To pass the time until the rain let up, he bought her whole basket of oranges. The following Saturday he was back for another basket, and the Saturday after that. It was only months later, once they were engaged, that she found out he loathed oranges and had been quietly handing them out to every child on his street.

I heard it when I was twelve, over Christmas at her house, during one of those power cuts that seemed to last all evening. We were all crowded round a kerosene lamp, and by the end my uncles were wiping tears of laughter from their eyes.

Part of why it's stayed with me is simply that it's a wonderful story. But it's also bound up with her: she died two years later, and that flickering lamp and her voice in the dark are among the last vivid memories I have of her.