I had packed for three weeks. Adrian advised only summer clothes. Shorts were fine but as close to the knee as possible. The UK.gov page on Bamana was not encouraging. “Terrorists are likely to try to carry out attacks in Bamana. Attacks could be indiscriminate, including in places visited by foreigners.” When I read this out to Adrian he’d laughed and said, “London had a terror attack last year.”
“Your father,” Robert said. “How do you feel about meeting him?”
“I won’t know until we’ve met.”
In the car park Robert backed into a space in one smooth turn. He was always the better driver. At the check-in desk my bag weighed 18 kilos.
“Well, this is it,” he said, when we stood by the security gates.
“This is it,” I replied.
“I hope it all goes well.”
“Thank you. Thanks for dropping me off.”
He reached for an embrace. I stood stiffly in his arms, inhaling the cedarwood cologne that overlaid his raw, unwashed scent. At the last moment, I clung to him. What was I thinking, traveling across the world without my husband?
“I can still come if you need me. I’ll buy a ticket tomorrow. Just say it.”
His mouth was by my ear. His voice was in my head.
“It’s not that simple,” I said. “You’d need a visa. And no. Thank you, but I need to do this on my own.”
I disentangled myself.
“So you’ll let me know when you land in Bamana?”
“I don’t think we should talk while I’m there. Just to clear our heads,” I said.
“My head is clear. I know what I want, Anna.”
“Please,” I said.
“All right, then.”
“Bye,” we said together.
At security, there was a family in front of me, a father and two sons, the same shade of walnut, a set of three. The father wore a suit, the boys wore jeans and hoodies.
I took off my belt and shoes, intimate gestures to make in the open. The floor was cold, finely sanded with grit.
“Laptops, iPads, liquids, keys.”
I put my handbag in a plastic tray.
“Laptop?” The official was rushed and unsmiling. There was no one behind me.
“No.”
“iPads? Liquids? Gels?”
“No.”
I passed through the metal detector and set it off.
“Step aside, please. Stretch out your arms.”
She was a head shorter than me, hair pulled back in a ponytail, faint blush on her cheeks. She ran her hands down my back, along the band of my trousers, down my thighs. She poked her fingers into my hair. Last, she waved a wand over me. I was free to go.
In duty-free, they thrust samples in our faces, vials of perfumes and pots of scented lotions. Robert would be halfway to wherever he lived now. For all I knew, there was a woman waiting for him in his pseudo-bachelor flat. I bought a silk scarf and a pair of sunglasses with leopard-print frames. They were dramatic, the opposite of sensible. It was time to stop thinking about Robert.
In the lounge, I saw the walnut family again. The father reclined with an issue of Time magazine. The sons wandered around with their Game Boys, grazing on the snacks. Where was the mother who had made this matching family? She would have the same skin, like an expensive walking stick, polished and loved.
“Would you like something to drink?” a waiter asked.
“Champagne, please.”
“Celebrating?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Business class was full, a United Nations of European, Chinese, Arab, and African men. In economy, the passengers sat with empty seats between them and almost everyone was black. I peered through the curtains that divided us. A family in a row, mother and father on either end, two children in the middle. They were formally dressed, the father in a jacket, the children in church clothes, and the mother wearing a smart grey dress.
“Fancy seeing you here.”
It was Ken, the man from the embassy. I drew back from the gap I was peeping through.
“Indeed. Are you following me?”
“I follow everyone with an interesting story.”
“What’s mine?”
“You’re going to see your father but you’re staying at a hotel.”
“You were eavesdropping at the embassy.”
“I overheard. I was at the window next to yours. There are no partitions.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Palace Hotel, until I find a service apartment. I’ll be in Segu for three months. You’re probably staying there as well.”
I was. It was very highly rated.
“It has the best ratings,” he continued. “Most people in this part of the plane are staying there too. There are rumors it’s partly owned by Adjei . . . through a front, of course. But what do I care? The shower pressure is amazing! So how are you getting around when you’re not with your father? I could show you some parts of town if you want.”
“Thank you. I already have a guide.”
“Take my card anyway.”
It was the second time he’d given it to me.
“Thanks. I should use the loo.”
When I came out, Ken had gone back to his seat. I returned to mine and looked out the window. We were flying over the Sahara, not the golden desert of popular imagination but an area that was craggy and brown. Cracks in the land looked like the courses rivers and streams had once flowed over.
I drew down the blind and turned my chair into a bed. For a six-hour flight it was an extravagance. I brought out the diary and turned to my favorite passage, an entry where Francis guessed at what a child with my mother would have looked like. He guessed at me.
Bronwen and I have had pillow talk tonight. Of children. If Bronwen had a child she would like him to be as close to my color as possible. “Are you pregnant?” I asked. I was horrified. At least here I can be honest. My mother has warned me that if I marry an obroni she will cut me off and leave her business to my uncle. I don’t know if the old woman is serious. But if I were disowned, how would I look after a family?
“No, I am not pregnant,” she said. Caryl has taught her how to the count the days so she knows when to avoid me.
Had she told Caryl about us? No. Caryl thinks her sister’s lover works in a shop on her street.
“But if I were pregnant,” she said. So we went on to build our phantom child—a son. He must have her eyes. If he has that, he cannot have my skin, or else he will look like an obanshee. He must have my size or else he will be bullied. He will speak Fanti and Welsh but no English. By the time he comes of age the Diamond Coast and Wales will be free.
“Cabin crew, prepare for landing.”
Segu was not yet in sight. We still flew over the forest. It was a green that perhaps only a painter could capture, with undertones of gold and orange. Patches of red earth appeared, holes in a thick beard. Then the first houses, shacks with rust roofs, straggling on the edge of the forest like crumbs. Dirt roads cut through the landscape like veins. The green receded, torn up by human hands.
It was a low-rise city. Roofs were set close together, like scales on an animal, a fish or an armadillo. The view changed. Asphalt roads appeared, grey and stark. A line of cars moved down a highway, beads on a string. There was a stadium, an open bowl, with an emerald football pitch at its center. Skyscrapers thrust upwards, javelins aimed at the sun. And just before we touched down, a thousand feet above the ground, a glimpse of the ocean.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Segu. We hope you had a pleasant flight. Please enjoy your onward journey and we hope to see you again soon. Thank you for choosing to fly with us.”
There were Bamanaians waiting by the plane door with wheelchairs. They wore a uniform: cream shirts, black waistcoats and trousers. They greeted us as we walked past.
“Welcome.”
“Thank you,” I said to each one.
The air vents blasted cold air. The escalators were not working. Two
young men carried a woman in a wheelchair down the stairs. They carried her backwards, the bearer holding the handles going first. She clutched the armrests and shut her eyes.
My immigration official had a matching scar on each cheek: thin vertical lines, like strokes in a tally bundle. He wore clear aviator glasses, behind which his eyes were bleary and red.
“Hello, good evening. Welcome to Bamana. Purpose of visit?”
“Good evening, sir. Holiday.”
“That’s good. You’re going to see the slave forts?”
“Yes, I plan to.”
“How long are you staying for?”
“Three weeks.”
“That’s a long holiday. Where are you staying?”
“The Palace Hotel.”
“That’s good. Would you like to show some appreciation for the work we are doing?”
“Yes, thank you. I think you’re doing a wonderful job.”
We stared at each other until I let my gaze wander away.
“You’re a beautiful woman. You can go.”
I took my passport and walked the short distance to baggage claims. It was a large hall and voices rose to fill it. In one corner, men and women prayed facing Mecca, rising and falling together. The luggage carousel was a narrow oval crowded with people. My suitcase circled twice before I struggled to the front and grabbed it.
“Watch it,” a passenger said, when my wheels grazed him.
“Sorry.”
I followed the exit signs. A languorous man in uniform blocked my path.
“Anything to declare?”
“No, sir.”
“What’s in there?” He pointed at my suitcase.
“Just clothes.”
“No gifts for anyone?”
“No.”
“Please step aside for searching.”
“She’s with me,” a now familiar voice said from behind me.
“Mr. Ken, welcome back,” the official said. Their handshake ended with a click of the fingers.
“You can go,” the official said to me. We stepped out into the evening breeze.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Ken said.
“I wasn’t going to. You seem intent on rescuing me.”
It was familiar and unfamiliar. The taxi rank, I recognized, and men holding name signs aloft, but there was a buzz, a current I stood just outside of. People called out, jostled, laughed, spoke in languages that I could not understand. And they were all black.
“How are you getting to the hotel? Shuttle?”
I spotted Adrian and waved.
“Is that your father?”
He was wearing a bright print shirt that was both loose and rigid at the same time. The short cotton sleeves stuck out from his body, stiff with starch. He was tanned from his seven-day head start.
“Anna, you made it.”
“Thank you for coming to get me.”
“No bothering. That’s how the locals say ‘no problem.’”
I let Adrian take my suitcase and fell in step behind him.
17
Adrian’s friend had lent him a car and driver. It seemed remarkable that an entire human being should be lent along with the vehicle, but there he was, sitting in the front seat waiting for us. He climbed out and took my suitcase from Adrian.
“Welcome, ma,” he said.
“Thank you.”
The inside of the car was cool. Adrian sat in front.
“So how was your flight?”
“Good. I slept for most of it. How’s your week here been?”
“Great. I’ve taught at the university a few times already. Seen old friends. They’re older, richer. Maybe I should have stayed on too.”
“Have you spoken to Francis?”
“Not directly, but everything’s been fixed with his secretary. He sent a note through her. He seems pleased I’m here. I’ve told him I’m coming with a friend, but of course I’ve left the big reveal to you. It seems best to do it in person.”
I trembled physically, like a current had passed through me. “Next Monday,” I said.
“Yes, but I’d forget about it till then. Enjoy the city. See the sights.”
It was easy to convince Adrian to accompany me to Bamana. He had Bamanaian friends he had not seen in years and he was curious to witness how this drama with Kofi’s love-child would conclude, a historian’s voyeurism perhaps. He’d arranged to guest-lecture on twentieth-century African history at the university in Segu, his academic contacts from decades ago now senior heads of department.
Outside, night had fallen. The streets were well lit. When the car slowed at a junction, people approached with various items to sell. It made no sense to suddenly purchase a hat but perhaps the urge to buy hats came often to Bamanaians.
“Look, a puppy,” I said.
“Don’t stare. He’ll think you want to buy it.”
The man thrust the puppy at my window. Its eyes were closed but its back legs twitched in its sleep.
“Who’d buy a pet in traffic?”
“It’s for eating,” the driver said. “They’re not allowed to do it. They only come out in the night.”
Most of the buildings were walled, but the walls were low—a man Adrian’s height could jump over. The pavements were full of people making their way home, workers in suits boarding crammed buses. They held on to the handrails, hung like meat to dry. Commuting was the same. I sat back in my seat and dozed.
“We’re here,” Adrian said.
The fountain in the lobby of the Palace Hotel spurted red, white, and blue. The lights changed color underwater. The floors were marble, polished until they reflected blurred images. I walked to the welcome desk.
“Good evening, madam. Checking in?” The receptionist wore a maroon blazer and a striped tie. Wooden beads swung at the ends of her braids. They seemed natural here, not a statement of any sort. I gave her my name and surname, my passport, my home address, Rose’s phone number.
“Mr. Moses,” she said to a bellboy chatting with the doorman.
“Mr. Moses,” she said again, raising her voice and for a moment sliding out of her hospitality training.
“Christina, why are you shouting my name?”
“Please, the guest is waiting.”
“Is that why you’re shouting? Mind yourself.” He wagged a finger at her before turning to me. “Good evening, madam.” His uniform was piped with gold braid, a general fallen on hard times.
“Everything’s sorted?” Adrian asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m teaching a class in the morning, but I’m free from noon. I’ll come to the lobby and call. What’s your room number?”
“Four hundred and seven. Where are you staying?”
“The University of Bamana guesthouse. Not as swanky as our present surroundings but the Wi-Fi is good.”
“Thank you for today.”
“Thank you for giving me a reason to be here. I’ve missed this country. Get some rest.”
I could have stayed with Adrian in the university guest house, but the online reviews had described it as clean but basic, a plain dwelling on the outskirts of town. I could afford better now. I was left alone with the bellboy.
“Follow me. Your room number?”
“Four hundred and seven.”
He led me to the golden elevators. The doors slid open and a couple stepped out. They held hands, an old white man and a young black girl with brass rings in her ears.
“After you, please,” the bellboy said.
We rode up to my fourth-floor room. The door unlocked with a plastic card. I entered first and the bellboy followed. I sat on the bed, large enough for three adults. The carpet was olive green, a color that would not show dirt.
“If you need anything, please just ask for me. I’m Mr. Moses.”
“Yes, thank you.”
A tip. Of course, a tip. This was always Robert’s part. I brought out a five-pound note, a fortune here, probably. When
he was gone, I put my passport and Francis Aggrey’s diary in the safe, and then I connected my phone and laptop to the Wi-Fi. The password was “SeguPalace.” I skyped Rose.
“Mum, you’re there! How is it?”
Her face was grainy. The image froze when she moved.
“It’s too soon to tell,” I said.
“How was your flight?”
“Good,” I said.
“What did you say?”
“Good!” I shouted.
“You’re breaking up,” she said.
The screen went blank.
“I’m still here,” I said.
“Me too.”
We were silent for a moment. There was not much to say. We had just seen each other yesterday.
“What’s it like?” she asked.
“I don’t know yet. I saw a puppy being sold on the road. The driver said someone was going to eat it.”
“That’s awful. Is it safe?”
“Of course,” I said, as if I had not wondered the same thing until Adrian corrected me. It was an ugly Western bias. The rest of the world was violent and unsafe, while our corner was an oasis of calm.
“When are you meeting him?” Rose asked.
“Next Monday.”
“So far away.”
“He’s a busy man.”
“What does he do again?”
“He used to work for the government.”
“Well, I hope he’s nice. You’ve traveled so far to see him,” she said. “I don’t know, Mum. It seems like you’re running away from sorting out the divorce.”
“Rose, I appreciate your concern, but you don’t have to worry about your father and me.”
“You’ve never spoken about meeting your father before. You’ve never even mentioned him, but suddenly you’re on the other side of the world after I book you a meeting with a divorce lawyer.”
The connection improved. Rose filled the screen. She was leaning close to the camera and her collarbone jutted out like a spear.
“What did you have for dinner? I think I’ll order room service.”
“Stop bringing up food when you want to change topic.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. What I’m trying to say is I don’t want you in the middle of things. You barely speak to your dad anymore.”
Sankofa Page 11
