25
My room phone rang early the next morning. It was Sule.
“Sir Kofi has been called away on urgent political business. The plane will take you to Segu today.”
“When will he be back in the city?”
“It is not certain.”
“Then I must return to England.”
“He foresaw that and asked me to make the necessary arrangements.”
“Will I see him before I go?”
“I cannot tell. His schedule is difficult to predict.”
So that was the end of that. Perhaps Kofi was right. What did I understand of this place? I had no ties here, no commitment. What could I do about the Kinnakro Five? They were dead, their bodies long returned to the soil. If it were Rose that a president had killed, I would not rest until I had justice, and if justice were not possible, I would not rest until I died. But there were only so many grievances one could carry in this way. How much evil had I overlooked in my lifetime so I could drink coffee from the Amazon and wear clothes sewn in Bangladesh?
I ordered breakfast for the last time in Gbadolite: eggs Benedict with salmon and toast. I packed my things into my small suitcase. I counted my Bamanaian cowries. There were enough to buy a few presents.
It was time to go home to my own problems, to my own divorce. My time here was my way of avoiding reality. What was missing in my life was still missing. What was present was present. Rose and Robert would be waiting in London.
I left the palace through a side door. Sule was waiting in a golf cart. The engine was running.
The Annual Global Sustainability Summit was being held at the Palace Hotel in Segu. There was a banner in the lobby, a table with the names and nationalities of delegates printed on paper squares. A hostess waved me over to find my name tag. I was not dressed for a conference but I was an obroni.
In my suite I found a basket of fruit on my bed. I was still at the mercy of Kofi’s hospitality. I skyped Rose. She answered after one ring.
“Mum, you shouldn’t have disappeared like that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Dad and I were so worried. We even thought about going to the Bamanaian embassy.”
“I was in a rural area and there wasn’t any Wi-Fi. Poor reception too.”
“We called your hotel. They didn’t know where you’d gone.”
“I should have found a way to get in touch. I went to see my father’s village home.”
Her frown relaxed on screen. She was still angry but willing to move on at this new piece of information.
“Was it nice? Did you take pictures?”
“I’ll describe it when I come back.”
“Have you met his wife? His children?”
“He has four children. I’ve met one, a daughter. She didn’t like me very much. She thought I was his mistress or an imposter.”
“Why would you go to the trouble? It’s not like he’s rich.”
“He’s quite rich,” I said.
“Quite rich in Africa. That’s like average in Europe, isn’t it? What’s his house like?”
“A bungalow.”
“Exactly,” Rose said. “I have to get back to my desk. When are you coming back?”
“My flight is tomorrow evening.”
“I can’t wait to hear all about it. I miss you.”
Her face looked gaunt.
“I miss you, too,” I said, and dropped the call.
I sometimes grew tired of worrying about whether or not Rose was eating. I resented the stopping and starting, triggered by what you could never tell. It kept our emotions dancing, manipulated by her daily calorie intake.
Robert was the better parent. I was sure he never had such terrible thoughts. He grew up in a conventional family, close to his parents and to a sister who neither cut her hair nor wore deodorant. They were mildly inbred, suspicious of outsiders, and yet I envied the flow of the Grahams, the picking up of conversations that were months or sometimes years old. Robert had that ease with Rose, which was why he would have to be the one to talk to her.
I went downstairs for lunch. The conference delegates had been let out and almost every table was full of suits with name tags hanging from their necks. The sound of cutlery striking plates cut through their conversation. I found a table in the corner and signaled for the menu.
“Can I join you?”
It was Ken.
“Sorry, in a bit of a rush,” I said.
“I noticed you hadn’t been at breakfast for a few days.”
A waiter arrived and took my order. Ken set his plate down. There wasn’t much on it. A few leaves, some potato salad, and a piece of chicken.
“I saw the photograph,” he said. “They took it down fast, but it’s my business to keep abreast of these things. I was the only one in the country who knew the name of the mystery woman. So, what was his Gbadolite palace like?”
“It’s open to the public,” I said.
“I’ve heard so many rumors. My favorite is the one about the golden toilet that he pees in. I was hired to consult for a project a few years ago. A Dutch company wanted to build a textile factory close to the village. They grow good cotton in the region. Adjei blocked it.”
“The villagers don’t need a textile factory. They make their own clothes.”
“That’s what he said. So, he’s contesting?”
“Contesting for what?”
“All right, keep your cards close. Good to see you again.”
His delegate name tag hung out of his pocket, the blue cord trailing down his trouser leg. I was still not sure what exactly he did in Bamana. At least he had reassured me that I was still anonymous in this country. If I stayed any longer, my face would become famous and my person obscure. I would eventually become known as Kofi Adjei’s illegitimate daughter. Anna Bain would disappear for a second time. There was no better time to leave.
When I got back to the room, I checked my in-box. There was an e-mail from Campbell and Henshaw Family Law asking if I would like to keep my file open. There was also an e-mail from Adrian.
Dear Anna,
As I haven’t heard from you in over a week, I must hope that all is well. Perhaps I overstated your danger in staying in Bamana. Kofi may be a crocodile but he’s an old one.
There are rumors that he’s running for the next election. You don’t have to take my advice. In fact, you probably won’t, but if he does contest, I’d leave before things get hot.
I’m sitting at my desk as I type this and it’s raining in Edinburgh. I’m sure your view is far superior.
With affection,
Adrian
It was obvious once pointed out. The congress was a political rally. Kofi was gathering support. Warnings everywhere. Portents. And outside the bustle of Segu continued. What did it matter? I was leaving tomorrow. I went back to Skype. Robert was online. I called him with my camera off.
“Anna, thank God. We were worried about you.”
His camera was too close to his face. I could see the fine wrinkles that had grown around his mouth.
“Rose is looking thin,” I said.
“I know. I saw her last week. We finally had a proper conversation. She says it’s stress.”
“Last time she said it was because work was too quiet,” I said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. How’s your father? Rose told me you found him on the Internet. I can’t believe you traveled so far on your own.”
“I’m perfectly capable.”
“Can you turn on your camera?”
“I don’t know how.”
“It’s a little button in the top corner of the screen. It has a camera sign on it.”
“I have to go soon. I need to pack.”
“Just listen. Please. I have a therapist now.” He paused, waiting for a response to his revelation. When I gave none, he continued. “I was drinking too much and my GP advised I speak to someone. It’s strange. You sit in a room, talk about your childhood, and
suddenly you’re in tears. It’s a bit embarrassing.”
I’d never seen Robert cry. He got teary, perhaps, when Rose was born or when his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, but never shed any actual tears.
“How often do you go?” I asked.
“Once a week.”
“Good luck with it,” I said.
“I want us to try again. I know we said we wouldn’t talk until you got back, but you called and I just had to say it.”
He was even closer to the camera now. His face filled the screen. It felt intimate, almost claustrophobic. I leaned back.
“Hello? Anna? Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“I miss you,” he said.
“No. I’ve become a challenge you want to win.”
“Is that what you think of me? I’ve never been sure, all these years. You hide yourself, Anna, and the irony is, the more you hide, the more people are drawn to you. They think, gosh, she’s mysterious, and if you’re foolish or foolhardy like me, you decide, I’ll be the one to charm her.”
His speech was rushed, overly excited.
“You don’t sound like yourself,” I said.
His mood inverted. He smiled, the serene smile of the mildly drugged. “I know. I’ve been having these sorts of conversations with my family. My parents think I’ve gone a little crazy. Camilla says I’ve had a religious experience like the one she had in Nepal.”
“When she stopped wearing deodorant?”
“Yes. What about you? What have you discovered in Bamana?”
“I’m white,” I said.
“Pardon?”
“Obroni. That’s what they call me here. It means ‘white person.’”
I glanced at the wall clock.
“I have to pack,” I said.
“Of course. Can we talk when you get back?”
“Okay.”
“Everything at a pace you’re comfortable with.”
“Yes. Please call Rose. Thanks.”
Be married to Robert again, even a Robert after therapy? If I went back surely it would be trying to force my new shape into an old mold. I had become a woman who traveled alone, who confronted ex-dictators, who could make her way in the world.
Perhaps if I’d forgiven him his affair, he would have gone off with that other woman who could walk confidently on a beach in a string bikini, but I asked him to move out. First, he lived with the mistress, then he left to live on his own. Rejection was a sort of goad to Robert. He’d never met a “no” he wasn’t bent on turning into a “yes.” I wonder how many sessions of therapy it would take for him to make this discovery.
I unzipped my suitcase and gathered my things. I was going home with dirty clothes and no story, just a few episodes with Kofi that added up to little. Perhaps Rose was right: this trip was born out of cowardice. I had wanted to flee to Bamana instead of deciding where things stood with Robert. The intercom. I let it ring until it was almost too late.
“Yes,” I said.
“Good afternoon. Sule speaking.”
“Hi, Sule.”
“Sir Kofi’s son is holding a small gathering this evening and he has asked me to invite you.”
“Which of his sons?”
“Kweku. Kwabena lives abroad.”
“Am I allowed to meet his children? After what happened with Afua?”
“They are your brothers and sisters.”
“Half.”
“There is no such thing in Africa. What shall I tell him?”
“Why not. How will I get there?”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Kweku’s house was on the beach. The ground floor had floor-to-ceiling windows and you could see the guests from the road, like exotic fish in an aquarium. I was wearing my market dress. I walked close to Sule. I brushed against strangers, against fabric, not skin. Waiters circulated with canapés and flutes of champagne. Jazz poured out of hidden speakers. The women wore heels. The men wore jackets. There were a few non-black faces sprinkled through the room, frosting on a brownie.
“Kweku, allow me to introduce you to Ms. Anna Graham.”
He turned to face us.
“Afua didn’t say you were beautiful.” He studied me openly but with no malice in his gaze. “I see why they thought you were Papa’s mistress. I didn’t get to see the picture myself. They took it down so fast. Welcome to my small gathering.”
Kweku was the center of the party, a roving sun. I felt the eye of the room shift to me.
“Thank you for inviting me to your lovely home,” I said.
“Pardon? Let’s go outside. It’s noisy here.”
Even with the ocean only a few feet away, Kweku had a pool in his backyard. He was extravagant like our father. There were smokers flicking ash into the water.
“Use an ashtray,” Kweku said. He did not have Kofi’s authority. No one moved. We sat away from the smokers on cane chairs with armrests that curled like vines.
“Let us begin again. Welcome to Bamana. I hope the country is to your liking.”
“It is.”
“So, we are siblings.”
“Half,” I said.
“We don’t have that in Africa.” He leaned back in his chair. His manner was relaxed, almost slothful, in contrast to Kofi’s rigidity. “How did my father meet your mother?”
“As a student in London,” I said. “He was my grandfather’s lodger.”
“He doesn’t speak much about those days. Who would have guessed he left behind a love child?”
“I don’t want to cause any trouble. I just wanted to meet him. I’m returning to England tomorrow.”
“If you’d been a boy there would have been trouble. You would be the oldest son instead of me, an heir who can’t control his appetite.”
Kweku was the fattest Bamanaian I had seen. When he was not speaking, his lips remained parted so he could breathe. He wore rings on four fingers. Apart from that, he was simply dressed in black.
“What was he like as a father?” I asked.
“Kofi Adjei. The great Daasebre of Bamana. He had very high standards. Me, I dropped out of trying to meet them once I turned about thirteen, but Afua, she’s still competing for his approval. I understand her reception was not very warm.”
“She was shocked,” I said.
“She was jealous. Papa hasn’t taken her for a golf cart ride in years. What did you think of Gbadolite?”
“I liked the giraffes.”
“Yes, of course. The zoo. Did you see the tiger? He’s very proud of that. Only tiger in West Africa. Needs a mate. He should start a matchmaking service.”
I liked him. He was the first Adjei I’d met with a sense of humor.
“What about your mother? What’s she like?”
“Very quiet . . . calm, but also brave. She smuggled medical supplies to the liberation struggle at great personal risk. Essentially, though, she’s happy to stay in the background. You’d have to be, married to a man like my father.”
It appeared Kofi had a type. Kweku’s mother sounded, in some ways, like mine.
“How come I haven’t met her?”
“They live apart,” he said. “Neither wants a divorce. None of my business. Araba!” he shouted across the pool. “Araba, come and meet someone.”
The sequins on her jumpsuit shimmered like scales. She was nearly as large as Kweku. Her skin was seamless, almost too smooth to be entirely natural.
“So, you’re Pa Kofi’s new daughter. They said you’re almost fifty. You don’t look your age. Is that your real hair?”
“Araba, show some manners, please,” Kweku said.
“Sorry. Good evening, my name is Araba. I’m your second half cousin. That’s what we decided, abi, Kweku?”
“Araba.”
“What? We’ve all been talking about her since Afua’s phone call yesterday. You bought that dress from Oxford Street market.”
“Yes. I did,” I said. “How can you tell?”
“I
t’s for tourists. I’ll take you where you can buy proper Bama clothes.”
“You can’t take her anywhere. She’s leaving tomorrow,” Kweku said.
“Oh, so soon. You must visit us again. You are the best-looking of Uncle Kofi’s children.”
“Araba, you are drunk. Go away, please, before she thinks there is madness in our family.”
He waved her away and she returned to the other smokers.
“Do you ever come to London? Maybe we could have a meal together,” I said.
“I visit. My daughter is there.”
“How old is she? I have a daughter too.”
“Eighteen. A youthful indiscretion that Papa almost killed me for. I’m only thirty-seven, you see. If only I’d known about you.”
“Was he strict?” I asked.
“Very. I’m not sure you missed out on much.”
“I think I offended him in Gbadolite.”
“How?”
“I told him Francis Aggrey would be disappointed in the man Kofi Adjei has become.”
“You’re braver than you look,” he said.
“I was a little drunk.”
“Papa doesn’t like to be criticized. In fact, for a long time, you couldn’t criticize him in this country. He will get over it or he won’t. What does it matter? You’re leaving, unlike the rest of us.”
“Kweku,” a woman called from indoors.
“I’d better return to my guests.”
“Yes, before someone thinks I’m your mistress.”
“A wit. I thought I was the only Adjei wit. It’s been lonely.”
He got up with difficulty.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Anna. Sule will keep us in touch. He runs everything in our family.”
I sat alone by the pool for a few moments. Ash drifted on its surface like the scattering from a cremation. A breeze blew in from the ocean, setting off hidden wind chimes. I should have gone to the beach more often. I should have seen more of Bamana. Except for my brief evening with Marcellina I had viewed the country through too narrow a lens. Perhaps I might come back with Rose.
“I thought it was you.”
I looked up and saw Ken. His face was so familiar in this crowd of strangers that I felt a brief flutter of relief. We were almost friends.
Sankofa Page 19
