Sankofa

by Chibundu Onuzo

  “You again,” I said.

  “How do you know Kweku?”

  “It’s a small country. You?”

  “Kweku always throws a good party.”

  It seemed true.

  “So, who’s here?” I asked.

  “The bright young things of Bamana: artists, entrepreneurs. That’s one of the biggest film stars, Julia Hammond. Next to her is the vice president’s son. Drug addict, apparently. A few diplomats, embassy staff, some expats from Kweku’s company.”

  “His company?”

  “He’s the CEO of Shore Petroleum,” he said. “You didn’t know. How do you know the Adjeis? They’re an interesting family.”

  “I met them in passing. You ask a lot of questions.”

  “I’m a spy.”

  “You’re too chatty to be a spy,” I said. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “You’ll be missed. Look, some people are going down to the beach. We should join them.”

  He was a man who would always try his luck.

  “I’m married,” I said. It was still true.

  “We’re just walking on the beach. No vows. How’s your father? He’s the one you came to visit.”

  “He’s fine. We’re not close.”

  “Wasn’t close to mine either.”

  The sand was cold without the sun. A bonfire was lit and Kweku’s guests streamed towards the flames. Someone had brought a guitar. People began to dance, in pairs and groups. They moved near the fire, close enough for their sequins and silks to be singed. I stepped away from Ken and swayed to the music on my own.

  26

  The departure hall was full of people who were not traveling. They drifted around offering unwanted services, swarming anyone who looked indecisive. Sule cut through the crowd, wheeling my suitcase behind him. When we were alone, he seemed mild, almost vacant. Now he moved fiercely, purposefully. I followed him like the fish that trail behind sharks, gaining their protection, eating their parasites.

  At the check-in desk we walked to the front of the Priority queue.

  “Oga, Sule, welcome.”

  “Checking in. One bag.”

  “Traveling to London?”

  “Yes,” Sule answered for me. He walked me to the security gate.

  “This is where we part,” he said.

  “Thank you. You’ve been so helpful.”

  “I hope you enjoyed your stay in Bamana.”

  “Please thank my father.”

  “I will pass on your greetings to Sir Kofi. You have my e-mail address and phone number, should you require anything.”

  “Yes.”

  We shook hands and then I embraced him. It embarrassed us both but I did not regret the gesture.

  I kept one cowry note back when I went shopping in duty-free, one with an image of Kofi. It was my only likeness of him. I spent the rest of my money buying a wooden statue for Katherine and a bead necklace for Rose, three times what I would have paid in the market. I thought briefly about a gift for Robert, but the only thing he really wanted from me was our marriage back. There were a few restaurants, a bookstall, a charging station with passengers tethered to their phones. I roamed around, settling nowhere until a woman announced over the PA system: “Passengers on Flight 232 to London Heathrow should go to Gate Seventeen, where boarding has begun.”

  I could see the plane from the gate, a sleek Boeing model with the hump of an upper level. A queue shuffled forward for one last check. At the desk I handed over my ticket and passport. The attendant was well groomed, hair styled in a slick cut that looked held in place by spit or gel.

  “Madam, it says here that you will be traveling under a Bamanaian passport.”

  “It’s a mistake. I’m British.”

  “But do you have a Bamanaian passport?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “May I see it?”

  I had almost packed it away in my suitcase. It was as much a souvenir of my time here as my market dress. I gave her the navy passport embossed with the Bamanaian coat of arms, a lion rearing under a palm tree.

  “Madam, please step to the side.”

  “Why?”

  “A routine check. Don’t be alarmed. Please take a seat.”

  The other passengers filed past. Business types dressed for meetings in London, families with children dashing ahead, the elderly in wheelchairs, pushed to the front of the queue like VIPs. I returned to the desk.

  “I don’t want to miss my flight. What’s this about?”

  “Please exercise patience. You will be attended to shortly.”

  Two security agents approached with a gun and a dog between them, wafting menace into the sleepy terminal. The dog, a gaunt German shepherd, was hunting for drugs or explosives or its next meal. When they stopped in front of me, I lowered my bag. The dog sniffed and lost interest.

  “Please come with us.”

  “Pardon?” I said.

  “You are on a no-fly list of Bamanaians.”

  “There has been a mistake.”

  “You are Anna Graham?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you must come with us.”

  “Not without an explanation. I am a British citizen.”

  “As long as you are on Bamanaian soil your Bamanaian citizenship takes precedence over all others.”

  “I need to make a phone call.”

  “That will not be possible.”

  I walked sandwiched between them, the dog brushing against my legs like a pet. A toddler strayed into our path and was dragged away. They led me behind a door marked no entry. We walked in single file down a narrow corridor lined with unmarked doors. We stopped in front of one.

  “Your phone.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “You wanted to make a phone call.”

  “I was hoping to use yours.”

  “Search her bag.”

  I gave it up before it was taken by force. They left me in a room with a low ceiling and no windows. There was another woman, asleep despite the heat. Her chair had no armrests and her arms hung slack by her side, dangling like rag limbs. Ten minutes passed. I tried the door handle. It opened.

  “I wouldn’t go out.” My companion was awake.

  “I’m going to miss my flight if someone doesn’t attend to me.”

  I waited another ten minutes. Final boarding calls would be announced; stragglers’ names read out. I knocked on the door. The official I summoned had two brass buttons missing from his shirt. When he pointed in my face, his hand smelled of eggs. I stepped back.

  “My flight is leaving soon.”

  “And so? Don’t knock on this door again.”

  He left, and I went to sit by the woman.

  “Do you have anyone you can call?” she asked.

  “They took my phone.”

  “You should have hidden it.”

  The gate would close. My flight would leave. No one would know at which point I had gone missing.

  “You sound foreign. British, right? My boyfriend is white.”

  I looked at my companion. She had a row of piercings down the curve of her ear. In each hole was a small diamond stud. Her skin was clammy, like the surface of a frog.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “They’re waiting for me to shit.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Expensive shit. What about you? Why are you here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Start thinking.”

  She closed her eyes again. She was breathing through her mouth, short, shallow breaths. Her hair was blond and tufted in spikes, like dry grass. The uniformed man returned.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  “She’s not feeling well. She needs a doctor.”

  “You better mind your business.”

  The room was interrogation kitsch, copied verbatim from a Hollywood set. Bare walls, low-hanging naked bulb, no furniture except a table and two chairs, one occupied by an officer. He was dressed in plain clot
hes. His badge was pinned to a T-shirt that was too tight at the sleeves, pressing into his biceps in a way that would leave a mark. His permanent wave dated him precisely. I sat in the empty chair. The orderly saluted and left. I decided to be direct, the Bamanaian way.

  “Look, I have money. I can pay you,” I said.

  “No introductions?”

  “You must know who I am.”

  “Yes, I do, Anna Graham, but you do not know me. I am Inspector Appiah.”

  “I have money,” I said again.

  “Trying to bribe an officer. We can add that to your charges. Do you know why you are here?”

  “No.”

  “I have one question. Answer me honestly and you may go. How did you obtain your Bamanaian passport?”

  “My father is a Bamanaian citizen.”

  “Who is your father?”

  “Kofi Adjei.”

  “Interesting. A namesake of our former president,” he said. “Now please explain to me how you obtained a genuine Bamanaian passport when there is no trace of you on any database.”

  “My father is a Bamanaian citizen. Kofi Adjei, the former president, is my father.”

  “And I am the nephew of the queen of England. I have another explanation for you. You are a spy.”

  I laughed. The idea of it was so ridiculous. Anna Graham, housewife and 007.

  “It’s funny?”

  “I’m not very observant. I’m not even sure what day of the week it is.”

  “This is a joke to you?”

  “Of course not. There’s obviously been a mistake.”

  “Obtaining a passport under false pretenses is a very serious offense, Ms. Graham.”

  “I’ve told you. My father is Bamanaian.”

  “Sing the anthem.”

  “I don’t know it,” I said.

  “How many provinces are there in Bamana?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t do the citizenship test?”

  “I didn’t have to.”

  “Who said?”

  “It was all arranged for me. I had a Bamanaian visa that was about to run out. I decided to get the passport instead of paying for a renewal.”

  “Walk me through the arrangement?”

  “I was taken to an office. I filled out a form, took a passport photograph, did my fingerprints on a machine.”

  “Who took you?”

  “Sule.”

  “Sule? No surname?”

  “I don’t know. I have his number on my phone. One of your men has it. Call him and he’ll explain everything to you. Hurry, please. My flight.”

  “You are telling me if I call this Sule person he will explain how you obtained this passport.”

  “Yes.”

  “Felix!” he shouted. An officer returned and saluted.

  “Sir?”

  “Bring this woman’s phone.”

  My phone returned. Its leather case had been removed, baring its fragile screen. The inspector put the phone on speaker when he called Sule.

  “Call him again,” I said, when there was no answer. He called a second time. The result was the same.

  “So, what next, Ms. Graham?”

  “I don’t know why he’s not picking up.”

  “You don’t seem to know anything. You’ll have to go to the station to be charged.”

  “I’ll miss my flight.”

  “You haven’t grasped the gravity of the situation. You’re facing a sentence of up to four years.”

  “I demand to speak to a lawyer.”

  “After you’ve been charged.”

  “Call my father. Call Sir Adjei. He will not be pleased if you detain me.”

  “I don’t have his number. His daughter should have it.”

  “I don’t. I haven’t known him for very long.”

  “You haven’t known your own father for very long? I think we should obtain a psychiatric evaluation as well.”

  He stood up. He had the stoop of a tall man. The table was too low for him. It stopped below his knees.

  “I’ve heard enough of this story. Follow me, please.”

  What would become of my luggage, checked in and decanted into the hold of the plane? It would be culled from the other approved baggage, destroyed along with my market dress. Inspector Appiah led me through corridors that looped like intestines. Outside, a van was waiting.

  “I need to speak to my family in England. Tell them I won’t be arriving tomorrow.”

  “The time for phone calls has passed, Ms. Graham. Get in, please.”

  The back of the van was a cage. The gaps between the bars were wide enough to slip a small package through. There was a bench and an empty bucket that smelled faintly of shit. I sat down.

  “Ms. Graham, how did you get that passport?” Inspector Appiah asked.

  “My father, Sir Kofi Adjei, is a Bamanaian citizen.”

  He rapped the side of the van. We jerked forward. The smell of the city rushed in through the bars, cooking on open fires, charcoal and soot. Drivers stopped to stare at the obroni woman in a cage. I stared back. I was not yet afraid. I was too stunned to be afraid.

  The police station was quiet. We drove into the courtyard and stopped. The driver unlocked the cage.

  “Come down,” he said.

  “No.”

  “I said you should come down.”

  “Take me to the British Embassy.”

  He entered the cage, advancing slowly like I might strike. He tried to pull me upright but my body resisted, inert and heavy like a stone.

  “Wait, first.”

  He left. I wished I was as fat as Kweku, then I could be moved only with a harness and a crane. The driver returned with reinforcement, a much taller, stronger-looking man. When he entered the cage, the bars rattled from his weight.

  “Come with me, please.”

  “Take me to the British Embassy.”

  He held my arm but I slid from his grip to the floor. I had no plan, except to stay in the van. He hooked me by the armpits and dragged me outside. Some loose metal scraped my leg as my body left the van, drawing blood. I screamed.

  “Stop screaming.”

  He hit my face, first with the flat of his palm and then his fist. I lay on my back with my legs splayed, a specimen pinned to the ground. A red dot flashed in the sky, like a star hanging too low. It was a plane, perhaps my flight to London.

  “You no suppose slap her,” the driver said.

  “Wetin I suppose do? She no gree comot.”

  The station was on a busy road. The swish of passing cars reached us. Were they going to kill me?

  “Get up.”

  The second man’s foot was by my head. With one kick he could damage my brain permanently. I had not spoken loudly enough for Abena and now there was no one to speak for me. In a country where a child could be chained, a woman could be killed before she reached her jail cell. I stood and dusted my skirt, like I had lain on the ground by choice instead of being dragged there.

  Inside, my handbag and duty-free shopping were taken from me. It was too late to charge me. They gave me a cell of my own, perhaps my last vestige of obroni privilege. Around me, other prisoners were sleeping, breathing evenly. There was rustling in one corner of the cell, another creature trapped here with me. I held on to the bars and waited for morning.

  27

  I am kneeling with my head against the bars when I wake up. My cheek stings where it touches the iron. There are prisoners in the opposite cell, all men. I can smell them. The windows are small and close to the ceiling. I feel faint, on the verge of passing out. I am sweating, even behind my ears is damp. I stand up slowly.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Obroni, you’re awake,” a prisoner calls out. In the low light I can’t see his face clearly. I look at him and look away.

  “Obroni, are you deaf? I’m talking to you.”

  I recoil from the force of his voice and then remember we are both caged. He rattles the bars and gr
abs his crotch but he cannot bend metal. It is the men outside I must be wary of.

  “Hello! I need to speak to someone. I need water!” A door creaks open. Fresh air gusts into the cells.

  “Who is making noise?”

  The officer looks like he has also slept in a cell. His hair is disheveled, and the top buttons of his shirt are undone.

  “Good morning, sir. I need some water. I have not drunk anything since yesterday. I also need to make a phone call. Please.”

  “Who are you?”

  My hands tremble and I clench them.

  “It is my right to have water and it is my right to make a phone call.”

  We stare at each other, and then he turns and leaves. There is laughter in the opposite cell.

  “Obroni, you think this is a hotel?”

  I put my hands to my temples. My skin is warm and clammy. I am breathless, even though all I have done is stand up. The door creaks open again. It is the officer, returning with water, a large plastic bottle dusted with frost. It catches the light, sparkling. The prisoners are drawn to it. Their hands stretch out between the bars.

  “No cold water for us.”

  “Only water for obroni?”

  “Second-class citizens in our own country.”

  The officer passes the bottle through the bars. It is burning cold.

  “Thank you. And my phone call, please.”

  “One at a time,” he says, and leaves.

  I rest the bottle against my forehead. I am under arrest but I have not been charged, which means I may be released soon. Or I may never be released. I steady my breathing. Someone outside must be working on my behalf. Sule will have seen my missed calls. Or if the worst happens and I am not released soon, I will call Rose in England, and she and Robert will devise a plan to rescue me.

  I break the seal and drink. The other prisoners watch me.

  “I can’t finish it all,” I say, when I am full.

  “Give us, please.” It is my taunter. His voice is wheedling now.

  I throw the bottle and it lands in the space between our cells.

  “Skeleton. Come and do your work.”

  A thin man pushes his way to the front and slips a leg through the bars. It extends like a retractable pole, longer and longer until his foot touches the bottle. The prisoners cheer as he guides it to them. They all drink, a secular communion. The first sip goes to the oldest, a grizzled man, then the bottle is passed around until it is empty.