Sankofa

by Chibundu Onuzo

  “Kweku said you were here.”

  She was not as tall as I remembered. I checked the wall clock. It had just gone past noon.

  “Good afternoon.”

  I was sitting in a dress that Kweku had sent me, a bright print with short sleeves and a sequin-embellished neckline. I had gone out that morning, walked through the front gate and made it to the end of the street before turning back. I flinched when a pedestrian brushed against me. I cowered at every passing car. I felt safest in my room and so I returned there. The canvases and oil paints had still not arrived. When Afua knocked, I thought it might be their delivery.

  “May I?” she asked, gesturing to the opposite sofa.

  “Feel free.”

  “How are you? How’s your stay with Papa been?”

  “Good,” I said.

  “I hope our weather is not too hot for you?”

  “No.”

  “And how’s your family in England?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  She fiddled with the clasp of her gold bracelet. She wore a matching necklace and a gold watch on her other wrist. Her lips were painted, her eyebrows were drawn, and every finger, except her thumbs, was ringed. There was a knock on the door. It was the maid with my lunch tray.

  “Aunty Afua.” She curtsied and set down the tray. “I didn’t know you were around. What will you eat, ma?”

  “Actually, I was hoping to take you out for lunch,” Afua said to me.

  “That’s kind.”

  “I should remove this?” the maid asked, looking at Afua, the recognized authority.

  “Yes, please, Angela. If that’s fine with you, Anna?”

  “Sure.”

  Angela left with my tray. I had never thought to ask her name and she had never thought to curtsy to me.

  “Shall we?” Afua said, rising.

  Afua’s car was a black Mercedes with tinted windows and a siren on the roof. TV screens were buried in the leather headrests and a glazed panel separated us from the driver. He was dressed in police uniform, navy shirt and trousers with one silver star sewn to each epaulette.

  “Bagatelle,” Afua said over the intercom.

  The engine started and the car moved off, sealed from outside. Her perfume clogged the air, floral with bitter undertones. When the car slowed, hawkers swarmed. At a red light, a child flattened his face against the glass. Afua slid down the window, startling him.

  “Don’t dirty my car,” she said.

  “Sorry, mama. Please give me something.”

  She brought out a two-hundred-cowry note.

  “Mama the mama.”

  It was a lot of money, a performative amount. We drove off.

  “The thing about Papa is he doesn’t keep secrets from us,” she said, picking up a conversation that had never begun, “which is why it was such a surprise to find out about you. I’m not that good with surprises so you must excuse my initial reaction, but we’ll talk more in Bagatelle.” She gestured at the driver.

  Bagatelle was set back from the street, with a large fountain in its front garden. A plaster cherub spouted water from pursed lips, like a projectile of spit. The interior was more modern: plants growing up an exposed brick wall, sleek dark-wood tables, black leather booths. There was no lunch crowd—only a few solitary diners, eating with their phones and laptops.

  “Your Excellency.”

  A man approached. The top buttons of his white shirt were open and his chest hairs sprouted black and silver.

  “Amir.”

  They clasped shoulders and pressed cheeks.

  “Amir, this is my friend Anna.”

  He turned and shook my hand. He was short. The crown of his head would slide neatly under my chin.

  “Welcome to Bagatelle, Anna. The oldest first-rate restaurant in Bamana.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “I detect a British accent.”

  “We came here to eat,” Afua said.

  I slipped my hand out of Amir’s grip.

  “Where would you like to sit, Your Excellency? Anywhere you want, even in my office.”

  “I’ve told you. It’s ‘my lord’ for a judge.”

  “‘My lady,’ surely,” Amir said.

  “I prefer to think of myself as a man when I administer justice. Your private booth. Don’t seat anyone near it.”

  I followed in Afua’s wake and she led us to a booth screened off by wooden panels. Inside, it was faintly claustrophobic. There was a half-melted candle in the center of the table: a space perhaps reserved for romantic assignments.

  “I went to school with Amir. He’s from an old Lebanese family. Very wealthy. They’ve been in Bamana for almost a century, but the Khourys still ship their brides from Lebanon—to keep the blood pure.”

  “I’m your friend?” I asked.

  “I would like us to be despite our not-so-promising start. It’s we Adjeis against the world. What you must first explain is why you left your life in London to find Papa if it wasn’t for money?”

  “I have some.”

  “Then what?”

  “I wanted to meet my father.”

  “Couldn’t you at least telephone, give us some warning?”

  “Kofi is a difficult man to get hold of.”

  “You still call Papa by his first name.”

  Amir brought us flatbread and hummus. He unfolded our napkins and spread them on our laps. He wasn’t wearing cologne and he smelled of bread and sweat.

  “What would you like, ladies?” he asked.

  “Really, Amir, you can get one of your waiters to do this.”

  “And miss the chance to serve two beautiful women? What will you have to drink?”

  “Diet Pepsi,” Afua said.

  “Water, please,” I said.

  “And to eat?”

  “A sharing selection. You decide.”

  Amir left us.

  “So, you grew up in England,” Afua said.

  “Yes.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Racist.”

  “Papa told us some stories but we didn’t really experience that over there. We went to boarding school and everyone knew our father was a president.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “No, you mustn’t think of it that way. It wasn’t always easy being Papa’s child.”

  “I grew up on a council estate,” I said. I sounded bitter. Perhaps I was, knowing what my life could have been.

  “All right. You suffered more. Were you loved?”

  “I was. And you?” I asked.

  “Sometimes. Not enough.”

  The dishes arrived balanced on Amir’s hands and forearms. Hair grew from his wrists to his elbows. He fanned the food around us—small platters of meat and bread, and ceramic dipping bowls filled with sauces. We did not speak until he was gone.

  “Try the meatballs. It’s their specialty,” Afua said.

  “Kofi mentioned you were a judge.”

  “Yes, I am. I have a first-class law degree from Oxford. A judge at thirty, a high court judge by thirty-five, and always, you wonder, is it because of Papa? Look at you. You’re not bad-looking, you have some money, a husband and daughter in London, you’ve made a life without Papa. Why are you here?”

  “My husband and I are separated.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “Adultery,” I said.

  “Is that all? He didn’t beat you?”

  “Yes, that was all. It was enough.”

  “I don’t know. I’m not one of those women who keeps track of a man’s penis.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “I’ve had two. The first was physically abusive. He liked being the president’s son-in-law more than he liked being my husband. I have what Bama men call a strong face, and I’m too tall and outspoken. Not like you. The boys would have been wild about you over here. Half-caste girls were very popular.”

  “Well, I wasn’t always the rage in London. And I’m sorry to hear that—a
bout your husband.”

  “No. It was a long time ago. I told Papa. He took care of things.”

  “Is he dead?”

  She laughed with her mouth open, revealing falafel, ground grey. It was her first slip in decorum.

  “Mensah is alive and well in Australia. Our son visits him once a year. Don’t believe all those rumors about Papa. They’re spread by his enemies. He was a tough man when Bamana needed toughness, but he has never been evil. Let’s just say Papa made divorce the easiest option for Mensah.”

  She was a judge but she was also in Kofi’s debt, as was almost everyone in this country. How could you condemn your savior?

  “You must have some questions for me,” she said.

  “I do. When the photograph of Kofi and me went viral, you said it came at a crucial moment.”

  “That was when I still thought you were his mistress. Papa is considering contesting the next election. Nothing official yet, still unannounced. But you can see how such a young mistress might make him look unserious.”

  “And a daughter?”

  “Oh, Bamas don’t mind illegitimate children. Precolonial Africa was a polygamous society. Maybe one or two journalists might ask about you after the announcement.”

  “Announcement?”

  “Well, people would want to know who this new woman always seen with the Adjei family was. I’m sure somebody recognized you when we walked in. We could even do a television interview, answer all the questions once and for all. Me, personally, I find the holiday romance between Papa and your mother charming.”

  “It wasn’t a holiday,” I said.

  “Of course. Anyway, it’s not as if you have to come on the campaign trail. This is not America, where sons and daughters mount the podium and make speeches before an election. I go along with Papa because I’m a public figure, but Kweku doesn’t. He can’t even stand for long periods.”

  “It won’t be necessary. I’m returning to England soon.”

  “Really? I thought you might stay. Papa has grown fond of you.”

  Fond of. I was a trinket for the Adjeis to hold on to, a new creature for their zoo.

  “You’re all so entitled,” I said.

  She narrowed her eyes. It was a look she used in court, perhaps, to quell anyone who threatened the Adjei rule of law.

  “We don’t notice. It comes as naturally as our skin color.”

  Yes, that was it. If I had been raised here, I would never notice standing at the front of the queue.

  “Was he a good father?” I asked.

  “Absent and strict but loving.”

  “Kweku said he put him in jail.”

  “Yes, I remember that. He was very stubborn. Papa doesn’t like his children to cross him. It wasn’t a bad cell. I visited him.”

  She smiled and Amir came to clear our plates.

  “The bill, please,” Afua said.

  “On the house,” Amir replied.

  “Really. That’s unnecessary.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Perhaps I can show your friend around town, if she’s here for a while longer. If that’s all right with you, my lord?”

  He gave me a card with a phone number written on it.

  “You don’t need Afua’s permission,” I said.

  “Of course. Anytime you’re available, I’m free. Just call me.”

  Outside, the driver was waiting in the car with the engine off and windows down, slowly baking in the sun.

  “Amir has a child,” Afua said, once we were in the backseat.

  “So do I.”

  On the drive back, she answered a phone call and left me to my thoughts. I did not care for the future Afua had mapped out for me in Bamana, an appendage to the Adjei machine, but what future did I have in London if I refused Robert’s offer? My house suddenly seemed a distant, grey memory on a silent, graveyard street. I had already attempted life on my own there without much success.

  Afua walked me to the front door and pressed her cheeks to mine.

  “Thank you for lunch,” I said.

  “The pleasure was mine, me nua.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It means ‘my sister.’”

  “Me nua,” I said.

  When she was gone, I lingered in the hallway entrance. The sun shone through the stained-glass windows and cast colored lights on the floor. It was fine workmanship, worthy of a cathedral, worthy of the Adjeis.

  Kofi had not asked me to stay but he was fond of me, Afua said, and I was drawn to him by some strong homing instinct. Staying would be casting my lot with the powerful and standing against the Kinnakro Five, against Marcellina and Abena chained to a stake in the ground. There was no space in Bamana for neutral Adjeis.

  Kofi does not come that day or the next. Sule is still trying to get me out of the country. I save Amir’s number but I do not call him. Robert’s declaration has left me once again feeling bound by fidelity. There is no one to ask for advice. I know Rose’s opinion, and I can guess at Katherine’s because of her faith. And what of Anna?

  I would never have come to Bamana if Robert and I were still a couple, but then I also wouldn’t be stuck in Bamana. My marriage did lend a certain stability. And what of love? Robert no longer loomed so large in my mind. Coming to Bamana had put him in perspective.

  I wear the dressing gown, which is starting to take on my musk. My canvases do not arrive. I lie on the floor several times and try to see the woman in the painting. The artist must have been a man to obscure her so completely, to pile her with paint until she disappeared.

  On the opening night of my exhibition at Martha Reuben’s gallery, she invited me to answer questions. It was the point in the evening where all the guests were tipsy and thus supposedly full of goodwill.

  “I noticed none of the figures have faces. Can you tell us why?” The question was obvious and I was grateful for it. My answer was practiced.

  “The mind is more important than the face but sadly, in our society, the face has become more important than the mind. I wanted to distance myself from our obsessive beauty culture and try to paint thoughts instead.”

  I sounded like a cheap guru but I was pleased with my answer. Next question.

  “There are so few depictions of black bodies in Western art, so why are all your figures Caucasian? Especially as you’re painting as a black female artist.”

  The woman who asked was wearing an orange print dress, large gold hoop earrings, and a headscarf that added a foot to her height. She was the darkest person in the room.

  “My mother is white.”

  It was the first answer that came to mind. A foolish one, I saw, from the scorn on her pretty face. I glanced at my mother. She was shrinking from my public reference to her but Aunt Caryl lowered her champagne flute and spoke up.

  “My niece can paint whatever the fuck she likes.”

  I’d never been so proud of and embarrassed by a person.

  I was still lying on the floor when Kofi finally arrived.

  “Did you lose something?”

  “I’m trying to see the woman in the painting.”

  “She’s a myth.”

  He drew the curtains. When the light hit the canvas, her foot was suddenly obvious, arched playfully, a ballerina’s foot. It was almost worse. She was now dismembered, a woman with a foot but no body.

  “Come. You’ve stayed in this room for too long.”

  “When can I go back to England?”

  “Soon, but first I have some things to show you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Get dressed. Pack some overnight things.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll find out. Meet me outside.”

  I could not resist Kofi. He understood this, perhaps: that a child can long for a parent in a way that a parent can never long for a child. He was fully formed when I was born, while I have always been missing a father.

  I didn’t have any overnight things except the clothes that
were brought for me. Kweku had guessed my size correctly but not my taste. Everything was excessively embroidered or, in some instances, studded with rhinestones. I chose the plainest outfit, a black boubou with gold threads on the neckline. I looked in the bathroom mirror. My bruises had faded to the color of a tea stain.

  I had not left the house since my lunch with Afua two days ago. I lingered. This mansion was more straightforward than the one in Gbadolite. The east and west wings met at a central staircase that led to the front door. It felt like a museum. There were evenly spaced paintings on the walls and Roman busts on columns, faces sculpted in black stone or cast in bronze. Kofi’s taste in art was literal. The paintings were mostly portraits: famous Bama historical figures, perhaps, sitting and standing, dressed in Victorian garb, dressed in traditional Bama kente. At the bottom of the stairs, I paused on the threshold. When I stepped outside, I felt exposed in the sun’s glare, like an animal in an open field.

  Kofi was waiting in the driver’s seat of an SUV. Sule was by the window speaking to him.

  “Sir, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Sule said.

  “Come now, I did not employ you to be my nanny.”

  “Forgive me. I am just concerned for your safety.”

  “Who will recognize me? I am in disguise.”

  He wore a hat and sunglasses. Apart from that, he was in his trademark monochrome, an olive-green set today.

  “Anna. Wonderful. Put your things in the back seat. The boot is full. Sule, open the gate.”

  “But, Sir—”

  “Enough.”

  Sule, like me, did as he was told.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I want to show you your country.”

  We drove for three hours and seemed no closer to our destination. The highway stretched to the horizon, a point where the sky met asphalt. Water mirages sprung up in the distance. I had forgotten my sunglasses and I squinted to see.

  Lorries dominated the road. The cabs were open and their goods were on view, pyramids of logs held together by rope, baskets of tomatoes, live cows packed so close that their horns locked and formed branches.

  On either side of us, the forest thinned into grassland. We passed a few settlements, too sparse to be called towns, too dense to be villages. We ate lunch in one of these places, in an open-air canteen that faced the road. The other diners looked up at our entrance, but it was me, not Kofi, they stared at.