Transcendent Kingdom

by Yaa Gyasi

  also by yaa gyasi

  Homegoing

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  Copyright © 2020 by YNG Books, Inc.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  www.aaknopf.com

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Gyasi, Yaa, author.

  Title: Transcendent kingdom / Yaa Gyasi.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019039844 (print) | LCCN 2019039845 (ebook) | ISBN 9780525658184 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780525658191 (ebook) | ISBN 9781524711771 (open market)

  Classification: LCC PS3607.Y37 T73 2020 (print) | LCC PS3607.Y37 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2019039844

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2019039845

  Ebook ISBN 9780525658191

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover illustration based on a photograph by Jose Luis Pelaez / Getty Images

  Cover design by Kelly Blair

  ep_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Also by Yaa Gyasi

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  [From our house…]

  Acknowledgments

  A Note About the Author

  For Tina

  The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

  It will flame out, like shining from shook foil.

  GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS,

  “God’s Grandeur”

  Nothing comes into the universe

  and nothing leaves it.

  SHARON OLDS,

  “The Borders”

  1

  Whenever I think of my mother, I picture a queen-sized bed with her lying in it, a practiced stillness filling the room. For months on end, she colonized that bed like a virus, the first time when I was a child and then again when I was a graduate student. The first time, I was sent to Ghana to wait her out. While there, I was walking through Kejetia Market with my aunt when she grabbed my arm and pointed. “Look, a crazy person,” she said in Twi. “Do you see? A crazy person.”

  I was mortified. My aunt was speaking so loudly, and the man, tall with dust caked into his dreadlocks, was within earshot. “I see. I see,” I answered in a low hiss. The man continued past us, mumbling to himself as he waved his hands about in gestures that only he could understand. My aunt nodded, satisfied, and we kept walking past the hordes of people gathered in that agoraphobia-inducing market until we reached the stall where we would spend the rest of the morning attempting to sell knockoff handbags. In my three months there, we sold only four bags.

  Even now, I don’t completely understand why my aunt singled the man out to me. Maybe she thought there were no crazy people in America, that I had never seen one before. Or maybe she was thinking about my mother, about the real reason I was stuck in Ghana that summer, sweating in a stall with an aunt I hardly knew while my mother healed at home in Alabama. I was eleven, and I could see that my mother wasn’t sick, not in the ways that I was used to. I didn’t understand what my mother needed healing from. I didn’t understand, but I did. And my embarrassment at my aunt’s loud gesture had as much to do with my understanding as it did with the man who had passed us by. My aunt was saying, “That. That is what crazy looks like.” But instead what I heard was my mother’s name. What I saw was my mother’s face, still as lake water, the pastor’s hand resting gently on her forehead, his prayer a light hum that made the room buzz. I’m not sure I know what crazy looks like, but even today when I hear the word I picture a split screen, the dreadlocked man in Kejetia on one side, my mother lying in bed on the other. I think about how no one at all reacted to that man in the market, not in fear or disgust, nothing, save my aunt, who wanted me to look. He was, it seemed to me, at perfect peace, even as he gesticulated wildly, even as he mumbled.

  But my mother, in her bed, infinitely still, was wild inside.

  2

  The second time it happened, I got a phone call while I was working in my lab at Stanford. I’d had to separate two of my mice because they were ripping each other to bits in that shoebox of a home we kept them in. I found a piece of flesh in one corner of the box, but I couldn’t tell which mouse it came from at first. Both were bleeding and frenzied, scurrying away from me when I tried to grab them even though there was nowhere to run.

  “Look, Gifty, she hasn’t been to church in nearly a month. I’ve been calling the house but she won’t pick up. I go by sometimes and make sure she’s got food and everything, but I think…I think it’s happening again.”

  I didn’t say anything. The mice had calmed down considerably, but I was still shaken by the sight of them and worried about my research. Worried about everything.

  “Gifty?” Pastor John said.

  “She should come stay with me.”

  I’m not sure how the pastor got my mother on the plane. When I picked her up at SFO she looked completely vacant, her body limp. I imagined Pastor John folding her up the way you would a jumpsuit, arms crossed about the chest in an X, legs pulled up to meet them, then tucking her safely into a suitcase complete with a HANDLE WITH CARE sticker before passing her off to the flight attendant.

  I gave her a stiff hug and she shrank from my touch. I took a deep breath. “Did you check a bag?” I asked.

&nb
sp; “Daabi,” she said.

  “Okay, no bags. Great, we can go straight to the car.” The saccharine cheeriness of my voice annoyed me so much I bit my tongue in an attempt to bite it back. I felt a prick of blood and sucked it away.

  She followed me to my Prius. Under better circumstances she would have made fun of my car, an oddity to her after years of Alabama pickup trucks and SUVs. “Gifty, my bleeding heart,” she sometimes called me. I don’t know where she’d picked up the phrase, but I figured it was probably used derogatorily by Pastor John and the various TV preachers she liked to watch while she cooked to describe people who, like me, had defected from Alabama to live among the sinners of the world, presumably because the excessive bleeding of our hearts made us too weak to tough it out among the hardy, the chosen of Christ in the Bible Belt. She loved Billy Graham, who said things like “A real Christian is the one who can give his pet parrot to the town gossip.”

  Cruel, I thought when I was a child, to give away your pet parrot.

  The funny thing about the phrases that my mom picked up is that she always got them a little wrong. I was her bleeding heart, not a bleeding heart. It’s a crime shame, not a crying shame. She had a little southern accent that tinted her Ghanaian one. It made me think of my friend Anne, whose hair was brown, except on some days, when the sunlight touched her just so and, suddenly, you saw red.

  In the car, my mother stared out of the passenger-side window, quiet as a church mouse. I tried to imagine the scenery the way she might be seeing it. When I’d first arrived in California, everything had looked so beautiful to me. Even the grass, yellowed, scorched from the sun and the seemingly endless drought, had looked otherworldly. This must be Mars, I thought, because how could this be America too? I pictured the drab green pastures of my childhood, the small hills we called mountains. The vastness of this western landscape overwhelmed me. I’d come to California because I wanted to get lost, to find. In college, I’d read Walden because a boy I found beautiful found the book beautiful. I understood nothing but highlighted everything, including this: Not till we are lost, in other words, not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.

  If my mother was moved by the landscape, too, I couldn’t tell. We lurched forward in traffic and I caught the eye of the man in the car next to ours. He quickly looked away, then looked back, then away again. I wanted to make him uncomfortable, or maybe just to transfer my own discomfort to him, and so I kept staring. I could see in the way that he gripped the steering wheel that he was trying not to look at me again. His knuckles were pale, veiny, rimmed with red. He gave up, shot me an exasperated look, mouthed, “What?” I’ve always found that traffic on a bridge brings everyone closer to their own personal edge. Inside each car, a snapshot of a breaking point, drivers looking out toward the water and wondering What if? Could there be another way out? We scooted forward again. In the scrum of cars, the man seemed almost close enough to touch. What would he do if he could touch me? If he didn’t have to contain all of that rage inside his Honda Accord, where would it go?

  “Are you hungry?” I asked my mother, finally turning away.

  She shrugged, still staring out of the window. The last time this happened she’d lost seventy pounds in two months. When I came back from my summer in Ghana, I had hardly recognized her, this woman who had always found skinny people offensive, as though a kind of laziness or failure of character kept them from appreciating the pure joy that is a good meal. Then she joined their ranks. Her cheeks sank; her stomach deflated. She hollowed, disappeared.

  I was determined not to let that happen again. I’d bought a Ghanaian cookbook online to make up for the years I’d spent avoiding my mother’s kitchen, and I’d practiced a few of the dishes in the days leading up to my mother’s arrival, hoping to perfect them before I saw her. I’d bought a deep fryer, even though my grad student stipend left little room in my budget for extravagances like bofrot or plantains. Fried food was my mother’s favorite. Her mother had made fried food from a cart on the side of the road in Kumasi. My grandmother was a Fante woman from Abandze, a sea town, and she was notorious for despising Asantes, so much so that she refused to speak Twi, even after twenty years of living in the Asante capital. If you bought her food, you had to listen to her language.

  “We’re here,” I said, rushing to help my mother get out of the car. She walked a little ahead of me, even though she’d never been to this apartment before. She’d visited me in California only a couple of times.

  “Sorry for the mess,” I said, but there was no mess. None that my eyes could see anyway, but my eyes were not hers. Every time she visited me over the years she’d sweep her finger along things it never occurred to me to clean, the backs of the blinds, the hinges of doors, then present the dusty, blackened finger to me in accusation, and I could do nothing but shrug.

  “Cleanliness is godliness,” she used to say.

  “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” I would correct, and she would scowl at me. What was the difference?

  I pointed her toward the bedroom, and, silently, she crawled into bed and drifted off to sleep.

  3

  As soon as I heard the sound of soft snoring, I sneaked out of the apartment and went to check on my mice. Though I had separated them, the one with the largest wounds was hunched over from pain in the corner of the box. Watching him, I wasn’t sure he would live much longer. It filled me with an inexplicable sorrow, and when my lab mate, Han, found me twenty minutes later, crying in the corner of the room, I knew I would be too mortified to admit that the thought of a mouse’s death was the cause of my tears.

  “Bad date,” I told Han. A look of horror passed over his face as he mustered up a few pitiful words of comfort, and I could imagine what he was thinking: I went into the hard sciences so that I wouldn’t have to be around emotional women. My crying turned to laughter, loud and phlegmy, and the look of horror on his face deepened until his ears flushed as red as a stop sign. I stopped laughing and rushed out of the lab and into the restroom, where I stared at myself in the mirror. My eyes were puffy and red; my nose looked bruised, the skin around the nostrils dry and scaly from the tissues.

  “Get ahold of yourself,” I said to the woman in the mirror, but doing so felt cliché, like I was reenacting a scene from a movie, and so I started to feel like I didn’t have a self to get ahold of, or rather that I had a million selves, too many to gather. One was in the bathroom, playing a role; another, in the lab staring at my wounded mouse, an animal about whom I felt nothing at all, yet whose pain had reduced me somehow. Or multiplied me. Another self was still thinking about my mother.

  The mouse fight had rattled me into checking on my mice more than I needed to, trying to keep ahead of the feeling. When I got to the lab the day of my mother’s arrival, Han was already there, performing surgery on his mice. As was usually the case whenever Han arrived at the lab first, the thermostat was turned down low. I shivered, and he looked up from his work.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  Though we’d been sharing this space for months now, we hardly ever said more than this to each other, except for the day he’d found me crying. Han smiled at me more now, but his ears still burned bright red if I tried to push our conversation past that initial greeting.

  I checked in on my mice and my experiments. No fights, no surprises.

  I drove back to my apartment. In the bedroom, my mother still lay underneath a cloud of covers. A sound like a purr floated out from her lips. I’d been living alone for so long that even that soft noise, hardly more than a hum, unnerved me. I’d forgotten what it was like to live with my mother, to care for her. For a long time, most of my life, in fact, it had been just me and her, but this pairing was unnatural. She knew it and I knew it, and we both tried to ignore what we knew to be true—there used to be
four of us, then three, two. When my mother goes, whether by choice or not, there will be only one.

  4

  Dear God,

  I’ve been wondering where you are. I mean, I know you’re here, with me, but where are you exactly? In space?

  Dear God,

  The Black Mamba makes a lot of noise most of the time, but when she’s mad she moves really slowly and quietly and then, all of a sudden, there she is. Buzz says it’s because she’s an African warrior and so she’s got to be stealthy.

  Buzz’s impression is really funny. He sneaks around and then, all of a sudden, he makes his body really big, and picks something up off the floor and says, “What is this?” He doesn’t do impressions of the Chin Chin Man anymore.

  Dear God,

  If you’re in space, how can you see me, and what do I look like to you? And what do you look like, if you look like anything at all? Buzz says he’d never want to be an astronaut and I don’t think I want to either, but I would go to space if you were there.

  5