by Yasmin Angoe
She’d already heard this all before, from Dad, from Elin. She didn’t need to hear it again. What she needed was Witt’s help.
“Your parents are due to visit you and your sister in the next few days. There is a video conference scheduled for the Council members where they will be discussing you. Your father will need to assuage their discontent with your work, justify your actions.”
His thick eyebrows furrowed as he leaned in close, his bald head shining just a bit against his dark background. Was he home? She’d never been there. Maybe in an office at Network’s headquarters in London. She’d never been there either. Only Dispatch’s team lead got to go there.
“I can speak for myself.”
“You don’t run anything in the Tribe yet. You don’t get to speak to them. You just get to listen to them berate you.”
Lucky me.
“People get retired from Dispatch for detours.”
His words served as a reminder of one of her former teammates who’d botched a job and been excommunicated from the Tribe, or “retired”—she guessed the Council members thought it was a nicer word. And Witt was warning her that she wasn’t immune to the same punishment, even if she was the daughter of the High Council.
“I understand all about retirements.” Her little stab of insolence surprised them both. Quickly, she clamped her mouth shut.
They regarded each other before Nena again broke the standoff. “Witt . . .”
His face broke into a wry smile she rarely got to see. “Now I’m Witt.”
It was now or never. “Yes. I need some intel from you. I’d rather it be you than Elin because I don’t want her involved too deeply in something that may blow up in my face.”
“So I’m expendable, then.” Witt let out a laugh. “I taught you well.”
She took a cleansing breath and pushed on. “Smith was Paul Frempong’s number two, back then in N’nkakuwe. Do you remember who—”
“I remember.” His tone was sharp, his eyes like razors cutting into her. “Explain.”
“I’m concerned there are bad actors within the Tribe,” she said. “Someone lied and said Attah was dead when he was not. And maybe they’ve kept him alive all this time, been his benefactor.”
“For what purpose?”
Nena spread her hands. “Money, power, control of Africa’s commodities by using ruthless people to get it. Lucien Douglas could be the benefactor. Perhaps that’s why he wanted Attah alive and the attorney dead.”
This was what she treasured about Witt the most. He never interrupted her, not like Elin, allowing her to fully present her argument before he rendered his judgment.
“Or perhaps Lucien Douglas is also a pawn being used by someone else within the Tribe, someone who wants to ascend the ranks by any means necessary.”
Witt narrowed his eyes. “What you say is treasonous, Nena; be careful.” It wasn’t a warning. It was a plea, because Nena read the concern in Witt’s stormy dark eyes.
“Or what if”—she took another deep breath, because saying this scared her the most—“what if Paul is alive as well? And Kwabena? What if they all lived and were lying in wait all this time?”
“To come after you?”
“No.” She shook her head. “They haven’t thought about me since they sold me. But what if they went underground and have been biding their time to infiltrate us and take over, with the help of members who seek to betray the Tribe?”
“Nena, I went to Ghana myself. The Compound was in ruins. The soldiers Paul used had turned on him, killed him for nonpayment, and then we dispatched all of them. We cleaned house.”
“What if they lied?”
Witt pursed his lips.
“Paul is like a—a—” She searched her mind for the proper word. “A crocodile. He can wait right beneath the smooth, tranquil surface for the right time to jump out and snatch you into the waters. You’re dead before you realize it.”
“And your father? How can we keep this from him when he is High Council? He has to know what you suspect about members of the Tribe.”
“To tell Dad now without concrete evidence would destroy him and put my family at risk. Dad’s put his soul into establishing the Tribe. He is the Tribe, and I’m not ready to blow up his world just yet.
“Please.” She hoped he could see logic in her reasoning, that he could find the seed of doubt to make him help her. “Could you gather intel on Dennis Smith? See when he suddenly appeared? Because if Attah Walrus lived, it means Paul lives, too, and is waiting just beneath the water. And Paul couldn’t have hidden all this time without help. I need the proof first, and then I’ll tell Dad.”
He was still dubious. “And the attorney? What of him?”
She held his critical stare. “I’m working on it.”
The sky was darkening by the end of their call, with Witt finally agreeing to make inquiries. Nena knew what the things she was saying could mean for the Tribe. They meant dissension in the ranks. They meant a housecleaning of those who were not truly for the cause. But if she was right, so be it.
And if she was right, she’d make sure for herself that Kwabena and Paul were gone for good . . . by her hand. And most importantly she’d protect her family at all costs from any threats, outside or in. Even if it meant going against the Tribe’s wishes.
Even if it meant her death.
28
BEFORE
In the bedroom at the party, watching the movie with the other girls is a welcome respite, a vacation into normalcy, which is very needed in our new reality. There is no more pretending away what we are now, or what will become of me or Mamie.
“Maybe I should kill myself,” Mamie whispers, her head bowed toward me.
I cannot look at her, to see the wild and worried expression I know to be there, because if I do, I will break, and I cannot, not right now. I say nothing at first, considering her words. Dying by her own hand is infinitely better than dying at their hands.
“Maybe he doesn’t mean what he says. You are worth more alive than not.”
Mamie takes in a breath, which relieves me. I pray I have provided her a bit of reprieve, a little hope, if only for a short while. What goes unsaid is that Paul is a man of his word. Mamie will not return to the Compound alive if she does not fetch a price. Gently, I pat her hand. It rests on her lap, trembling slightly. I sneak a quick look at her, catching the small tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. My own are stinging; seeing Mamie suffer is more than I think I can endure.
The door opens, and my guard enters. Mamie and I tense. His eyes sweep the room, landing on Mamie, on Spider-Man swinging in to save the trolley car full of children, and finally on me.
“Come,” he says gruffly. “Time to go.”
I hesitate. Mamie and I share a look.
“I said it’s time to go. Now!”
I ignore him. Instead, leaning close to Mamie, I whisper, “Do what you must to survive.” My words come out so low I cannot hear them above the noise of the TV and the barking guard. But I hope she can.
Angered by my disobedience, the guard snatches my arm and twists it, forgetting I am someone’s goods and he is not supposed to touch me. He raises a hand to strike, but I spin on him, ignoring the pain in my arm.
I snarl, reveling in renewed rage, and threaten to scream that he is manhandling me, an offense Paul or my new White benefactor would not take lightly. I stare into the guard’s eyes, daring him to touch what Paul considers merchandise. The hatred I have for him, for all of them, ignites a vigor I thought had abandoned me for good.
My words must snap him to his senses, because he releases me. “We must go,” he says, his voice coiling with anger that parallels mine. We stand like boxing opponents.
The adrenaline seeps out as quickly as it came upon me. I look once more at Mamie as the guard leads me out. She offers a slight wave, a forlorn smile. Then she turns back to the movie and watches it as the door closes on the last vestiges of my old life.
A d
ark car idles in front of the house, waiting for me. Paul is nowhere. In the back seat, a raven-haired woman awaits me. She smiles when the door opens, motioning that I should join her.
I hesitate. Who is she? Monsieur Robach’s wife? Daughter? I have not seen her all evening, and with no choice, plus the guard’s not-so-polite prompting, I climb inside the car.
Before the door closes, I give him a withering look that I hope shrivels up his balls into raisins. I wish him an eternity in hell. He extends his middle finger at me in farewell.
The woman has on a silvery dress with rows of bracelets on her tiny wrists that jingle together. She keeps smiling, showing all her teeth. I will not give them satisfaction by asking questions, looking afraid, or showing apprehension. I work to wash all the emotions from my face.
“What is your name?” she asks as the car begins to move. I concentrate on the dark windows, which make the outside world look like a black hole. She is also French, another obroni, with a voice that is older, gravelly. Not what I expected.
“I’m Bridget.” She sighs when I don’t answer and leans back in her seat. It is unsettling, driving into an abyss of nothingness. “It’s okay if you don’t speak much. Monsieur Robach likes them quiet.”
The acrid smell of smoke indicates she’s lit a cigarette. She rolls the window down for the smoke to escape. “I’m sure you have questions. So this is how it will go. I will be your escort to France and drop you at his home. He is already on the way to the airport and will leave ahead of us. You and I will stay in Accra for a night. Tonight Ghana, tomorrow France.”
I can’t help myself. I turn to look at her.
“I travel with you because fewer questions are asked when a little African girl travels with me, fewer questions than if you traveled with a White man. Don’t you agree?” Bridget answers my silent question.
“Is this what you do? Escort children?”
Bridget laughs. It is not unpleasant. “Whatever you want to call it, chérie. I prefer ‘babysitting,’ or to call myself a recruiter.”
Her conversation and laughter do not fool me. Nor does the fact she is pretty and has nice clothes and a smile I am sure makes people bend to her will. But she is no better than them.
What Bridget does is worse than any of the men I have encountered. What she does is deceive and deliver. She is the siren. She is the gingerbread house used to attract and ensnare. She is Charon, the mythological Greek ferryman.
And I am the sailor to be dashed upon the craggy rocks hidden just below the surf. Hansel and Gretel to serve as a meal for the evil witch. The dead soul carried off to the underworld.
Bridget says, her voice saccharine, “Consider this as an adventure toward a brand-new life, Aninyeh. You can have whatever you’d like.”
“My freedom?” I blurt before catching myself.
“Except that.” She studies me through the darkness with a smile full of false sympathy. “Profites-en maintenant, chérie.” Live it up now, sweetheart. “With Robach, you will need these memories.”
29
AFTER
Just as Witt had said, Noble and Delphine Knight made it to the States for their American business interests and to see about their daughters. Nena and Elin were on their way downtown to meet their parents, who had arrived the previous day, planning (much to Elin’s chagrin) to stay indefinitely, or until Miami became too hot for them. They’d become accustomed to London weather and hated the muggy, stifling nature of Miami weather that the upcoming summer months would bring.
“I wonder why they didn’t wait until the Council meeting ended to come here. Dad prefers to have face-to-face meetings in London,” Elin said. “When Mum and Dad are too close, it makes me edgy.” She shot a quick glance over the rim of her oversize sunglasses at her sister sitting in the passenger side.
“Probably to decide what to do with me.”
“No, not you.” Elin checked her appearance in the sun visor, touching up her lipstick. “It’s for Lucien Douglas. They’re voting him in officially.”
Nena’s jaw tightened, but she wasn’t sure if it was from her concerns about the man or from Elin’s reckless driving. Both, she decided, digging her nails into the armrest.
“And we have the dinner with your boyfriend,” Nena reminded her. Which was why Elin was a nervous wreck and nearly about to cause one on the expressway. “But they’ve met Oliver before. What’s the big deal?”
“Yeah, but this dinner is the official official meeting. They’ve only seen him in passing, really, because they’ve been too caught up in his dad and squaring that away.” She side-eyed Nena as they pulled into the lavish grounds of the condo where their parents owned a flat. She stopped to allow the guard to open the gate. “You’re not trying to flake on me, are you?”
“I’m not.” Nena was enjoying Elin’s panic. It was rare that her older sister was ever rattled about anything.
They took the elevator to the top floor of the building, Elin complaining every step of the way.
“Do you think they’ll stay on beyond my dinner?” she asked, following Nena down the hall to where one of the family’s personal guards stood sentry at the door. Nena shrugged at Elin and nodded at the guard as he opened the door for them. She could hear her father speaking loudly from his office.
“You know how I feel claustrophobic with them in the same city,” Elin whispered in Nena’s ear. “I don’t know why they bought a flat here. Can’t they do like normal parents and stay at a hotel for a bit and then leave?”
Nena shushed her.
Delphine Knight greeted them in the foyer with a finger to her lips. She gestured for them to follow her into Noble’s office, where they could see him behind his dark mahogany desk. Several large-screen monitors lined the wall, each filled with the image of a Council member, eleven in total. The twelfth screen was blank, the one that would be for Lucien Douglas when they voted him in as representative of Gabon.
Delphine took her position standing at Noble’s side while Elin took a seat at a small desk and opened her laptop, preparing to read financials to the leaders representing Ghana, Nigeria, the Republic of the Congo, Liberia, Kenya, South Africa, Tanzania, Senegal, Mali, Eritrea, and Sierra Leone.
“The Council expands as more countries join,” Noble was saying to the members. “Remember our cause, brothers and sisters. One Africa. If one eats, we all eat.”
“But how will we get anything accomplished if we have members from each African nation?” one representative asked. “Could you imagine all the strife we would have? Too many opposing views. We’ll never agree.”
“I hear you, brother,” another said. “But just like America has senators and congressmen, we can vote, majority rules.”
A third countered, “And America has a president. Eh? The president?”
“Let’s not go there. You remember what he called us, o.”
They grumbled for a full minute about “shithole countries.” It was a line they would never forgive or forget. Nena wouldn’t either.
“My point is America has senators for each state that vote on American matters.”
Another: “America is one country. We are many countries. And we are not a government, eh. We’re not politicians; we are businessmen.”
“And women.”
“The point is we don’t need representatives from every damn country we get on board. We can make the rules the rest of the Tribe will follow. Simple as that.”
Like big business or government lobbyists who influenced politicians to do their bidding and push their interests, Nena came to learn, that was how these wealthy Africans wielded the amount of power they had to do whatever they wanted.
Noble cut in, terminating the debate. “We are one Africa. This is our vision, eh? All of Africa united into a large multinational business entity—thriving, prospering, and cultivating our own lands and resources and gaining riches and selling as we choose. Imagine Africa as the sole benefactor of all our unmined resources and minerals. Leaders i
nstead of workhorses.”
Nena had heard this speech a time or two, and she believed wholeheartedly in her family and the Tribe’s vision. But her job was to enforce those ideals, not chat about them.
“I still think we should allow more time before voting,” someone said. “Think this through. Make sure this new member is worth all the trouble to secure his seat at the Council table.”
Nena kept her head up, staring at the screen without moving, when what she really wanted to do was slink away. She wouldn’t let the rest of the Council see her squirm. Her parents would want her to remain stoic despite the fact she did feel some shame at not following orders, and at the little glimpses of disappointment she caught from her dad whenever he looked her way.
Another representative, one who hadn’t yet spoken, said, “If Lucien’s business merger with territories in Gabon is successful, then it’s worth his spot. We’re going to bring all coastal countries into the fold of the African Tribal Council for imports and exports. Then we will shore up the central countries and align them to our goal of a unified Africa. Soon the Tribe will be like the United Nations, but even better because it’s for Africa, by Africans.”
“I like that better,” the rep who’d brought up the president’s insult chimed in. “I’d rather be like the United Nations than the United States.”
Nena liked him. He was a jokester. The room exploded in laughter, and Nena relaxed now that the conversation had veered away from land mines. She felt a buzz in her back pocket, and as the voting commenced, she checked her phone.
GEORGIA: Dinner at our house? 6 ok?
It was nearly three thirty. She’d need a bit more time to finish up the meeting, chat with the parents, and freshen up.
NENA: Can do 7.
GEORGIA: You like lasagna? Dad says we can have something else if you like.
Lasagna wasn’t her favorite. She didn’t like the texture of ricotta.
NENA: Lasagna’s fine.
GEORGIA: Great!
Nena’s mouth twitched. She still couldn’t figure out why she found the girl so endearing when she’d never had a place for children in her life before. Never gave them a second thought and had lost any notion of being a mother. Yet here she was, her heart swelling weirdly with pleasure at the lines of silly smiley face, plate, fork, and knife emojis Georgia assailed her screen with.
