by Yaba Badoe
Cobra nods and his hand on my knee tightens.
‘You see,’ I say to my parents. ‘A part of you will always be with me. And yet, to be present in this time and place, to occupy the space you created for me, I’ve got to let you go. Walk good! Travel well.’
Eyes moist with the salt-tang of the sea, my tears fall.
Cobra lights a candle. He drips wax on the boat’s bow and fixes the candle in place. When I’m ready, and I’m no longer blubbing like a lost child; when the ache in my heaving chest has eased, I take the bangle from my wrist and fasten it to the sail. Then I push the boat out to sea.
As the tide carries it away, I hear one of the melodies Mamadou performed through me. Hear it drifting on the dawn mist. I reach for the flute and begin to play.
The tune that emerges conjures images from my dreams: a lush, magical forest glade and in it a golden mango tree; beyond that, as the crow flies, a flat savannah landscape dotted with giant baobabs. The music paints pictures of magnificent cities with buildings that seem to touch the sky, gigantic pyramids appear, and beside them, caravans of camels travelling over dunes scorched by the glare of the sun. Buoyant and joyful, as generous as the ocean inside me, the melody is laced with high notes that set my toes tapping while my heart soars. Then, out of nowhere, a sad song in a minor key takes hold of my fingers.
The boat sails into the deep as I thank my parents and the cargo of souls who died with them. I thank them through Mamadou’s tune. Even so, the moment the boat disappears my heart lurches, and suddenly I smell ’em: the fragrance of cedarwood on my father’s skin, mango on my mother’s breath. I want them to come back to me. I want them to stay. And if they don’t, I shall get up and follow them into the sea.
I manage to keep playing the only way I can: by imagining my father’s hand on my shoulder, my mother running her fingers through my hair. Then, as Priss swoops from the sky and settles at my feet, their presence grows stronger still. My mother’s nose nuzzles against mine; my father pats my shoulder. My mother kisses my cheek. She kisses me again and again and each time she kisses me, I believe that I shall never let her go. Never. Until through my tears, I realise that it’s Cobra kissing my cheek, Cobra’s hand on my shoulder.
I continue playing for a good while longer. I play till Cobra takes my hand and pulling me up, says: ‘I think we should go, Sante. We’ve a long journey ahead of us.’
‘Yes,’ I say to him. ‘It’s time to go home.’ Time to return to my circus family and walk good.
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Acknowledgements
About Yaba Badoe
An Invitation from the Publisher
Acknowledgements
Thanks to my fabulous editor at Zephyr, Fiona Kennedy, who encouraged me to have another crack at this story and our mutual friend, Jinny Johnson, who introduced us. To Maya, Cam and Colin for reading earlier drafts of A Jigsaw of Fire and Stars and being unstintingly generous. And finally to my remarkable parents, Emeritus Professor Emmanuel Augustus Badoe and Mercy Fadoa Badoe, who gave me time and space to pursue what I love best in the world. Thank you!
Yaba Badoe
London,
May 2017
About Yaba Badoe
YABA BADOE is an award-winning, Ghanaian-British documentary film-maker and writer. In 2014 Yaba was nominated for the Distinguished Woman of African Cinema award.
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First published in the UK in 2017 by Zephyr,
an imprint of Head of Zeus, Ltd.
Text copyright © Yaba Badoe, 2017
Artwork copyright © Leo Nickolls 2017
The moral right of Yaba Badoe to be identified as the author and Leo Nickolls to be indentified as the artist of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organisations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781786695482
ISBN (E): 9781786695475
Typeset by Adrian McLaughlin
Designed by Louise Millar
Author photo © Samuel Mihaye
Jacket Art & Design: Leo Nickolls
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