“Thank you,” the old man says to me. “My name is Samuel.”
Samuel wears his hair in thick, silver locks.
“I’m Anna.”
“You have grass?”
“No.”
“You’re not from here. Where from?”
“Actually, my father is Bamanaian.”
“Me, I’m a foreigner. Nigerian.”
“Don’t they give you water?” I asked.
“They do, but not till the afternoon. We eat twice a day, zero one one.”
“What does that mean?”
“Zero breakfast, one lunch, one dinner. It could be worse. In Nigeria, it’s zero zero one. Or sometimes zero zero zero.”
The other prisoners laugh.
“Oga, Samuel. You’ve been in prison in every country in West Africa.”
“You can call me a prison tourist.”
There is a bench in my cell and I sit.
“How long have you been here?”
“Two weeks,” Samuel says. “I’ll be out soon. My wife will see to it or maybe one of my sons. What about you? Why are you here?”
“I’m not sure. I think there’s been a mistake.”
“So do we all.”
My cell is roughly the same size as theirs. I count seven men. Most of them are shirtless, some without trousers. There is a bucket in the corner. A man crouches over it and shits. The smell fills the air and we avert our gazes. Outside, a fly dashes itself against the window, desperate to get in. It will exhaust itself soon and drop dead. The door to the outer world opens.
“Anna Graham.”
“Yes.”
“You’re free to go.”
The guard unlocks my cell. The prisoners begin to stir.
“Obroni is leaving already.”
“Obroni, I need a lawyer.”
“Remember me to my wife, Bunmi! Sixty-seven Peterson Road,” I hear Samuel shout as the door clangs shut behind me. I am led to the reception where Sule is waiting by the front desk in a suit. I squint in the daylight.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
They return my handbag, and my gifts for Rose and Katherine. Sule carries both. Outside, the courtyard is full of policemen on parade, raising dust as they march. There are women selling food, ladling stew and rice on to the plates of off-duty officers. There are always women selling food in Bamana. I sit in front.
“You need a tetanus shot,” Sule says.
“I’ve been vaccinated. I called you yesterday. Twice.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and bows his head. “I didn’t see it on time.”
“There’s no record of my passport on the Bamanaian database. That’s why I was detained. They said I’m on a no-fly list.”
“I’m still trying to get to the bottom of this,” he says.
“You made the passport arrangements.” It is his fault and he does not argue.
“I know,” he says. “It will all be taken care of.” His deference deflates my anger.
“When can I go to England?”
“Soon.”
We drive to Kofi’s mansion in the Peak. He is waiting outside, standing under the flag, hands crossed behind his back. It is the same pose as the first time we met.
“Your face,” he says, when I get down from the car. He puts his hand on my cheek. It is an intimate gesture, fitting for a father to a child. I step back from his touch.
“Who did this to you?” he asks.
“I don’t know. It was dark.”
“Owusu must be behind this. It will all be taken care of. Don’t worry. As long as you’re in this house, you’re safe. Come with me. You must be tired. Sule will bring your bag.”
“I don’t have it. It’s still at the airport.”
“Of course. Don’t worry. Sule will arrange everything. Come.”
I follow him through the entrance of double doors, up a wide staircase, down a corridor, and into a place that has been prepared for me. The curtains are closed and the interior is dim, as if the room is in mourning. I sit on the bed, where a fresh towel and dressing gown are laid out. When he is gone, I take off my clothes and lie down. Kofi’s enemies have become mine. This is what it means perhaps to be family.
I sleep till late in the afternoon. I wake up thinking about my mother. We hardly spoke when she was dying. She could lie for hours in her thoughts.
“Are you in pain?” I would come in and ask.
“Yes,” she would answer, or “No,” sometimes, but she never said any more. Was she thinking about Francis Aggrey? Had he faded completely from her mind by then?
I get out of bed and feel unsteady. The room is too big for one person. There are shadows in the far corners, areas of darkness. I have left marks on the white sheets. I wear the dressing robe and go to the bathroom. The mirror shows my eye is bruised black. My cheekbone a more delicate purple. I shower longer than is necessary. The water rushes out in a strong jet, the highest pressure I have felt in Bamana.
When I am done, I put on the dressing gown and return to my bed. I am ready to call Rose. Her phone rings just once before she picks up.
“I took a half day so I could meet you at the airport. I waited two hours. Two hours, Mum!”
“I’m sorry. Something unexpected came up.” The excuse is flimsy, even to my ears, but how I can tell her I spent last night in jail?
“What is going on with you? Are you on drugs?”
“Rose! Of course not.”
“Then why are you acting so unstable? Is this because of Dad? The separation? You guys need to get back together. He told me he’s trying.”
“I thought you wanted us to get a divorce,” I said, trying to make light of things.
“Not if it’s going to make you crazy.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“You’re acting like it.”
“That’s enough, Rose.”
“I don’t care anymore. Stay in Africa. Come back. Whatever. I’m at work. I’m shouting in the corridor and people are starting to stare. I have to go.”
“I’ll call you when—”
“Bye.”
All it took was a missed flight and she was back on Robert’s side. They’d convened to assess how unhinged I had become. Behind this pose of concern was mere selfishness. I had found a life outside Robert and Rose. They refused to adjust.
There is a knock on the door.
“Come in.”
It is Kofi.
“You are awake,” he says.
“Yes.”
“What will you eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You must eat something.”
I have turned the Daasebre into a nursemaid. He sits by the foot of my bed in an armchair, his hands worrying his knees. It is the first time he has shown me concern. It is the first time I have felt I might matter to him.
“What was my mother like?” I ask. I am suddenly curious to see her through his eyes. She is the missing piece to the puzzle of this trip. I wish she were here to explain my father to me.
“You know better than I do.”
“I don’t.”
“She had a certain quality, a lightness about her spirit. Seeing her could make me smile. And she was a good dancer. Very quick on her feet.”
“I never saw her like that.”
“We’ll talk about that later,” he says briskly, shoving aside memories of my mother. “Now you must recover. I’ll ask the maid to bring you something.”
“I forgot to ask you about Aunt Caryl,” I say.
“What about her?”
“You courted two sisters.”
“I did no such thing. Caryl courted me. Your aunt was a woman who knew her mind.”
“When I was a child, I ran after a black man in the streets once because I heard someone call him Francis. I was so sure it was you.”
“Well, here I am at last. Somewhat of a disappointment if I remember our last conversation correctly. You must be tired.”
I over
slept on the morning of my wedding. I woke up with a sense of loss, although I could not immediately remember what I was grieving for. I feel that loss now. I may never again feel safe in Bamana.
“Anna,” he says.
“Yes?”
“I’m going now, but we will talk again soon.”
“Off to your campaign?”
“Who told you about that?”
“I have eyes and ears, Daasebre.”
“Don’t be flippant.”
“I am not your daughter in the way Afua is your daughter.”
“You need to rest,” he said.
“I need to go back to London.”
“Soon. Rest now.”
My wedding dress was white even though I was already pregnant with Rose. The sleeves tore when I put it on. My arms had grown plumper. I stood in my underwear while my mother mended the tear. It was the first time I truly realized how fast and how neatly she could sew.
28
There are two trays by my bed the next morning. Supper from last night and now breakfast. I am still not hungry. When Rose stopped eating, the muscles in her legs were the last things to waste away. Even after the rest of her had broken down into glucose, her thick West African calves continued to bulge stubbornly.
I phone Sule. He picks up after one ring.
“Good morning, Anna.”
“I need to go home.”
“We’re working on it.”
“I need to go home this evening. If you can’t fix things, take me to the British Embassy.”
“Your Bamanaian citizenship takes precedence here. If you try to leave the country, by any border, what happened two days ago will only happen again.”
“I’ll give it up, then. I didn’t ask for citizenship. It was Kofi who offered.”
“It’s not so simple in a case like this.”
“My daughter is waiting for me. My husband is waiting for me.”
“I understand, Anna. I’m doing my best.”
My urgency drains away once I end the call. I want to go back to London but only when it’s safe. I remember the prison cell like a dream. The smell of sweat and shit, the indistinct features of the other prisoners, like faces in a nightmare.
For the first time in six weeks I think about my neighbor Katherine. Our quiet life on Hanover Road seems far removed from where I am now. I miss her sensible, practical manner. I call her.
“Hello. It’s Anna.”
“Anna! You’ve been on my mind. Are you still in Africa? Did you meet your father? Was it a success?”
“I’m staying with him for now. How’s the street?”
“Much the same.”
“And church?” I ask.
“Good. I’m setting up a food bank. Simon thinks I just want to be in charge of a bank. But enough of me. How is it?”
“Things haven’t gone to plan.”
I blink back tears. My face is swollen. Rose is angry with me and I still can’t go home. Katherine makes a sympathetic sound.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I only call you when I’m upset.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m glad you called.”
I haven’t spoken freely about Kofi to anyone. The words, when they come, are rushed.
“I’ve been here longer than expected and I still don’t really know my father. Sometimes he’s kind to me. Sometimes he ignores me. I don’t see any part of myself in him. The man from his old diary is gone.”
“He did write it a long time ago. My twenty-year-old self wouldn’t recognize me, either. She’d be quite disappointed I haven’t ended up a CEO.”
This is the common sense I called Katherine for. She is right. Francis Aggrey is a man in the past, a man I can never meet. Why go on pining for him?
“Does he have a wife? Other children?” she asks.
“I’ve met one of his daughters. We didn’t get on. I fared a bit better with my half brother.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Come back. Once I can.”
“Is there anything stopping you?”
I don’t want to worry her. I am safe in Kofi’s house now.
“Some paperwork. It’ll be sorted soon,” I say.
“You know, you’re so brave. Traveling all that way and staying so long. I couldn’t do it.”
“You could,” I say.
“Just to let you know I’ve been keeping an eye on your house. Everything looks fine.”
“Thank you.”
There is a moment of dead air. The call has come to its natural end.
“It’s been so good to hear from you. Let me know when you get back,” she says.
“I will.”
“Bye now.”
I feel better. My house is in order and I have a place to return to. With the time I have left in Bamana I must know Kofi for who he is now, or not know him at all.
I shower. Yesterday’s towel is damp and so I pace around the room naked, like a tethered animal. The room is a store for curious things: a large vase in the Ming style, fired in a man-sized kiln, white and faintly luminous; a set of sofas upholstered in kafa, patriotic and homegrown; masks on the walls, and one abstract painting of grey, blue, and green swirls. I put on my dressing gown and stand close to the canvas, studying the thickly piled pigment.
“Knock, knock.”
My brother is in my room. I don’t know how long he has been here. Despite his size, he moves as silently as our father. I knot my robe a second time.
“Kweku.”
“Your face.”
“What about it?”
“Is more beautiful than ever.”
He joins me in front of the painting.
“A gift from the prime minister of Canada. They say it’s of a woman’s body. You have to stand upside down to see her. How are you?”
“A little shaken but I’m fine.”
“What reason did they give?”
“They thought I was a spy.”
“You? How?”
“They said there are no official records of my Bamanaian passport. Kofi thinks President Owusu was behind it.”
“I see. Do you call Papa ‘Kofi’ to his face?”
“Yes.” He is not my Daasebre.
“Come, let’s sit down. You shouldn’t be standing for too long.”
We sit on one of the kafa sofas. They are overstuffed and hard.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?”
“I’d rather not.”
“I’ve been arrested before,” he says.
“Why?”
“I crashed one car too many the year I turned eighteen. Papa had me put in jail for a week. To cool my heels, he said.” Kweku smiles at the memory.
“What did your mother do?”
“She tried to stop him, of course. That’s the problem when your husband is head of the house and head of the country. You don’t know who’s punishing your son. The president or the father of your child. It wasn’t so bad. I had the cell to myself.”
“So did I.”
“Yes. Papa’s name still carries enough weight to get you a good jail cell.”
He jokes often about our father, but the humor is black. It is not easy being Kofi Adjei’s eldest son.
“I heard he’s running in the next election,” I say.
“Is he? Who knows with Papa? I told Benita and Kwabena about you. Your other siblings.”
“What did they say?”
“We’ve always thought it couldn’t just be the four of us. It’s unusual for a man of Papa’s status to have only one wife . . . but we didn’t expect it to be an older sibling.”
“What are they like?”
“Benita, I think you would get on with. She speaks her mind. She’s an artist. I have a few of her pieces—twisted wire and paint splattered on canvas. I don’t understand it myself but it’s very popular in Sweden. Kwabena is our human rights UN advocate. Too self-righteous for us all, even Benita. Papa’s children that can stand him
live in Bamana, and those that can’t live abroad.”
He leans back into the chair. He is the right size for the room, built to the same scale as some of the other objects.
“So did you apologize to him?” he asked.
“To who?”
“Papa.”
“For what?” I said.
“Telling him Francis Aggrey would be disappointed in him.”
“Should I?”
“It’s up to you. Me, if I offend Papa, I apologize. I live off him. Can’t afford to be proud.”
“The oil company belongs to him,” I said.
“So you do know something about our affairs. It’s his. It’s Bamana’s. Whatever. I wouldn’t have my job if I wasn’t Kofi Adjei’s son.”
“Do you feel guilty about it?”
“What? His stupendous wealth? Kwabena does. And Benita, too, sometimes. Maybe that explains the twisted metal. Afua is in denial. She believes all that Gbadolite-belongs-to-Bamana crap. Me, I am pragmatic. Papa is better than most of the African leaders of his generation. He did more for the people. They still love him till now. Remember, he was not ousted. He stepped down.”
He is not as willfully blind as Afua but he still views Kofi through a falsely flattering lens. I am tired of the Adjeis and their gilding.
“I just want to go back to England,” I say.
“You will. Papa will arrange it. He takes care of his children.”
Kweku begins to stand up. It is like watching a turtle flip itself off its back. It will not be long before his weight prevents him from walking.
“Pathetic, aren’t I?”
Finally, he is on his feet.
“I have to go. I have meetings. I just came to see that you were all right after Sule told me what happened. Do you need anything?”
“Clothes . . . and a toothbrush.”
“I’ll make sure it’s sorted.”
“And canvases.”
“Pardon?”
“Canvases for painting. I want to paint.”
“You’re an artist.”
“I used to be. And brushes. I need brushes and oil paints.”
“It can be arranged.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention. What are siblings for?”
“Half siblings.”
“We don’t have that in Africa.”
Afua was my next guest. She came two days later.
Sankofa Page 21