by Yasmin Angoe
53
AFTER
Hours after arriving at Mercy Hospital, Nena was in the middle of getting tea for her mum when an incoming call made her step away from the vending machine—Mum would have hated vending machine tea anyway—to answer it.
“Aninyeh,” Paul began when the call connected. “I hope you are well. I know you’ve been busy.”
“How do you have this number?” She wouldn’t exchange pleasantries with her mortal enemy.
“I have my ways,” he said coyly. “You would do well to remember that.”
“And that means what?” she snapped.
“How’s Noble?” he asked. “He was just with me earlier. Seemed very healthy. It’s a shame, really, what’s happened to him.”
Perhaps if she played it cool, didn’t give anything away, then he wouldn’t get whatever he was fishing for. “All is well.”
“Cut the bullshit, Aninyeh; I’ve been in contact with Delphine. I know your father’s fallen ill quite unexpectedly.”
Nena’s stomach clenched. Let him talk, she told herself.
“Your mum is rather unnerved, I’m sure. I offered to assist in any way I can. I’ll step in if I have to, even though I’m the new kid on the block, so to speak.” He chuckled. “Of course, Delphine wants to keep it quiet from the Council. Doesn’t want them thinking your father weak enough to let his guard down and be usurped. I agree with her decision. For now.”
His banter dropped, leaving his voice cold and unforgiving. “I told you to leave this alone, girl. I told you to let bygones be bygones after Attah.”
She forced herself to be quiet. Let him talk so you don’t say something to make things worse. But she’d already made matters worse, hadn’t she? And her father was the victim.
“But you don’t listen. I told you not to fuck up my opportunity with the Council.”
“I haven’t told anyone anything, Paul.”
“I am Lucien Douglas now.”
“Funny, you sound and act very much like Paul Frempong.”
“Careful, girl.”
“They don’t know anything about you.”
“Yet Kwabena is dead.”
She closed her eyes. She’d expected him to find out. She hadn’t expected him to go for her dad. Not when Paul was so new to the Council. It was a big play.
“Who’s next, Aninyeh, hmm? My child, Oliver? Me? Am I next on your revenge list? Because I know you cannot kill a Council member. You would risk harm to your family?”
She hated it when he used her name from before. He had no right. He’d ripped it from her as he had stripped away her humanity. Hearing him speak it made her knees weaken every time and notched another chink in her resolve. Maybe she should just give up and let him have whatever he wanted again. Maybe then he’d leave Dad and everyone she loved alone.
“Would you?” she countered, hoping her voice sounded strong and assured, a stark contrast to the unadulterated fear and doubt raging. “Because all I have to do is tell the Council and my parents who you really are, and the dispatch would be sanctioned before I finish speaking.”
He snorted. “You could,” he said. “But then your mother and your sister would suffer a similar fate as your dad. However, they might not be so lucky,” he told her. “Your father may well be on his way if you try me any further. This little illness of his is but a warning.”
“You hurt them, and I’ll kill Oliver.”
He laughed at her, a crass sound that chopped her down to nothing. That damn laughter. She hated how it sliced her with fear whenever she heard it. “You don’t kill innocents, love. That’s my job.”
She felt bile rise in the back of her throat.
She remained silent, a stinging behind her eyes. This couldn’t be happening again. She would die if she had to suffer another loss of that magnitude again. She would not survive it; of this she was sure.
“Or better yet, perhaps I rid myself of only your father, take Delphine as my wife. She’s still beautiful, you know. Aged like fine wine. And I assume complete control of not only the Council but your family as well.” He laughed as if he’d made an uproariously funny joke. “I’d be your father, Nena. What do you think of that? Irony at its fucking finest.”
Over her dead body would Paul ever be her father. Or assume High Council.
“You’ve played with me too much, girl, and it’s time I remind you of who you are dealing with. There will be no more of your temper tantrums.”
As if with the snap of fingers, Nena was fourteen again, taken back to her burning village: to the moment Papa lost his head, to the sweltering Hot Box, to the murderous Robach.
She swallowed hard. Willing herself to remain calm, to not let him know how deeply he’d wounded her. Tiny hairline cracks snaked through her usually placid demeanor. Paul was the only person who could make her feel all the fear and insecurity she’d felt as a young girl. He was the only person she truly feared because she knew the depths he would go to take from her again.
His point made, Paul disconnected the call.
54
BEFORE
“Noble, you’re mad,” Mum argues in a hushed whisper. “We should be teaching her the business like we’re doing with Elin. What you’re suggesting, it’s too much. Hasn’t she had enough violence in her life?”
It is late, and I should be asleep, but I woke up thirsty and came downstairs to get a drink. Mum and Dad’s bedroom door is open, and they speak freely, thinking they are alone. Candidly, about me. Part of me feels guilty about eavesdropping. The other part of me wants to know their true thoughts of me.
“Del, trust me on this. She won’t want to run books and make decisions on the corporate or moral levels about Council territories. She won’t want attention on her. You know this.”
“Yes, but—”
“But you heard her the other day. She wants her power back. She wants to feel safe and like she has a choice in what happens to her. She needs something physical to do, something concrete.”
“And assuming control with Elin when we step down isn’t concrete enough? She will help run this entire organization that you have built.”
“She won’t want to sit behind a desk and make deals and lead the business ventures. Those are for Elin to handle.” The volume of Dad’s voice never increases. He always remains calm. He always chooses his words carefully. “My fear is if we do not channel her rage, and believe me, she has it, it will manifest in self-destructive ways. She needs to release the demons she harbors inside.”
“Are you calling our child evil?” Mum blusters.
My lips tremble, a sob teasing at them. Is that how Dad sees me? As evil?
“Of course not. I’m saying Nena needs to channel her anger. She won’t speak of her past anymore. She needs to do something physical—just trust me, Del.”
“Well, surely we aren’t going to win parents of the year, allowing one of our daughters to do this,” Mum grumbles, the steam let out of her fight.
Relieved their disagreement is merely a difference of opinion and not an argument, I relax, about to go back the way I came, until their next words make me stop.
“No, but when the girls are adults and inherit their roles as heads of the Tribe, along with the other members and their children, our family continues its top position. It’s only our family I fully trust to ensure the Tribe continues as it was meant to be.”
Tribe. Council. The words roll in my mind, sounding both ominous and exhilarating. I knew there was more to Dad and Mum’s business. Everything sounds very secretive, and they watch their words around me. But now, it seems this Tribe and Council will become my business as well. My water forgotten, I make my way back to my room and shut the door behind me. For the first time since I can remember, I feel excitement bubbling up. Whatever Dad has planned, I hope he will tell me sooner rather than later.
Because I can stand no further delays in reclaiming who I am.
There are only a couple of weeks remaining of school befor
e the summer holiday. I look forward to it, hoping the summer temperatures will be more tolerable for my heat-accustomed body. After a particularly uneventful day, Margot directs me to the garden, where Dad awaits.
He sits on the wicker bench and slides over to make room. The garden is vast, with a maze of bushes and trees I like to get lost in. Dad finds the garden as soothing as I do. He is often in it while I toil away at my bonsai and other exotic plants I am determined to make live in this harsh weather. Some do; some do not.
He asks after my day, which has gone fine. Then he crosses his legs, a habit of his I’ll eventually learn happens before he “gets down to business,” as Elin likes to say. He also tends to tilt his chin up a centimeter and look to the air as if seeking guidance. My eyes travel up as well, expecting to see a face or force looming above. There’s nothing there.
“You may or may not already know, but I originate from Senegal, having immigrated here when I was young. My parents sent me first to live with an uncle in Nigeria, where I involved myself with a rough bunch, enjoying my sudden freedom from my parents. I was a pretty bad child.
“When my uncle sent me to England to live with an old girlfriend of his, I continued along my path. I liked what I was doing back home, but I didn’t want to be the soldier anymore, the bag boy holding the food or guns. I wanted to be supplying the food, the brains of the whole organization. I wanted to run the money because, to me, money was the most important thing. Because I had gone so long without it, I never wanted to be without it again. I would kill for it. And I did.”
I was not prepared for his admission. Murder is something he and I share. He is telling me of our shared experience, but to what end?
“I met Del when I was twenty. She was seventeen and attending an all-girls uni. Her family had immigrated here from Ghana when she was a baby. They owned several markets and a dress shop that specialized in African fabrics and were doing well for themselves. They certainly didn’t want me around their daughter, but your mum and I were inseparable from the moment she sold me a cola in one of their stores.
“Eventually, her parents began to accept me. Her brother, Abraham, became my best friend. We grew into this world together—Abraham, Del, and I.”
I cannot explain my feelings as I listen to him speak. It pleases me that he is sharing his past with me, that he can relate to something of the life I lived on the streets. However, I am curious where this conversation is heading.
“Have you heard of my father before?” I ask. “Michael Asym? Or of N’nkakuwe and of how it is? Chigali, maybe?”
Dad’s eyes dim as he weighs his words carefully. “I did not know your father, not personally.”
“My village?” I ask, hoping he says there is something left. A deeper part of me knows the truth.
He shakes his head. “No, Nena, N’nkakuwe is gone. It is as you said, burned to the ground with not a soul left. We scoured Aburi Mountain for any signs, any survivors.”
I catch my bottom lip between my teeth to prevent it from trembling. I turn away, my vision blurring and hot. I knew this already, but I couldn’t help harboring this one last bit of hope that I was wrong.
“Soon,” my father says, “Del, Abraham, and I developed a routine. I hustled, and she had the business sense and knew when a deal was good or not. I trust her above anyone else, and with our partnership, I rose higher and higher in the ranks of one of the local organizations we got in with. There are many organizations from various countries who trade and work together to import and export goods, drugs, arms, money, things like that. Eventually I had enough sway to unite a few of the African organizations working out of London. These became the African Tribal Council.”
The Tribe. I recall the conversation I overheard between Dad and Mum.
“The Tribe, as we call it, is a conglomerate of countries from all over Africa. Our investors are wealthy people who come from those countries. We dedicate ourselves to the advancement of all African nations and Black people everywhere. You see, we hate that the world thinks of Africa as third world, though there are factions within and abroad who prefer Africa remain split and at war all the time. That we remain unaware of the riches we walk on every day. Those entities seek to plunder us, to take advantage of our trusting and loving nature.”
His words have me enraptured, but as I continue listening, a thought begins to develop. What if N’nkakuwe had had the Tribe’s protection? The people would all still be alive, and I would have never been taken and sold. The troubling thoughts crash about in my head until I can no longer hold them in.
“Where was the Tribe when N’nkakuwe needed them?” It comes out as an accusation, an unfair one, but I cannot help what I feel—let down, as if the world turned its back on us.
My words wound him. His face crumples, and he sucks in a deep breath, searching for the best answer. I should take back my question. Dad has been nothing but kind to me. But then I think about my dead papa, my brothers and auntie, my entire village, and I wait for his response.
“There’s nothing I can say that will be suitable enough, Nena.”
That is all he offers, and I don’t know what I am supposed to do with it. But I suppose, what can he say? Dad is not God, but how can he claim to be a protector of African people if these things happen beneath his nose?
Dad continues, “Even though the Tribe is focused on advancing the African cause as a united entity, sometimes we must employ extreme measures.”
“You mean killing others.”
Dad hesitates. “It’s not as simple as just killing people. Everything we do is for the advancement of our cause. We do not condone anything that denigrates African people. Our focus is on controlling imports and exports out of Africa. We do smuggle contraband as necessary to make money, to obtain power.”
“Do you smuggle slaves?”
His eyes cloud. “We are businessmen and women working in unison for the advancement of Africa and the people in it and of it,” he says again. “Do you understand, Nena? We work to make Africa as powerful as the Western world.”
My eyes never waver from his. “And the imprisonment of humans, of children? And the rape and torture of them? Does the Tribe trade in that?”
“No,” he says firmly. His gaze holds mine. “The Tribe would never knowingly participate in human trafficking.”
Dad says they would never knowingly, but he cannot say unequivocally, because this Tribe of his is not perfect.
He cannot deny the Tribe dabbles in selling people to others for their entertainment.
“Nena, we have transferred people in and out of Africa, yes, but not to be sold as slaves. Never that. At least, that is not something we condone or would allow if we knew. I cannot dictate what the individuals decide to do on their own or what those under their watch do, but when the Council learns of such actions, we take care of it. We quell it.”
Does he realize how naive he sounds? My expression must tell him so, because he frowns back at me.
“What happened to your village should not have happened. Paul performed those atrocities, not the Tribe. Sometimes, we do move people in and out of countries for various reasons—the main reason being that the people want a new life and can’t get out properly. However, our transportation of them is not against anyone’s will.” He looks at me as if checking if I am still with him. Begrudgingly, I nod. “Sometimes, we have enemies transferred elsewhere to repay a debt or as punishment for something they’ve done. But sometimes—”
“Sometimes, the murder of innocent people, the selling of their women and children to be slaves for disgusting pedophiles, falls between the cracks,” I finish between clenched teeth, hands balled by my sides. This moment is the first and only time I ever want to strike my dad, to rain punches upon his head for each and every life lost in N’nkakuwe.
It’s as if all his energy has drained from him. “That is what we work against. It’s why we work to create legitimate businesses, so our people never have to subjugate themselves to a
nyone.”
I suck my teeth. My anger ignites my boldness. I barely know myself. “And Paul? What of him?”
“Also gone. When your home was razed and your father, chief of N’nkakuwe, murdered, it was an act of treason in our eyes. But because we don’t have dealings with Paul, we don’t know him. There are many people we deal with in Ghana. Paul is not one of them.”
“And the other two? Where are they?”
“Likely dead. We’ve conducted extensive searches. We sent out our dispatch teams.”
I squint at him against the sunlight, still not quite trusting it could all be over. “The Compound?”
“We cleared it. It’s demolished now. I believe he has been eliminated, Nena,” Dad says comfortingly. “He could not have hidden from my resources.”
“Truly?” I look at him, hoping beyond hope.
He grunts and gives a slight nod, and I settle back on the bench, letting what he has said resonate. Dad cannot relate to what happened to my village or at the hands of Monsieur. He does not know how it feels to be sold like cattle.
“Without boring you . . . ,” he continues, attempting to get us back on track and away from my accusations.
I continually remind myself I am not angry with him.
“I am at the head of the Council table. I am the High Council. All major deals run through me. Del says whoever holds the purse holds the key. I guess that’s why she is the boss of the house, eh?” He laughs, while my mouth twitches at the truth. She does.
He drops his arm on the top bar of the bench behind my shoulders, careful not to touch me, aware of my triggers.
“Delphine and I work well together. She has an affinity for reading people. For knowing their soul, so to speak. It’s why she brought you home to us. She could read that you were the missing puzzle piece in our family.”
I cannot remember the last time I was this kind of emotional. It feels good, proper, to be tearful because I am happy.
“What we have is a family business. This business is what Elin will eventually run—and, we hope, with you by her side.”