Sankofa Read online

  “I had steak and chips for dinner.”

  “Now who’s deflecting? I’ve been traveling for hours, Rose. I don’t want to fight.”

  We were silent for a moment. Rose pixelated and reformed. She was biting her lower lip. When she was younger, she would sometimes bite herself till she bled.

  “You should call your dad,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “To speak to him. He misses you.”

  “Maybe next week. I’ll let you go. You must be tired,” she said.

  “I’ll call you soon.”

  She cut the call without saying goodbye.

  Robert and I disagreed on how to raise Rose. He wanted to teach her resilience and courage and confidence and public speaking, walks in the countryside, camping, swallows and amazons. This was all well and good, but what about race?

  “What about it? he asked.

  “Her mother is black.”

  “She’ll be able to see that. And you’re half white as well. I don’t want her to grow up having a chip on her shoulder.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I don’t know the politically correct way to say it,” he said. “I just want her to be free of adult cares and prejudices.”

  “I didn’t have that choice.”

  “The world’s different now.”

  I tried anyway. After all, to ignore race was to attempt to be white, a South African friend at university once told me. I explained to Rose that race was a social construct with real-life implications, not to be ignored and brushed over; but to everyone who looked at her, my daughter was white. No one would ever switch seats in the tube because of her. No one would wonder where she was really from. I told her about Martin Luther King and Mary Seacole and Nefertiti, but I myself knew too little about these icons to make them convincing heroes for her. How could I fight against the overwhelming white tide of film and television and textbooks and newspapers?

  “It doesn’t matter anymore, Mum. We’re all the same. Nobody cares,” she told me when she turned thirteen.

  I opened my suitcase and hung my clothes in the wardrobe. The room was scentless, like nothing alive had ever set foot inside it. When I was done, I went to the bathroom. The mirror was large; the lighting strong. The lines around my eyes and lips seemed deeper. I looked tired.

  I washed my face and dried it with a fresh towel. I changed into my pajamas and lay under the sheets. Rose was an adult. Rose must take care of herself now. I was in Bamana. I had come to my father’s home.

  Breakfast was a buffet with rows of warm silver trays. Water condensed when you raised a lid, dripping like sweat. I took what I recognized: sausage, mushrooms, baked beans, left-behind brown balls of akara, and a viscous white pap called ogi.

  A chef fried eggs on demand. I placed an order and sat at a table. There was something French about the white-gloved waiters, dark-wood booths, and baguettes at the bread station swaddled in red checkered cloth. I wasn’t the only solo traveler.

  “Good morning.”

  “Morning,” I said to Ken.

  “May I join you?”

  “Feel free.”

  His appetite was controlled—one sausage, a boiled egg, and a slice of toast.

  “Hotel food will make you fat,” he said, gazing at his sparse plate.

  “So what brings you to Bamana?” I asked.

  “I’m a consultant. My specialty is emerging markets, with a subspecialty in Africa. I started off in oil, but my brief now includes energy. At a push, I can advise on commodities: copper, gold, diamonds.”

  “Bamana has diamonds. They must keep you busy,” I said. I felt mildly hostile to this Englishman who had traveled here to seek profit. It was the effect of Francis Aggrey’s diary, perhaps.

  “That market has been cornered for over a century. De Witt’s and so on. I’m here because there are rumors of oil, just off the coast of Segu. In ten years, twenty years, cars will be running on hydrogen. Some lab rat in Geneva is going to make sure of it. But there’s space for one last oil boom and Bamana may be about to get a slice of it.”

  “Sugar,” I said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Please pass the sugar.” He’d moved the bowl to his side of the table.

  My omelette arrived, golden and plain, as I liked it.

  “That looks good. I’ll have that tomorrow. That’s another thing with these places. The breakfast menu never changes.”

  He was capable of silence. We ate without talking.

  “Any plans for the day?” he asked when he was done.

  “I might go to the beach.”

  “Be careful. The currents can be quite strong.”

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “I have a meeting at ten, which probably means two, but I’ll be there on time. Keep up the side and all that.”

  “Which side?”

  “The punctual side.” He smiled at a trap avoided. He was wearing sunscreen. There were white smudges on his chin and cheeks. “Well, I’ll leave you to the rest of your morning. I hope I’ll see you at breakfast again.”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  I returned to my room. From my balcony I could see the flow of traffic and pedestrians, lives intersecting on the road. The telephone rang. It was Adrian.

  “So sorry. There’s been a scheduling error. I’m teaching today so I won’t be able to come.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll just rest. Still a bit tired from the flight. See you tomorrow, then.”

  “Day after. My lectures are proving surprisingly popular. You could attend one.”

  The irony escaped him. A white man teaching African history in Africa. It read like an entry from the pages of Francis’s journal.

  “We’ll see,” I said.

  “All right. Have to run.”

  I looked out on the road again. The honking traveled upwards. I could go out into the city. I could walk Segu’s streets alone as Francis had once walked London on his own. And yet, leaving my hotel without a guide suddenly seemed beyond me. I was used to traveling with Robert, used to his arm steering me through foreign streets, used to him speaking to strangers when we were lost. I had spent all my daring to reach Bamana and now, on this first day, I felt cautious.

  Waiting for Adrian was sensible. I switched on the television. It was tuned to BBC News. I recognized the presenter. The events she read about already seemed far away. Flooding in Yorkshire. Tube strikes in London. I dozed off. When I woke up it was past noon. Lunchtime, but I wasn’t yet hungry. The hotel had a pool, a gym, a sauna. I put on some sunscreen, picked up a novel, and went downstairs.

  I was the only guest by the pool. I lay on a deck chair under a sunshade. It was soon clear that it was too hot to be outside, but I didn’t want to go back to my room. The water sparkled, still and lifeless. My book lay unopened by my side.

  A figure blocked the sun. It was Ken.

  “Did you make it to the beach?” he asked.

  “No. How was your meeting?”

  “No show. You get used to this kind of thing over here. We’ve rescheduled for Friday. Any plans for today?”

  “Not much,” I said.

  “We can still go to Bongo Beach. It’s only one thirty.”

  “I’ll go upstairs and fetch my things.”

  Here was the guide I was waiting for. Someone who knew the country well, although a stranger. A beach was an open space. I would be safe.

  Ken called a hotel taxi. We pulled out and joined the stream of moving vehicles. It was air-conditioned, sleek, plush seating at the back. He pointed out landmarks: Liberty Square, the Parliament Building, the Central Bank. Segu in daylight felt different. In the evening it had seemed muted and mysterious. Now the sun revealed all its secrets.

  The city was brutally concrete. Once in a while a tree would appear in the landscape like an alien ship stranded. Wherever there was a tree there were people in its shade, resting on benches, trading their wares. When the taxi slowed there was always someone selling somethin
g.

  “Kofi Adjei,” I said, pointing to a portrait held aloft by a hawker. It was my father done in oil on canvas, in a lurid, almost cartoonish style.

  “Well spotted,” Ken said.

  We passed a line of European backpackers, walking like ants on a trail, bearing their loads and fleeing from some unknown calamity. How had they come here? They were festooned in tie-dye clothing, pilgrims on their way to where?

  The taxi drove right up to the beachfront, stopping just before the gravel turned to sand. At the gate, Ken paid the admission fee of ten cowries and rented a shack with a roof, three walls, and a view. We watched the traffic: families with small children, young men on horses, racing and raising sand.

  “I’ll go get us something to drink. What would you like?”

  “I don’t have money. I haven’t changed any yet.”

  “That’s fine. It’s on me.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Coke, please.”

  “I’m afraid Coca-Cola is still banned. Thrown out by Adjei.”

  “Why?”

  “The government said they didn’t pay enough taxes, but I think they refused to pay Adjei a bribe. Pepsi?”

  “No, thanks. Water is fine.”

  I watched him walk off. His legs looked thin in the wide mouths of his shorts—camel legs, bearing up a broad chest. Not quite my type. Too reedy. He returned with drinks and food. He spread out the roasted fish and plantains on newspapers.

  “This was breathing just a few hours ago.”

  We ate with our fingers. The fish was covered in a vinegar relish, flaking away from the bone. The plantains were charred on the outside, sweet on the inside.

  “They eat like gods here,” Ken said. “Even the poorest can eat like this.”

  As if he had overheard, a beggar approached—a young boy, barefoot, with holes in his clothes. He stood at the mouth of our shack, holding out his hands. Ken gave him some coins. I wrapped the last plantain in newspaper.

  “Thanks, boss,” the boy said.

  “I should have said, almost everyone can eat like this,” Ken said, when the boy was gone. “I have a son about his age.”

  “You miss him.”

  “Yes. He’s with his mother. She left me for a man who travels less. A GP. You don’t get more earthbound than that,” he said. “What of you? Any children?”

  “One. A daughter. We should go into the ocean,” I said. I didn’t want to talk about my family with a stranger.

  My swimsuit was under my clothes, a black halter-neck one-piece. The ruching on the torso looked slimming when I bought it, but now it felt frumpy. My middle-aged vanity wanted Ken to think me attractive. I unbuttoned my shirt and slid off my shorts with my back turned.

  “Don’t leave your bum bag,” he said. I strapped it over my shoulder.

  The sun’s heat was trapped in the sand. It burned underfoot. I ran to the water and waded to my knees.

  “Don’t go too far. The current is strong.”

  There were others in the ocean, also staying at its edge, facing the sun. An old woman bathed fully dressed. Her white garments ballooned around her. When the tide pulled in, her dress fell, clinging to her like a winding sheet. A boy held on to his father’s leg, the water chest-deep for him. I staggered under a wave.

  “Careful,” Ken said. He grasped me by the inner elbow and pulled me upright.

  “Thanks,” I said. He held my arm for a moment longer than necessary.

  “Saved your life.” He was edging into flirtation.

  “I am forever indebted,” I said, matching his tone but pulling away.

  “Seriously. People get swept out to their deaths all the time. That’s why I never swim here.”

  There were ships on the horizon, large tankers that looked like bath toys from this distance.

  “What are they bringing?” I asked.

  “Shiny things for rich Bamas. Cars, televisions, sound systems.”

  “What else?”

  “Food. Rice from India, stockfish from Norway, processed food as basic as tomato puree.”

  “They don’t grow tomatoes here?”

  “They don’t preserve them.”

  The water got colder. The waves grew stronger. My mouth tasted of salt.

  “I’m going back to the shack,” I said, and he followed me. We sat facing the ocean, as if we had not just left it. A breeze blew in carrying fine bits of sand.

  “Getting chilly. We should go soon. Or huddle for warmth.”

  He put his arm over my shoulder. I let it rest there. The weight was not unpleasant.

  “So what do you think of the country so far?” he asked.

  “Still trying to take it all in. I don’t want to miss anything.”

  A seagull flew low and fast, skimming the waves. It circled and repeated the maneuver before flying off.

  “What are your plans for the rest of the week?” he said.

  “Sightseeing.”

  “And?”

  “Shopping.”

  It was dusk now. A party had started at the far end of the beach. The boom of a bass reached us, slipped into my bloodstream.

  “Let’s dance,” I said. I got up and pulled him to his feet. His movements were jerky but he laughed at his own inelegance. We swung between dancing apart and dancing together.

  “I hope you’re having a good time,” he said.

  “I am.”

  On one close orbit, he caught me by the waist and kissed me. I was flattered by this interest from a reasonable prospect of a man. I kissed him back, a fumble of lips and tongues. With one sharp tug, he unraveled the knot of my halter neck.

  “People will see,” I said.

  “Not if we’re discreet.”

  We moved farther into the hut. I stood with my back to him, shielding myself from view. His hand fastened to my breast, teased at my nipple, stretched it this way and that like warm toffee. The music sped up, the beat more urgent. I rubbed against his groin. It was a dance from my youth, a night out at university, simulating sex on the dance floor. I could feel the tip of Ken’s arousal. He pushed forward and I pressed back, our hips moving in a circle, spinning like a top.

  I dragged his hand between my legs. He stroked me with the heel of his palm, up and down the slim triangle of nylon. I felt the distant tremor of a climax.

  Muffled footsteps, dulled by the sand. We froze like children in a party game.

  “Would I lie to you?” The voice was behind our shack. Only a thin wall separated us. I pulled up my swimsuit.

  “I said, would I lie to you? Don’t make me drop this phone.”

  The footsteps faded.

  “He’s gone,” Ken said, reaching for me.

  “We should get back to the hotel,” I said. “It’s dark.”

  I put on my clothes and gathered my things. The mood was awkward. We didn’t know each other well and we were too sober to laugh it off.

  In the taxi, Ken tried to hold my hand.

  “Not here,” I said, tipping my head towards the driver.

  Once we drove into the hotel, I opened the car door.

  “I’m on the seventh floor,” Ken said. “Seven hundred and two. Or I could come to yours?”

  “Actually, I’m not feeling too well,” I said, “but thank you for a lovely afternoon.” I got out and left him with the bill.

  In the elevator, I rode up to my floor with a spotless waiter. He glanced at me when I entered, our eyes meeting over silver cloches.

  “Good evening, madam.”

  “Good evening.”

  In my room I undressed and showered. I was covered in sand from the back of my neck to the crevices of my thighs.

  It was not how I imagined my first day in Bamana. It was the kind of thing I warned Rose about when she went traveling on her gap year. Beware of strange men in strange countries. Yet here I was, twenty-four hours into my trip, tits bared to a consultant I didn’t even know.

  I couldn’t imagine sleeping with Ken now, climbing up to his room
, clear-eyed and calm-headed, asking if he had a condom before I took off my clothes.

  When I was dry and dressed, I brought out Francis Aggrey’s diary from the safe to remind myself why I was here. I chose an entry at random.

  I have had Sunday lunch with the Bains. I am billed for lodging alone, but Mr. Bain didn’t begrudge me a few gratis slices of roast beef and potatoes. They are a close family. There was much discussion as the food was passed around. Bronwen cooked the meal, although Caryl said it was her recipe.

  “Older sisters take credit for everything,” Bronwen said, looking me in the face and smiling, confident with her family around her. Mr. Bain is fond of his daughters. A Segu man would feel cheated if he had no sons, but the Welsh do not seem to mind.

  At breakfast the next morning, I saw Ken sitting on his own. I returned his smile but found an empty table. I remembered the film How Stella Got Her Groove Back: a beach holiday, a middle-aged black woman, and a young Jamaican lover who looked nothing like Ken. I snorted into my cup of tea.

  After breakfast, I went to the hotel bureau de change and exchanged two hundred pounds for twenty thousand Bamanaian cowries. My father’s face was on the fifty- and hundred-cowrie notes. In one image, he faced the artist with a gentle expression. In the other, he was drawn in profile, his nose almost aquiline, more Roman than it looked in real life.

  I did not need anyone to show me around. I was in my father’s country. I took a taxi to Oxford Street Market, which was listed in all the online tourist guides. This Oxford Street was more alive than the one in London. Stalls lined the road on both sides, stretching as far as the eye could see. Shirts, dresses, and skirts lined racks that rose into the sky, dancing on hangers, moving like flags in the breeze.

  “Obroni!”

  A man approached with a tray of sunglasses.

  “Obroni, you need sunglass?”

  “I’m not an obroni,” I said, and walked into the market.

  I paused to study the prints. I wished I had brought my sketchbook. Some were geometric: hexagons and octagons, intersecting in a dizzying manner. On others, a single motif was repeated: a fan, a lampshade, a crown. What did it mean? And the colors. Four colors on a fabric, or six, or nine. I held a few against my arm. They were made for a richer, darker hue than mine.