Sankofa Read online

  “That’s good.” It was Adrian standing over me. I closed my sketchbook.

  “I’m ready to go,” I said, standing up and dusting the sand from my clothes.

  “What did you think of it?” I asked Kwesi, our driver, when we got back to the car park.

  “What I thought?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a very strong building. Good place for military defense.”

  “But what of the slaves?”

  “That’s in the past. It’s bad, but it’s in the past.”

  19

  My father lived in a bungalow on a street with many mansions. The area was called the Peak, a gently sloping neighborhood from which you could see the city spread out like a map. Some portions of Segu were laid out in straight lines. Others defied the imposition of a grid and grew to some more complex, organic pattern. There was a checkpoint on his road, manned by an officer with a rifle and no shade from the sun.

  “Good morning. We’re here to see Citizen. My name is Professor Adrian Bennett.”

  The officer ticked a name on his clipboard and waved us through. The perimeter walls were low, low enough to see the one-story house and the garden that surrounded it. It was a prize garden, landscaped with care. Unlike the mansions on either side, no barbed wire garlanded the walls. Adrian pressed the buzzer. A voice spoke out of the intercom.

  “Good morning. Your name, please.”

  “Adrian Bennett.”

  “Please push the side gate and walk to the house. President Adjei will welcome you himself.”

  We paused when we entered the compound. The gardener sprinkling the grass looked up and raised a hand in greeting.

  “I suppose we just go to the house like she said,” Adrian said.

  It was a bungalow built in the colonial style, with low eaves and long windows. The entire house stood on stilts, a whole foot above the ground, enough space for a body to crawl under. A man dressed in white was waiting on the veranda. White trousers, white shirt, and thick silver hair that grew close to his scalp. He was tall and upright, but something in his posture was beginning to bend.

  “My old friend, welcome.”

  He embraced Adrian.

  “And who is this? Your beautiful wife?”

  “A good friend of mine. I mentioned to your assistant.”

  “Of course. And what is your name?”

  “Anna Bain.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Anna Bain.”

  The surname meant nothing to him. We shook hands. I touched my father for the first time.

  “This is for you,” I said. I handed him the bottle of wine I bought in the hotel gift shop.

  “Thank you. Very kind. Come. Our breakfast is getting cold. And we have many years to catch up on.”

  His accent was upper-class English, a BBC announcer from a certain era. He walked like a soldier, with his hands clasped behind his back. He led us down a corridor, past photographs of famous men: Muhammad Ali, Bob Marley, a U.S. president, Jimmy Carter perhaps, all pictured with my father. In the dining room there were three places. He sat at the head of the table, and Adrian and I sat on either side.

  “Welcome to this humble repast. Anna, I hope you don’t have any food allergies. They’re in vogue these days. My grandson tells me he cannot eat wheat or dairy.”

  He clapped, and two servants appeared bearing covered dishes. They were the only extravagance. The dining table was simple, unvarnished wood, and the dishes and cutlery were plain.

  “Adrian, forgive me. I didn’t ask if you have any allergies because I know you eat anything. Do you remember when I served intestines at a state banquet?”

  “Yes, the French ambassador was quite upset.”

  “I wrote him a letter apologizing that while he had no taste for intestines, I also had no taste for frogs. Don’t worry,” he said, turning to me, “there will be no intestines served at breakfast this morning . . . although they are a national delicacy. You must try them before you leave.”

  I let a boiled egg and a slice of toast be put on my plate, and listened while Adrian and my father spoke. Under the table, my hands smoothed my dress over my knees until my palms grew warm with friction.

  “So how was the African Union Summit?” Adrian asked.

  “Same as always. No one is really willing to unite. The Nigerians were throwing their weight around, of course. Oil prices are high this year and so their delegates were feeling particularly buoyant. There’s one fellow I had my eye on, president of Rwanda—I forget his name, but he’ll make something of that country yet.”

  “I hear he’s a dictator,” Adrian said.

  “Perspective is everything. I didn’t get too involved. One only goes to these things as an elder now, to play the Mandela as it were, may he rest in peace. It’s the greatest of secular miracles how that man was transformed from a terrorist to a Messiah. And you? Why has it taken you so long to return to Bamana? You should have written another book about us. What was the first one called again?”

  “Bamana: One Hundred Days,” Adrian said.

  “Yes, of course. It was very popular here when it came out. It did a wonderful job of recording our achievements for the world. You’re too old to go around on a motorcycle, but maybe you could hire a car. I might even come with you this time.”

  “You’d be recognized,” Adrian said.

  “I suppose you’re right. Even in the rural areas my image is well known. It can be a burden sometimes. How is the family? I have six grandchildren. It’s hard to believe. It seems like it was only yesterday I was fighting for Bamana’s independence.”

  There was no opening for me in their conversation. My father posed questions and then answered them. He asked for an opinion and then gave it. He did not eat much. Sometimes he would lift his spoon and return it to his bowl of porridge without it touching his lips.

  “So what brings you to Bamana?” he said, turning to me. I felt the brunt of his attention bearing down on me. I clasped my hands to still them.

  “I came to see you.”

  “I’m flattered. What do you do?”

  “I studied architecture.”

  “A noble profession. This area, the Peak, was once white men’s quarters. This very bungalow was the home of the chief secretary to the governor. He left his guns behind. In fact, this whole neighborhood used to be full of houses like this one, but most of them have been torn down. They’re too small for a certain kind of Bamanaian taste. So how may I help you?”

  I glanced at Adrian. He nodded.

  “There is a family connection between us. You knew my mother when you were a student in London,” I said.

  “Is that so? And what was her name?”

  “Bronwen Bain. Is it familiar to you?”

  I watched closely for a reaction. My father gave none. His face remained as still as a wooden carving.

  “Go on with your story,” he said.

  “My mother died earlier this year and I found your journal when I went through her things. You left it in her keeping. The entries are mostly about your life as a student, but you also wrote about your relationship with her. She fell pregnant after you’d gone.”

  “After?”

  “I mean she found out she was pregnant after you’d gone. She was already pregnant when you were there, because the child was yours. The child was me.”

  “What is this, Adrian?”

  “It seems an unlikely story, Francis—”

  “Kofi.”

  “I’m sorry. It seems an unlikely story, but Anna contacted me in Edinburgh saying she had a family connection to you. She brought the diary to me, I read it, and the facts are authentic. She is Bronwen Bain’s daughter.”

  “Where is this diary that I allegedly wrote?”

  “It’s here.”

  I gave it to him. The servants returned to clear away our dishes. They walked with their backs bent. They did not straighten, even after they had lifted the plates from in front of us. When my father finally spok
e, he addressed Adrian.

  “I don’t know how this fell into her hands. It has obviously helped her concoct this ridiculous story. I want the two of you out of my house. I’m disappointed in you, Adrian.”

  “What did you want me to say? ‘Hi, Kofi’s secretary. I’d like to see him. I’m coming with his daughter he’s never met.’”

  “I know all my children.”

  “If you’ll just let me explain,” I said. “My mother never spoke about you or else I would have found you sooner. All she said was that you’d gone back to Bamana and the two of you had lost touch. The only thing I had was your name: Francis Aggrey. I don’t want anything from you. I’m comfortable in England, but I am your daughter.”

  “I am almost sorry to see her in distress over what is a complete fabrication. I cannot help her. Only a psychiatrist can do that. This meeting is at an end.”

  He stood up with the diary.

  “This is my property.”

  “That’s not fair, Kofi. You gave it to her mother.”

  “Not to let it fall into the hands of some lunatic. I have entertained this long enough. Get out of my house. Either you go willingly or I will have someone escort you.”

  My mother knew when she hid his diary that there would be no father waiting for me in Bamana. We walked down the corridor on our own this time, past the famous faces, past a playful Muhammad Ali with his fist clenched.

  Outside, the gardener was pruning. He raised a hand again in salute.

  “You mustn’t take it personally. I told you Francis has changed completely from the man in that diary.”

  “I can take it any way I like,” I said, but he was not listening.

  “I wish I had photographs. Such a historical find. Now he’s got his hands on that diary, he’ll probably burn it and erase all evidence that he was ever a human being. Did you manage to—”

  “Don’t. Please.”

  Adrian had tried to warn me, had tried to shield me from disappointment, but here it was anyway, crouched like a small, dense animal on my chest.

  Meanwhile, Segu continued, immune to my own personal dramas. A young man whizzed past on roller skates, dodging traffic, skimming through the gaps between cars. I had had an hour with my father, perhaps all the time I would ever have, and I had squandered it.

  When I got back to my room I went to the bathroom and stood over the toilet. The egg from Kofi’s house rushed into the bowl followed by clear, thick spit. When I was done, I brushed my teeth and confronted my reflection. My hair had grown out of its corn rows. I was a disheveled middle-aged woman, too old to be Kofi’s child. I undid the weaving and pulled out the gold threads. I splashed cold water on my face. I cried.

  20

  I ordered my meals to my room and piled the plates by the door. I watched television, Bamanaian television. The films were poor quality, rich drama. Sons duping fathers. Wives poisoning rivals. When room service knocked to clean, I went downstairs to the gym. It was empty most of the time. There were mirrors on the walls and posters of bodies to aspire to. I rode a stationary bike until my face was wet.

  My anger arrived two days after our meeting, like thunder lagging behind lightening. How dare Kofi dismiss me without even asking for proof? I should have demanded a DNA test. It was the least he owed my family, the Bains who housed him in London when no one else would.

  I chanced on a wedding reception in the hotel’s banqueting suite. I stood by the doors and watched the guests come and go. The women were dressed like celebrities—feathers stitched to bodices, headdresses that added a foot to their height, fabric trains that dragged behind them, sweeping up dust. Far away, so far away that there were screens to help you see them, were the bride and groom on a dais, two small figures on a cake. The bride’s dress overflowed the bounds of her throne, like foam rising out of a glass. On the throne next to her, the groom sat with his legs crossed. They held hands across the armrests and looked out into the crowd.

  They were young and in love, but how long before the tinsel faded? I felt like the wicked fairy godmother, arrived to cast gloom. An usher approached with a clipboard.

  “Bride side or groom side?” she asked.

  “Neither. I’m a guest at the hotel.”

  “Please, ma, this is a private event.”

  I ignored Adrian’s calls. I preferred to be alone. Rose phoned to ask about the meeting. I did not want to admit what a failure it had been. I had come to Bamana despite her misgivings, and now she was proved right.

  “It went well,” I said.

  “It did? I was worried he didn’t want to meet you after he postponed. Did you tell him about me?”

  “Didn’t get the chance.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “He talked about himself mostly. He’s old.”

  There was no need to tell her who Kofi really was. I would never be a part of his life and he would never be part of mine. Once I returned to England the incident would be forgotten.

  “Did you get a picture at least?” she asked.

  “Not even that.”

  “That sucks. I’ll be glad to have you back, though. Should I book another meeting with Anna?”

  I was beginning to understand that the divorce was more for Rose’s closure than mine. Her single-mindedness verged on mania. At first, I interpreted her refusal to speak to Robert as her taking my side, but it was only her way of punishing him. She was like an ex-believer. She might turn on her old faith, but she was in no search of a replacement.

  “Thanks,” I said. “But not yet.”

  On my last afternoon in Segu I left the hotel for a walk. Kofi was not the only thing to see in Bamana. The Palace Hotel was on a road lined with glass buildings. If you kept your eye above street level, you could be in any financial capital in the world.

  “Obroni!”

  It was a coconut seller, late in the day, and his wagon was full. I bought a coconut for two cowries and he split it open with one knife blow. The water was cool, a balance of sweet and salt. I bought a second and a third.

  I took a left turn and declined the wares of a mango seller. I remembered the empty streets in Kofi’s neighborhood—no hawkers, no market stalls. That whole area had been cleared as thoroughly as his garden. I did not fit into the story of his life and he did not fit into mine.

  As I moved farther away from my hotel, businesses grew more modest and glass was used more sparingly, for windows, not walls. There was no pavement and the other pedestrians walked close. They brushed against me. Their skin touched mine.

  I walked until I reached a church. There was no cross, no dome, but a billboard advertised its name: TABERNACLE OF LIGHT. Like the shops, it had a logo, a flaming torch in a green circle. Music reached the street through the open windows, a soprano on a microphone, cymbals.

  “Jesus is Lord, my sister,” said a stranger, trying to enter the building.

  “Pardon me,” I said. “I’m in your way.”

  “You’re not going inside? We have a prayer meeting.” His gripped his Bible by the spine, holding it like a clutch bag.

  “Sorry. I have other plans.”

  “There is no plan more important than salvation.”

  I turned from the evangelist and walked back to the hotel. The lobby was full of suits. Adrian was distinct in that crowd, the only one whose elbows were visible. His limbs were tanned. His neck and face were closer to their Edinburgh hue.

  “Anna! You’ve ignored my phone calls.” It was the tone perhaps he used with erring students, confronting them with their wrongdoing.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I hope you don’t feel the whole trip was wasted.”

  “No. Of course not.” I didn’t need one last lecture.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Graham.” It was the receptionist. Her face was familiar.

  “Claire?”

  “Christina. Please, there is a man here to see you. He said I should tell you that he’s from your father and the message is urgent.”


  “Let him come.”

  The man was looking in our direction, but he made a show of waiting for Christina to walk back to him.

  “How does he know where I’m staying?” I asked Adrian.

  “He has the resources. He might ask us to sign something. A nondisclosure contract saying we won’t repeat the contents of the diary, for example,” he said.

  “And if we won’t sign?”

  “We’re in his country.”

  Christina returned with the stranger, who was wearing an expensive suit. In another set of clothes, he would have been found out as being fat. His silk tie was cut large. It glistened like a cow’s tongue. He bowed to Adrian and then me.

  “Good evening, ma. I’m Sule, and Sir Kofi sent me to meet you. He would like to speak to you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I’ll call him now,” he said. “Please, can we go somewhere quiet?”

  I took them to the gym. There was a lone runner going uphill on the treadmill. He did not look up when we entered. I filled a paper cup with water. Sule dialed my father.

  “Anna, I would like you to meet with you again.” Kofi’s voice was deeper on the phone.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “I would like you to stay.”

  “Even if I wanted to, my visa expires tomorrow.”

  “I can take care of that.”

  “What about Adrian?”

  “The invitation is for you,” Kofi said. “I am not good at speaking over the phone. If you choose to stay, my aide will make the necessary arrangements. If not, thank you for traveling to see me. Let me talk to Sule.”

  Sule left the gym. The man on the treadmill had reached the end of his run. When he got off the machine, his first steps were unsure. His feet faltered on steady ground. I sat down on a pink exercise ball. I had been standing for almost an hour. A flush of heat rose through me. I was perspiring under my clothes.