Sankofa Page 16

  The airstrip was twenty minutes outside Segu. Kofi was waiting on the tarmac beside a plane with a pointed snout and a tail that branched off into two metal fins. The tips of the wings curved upwards. The twin engines were humming.

  “Welcome, Anna.” He grasped my shoulders and pressed his cheek to mine.

  Inside was spacious. Even Kofi could stand upright. On one side was a row of armchairs. On the other was a single leather sofa. An air hostess in a red-and-blue uniform welcomed us with a platter of cut fruit. The air was misted with lavender.

  “Good morning, Sir Kofi.” She bobbed a curtsy.

  “Good morning.” She curtsied to me, too.

  No one knew where I was. No one needed to know, except Rose, and even then, she depended on me for nothing. My decisions were mine. Reckless or not, only I would bear the consequences. My British passport was zipped into a side compartment in my bag. It was my talisman. In the Name of Her Majesty, allow the bearer to pass freely.

  “Would you like something to drink, madam?” The air hostess’s lipstick matched her skirt.

  “Yes, please. Some water.”

  Sule took the armchair at the back of the plane, while I sat behind the pilot’s closed door. Kofi lay on the sofa. If I looked back, I could see the soles of his feet. I was curious about him, as scientists are curious about new species they discover. I wanted to observe him in detail, to take notes on my findings. Once I had buckled my seat belt, the plane sped down the runway and rose into the sky. It was a cloudy day and the city was obscured.

  I’d bought a magazine from the hotel shop. The woman on the front was larger and darker than your average European cover girl. She was not a model or, if she was, she was modeling to a standard I had never seen. Her pose was sassy, obvious almost, with the hand on the hip and the bold stare. I couldn’t tell her age, but she was older than Rose when she went for her first casting.

  At fifteen a modeling agent had spotted her outside a McDonald’s, a hunter drawn to prey. She was almost as tall as Robert by then, with an erect, striding gait from lacrosse and netball. She wanted to do it. I was skeptical of a profession that depended solely on looks but Robert didn’t see the harm. Professional head shots were arranged, with her hair ironed flat and her eyes surly for the camera.

  I went with her on castings and waited outside with other mothers of minors. She got to the final round for a big fashion house and came out of the casting in tears. One of the girls, a pale English rose who would eventually be booked and feature in Vogue three months later, had pointed out the muscles in Rose’s calves. “Her legs are nigger big,” she said. Rose quit modeling after that. Then a year later she quit food.

  Were Robert and I to blame? All the advice we received said no. It was the culture and its harsh focus on female bodies, not parents who dieted or didn’t diet, not mothers who were strict or lax with food.

  “But we let her go on that casting,” I said to Robert on one night of tearful recrimination. He replied that there were other girls in her year who had never been on a casting, yet they had also stopped eating. It was scant consolation.

  The plane juddered and swung to the left. My glass rattled in its cup holder.

  “Don’t be afraid. The winds are strong this time of year,” Kofi said.

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “The flight is short. We’ll be landing soon.”

  Our descent was rapid, and I felt the pressure in my ears. When we broke through the clouds, Kofi pointed out Gbadolite. It was cut out of the forest in the shape of a key. There were buildings scattered along the long central road. The plane circled twice before we landed.

  “Welcome to Gbadolite,” the air hostess said over the PA system.

  Kofi and I sat in a golf cart. He was driving. There were no cars in Gbadolite, or if there were, they were tucked away in an underground garage. Ours was not the only golf cart. There were families, couples, even some solo travelers who had come to see the theme park that Kofi had built in the middle of the forest. They could choose from museums, a television studio, a cinema, a zoo, a water park, and a cable car ride. We were driving to the zoo.

  “Our collection of animals is one of the biggest in Africa. We have the only tiger in West Africa.”

  “Is he happy?”

  “A she. We’re trying to get her a mate from a zoo in Beijing. Of course, we could just mate her with one of the lions and create something called a liger.”

  When passengers in the other golf carts spotted Kofi, they beeped and waved, a few bowed in their seats. There were camera flashes. He lifted one hand in acknowledgment; the other remained steady on the wheel. We did not stop until we reached the zoo. It was empty of visitors and the keepers were standing by the entrance in their overalls. The females curtsied. The males bowed.

  Kofi was still a powerful man, that much was obvious, but he did not seem dangerous, as Adrian had warned. Kofi seemed like these animals in their cages: once wild, now domesticated.

  We went to the giraffes first. Their necks rose into the air like industrial cranes. Fresh leaves were brought but they showed no interest in our offerings. A keeper ran a stick along the bars but they ignored the noise. Finally, the keeper jumped over the bars and herded them to us with stamping and clapping. Their tongues when they emerged were thick and black, a shock buried in their pretty heads.

  “They’re beautiful,” I said.

  The tiger sat alone under a tree, marooned in her sunken pen. She looked up briefly and then looked away. The hippos remained submerged. The flamingos had a pond to wade in, their legs sticking out of the water like pink straws.

  “Do you want to watch the feeding of the crocodiles?” Kofi asked.

  “What do they eat?”

  “Chickens, mostly.”

  “Alive?”

  “Yes. They prefer a kill.”

  “I don’t think I can watch.”

  “It happens very fast.”

  A water habitat had been built for them. They sunned themselves on the bank, merging into the brown of their background like curious rock formations. The chickens were lowered in a cage. A few feet from the ground, the cage floor slid open and the birds tumbled out, battery chickens, uniform white feathers, plump from animal feed. They strutted in a loose circle, flapping and pecking the ground. They seemed unaware of the predators close by. Their instincts had been deadened.

  When the crocodiles charged, the carnage was quick and complete. Flesh was crushed between teeth as sharp and even as the teeth of a saw. Blood drizzled the earth and feathers littered the ground, like a pillow burst on a crime scene.

  “They are the totem of my clan. In my village, there are many men who bear the nickname Crocodile,” he said. “Come, you must be tired. I will take you back to your room. You can see the rest tomorrow.”

  The roads were laid out at right angles with a stop sign at every junction. Kofi rolled to a halt each time, even though the streets were now empty of other golf carts. Signposts identified the large buildings on either side: National Art Museum, Bamana Museum of Natural History, Bamana National Archive. We were dwarfed by the scale of the place as ants are dwarfed by their anthills.

  “Do you recognize the shape?” Kofi asked as we approached the main building.

  “An hourglass?”

  “A talking drum.”

  I had seen the drum in the marketplace, rounded at both ends, narrow at the waist, like a woman in a corset. As an instrument, it could be held comfortably under the arm. As a building, it would not easily fit into a photo frame. The drum was tightly bound by ropes. The middle section of the building was circled with thin lines of bronze, like rings around a planet. It was too literal an interpretation but the effect was striking. Sule was waiting outside.

  “Welcome to the People’s Palace,” Kofi said. “Sule will show you to your room.”

  Sule and I entered through a side door and stepped into a corridor that extended on either side of us. A car could drive comforta
bly down what felt like kilometers of marble highway. Our path was lit by chandeliers, every few feet another cluster of crystal and bulbs. Labor gangs of builders, painters, and plasterers must have worked for years to realize Kofi’s vision of an African palace. The architects had achieved their objective. I felt awed. What would Rose and Robert make of it? Or my in-laws, so proud of their Royal Enclosure membership at Ascot?

  Sule led me to my door, which was unlocked. The first thing I looked for was my overnight case. Someone had placed it by the imitation Louis XV wardrobe. There was a four-poster bed in the room complete with damask curtains and carved wooden poles. The windows looked out onto a garden and a silent fountain.

  “Is there Wi-Fi?” I asked.

  “It’s down at the moment. I will alert you once it’s functioning. Do you need anything else?”

  “Dinner?”

  “Dial one on the intercom to get the kitchen. They will prepare any meal of your choice.”

  “Thai curry?”

  “Our chefs are internationally trained. If you need me, dial nine.”

  After he left, I lay on the bed with my shoes on. The sheets were freshly laundered, high thread count, cool to the touch. I studied the canopy over the bed, the frame that held the curtains up. I would have given anything to have slept here as a child, a princess in a fairy tale, tossing and turning for a pea.

  It was dark outside when I woke up and dialed the kitchen.

  “Good evening. I hope it’s not too late to place an order.”

  “We’re here whenever you need us.” The voice was male and accented. I would guess French.

  “I’d like a Thai green curry, please.”

  “Chicken, beef, or prawn?”

  “Beef, please,” I said.

  “And will you have jasmine or basmati rice?”

  “Jasmine.”

  “And wine? There is a selection in our cellars.”

  “Water is fine.”

  “Still or sparkling?”

  “Still.”

  “And for dessert?”

  “Not tonight, thank you.”

  I put down the phone and went to the bathroom. It had both a tub and a shower. There were white towels on the railings and lapis tiles on the floor. The sink was marble; the taps were golden, or at least gold-plated. I twisted one. The water gurgled from afar, moisture traveling up a dry throat, waiting for a cough to expel it. When the water finally arrived, it ran brown.

  How many rooms like this? How many golden taps? It was opulence modeled on Versailles, joining Kofi to a long line of tacky despots and oligarchs. Francis Aggrey would never have erected such a folly. This was Kofi grasping at all the things his earlier incarnation had rejected: Western dominance, European modes of thought. The ideology of the place was writ large in gilt and mortar. My awe swung to distaste.

  I returned to the bedroom and pulled back the heavy brocade curtains. Floodlights illuminated my view of the garden. Flying insects streamed to the hot bulbs in an exodus of wings and antennae. In the distance, they looked like rain.

  My dinner was brought by a young woman. She spread a white tablecloth, tucked me into my chair, poured my water, and was gone. Apart from her greeting of “good evening,” she worked silently. One tap might pay her annual wages. Why had they not all been stolen?

  The curry was prepared with more chilies than I was accustomed to. The rice was fragrant. The beef was tough. When I was done, I changed into my nightclothes. There was no key in the lock. I slept knowing anyone could walk in.

  23

  I woke up with no sense of dislocation. I was in Gbadolite, brought here by my father, Kofi Adjei, once known as Francis Aggrey. I was here to know him, to understand where I had come from, not to pass judgment, I reminded myself.

  The plates from last night’s meal had been cleared. Someone had come while I was sleeping. I dialed Sule.

  “Good morning. How was your night?”

  “Fine, thank you,” I said. “I’d like the key to my room, please.”

  “Of course.”

  “What is Kofi doing today?”

  “Sir Kofi is sitting in congress this morning.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He holds congress in the village of Gbadolite. The villagers come with their disputes and he settles them. It is an old African way of doing things.”

  “I’d like to see it,” I said. “Please. If that’s not too much trouble,” I added. He was Kofi’s manservant, not mine.

  “I can arrange a car for you. It is open to the public, but we are leaving soon. Have you taken breakfast?”

  “I don’t need to. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. Please can you send someone to fetch me? I’m not used to the building.”

  We sped out of Gbadolite in a convoy of black Mercedes, police escorts at the head and rear. The other drivers pulled over to let us pass, smaller beasts scattering from a charging bull. We slowed when we turned onto a narrow side road. It was lined with people fluttering handkerchiefs and palm fronds. I wound down the window.

  “Madam, please wind up for your security,” my driver said. We were alone in the car. His glasses and the windows were tinted the same shade. The faces outside seemed benign but I obeyed his order.

  The congress was held in a large earthen square. The villagers were already waiting. They were dressed in a homespun fabric I recognized from the markets of Segu, a coarse cotton called kafa, dyed in primary colors, sewn into smocks, loose trousers, stiff blouses and wrappers. Their clothes contrasted sharply with their skin. Music played from a loudspeaker while hawkers drifted through the crowd with food. It had the feel of a fête. Kofi emerged from his car, a kente robe draped over his shoulder. His chest was bare, one nipple exposed. Sule walked behind him, shading him with a fringed umbrella. The villagers began to cheer.

  “Daasebre!”

  He responded with a clenched fist. A woman with a bundle broke past the cordon. Guards moved to restrain her, but Kofi waved them away. The bundle was a baby. She knelt. Kofi blessed the child, or at least touched it, his palm covering the face. She was overcome with emotion. She could not stand. She was lifted to her feet, supported by two guards.

  “Daasebre!”

  They would not stop until he had taken his place on the raised wooden throne, until his feet had been covered with a leopard skin, until he lifted his hands for them to be quiet.

  I had never seen a black man presented in public like my father, regal, beloved. I was suspicious of populism, cynical of emotional display in politics, and yet I felt pride rising in me.

  I stood in the crowd. For once, I was not the spectacle. There was no time to ogle at an obroni when a troupe of acrobats performed. They wore bells on their ankles, their feet tinkling like courtesans. At the end of their routine they stacked themselves in a pyramid, holding the pose for a few seconds before collapsing into individual human units.

  If I were to paint this scene, what would my subject be? Kofi on his wooden throne was an obvious choice but I did not want to paint him as a king. In time, perhaps, I might make a more intimate, vulnerable portrait, but today, if I had an easel and canvas and paints, I would choose the crowd in their primary colors. I would use quick, sharp brushstrokes to give the piece movement. Perhaps Sule might be able to find some art supplies for me. He seemed the person to ask.

  When the formal proceedings began, I grew restless. Few claimants spoke English, or spoke an English that was recognizable to me. I could pick out only a few words: for land, property, in-law. The ground was littered with fruit peelings and sweet wrappers dropped from careless fingers. Flies were drawn to the food remains. I felt like an animal trapped in the warm center of a herd. I struggled to the edge of the square.

  “Hello. What brings you to Gbadolite?” The woman who spoke to me wore trousers in contrast with the other women present. Her weave was dyed auburn and pixie-cut. The frames of her glasses slanted into cat eyes and her fingernails were painted green. I could not blend in, an
d she did not want to.

  “I am a guest of Sir Kofi.”

  “Yes, he flies in foreign journalists to write about his white elephant. I know all about that. Have you seen the zoo? Did you feed the giraffes?” she asked. Her tone was mocking but with good humor. “You obroni like that. A newspaper in New York called it an African center of culture. What culture? I tell you, it’s a curse when a former president thinks he’s an intellectual.”

  “What do you do?” I asked. She seemed close to Rose’s age and I wanted her to keep talking. She was the first young person I had spoken to in Bamana.

  “I work with an NGO, Bright Futures. We support children’s rights in the region and advocate against child abuse. We say no to their oppression.”

  The words were practiced, said by rote, but her zeal felt fresh, unwrapped today. I had not felt strongly about anything in years.

  “Did you see the crocodiles?” she asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “The crocodiles, at the palace?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “They say he fed his enemies to them in the nineties. Maybe you can put that in your article. What paper did you say you write for again?”

  “I didn’t say.” I couldn’t confess I was a mere housewife to this bright young thing. In the distance, Kofi was processing to the motorcade.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  “Wait. Your name?”

  “Anna.”

  “Marcellina Kote. Take my card. Maybe I can show you some of the village.”

  “Yes, please.” She would be my guide into a part of Bamana that neither Ken nor Adrian, nor even Kofi, could show me. “I would like that very much,” I said.

  I made my way back to the convoy. The crowd surged around Kofi. Sule and a few men in suits formed a ring around him, shoving people back. The devotees seemed ready to trample their Daasebre with love.

  My car was at the tail end of the convoy, ignored by most. When the driver opened the back door, he saluted. I returned with a limp half-wave. I was glad no one was watching.

  Marcellina picked me up from the Gbadolite gatehouse at 7:00 p.m. Her car was a white Datsun with a broken rear light. The back seat was piled with clothes and boxes of leaflets and flyers with titles like “Supporting the Girl-Child,” and “Primary Education for All.”