Sankofa(18)

“And stress. God, there was so much work.”

“Smells delicious,” she says when I place a plate in front of her. She tells me about India, of a festival in the streets that she could only watch from her balcony because of a deadline. I am relieved when she asks for seconds. Maybe it is just stress.

“Enough about me, Mum,” she says. “What did the lawyer say?”

“We had a good conversation. Where did you find her?”

“Imogen. She came here a few times when I was at Wickham. Her parents got divorced and she told me Anna got her mum half of everything. You gave up your career for Dad so he’s going to owe you shedloads in spousal support. Also, how weird is it that you’ll have the same name as your lawyer?”

“She’s not my lawyer yet,” I say, ready to move the conversation along. “By the way, I went to church the other Sunday.”

“Really? Why?”

“A neighbor invited me. Do you remember Katherine? She came around once or twice when Nan was ill.”

“How was it?”

“Different.”

“Dad texted me,” she says, circling back. “He wants me to visit his new place.”

“What did you say?”

“Of course not.”

I expected Rose’s support. She was a woman before she was anyone’s daughter. “How could he?” we echoed over and over to each other, like a choir singing in the round. And then I was tired of the chorus and Rose was not.

“I called him the other day,” I say.

“Why? If you need to speak to anyone, call me.”

“You were in India.”

“You could have skyped. I’ve shown you how.”

“You might have been in a meeting.”

“Of course, in this big house by yourself, you’re lonely so you call Dad. I could come visit more or you could move in with me for a while. I have the spare room just sitting empty.”

Robert gave her half the down payment for her flat in Fulham.

“I’d be lonely there, too,” I say. “You’d either be at work or with Arthur.”

“We broke up.”

Rose’s boyfriends never last. She meets them in the countryside in the homes of the girls she went to school with. She shoots on the weekends, wearing gear that she bought secondhand. She skis. She can pass in these places and perhaps she does. A part of me envies her this. Her passage through the world is smoother because her skin is a few shades paler than mine.

“Aren’t you going to ask why?” Rose says.

“Why, then?”

“It wasn’t working. I’ve been feeling so restless lately. Remember you mentioned Panama. That’s all I could think of on my trip. Just rent the flat and go traveling with Mum.”

“Actually, it was Bamana.”

“Really? Where’s that?”

“West Africa. Where your grandfather is from,” I say.

“Dad’s father is white and English.”

“Your other grandfather.”

“Oh, the shite who left Nan when she was pregnant. Is he even still alive?”

I am not yet ready to tell Rose who Francis/Kofi really is. It has been a while since I’ve had any secrets, any air of mystery around my person.

“Yes, he’s alive, and I believe living in Bamana,” I say. “I’m going to try to find him. I’ve always wanted to see the country.”

“Good luck, I guess. It might be fun to go back to your roots. Very on trend.”

“I’m not trying to follow a trend, and they’re your roots as well,” I say. Her phrasing annoys me.

“Okay.”

“Are you eating?” I ask.

“Pardon?”

“Are you getting enough to eat? With work and everything. It sounds like you’ve been busy.”

“Yes. I am eating, Mum. Is that all you’ve been thinking about since I got here?”

“No, of course not.”

Robert says we shouldn’t confront Rose about food. It makes her feel cornered, flushed out into the open like the pheasants she shoots.

She left soon after. There was an important presentation to be prepared, or an important spreadsheet to be filled by an important deadline. I had lost track of the finer details.

Once she was gone, I checked my in-box. It was the fifth time that day. No new messages. I checked my sent folder again. The e-mail was there.


Dear Professor Bennett,

I hope you don’t mind my contacting you out of the blue. My name is Anna Bain and I am researching the life of Kofi Adjei. I recently came across a diary that he may have written while he was a student in London. I would like your assistance in authenticating the diary. Thank you for your time.


Best wishes,

Anna





9


Evenings on my street are quiet. People stay indoors with their families. I stand by a window facing the road. The bins are wheeled out for collection in the morning: brown for food, blue for recyclables, black for everything else, a necessary infringement of our free will. My house is the only one without the plastic bin sentinels up front. A single woman makes little rubbish.

My bell rings after eight o’clock—too late for either Rose or Katherine. I go downstairs and look through the peephole. Robert is outside. He knows I’m home. Even with the curtains drawn you can see our bedroom lights from the street. I open the door.