Sankofa(24)

“Yes, the student activists.”

“Rather grim affair. That was still in the future, but the seeds were already sown. Six years after independence, no one could challenge the great leader Kofi. Power corrupts, but nowhere more than a small African state.” I notice that he has called my father Kofi for the first time. I take my empty plate to the sink.

“Don’t worry, I’ll clear up,” he says.

“No, let me. The meal was delicious.” I pick up a sponge. “Are you still in touch?”

He does not answer. I turn and catch him watching me.

“What exactly is your family connection to Francis?”

“You’ll have to read to the end of the diary,” I say.

“I see. Well, to answer your question, we lost contact years ago. How shall I put it? We stopped moving in the same circles.”



The bed in the guest room is laid with fresh sheets. There is an empty blue vase on the window. The night garments Adrian has laid out for me are nunnish, with long sleeves and buttons that stop at the base of my throat. I change and climb into the single bed. He has left a hot-water bottle under the sheets and I feel like a slice of bread slotted into a toaster. I close my eyes, expecting to be restless in this strange room, but I edge seamlessly into sleep.





11


I come down the next morning and find Adrian sitting at the kitchen table with his arms folded.

“You’re Francis’s love child,” he says. His tone is flat, almost hostile.

“Yes, I suppose I am.”

“So, what do you intend?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Now that you’ve found out you’re his daughter, what next? You’ve come all the way to Edinburgh. You must have a plan.”

I do not know him well enough to be sure of his exact mood. I sit opposite him.

“Is the diary real?” I say.

“From what I can tell, yes, it seems original, although unfortunately he hasn’t dated any of the entries. But what he writes about Menelik’s circle, only someone who was there would know.”

“Let’s say I did want to meet him . . .”

“Almost certainly you’d have to go to Bamana. He doesn’t travel out of the country often these days. If, and that’s a big if, if you secured a meeting with him, you’d have to reveal your claim—”

“My claim?”

“It is a claim until there’s been a DNA test. You must realize that.”

“Is there a resemblance?” I ask.

“In the guile with which you approached me? Yes, certainly.”

It is humor, but of the biting, caustic kind, not the good nature of last evening.

“I haven’t seen him in many years,” he continues, “but there might also be a slight physical resemblance. Do you intend to ask him for money?” There lies the nub of his suspicions.

“Of course not,” I say. I am almost indignant, but I remind myself I am a stranger to him, despite my expensive handbag.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. It’s just how, perhaps, the case might be viewed from outside.” He stands and walks to the fridge. “Right. Well, that settles things, then. Shall we have some breakfast?”

The ease from last night’s meal is gone. I am now allegedly a president’s daughter. We eat quickly and leave his house. On our walk to the station we pass a large building, desperately trendy with bare stone walls and steel trimmings. “Scottish Parliament” is all the description Adrian gives. I have abused his trust. He has opened his home to me, while I have concealed who I am till the last possible moment. At the station, we stand by the barriers.

“Do keep in touch and tell me how you get on. You have my e-mail address.” He is dismissing me, like he has dismissed many students, ushering them out of his office before throwing their essays in the bin.

“I was hoping for a lead,” I say.

“As I said, Francis and I have lost touch.”

“But someone else in Menelik’s circle. Surely there must be at least one person you still talk to.”

“Old age. It separates.”

A whistle sounds, cutting through the noise of the station. Around us travelers surge forward. The trains wait for no one. I have met a man who knew my father, who shook his hand, who sees in my face a slight resemblance. I am further along than when I arrived in Edinburgh yesterday.

“You do look like him,” he says. “Why didn’t you just tell me who you were?”

“Would you have believed me without reading it in the diary first? A strange woman, out of the blue, telling you she’s Francis Aggrey’s daughter, a man you thought was too cold to take a lover. Wouldn’t you have thought me mad?”

He smiles, his first honest smile of the day.

“Your father’s gift of persuasion. I have an old address for Thomas Phiri. We haven’t been in contact for over a decade. It’s a long shot, but you can start there. I’ve written down my number as well. You can call if you need anything else.”

He brings out a folded piece of paper from his left pocket. He has carried it all the way here, swinging between trust and suspicion.

“Your father was a remarkable man when I knew him. If you do get to meet him, don’t be too disappointed that he is no longer the man who wrote that diary.”