Sankofa(25)

“Thank you.”

I step through the barriers and head to Platform 7.





12


Outside Colindale Station was a sign pointing to the RAF Museum. There were no signs for Grahame Park Estate, but it was a more obvious landmark than a warehouse full of model planes. A five-minute walk from the station, the estate sprawled in every direction like a brick cancer. On Thomas’s side of the estate, the buildings looked inward on a quadrangle of shops and restaurants. In one store, the attendant was trapped in a clear Perspex box with air holes for breathing and a letterbox opening for cash. A sign by the door said: NO CREDIT, NO GROUPS, NO KNIVES.

It was too sunny to feel threatened. Two Somali women walked past. Their feet were covered by their abayas. They glided, tall black swans that had learned to swim in concrete. I found Thomas Phiri’s block. I leaned against the wall in the stairwell and waited for the boy at the top to descend. He should have been at school. He was trainered, tracksuited, hoodied, the uniform of the urban army I read about in the news.

“No, miss. After you.”

“Thank you.”

I climbed the stairs ashamed but still cautious, pressing against the wall when I drew abreast of him. I found the green door of apartment 404. If Thomas had moved, perhaps the new resident might pass on a forwarding address, or a phone number. I knocked.

“Yes?”

A black woman’s face appeared with a scarf tied around her head, one stockinged and slippered foot also visible. The door covered the rest of her body.

“Good morning. I’m looking for Mr. Thomas Phiri,” I said.

“And you are?”

“Anna Bain.”

“Thomas doesn’t live here anymore,” she said, withdrawing her face.

“Are you Blessing?” I asked.

“How do you know my name?”

“I’m so sorry to turn up at your doorstep, but I only had your address. I wasn’t given a phone number.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Who gave you my address?”

“An old friend of yours—Adrian.”

“I don’t know any Adrian.”

“He was a lecturer at the LSE when your husband was a student in London. Adrian Bennett.”

“The white spy who used to sniff around us?”

Adrian, a spy? What could she mean by that?

“Why’d he send you to me?” She asked with some impatience. She would shut the door if I didn’t say something.

“I think I might be Francis Aggrey’s child,” I blurted.

“That became Kofi Adjei?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a journalist? Is this a hoax?”

“No.”

There was nothing more I could say to convince her. She would either believe me or turn me away. I met her direct gaze, trying to appear as guileless as possible.

“Come in, then,” she said.

Blessing was heavyset and tall. Menthol fragrance wafted from the folds of her green and orange boubou. She walked with her right hand against the wall, dragging herself forward along an invisible rope. I followed her into a living room heated to tropical temperatures. Water damage spread across the ceiling in brown discolored patches. She motioned me to a sofa too big for the room.

“Thomas is dead. He died two years ago,” she said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you.”

“Died of stroke.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

She studied my face. I waited for the examination to end, fixing my eyes on a photograph of a young Blessing and Thomas on their wedding day. She was a head taller than her husband but her chin was lowered meekly. A pose.

“You say you’re Francis’s child . . . with a white woman?” she said.

“Yes. He met my mother when he was a student.”

“It’s possible. There were many cases like that we knew of. Irresponsible men. Not like Francis, though. Are you sure?” she asked.

“My mother was Bronwen Bain. Francis lived in her house as a lodger. My grandfather was his landlord. Owen Bain.”

“How did you find out?”

“He left a diary. I found it among my mother’s things after she died. I also found this photograph.”

I gave her the signed photograph of Francis. She held it close to her face.

“Yes, that’s Francis. Always was a sharp dresser. So how can I help you?”

“I want to meet him,” I said.

“I’m sorry, I won’t be of much assistance. We haven’t spoken for almost forty years.”

So that was it. Another brick wall. She was sliding to the edge of the sofa, preparing to stand and usher me out.

“He wrote about you and Thomas in his diary.”

“Is that so? What did he say?”

“Here,” I said, holding up the diary.

“Read it for me, please. My eyes.”

“This is from when he moved in with Thomas.”

“Yes, I remember that. I was still in Rhodesia. Go on.”


“Thomas lives a rather interesting life. We are hardly ever in his flat, which is a mercy as the place is a pigsty. He steps out of his clothes and leaves them where they fall. He eats and dumps his plates on the windowsills. I cannot live in such conditions and I am constantly cleaning up after him.