Sankofa(27)

“You should have told me.”

“And you should have told me you were Francis’s daughter before spending a night in my home,” he said. “I spoke to the Bamanaian high commissioner today. He was my chaperone in Segu when I was researching the book. He wasn’t a diplomat then, just one of Kofi’s numerous lackeys. I told him I was thinking of returning to Bamana one last time and that I’d like to meet Kofi again if it were possible. He gave me a contact.”

“You have my father’s number?”

“Hold on. I have a contact for his personal assistant. There might be another six people between this assistant and Kofi, but it’s a start.”

“I want to meet him.”

“I know. I hope you’re ready. Have you told your family?” he asked.

“Do you think I should?”

“It’s up to you. Nothing has come of it yet, but I’m sure they’d like to know.”

“Well, I told my daughter that I’ve found my father, but I haven’t said much about who he is.”

“That may be best. Until we’ve fixed a concrete meeting.”

“I agree,” I said.

When the call ended, I put my keys in my pocket and left the house. It was dark outside and I was the only person on the street.

Was I ready to meet my father? In the documentary, just before the black children met their white birth mothers, they would have a moment alone with the camera. Their insecurities would surface. Sometimes they would cry from the anticipation. Will she recognize me? Will she like me?

I wanted Francis to like me, but Francis was gone. It was Kofi I would meet. The former president. The alleged murderer who was now a philanthropist in his old age. The Internet had recorded his good deeds too—orphanages, scholarships. He smiled in his recent photographs. His eyes twinkled at the viewer.

I walked past my neighbor and his dog, a small brown terrier, kept close on a leash. We had been neighbors for years but I didn’t know his name. Robert would know.

“Evening,” we mumbled at each other.

In some houses, the blinds were drawn and the front rooms were arranged, it seemed, for actors to weave around the furniture. You could stage a domestic drama in one of them, a daughter looking for a father who was not looking for her. Sometimes, someone would come on set, peer out into the night, and close the curtains.





13


My answering machine was blinking when I got home. I put down my shopping bags and pressed play.

“Hi, Anna. It’s Shola here. Good news. We’ve got an offer for the flat. The couple had another seller pull out at the last minute. They’re ready with all their paperwork, down payment, everything’s ready. We can expect to close in about a month’s time. Congratulations. Call me when you get this.”

I braced myself against the wall. I was going to Bamana. I was going to meet my father. I called Shola back.

“Hello. Shola Ajayi speaking.”

“It’s Anna,” I said.

“Oh, hello. You must be very excited. Congratulations.”

“I can’t believe it. How much?”

“Well, they started at three-ninety but I pushed them up to four hundred. It’s ten thousand below our asking price, but remember, I said this property sits around the four hundred thousand mark because it hasn’t been modernized.”

Four hundred thousand pounds.

“So what do I do need to do now?”

“Nothing. I’ll draw up the paperwork and when everything’s ready, I’ll ask you to come in and sign.”

“What’s the couple like?”

“Lovely. Young. They got married two years ago.”

“Children?”

“Not yet,” she said. “Well, I thought I should call you straight away with the good news. I’ll get started on the paperwork and I’ll see you in about a month.”

“Can I still go to the flat?”

“Of course. It’s yours until we sign the papers. All right. Bye for now.”

I’ve met Shola only once. She was dressed immaculately—overdressed, it seemed—for a high-street estate agent. Her weave was long and expensive, human hair, the tips flipped with a tong. She was British Nigerian, more British than Nigerian, I thought, until she picked up a call from her father.

“Sorry, I’ll have to take this. It’s my dad and he’s in hospital.”

When she put the phone to her ear, she stopped speaking English. Her voice was deeper in the other language. She was more animated. She covered her mouth to laugh.

“What language was that?” I asked when she dropped the call.

“Yoruba. That’s my tribe in Nigeria. Again, sorry about that. As I was saying—”



My mother’s flat was in a low-rise council block in Islington and it was a stand-alone unit, unattached to a housing estate. These features slightly increased its value. On the walk from the station, I passed a bakery, two estate agents, an independent coffee shop, a gym, a massage therapist’s with white pebbles and green succulents in the display window, all of which had opened in the last five years.

I had always thought she rented the flat from the council until the executor read out her will. “Left to my beloved daughter, Anna.” She was a sales manager in a department store, watching other women step in and out of clothes, rehearsing for their lives in her dressing room. I was impatient with the size of her life, disdainful of it. And yet, somehow, she had amassed the money for a down payment. My mother, with no financial education and no university degree, had worked out how to own property in London. The paperwork showed she applied successfully for a mortgage in 1984 and completed her payments in October 2009.