Sankofa(35)

Bronwen and I have had pillow talk tonight. Of children. If Bronwen had a child she would like him to be as close to my color as possible. “Are you pregnant?” I asked. I was horrified. At least here I can be honest. My mother has warned me that if I marry an obroni she will cut me off and leave her business to my uncle. I don’t know if the old woman is serious. But if I were disowned, how would I look after a family?

“No, I am not pregnant,” she said. Caryl has taught her how to the count the days so she knows when to avoid me.

Had she told Caryl about us? No. Caryl thinks her sister’s lover works in a shop on her street.

“But if I were pregnant,” she said. So we went on to build our phantom child—a son. He must have her eyes. If he has that, he cannot have my skin, or else he will look like an obanshee. He must have my size or else he will be bullied. He will speak Fanti and Welsh but no English. By the time he comes of age the Diamond Coast and Wales will be free.





“Cabin crew, prepare for landing.”

Segu was not yet in sight. We still flew over the forest. It was a green that perhaps only a painter could capture, with undertones of gold and orange. Patches of red earth appeared, holes in a thick beard. Then the first houses, shacks with rust roofs, straggling on the edge of the forest like crumbs. Dirt roads cut through the landscape like veins. The green receded, torn up by human hands.

It was a low-rise city. Roofs were set close together, like scales on an animal, a fish or an armadillo. The view changed. Asphalt roads appeared, grey and stark. A line of cars moved down a highway, beads on a string. There was a stadium, an open bowl, with an emerald football pitch at its center. Skyscrapers thrust upwards, javelins aimed at the sun. And just before we touched down, a thousand feet above the ground, a glimpse of the ocean.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Segu. We hope you had a pleasant flight. Please enjoy your onward journey and we hope to see you again soon. Thank you for choosing to fly with us.”

There were Bamanaians waiting by the plane door with wheelchairs. They wore a uniform: cream shirts, black waistcoats and trousers. They greeted us as we walked past.

“Welcome.”

“Thank you,” I said to each one.

The air vents blasted cold air. The escalators were not working. Two young men carried a woman in a wheelchair down the stairs. They carried her backwards, the bearer holding the handles going first. She clutched the armrests and shut her eyes.

My immigration official had a matching scar on each cheek: thin vertical lines, like strokes in a tally bundle. He wore clear aviator glasses, behind which his eyes were bleary and red.

“Hello, good evening. Welcome to Bamana. Purpose of visit?”

“Good evening, sir. Holiday.”

“That’s good. You’re going to see the slave forts?”

“Yes, I plan to.”

“How long are you staying for?”

“Three weeks.”

“That’s a long holiday. Where are you staying?”

“The Palace Hotel.”

“That’s good. Would you like to show some appreciation for the work we are doing?”

“Yes, thank you. I think you’re doing a wonderful job.”

We stared at each other until I let my gaze wander away.

“You’re a beautiful woman. You can go.”

I took my passport and walked the short distance to baggage claims. It was a large hall and voices rose to fill it. In one corner, men and women prayed facing Mecca, rising and falling together. The luggage carousel was a narrow oval crowded with people. My suitcase circled twice before I struggled to the front and grabbed it.

“Watch it,” a passenger said, when my wheels grazed him.

“Sorry.”

I followed the exit signs. A languorous man in uniform blocked my path.

“Anything to declare?”

“No, sir.”

“What’s in there?” He pointed at my suitcase.

“Just clothes.”

“No gifts for anyone?”

“No.”

“Please step aside for searching.”

“She’s with me,” a now familiar voice said from behind me.

“Mr. Ken, welcome back,” the official said. Their handshake ended with a click of the fingers.

“You can go,” the official said to me. We stepped out into the evening breeze.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Ken said.

“I wasn’t going to. You seem intent on rescuing me.”

It was familiar and unfamiliar. The taxi rank, I recognized, and men holding name signs aloft, but there was a buzz, a current I stood just outside of. People called out, jostled, laughed, spoke in languages that I could not understand. And they were all black.

“How are you getting to the hotel? Shuttle?”

I spotted Adrian and waved.

“Is that your father?”

He was wearing a bright print shirt that was both loose and rigid at the same time. The short cotton sleeves stuck out from his body, stiff with starch. He was tanned from his seven-day head start.

“Anna, you made it.”

“Thank you for coming to get me.”

“No bothering. That’s how the locals say ‘no problem.’”

I let Adrian take my suitcase and fell in step behind him.