Sankofa(37)

“It’s too soon to tell,” I said.

“How was your flight?”

“Good,” I said.

“What did you say?”

“Good!” I shouted.

“You’re breaking up,” she said.

The screen went blank.

“I’m still here,” I said.

“Me too.”

We were silent for a moment. There was not much to say. We had just seen each other yesterday.

“What’s it like?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet. I saw a puppy being sold on the road. The driver said someone was going to eat it.”

“That’s awful. Is it safe?”

“Of course,” I said, as if I had not wondered the same thing until Adrian corrected me. It was an ugly Western bias. The rest of the world was violent and unsafe, while our corner was an oasis of calm.

“When are you meeting him?” Rose asked.

“Next Monday.”

“So far away.”

“He’s a busy man.”

“What does he do again?”

“He used to work for the government.”

“Well, I hope he’s nice. You’ve traveled so far to see him,” she said. “I don’t know, Mum. It seems like you’re running away from sorting out the divorce.”

“Rose, I appreciate your concern, but you don’t have to worry about your father and me.”

“You’ve never spoken about meeting your father before. You’ve never even mentioned him, but suddenly you’re on the other side of the world after I book you a meeting with a divorce lawyer.”

The connection improved. Rose filled the screen. She was leaning close to the camera and her collarbone jutted out like a spear.

“What did you have for dinner? I think I’ll order room service.”

“Stop bringing up food when you want to change topic.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. What I’m trying to say is I don’t want you in the middle of things. You barely speak to your dad anymore.”

“I had steak and chips for dinner.”

“Now who’s deflecting? I’ve been traveling for hours, Rose. I don’t want to fight.”

We were silent for a moment. Rose pixelated and reformed. She was biting her lower lip. When she was younger, she would sometimes bite herself till she bled.

“You should call your dad,” I said.

“Why?”

“To speak to him. He misses you.”

“Maybe next week. I’ll let you go. You must be tired,” she said.

“I’ll call you soon.”

She cut the call without saying goodbye.

Robert and I disagreed on how to raise Rose. He wanted to teach her resilience and courage and confidence and public speaking, walks in the countryside, camping, swallows and amazons. This was all well and good, but what about race?

“What about it? he asked.

“Her mother is black.”

“She’ll be able to see that. And you’re half white as well. I don’t want her to grow up having a chip on her shoulder.”

“Pardon?”

“I don’t know the politically correct way to say it,” he said. “I just want her to be free of adult cares and prejudices.”

“I didn’t have that choice.”

“The world’s different now.”

I tried anyway. After all, to ignore race was to attempt to be white, a South African friend at university once told me. I explained to Rose that race was a social construct with real-life implications, not to be ignored and brushed over; but to everyone who looked at her, my daughter was white. No one would ever switch seats in the tube because of her. No one would wonder where she was really from. I told her about Martin Luther King and Mary Seacole and Nefertiti, but I myself knew too little about these icons to make them convincing heroes for her. How could I fight against the overwhelming white tide of film and television and textbooks and newspapers?

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Mum. We’re all the same. Nobody cares,” she told me when she turned thirteen.

I opened my suitcase and hung my clothes in the wardrobe. The room was scentless, like nothing alive had ever set foot inside it. When I was done, I went to the bathroom. The mirror was large; the lighting strong. The lines around my eyes and lips seemed deeper. I looked tired.

I washed my face and dried it with a fresh towel. I changed into my pajamas and lay under the sheets. Rose was an adult. Rose must take care of herself now. I was in Bamana. I had come to my father’s home.



Breakfast was a buffet with rows of warm silver trays. Water condensed when you raised a lid, dripping like sweat. I took what I recognized: sausage, mushrooms, baked beans, left-behind brown balls of akara, and a viscous white pap called ogi.

A chef fried eggs on demand. I placed an order and sat at a table. There was something French about the white-gloved waiters, dark-wood booths, and baguettes at the bread station swaddled in red checkered cloth. I wasn’t the only solo traveler.

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” I said to Ken.

“May I join you?”

“Feel free.”

His appetite was controlled—one sausage, a boiled egg, and a slice of toast.