Sankofa(38)

“Hotel food will make you fat,” he said, gazing at his sparse plate.

“So what brings you to Bamana?” I asked.

“I’m a consultant. My specialty is emerging markets, with a subspecialty in Africa. I started off in oil, but my brief now includes energy. At a push, I can advise on commodities: copper, gold, diamonds.”

“Bamana has diamonds. They must keep you busy,” I said. I felt mildly hostile to this Englishman who had traveled here to seek profit. It was the effect of Francis Aggrey’s diary, perhaps.

“That market has been cornered for over a century. De Witt’s and so on. I’m here because there are rumors of oil, just off the coast of Segu. In ten years, twenty years, cars will be running on hydrogen. Some lab rat in Geneva is going to make sure of it. But there’s space for one last oil boom and Bamana may be about to get a slice of it.”

“Sugar,” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Please pass the sugar.” He’d moved the bowl to his side of the table.

My omelette arrived, golden and plain, as I liked it.

“That looks good. I’ll have that tomorrow. That’s another thing with these places. The breakfast menu never changes.”

He was capable of silence. We ate without talking.

“Any plans for the day?” he asked when he was done.

“I might go to the beach.”

“Be careful. The currents can be quite strong.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“I have a meeting at ten, which probably means two, but I’ll be there on time. Keep up the side and all that.”

“Which side?”

“The punctual side.” He smiled at a trap avoided. He was wearing sunscreen. There were white smudges on his chin and cheeks. “Well, I’ll leave you to the rest of your morning. I hope I’ll see you at breakfast again.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

I returned to my room. From my balcony I could see the flow of traffic and pedestrians, lives intersecting on the road. The telephone rang. It was Adrian.

“So sorry. There’s been a scheduling error. I’m teaching today so I won’t be able to come.”

“That’s fine. I’ll just rest. Still a bit tired from the flight. See you tomorrow, then.”

“Day after. My lectures are proving surprisingly popular. You could attend one.”

The irony escaped him. A white man teaching African history in Africa. It read like an entry from the pages of Francis’s journal.

“We’ll see,” I said.

“All right. Have to run.”

I looked out on the road again. The honking traveled upwards. I could go out into the city. I could walk Segu’s streets alone as Francis had once walked London on his own. And yet, leaving my hotel without a guide suddenly seemed beyond me. I was used to traveling with Robert, used to his arm steering me through foreign streets, used to him speaking to strangers when we were lost. I had spent all my daring to reach Bamana and now, on this first day, I felt cautious.

Waiting for Adrian was sensible. I switched on the television. It was tuned to BBC News. I recognized the presenter. The events she read about already seemed far away. Flooding in Yorkshire. Tube strikes in London. I dozed off. When I woke up it was past noon. Lunchtime, but I wasn’t yet hungry. The hotel had a pool, a gym, a sauna. I put on some sunscreen, picked up a novel, and went downstairs.

I was the only guest by the pool. I lay on a deck chair under a sunshade. It was soon clear that it was too hot to be outside, but I didn’t want to go back to my room. The water sparkled, still and lifeless. My book lay unopened by my side.

A figure blocked the sun. It was Ken.

“Did you make it to the beach?” he asked.

“No. How was your meeting?”

“No show. You get used to this kind of thing over here. We’ve rescheduled for Friday. Any plans for today?”

“Not much,” I said.

“We can still go to Bongo Beach. It’s only one thirty.”

“I’ll go upstairs and fetch my things.”

Here was the guide I was waiting for. Someone who knew the country well, although a stranger. A beach was an open space. I would be safe.

Ken called a hotel taxi. We pulled out and joined the stream of moving vehicles. It was air-conditioned, sleek, plush seating at the back. He pointed out landmarks: Liberty Square, the Parliament Building, the Central Bank. Segu in daylight felt different. In the evening it had seemed muted and mysterious. Now the sun revealed all its secrets.

The city was brutally concrete. Once in a while a tree would appear in the landscape like an alien ship stranded. Wherever there was a tree there were people in its shade, resting on benches, trading their wares. When the taxi slowed there was always someone selling something.

“Kofi Adjei,” I said, pointing to a portrait held aloft by a hawker. It was my father done in oil on canvas, in a lurid, almost cartoonish style.

“Well spotted,” Ken said.

We passed a line of European backpackers, walking like ants on a trail, bearing their loads and fleeing from some unknown calamity. How had they come here? They were festooned in tie-dye clothing, pilgrims on their way to where?

The taxi drove right up to the beachfront, stopping just before the gravel turned to sand. At the gate, Ken paid the admission fee of ten cowries and rented a shack with a roof, three walls, and a view. We watched the traffic: families with small children, young men on horses, racing and raising sand.