Sankofa(44)

The ocean was calming. I felt settled, the most at ease I had been in Bamana. The heat, the smells, the jostling of Segu, and the waiting to meet Francis Aggrey had produced an agitation that dissipated on this shore, dispelled maybe by the suffering that had occurred here, much greater than mine.

The outcome of my journey was uncertain. My father might postpone our meeting again. I might come this far and never meet him. I would be disappointed, but the trip would not be a waste. I had seen other things: the markets of Segu, the slave fort of El Santos, and the overconfidence of white men in an African country.

“That’s good.” It was Adrian standing over me. I closed my sketchbook.

“I’m ready to go,” I said, standing up and dusting the sand from my clothes.

“What did you think of it?” I asked Kwesi, our driver, when we got back to the car park.

“What I thought?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a very strong building. Good place for military defense.”

“But what of the slaves?”

“That’s in the past. It’s bad, but it’s in the past.”





19


My father lived in a bungalow on a street with many mansions. The area was called the Peak, a gently sloping neighborhood from which you could see the city spread out like a map. Some portions of Segu were laid out in straight lines. Others defied the imposition of a grid and grew to some more complex, organic pattern. There was a checkpoint on his road, manned by an officer with a rifle and no shade from the sun.

“Good morning. We’re here to see Citizen. My name is Professor Adrian Bennett.”

The officer ticked a name on his clipboard and waved us through. The perimeter walls were low, low enough to see the one-story house and the garden that surrounded it. It was a prize garden, landscaped with care. Unlike the mansions on either side, no barbed wire garlanded the walls. Adrian pressed the buzzer. A voice spoke out of the intercom.

“Good morning. Your name, please.”

“Adrian Bennett.”

“Please push the side gate and walk to the house. President Adjei will welcome you himself.”

We paused when we entered the compound. The gardener sprinkling the grass looked up and raised a hand in greeting.

“I suppose we just go to the house like she said,” Adrian said.

It was a bungalow built in the colonial style, with low eaves and long windows. The entire house stood on stilts, a whole foot above the ground, enough space for a body to crawl under. A man dressed in white was waiting on the veranda. White trousers, white shirt, and thick silver hair that grew close to his scalp. He was tall and upright, but something in his posture was beginning to bend.

“My old friend, welcome.”

He embraced Adrian.

“And who is this? Your beautiful wife?”

“A good friend of mine. I mentioned to your assistant.”

“Of course. And what is your name?”

“Anna Bain.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Anna Bain.”

The surname meant nothing to him. We shook hands. I touched my father for the first time.

“This is for you,” I said. I handed him the bottle of wine I bought in the hotel gift shop.

“Thank you. Very kind. Come. Our breakfast is getting cold. And we have many years to catch up on.”

His accent was upper-class English, a BBC announcer from a certain era. He walked like a soldier, with his hands clasped behind his back. He led us down a corridor, past photographs of famous men: Muhammad Ali, Bob Marley, a U.S. president, Jimmy Carter perhaps, all pictured with my father. In the dining room there were three places. He sat at the head of the table, and Adrian and I sat on either side.

“Welcome to this humble repast. Anna, I hope you don’t have any food allergies. They’re in vogue these days. My grandson tells me he cannot eat wheat or dairy.”

He clapped, and two servants appeared bearing covered dishes. They were the only extravagance. The dining table was simple, unvarnished wood, and the dishes and cutlery were plain.

“Adrian, forgive me. I didn’t ask if you have any allergies because I know you eat anything. Do you remember when I served intestines at a state banquet?”

“Yes, the French ambassador was quite upset.”

“I wrote him a letter apologizing that while he had no taste for intestines, I also had no taste for frogs. Don’t worry,” he said, turning to me, “there will be no intestines served at breakfast this morning . . . although they are a national delicacy. You must try them before you leave.”

I let a boiled egg and a slice of toast be put on my plate, and listened while Adrian and my father spoke. Under the table, my hands smoothed my dress over my knees until my palms grew warm with friction.

“So how was the African Union Summit?” Adrian asked.

“Same as always. No one is really willing to unite. The Nigerians were throwing their weight around, of course. Oil prices are high this year and so their delegates were feeling particularly buoyant. There’s one fellow I had my eye on, president of Rwanda—I forget his name, but he’ll make something of that country yet.”

“I hear he’s a dictator,” Adrian said.

“Perspective is everything. I didn’t get too involved. One only goes to these things as an elder now, to play the Mandela as it were, may he rest in peace. It’s the greatest of secular miracles how that man was transformed from a terrorist to a Messiah. And you? Why has it taken you so long to return to Bamana? You should have written another book about us. What was the first one called again?”