Sankofa(45)

“Bamana: One Hundred Days,” Adrian said.

“Yes, of course. It was very popular here when it came out. It did a wonderful job of recording our achievements for the world. You’re too old to go around on a motorcycle, but maybe you could hire a car. I might even come with you this time.”

“You’d be recognized,” Adrian said.

“I suppose you’re right. Even in the rural areas my image is well known. It can be a burden sometimes. How is the family? I have six grandchildren. It’s hard to believe. It seems like it was only yesterday I was fighting for Bamana’s independence.”

There was no opening for me in their conversation. My father posed questions and then answered them. He asked for an opinion and then gave it. He did not eat much. Sometimes he would lift his spoon and return it to his bowl of porridge without it touching his lips.

“So what brings you to Bamana?” he said, turning to me. I felt the brunt of his attention bearing down on me. I clasped my hands to still them.

“I came to see you.”

“I’m flattered. What do you do?”

“I studied architecture.”

“A noble profession. This area, the Peak, was once white men’s quarters. This very bungalow was the home of the chief secretary to the governor. He left his guns behind. In fact, this whole neighborhood used to be full of houses like this one, but most of them have been torn down. They’re too small for a certain kind of Bamanaian taste. So how may I help you?”

I glanced at Adrian. He nodded.

“There is a family connection between us. You knew my mother when you were a student in London,” I said.

“Is that so? And what was her name?”

“Bronwen Bain. Is it familiar to you?”

I watched closely for a reaction. My father gave none. His face remained as still as a wooden carving.

“Go on with your story,” he said.

“My mother died earlier this year and I found your journal when I went through her things. You left it in her keeping. The entries are mostly about your life as a student, but you also wrote about your relationship with her. She fell pregnant after you’d gone.”

“After?”

“I mean she found out she was pregnant after you’d gone. She was already pregnant when you were there, because the child was yours. The child was me.”

“What is this, Adrian?”

“It seems an unlikely story, Francis—”

“Kofi.”

“I’m sorry. It seems an unlikely story, but Anna contacted me in Edinburgh saying she had a family connection to you. She brought the diary to me, I read it, and the facts are authentic. She is Bronwen Bain’s daughter.”

“Where is this diary that I allegedly wrote?”

“It’s here.”

I gave it to him. The servants returned to clear away our dishes. They walked with their backs bent. They did not straighten, even after they had lifted the plates from in front of us. When my father finally spoke, he addressed Adrian.

“I don’t know how this fell into her hands. It has obviously helped her concoct this ridiculous story. I want the two of you out of my house. I’m disappointed in you, Adrian.”

“What did you want me to say? ‘Hi, Kofi’s secretary. I’d like to see him. I’m coming with his daughter he’s never met.’”

“I know all my children.”

“If you’ll just let me explain,” I said. “My mother never spoke about you or else I would have found you sooner. All she said was that you’d gone back to Bamana and the two of you had lost touch. The only thing I had was your name: Francis Aggrey. I don’t want anything from you. I’m comfortable in England, but I am your daughter.”

“I am almost sorry to see her in distress over what is a complete fabrication. I cannot help her. Only a psychiatrist can do that. This meeting is at an end.”

He stood up with the diary.

“This is my property.”

“That’s not fair, Kofi. You gave it to her mother.”

“Not to let it fall into the hands of some lunatic. I have entertained this long enough. Get out of my house. Either you go willingly or I will have someone escort you.”

My mother knew when she hid his diary that there would be no father waiting for me in Bamana. We walked down the corridor on our own this time, past the famous faces, past a playful Muhammad Ali with his fist clenched.

Outside, the gardener was pruning. He raised a hand again in salute.

“You mustn’t take it personally. I told you Francis has changed completely from the man in that diary.”

“I can take it any way I like,” I said, but he was not listening.

“I wish I had photographs. Such a historical find. Now he’s got his hands on that diary, he’ll probably burn it and erase all evidence that he was ever a human being. Did you manage to—”

“Don’t. Please.”

Adrian had tried to warn me, had tried to shield me from disappointment, but here it was anyway, crouched like a small, dense animal on my chest.

Meanwhile, Segu continued, immune to my own personal dramas. A young man whizzed past on roller skates, dodging traffic, skimming through the gaps between cars. I had had an hour with my father, perhaps all the time I would ever have, and I had squandered it.