Sankofa(46)

When I got back to my room I went to the bathroom and stood over the toilet. The egg from Kofi’s house rushed into the bowl followed by clear, thick spit. When I was done, I brushed my teeth and confronted my reflection. My hair had grown out of its corn rows. I was a disheveled middle-aged woman, too old to be Kofi’s child. I undid the weaving and pulled out the gold threads. I splashed cold water on my face. I cried.





20


I ordered my meals to my room and piled the plates by the door. I watched television, Bamanaian television. The films were poor quality, rich drama. Sons duping fathers. Wives poisoning rivals. When room service knocked to clean, I went downstairs to the gym. It was empty most of the time. There were mirrors on the walls and posters of bodies to aspire to. I rode a stationary bike until my face was wet.

My anger arrived two days after our meeting, like thunder lagging behind lightening. How dare Kofi dismiss me without even asking for proof? I should have demanded a DNA test. It was the least he owed my family, the Bains who housed him in London when no one else would.

I chanced on a wedding reception in the hotel’s banqueting suite. I stood by the doors and watched the guests come and go. The women were dressed like celebrities—feathers stitched to bodices, headdresses that added a foot to their height, fabric trains that dragged behind them, sweeping up dust. Far away, so far away that there were screens to help you see them, were the bride and groom on a dais, two small figures on a cake. The bride’s dress overflowed the bounds of her throne, like foam rising out of a glass. On the throne next to her, the groom sat with his legs crossed. They held hands across the armrests and looked out into the crowd.

They were young and in love, but how long before the tinsel faded? I felt like the wicked fairy godmother, arrived to cast gloom. An usher approached with a clipboard.

“Bride side or groom side?” she asked.

“Neither. I’m a guest at the hotel.”

“Please, ma, this is a private event.”



I ignored Adrian’s calls. I preferred to be alone. Rose phoned to ask about the meeting. I did not want to admit what a failure it had been. I had come to Bamana despite her misgivings, and now she was proved right.

“It went well,” I said.

“It did? I was worried he didn’t want to meet you after he postponed. Did you tell him about me?”

“Didn’t get the chance.”

“What did you talk about?”

“He talked about himself mostly. He’s old.”

There was no need to tell her who Kofi really was. I would never be a part of his life and he would never be part of mine. Once I returned to England the incident would be forgotten.

“Did you get a picture at least?” she asked.

“Not even that.”

“That sucks. I’ll be glad to have you back, though. Should I book another meeting with Anna?”

I was beginning to understand that the divorce was more for Rose’s closure than mine. Her single-mindedness verged on mania. At first, I interpreted her refusal to speak to Robert as her taking my side, but it was only her way of punishing him. She was like an ex-believer. She might turn on her old faith, but she was in no search of a replacement.

“Thanks,” I said. “But not yet.”



On my last afternoon in Segu I left the hotel for a walk. Kofi was not the only thing to see in Bamana. The Palace Hotel was on a road lined with glass buildings. If you kept your eye above street level, you could be in any financial capital in the world.

“Obroni!”

It was a coconut seller, late in the day, and his wagon was full. I bought a coconut for two cowries and he split it open with one knife blow. The water was cool, a balance of sweet and salt. I bought a second and a third.

I took a left turn and declined the wares of a mango seller. I remembered the empty streets in Kofi’s neighborhood—no hawkers, no market stalls. That whole area had been cleared as thoroughly as his garden. I did not fit into the story of his life and he did not fit into mine.

As I moved farther away from my hotel, businesses grew more modest and glass was used more sparingly, for windows, not walls. There was no pavement and the other pedestrians walked close. They brushed against me. Their skin touched mine.

I walked until I reached a church. There was no cross, no dome, but a billboard advertised its name: TABERNACLE OF LIGHT. Like the shops, it had a logo, a flaming torch in a green circle. Music reached the street through the open windows, a soprano on a microphone, cymbals.

“Jesus is Lord, my sister,” said a stranger, trying to enter the building.

“Pardon me,” I said. “I’m in your way.”

“You’re not going inside? We have a prayer meeting.” His gripped his Bible by the spine, holding it like a clutch bag.

“Sorry. I have other plans.”

“There is no plan more important than salvation.”

I turned from the evangelist and walked back to the hotel. The lobby was full of suits. Adrian was distinct in that crowd, the only one whose elbows were visible. His limbs were tanned. His neck and face were closer to their Edinburgh hue.

“Anna! You’ve ignored my phone calls.” It was the tone perhaps he used with erring students, confronting them with their wrongdoing.

“I’m sorry,” I said.