Sankofa(52)

When the crocodiles charged, the carnage was quick and complete. Flesh was crushed between teeth as sharp and even as the teeth of a saw. Blood drizzled the earth and feathers littered the ground, like a pillow burst on a crime scene.

“They are the totem of my clan. In my village, there are many men who bear the nickname Crocodile,” he said. “Come, you must be tired. I will take you back to your room. You can see the rest tomorrow.”

The roads were laid out at right angles with a stop sign at every junction. Kofi rolled to a halt each time, even though the streets were now empty of other golf carts. Signposts identified the large buildings on either side: National Art Museum, Bamana Museum of Natural History, Bamana National Archive. We were dwarfed by the scale of the place as ants are dwarfed by their anthills.

“Do you recognize the shape?” Kofi asked as we approached the main building.

“An hourglass?”

“A talking drum.”

I had seen the drum in the marketplace, rounded at both ends, narrow at the waist, like a woman in a corset. As an instrument, it could be held comfortably under the arm. As a building, it would not easily fit into a photo frame. The drum was tightly bound by ropes. The middle section of the building was circled with thin lines of bronze, like rings around a planet. It was too literal an interpretation but the effect was striking. Sule was waiting outside.

“Welcome to the People’s Palace,” Kofi said. “Sule will show you to your room.”

Sule and I entered through a side door and stepped into a corridor that extended on either side of us. A car could drive comfortably down what felt like kilometers of marble highway. Our path was lit by chandeliers, every few feet another cluster of crystal and bulbs. Labor gangs of builders, painters, and plasterers must have worked for years to realize Kofi’s vision of an African palace. The architects had achieved their objective. I felt awed. What would Rose and Robert make of it? Or my in-laws, so proud of their Royal Enclosure membership at Ascot?

Sule led me to my door, which was unlocked. The first thing I looked for was my overnight case. Someone had placed it by the imitation Louis XV wardrobe. There was a four-poster bed in the room complete with damask curtains and carved wooden poles. The windows looked out onto a garden and a silent fountain.

“Is there Wi-Fi?” I asked.

“It’s down at the moment. I will alert you once it’s functioning. Do you need anything else?”

“Dinner?”

“Dial one on the intercom to get the kitchen. They will prepare any meal of your choice.”

“Thai curry?”

“Our chefs are internationally trained. If you need me, dial nine.”

After he left, I lay on the bed with my shoes on. The sheets were freshly laundered, high thread count, cool to the touch. I studied the canopy over the bed, the frame that held the curtains up. I would have given anything to have slept here as a child, a princess in a fairy tale, tossing and turning for a pea.

It was dark outside when I woke up and dialed the kitchen.

“Good evening. I hope it’s not too late to place an order.”

“We’re here whenever you need us.” The voice was male and accented. I would guess French.

“I’d like a Thai green curry, please.”

“Chicken, beef, or prawn?”

“Beef, please,” I said.

“And will you have jasmine or basmati rice?”

“Jasmine.”

“And wine? There is a selection in our cellars.”

“Water is fine.”

“Still or sparkling?”

“Still.”

“And for dessert?”

“Not tonight, thank you.”

I put down the phone and went to the bathroom. It had both a tub and a shower. There were white towels on the railings and lapis tiles on the floor. The sink was marble; the taps were golden, or at least gold-plated. I twisted one. The water gurgled from afar, moisture traveling up a dry throat, waiting for a cough to expel it. When the water finally arrived, it ran brown.

How many rooms like this? How many golden taps? It was opulence modeled on Versailles, joining Kofi to a long line of tacky despots and oligarchs. Francis Aggrey would never have erected such a folly. This was Kofi grasping at all the things his earlier incarnation had rejected: Western dominance, European modes of thought. The ideology of the place was writ large in gilt and mortar. My awe swung to distaste.

I returned to the bedroom and pulled back the heavy brocade curtains. Floodlights illuminated my view of the garden. Flying insects streamed to the hot bulbs in an exodus of wings and antennae. In the distance, they looked like rain.

My dinner was brought by a young woman. She spread a white tablecloth, tucked me into my chair, poured my water, and was gone. Apart from her greeting of “good evening,” she worked silently. One tap might pay her annual wages. Why had they not all been stolen?

The curry was prepared with more chilies than I was accustomed to. The rice was fragrant. The beef was tough. When I was done, I changed into my nightclothes. There was no key in the lock. I slept knowing anyone could walk in.





23


I woke up with no sense of dislocation. I was in Gbadolite, brought here by my father, Kofi Adjei, once known as Francis Aggrey. I was here to know him, to understand where I had come from, not to pass judgment, I reminded myself.