Sankofa(58)

Kofi drew himself up. “Since when do you demand explanations from me?” His voice boomed and Afua flinched.

“I’m sorry, Papa.” She curtsied. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

I should have left the room and given them their privacy.

“I don’t see the problem,” Kofi said. “A new sister. There should be rejoicing, not recrimination. Go and lie down until your mind has grasped the good news. Then join us for dinner. Come, Anna. There is something I want to show you.”

Afua gathered her kaftan robes and swept out of the room. She would never like me. She was proud like our father, and I had witnessed her shaming. Her anger would turn on me first, instead of finding its more obvious object: Kofi.

“She is most like me in temperament,” he said.

“How did she find out?”

“A blog. We shut it down, but a photograph is circulating on the Internet. A picture of us in the golf cart. Innocent enough, but people these days have such filthy minds.”

Panic welled at the thought of my face multiplied across a million screens, mistaken for a mistress. That was the only explanation for an anonymous woman being beside a powerful man.

“Don’t worry. It will blow over. A real scandal will emerge and you’ll be forgotten.”

“But who did you say I was?” I asked.

“It’s not necessary to put out a statement over online gossip but, of course, if I were asked a direct question by a reputable journalist, I would say you are my daughter. Which is what you are. Come,” he said. “Let me show you the lake.”

“I need to get back to London.”

“The matter is over, Anna. Forget it. Please come with me.”

After days of neglect time had suddenly appeared in his schedule. He would have been an inconsistent father, appearing between rallies and speeches, a father only when it was convenient. I had been better off with the quiet, steady presence of my mother.

Outside, the sun was back and the rain was making its reverse journey to the sky. Sweat streamed from my face, pooled in my clavicles, gathered in the folds of my knees. My father owned a palace, a zoo, a plane, and now a lake. We walked through a part of Gbadolite that was wilder than the rest. Damp grass tickled my bare ankles. Wet plants slapped my arms.

It was a large lake, so large that figures on the opposite bank would appear small. Trees hung over the water, their reflections broken by the ripples of small fish swimming beneath the surface. The air was fresh. The world was cleansed after the rain.

“Lake Makgadi. It used to be sacred for the villagers. We enclosed it in the compound because of some practices.”

“Practices?”

“Relating to the supernatural. Some were harmless. Women believe if you drink from here, you will be cured of infertility. The same as the waters at Lourdes.”

There were pleasure boats painted in primary colors stacked under a shed, the colors of boiled sweets. Kofi took off his shoes, rolled up his trousers, and began to drag one to the water. I left my shoes on the shore and joined him, pushing from behind, wading knee-deep into the lake. The water was cold and clear. I could see my feet distort as light passed from air to water. My toes looked like bleached slugs.

Kofi held the boat steady while I climbed in. The bottom was littered with dead leaves and shriveled insects. The oars were old and starting to splinter. We sat facing each other, our knees a few inches apart. He took the first turn with clean strokes. The blades dipped and rose with almost no splash.

“So is our modest city of Gbadolite to your liking?”

“It’s unusual. Very different from the village,” I said.

“The villagers wouldn’t want to live in a place like this. They have a very separate conception of the world. One must respect that.”

“What are your other children like?”

“Afua, who you have met, is a judge. Kwabena is in the UN—peaceful, diplomatic, as befits his job. Benita, named for my wife’s mother, is the youngest, an artist of some sort. I don’t understand the work myself but her art is popular in Sweden. Kweku works in an oil company.”

“What would you have named me?”

“If I had been there at your birth?”

“Yes.”

“I would have called you Nana. It means ‘Queen.’”

The air over the lake was still. The noise of our rowing was the only sound. Two crescents of sweat darkened the armpits of his shirt.

“Would you like a turn?”

“Yes, please.”

The oars were heavy. My strokes fell at an angle that met the most resistance. The boat moved off course, away from the line Kofi had set. I had never been so close to Kofi’s face. I had his nose. I had the strong jaw that was too wide for a woman, an artist once told me. Kofi had shaved that morning but his chin was already sprouting silver.

“Don’t fight the water, Anna. Relax your shoulders. Use your arms. That’s better.”

I could feel the drag of the oars in my stomach and thighs. I drew in air through my mouth, in audible breaths.

“I have been thinking about what we spoke of in Segu,” Kofi said. “I want you to know that immediately after my mother’s funeral I did consider returning to England to complete my degree and, of course, marry your mother. What stopped me was the thought of our children. If I raised them in England they would be completely lost. Like you described.”