Sankofa(63)

I unzipped my suitcase and gathered my things. I was going home with dirty clothes and no story, just a few episodes with Kofi that added up to little. Perhaps Rose was right: this trip was born out of cowardice. I had wanted to flee to Bamana instead of deciding where things stood with Robert. The intercom. I let it ring until it was almost too late.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good afternoon. Sule speaking.”

“Hi, Sule.”

“Sir Kofi’s son is holding a small gathering this evening and he has asked me to invite you.”

“Which of his sons?”

“Kweku. Kwabena lives abroad.”

“Am I allowed to meet his children? After what happened with Afua?”

“They are your brothers and sisters.”

“Half.”

“There is no such thing in Africa. What shall I tell him?”

“Why not. How will I get there?”

“I’ll pick you up at seven.”



Kweku’s house was on the beach. The ground floor had floor-to-ceiling windows and you could see the guests from the road, like exotic fish in an aquarium. I was wearing my market dress. I walked close to Sule. I brushed against strangers, against fabric, not skin. Waiters circulated with canapés and flutes of champagne. Jazz poured out of hidden speakers. The women wore heels. The men wore jackets. There were a few non-black faces sprinkled through the room, frosting on a brownie.

“Kweku, allow me to introduce you to Ms. Anna Graham.”

He turned to face us.

“Afua didn’t say you were beautiful.” He studied me openly but with no malice in his gaze. “I see why they thought you were Papa’s mistress. I didn’t get to see the picture myself. They took it down so fast. Welcome to my small gathering.”

Kweku was the center of the party, a roving sun. I felt the eye of the room shift to me.

“Thank you for inviting me to your lovely home,” I said.

“Pardon? Let’s go outside. It’s noisy here.”

Even with the ocean only a few feet away, Kweku had a pool in his backyard. He was extravagant like our father. There were smokers flicking ash into the water.

“Use an ashtray,” Kweku said. He did not have Kofi’s authority. No one moved. We sat away from the smokers on cane chairs with armrests that curled like vines.

“Let us begin again. Welcome to Bamana. I hope the country is to your liking.”

“It is.”

“So, we are siblings.”

“Half,” I said.

“We don’t have that in Africa.” He leaned back in his chair. His manner was relaxed, almost slothful, in contrast to Kofi’s rigidity. “How did my father meet your mother?”

“As a student in London,” I said. “He was my grandfather’s lodger.”

“He doesn’t speak much about those days. Who would have guessed he left behind a love child?”

“I don’t want to cause any trouble. I just wanted to meet him. I’m returning to England tomorrow.”

“If you’d been a boy there would have been trouble. You would be the oldest son instead of me, an heir who can’t control his appetite.”

Kweku was the fattest Bamanaian I had seen. When he was not speaking, his lips remained parted so he could breathe. He wore rings on four fingers. Apart from that, he was simply dressed in black.

“What was he like as a father?” I asked.

“Kofi Adjei. The great Daasebre of Bamana. He had very high standards. Me, I dropped out of trying to meet them once I turned about thirteen, but Afua, she’s still competing for his approval. I understand her reception was not very warm.”

“She was shocked,” I said.

“She was jealous. Papa hasn’t taken her for a golf cart ride in years. What did you think of Gbadolite?”

“I liked the giraffes.”

“Yes, of course. The zoo. Did you see the tiger? He’s very proud of that. Only tiger in West Africa. Needs a mate. He should start a matchmaking service.”

I liked him. He was the first Adjei I’d met with a sense of humor.

“What about your mother? What’s she like?”

“Very quiet . . . calm, but also brave. She smuggled medical supplies to the liberation struggle at great personal risk. Essentially, though, she’s happy to stay in the background. You’d have to be, married to a man like my father.”

It appeared Kofi had a type. Kweku’s mother sounded, in some ways, like mine.

“How come I haven’t met her?”

“They live apart,” he said. “Neither wants a divorce. None of my business. Araba!” he shouted across the pool. “Araba, come and meet someone.”

The sequins on her jumpsuit shimmered like scales. She was nearly as large as Kweku. Her skin was seamless, almost too smooth to be entirely natural.

“So, you’re Pa Kofi’s new daughter. They said you’re almost fifty. You don’t look your age. Is that your real hair?”

“Araba, show some manners, please,” Kweku said.

“Sorry. Good evening, my name is Araba. I’m your second half cousin. That’s what we decided, abi, Kweku?”

“Araba.”

“What? We’ve all been talking about her since Afua’s phone call yesterday. You bought that dress from Oxford Street market.”