Sankofa(65)

I could see the plane from the gate, a sleek Boeing model with the hump of an upper level. A queue shuffled forward for one last check. At the desk I handed over my ticket and passport. The attendant was well groomed, hair styled in a slick cut that looked held in place by spit or gel.

“Madam, it says here that you will be traveling under a Bamanaian passport.”

“It’s a mistake. I’m British.”

“But do you have a Bamanaian passport?”

“Yes, I do.”

“May I see it?”

I had almost packed it away in my suitcase. It was as much a souvenir of my time here as my market dress. I gave her the navy passport embossed with the Bamanaian coat of arms, a lion rearing under a palm tree.

“Madam, please step to the side.”

“Why?”

“A routine check. Don’t be alarmed. Please take a seat.”

The other passengers filed past. Business types dressed for meetings in London, families with children dashing ahead, the elderly in wheelchairs, pushed to the front of the queue like VIPs. I returned to the desk.

“I don’t want to miss my flight. What’s this about?”

“Please exercise patience. You will be attended to shortly.”

Two security agents approached with a gun and a dog between them, wafting menace into the sleepy terminal. The dog, a gaunt German shepherd, was hunting for drugs or explosives or its next meal. When they stopped in front of me, I lowered my bag. The dog sniffed and lost interest.

“Please come with us.”

“Pardon?” I said.

“You are on a no-fly list of Bamanaians.”

“There has been a mistake.”

“You are Anna Graham?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must come with us.”

“Not without an explanation. I am a British citizen.”

“As long as you are on Bamanaian soil your Bamanaian citizenship takes precedence over all others.”

“I need to make a phone call.”

“That will not be possible.”

I walked sandwiched between them, the dog brushing against my legs like a pet. A toddler strayed into our path and was dragged away. They led me behind a door marked no entry. We walked in single file down a narrow corridor lined with unmarked doors. We stopped in front of one.

“Your phone.”

“I don’t have one.”

“You wanted to make a phone call.”

“I was hoping to use yours.”

“Search her bag.”

I gave it up before it was taken by force. They left me in a room with a low ceiling and no windows. There was another woman, asleep despite the heat. Her chair had no armrests and her arms hung slack by her side, dangling like rag limbs. Ten minutes passed. I tried the door handle. It opened.

“I wouldn’t go out.” My companion was awake.

“I’m going to miss my flight if someone doesn’t attend to me.”

I waited another ten minutes. Final boarding calls would be announced; stragglers’ names read out. I knocked on the door. The official I summoned had two brass buttons missing from his shirt. When he pointed in my face, his hand smelled of eggs. I stepped back.

“My flight is leaving soon.”

“And so? Don’t knock on this door again.”

He left, and I went to sit by the woman.

“Do you have anyone you can call?” she asked.

“They took my phone.”

“You should have hidden it.”

The gate would close. My flight would leave. No one would know at which point I had gone missing.

“You sound foreign. British, right? My boyfriend is white.”

I looked at my companion. She had a row of piercings down the curve of her ear. In each hole was a small diamond stud. Her skin was clammy, like the surface of a frog.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“They’re waiting for me to shit.”

“Pardon?”

“Expensive shit. What about you? Why are you here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Start thinking.”

She closed her eyes again. She was breathing through her mouth, short, shallow breaths. Her hair was blond and tufted in spikes, like dry grass. The uniformed man returned.

“Come with me,” he said.

“She’s not feeling well. She needs a doctor.”

“You better mind your business.”

The room was interrogation kitsch, copied verbatim from a Hollywood set. Bare walls, low-hanging naked bulb, no furniture except a table and two chairs, one occupied by an officer. He was dressed in plain clothes. His badge was pinned to a T-shirt that was too tight at the sleeves, pressing into his biceps in a way that would leave a mark. His permanent wave dated him precisely. I sat in the empty chair. The orderly saluted and left. I decided to be direct, the Bamanaian way.

“Look, I have money. I can pay you,” I said.

“No introductions?”

“You must know who I am.”

“Yes, I do, Anna Graham, but you do not know me. I am Inspector Appiah.”

“I have money,” I said again.

“Trying to bribe an officer. We can add that to your charges. Do you know why you are here?”