Sankofa(71)

“It’s up to you. Me, if I offend Papa, I apologize. I live off him. Can’t afford to be proud.”

“The oil company belongs to him,” I said.

“So you do know something about our affairs. It’s his. It’s Bamana’s. Whatever. I wouldn’t have my job if I wasn’t Kofi Adjei’s son.”

“Do you feel guilty about it?”

“What? His stupendous wealth? Kwabena does. And Benita, too, sometimes. Maybe that explains the twisted metal. Afua is in denial. She believes all that Gbadolite-belongs-to-Bamana crap. Me, I am pragmatic. Papa is better than most of the African leaders of his generation. He did more for the people. They still love him till now. Remember, he was not ousted. He stepped down.”

He is not as willfully blind as Afua but he still views Kofi through a falsely flattering lens. I am tired of the Adjeis and their gilding.

“I just want to go back to England,” I say.

“You will. Papa will arrange it. He takes care of his children.”

Kweku begins to stand up. It is like watching a turtle flip itself off its back. It will not be long before his weight prevents him from walking.

“Pathetic, aren’t I?”

Finally, he is on his feet.

“I have to go. I have meetings. I just came to see that you were all right after Sule told me what happened. Do you need anything?”

“Clothes . . . and a toothbrush.”

“I’ll make sure it’s sorted.”

“And canvases.”

“Pardon?”

“Canvases for painting. I want to paint.”

“You’re an artist.”

“I used to be. And brushes. I need brushes and oil paints.”

“It can be arranged.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention. What are siblings for?”

“Half siblings.”

“We don’t have that in Africa.”



Afua was my next guest. She came two days later.

“Kweku said you were here.”

She was not as tall as I remembered. I checked the wall clock. It had just gone past noon.

“Good afternoon.”

I was sitting in a dress that Kweku had sent me, a bright print with short sleeves and a sequin-embellished neckline. I had gone out that morning, walked through the front gate and made it to the end of the street before turning back. I flinched when a pedestrian brushed against me. I cowered at every passing car. I felt safest in my room and so I returned there. The canvases and oil paints had still not arrived. When Afua knocked, I thought it might be their delivery.

“May I?” she asked, gesturing to the opposite sofa.

“Feel free.”

“How are you? How’s your stay with Papa been?”

“Good,” I said.

“I hope our weather is not too hot for you?”

“No.”

“And how’s your family in England?”

“Fine, thank you.”

She fiddled with the clasp of her gold bracelet. She wore a matching necklace and a gold watch on her other wrist. Her lips were painted, her eyebrows were drawn, and every finger, except her thumbs, was ringed. There was a knock on the door. It was the maid with my lunch tray.

“Aunty Afua.” She curtsied and set down the tray. “I didn’t know you were around. What will you eat, ma?”

“Actually, I was hoping to take you out for lunch,” Afua said to me.

“That’s kind.”

“I should remove this?” the maid asked, looking at Afua, the recognized authority.

“Yes, please, Angela. If that’s fine with you, Anna?”

“Sure.”

Angela left with my tray. I had never thought to ask her name and she had never thought to curtsy to me.

“Shall we?” Afua said, rising.

Afua’s car was a black Mercedes with tinted windows and a siren on the roof. TV screens were buried in the leather headrests and a glazed panel separated us from the driver. He was dressed in police uniform, navy shirt and trousers with one silver star sewn to each epaulette.

“Bagatelle,” Afua said over the intercom.

The engine started and the car moved off, sealed from outside. Her perfume clogged the air, floral with bitter undertones. When the car slowed, hawkers swarmed. At a red light, a child flattened his face against the glass. Afua slid down the window, startling him.

“Don’t dirty my car,” she said.

“Sorry, mama. Please give me something.”

She brought out a two-hundred-cowry note.

“Mama the mama.”

It was a lot of money, a performative amount. We drove off.

“The thing about Papa is he doesn’t keep secrets from us,” she said, picking up a conversation that had never begun, “which is why it was such a surprise to find out about you. I’m not that good with surprises so you must excuse my initial reaction, but we’ll talk more in Bagatelle.” She gestured at the driver.

Bagatelle was set back from the street, with a large fountain in its front garden. A plaster cherub spouted water from pursed lips, like a projectile of spit. The interior was more modern: plants growing up an exposed brick wall, sleek dark-wood tables, black leather booths. There was no lunch crowd—only a few solitary diners, eating with their phones and laptops.