Sankofa(72)

“Your Excellency.”

A man approached. The top buttons of his white shirt were open and his chest hairs sprouted black and silver.

“Amir.”

They clasped shoulders and pressed cheeks.

“Amir, this is my friend Anna.”

He turned and shook my hand. He was short. The crown of his head would slide neatly under my chin.

“Welcome to Bagatelle, Anna. The oldest first-rate restaurant in Bamana.”

“Hello,” I said.

“I detect a British accent.”

“We came here to eat,” Afua said.

I slipped my hand out of Amir’s grip.

“Where would you like to sit, Your Excellency? Anywhere you want, even in my office.”

“I’ve told you. It’s ‘my lord’ for a judge.”

“‘My lady,’ surely,” Amir said.

“I prefer to think of myself as a man when I administer justice. Your private booth. Don’t seat anyone near it.”

I followed in Afua’s wake and she led us to a booth screened off by wooden panels. Inside, it was faintly claustrophobic. There was a half-melted candle in the center of the table: a space perhaps reserved for romantic assignments.

“I went to school with Amir. He’s from an old Lebanese family. Very wealthy. They’ve been in Bamana for almost a century, but the Khourys still ship their brides from Lebanon—to keep the blood pure.”

“I’m your friend?” I asked.

“I would like us to be despite our not-so-promising start. It’s we Adjeis against the world. What you must first explain is why you left your life in London to find Papa if it wasn’t for money?”

“I have some.”

“Then what?”

“I wanted to meet my father.”

“Couldn’t you at least telephone, give us some warning?”

“Kofi is a difficult man to get hold of.”

“You still call Papa by his first name.”

Amir brought us flatbread and hummus. He unfolded our napkins and spread them on our laps. He wasn’t wearing cologne and he smelled of bread and sweat.

“What would you like, ladies?” he asked.

“Really, Amir, you can get one of your waiters to do this.”

“And miss the chance to serve two beautiful women? What will you have to drink?”

“Diet Pepsi,” Afua said.

“Water, please,” I said.

“And to eat?”

“A sharing selection. You decide.”

Amir left us.

“So, you grew up in England,” Afua said.

“Yes.”

“What was it like?”

“Racist.”

“Papa told us some stories but we didn’t really experience that over there. We went to boarding school and everyone knew our father was a president.”

“Lucky you.”

“No, you mustn’t think of it that way. It wasn’t always easy being Papa’s child.”

“I grew up on a council estate,” I said. I sounded bitter. Perhaps I was, knowing what my life could have been.

“All right. You suffered more. Were you loved?”

“I was. And you?” I asked.

“Sometimes. Not enough.”

The dishes arrived balanced on Amir’s hands and forearms. Hair grew from his wrists to his elbows. He fanned the food around us—small platters of meat and bread, and ceramic dipping bowls filled with sauces. We did not speak until he was gone.

“Try the meatballs. It’s their specialty,” Afua said.

“Kofi mentioned you were a judge.”

“Yes, I am. I have a first-class law degree from Oxford. A judge at thirty, a high court judge by thirty-five, and always, you wonder, is it because of Papa? Look at you. You’re not bad-looking, you have some money, a husband and daughter in London, you’ve made a life without Papa. Why are you here?”

“My husband and I are separated.”

“May I ask why?”

“Adultery,” I said.

“Is that all? He didn’t beat you?”

“Yes, that was all. It was enough.”

“I don’t know. I’m not one of those women who keeps track of a man’s penis.”

“What about your husband?”

“I’ve had two. The first was physically abusive. He liked being the president’s son-in-law more than he liked being my husband. I have what Bama men call a strong face, and I’m too tall and outspoken. Not like you. The boys would have been wild about you over here. Half-caste girls were very popular.”

“Well, I wasn’t always the rage in London. And I’m sorry to hear that—about your husband.”

“No. It was a long time ago. I told Papa. He took care of things.”

“Is he dead?”

She laughed with her mouth open, revealing falafel, ground grey. It was her first slip in decorum.

“Mensah is alive and well in Australia. Our son visits him once a year. Don’t believe all those rumors about Papa. They’re spread by his enemies. He was a tough man when Bamana needed toughness, but he has never been evil. Let’s just say Papa made divorce the easiest option for Mensah.”