“Georgia,” the girl answered. “Georgia Baxter.” She let out a huge yawn, resting the back of her head on the headrest and closing her eyes.
Georgia Baxter. Daughter of Cortland Baxter, the federal attorney who was about to try Dennis Smith. The same federal attorney who the African Tribal Council had marked for dispatch by Nena’s hands. If Nena were one for laughter, she’d do it now, because the chances of this meeting were a zillion to none.
Nena guessed she wouldn’t bother with a lecture about making wiser decisions about where the girl roamed at night. Georgia Baxter had a parent for that. At least for a little while longer.
10
BEFORE
An unwise decision echoes in my mind as Paul makes a motion with his hand and Attah strikes my father again, hitting him with the butt of his rifle. The force is so massive my own teeth rattle. Witnessing Papa struck in front of me is too much to bear, and I pry Wisdom’s fingers from around my mouth, twisting away from the mesh of limbs that are his and Josiah’s arms.
I am on my feet, rushing to Papa before I have a chance to consider what I am doing. My father tries to wave me back, but I ignore him. He’s been hurt. Blood trickles from his lip. I wrap my arms tightly around his waist, something I’ve always done when in need of his comfort. But this time our roles reverse, and Papa needs my protection.
I hear scuffling, an uprising of some of the villagers, the swelling murmur of the few men not yet silenced. Papa holds out a silencing hand when the villagers’ murmurs increase toward indignation.
His pain evident in his voice, Papa says, “Let us be reasonable. What you are doing here . . .” My father’s voice falters. He shakes his head as if to clear it of a fugue; likely, he is concussed. “When the government catches wind . . . when the president learns of it, they will put you in a cell.”
“You do not get to tell us shit,” the Walrus barks.
Paul’s answer comes from behind us. Where did he get off to? He reminds me that you should not take your eyes off a predator on the hunt, because the moment you look away, they pounce. Yet somehow I took my eyes off Paul, and he disappeared into the smoke and mass of bodies and reemerged.
“Michael, I had hoped you’d be more welcoming this time,” he says.
Papa straightens, covering my shoulder with his broad palm and easing me behind him.
Paul’s movie-star looks are back in place but do not match the menace in his voice, which slithers like an anaconda preparing to squeeze and eat. “Fuck the government and their figurehead politics only put in to appease the West against us ‘savages.’ Despite all your university learning, your doctorate and degrees, your multiple languages, and your association with Westerners and colonizers, do you realize they still regard you as a savage? They think you run around here naked with beads and piercings, yelping into the air with spears, taking ten wives, and bartering goats. I make Ghana thrive, not your politicians.”
“Ah, but why do you play with him so?” the Walrus grumbles, cranky, even sweatier than before. “Let’s be done with this shit, eh? It’s fucking hot.”
“It’s Ghana, Attah,” Paul scoffs. “It’s always fucking hot.” But he snaps his fingers and calls, “Bena.”
Kwabena appears from the back of one of the trucks. He is considerably younger than Paul and the Walrus, maybe twenty at the most. He may be younger, but I soon learn he is just as ruthless.
Bena and another man hold up someone by his shoulders. His head hangs, chin touching his chest. A thin strand of spit drools from his mouth. When Bena yanks him, his head jostles violently, revealing his face to me. It is Papa’s youngest brother and closest confidant.
Daniel’s left eye is swollen shut. His deformed face looks as if it has been stung by a dozen wasps. His skin glistens, not with sweat, like the men who imprison us, but with his blood.
“Daniel!” Papa’s body stiffens, and as if on a string, my head twists toward him, seeing the anger flash in his eyes. Papa’s hands fist at his sides. “Release him immediately.”
Paul smirks. “So this is the brother who has taken my place?”
“Uncle!” Wisdom and Josiah yell, abandoning their earlier attempts to quell knee-jerk reactions.
At the same time Papa implores, “There is still time to stop this.”
My eyes jump from my father to my brothers, then to my trembling, bloodied uncle, frailer than I have ever seen him. Paul is smirking. His eyes are bright and dancing; he’s clearly enjoying the scene he has created for the rest of us.