“Are you calling our child evil?” Mum blusters.
My lips tremble, a sob teasing at them. Is that how Dad sees me? As evil?
“Of course not. I’m saying Nena needs to channel her anger. She won’t speak of her past anymore. She needs to do something physical—just trust me, Del.”
“Well, surely we aren’t going to win parents of the year, allowing one of our daughters to do this,” Mum grumbles, the steam let out of her fight.
Relieved their disagreement is merely a difference of opinion and not an argument, I relax, about to go back the way I came, until their next words make me stop.
“No, but when the girls are adults and inherit their roles as heads of the Tribe, along with the other members and their children, our family continues its top position. It’s only our family I fully trust to ensure the Tribe continues as it was meant to be.”
Tribe. Council. The words roll in my mind, sounding both ominous and exhilarating. I knew there was more to Dad and Mum’s business. Everything sounds very secretive, and they watch their words around me. But now, it seems this Tribe and Council will become my business as well. My water forgotten, I make my way back to my room and shut the door behind me. For the first time since I can remember, I feel excitement bubbling up. Whatever Dad has planned, I hope he will tell me sooner rather than later.
Because I can stand no further delays in reclaiming who I am.
There are only a couple of weeks remaining of school before the summer holiday. I look forward to it, hoping the summer temperatures will be more tolerable for my heat-accustomed body. After a particularly uneventful day, Margot directs me to the garden, where Dad awaits.
He sits on the wicker bench and slides over to make room. The garden is vast, with a maze of bushes and trees I like to get lost in. Dad finds the garden as soothing as I do. He is often in it while I toil away at my bonsai and other exotic plants I am determined to make live in this harsh weather. Some do; some do not.
He asks after my day, which has gone fine. Then he crosses his legs, a habit of his I’ll eventually learn happens before he “gets down to business,” as Elin likes to say. He also tends to tilt his chin up a centimeter and look to the air as if seeking guidance. My eyes travel up as well, expecting to see a face or force looming above. There’s nothing there.
“You may or may not already know, but I originate from Senegal, having immigrated here when I was young. My parents sent me first to live with an uncle in Nigeria, where I involved myself with a rough bunch, enjoying my sudden freedom from my parents. I was a pretty bad child.
“When my uncle sent me to England to live with an old girlfriend of his, I continued along my path. I liked what I was doing back home, but I didn’t want to be the soldier anymore, the bag boy holding the food or guns. I wanted to be supplying the food, the brains of the whole organization. I wanted to run the money because, to me, money was the most important thing. Because I had gone so long without it, I never wanted to be without it again. I would kill for it. And I did.”
I was not prepared for his admission. Murder is something he and I share. He is telling me of our shared experience, but to what end?
“I met Del when I was twenty. She was seventeen and attending an all-girls uni. Her family had immigrated here from Ghana when she was a baby. They owned several markets and a dress shop that specialized in African fabrics and were doing well for themselves. They certainly didn’t want me around their daughter, but your mum and I were inseparable from the moment she sold me a cola in one of their stores.
“Eventually, her parents began to accept me. Her brother, Abraham, became my best friend. We grew into this world together—Abraham, Del, and I.”
I cannot explain my feelings as I listen to him speak. It pleases me that he is sharing his past with me, that he can relate to something of the life I lived on the streets. However, I am curious where this conversation is heading.
“Have you heard of my father before?” I ask. “Michael Asym? Or of N’nkakuwe and of how it is? Chigali, maybe?”
Dad’s eyes dim as he weighs his words carefully. “I did not know your father, not personally.”
“My village?” I ask, hoping he says there is something left. A deeper part of me knows the truth.
He shakes his head. “No, Nena, N’nkakuwe is gone. It is as you said, burned to the ground with not a soul left. We scoured Aburi Mountain for any signs, any survivors.”
I catch my bottom lip between my teeth to prevent it from trembling. I turn away, my vision blurring and hot. I knew this already, but I couldn’t help harboring this one last bit of hope that I was wrong.