Next, he joined the National Union of Railway Workers and quickly rose to the position of secretary general. It was a more radical organization but still not radical enough for Francis. The British must go, and they must go immediately. And so in 1971 he founded the Diamond Coast Liberation Group.
I am often asked how freedom fighters passed the time while waiting for a window of opportunity to strike. A cell could spend weeks roving in the bush before a plan could be put into action. We thought of freedom and our families, but mostly what we thought of was food.
There is much in the bush that is edible if one would let go of finicky Western prejudices. The first time I was presented with a mopane worm, I considered downing arms and returning home. Me, the only son of my mother, who was only ever fed the choicest cuts of meat, to eat a grub dug out from the ground. Yet I grew to appreciate these worms that we would snack on during the day. They could be eaten raw or slightly roasted. There were also some excellent hunters in our group, skilled at setting traps for bush rodents and other smaller creatures. Once in a glorious while, someone would trap an antelope and we would eat chunks of meat, whose fat and gristle would stoke our memories for weeks.
It was lunchtime and, one by one, the other readers drifted out, and I followed them. The café was an open space of mushroom-top tables with the muted buzz of people who could not forget they were in a library. I was too shy to join anyone. I bought a salad and circled until an empty table appeared. I set my tray down and speared a beetroot with my plastic fork. Opposite me was a wall of books trapped behind glass. I tried to read the gold lettering on the spines while I ate, but the print was too small. They were objects, carefully chosen for their style, like the lamp fittings.
“May I join you?”
“Yes, of course,” I said.
The stranger was over fifty, going grey but with unlined skin. Not handsome, but large and at ease in his frame. A thick musk of cologne billowed out from him. My eyes roved to his left hand and caught a gold band. He put his tray down. He was eating a proper meal—rice and curry with peas on the side. I looked into the leaves of my salad. I was suddenly aware of the bovine crunch of vegetables in my mouth. I chewed faster, eager to leave.
“So, what are you researching?” His voice was deep and attractive.
“Me?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Francis Aggrey. Or Kofi Adjei, as he is better known. He was the first prime minister of Bamana.”
“I know him,” he said.
“Personally?”
“I mean I know of him. I was in secondary school when he became prime minister. In Nigeria we sent money for the liberation struggle in what was then the Diamond Coast.”
I dated a few African men at university—the type that had a knee-jerk attraction to my skin tone, dark when placed next to my mother’s, light when placed beside theirs. There was a Nigerian boyfriend whose mother did not like me. I didn’t like her, either.
“I’m researching the Aba Women’s Riot,” he said. “Eastern Nigeria, early twentieth century. It’s a leisure project. My great-grandmother was one of the so-called rioters.”
The thirty minutes I had allotted for lunch were almost over. “I hate to be rude, but I must get back inside.”
“Of course. It was nice to meet you—？”
“Anna,” I said.
“Alex. Alex Obosi. All the best with Adjei. It’s a shame how he turned out.”
“How?”
“Badly. The crocodile, that’s what they called him in Bamana when I was there. He was ruthless, cold-blooded, deadly.”
“When did you go?”
“Oh, over twenty years ago now. Beautiful country. Beautiful women,” he said. His eyes flickered to my breasts.
“Interesting.” I stood up to leave.
“Take my card,” he said. “Let’s stay in touch. You’re a lecturer, you said?”
“No. Leisure researcher also.”
“Even better. We should have coffee one day we’re both in.”
Alex Obosi, Consultant, the square of cardboard said. To reduce this hulking man to a name, job description, and telephone number seemed a shame. I remembered the lawyer’s words. There was life after divorce, although not with Alex Obosi. Too married. I put his card in the bin on the way out.
I turned to Adrian’s book when I got back to my desk. I had gotten a feel for Francis Aggrey’s memoirs. There was nothing of my mother, but there was also nothing of the man I knew from the diary. He had bared himself in those pages and now he hid his real self in these, crouching behind a legend of his own construction.