“For the better?” I asked.
“Yes, I think so. The country was too isolated under Adjei. I saw him speak once when he was in office. Interesting fellow. Lots of ideas about how to do capitalism the African way and all that. But what were the results? Bamana was still poor. This new guy, Owusu, is really opening the place up.”
“No, Adjei was better,” the man standing next to Ken said. “Owusu is just selling us to foreigners.”
The woman who spoke next was petite and dark-skinned. A cropped wig framed her face. The hair was cut in little triangles that lay flat on her forehead.
“Why are you here living with those same foreigners, then? What Owusu is doing is good. He’s bringing jobs to the country, for the young people.”
“It’s we, the youth, that will pay for these policies,” a young man with an eyebrow piercing said. “When we’re old, we will wake up and see that Owusu has sold our country.”
“At least you will live to be old,” the woman replied.
Our conversation spread to the rest of the room—Adjei versus Owusu. My father had his supporters but Owusu was the clear winner.
“Number twenty-five.”
When I stood up, I saw Francina and her three children watching me dolefully.
It was a man at the counter, in a grey suit but no tie.
“Morning. What is your application?”
“B-One tourist visa, please,” I said.
“Your form.”
He flicked through the pages I had filled out.
“Purpose of visit.”
“I’m going on holiday.”
“You have family there?”
“Yes, my father.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s retired.”
“But your form states you’ll be residing in a hotel during your stay. What of your father’s house?”
“He remarried. I don’t know his new wife.”
“Oh. Sorry about that. Your supporting documents?”
I gave him my flight receipt and my bank account statements.
“Three weeks’ visa granted. You have the eighty pounds postal order?”
“Pardon?”
“That’s how you pay for the visa. It says so on the website.”
The embassy website had been a series of broken links and empty pages.
“I didn’t see it. I’m sorry.”
“No need to be sorry. There’s a post office down the road. You can get it from there but, by the time you come back, we may not be able to attend to you today.”
“Can I pay by card?”
“We don’t have a card machine. You have cash?”
I looked in my wallet.
“I only have fifty pounds,” I said.
The man leaned close, until his temple brushed the glass separating us.
“I like you, my sister. Just bring what you have.”
He was whispering and I found myself lowering my voice too.
“Thank you so much.”
I slid the fifty pounds under the opening. He sat back but left an oil smear. He stamped my form.
“Come next week Tuesday for passport pickup.”
“Can I have a receipt? Something I can show at the door?”
He wrote my name and the date of collection and signed a slip of paper.
“Next. Number thirty-two.”
Outside, Ken the consultant was waiting on the pavement.
“How did it go? I thought I’d make sure you were all right.”
“I’m not sure. I got the visa but I paid fifty pounds instead of eighty. In cash. I didn’t know about the postal order.”
He laughed. “Congratulations. You just paid your first bribe.”
It worried me how easily I’d been duped. If I was no match for the clerk in the embassy, what hope did I have in the actual country? “I thought there was something suspicious,” I said.
“Don’t feel bad. They probably haven’t paid him his wages in months. You’ve stopped him from freezing this winter.”
“So when do you pick up your passport? I have to come back next week,” I said.
“Oh, I have my passport already. Express service.”
“A bribe?”
“I prefer ‘facilitation fee,’” he said. “Walking to the station?”
I met Katherine in the new café on our high street that sold chai-flavored coffee. A sign outside read, BREASTFEEDING MOTHERS GET FREE DRINK. I didn’t breastfeed Rose for long. My milk dried up.
“We’re the oldest people here,” Katherine said when I sat down. “Shall I get us some coffee?”