I was the only guest by the pool. I lay on a deck chair under a sunshade. It was soon clear that it was too hot to be outside, but I didn’t want to go back to my room. The water sparkled, still and lifeless. My book lay unopened by my side.
A figure blocked the sun. It was Ken.
“Did you make it to the beach?” he asked.
“No. How was your meeting?”
“No show. You get used to this kind of thing over here. We’ve rescheduled for Friday. Any plans for today?”
“Not much,” I said.
“We can still go to Bongo Beach. It’s only one thirty.”
“I’ll go upstairs and fetch my things.”
Here was the guide I was waiting for. Someone who knew the country well, although a stranger. A beach was an open space. I would be safe.
Ken called a hotel taxi. We pulled out and joined the stream of moving vehicles. It was air-conditioned, sleek, plush seating at the back. He pointed out landmarks: Liberty Square, the Parliament Building, the Central Bank. Segu in daylight felt different. In the evening it had seemed muted and mysterious. Now the sun revealed all its secrets.
The city was brutally concrete. Once in a while a tree would appear in the landscape like an alien ship stranded. Wherever there was a tree there were people in its shade, resting on benches, trading their wares. When the taxi slowed there was always someone selling something.
“Kofi Adjei,” I said, pointing to a portrait held aloft by a hawker. It was my father done in oil on canvas, in a lurid, almost cartoonish style.
“Well spotted,” Ken said.
We passed a line of European backpackers, walking like ants on a trail, bearing their loads and fleeing from some unknown calamity. How had they come here? They were festooned in tie-dye clothing, pilgrims on their way to where?
The taxi drove right up to the beachfront, stopping just before the gravel turned to sand. At the gate, Ken paid the admission fee of ten cowries and rented a shack with a roof, three walls, and a view. We watched the traffic: families with small children, young men on horses, racing and raising sand.
“I’ll go get us something to drink. What would you like?”
“I don’t have money. I haven’t changed any yet.”
“That’s fine. It’s on me.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Coke, please.”
“I’m afraid Coca-Cola is still banned. Thrown out by Adjei.”
“Why?”
“The government said they didn’t pay enough taxes, but I think they refused to pay Adjei a bribe. Pepsi?”
“No, thanks. Water is fine.”
I watched him walk off. His legs looked thin in the wide mouths of his shorts—camel legs, bearing up a broad chest. Not quite my type. Too reedy. He returned with drinks and food. He spread out the roasted fish and plantains on newspapers.
“This was breathing just a few hours ago.”
We ate with our fingers. The fish was covered in a vinegar relish, flaking away from the bone. The plantains were charred on the outside, sweet on the inside.
“They eat like gods here,” Ken said. “Even the poorest can eat like this.”
As if he had overheard, a beggar approached—a young boy, barefoot, with holes in his clothes. He stood at the mouth of our shack, holding out his hands. Ken gave him some coins. I wrapped the last plantain in newspaper.
“Thanks, boss,” the boy said.
“I should have said, almost everyone can eat like this,” Ken said, when the boy was gone. “I have a son about his age.”
“You miss him.”
“Yes. He’s with his mother. She left me for a man who travels less. A GP. You don’t get more earthbound than that,” he said. “What of you? Any children?”
“One. A daughter. We should go into the ocean,” I said. I didn’t want to talk about my family with a stranger.
My swimsuit was under my clothes, a black halter-neck one-piece. The ruching on the torso looked slimming when I bought it, but now it felt frumpy. My middle-aged vanity wanted Ken to think me attractive. I unbuttoned my shirt and slid off my shorts with my back turned.
“Don’t leave your bum bag,” he said. I strapped it over my shoulder.
The sun’s heat was trapped in the sand. It burned underfoot. I ran to the water and waded to my knees.
“Don’t go too far. The current is strong.”
There were others in the ocean, also staying at its edge, facing the sun. An old woman bathed fully dressed. Her white garments ballooned around her. When the tide pulled in, her dress fell, clinging to her like a winding sheet. A boy held on to his father’s leg, the water chest-deep for him. I staggered under a wave.