He walked through and we followed in single file. When it was my turn, scenes from Roots and Amistad filled my mind. The Bamanaian couple were the last to pass. They took pictures and struck goofy, inappropriate poses.
On the beach, the Americans grew quiet. A man with a sonorous voice announced, “We would like to sing a few songs for our ancestors whose spirits are here with us today. We thank them for their courage and their will to survive so we could one day come back home. You are all welcome to join us.”
They sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” “By and By,” and Boney M.’s “Rivers of Babylon” slowed down to a dirge. Some of them began to cry. I left then and walked towards the ocean. The couple were running in the shallows. Our ancestors had not been sold.
I sat on the sand and brought out my sketchbook. I drew across a double page, the slave fort on the left leaf, the beach on the right. The cluster of Americans, singing and crying. The couple wading in the water and laughing. A lone figure with a sketchbook, drawn in the crevice where the pages met, so she would disappear into the binding.
I was too working-class for art school. Ms. Rendell encouraged me to go. I had a talent, she said, for the human figure, an eye for color, a skill with draftsmanship, but what were these when leveled against the need to support myself? “Try architecture, then,” she said. “It’s a second choice for artists.”
The ocean was calming. I felt settled, the most at ease I had been in Bamana. The heat, the smells, the jostling of Segu, and the waiting to meet Francis Aggrey had produced an agitation that dissipated on this shore, dispelled maybe by the suffering that had occurred here, much greater than mine.
The outcome of my journey was uncertain. My father might postpone our meeting again. I might come this far and never meet him. I would be disappointed, but the trip would not be a waste. I had seen other things: the markets of Segu, the slave fort of El Santos, and the overconfidence of white men in an African country.
“That’s good.” It was Adrian standing over me. I closed my sketchbook.
“I’m ready to go,” I said, standing up and dusting the sand from my clothes.
“What did you think of it?” I asked Kwesi, our driver, when we got back to the car park.
“What I thought?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a very strong building. Good place for military defense.”
“But what of the slaves?”
“That’s in the past. It’s bad, but it’s in the past.”
19
My father lived in a bungalow on a street with many mansions. The area was called the Peak, a gently sloping neighborhood from which you could see the city spread out like a map. Some portions of Segu were laid out in straight lines. Others defied the imposition of a grid and grew to some more complex, organic pattern. There was a checkpoint on his road, manned by an officer with a rifle and no shade from the sun.
“Good morning. We’re here to see Citizen. My name is Professor Adrian Bennett.”
The officer ticked a name on his clipboard and waved us through. The perimeter walls were low, low enough to see the one-story house and the garden that surrounded it. It was a prize garden, landscaped with care. Unlike the mansions on either side, no barbed wire garlanded the walls. Adrian pressed the buzzer. A voice spoke out of the intercom.
“Good morning. Your name, please.”
“Adrian Bennett.”
“Please push the side gate and walk to the house. President Adjei will welcome you himself.”
We paused when we entered the compound. The gardener sprinkling the grass looked up and raised a hand in greeting.
“I suppose we just go to the house like she said,” Adrian said.
It was a bungalow built in the colonial style, with low eaves and long windows. The entire house stood on stilts, a whole foot above the ground, enough space for a body to crawl under. A man dressed in white was waiting on the veranda. White trousers, white shirt, and thick silver hair that grew close to his scalp. He was tall and upright, but something in his posture was beginning to bend.
“My old friend, welcome.”
He embraced Adrian.
“And who is this? Your beautiful wife?”
“A good friend of mine. I mentioned to your assistant.”
“Of course. And what is your name?”
“Anna Bain.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Anna Bain.”
The surname meant nothing to him. We shook hands. I touched my father for the first time.
“This is for you,” I said. I handed him the bottle of wine I bought in the hotel gift shop.