“Thank you. Very kind. Come. Our breakfast is getting cold. And we have many years to catch up on.”
His accent was upper-class English, a BBC announcer from a certain era. He walked like a soldier, with his hands clasped behind his back. He led us down a corridor, past photographs of famous men: Muhammad Ali, Bob Marley, a U.S. president, Jimmy Carter perhaps, all pictured with my father. In the dining room there were three places. He sat at the head of the table, and Adrian and I sat on either side.
“Welcome to this humble repast. Anna, I hope you don’t have any food allergies. They’re in vogue these days. My grandson tells me he cannot eat wheat or dairy.”
He clapped, and two servants appeared bearing covered dishes. They were the only extravagance. The dining table was simple, unvarnished wood, and the dishes and cutlery were plain.
“Adrian, forgive me. I didn’t ask if you have any allergies because I know you eat anything. Do you remember when I served intestines at a state banquet?”
“Yes, the French ambassador was quite upset.”
“I wrote him a letter apologizing that while he had no taste for intestines, I also had no taste for frogs. Don’t worry,” he said, turning to me, “there will be no intestines served at breakfast this morning . . . although they are a national delicacy. You must try them before you leave.”
I let a boiled egg and a slice of toast be put on my plate, and listened while Adrian and my father spoke. Under the table, my hands smoothed my dress over my knees until my palms grew warm with friction.
“So how was the African Union Summit?” Adrian asked.
“Same as always. No one is really willing to unite. The Nigerians were throwing their weight around, of course. Oil prices are high this year and so their delegates were feeling particularly buoyant. There’s one fellow I had my eye on, president of Rwanda—I forget his name, but he’ll make something of that country yet.”
“I hear he’s a dictator,” Adrian said.
“Perspective is everything. I didn’t get too involved. One only goes to these things as an elder now, to play the Mandela as it were, may he rest in peace. It’s the greatest of secular miracles how that man was transformed from a terrorist to a Messiah. And you? Why has it taken you so long to return to Bamana? You should have written another book about us. What was the first one called again?”
“Bamana: One Hundred Days,” Adrian said.
“Yes, of course. It was very popular here when it came out. It did a wonderful job of recording our achievements for the world. You’re too old to go around on a motorcycle, but maybe you could hire a car. I might even come with you this time.”
“You’d be recognized,” Adrian said.
“I suppose you’re right. Even in the rural areas my image is well known. It can be a burden sometimes. How is the family? I have six grandchildren. It’s hard to believe. It seems like it was only yesterday I was fighting for Bamana’s independence.”
There was no opening for me in their conversation. My father posed questions and then answered them. He asked for an opinion and then gave it. He did not eat much. Sometimes he would lift his spoon and return it to his bowl of porridge without it touching his lips.
“So what brings you to Bamana?” he said, turning to me. I felt the brunt of his attention bearing down on me. I clasped my hands to still them.
“I came to see you.”
“I’m flattered. What do you do?”
“I studied architecture.”
“A noble profession. This area, the Peak, was once white men’s quarters. This very bungalow was the home of the chief secretary to the governor. He left his guns behind. In fact, this whole neighborhood used to be full of houses like this one, but most of them have been torn down. They’re too small for a certain kind of Bamanaian taste. So how may I help you?”
I glanced at Adrian. He nodded.
“There is a family connection between us. You knew my mother when you were a student in London,” I said.
“Is that so? And what was her name?”
“Bronwen Bain. Is it familiar to you?”
I watched closely for a reaction. My father gave none. His face remained as still as a wooden carving.
“Go on with your story,” he said.
“My mother died earlier this year and I found your journal when I went through her things. You left it in her keeping. The entries are mostly about your life as a student, but you also wrote about your relationship with her. She fell pregnant after you’d gone.”