21
I did not see Kofi for another three days, by which time I had become a Bamanaian citizen. To extend my Bamanaian visa, I would have needed to submit my British passport for processing, a risk I was not comfortable with. What if it got lost in a maze of Bamanaian bureaucracy? Or what if Kofi just refused to give it back to me? I remembered Adrian’s vague warnings. I had to be careful.
Sule made all the arrangements. He drove me to an office where I filled out a form, and my photograph and fingerprints were taken. The next day he returned with the blue booklet. My new passport was one of the weakest in the world. There were only forty countries I could visit without a visa.
I took to walking in an ever-widening radius around the hotel. I no longer noticed the calls of “obroni.” Sometimes strangers touched me deliberately, often men but not always in a sexual manner. There was an innocent curiosity to the hands that sought mine, that brushed against my elbows and arms. I was curious about them, too—what they ate, how they ate, eschewing cutlery, sampling the food first with their fingers, licking their nails clean. At the hotel, our meals were soiled by the taste of metal.
On Sunday I joined the stream of people flowing into the Tabernacle of Light. I wanted to see what a church in Bamana was like. The older women wore blouses that sparkled with sequins. Their head ties stood straight like sails full of wind, volumes of fabric wound around their waists, a double knot the only thing standing between them and nakedness. The younger women wore Western dress and looked vulnerable in their polyester and flimsy cotton. No ballast. No bulk. You could trace the lines of their forms. Ushers handed us envelopes by the door. The envelopes were worn and the glue underneath the flap had dried up.
The focus of the hall was the glass pulpit on the stage. The choir began singing soon after I arrived and went on for almost an hour. The music was percussion-heavy, simple tunes, lyrics that repeated themselves in an endless chanting loop.
The dancing spilled out into the aisles until the building seemed to be swaying. At some secret command, everyone raised their chairs above their heads. The white plastic chairs became part of the dance. The experts twirled them. The daring flung and caught them. From the air, it would look like the foam of a great cresting wave. What did it mean?
When the singing stopped, they put down their chairs and the prayers began. They prayed out loud. The feeling was that of a stadium, of roaring voices desperate for a goal. The woman on my right wanted a child. The man on my left needed a promotion.
“Promotion! Promotion! Father, God, promotion!” The leather on his shoes was cracked.
For all their volume, the prayers seemed to depress the congregation. When they sat down they seemed spent, their manner subdued. The sermon buoyed them up again until they were whooping, clapping, waving their hands at the man behind the pulpit. Then the worn envelopes were brought out for the offering. Cane baskets were passed around. More dancing. I left at this point. It was different from Katherine’s church in England but also the same. They all believed in miracles. Outside, the busy road seemed quiet.
My wanderings were clichéd. I was the traveler desperate for an authentic experience, an event that would turn me from an outsider to an insider, a door that I could step through and become Bamanaian. And even as I roamed the streets of Segu, I knew no such doors existed.
On the evening Kofi and I are scheduled to meet, I wear my dress from the market. My skin is brown and the bright pattern is flattering. Sule drives me to his house.
“This is not the place,” I say. “He lives in a bungalow.”
“That was one of Sir Kofi’s houses. This is another.”
This house is a more fitting mansion, square and obvious, with small windows on the ground floor, all barred with security grilles. A Bamanaian flag hangs limply from the roof.
Kofi is waiting in the library. He is conscious of setting, of how he contrasts with his background. At the bungalow, he seemed relatively frugal and humble. Now, in this library, he has chosen to appear wealthy and venerable. The shelves are dark wood and the light fittings are bronze, polished to reflect the glow. A mural of Adam and Eve adorns one wall, the couple drawn life-size and nude, the vines from Eden winding up their jet-black legs and through their halo afros. Kofi is sitting with his back to the door. He waits a moment before he rises to greet us. He is dressed in navy today.
“Leave us, Sule. Akwaaba, Anna. Shall I pour you some red wine?”
“Water is fine, thank you,” I say.
“Are you teetotal?”
“No, I just don’t feel like drinking tonight.” I feel bold. I have decided to bypass Kofi and speak directly to Francis. Kofi is a former president and a stranger, but Francis I have studied. Francis, I know well.