“Our collection of animals is one of the biggest in Africa. We have the only tiger in West Africa.”
“Is he happy?”
“A she. We’re trying to get her a mate from a zoo in Beijing. Of course, we could just mate her with one of the lions and create something called a liger.”
When passengers in the other golf carts spotted Kofi, they beeped and waved, a few bowed in their seats. There were camera flashes. He lifted one hand in acknowledgment; the other remained steady on the wheel. We did not stop until we reached the zoo. It was empty of visitors and the keepers were standing by the entrance in their overalls. The females curtsied. The males bowed.
Kofi was still a powerful man, that much was obvious, but he did not seem dangerous, as Adrian had warned. Kofi seemed like these animals in their cages: once wild, now domesticated.
We went to the giraffes first. Their necks rose into the air like industrial cranes. Fresh leaves were brought but they showed no interest in our offerings. A keeper ran a stick along the bars but they ignored the noise. Finally, the keeper jumped over the bars and herded them to us with stamping and clapping. Their tongues when they emerged were thick and black, a shock buried in their pretty heads.
“They’re beautiful,” I said.
The tiger sat alone under a tree, marooned in her sunken pen. She looked up briefly and then looked away. The hippos remained submerged. The flamingos had a pond to wade in, their legs sticking out of the water like pink straws.
“Do you want to watch the feeding of the crocodiles?” Kofi asked.
“What do they eat?”
“Chickens, mostly.”
“Alive?”
“Yes. They prefer a kill.”
“I don’t think I can watch.”
“It happens very fast.”
A water habitat had been built for them. They sunned themselves on the bank, merging into the brown of their background like curious rock formations. The chickens were lowered in a cage. A few feet from the ground, the cage floor slid open and the birds tumbled out, battery chickens, uniform white feathers, plump from animal feed. They strutted in a loose circle, flapping and pecking the ground. They seemed unaware of the predators close by. Their instincts had been deadened.
When the crocodiles charged, the carnage was quick and complete. Flesh was crushed between teeth as sharp and even as the teeth of a saw. Blood drizzled the earth and feathers littered the ground, like a pillow burst on a crime scene.
“They are the totem of my clan. In my village, there are many men who bear the nickname Crocodile,” he said. “Come, you must be tired. I will take you back to your room. You can see the rest tomorrow.”
The roads were laid out at right angles with a stop sign at every junction. Kofi rolled to a halt each time, even though the streets were now empty of other golf carts. Signposts identified the large buildings on either side: National Art Museum, Bamana Museum of Natural History, Bamana National Archive. We were dwarfed by the scale of the place as ants are dwarfed by their anthills.
“Do you recognize the shape?” Kofi asked as we approached the main building.
“An hourglass?”
“A talking drum.”
I had seen the drum in the marketplace, rounded at both ends, narrow at the waist, like a woman in a corset. As an instrument, it could be held comfortably under the arm. As a building, it would not easily fit into a photo frame. The drum was tightly bound by ropes. The middle section of the building was circled with thin lines of bronze, like rings around a planet. It was too literal an interpretation but the effect was striking. Sule was waiting outside.
“Welcome to the People’s Palace,” Kofi said. “Sule will show you to your room.”
Sule and I entered through a side door and stepped into a corridor that extended on either side of us. A car could drive comfortably down what felt like kilometers of marble highway. Our path was lit by chandeliers, every few feet another cluster of crystal and bulbs. Labor gangs of builders, painters, and plasterers must have worked for years to realize Kofi’s vision of an African palace. The architects had achieved their objective. I felt awed. What would Rose and Robert make of it? Or my in-laws, so proud of their Royal Enclosure membership at Ascot?
Sule led me to my door, which was unlocked. The first thing I looked for was my overnight case. Someone had placed it by the imitation Louis XV wardrobe. There was a four-poster bed in the room complete with damask curtains and carved wooden poles. The windows looked out onto a garden and a silent fountain.
“Is there Wi-Fi?” I asked.