“It’s down at the moment. I will alert you once it’s functioning. Do you need anything else?”
“Dinner?”
“Dial one on the intercom to get the kitchen. They will prepare any meal of your choice.”
“Thai curry?”
“Our chefs are internationally trained. If you need me, dial nine.”
After he left, I lay on the bed with my shoes on. The sheets were freshly laundered, high thread count, cool to the touch. I studied the canopy over the bed, the frame that held the curtains up. I would have given anything to have slept here as a child, a princess in a fairy tale, tossing and turning for a pea.
It was dark outside when I woke up and dialed the kitchen.
“Good evening. I hope it’s not too late to place an order.”
“We’re here whenever you need us.” The voice was male and accented. I would guess French.
“I’d like a Thai green curry, please.”
“Chicken, beef, or prawn?”
“Beef, please,” I said.
“And will you have jasmine or basmati rice?”
“Jasmine.”
“And wine? There is a selection in our cellars.”
“Water is fine.”
“Still or sparkling?”
“Still.”
“And for dessert?”
“Not tonight, thank you.”
I put down the phone and went to the bathroom. It had both a tub and a shower. There were white towels on the railings and lapis tiles on the floor. The sink was marble; the taps were golden, or at least gold-plated. I twisted one. The water gurgled from afar, moisture traveling up a dry throat, waiting for a cough to expel it. When the water finally arrived, it ran brown.
How many rooms like this? How many golden taps? It was opulence modeled on Versailles, joining Kofi to a long line of tacky despots and oligarchs. Francis Aggrey would never have erected such a folly. This was Kofi grasping at all the things his earlier incarnation had rejected: Western dominance, European modes of thought. The ideology of the place was writ large in gilt and mortar. My awe swung to distaste.
I returned to the bedroom and pulled back the heavy brocade curtains. Floodlights illuminated my view of the garden. Flying insects streamed to the hot bulbs in an exodus of wings and antennae. In the distance, they looked like rain.
My dinner was brought by a young woman. She spread a white tablecloth, tucked me into my chair, poured my water, and was gone. Apart from her greeting of “good evening,” she worked silently. One tap might pay her annual wages. Why had they not all been stolen?
The curry was prepared with more chilies than I was accustomed to. The rice was fragrant. The beef was tough. When I was done, I changed into my nightclothes. There was no key in the lock. I slept knowing anyone could walk in.
23
I woke up with no sense of dislocation. I was in Gbadolite, brought here by my father, Kofi Adjei, once known as Francis Aggrey. I was here to know him, to understand where I had come from, not to pass judgment, I reminded myself.
The plates from last night’s meal had been cleared. Someone had come while I was sleeping. I dialed Sule.
“Good morning. How was your night?”
“Fine, thank you,” I said. “I’d like the key to my room, please.”
“Of course.”
“What is Kofi doing today?”
“Sir Kofi is sitting in congress this morning.”
“What’s that?”
“He holds congress in the village of Gbadolite. The villagers come with their disputes and he settles them. It is an old African way of doing things.”
“I’d like to see it,” I said. “Please. If that’s not too much trouble,” I added. He was Kofi’s manservant, not mine.
“I can arrange a car for you. It is open to the public, but we are leaving soon. Have you taken breakfast?”
“I don’t need to. I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. Please can you send someone to fetch me? I’m not used to the building.”
We sped out of Gbadolite in a convoy of black Mercedes, police escorts at the head and rear. The other drivers pulled over to let us pass, smaller beasts scattering from a charging bull. We slowed when we turned onto a narrow side road. It was lined with people fluttering handkerchiefs and palm fronds. I wound down the window.
“Madam, please wind up for your security,” my driver said. We were alone in the car. His glasses and the windows were tinted the same shade. The faces outside seemed benign but I obeyed his order.
The congress was held in a large earthen square. The villagers were already waiting. They were dressed in a homespun fabric I recognized from the markets of Segu, a coarse cotton called kafa, dyed in primary colors, sewn into smocks, loose trousers, stiff blouses and wrappers. Their clothes contrasted sharply with their skin. Music played from a loudspeaker while hawkers drifted through the crowd with food. It had the feel of a fête. Kofi emerged from his car, a kente robe draped over his shoulder. His chest was bare, one nipple exposed. Sule walked behind him, shading him with a fringed umbrella. The villagers began to cheer.