“It’s open to the public,” I said. I was Kofi’s guest. There was a certain discretion I owed him.
“Not the tourist attractions. The palace itself. I’ve heard the bathtubs are made of gold.”
There was no air-conditioning in her car. We rolled down the windows and the sound of crickets calling for their mates poured in.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To the village first, then a bar. Gbadolite didn’t have much happening here before Sir Adjei built that monstrosity. Now there are a few hotels just outside the village for tourists, and some small bars and things.”
“You don’t like the palace?”
“The money could have been better spent. Don’t print my name if you use my quote.”
It was too late to explain I was not a journalist. Marcellina would think me foolish for pretending in the first place. I let the misinterpretation stand.
The streetlights did not stretch far beyond the village entrance. We passed the square, silent now after the congress. The deeper we drove into the village, the worse the road became, until the asphalt dissolved into the earth.
“We have to walk from here. Otherwise my car will get stuck.”
I was wearing the wrong shoes. The flimsy pumps sank into the mud.
“The trick is to walk like you’re swimming,” Marcellina said.
“I don’t know how to swim.”
There was no moon. It was a pre-industrial night, of a type long vanished from Europe. The slaves shipped from Cove Coast would have come from a village like this, would have been force-marched from here to the ocean. I wasn’t very athletic. I would have died on the way, been buried by the wayside or not buried, left on the surface to rot, to return to the soil. I took off one shoe and let my foot drag in the earth.
The air was heavy against my face, like a thin film or a strip of gauze. Was this the authentic Bamanaian experience? More real than my life in Segu, than at Kofi’s palace?
“We’re turning right,” Marcellina said.
I did not see the house until we were almost touching it. It was built in the traditional style with thatch roofing that hung down like matted hair. I put out my hands and felt the mud walls. They were cool and surprisingly firm.
“Why are we here?” I asked.
“Inside, please.”
There was an opening in the wall, the size of a slim person. She passed through and I stood outside in the dark. I did not know Marcellina, yet I was not afraid. Nothing in Bamana had harmed me. I followed.
Inside it was warm and claustrophobic. We were not alone. The creature, the person, had a smell of meat just gone off, sweet and rank.
“Abena, it’s me. Marcellina.”
“Yes.”
I started at the voice, which came from the ground. “What’s going on?” I said.
Marcellina switched on her phone torch and I squinted at the light. A girl lay on the floor, a kafa cloth drawn like a blanket around her. I did not see the chain until she sat up. It ran from her ankle to a stake in the ground, a thin, iron snake. There were bones piled in the corner in a small pyramid.
“Abena,” Marcellina said, “I brought someone to meet you.”
“Ma, when can I go?”
“Soon.”
Marcellina turned to me.
“This is Abena. Her uncle accused her of being a witch. She has been here for four days now. I’m working to rescue her. The police are not responsive. I’ve spoken to an orphanage in the next town. They will take her, but only if they know that nobody will attack them for it. You can ask her your questions.”
I shook my head.
“Your questions for your article,” she said. “Are you not a journalist?”
“There’s been a misunderstanding.”
I was at her mercy. I could not get back to the main road, let alone return to Kofi’s fortress without her.
“Even if you’re not a journalist, you have access to Sir Adjei,” she said. “Talk to her.”
I was an obroni. That was all Marcellina saw. Obroni were always looking for Africans to rescue. We were no use beyond that. But what could I do for this chained girl?
“Good evening, ma,” Abena said.
There was a gash above her eye. A scab had not yet formed. The wound glowed red. I was too far above her, too tall. I crouched. The smell was stronger around her person.
“Good evening,” I said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine, ma.”
She was not fine. Be of use, Anna. Be a useful obroni. I calmed my breathing, steadied my thoughts. Marcellina was right. I did know Kofi, and if he was still powerful enough to pack a village square, he would surely be able to free this girl.