“How is the fish, Anna?” Kofi asked.
“Very good, thank you.”
“It was caught in the lake this morning. You know, the two of you, your grandmother was a fisherwoman. It was catching and drying fish like these that paid for my expensive education. Afua, you are not asking your sister any questions.”
She speared a morsel of fish with her fork. “What do you do in London?” Her voice was flat with disinterest.
“I studied architecture.”
“When will you be returning to work?” she asked.
“I don’t practice anymore.”
“She has a daughter, my oldest grandchild. Twenty-five years old,” Kofi said.
“Maybe Papa will update the family tree that hangs in the house in Segu.”
“What a wonderful idea. Will you oversee it?” he asked Afua.
“There is no need for that,” I said. I did not want to become a pawn in their struggle.
The table was set with enough silver to back a currency. Gloved servants watched the levels in our glasses, refilling them once they dipped. The wine was a good vintage, a fragrant accompaniment to the fish. I could feel myself lifting off from sobriety.
“I must return to London soon. I haven’t spoken to my daughter in almost a week. She’ll be worried.”
“Let her come,” Kofi said. “She, too, must know her roots.”
“And where is the father of the child?” Afua asked.
“My husband? He’s in England.” I reinstated Robert into my narrative. I suddenly wanted to look respectable in front of these Adjeis.
“You haven’t spoken of him much,” Kofi said. “He needs to come to Bamana to pay your bride price. That is the way we do things here.”
“We do things a little differently in London, thankfully. I might not have survived over here.”
“What do you mean?” Afua asked.
“Someone might have accused me of being a witch,” I said.
“Where did you get that idea from? A Western liberal newspaper? They’re always looking for some barbarism to campaign against in Africa, isn’t that so, Papa?”
“There was a girl chained in a hut for witchcraft, just a few miles from here.”
“An isolated incident. Such things are obviously illegal. Tell her, Papa.”
“We have discussed this,” Kofi said. “I will look into the matter as and when I see fit. Do not speak of things you do not understand.”
“What is so difficult? It’s barbaric. It must be stopped.”
“Barbaric? So the villagers are savages?” Kofi said.
“The man who wrote that diary, what would he have made of such a thing?”
“What diary, Papa?”
“Never mind,” he said.
“A diary he wrote as a young man, when he wanted to change this country for the better.”
“But Papa has changed things for the better. You should have seen the state of Bamana at independence. Bama people are more literate, have a higher life expectancy, are wealthier even.”
“Don’t you see?” I said.
“See what?” Afua asked.
“That he is too rich.”
“You want me to be poor,” Kofi said. “Is your queen poor?”
“Did Francis Aggrey want to be this rich?”
“The people wanted him to be. You do not understand our ways. You are my daughter, but at the end of the day you are still an obroni.”
“What’s difficult to understand? That killing people is wrong?” I asked.
“What are you talking about?” Kofi said.
“The Kinnakro Five.”
“You have been speaking to my enemies.”
“What happened to those boys?”
“Who made you judge over me?”
He stood up before a servant could pull back his chair. Afua rose more gracefully. Kofi’s hand was raised. Would he strike me? I gripped my table knife. But his hand was merely raised in farewell.
“Good night,” he said.
I did not leave with them. I was not an Adjei. I finished my fish, avoiding the bones, each one a choking hazard.
25
My room phone rang early the next morning. It was Sule.
“Sir Kofi has been called away on urgent political business. The plane will take you to Segu today.”
“When will he be back in the city?”
“It is not certain.”
“Then I must return to England.”
“He foresaw that and asked me to make the necessary arrangements.”