“Will I see him before I go?”
“I cannot tell. His schedule is difficult to predict.”
So that was the end of that. Perhaps Kofi was right. What did I understand of this place? I had no ties here, no commitment. What could I do about the Kinnakro Five? They were dead, their bodies long returned to the soil. If it were Rose that a president had killed, I would not rest until I had justice, and if justice were not possible, I would not rest until I died. But there were only so many grievances one could carry in this way. How much evil had I overlooked in my lifetime so I could drink coffee from the Amazon and wear clothes sewn in Bangladesh?
I ordered breakfast for the last time in Gbadolite: eggs Benedict with salmon and toast. I packed my things into my small suitcase. I counted my Bamanaian cowries. There were enough to buy a few presents.
It was time to go home to my own problems, to my own divorce. My time here was my way of avoiding reality. What was missing in my life was still missing. What was present was present. Rose and Robert would be waiting in London.
I left the palace through a side door. Sule was waiting in a golf cart. The engine was running.
The Annual Global Sustainability Summit was being held at the Palace Hotel in Segu. There was a banner in the lobby, a table with the names and nationalities of delegates printed on paper squares. A hostess waved me over to find my name tag. I was not dressed for a conference but I was an obroni.
In my suite I found a basket of fruit on my bed. I was still at the mercy of Kofi’s hospitality. I skyped Rose. She answered after one ring.
“Mum, you shouldn’t have disappeared like that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Dad and I were so worried. We even thought about going to the Bamanaian embassy.”
“I was in a rural area and there wasn’t any Wi-Fi. Poor reception too.”
“We called your hotel. They didn’t know where you’d gone.”
“I should have found a way to get in touch. I went to see my father’s village home.”
Her frown relaxed on screen. She was still angry but willing to move on at this new piece of information.
“Was it nice? Did you take pictures?”
“I’ll describe it when I come back.”
“Have you met his wife? His children?”
“He has four children. I’ve met one, a daughter. She didn’t like me very much. She thought I was his mistress or an imposter.”
“Why would you go to the trouble? It’s not like he’s rich.”
“He’s quite rich,” I said.
“Quite rich in Africa. That’s like average in Europe, isn’t it? What’s his house like?”
“A bungalow.”
“Exactly,” Rose said. “I have to get back to my desk. When are you coming back?”
“My flight is tomorrow evening.”
“I can’t wait to hear all about it. I miss you.”
Her face looked gaunt.
“I miss you, too,” I said, and dropped the call.
I sometimes grew tired of worrying about whether or not Rose was eating. I resented the stopping and starting, triggered by what you could never tell. It kept our emotions dancing, manipulated by her daily calorie intake.
Robert was the better parent. I was sure he never had such terrible thoughts. He grew up in a conventional family, close to his parents and to a sister who neither cut her hair nor wore deodorant. They were mildly inbred, suspicious of outsiders, and yet I envied the flow of the Grahams, the picking up of conversations that were months or sometimes years old. Robert had that ease with Rose, which was why he would have to be the one to talk to her.
I went downstairs for lunch. The conference delegates had been let out and almost every table was full of suits with name tags hanging from their necks. The sound of cutlery striking plates cut through their conversation. I found a table in the corner and signaled for the menu.
“Can I join you?”
It was Ken.
“Sorry, in a bit of a rush,” I said.
“I noticed you hadn’t been at breakfast for a few days.”
A waiter arrived and took my order. Ken set his plate down. There wasn’t much on it. A few leaves, some potato salad, and a piece of chicken.
“I saw the photograph,” he said. “They took it down fast, but it’s my business to keep abreast of these things. I was the only one in the country who knew the name of the mystery woman. So, what was his Gbadolite palace like?”
“It’s open to the public,” I said.
“I’ve heard so many rumors. My favorite is the one about the golden toilet that he pees in. I was hired to consult for a project a few years ago. A Dutch company wanted to build a textile factory close to the village. They grow good cotton in the region. Adjei blocked it.”