“She was shocked,” I said.
“She was jealous. Papa hasn’t taken her for a golf cart ride in years. What did you think of Gbadolite?”
“I liked the giraffes.”
“Yes, of course. The zoo. Did you see the tiger? He’s very proud of that. Only tiger in West Africa. Needs a mate. He should start a matchmaking service.”
I liked him. He was the first Adjei I’d met with a sense of humor.
“What about your mother? What’s she like?”
“Very quiet . . . calm, but also brave. She smuggled medical supplies to the liberation struggle at great personal risk. Essentially, though, she’s happy to stay in the background. You’d have to be, married to a man like my father.”
It appeared Kofi had a type. Kweku’s mother sounded, in some ways, like mine.
“How come I haven’t met her?”
“They live apart,” he said. “Neither wants a divorce. None of my business. Araba!” he shouted across the pool. “Araba, come and meet someone.”
The sequins on her jumpsuit shimmered like scales. She was nearly as large as Kweku. Her skin was seamless, almost too smooth to be entirely natural.
“So, you’re Pa Kofi’s new daughter. They said you’re almost fifty. You don’t look your age. Is that your real hair?”
“Araba, show some manners, please,” Kweku said.
“Sorry. Good evening, my name is Araba. I’m your second half cousin. That’s what we decided, abi, Kweku?”
“Araba.”
“What? We’ve all been talking about her since Afua’s phone call yesterday. You bought that dress from Oxford Street market.”
“Yes. I did,” I said. “How can you tell?”
“It’s for tourists. I’ll take you where you can buy proper Bama clothes.”
“You can’t take her anywhere. She’s leaving tomorrow,” Kweku said.
“Oh, so soon. You must visit us again. You are the best-looking of Uncle Kofi’s children.”
“Araba, you are drunk. Go away, please, before she thinks there is madness in our family.”
He waved her away and she returned to the other smokers.
“Do you ever come to London? Maybe we could have a meal together,” I said.
“I visit. My daughter is there.”
“How old is she? I have a daughter too.”
“Eighteen. A youthful indiscretion that Papa almost killed me for. I’m only thirty-seven, you see. If only I’d known about you.”
“Was he strict?” I asked.
“Very. I’m not sure you missed out on much.”
“I think I offended him in Gbadolite.”
“How?”
“I told him Francis Aggrey would be disappointed in the man Kofi Adjei has become.”
“You’re braver than you look,” he said.
“I was a little drunk.”
“Papa doesn’t like to be criticized. In fact, for a long time, you couldn’t criticize him in this country. He will get over it or he won’t. What does it matter? You’re leaving, unlike the rest of us.”
“Kweku,” a woman called from indoors.
“I’d better return to my guests.”
“Yes, before someone thinks I’m your mistress.”
“A wit. I thought I was the only Adjei wit. It’s been lonely.”
He got up with difficulty.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Anna. Sule will keep us in touch. He runs everything in our family.”
I sat alone by the pool for a few moments. Ash drifted on its surface like the scattering from a cremation. A breeze blew in from the ocean, setting off hidden wind chimes. I should have gone to the beach more often. I should have seen more of Bamana. Except for my brief evening with Marcellina I had viewed the country through too narrow a lens. Perhaps I might come back with Rose.
“I thought it was you.”
I looked up and saw Ken. His face was so familiar in this crowd of strangers that I felt a brief flutter of relief. We were almost friends.
“You again,” I said.
“How do you know Kweku?”
“It’s a small country. You?”
“Kweku always throws a good party.”
It seemed true.
“So, who’s here?” I asked.
“The bright young things of Bamana: artists, entrepreneurs. That’s one of the biggest film stars, Julia Hammond. Next to her is the vice president’s son. Drug addict, apparently. A few diplomats, embassy staff, some expats from Kweku’s company.”