“Yes.”
“Then you must come with us.”
“Not without an explanation. I am a British citizen.”
“As long as you are on Bamanaian soil your Bamanaian citizenship takes precedence over all others.”
“I need to make a phone call.”
“That will not be possible.”
I walked sandwiched between them, the dog brushing against my legs like a pet. A toddler strayed into our path and was dragged away. They led me behind a door marked no entry. We walked in single file down a narrow corridor lined with unmarked doors. We stopped in front of one.
“Your phone.”
“I don’t have one.”
“You wanted to make a phone call.”
“I was hoping to use yours.”
“Search her bag.”
I gave it up before it was taken by force. They left me in a room with a low ceiling and no windows. There was another woman, asleep despite the heat. Her chair had no armrests and her arms hung slack by her side, dangling like rag limbs. Ten minutes passed. I tried the door handle. It opened.
“I wouldn’t go out.” My companion was awake.
“I’m going to miss my flight if someone doesn’t attend to me.”
I waited another ten minutes. Final boarding calls would be announced; stragglers’ names read out. I knocked on the door. The official I summoned had two brass buttons missing from his shirt. When he pointed in my face, his hand smelled of eggs. I stepped back.
“My flight is leaving soon.”
“And so? Don’t knock on this door again.”
He left, and I went to sit by the woman.
“Do you have anyone you can call?” she asked.
“They took my phone.”
“You should have hidden it.”
The gate would close. My flight would leave. No one would know at which point I had gone missing.
“You sound foreign. British, right? My boyfriend is white.”
I looked at my companion. She had a row of piercings down the curve of her ear. In each hole was a small diamond stud. Her skin was clammy, like the surface of a frog.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“They’re waiting for me to shit.”
“Pardon?”
“Expensive shit. What about you? Why are you here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Start thinking.”
She closed her eyes again. She was breathing through her mouth, short, shallow breaths. Her hair was blond and tufted in spikes, like dry grass. The uniformed man returned.
“Come with me,” he said.
“She’s not feeling well. She needs a doctor.”
“You better mind your business.”
The room was interrogation kitsch, copied verbatim from a Hollywood set. Bare walls, low-hanging naked bulb, no furniture except a table and two chairs, one occupied by an officer. He was dressed in plain clothes. His badge was pinned to a T-shirt that was too tight at the sleeves, pressing into his biceps in a way that would leave a mark. His permanent wave dated him precisely. I sat in the empty chair. The orderly saluted and left. I decided to be direct, the Bamanaian way.
“Look, I have money. I can pay you,” I said.
“No introductions?”
“You must know who I am.”
“Yes, I do, Anna Graham, but you do not know me. I am Inspector Appiah.”
“I have money,” I said again.
“Trying to bribe an officer. We can add that to your charges. Do you know why you are here?”
“No.”
“I have one question. Answer me honestly and you may go. How did you obtain your Bamanaian passport?”
“My father is a Bamanaian citizen.”
“Who is your father?”
“Kofi Adjei.”
“Interesting. A namesake of our former president,” he said. “Now please explain to me how you obtained a genuine Bamanaian passport when there is no trace of you on any database.”
“My father is a Bamanaian citizen. Kofi Adjei, the former president, is my father.”
“And I am the nephew of the queen of England. I have another explanation for you. You are a spy.”
I laughed. The idea of it was so ridiculous. Anna Graham, housewife and 007.
“It’s funny?”
“I’m not very observant. I’m not even sure what day of the week it is.”
“This is a joke to you?”
“Of course not. There’s obviously been a mistake.”
“Obtaining a passport under false pretenses is a very serious offense, Ms. Graham.”