“I’ve told you. My father is Bamanaian.”
“Sing the anthem.”
“I don’t know it,” I said.
“How many provinces are there in Bamana?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t do the citizenship test?”
“I didn’t have to.”
“Who said?”
“It was all arranged for me. I had a Bamanaian visa that was about to run out. I decided to get the passport instead of paying for a renewal.”
“Walk me through the arrangement?”
“I was taken to an office. I filled out a form, took a passport photograph, did my fingerprints on a machine.”
“Who took you?”
“Sule.”
“Sule? No surname?”
“I don’t know. I have his number on my phone. One of your men has it. Call him and he’ll explain everything to you. Hurry, please. My flight.”
“You are telling me if I call this Sule person he will explain how you obtained this passport.”
“Yes.”
“Felix!” he shouted. An officer returned and saluted.
“Sir?”
“Bring this woman’s phone.”
My phone returned. Its leather case had been removed, baring its fragile screen. The inspector put the phone on speaker when he called Sule.
“Call him again,” I said, when there was no answer. He called a second time. The result was the same.
“So, what next, Ms. Graham?”
“I don’t know why he’s not picking up.”
“You don’t seem to know anything. You’ll have to go to the station to be charged.”
“I’ll miss my flight.”
“You haven’t grasped the gravity of the situation. You’re facing a sentence of up to four years.”
“I demand to speak to a lawyer.”
“After you’ve been charged.”
“Call my father. Call Sir Adjei. He will not be pleased if you detain me.”
“I don’t have his number. His daughter should have it.”
“I don’t. I haven’t known him for very long.”
“You haven’t known your own father for very long? I think we should obtain a psychiatric evaluation as well.”
He stood up. He had the stoop of a tall man. The table was too low for him. It stopped below his knees.
“I’ve heard enough of this story. Follow me, please.”
What would become of my luggage, checked in and decanted into the hold of the plane? It would be culled from the other approved baggage, destroyed along with my market dress. Inspector Appiah led me through corridors that looped like intestines. Outside, a van was waiting.
“I need to speak to my family in England. Tell them I won’t be arriving tomorrow.”
“The time for phone calls has passed, Ms. Graham. Get in, please.”
The back of the van was a cage. The gaps between the bars were wide enough to slip a small package through. There was a bench and an empty bucket that smelled faintly of shit. I sat down.
“Ms. Graham, how did you get that passport?” Inspector Appiah asked.
“My father, Sir Kofi Adjei, is a Bamanaian citizen.”
He rapped the side of the van. We jerked forward. The smell of the city rushed in through the bars, cooking on open fires, charcoal and soot. Drivers stopped to stare at the obroni woman in a cage. I stared back. I was not yet afraid. I was too stunned to be afraid.
The police station was quiet. We drove into the courtyard and stopped. The driver unlocked the cage.
“Come down,” he said.
“No.”
“I said you should come down.”
“Take me to the British Embassy.”
He entered the cage, advancing slowly like I might strike. He tried to pull me upright but my body resisted, inert and heavy like a stone.
“Wait, first.”
He left. I wished I was as fat as Kweku, then I could be moved only with a harness and a crane. The driver returned with reinforcement, a much taller, stronger-looking man. When he entered the cage, the bars rattled from his weight.
“Come with me, please.”
“Take me to the British Embassy.”
He held my arm but I slid from his grip to the floor. I had no plan, except to stay in the van. He hooked me by the armpits and dragged me outside. Some loose metal scraped my leg as my body left the van, drawing blood. I screamed.
“Stop screaming.”
He hit my face, first with the flat of his palm and then his fist. I lay on my back with my legs splayed, a specimen pinned to the ground. A red dot flashed in the sky, like a star hanging too low. It was a plane, perhaps my flight to London.