“I’ll give it up, then. I didn’t ask for citizenship. It was Kofi who offered.”
“It’s not so simple in a case like this.”
“My daughter is waiting for me. My husband is waiting for me.”
“I understand, Anna. I’m doing my best.”
My urgency drains away once I end the call. I want to go back to London but only when it’s safe. I remember the prison cell like a dream. The smell of sweat and shit, the indistinct features of the other prisoners, like faces in a nightmare.
For the first time in six weeks I think about my neighbor Katherine. Our quiet life on Hanover Road seems far removed from where I am now. I miss her sensible, practical manner. I call her.
“Hello. It’s Anna.”
“Anna! You’ve been on my mind. Are you still in Africa? Did you meet your father? Was it a success?”
“I’m staying with him for now. How’s the street?”
“Much the same.”
“And church?” I ask.
“Good. I’m setting up a food bank. Simon thinks I just want to be in charge of a bank. But enough of me. How is it?”
“Things haven’t gone to plan.”
I blink back tears. My face is swollen. Rose is angry with me and I still can’t go home. Katherine makes a sympathetic sound.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I only call you when I’m upset.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m glad you called.”
I haven’t spoken freely about Kofi to anyone. The words, when they come, are rushed.
“I’ve been here longer than expected and I still don’t really know my father. Sometimes he’s kind to me. Sometimes he ignores me. I don’t see any part of myself in him. The man from his old diary is gone.”
“He did write it a long time ago. My twenty-year-old self wouldn’t recognize me, either. She’d be quite disappointed I haven’t ended up a CEO.”
This is the common sense I called Katherine for. She is right. Francis Aggrey is a man in the past, a man I can never meet. Why go on pining for him?
“Does he have a wife? Other children?” she asks.
“I’ve met one of his daughters. We didn’t get on. I fared a bit better with my half brother.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Come back. Once I can.”
“Is there anything stopping you?”
I don’t want to worry her. I am safe in Kofi’s house now.
“Some paperwork. It’ll be sorted soon,” I say.
“You know, you’re so brave. Traveling all that way and staying so long. I couldn’t do it.”
“You could,” I say.
“Just to let you know I’ve been keeping an eye on your house. Everything looks fine.”
“Thank you.”
There is a moment of dead air. The call has come to its natural end.
“It’s been so good to hear from you. Let me know when you get back,” she says.
“I will.”
“Bye now.”
I feel better. My house is in order and I have a place to return to. With the time I have left in Bamana I must know Kofi for who he is now, or not know him at all.
I shower. Yesterday’s towel is damp and so I pace around the room naked, like a tethered animal. The room is a store for curious things: a large vase in the Ming style, fired in a man-sized kiln, white and faintly luminous; a set of sofas upholstered in kafa, patriotic and homegrown; masks on the walls, and one abstract painting of grey, blue, and green swirls. I put on my dressing gown and stand close to the canvas, studying the thickly piled pigment.
“Knock, knock.”
My brother is in my room. I don’t know how long he has been here. Despite his size, he moves as silently as our father. I knot my robe a second time.
“Kweku.”
“Your face.”
“What about it?”
“Is more beautiful than ever.”
He joins me in front of the painting.
“A gift from the prime minister of Canada. They say it’s of a woman’s body. You have to stand upside down to see her. How are you?”
“A little shaken but I’m fine.”
“What reason did they give?”
“They thought I was a spy.”
“You? How?”
“They said there are no official records of my Bamanaian passport. Kofi thinks President Owusu was behind it.”
“I see. Do you call Papa ‘Kofi’ to his face?”
“Yes.” He is not my Daasebre.