“Afua told me she goes with you on campaigns,” I said.
“I would never expect that of you.”
“What would you expect?”
“I have always left my children free to choose. Some have followed more closely in my footsteps than others.”
The cut on my arm formed a scab. The trickle of blood dried up. It was night when we reached the gate of his mansion. It slid back electronically. Sule was waiting outside with a wheelchair.
“You are free to return to London now. No one will trouble you. You can go tomorrow if you want.”
“What if I’m not ready?”
“You can stay also. My home is forever open to you.”
“Was Sule in on the plot?”
“Yes, but you must not blame him. He was strongly opposed to the whole thing.”
Sule opened Kofi’s door from outside.
“Welcome back, sir.”
“Thank you. Nana, go inside.”
I returned to my room. My things were as I’d left them, my new clothes strewn on the bed. There was a medium-size canvas on an easel, brushes and paint in a small bucket, and more blank canvases propped against the wall. Kweku had come through.
I was not sure what had happened with Wuyo Ama, whether it was hallucination or reality, but I felt at peace, as if indeed two warring streams had finally merged. The effort of the contest, the relief that a struggle was over and that there might still be time to rebuild. Tears rose to my eyes again. Anna Nana Bain-Aggrey. She would need a new passport.
Rose. She would be waiting to hear from me. We had spoken angrily on our last call, but we were bound together in a chain that linked generation to generation. The link would not break with us.
“Mum! I knew you’d call.”
“I’m fine. Everything is fine.”
“We figured you wanted to be left alone. Dad said we should give you space to work things out by yourself. He said we can’t understand because we’ve both always had a father.”
“I think I’m going to stay for a bit longer.”
“Take your time.”
“I have a new name. My father gave it to me. Kofi. That’s his name, even though everyone calls him Papa or Sir Kofi.”
“Sir? Sounds distinguished.”
“He is. He’s complicated. He called me Nana. It means Queen.”
“That’s pretty. Spell it.”
“N-A-N-A.”
“Clever. It’s an anagram of Anna.”
“I want you to come. I want you to meet him.”
“You think?”
“Yes. He’d love to meet you. You’re his eldest grandchild.”
“How many are there?”
“I’m not sure. I’m still discovering so much.”
“I’m proud of you for going. I think it’s really brave, and I’m sorry I didn’t see things like that before.”
“Thank you.”
“Tired? Long day?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll let you go, then, but call me tomorrow.”
“I will.”
“Love you.”
She dropped the call without saying goodbye. The door was ajar between us again. I took out my sketchbook and pencil and went to the empty canvas. It was linen, tightly woven, of very high quality. It smelled fresh, like new clothing, like a blank horizon at dawn. I made my first mark.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to:
My parents, Dr. Okey and Dr. Mariam Onuzo.
My siblings: Dilichi and Kassim Lawal, Chinaza and Uche Onuzo, Dinachi and Onu Ocholi.
Dilichi, who gave me the title again. Let’s make it a hat trick.
Joseph Harker, for telling me his story.
My readers: Kinna Likimani, Nana Brew-Hammond, Sola Njoku, Atinuke, Onu, Chinaza, and Dinachi, who provided invaluable insights into the text, and especially to Sola, who always knows what a book needs.
My long-suffering supervisor, Professor Sarah Stockwell. The spark for this novel came from my research on the West African Students’ Union.
My supportive agent, Georgina Capel.
My editors, Sarah Savitt, who always believed, Rose Tomaszewska, for pushing the story further, and Jonathan Lee, for being so thorough.
My mentors, Jayne Banful for showing me new neural pathways, Ellah Allfrey for always reminding me of what I bring to the table, Oba Nsugbe for reminding me to look up and out.
The books and authors I turned to for inspiration when I was writing this novel: Segu by Maryse Condé, Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison, The Earthsea Quartet by Ursula K. Le Guin, the novels of Sefi Atta, in particular, Everything Good Will Come, and Outline by Rachel Cusk.