“Happy Christmas, to you all, too,” she said. “I won’t stay long. I am going to get something of mine that I’ve been searching for for years.”
The solid marble floors were cool beneath her bare feet. The walls were covered with European-style oil paintings of European rustic landscapes. Sankofa wondered what trouble these people went through to get these paintings all the way out to this small suburb of Accra. And she wondered if it was worth it; the paintings were quite ugly. A large family photo hung on the wall, too. It was of a tall fat man, a fat woman with one fat son and two fat daughters. Happy healthy content people and definitely “been-tos.” If she had to guess, she’d say from America.
In the dining room, Sankofa was asked to sit at a large table laden with more food than she’d glimpsed in weeks. It was nearly obscene. And what a surprise. She’d never imagined that been-tos ate so many native dishes. Kelewele, aponkye nkrakra and fufu, kenkey, waakye, red red, jollof rice, fried chicken, akrantie and goat meat, too much food to get her eyes around. “Oh chalé,” she muttered to herself. Behind her, the house party came in and stood around her.
A young woman set an empty plate before her. She wore a uniform similar to the gateman’s—a white blouse and navy-blue pants. “Do you…” The woman trailed off, her eyes watering with tears. She paused, looking into Sankofa’s eyes. Sankofa gazed right back.
“I would also like a change of clothes,” Sankofa said. “I have been wearing these garments for a week.”
The woman smiled gratefully and nodded. Sankofa guessed the woman was about ten years her senior, maybe even fifteen. “Something like what you are wearing now?” the woman asked.
Sankofa grinned at this. “Yes, if possible,” she said. “I like to wear our people’s style.”
The woman seemed to relax. “I know. We all know.”
“My name is known here?” Sankofa asked, the answer being obvious.
“Very well,” the woman said. The woman looked at the silent party. “Can someone call the seamstress?”
“It’s already done,” a fat woman said, stepping forward as she closed a mobile phone. Sankofa recognized her quickly. She looked a little fatter than she had in the family photo in the hallway. Life was good for her. “Miss Sankofa,” the lady of the house said. “You’ll have whatever garments you like within the hour.” She paused. “The community has always anticipated a visit from you.”
Sankofa smiled again. “That’s good.”
“You want orange Fanta, right?” the young woman in the uniform asked her. “Room temperature, not chilled.”
Sankofa nodded. These were good people.
The Christmas party watched Sankofa eat. They were unable to sit down. Unable to even look at each other. Paralyzed. Sankofa was ravenous. She’d been walking all day.
She gnawed on a goat bone’s remaining bits of meat and then dropped the bone on her plate. Then with greasy hands, she took her bottle of room temperature Fanta and guzzled the last of it. She belched as another was placed before her. The young woman popped the cap and stepped back.
“Thank you,” Sankofa said, taking a gulp. She picked up another piece of spicy goat meat, paused, then turned to the silent party. “Are there any children in the house?” she asked. “I would like some company.”
She nibbled on her piece of goat meat as the adults fearfully whispered amongst themselves. It was the same wherever she visited. They always whispered. Sometimes they cried. Sometimes they shouted. Always amongst each other. Away from her. Then they finally went and got the children. They knew they had no choice. This time was no different.
A plump boy of about ten and an older taller girl about Sankofa’s age, shuffled in. The girl’s mother, the lady of the house, had to shove the girl in. They wore their nightclothes and looked like they’d been dragged out of bed. They plopped themselves across from her at the table. The boy eyed the plate of fried plantain.
“So what are your names?” Sankofa asked. When they both just stared at her, she spoke in English. “So what are your names?” she asked again.
“Edgar,” the boy said. Sankofa blinked. He spoke like an American, so she’d been right in her assessment. Americans were always so well fed.
The girl muttered something Sankofa couldn’t catch. “What?” Sankofa asked.
“Ye,” the girl whispered. She spoke like an American, too.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Sankofa said. “Do you know who I am?”
“You’re Sankofa, the one who sleeps at death’s door,” Edgar said. He eyed her as he slowly took a slice of fried plantain. Sankofa took another few of the oily slices, too. They were sweet and tangy. Edgar seemed to relax when he saw that she enjoyed the same food as he did. Ye didn’t move.
“You should get a plate,” Sankofa said. Before Edgar could look around, the young woman placed a plate before each of them. The girl took all of two plantain slices and the boy loaded his plate with plantain and roasted goat meat. Sankofa liked the boy.
“You don’t look as ugly as they say you look,” he said.
Sankofa laughed. “Really?”
“No,” he said, biting into some goat meat. “Your outfit reminds me of my mom.”
“Reminds me of mine, too,” Sankofa said. “That’s why I wear it.”
They ate for a moment.
“So what’d you get for Christmas?” she asked.
“We haven’t opened presents yet,” he said, laughing. “It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Oh.” She fixed her eye on the girl. “Ye,” she said.
The girl jumped at the sound of her name.
“I’m not going to kill you,” Sankofa said.
“How do I know that?”
Sankofa rolled her eyes, annoyed. “You’re not very good company.”
After a pause, Edgar asked, “Don’t mind my sister. She never likes coming to Ghana. She’d rather just be a boring American and stay in boring America.” When Ye hissed at him, he hissed back. Sankofa laughed with glee.
“Where is your famous fox, the Movenpick?” Edgar asked. “Is it outside?”
“Probably,” she said. “Yes.”
“Was he someone’s pet? In your village?”
“No. Just an animal who wanted to be free.” Sankofa frowned and looked away.
“S-sorry,” Edgar quickly said. “I didn’t mean to bring up your…”
“It’s fine. That was a long time ago now.”
Edgar nodded and then leaned forward. “We only hear about you from our cousins,” he said. His eyes narrowed and he lowered his voice. “So is it true? Can you…”
“Can I what?” Sankofa asked, cocking her head.
He glanced at his sister. She’d stopped eating and was frowning deeply at him.
“I can,” Sankofa said. “You want to see?”
The party adults moaned. “This boy is a real idiot,” she heard one of them grumble. “You don’t tempt the devil!”
“Chalé, make him shut up!” someone else whispered. “He’s going to get us all killed.”
Sankofa glanced at the adults and then looked piercingly at the kids before her. She smirked. “Turn off the lights then.” The boy jumped up, ran and shut the lights off. She smiled when she heard him snatch his arm from his protesting mother and retake his seat across from her. In the past, it had been difficult to control and there had been terrible consequences. However, this was not the case any longer. These days, it was like flexing a muscle.
Right there in the darkness, she glowed her dim green. Ye, tears freely rolling down her cheeks. The boy’s eyes were wide and he had an enormous grin on his face. “Real life ‘remote control’!” he whispered. “Wowolo!”