maybe somebody is waiting for you.
—So you think there is?
—You are a man with a satisfied body. Clean-shaven, starched shirt, clean socks, and polished shoes, but not too polished, and there is neglect, as if somebody forgot to iron the trousers, and you are not worried about impressing somebody that you are cared for. A maid does not forget to iron your clothes. A wife will smile and say sorry, and quarrel with you about doing it yourself. You sit like a satisfied man.
—You mean I am fat.
—I mean you are satisfied.
—Can I be honest?
—We are alone now.
—Does that not worry you?
—Now why would you do that? Why say something like that . . .
—I am sorry, I did not mean . . .
—Look, I can tell you are here for a reason, I don’t believe you . . .
—I did not mean to suggest . . .
—You meant to frighten me a little. Or a lot. If you did not know this, if you say it was accidental, then you don’t even know how this power of threat of violence is deep inside you. You think you are a threat by being yourself, but it does not frighten you because you are so arrogant and so sure of your power that you do not fear that I might be afraid of you.
—You are making too much of it.
—And you are not a minister, not a prophet.
—As I drove here, I saw you standing in this place with all these trees. I have never been here before. I saw the blue cloth you had around you. The shirt you are wearing—a tailored men’s shirt, unbuttoned low enough for me to see the filigree of your black brassiere. And I could see your eyes, heavy with knowledge, and your face of carved ebony—and I said, “Beautiful,” because that was the easy word. The hard word was unreachable. I saw the scarf. I saw you before I got here. This is not to frighten you. It is to frighten me.
6
A Man and a Woman
—This was very good.
—Hold your hand out.
—Thank you, thank you.
—Here is the cloth. The ginger and onion will stay on your fingers. You can use soap as soon as you get home.
—I am the prophet, not my wife.
—I forgot that you are the prophet. And now I know you have a wife.
—I suppose, but you knew that. Like you said, I look like a man with a wife. But you don’t believe I am a prophet. You have two kinds of prophets. The Bible is clear about that. One will tell you what is to come. That one goes around and says that this and this will happen. That prophet is the one who flames up like fire, and then suddenly, it goes away. That one does not even understand what she is doing. One day she starts to see things, and she knows what is happening. And just like that, it goes away. God goes away. The people who used to live here, Ashanti people, they used to have those prophets. Long before the British people came and built the sanatorium up here, Osei Tutu and his people knew that this place was special. Some prophet said it. They did not even understand what they were hearing, maybe. That is one kind of prophet. And then there is the one who explains things—that one is like a preacher, but different because she sees things, explains things, shows you things in your heart, shows you who you are. That one is always a surprise to the people who hear her, but never to herself. She is always going to be a prophet. People call them wise. Like how people call you wise. Don’t they? I know, you tell them they don’t know, but you know things and you know people’s hearts, and you can tell if they are good or bad. Isn’t that it?
—Well, you think you know me well.
—I know about you. Yes. I know you were not always cooking. I know if things did not happen you could be an . . . inspector.
—So you are a policeman. Are you investigating me?
—No, I am a minister. A prophet.
—But you came to see me.
—I came to see you.
—It is far for you to come.
—Yes, but it is a nice drive. By the time I reached Achimota there was not too much traffic. Then Dome, then through Kwabenya town, then straight through Berekuso. Even down at the T-junction, the people selling fish looked idle, as if somebody had told them that a storm was coming. Anyway, it was nice and cool by the time I started up here. I did not know if I would find you. But God was guiding me.
—You want to know something funny?
—What is it?
—I have no interest in knowing why you are here. Why is that? I am not even curious.
—Maybe you know. Maybe you are a prophet.
—Oh, you know I don’t know. But everything is about one thing, and that thing, it is so normal in my life that it is not even important.
—You are right, it is a strange thing.
—That is what I said. Look, look, look.
—What?
—There, see, the moon. The cloud opened and the moon, look!
—It is beautiful.
—It is very beautiful.
7
A Woman
—Did you know that in Nairobi, if you map all the tweets that happen, most of them are clustered in the zoo? It is white people looking at animals. And all around, there is darkness. But I like to think of my world, which is a lonely world, as a place where our hearts spark light at moments of great trauma or crisis. Think of the map of the world. Everything is black. Then think of sparks, sharp bursts of white and yellow light every time someone says, “Help.” Every second would look interesting. It would make it seem like we are not alone. Sometimes I think of what would happen if every time a woman had an orgasm a light flared up. There is something of pained joy there. The world would look like joy. And none of us would be alone. You may be ready to take me with you. And nothing will spark on the map. This is the darkness of what it means to be alone. But I like to think, my brother, that when I went into that room, and I saw the man lying there, and when there was that moment which I see every day but never say, all across the world, a spark of alarm went off, and I was righteous, and I was not alone. I see it like that.
8
A Man
—I will tell you a story. I got a call to go to the home of a family I know. Well, not really their home, but the place where their son lives. It is not far from Legon, a small place in a compound.
