Chapter Eighteen
Kwame
Father Figure
“Be there in five.” Paloma’s text pings just as I’m heading downstairs.
“See you,” I reply and then toss my phone onto my bed.
I invited Paloma over today because I couldn’t stand the thought of spending Sunday alone. Since then, I’ve finished half a bottle of Johnnie Walker, and my mood has shifted from self-pity to anger.
I’ve been avoiding him all week but I’m finally ready to talk to my father. If he pisses me off, I’ll have an excuse to hang up in five minutes. He won’t want to keep talking once he knows Paloma is here.
I instruct my AI assistant to call my father.
“Hello, Kwame.” The voice that answers the phone sounds very pleased with himself and I almost hang up.
Instead, I take a fortifying breath. “Why are you answering my father’s phone?”
“Because he asked me to. Hold.” The line goes dead silent and I growl.
“Hello, Son,” my father says, his voice raspy like he’s been sleeping.
It’s easy to forget that he’s almost eighty most of the time, but tonight he sounds every bit like an old man. “Did I wake you?”
“Nearly, it’s very late here.”
“Where are you?”
“In London.” I glance at my clock. It’s one in the morning there.
“What are you doing there?”
“I had a board meeting. I head back to Accra tomorrow.
“Why is Oz there?”
“He had a layover so he stopped to see me.”
“So was Palm Sunday his idea?” I ask.
“Ah, you’ve seen the news,” he drawls.
“Yes. Why didn’t you tell me before you announced it to the world? And why are you bringing it back? It was mom’s thing.”
“I may not be living there, but I still need to nurture my relationships in the halls of power.”
“I thought you were done with American politics.”
“It’s a new day in DC. We’ve got a Black woman behind the Resolute Desk, a new crop of politicians in the bordering state houses that my PACs raised a lot of money for. Hell, the governor of Virginia is my neighbor. His daughter and my son might end up married.”
I sputter. “Only in an alternate universe where we have no free will,” I shoot back.
He ignores me and raises his voice a decibel. “The environment is ripe for new alliances and nothing makes people more willing to kiss the ring than an invite to Palm Sunday. Oz agrees.”
His repeated mention of Oz sets my teeth on edge. “You really trust his judgement?”
He sighs. “I do.”
“He stole from you.”
“Oz, excuse me,” he says and there’s a full minute of quiet before he speaks again. “Why are you still holding mistakes he made in his youth against him?”
“He was twenty-five years old, and they were crimes, not mistakes.”
“He’s forty-five now and the head of a very successful consulting firm.”
“One that has ties to countries we’re not on good terms with.”
“Who is we?”
“The United States of America.”
“Why do you keep talking like you’re an American?” he snaps.
I close my eyes and regret making this phone call. “I am.”
“Only on paper.”
“Dad, I grew up here. I’ve worked for the government for most of my career.”
“You shouldn’t be allied to any one nation. They are false borders designed to keep you distracted and poor.” He scoffs. “I told your mother it was a mistake to let you take that job.”
“Let me?” I sputter, unable to let that dig slide.
“I’ve given you a long leash, Son. But I didn’t get to where I am by not being in control of everything. And everyone.”
I’m rigid with indignation. This is why I left home. This is why I didn’t see my mother for years. “You don’t control me,” I say through clenched teeth.
He chuckles. “Everything you have is because I want you to have it. One call and you would have been blacklisted from every single government agency in this country you love so much.”
“Why didn’t you then?”
“Because I love you. And your mother wouldn’t let me.” He laughs to himself.
“That’s the only reason. I could change your life with the snap of my fingers. Don’t misunderstand the dynamic just because you’ve got your own money now.”
He can’t fathom how little interest I have in money, so I don’t bother to remind him. I’ll let him think whatever he wants. Since my eighteenth birthday, I haven’t done anything but what I wanted.
As long as I did well enough to give him something to brag about on the golf course, he let me be. This is how I’ve managed to survive being the son of one of the most manipulative and calculating men I’ve ever encountered.
I’ve learned the futility of arguing with my father about this and change the subject.
“I don’t misunderstand anything, Baba. And believe it or not I didn’t call you to fight. I wanted to know. Do you know a family named Sackey? They live in Virginia?”
He scoffs. “Of course. Loser husband, sharp-tongued wife, more children than makes sense. They’re still in the area?”
He doesn’t know she was their landlord. The realization makes me pause. If he didn’t know then she didn’t want him to.
“Yeah, Mom left them something and asked me to deliver it. I met them.”
“Oh, I bet they pulled out their rifles when you said your last name.” He cackles.
“They knew her as Dixon. They assumed that was my name, too.”
“Why didn’t you correct them?”
“It didn’t seem important,” I say.
He huffs. “Of course not,” he mutters.
“That’s not what I meant. I just…”
“What did she leave them?” His voice sharpens. I’m glad his mind has found a new focus.
“I don’t know. I just delivered the letter. They were sorry to hear of her passing. Seems they liked her, and she liked them.”
“She was such a bleeding heart and felt guilty for something that wasn’t our fault.” He makes it sound like a crime.
“What happened between you and them?” I ask the question that motivated me to make this call.
“It was an investment deal gone bad. They knew the risks, and it wasn’t my fault.
Or my problem. If he’d been paying attention he would have pulled his money out like I did before things went bad.
Then he let his wife lead him around by his dick and talked shit about me to whoever would listen.
If I didn’t respect your mother’s memory so much, I’d find a way to get it back.
” The venom in his voice isn’t surprising. He hates being outfoxed.
“Why? It was what she wanted.”
“What did he say? Let him know if he is still talking about me, I can make his pathetic life a living hell.” I can hear the sneer on his face.
“Baba, they didn’t even mention you. I was just curious. Forget I asked.” What a disaster.
“Done. Anything else?” He sounds cheerful again.
“When will you be back in DC?”
“Not until next April. You should come to Ghana for Christmas.”
“I’ll let you know,” I hedge. I’d rather work at the firm for another year than spend a family holiday with him. “Baba, I have to go. Paloma is coming for dinner and she’ll be here any minute.”
“Wonderful. Glad you’re using your free will.”
“We’re just friends.”
“You’re a fool to let a woman like her slip through your fingers. But I’ll accept someone else.”
“What a relief,” I mutter.
“As long as she’s from the diaspora. Anywhere but from Ghana. Our people are judgmental, nosy elitists.”
“You know you’re talking about yourself.”
“Exactly. So you should listen. She can be from anywhere else. As long as her father isn’t a general in somebody’s military or a politician. Clear those bars, and then I’ll judge each one case by case.”
“Most fathers would say things like find someone who respects you and herself. Who is honest and loyal.”
He sucks his teeth. “Most father’s aren’t me. And they don’t have sons like you. I’m telling you to find a woman who understands your position and can help you grow. Not encourage you to shrink. I have to go.”
I hang up and look around the mansion I call home now with resentment.
I wish I was in Arlington with a plate of food in front of me and a sweet-smelling, fascinating woman in the seat next to me.
Thanks to my father, I’m about to lose it all.
They don’t have to know I’m his son.
Our worlds couldn’t be further apart.
I’m going to make sure they stay that way.
My doorbells rings. I take another swig of whiskey and run down to answer it.