No Sweetness Here and Other Stories

by Ama Ata Aidoo

  No, one does not go round asking one’s elders such questions.

  But Adwoa, my child, bring me the knife. . . . Yaaba . . . Yaaba, your cloth is dirty. Yaaba, Yaaba . . .

  It was the afternoon of the Saturday before Christmas Sunday. Yaaba had just come from the playgrounds to gobble down her afternoon meal. It was kenkey and a little fish stewed in palm oil. She had eaten in such a hurry that a bone had got stuck in her throat. She had drunk a lot of water but still the bone was sticking there. She did not want to tell Maami about it. She knew she would get a scolding or even a knock on the head. It was while she was in the outer room looking for a bit of kenkey to push down the troublesome bone that she heard Maami talking in the inner room.

  ‘Ah, and what shall I do now? But I thought there was a whole big lump left. . . . O . . . O! Things like this irritate me so. How can I spend Christmas without varnishing my floor?’

  Yaaba discovered a piece of kenkey which was left from the week before, hidden in its huge wrappings. She pounced upon it and without breaking away the mildew, swallowed it. She choked, stretched her neck and the bone was gone. She drank some water and with her cloth, wiped away the tears which had started gathering in her eyes. She was about to bounce away to the playgrounds when she remembered that she had heard Maami speaking to herself.

  Although one must not stand by to listen to elders if they are not addressing one, yet one can hide and listen. And anyway, it would be interesting to hear the sort of things our elders say to themselves. ‘And how can I celebrate Christmas on a hardened, whitened floor?’ Maami’s voice went on. ‘If I could only get a piece of red earth. But I cannot go round my friends begging, “Give me a piece of red earth.” No. O . . . O! And it is growing dark already. If only my child Adwoa was here. I am sure she could have run to the red-earth pit and fetched me just a hoeful. Then I could varnish the floor before the church bells ring tomorrow.’ Yaaba was thinking she had heard enough.

  After all, our elders do not say anything interesting to themselves. It is their usual complaints about how difficult life is. If it is not the price of cloth or fish, then it is the scarcity of water. It is all very uninteresting. I will always play with my children when they grow up. I will not grumble about anything. . . .

  It was quite dark. The children could hardly see their own hands as they threw up the pebbles. But Yaaba insisted that they go on. There were only three left of the eight girls who were playing soso-mba. From time to time mothers, fathers or elder sisters had come and called to the others to go home. The two still with Yaaba were Panyin and Kakra. Their mother had travelled and that was why they were still there. No one came any longer to call Yaaba. Up till the year before, Maami always came to yell for her when it was sundown. When she could not come, she sent Adwoa. But of course, Yaaba never listened to them.

  What is the point in breaking a game to go home? She stayed out and played even by herself until it was dark and she was satisfied. And now, at the age of ten, no one came to call her.

  The pebble hit Kakra on the head.

  ‘Ajii.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The pebble has hit me.’

  ‘I am sorry. It was not intentional.’ Panyin said, ‘But it is dark Kakra, let us go home.’ So they stood up.

  ‘Panyin, will you go to church tomorrow?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why? You have no new cloths?’

  ‘We have new cloths but we will not get gold chains or earrings. Our mother is not at home. She has gone to some place and will only return in the afternoon. Kakra, remember we will get up very early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Have you forgotten what mother told us before she went away? Did she not tell us to go and get some red earth from the pit? Yaaba, we are going away.’

  ‘Yoo.’

  And the twins turned towards home.

  Red earth! The pit! Probably, Maami will be the only woman in the village who will not have red earth to varnish her floor. Oo!

  ‘Panyin! Kakra! Panyin!’

  ‘Who is calling us?’

  ‘It is me, Yaaba. Wait for me.’

  She ran in the darkness and almost collided with someone who was carrying food to her husband’s house.

  ‘Panyin, do you say you will go to the pit tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘I want to go with you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to get some red earth for my mother.’

  ‘But tomorrow you will go to church.’

  ‘Yes, but I will try to get it done in time to go to church as well.’

  ‘See, you cannot. Do you not know the pit? It is very far away. Everyone will already be at church by the time we get back home.’

  Yaaba stood quietly digging her right toe into the hard ground beneath her. ‘It doesn’t matter, I will go.’

  ‘Do you not want to wear your gold things? Kakra and I are very sorry that we cannot wear ours because our mother is not here.’

  ‘It does not matter. Come and wake me up.’

  ‘Where do you sleep?’

  ‘Under my mother’s window. I will wake up if you hit the window with a small pebble.’

  ‘Yoo. . . . We will come to call you.’

  ‘Do not forget your apampa and your hoe.’

  ‘Yoo.’

  When Yaaba arrived home, they had already finished eating the evening meal. Adwoa had arrived from an errand it seemed. In fact she had gone on several others. Yaaba was slinking like a cat to take her food which she knew would be under the wooden bowl, when Maami saw her. ‘Yes, go and take it. You are hungry, are you not? And very soon you will be swallowing all that huge lump of fufu as quickly as a hen would swallow corn.’ Yaaba stood still.

  ‘Aa. My Father God, who inflicted on me such a child? Look here, Yaaba. You are growing, so be careful how you live your life. When you are ten years old you are not a child any more. And a woman that lives on the playground is not a woman. If you were a boy, it would be bad enough, but for a girl, it is a curse. The house cannot hold you. Tchia.’

  Yaaba crept into the outer room. She saw the wooden bowl. She turned it over and as she had known all the time, her food was there. She swallowed it more quickly than a hen would have swallowed corn. When she finished eating, she went into the inner room, she picked her mat, spread it on the floor, threw herself down and was soon asleep. Long afterwards, Maami came in from the conversation with the other mothers. When she saw the figure of Yaaba, her heart did a somersault. Pooh, went her fists on the figure in the corner. Pooh, ‘You lazy lazy thing.’ Pooh, pooh! ‘You good-for-nothing, empty-corn husk of a daughter . . .’ She pulled her ears, and Yaaba screamed. Still sleepy-eyed, she sat up on the mat.

  ‘If you like, you scream, and watch what I will do to you. If I do not pull your mouth until it is as long as a pestle, then my name is not Benyiwa.’

  But Yaaba was now wide awake and tearless. Who said she was screaming, anyway? She stared at Maami with shining tearless eyes. Maami was angry at this too.

  ‘I spit in your eyes, witch! Stare at me and tell me if I am going to die tomorrow. At your age . . .’ and the blows came pooh, pooh, pooh. ‘You do not know that you wash yourself before your skin touches the mat. And after a long day in the sand, the dust and filth by the Big Trunk. Hoo! Pooh! You moth-bitten grain. Pooh!’

  The clock in the chief’s house struck twelve o’clock midnight. Yaaba never cried. She only tried, without success, to ward off the blows. Perhaps Maami was tired herself, perhaps she was satisfied. Or perhaps she was afraid she was putting herself in the position of Kweku Ananse tempting the spirits to carry their kindness as far as to come and help her beat her daughter. Of course, this would kill Yaaba. Anyway, she stopped beating her and lay down by Kofi, Kwame and Adwoa. Yaaba saw the figure of Adwoa lying peacefully there. It was then her eyes misted. The tears flowed from her eyes. Every time, she wiped them with her cloth but more cam
e. They did not make any noise for Maami to hear. Soon the cloth was wet. When the clock struck one, she heard Maami snoring. She herself could not sleep even when she lay down.

  Is this woman my mother?

  Perhaps I should not go and fetch her some red earth. But the twins will come. . . .

  Yaaba rose and went into the outer room. There was no door between the inner and outer rooms to creak and wake anybody. She wanted the apampa and a hoe. At ten years of age, she should have had her own of both, but of course, she had not. Adwoa’s hoe, she knew, was in the corner left of the door. She groped and found it. She also knew Adwoa’s apampa was on the bamboo shelf. It was when she turned and was groping towards the bamboo shelf that she stumbled over the large water-bowl. Her chest hit the edge of the tray. The tray tilted and the water poured on the floor. She could not rise up. When Maami heard the noise her fall made, she screamed ‘Thief! Thief! Thief! Everybody, come, there is a thief in my room.’

  She gave the thief a chance to run away since he might attack her before the men of the village came. But no thief rushed through the door and there were no running footsteps in the courtyard. In fact, all was too quiet.

  She picked up the lantern, pushed the wick up to blazing point and went gingerly to the outer room. There was Yaaba, sprawled like a freshly-killed overgrown cock on the tray. She screamed again.

  ‘Ah Yaaba, why do you frighten me like this? What were you looking for? That is why I always say you are a witch. What do you want at this time of the night that you should fall on a water-bowl? And look at the floor. But of course, you were playing when someone lent me a piece of red earth to polish it, eh?’ The figure in the tray just lay there. Maami bent down to help her up and then she saw the hoe. She stood up again.

  ‘A hoe! I swear by all that be that I do not understand this.’ She lifted her up and was carrying her to the inner room when Yaaba’s lips parted as if to say something. She closed the lips again, her eyelids fluttered down and the neck sagged. ‘My Saviour!’ There was nothing strange in the fact that the cry was heard in the north and south of the village. Was it not past midnight?

  People had heard Maami’s first cry of ‘Thief’ and by the time she cried out again, the first men were coming from all directions. Soon the courtyard was full. Questions and answers went round. Some said Yaaba was trying to catch a thief, others that she was running from her mother’s beating. But the first thing was to wake her up.

  ‘Pour anowata into her nose!’ – and the mothers ran into their husbands’ chambers to bring their giant-sized bottles of the sweetest scents. ‘Touch her feet with a little fire.’ . . . ‘Squeeze a little ginger juice into her nose.’

  The latter was done and before she could suffer further ordeals, Yaaba’s eyelids fluttered up.

  ‘Aa. . . . Oo . . . we thank God. She is awake, she is awake.’ Everyone said it. Some were too far away and saw her neither in the faint nor awake. But they said it as they trooped back to piece together their broken sleep. Egya Yaw, the village medicine-man, examined her and told the now-mad Maami that she should not worry. ‘The impact was violent but I do not think anything has happened to the breast-bone. I will bind her up in beaten herbs and she should be all right in a few days.’ ‘Thank you, Egya,’ said Maami, Paapa, her grandmother, the other mothers and all her relatives. The medicine-man went to his house and came back. Yaaba’s brawniest uncles beat up the herbs. Soon, Yaaba was bound up. The cock had crowed once, when they laid her down. Her relatives then left for their own homes. Only Maami, Paapa and the other mothers were left. ‘And how is she?’ one of the women asked.

  ‘But what really happened?’

  ‘Only Benyiwa can answer you.’

  ‘Benyiwa, what happened?’

  ‘But I am surprised myself. After she had eaten her kenkey this afternoon, I heard her movements in the outer room but I did not mind her. Then she went away and came back when it was dark to eat her food. After our talk, I went to sleep. And there she was lying. As usual, she had not had a wash, so I just held her . . .’

  ‘You held her what? Had she met with death you would have been the one that pushed her into it – beating a child in the night!’

  ‘But Yaaba is too troublesome!’

  ‘And so you think every child will be good? But how did she come to fall in the tray?’

  ‘That is what I cannot tell. My eyes were just playing me tricks when I heard some noise in the outer room.’

  ‘Is that why you cried “Thief”?’

  ‘Yes. When I went to see what it was, I saw her lying in the tray, clutching a hoe.’

  ‘A hoe?’

  ‘Yes, Adwoa’s hoe.’

  ‘Perhaps there was a thief after all? She can tell us the truth . . . but . . .’

  So they went on through the early morning. Yaaba slept. The second cock-crow came. The church bell soon did its Christmas reveille. In the distance, they heard the songs of the dawn procession. Quite near in the doorway, the regular pat, pat of the twins’ footsteps drew nearer towards the elderly group by the hearth. Both parties were surprised at the encounter.

  ‘Children, what do you want at dawn?’

  ‘Where is Yaaba?’

  ‘Yaaba is asleep.’

  ‘May we go and wake her, she asked us to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She said she will go with us to the red-earth pit.’

  ‘O . . . O!’ The group around the hearth was amazed but they did not show it before the children.

  ‘Yoo. You go today. She may come with you next time.’

  ‘Yoo, Mother.’

  ‘Walk well, my children. When she wakes up, we shall tell her you came.’

  ‘We cannot understand it. Yaaba? What affected her head?’

  ‘My sister, the world is a strange place. That is all.’

  ‘And my sister, the child that will not do anything is better than a sheep.’

  ‘Benyiwa, we will go and lie down a little.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Yoo. I thank you all.’

  So Maami went into the apartment and closed the door. She knelt by the sleeping Yaaba and put her left hand on her bound chest. ‘My child, I say thank you. You were getting ready to go and fetch me red earth? Is that why you were holding the hoe? My child, my child, I thank you.’

  And the tears streamed down her face. Yaaba heard ‘My child’ from very far away. She opened her eyes. Maami was weeping and still calling her ‘My child’ and saying things which she did not understand.

  Is Maami really calling me that? May the twins come. Am I Maami’s own child?

  ‘My child Yaaba . . .’

  But how will I get red earth?

  But why can I not speak . . .?

  ‘I wish the twins would come . . .’

  I want to wear the gold earrings . . .

  I want to know whether Maami called me her child. Does it mean I am her child like Adwoa is? But one does not ask our elders such questions. And anyway, there is too much pain. And there are barriers where my chest is.

  Probably tomorrow . . . but now Maami called me ‘My child!’ . . .

  And she fell asleep again.

  Something to Talk About on the Way to the Funeral

  . . . Adwoa my sister, when did you come back?

  ‘Last night.’

  Did you come specially for Auntie Araba?

  ‘What else, my sister? I just rushed into my room to pick up my akatado when I heard the news. How could I remain another hour in Tarkwa after getting such news? I arrived in the night.’

  And your husband?

  ‘He could not come. You know government-work. You must give notice several days ahead if you want to go away for half of one day. O, and so many other problems. But he will see to all that before next Akwanbo. Then we may both be present for the festival and the libation ceremony if her family plans it for a day around that time.’
/>   Did you hear the Bosoë dance group practising the bread song?

  ‘Yes. I hear they are going to make it the chief song at the funeral this afternoon. It is most fitting that they should do that. After all, when the group was formed, Auntie Araba’s bread song was the first one they turned into a Bosoë song and danced to.’

  Yes, it was a familiar song in those days. Indeed it had been heard around here for over twenty years. First in Auntie Araba’s own voice with its delicate thin sweetness that clung like asawa berry on the tongue: which later, much later, had roughened a little. Then all of a sudden, it changed again, completely. Yes, it still was a woman’s voice. But it was deeper and this time, like good honey, was rough and heavy, its sweetness within itself.

  ‘Are you talking of when Mansa took over the hawking of the bread?’

  Yes. That is how, in fact, that whole little quarter came to be known as Bosohwe. Very often, Auntie Araba did not have to carry the bread. The moment the aroma burst out of the oven, children began tugging at their parents’ clothes for pennies and threepences. Certainly, the first batch was nearly always in those penny rows. Dozens of them. Of course, the children always caught the aroma before their mothers did.

  ‘Were we not among them?’

  We were, my sister. We remember that on market days and other holidays, Auntie Araba’s ovenside became a little market-place all by itself. And then there was Auntie Araba herself. She always was a beautiful woman. Even three months ago when they were saying that all her life was gone, I thought she looked better than some of us who claim to be in our prime. If she was a young woman at this time when they are selling beauty to our big men in the towns, she would have made something for herself.

  ‘Though it is a crying shame that young girls should be doing that. As for our big men! Hmm, let me shut my trouble-seeking mouth up. But our big men are something else too. You know, indeed, these our educated big men have never been up to much good.’

  Like you know, my sister. After all, was it not a lawyer-or-a-doctor-or-something-like-that who was at the bottom of all Auntie Araba’s troubles?