I did not know that, my sister.
Yes, my sister. One speaks of it only in whispers. Let me turn my head and look behind me. . . . And don’t go standing in the river telling people. Or if you do, you better not say that you heard it from me.
‘How could I do that? Am I a baby?’
Yes, Auntie Araba was always a beauty. My mother says she really was a come-and-have-a-look type, when she was a girl. Her plaits hung at the back of her neck like the branches of a giant tree, while the skin of her arms shone like charcoal from good wood. And since her family is one of these families with always some members abroad, when Auntie Araba was just about getting ready for her puberty, they sent her to go and stay at A— with some lady relative. That’s where she learnt to mess around with flour so well. But after less than four years, they found she was in trouble.
‘Eh-eh?’
Eh-eh, my sister. And now bring your ear nearer.
. . . .
‘That lawyer-or-doctor-or-something-like-that who was the lady’s husband?’
Yes.
‘And what did they do about it?’
They did not want to spoil their marriage so they hushed up everything and sent her home quietly. Very quietly. That girl was our own Auntie Araba. And that child is Ato, the big scholar we hear of.
‘Ei, there are plenty of things in the world’s old box to pick up and talk about, my sister.’
You have said it. But be quiet and listen. I have not finished the story. If anything like that had happened to me, my life would have been ruined. Not that there is much to it now. But when Auntie Araba returned home to her mother, she was looking like a ram from the north. Big, beautiful and strong. And her mother did not behave as childishly as some would in a case like this. No, she did not tear herself apart as if the world had fallen down. . . .
‘Look at how Mother Kuma treated her daughter. Rained insults on her head daily, refused to give her food and then drove her out of their house. Ah, and look at what the father of Mansa did to her too. . . .’
But isn’t this what I am coming to? This is what I am coming to.
‘Ah-h-h . . .’
Anyway, Auntie Araba’s mother took her daughter in and treated her like an egg until the baby was born. And then did Auntie Araba tighten her girdle and get ready to work? Lord, there is no type of dough of flour they say she has not mixed and fried or baked. Epitsi? Tatare? Atwemo? Bofrot? Boodo? Boodoo-ngo? Sweetbad? Hei, she went there and dashed here. But they say that somehow, she was not getting much from these efforts. Some people even say that they landed her in debts.
‘But I think someone should have told her that these things are good to eat but they suit more the tastes of the town-dwellers. I myself cannot see any man or woman who spends his living days on the farm, wasting his pennies on any of these sweeties which only satisfy the tongue but do not fill the stomach. Our people in the villages might buy tatare and epitsi, yes, but not the others.’
Like you know, my sister. This is what Auntie Araba discovered, but only after some time. I don’t know who advised her to drop all those fancy foods. But she did, and finally started baking bread, ordinary bread. That turned out better for her.
‘And how did she come to marry Egya Nyaako?’
They say that she grew in beauty and in strength after her baby was weaned. Good men and rich from all the villages of the state wanted to marry her.
‘Ei, so soon? Were they prepared to take her with her baby?’
tartare
–
plantain pancake
epitsi
–
plantain cake
boodoo
–
sweet, unleavened corn bread
atwemo
–
plain sugared pastry drawn out in strips and fried in hot oil
boodoo-ngo
–
bread of unleavened corn meal mixed with palm oil and baked
bofrot
–
doughnuts
sweetbad
–
a hard coconut pastry baked or fried
Yes.
‘Hmm, a good woman does not rot.’
That is what our fathers said.
‘And she chose Egya Nyaako?’
Yes. But then, we should remember that he was a good man himself.
‘Yes, he was. I used to be one of those he hired regularly during the cocoa harvests. He never insisted that we press down the cocoa as most of these farmers do. No, he never tried to cheat us out of our fair pay.’
Which is not what I can say of his heir!
‘Not from what we’ve heard about him. A real mean one they say he is.’
So Auntie agreed to marry Egya Nyaako and she and her son came to live here. The boy, this big scholar we now know of, went with the other youngsters to the school the first day they started it here. In the old Wesleyan chapel. They say she used to say that if she never could sleep her fill, it was because she wanted to give her son a good education.
‘Poo, pity. And that must have been true. She mixed and rolled her dough far into the night, and with the first cockcrow, got up from bed to light her fires. Except on Sundays.’
She certainly went to church twice every Sunday. She was a good Christian. And yet, look at how the boy turned out and what he did to her.
‘Yes? You know I have been away much of the time. And I have never heard much of him to respect. Besides, I only know very little.’
That is the story I am telling you. I am taking you to bird-town so I can’t understand why you insist on searching for eggs from the suburb!
‘I will not interrupt you again, my sister.’
Maybe, it was because she never had any more children and therefore, Ato became an only child. They say she spoilt him. Though I am not sure I would not have done the same if I had been in her position. But they say that before he was six years old, he was fighting her. And he continued to fight her until he became a big scholar. And then his father came to acknowledge him as his son, and it seems that ruined him completely.
‘Do you mean that lawyer-or-doctor-or-something-like-that man?’
Himself. They say he and his lady wife never had a male child so when he was finishing Stan’ 7 or so, he came to father him.
‘Poo, scholars!’
It is a shame, my sister. Just when all the big troubles were over.
‘If I had been Auntie Araba, eh, I would have charged him about a thousand pounds for neglect.’
But Auntie Araba was not you. They say she was very happy that at last the boy was going to know his real father. She even hoped that that would settle his wild spirits. No, she did not want to make trouble. So this big man from the city came one day with his friends or relatives and met Auntie Araba and her relatives. It was one Sunday afternoon. In two big cars. They say some of her sisters and relatives had sharpened their mouths ready to give him what he deserved. But when they saw all the big men and their big cars, they kept quiet. They murmured among themselves, and that was all. He told them, I mean this new father, that he was going to send Ato to college.
‘And did he?’
Yes he did. And he spoilt him even more than his mother had done. He gave him lots of money. I don’t know what college he sent him to since I don’t know about colleges. But he used to come here to spend some of his holidays. And every time, he left his mother with big debts to pay from his high living. Though I must add that she did not seem to mind.
‘You know how mothers are, even when they have got several children.’
But, my sister, she really had a big blow when he put Mansa into trouble. Mansa’s father nearly killed her.
‘I hear Mansa’s father is a proud man who believes that there is nothing which any man from his age group can do which he cannot do better.’
So you know. When school education came here, all his children were too old to go to school except Mansa. And he used to boast that he was only go
ing to feel he had done his best by her when she reached the biggest college in the white man’s land.
‘And did he have the money?’
Don’t ask me. As if I was in his pocket! Whether he had the money or not, he was certainly saying these things. But then people also knew him to add on these occasions, ‘let us say it will be good, so it shall be good’. Don’t laugh, my sister. Now, you can imagine how he felt when Ato did this to his daughter Mansa. I remember they reported him as saying that he was going to sue Ato for heavy damages. But luckily, Ato just stopped coming here in the holidays. But of course, his mother Auntie Araba was here. And she got something from Mansa’s father. And under his very nose was Mansa’s own mother. He used to go up and down ranting about some women who had no sense to advise their sons to keep their manhoods between their thighs, until they could afford the consequences of letting them loose, and other mothers who had not the courage to tie their daughters to their mats.
‘O Lord.’
Yes, my sister.
‘Hmm, I never knew any of these things.’
This is because you have been away in the Mines all the time. But me, I have been here. I am one of those who sit in that village waiting for the travellers. But also in connection with this story, I have had the chance to know so much because my husband’s family house is in that quarter. I say, Mansa’s father never let anyone sleep. And so about the sixth month of Mansa’s pregnancy, her mother and Auntie Araba decided to do something about the situation. Auntie Araba would take Mansa in, see her through until the baby was born and then later, they would think about what to do. So Mansa went to live with her. And from that moment, people did not even know how to describe the relationship between the two. Some people said they were like mother and daughter. Others that they were like sisters. Still more others even said they were like friends. When the baby was born, Auntie Araba took one or two of her relatives with her to Mansa’s parents. Their purpose was simple. Mansa had returned from the battlefield safe. The baby looked strong and sound. If Mansa’s father wanted her to go back to school . . .
‘Yes, some girls do this.’
But Mansa’s father had lost interest in Mansa’s education.
‘I can understand him.’
I too. So Auntie Araba said that in that case, there was no problem. Mansa was a good girl. Not like one of these yetse-yetse things who think putting a toe in a classroom turns them into goddesses. The child and mother should go on living with her until Ato finished his education. Then they could marry properly.
‘Our Auntie Araba is going to heaven.’
If there is any heaven and God is not like man, my sister.
‘What did Mansa’s parents say?’
What else could they say? Her mother was very happy. She knew that if Mansa came back to live with them she would always remind her father of everything and then there would never be peace for anybody in the house. They say that from that time, the baking business grew and grew and grew. Mansa’s hands pulled in money like a good hunter’s gun does with game. Auntie Araba herself became young again. She used to say that if all mothers knew they would get daughters-in-law like Mansa, birth pains would be easier to bear. When her husband Egya Nyaako died, would she not have gone mad if Mansa was not with her? She was afraid of the time when her son would finish college, come and marry Mansa properly and take her away. Three years later, Ato finished college. He is a teacher, as you know, my sister. The government was sending him to teach somewhere far away from here. Then about two weeks or so before Christmas, they got a letter from him that he was coming home.
‘Ah, I am sure Mansa was very glad.’
Don’t say it loudly, my sister. The news spread very fast. We teased her. ‘These days some women go round with a smile playing round their lips all the time. Maybe there is a bird on the neem tree behind their back door which is giving them special good news,’ we said. Auntie Araba told her friends that her day of doom was coming upon her. What was she going to do on her own? But her friends knew that she was also very glad. So far, she had looked after her charges very well. But if you boil anything for too long, it burns. Her real glory would come only when her son came to take away his bride and his child.
‘And the boy-child was a very handsome somebody too.’
And clever, my sister. Before he was two, he was delighting us all by imitating his grandmother and his mother singing the bread-hawking song. A week before the Saturday Ato was expected, Mansa moved back to her parents’ house.
‘That was a good thing to do.’
She could not have been better advised. That Saturday, people saw her at her bath quite early. My little girl had caught a fever and I myself had not gone to the farm. When eleven o’clock struck, I met Mansa in the market-place, looking like a festive dish. I asked her if what we had heard was true, that our lord and master was coming on the market-day lorry that afternoon. She said I had heard right.
‘Maybe she was very eager to see him and could not wait in the house.’
Could you have waited quietly if you had been her?
‘Oh, women. We are to be pitied.’
Tell me, my sister. I had wanted to put a stick under the story and clear it all for you. But we are already in town.
‘Yes, look at that crowd. Is Auntie Araba’s family house near the mouth of this road?’
Oh yes. Until the town grew to the big thing it is, the Twidan Abusia house was right on the road but now it is behind about four or so other houses. Why?
‘I think I can hear singing.’
Yes, you are right.
‘She is going to get a good funeral.’
That, my sister, is an answer to a question no one will ask.
‘So finish me the story.’
Hmm, kinsman, when the market lorry arrived, there was no Scholar-Teacher-Ato on it.
‘No?’
No.
‘What did Auntie Araba and Mansa do?’
What could they do? Everyone said that the road always has stories to tell. Perhaps he had only missed the lorry. Perhaps he had fallen ill just on that day or a day or so before. They would wait for a while. Perhaps he would arrive that evening if he thought he could get another lorry, it being a market day. But he did not come any time that Saturday or the next morning. And no one saw him on Monday or Tuesday.
‘Ohhh . . .’
They don’t say, ohhh. . . . We heard about the middle of the next week – I have forgotten now whether it was the Wednesday or Thursday – that he had come.
‘Eheh?’
Nyo. But he brought some news with him. He could not marry Mansa.
‘Oh, why? After spoiling her . . .’
If you don’t shut up, I will stop.
‘Forgive me and go on, my sister.’
Let us stand in this alley here – that is the funeral parlour over there. I don’t want anyone to overhear us.
‘You are right.’
Chicha Ato said he could not marry Mansa because he had got another girl into trouble.
‘Whopei!’
She had been in the college too. Her mother is a big lady and her father is a big man. They said if he did not marry their daughter, they would finish him. . . .
‘Whopei!’
His lawyer-father thought it advisable for him to wed that girl soon because they were afraid of what the girl’s father would do.
‘Whopei!’
So he could not marry our Mansa.
‘Whopei!’
They don’t say, Whopei, my sister.
‘So what did they do?’
Who?
‘Everybody. Mansa? Auntie Araba?’
What could they do?
‘Whopei!’
That was just before you came back to have your third baby, I think.
‘About three years ago?’
Yes.
‘It was my fourth. I had the third in Aboso but it died.’
Then it was your fourth. Yes, it was just befor
e you came.
‘I thought Auntie Araba was not looking like herself. But I had enough troubles of my own and had no eyes to go prying into other people’s affairs. . . . So that was that. . . .’
Yes. From then on, Auntie Araba was just lost.
‘And Mansa-ah?’
She really is like Auntie herself. She has all of her character. She too is a good woman. If she had stayed here, I am sure someone else would have married her. But she left.
‘And the child?’
She left him with her mother. Haven’t you seen him since you came?
‘No. Because it will not occur to anybody to point him out to me until I ask. And I cannot recognise him from my mind. I do not know him at all.’
He is around, with the other schoolchildren.
‘So what does Mansa do?’
When she left, everyone said she would become a whore in the city.
‘Whopei. People are bad.’
Yes. But perhaps they would have been right if Mansa had not been the Mansa we all know. We hear Auntie Araba sent her to a friend and she found her a job with some people. They bake hundreds of loaves of bread an hour with machines.
‘A good person does not rot.’
No. She sent money and other things home.
‘May God bless her. And Auntie Araba herself?’
As I was telling you. After this affair, she never became herself again. She stopped baking. Immediately. She told her friends that she felt old age was coming on her. Then a few months later, they say she started getting some very bad stomach aches. She tried here, she tried there. Hospitals first, then our own doctors and their herbs. Nothing did any good.
‘O our end! Couldn’t the hospital doctors cut her up and find out?’
My sister, they say they don’t work like that. They have to find out what is wrong before they cut people up.
‘And they could not find out what was wrong with Auntie Araba?’
No. She spent whatever she had on this stomach. Egya Nyaako, as you know, had already died. So, about three months ago, she packed up all she had and came here, to squat by her ancestral hearth.
‘And yesterday afternoon she died?’
Yes, and yesterday afternoon she died.
No Sweetness Here and Other Stories Page 12
