My friend Esi happened to be in the court, minding Konadu Yaadom’s infant child. She was outraged at the injustice of it all and spoke up bravely on my behalf. For her impudence they sentenced her at once to join me, my loving, lovely, stupid, brave friend, Esi. All that remains for me now, before we leave Kumase, is to introduce her to you.
Esi’s father was a Fante, like Josef, from the coast. Esi taught me everything: the Asante language, their music, how to dance Adowa, and all the tricks that one needed to survive in the household of Konadu Yaadom. And the gossip! Nothing happened in that city that didn’t reach the ears of my friend Esi.
One day we were sitting alone together and gossiping. Our conversation turned to the Asantehene, and I told her that I was sure that he was ill and didn’t have long to live. Her jaw dropped and she stared at me with an expression of fear that I had never seen in her face before. Then she rose to her feet and started to sing a Fante dirge and dance the Chief Executioner’s dance. By the time I managed to calm her down, the sweat was running down her face and arms. What she told me then made me sweat, too. Immediately after Osei Kwadwo’s death, many would be killed to join him on his journey and we, his slaves, would be in the greatest danger.
It was Esi who saved me from a sudden death.
A steep, outside wooden staircase led up to Konadu Yaadom’s first-floor bedroom. A small room under the staircase was used as a store, a sort of dump for broken pots, cracked wooden pestles, and mortars which had become too short to use.
Esi was a great flirt. Making sure that Konadu Yaadom would be away for some time, she persuaded one of the palace carpenters to fix the hinges on the door and install a new iron lock. When the King died, we hid in that tiny room for three days. It was only when we were sure that the slaughter of the innocents had come to an end that Esi decided that it was safe for us to emerge from our hiding place.
It was Esi’s foresight that saved us from accompanying Osei Kwadwo on his journey to the ancestors.
Her courage and foolhardy intolerance of injustice now led to her joining me on my journey to meet the white man at Elmina on the coast.
Zacharias
My mother is a great story teller. But I wonder: does she really expect me to swallow all this stuff? Does this Africa really exist other than in her imagination? I may be her son, but I am no longer a child.
“My Mother,” I ask, “are these stories you are telling me really true?”
She is offended.
“My son Kwame, do you think I am telling you lies?”
I try to explain. Her stories are so fantastic, I find it hard to believe them. She calms down.
“Wait,” she says. “You’ve heard nothing yet.”
Ama’s story
It was twenty days since our coffle of slaves had left Kumase.
As we topped the crest of a hill, Esi cried, “Ama, look!”
In the middle distance, row upon row of coconut palms; beyond the palms, a strip of white sand; beyond the beach, the great white-flecked expanse of the ocean. The breakers rolled in upon the shore with a distant roar.
Esi clutched my arm and pointed at the seemingly countless canoes, some of them scudding across the surface with the wind in their sails, each with its crew of tiny figures.
“Is that the sea?” I asked our guard Mensa.
Even on the open savannah in the dry season, you can’t see so far into the distance. Out there, beyond the rows of coconut palms, there were no hills and trees to block the view. I had imagined that the great water would be like the Volta River, only wider. I was so ignorant; it shames me to think of it. Mensa laughed, amused at my astonishment. He told me that the water was salty, that if you drink it, it will make you vomit. I thought he was teasing me.
“Why would anyone want to put salt in it?” I asked him. “And where would they get so much salt? There must be a lot of water there. Next you will be telling me that it is blue because someone has poured accassie dye into it.”
The waves broke up in white foam as they approached the shore.
“See how it boils,” said Mensa. “You can cook green plantain inside.”
When we got down onto the beach, I saw small boys playing in the surf. The sand burned the soles of my feet. I dipped them in the water.
“I will make you eat the green plantain I cook inside,” I told Mensa.
Zacharias
When she told me that she didn’t believe the guard when he said the sea was salty, I laughed. Then she asked me whether I could explain to her why it is salty and why it looks blue. I felt stupid because I had no answer. I shall have to ask Senhor Gavin.
Ama’s story
At the end of the curve of the bay, there rose a great block, sparkling white in the sunlight.
Mensa laughed and pointed.
“That is the house of the white man, the Dutch governor. Did I not tell you that the whites are twice as tall as normal human beings? It is because they are so tall that they need such big houses. That one is called Elmina Castle.”
I gave up, not knowing what to believe.
Two men came out of the building. One was black. Though the skin of the other was lighter in color, tawny, he was of normal size. Like his fellow, he wore a peculiar red garment, somewhat the worse for wear; but apart from that, he looked just like a pale version of a normal man. I thought to ask Mensa if this was a white man, but Mensa was nowhere to be seen. I never did see him again.
These two also seemed to be guards, judging from their long whips.
I was at the head of the line of women with Esi beside me.
“This way,” called the brown one in a sort of broken Asante. He was looking in my direction, but I thought that he was speaking to someone behind me.
I looked back and saw the shackles being removed from the first of our men. Then the guard grabbed my arm roughly and manhandled me across two short wooden bridges. Esi tried to follow me, but the other guard restrained her. We called out to each other.
The guard dragged me through a dark passage, into a great courtyard, and down another dark passage. Then he used a key to open an iron door, pushed me through the opening, and banged the door shut.
I gripped the iron bars and looked out into the courtyard. The stone floor was drenched in sunlight. Then I heard a sound behind me. Startled, I turned. In the darkness all I could see was the whites of many pairs of eyes. I pressed my back against the gate. A child was sobbing. Now I could see women sitting shoulder to shoulder with their backs to the walls of the room. Others sat and lay on the damp stone floor. I took a step forward, started to take a deep breath, and then as quickly pinched my nostrils. The air was thick with the foul smell of unwashed bodies and old shit and piss. Apart from the gate where I stood, there were no other openings for light or air.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ama’s story
When I woke, there was not a single glimmer of light in the dungeon.
The smell struck me and I wanted to vomit. The air was unpleasantly hot and humid, yet the floor I lay on was cold and damp. I was thirsty and I wanted to piss. I screwed up my eyes but I could see nothing. I could hear the sleep sounds of many women and children.
I tried to think. That very morning I had been walking along the beach, watching the naked boys playing in the waves, breathing deeply in air which had the fresh smell of the sea. Now I was in a place worse than death. Or is this death? I wondered. The dungeon had already been crowded when we arrived. All the other women in the caravan had followed us, one by one. The women who had already been there some time—how long? I wondered—abused us in several languages: my own, Asante, and others I did not understand. We were all victims of the same unseen oppressor and yet we quarreled amongst ourselves. (If it weren’t for Olukoya’s leadership, we might be doing that here, too.)
I heard a sound from the courtyard. A key turned
in the lock. Esi was sleeping next to me, nearer to the gate. I shook her gently and whispered her name in her ear.
The gate opened. Esi sat up.
“What is it?” she asked. “Where am I?”
A man entered, carrying an oil lamp, keeping it low, looking at the sleeping faces. His own face remained in the shadows. He brought the lamp up close to Esi’s face. Then he said something, just one or two words, in a strange language. He grabbed Esi’s arm and pulled her upright. She gasped and stretched for me, but it was too late. The man dragged her through the gate and banged it shut. A woman groaned in her sleep.
“Ama,” Esi cried but her voice was muffled as if a hand had been placed over her mouth.
Silence settled over the dungeon. I lay awake, not knowing what to do, what to think.
Time passed. Then there was the sound of the key turning in the lock again. The gate opened and Esi was pushed inside. She was sobbing deliriously. I stepped over bodies in the dark, guiding her to her place. I tried to comfort her.
“What happened?” I asked, but Esi could not speak.
I dozed. The screeching of metal on metal woke me as the dungeon gate swung open again. A guard entered, shouting at us, kicking, cracking his whip in the dark, forcing us onto our feet and out.
I blinked and rubbed my eyes. (I had two eyes then. It is only now that I have lost the sight of both, that I have learned to value them.) It was afternoon. The sun lit up one wall and half of the stone floor of the courtyard. Two more guards lounged against the wall in a corner, flicking their whips at one another. They were barefooted and stripped to the waist.
One shouted at us. The other laughed. More women came streaming out past the iron gate. The second guard clapped his hands, lining us up against the walls. We stood there, confused and uncertain, flexing our limbs and looking around. Esi stretched her arms and yawned. Some of the women began to chatter. One began to sing a dirge in a high-pitched voice. The first guard silenced us with a harsh command and a crack of his whip.
I stood in the shade and hugged myself. What now? I wondered.
I looked around the courtyard. The stone flags were smooth. Many feet must have walked on them before mine. I raised my eyes and examined the walls. The sunlight reflected off the whitewashed surface made me blink again. I looked away to avoid the glare. High above me, I caught a glimpse of a head of golden hair.
The first guard prodded the women at the end of the row with the butt of his whip, urging them to stand upright and look ahead. They murmured, sullen, confused, but somehow resisting him. The guard craned his neck, looking up at that head of golden hair.
I was fifth from the end. By my side stood Esi, short, plump Esi, her eyes meekly on her feet. I looked up and, with a start, again caught sight of what I had only glimpsed before. The golden-haired, red-faced god in his spotless white uniform astonished me. That must be a real white man, I thought. I nudged Esi and, with a nod of my head, directed her gaze up at him. Esi stared, her mouth open.
“That is the pig,” she muttered to me. “I am sure. That is the pig.”
It was the man who had had her the night before, in the dark courtyard, against the wall, without ceremony. That morning she had told me of the pain in her loins and the humiliation and degradation of being used like that.
I stared at him, wondering what was going on, trying to make sense of the golden pig-god, the rapist, the first real white man I had seen.
I saw him raise the five fingers of his right hand and then move the index finger from left to right. The guard who had driven us out of the dungeon placed a hand on my shoulder. I flinched, but he held me firmly. The guard looked up at the pig-god. I saw him nod and guessed what lay in store for me.
“Mama, the pig wants to rape me,” I shrieked.
“The pig wants to rape her,” echoed one of the women, following my line of sight.
A third woman took up the call and then another, in language after language. In their voices I heard fear, anger, sympathy for me, and relief, selfish relief.
The guards screamed and cracked their whips, drowning the protests. One walked across to a corner of the courtyard and returned with a wooden chair, which he placed in the sunlight in view of the watcher above. Then he dragged me to it and barked an order. I didn’t understand.
“What do they want of me?” I wondered. “Perhaps the pig-god up there is a cannibal.”
I stood my ground, staring at the guard, hating him. He was a big man with broad shoulders and huge biceps. In Kumase, I thought, he would have been a professional executioner. Suddenly he grabbed me from behind, wrapping his arms around my waist. I screamed, but before I knew what had happened, I was standing on the chair. He reached up and grabbed my cloth and pulled it down. Next he ripped off my waist beads. The other two guards applauded. The women screamed at them.
I was now stark naked. I noticed the pig-god looking down at me and covered myself with my hands. For a moment, the other women were silent. Then they took up their wailing again. The guards started to herd them back into the dungeon. I heard Esi scream my name.
The big guard behind me grabbed hold of my wrists and pinned my arms behind my back. I cried out in pain but he held me immobile and exposed. The light-skinned guard looked up and the pig-god nodded. He forced my legs apart and stuck his index finger into me. I struggled to free myself from the grip of the guard behind me and screamed abuse at the light-skinned one. He withdrew his finger and raised it to the light to examine it. Then he put it under his nostrils and sniffed; after which he stood aside and raised the finger to show the pig-god, slowly nodding his head up and down.
The big guard released his grip. I stood silent and alone on the chair, crushed and humiliated. He returned my cloth and told me to get down. I covered myself and tried to recover a little of my dignity. Their whips cracking, the guards herded the last of the women back into the dungeon.
They gave me a bowl of rice and palm soup. It was the first real meal I had had since my arrival. I was hungry and ate quickly. As soon as I had finished, the big guard told me to get up.
“Where are you sending me?” I asked him.
“Oh, so you hear Fante?” he asked.
“Where are you sending me?” I repeated.
I have never hated any human being as I hated him at that moment.
“Never you mind,” he said, taking my hand.
I resisted but he was far too strong for me.
He spoke to me again but I did not understand. In my fear, I remained silent. He directed me to a long, steep flight of black and white stone stairs, keeping close behind me. There was a landing, and then we turned to climb the second flight, this time of wood. The stairs creaked as we climbed, reminding me of Konadu Yaadom’s staircase in Kumase. How happy I had been there. We had reached the level of the balcony from which I had seen the pig-god looking down into the courtyard, but he was nowhere to be seen. We turned a corner. Ahead of us there was a solid white door. Another guard was there, squatting on his haunches with his back against the wall. He signed to my guard to knock on the door.
There was a reply, just two words, but they meant nothing to me. My guard opened the door, pushed me into the room, and left me standing there. I heard the door close.
Zacharias
My mother tires easily. After that session she has to take a rest. I am not surprised. That was a difficult story for her to tell, even after all these years. Just listening to it and writing it down has left me drained.
She asks me, “Do you understand why I can never be a Christian?”
Out of respect for her suffering, I do not answer. When I get to know her better, I might talk to her about the power of forgiveness.
Ama’s story
The man behind that door was Pieter de Bruyn, the Dutch governor. I would like to tell you about my life with him but if I do, we shall use up all th
e paper long before we reach the end of my story. In short, he was a lonely old man, getting to the end of his working life, and he fell in love with me. What could I do? It was not as if I had a choice. He treated me well and in the course of time, I became quite fond of him. He taught me to play chess. To start with, that was the only language we had in common, but he made the castle priest, a fat, lecherous fellow called van Schalkwyk, teach me English. He chose English rather than Dutch because he loved to read novels, and all the best novels are in English. His eyesight was failing and he thought I might help preserve it by reading to him.
Van Schalkwyk had ambitions to turn me into a Christian. I resisted, but I did learn to read the Bible. Even today, in my blindness, I pass the time by telling myself stories which I first read in that book.
Sometimes I called de Bruyn by his first name, especially when we were alone together; but as a rule, and always when there were others present, I called him Mijn Heer, that is, Sir, or My Master.
Mijn Heer’s quarters were my world. Even if he had let me wander, where would I have gone? On a visit to the poor creatures imprisoned in the female dungeon? Or on an inspection of the male slaves; or the condemned cell where they kept men they would kill sometime later, when they had filled in the necessary forms?
Apart from Mijn Heer and the priest, I had only one other regular contact with the world outside my comfortable prison. That was a rich Fante lady by name Augusta, or, at any rate, that was the name which Mijn Heer had given her when, as a young girl, she had been married to him. I know what you are thinking: this Pieter de Bruyn had a special taste for young black female slaves. Well, to do him justice, that was not entirely true. Augusta had never been enslaved. Indeed, she had made a great deal of money from slave trading. And Mijn Heer had once had a white wife, a Dutch woman called Elizabeth, like your god-sister in Salvador. Mijn Heer took delight in dressing me up in all the fine European-style dresses Madam Elizabeth had kept in her trunk.
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