But I must be confusing you with all these characters who don’t have much to do with my story. In some ways my life has been confusing. The Asante have a proverb which says it all: Obra kwan ye nkyinkyimiie, that is, the path of life is full of twists and turns. I well remember one of those twists and turns. (Are you writing all this down? You are wasting the paper.) Well, I had been living in comfort, eating well, wearing Madam Elizabeth’s fine clothes, admiring my image in Mijn Heer’s full-length mirror, lounging in his comfortable armchairs, reading my way through his library of English novels. One of them, by the way, was called Pamela, by Samuel Richardson. Have you read it? Mijn Heer gave me her name—he always called me Pamela. These Europeans cannot handle our African names. Or is giving your slave a name of your own choice just one more way to demonstrate your power? But I’m wandering. I want you to write this down.
One morning I was all alone in Mijn Heer’s room. I took his telescope and sat myself on the broad sill at the west window. I aimed the instrument at a canoe that was being hollowed out on the far bank of the river and focused the lens. Progress was slow; the carvers had made several fires again, gradually burning away the heartwood of the log. Then I heard a noise, a great hubbub, shouting and laughter, the firing of muskets. Climbing down from my perch, I stretched out of the window and looked down.
Approaching the castle from the north was a long procession, a coffle of slaves. In the lead were musicians, beating drums to give a slow rhythm to the march, blowing horns, singing, and chanting. They were followed by merchants, responding to the greetings of the townspeople who lined their route in a condescending manner, heads held high, waving white handkerchiefs as if they were royal chiefs. Then the male slaves, who wore only loincloths. Through the telescope, I could see the dust-streaked sweat on their naked torsos. They walked in pairs, shackled, chained, and heavily loaded, taking one deliberate, painful step at a time, driven by the beat of thprieste drummers and the occasional flick of a whip. The female slaves followed, then the children, boys and girls, stolen from their parents or forfeited by them.
I closed my eyes. I went to the basin, washed my face and arms with cold water, and rubbed myself with a towel. Then I went back to the window and aimed the telescope, capturing each slave in turn in its round frame. Their necks were not bent, but it was only the need to support their head loads which kept them erect. I searched each face for some sign of dignity and courage, for some pride which had survived the suffering; but all I saw was sullen fear, despair, and an infinite weariness; or, worse, a blank, without expression, as if drained of all humanity. Face after face was the same.
Only once, in response to a whiplash on a naked back, did I see a man turn his head toward the oppressor with hatred in his eyes. I tried not to think. I shivered as if I had fever. I thought I might recognize a face, a face from Kumase or from home. I started to look at the female slaves. Their expressions were no different from the men’s.
The priest van Schalkwyk had painted for me a vivid picture of hell, the destination of all unreformed sinners when they died, he said. These slaves were clearly all in some sort of hell already; and yet they were still alive. The living dead, I thought.
I went to the tall mirror, wiped the tears from my eyes, and looked at my image. I kicked the sandals from my feet. I pulled the doek from my head and threw it to the floor. Staring at my own eyes, I removed my body cloth, folded it in two, and wrapped it around my waist. Then I examined the image of my body, the round limbs, the full breasts, the healthy skin.
I went back to the window. The procession had reached the parade ground, but instead of swinging left to enter the castle, it bore right and headed toward the market square in the town. As they turned, I caught a last glimpse of each face.
I knew now what I had been searching for: it was my own face, mine and Esi’s. We had come to Elmina in just such a procession as this and I had forgotten; I had buried the unpleasant memories. And yet I was a stranger to nothing I saw down there. What have they done that their lives should have been taken from them like this? I wondered. What crime, what violation of an obscure taboo, what confrontation with some person of power, could merit such humiliation? I knew then that the gods of all slave traders are without mercy, without compassion.
Then I wondered, why am I here, up here, and they down there? Mijn Heer was guilty, I thought, and Augusta, too. Konadu Yaadom was guilty and Koranten Péte and all their people. Abdulai was guilty. And I was guilty, too, because I had been living a life of quiet comfort, preoccupied with my English lessons and my reading, while my sisters and brothers languished in the dungeons beneath my feet. Perhaps I was most guilty of all. Then the thought came to me: but what can I do? I had been reading the Book of Exodus. I thought of the child in the bulrushes. If I should become pregnant and bear Mijn Heer’s son, I thought, I would call him Moses and, when he came to manhood, I would charge him with confronting the power of the slave traders.
I got down from the window sill, sank onto my haunches and, holding my head in my hands, dropped my forehead onto the wooden floor. Closing my eyes, I summoned Itsho.
“Itsho. Come to me. Tell me what I should do, what I can do, to stop this evil. Itsho, come.”
I remained there without moving for several minutes. When I rose, I was more at peace, though the issue of what to do remained unresolved. I took the telescope again and went to the window. The procession had wound its way into the market square. Elephant teeth were being lifted from the heads of the fettered slaves, who then sank to the ground where they stood, rubbing their limbs. Young women of the town circulated amongst them, giving them water from their calabashes. The King emerged from his palace to survey the scene, surrounded by his elders and Augusta and the other noble ladies of the state.
I read nothing that day. I paced up and down the room. Real life had rudely burst in on the fantasy world in which I had been living. That night, I turned away from Mijn Heer’s advances.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“It is nothing,” I replied, turning over on my side, hugging myself and pressing my face into the soft pillow.
CHAPTER SIX
Ama’s story
While I lived with Mijn Heer, he had several visitors whom I need to mention.
The first was an Irishman called Richard Brew. He ran a private slave-trading business at Anomabu, alongside the castle where the English company conducted its trade. Mijn Heer disliked the man but felt that he could not refuse hospitality to a fellow white. When Brew learned that I had lived in the Asantehene’s palace, he immediately started to make plans to buy me from Mijn Heer and send me to Kumase with a young man who would use me as his interpreter to persuade the Asantehene to grant Brew a monopoly in the Asante slave trade. You will recognize that young man’s name: Gavin Williams.
I wish my sight could be restored for just one moment, to witness your surprise. But yes, it is true. I first heard your Senhor Gavin’s name many years ago in Africa. Nothing came of Brew’s scheme.
The second visitor was David Williams, the captain of an English ship, The Love of Liberty. He was the uncle of Gavin Williams and had apprenticed his nephew to Brew. He was an old friend of Mijn Heer and he brought him the latest English novels. At the time of his visit, there had been war in the interior and, as a result, the dungeons of Elmina Castle were full. Mijn Heer did his best to persuade Williams to fill his ship with what they called Mina slaves. Williams was tempted by the low price, but he was scared that buying all his slaves from one place would increase the chance of rebellion. The two of them discussed these matters openly in my presence, as if I didn’t exist or was too stupid to understand.
I think it was during Williams’s visit that I first met Esi’s pig-god face to face. He turned out to be Mijn Heer’s right-hand man. His name was Jensen. He and the priest Hendrik van Schalkwyk hated each other. Jensen mocked the priest and refused to attend his chur
ch services; van Schalkwyk reported Jensen’s activities with the female slaves to his masters in Holland. Their rules said that the employees of the Dutch company should not take advantage of the female slaves. Strictly speaking, Mijn Heer was also guilty, but van Schalkwyk was his friend and never reported him. When Jensen was in danger of dismissal, Mijn Heer offered him a way out—get married. Jensen selected a light-skinned (and light-headed) girl called Rose, who hailed from Cape Coast, just a few hours’ walk from Elmina.
It was at their wedding that I met the last character I want to introduce to you.
Saying that reminds me that I have attended just three weddings in my life. That was the first, Miranda’s was the second, and mine, to your father Tomba, a much more modest affair, was the last. When I have finished telling you this part of my story, I want to hear about your own wedding and about your wife and my granddaughter, Nandzi Ama. And you must promise to bring them with you on your next visit.
But I digress. The man I spoke of was one of three Cape Coast boys the English had sent to London to be trained as missionaries. One had taken ill and died and the second had gone mad; but the third, who left Africa as Kweku, returned as the Reverend Philip Quaque (still pronounced Kweku), chaplain of the European slave traders at the castle and missionary to the natives. His white English wife had brought with her to Cape Coast a library of children’s books, intending to start a school but, like Mijn Heer’s wife Elizabeth, she died not long after her arrival. It was her books, so I learned later, that van Schalkwyk had bought from the Reverend Philip Quaque to use in teaching me English. Van Schalkwyk invited Quaque to the wedding of Jensen and Rose. In the church, Mijn Heer introduced me to him and left me in his company. We had a brief, awkward conversation in English.
Soon after the wedding, Mijn Heer decided to inspect the most westerly Dutch outpost at a place called Axim, traveling in a small ship. This was the first time I was to be left on my own. I was apprehensive and tried to persuade him not to go, or at least to postpone his trip. He comforted me with a promise that when he returned he would get van Schalkwyk to marry us. I counted the days.
At long last, the small ship returned. I rushed down to the quay but there was no sign of Mijn Heer on deck. I found him lying on his bunk, bathed in sweat, his bedclothes soaked. When he opened his eyes, I saw that they were yellow. The crew manhandled him through the door and laid him on a rough litter. At my wits’ end, I sent for Augusta. Together we nursed him, day and night, but his condition grew steadily worse. The disease which struck him down is called the yellow jack.
Knowing he had not long to live, he sent for van Schalkwyk and, in my presence, dictated his last will and testament. In it he granted me my freedom. He left me also all late Elizabeth’s clothing, all his English books, all his furniture and china and silverware, his gold ring, and five ounces of gold dust. He had just enough strength to sign the document. That night, five days after his return from Axim, he died.
As we walked back from the Dutch cemetery, Augusta asked me, “Sister Ama, what will you do now?” I was too tired to think. During that last week, I had hardly slept.
When I reached the top floor, I was surprised to see that the door of Mijn Heer’s room was open. Jensen and Rose were there.
“What do you want?” Jensen snapped at me.
“Please, sir,” I told him, “I am very tired. I had little sleep while I was nursing Mijn Heer. I thought ...”
He interrupted me. “Never mind what you thought. I am the ‘Mijn Heer’ now. You will sleep tonight where you came from and where you belong.”
At that moment, van Schalkwyk knocked and entered.
“Ah, Jensen,” he said, “I have been searching all over for you. They told me I would find you here.”
“Mijn Heer Jensen, if you please,” the pig-god told him. “I act as Director-General until the Company Directors rule otherwise. What do you want?”
Van Schalkwyk replied meekly. “Mijn Heer Jensen,” he said, “Mijn Heer made a will before he died. I have it here.”
He drew the document from his waistcoat.
“He appointed me his sole executor. I wondered if we might fix a time for it to be read to the officers.”
“Let me see that,” Jensen demanded. He took the sheet of paper to Mijn Heer’s desk, where there was a candle.
“This is a forgery,” he said.
As he spoke, he waved the paper around and, by accident or design, the flame of the candle set it alight. He held it by one corner and let it burn.
Then he told van Schalkwyk to prepare to leave on the first ship bound for Amsterdam. As van Schalkwyk beat a retreat, Jensen called a guard.
“Take this slave to the female dungeon,” he ordered, pointing at me.
“Wait,” I cried, “Mijn Heer gave me my freedom before he died.”
But Mijn Heer was lying in his grave, and all that remained of his will was a trace of ashes. Jensen laughed at me, a cruel laugh. I exploded. I screamed at him, using words that I had never used before nor since. I saw the anger rise on his face. He ordered the guard out and told Rose to lock the door. Then he grabbed me. I called to Rose for help but she just stood and looked. I cannot tell you what he did to me. The last thing I remember is him telling Rose to unlock the door.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ama’s story
Soon after I was lifted onto the English slave ship The Love of Liberty, I saw Tomba for the first time. I didn’t know his name then and, of course, I had no idea that he would one day be my husband and your father. He was trussed to the foremast, his arms stretched out and tied to a horizontal spar. Like van Schalkwyk’s pictures of Jesus Christ, I thought. Even the loincloth. The sun fell on the man and his body shone with sweat. There were red welts on his black skin. Nearby was an open-topped barrel with a metal ladle hanging from the edge. I rose and walked the few steps to the barrel, a little uncertain on my feet as the ship rolled in the swell. I dipped the ladle into the water and sipped the contents to test it. I drank the rest and filled the ladle again. Then, holding it carefully to stop the water spilling, I raised it to the man’s lips. He drank greedily and thanked me silently.
The sweat was running into his eyes. I loosened my cloth and used the end to mop his face, his neck, his arms, and, gently, his whip-marked torso. Then I wound the cloth around my body again.
“More water?” I asked him in Asante.
One of the whites, whom I came to know afterwards as Fred Knaggs, came from behind me and snatched the ladle from my hand and put it back on the barrel, at the same time abusing me in his language.
I stared at him without expression and returned to my seat. The other women murmured to one another.
Knaggs looked at us, and then, with a flick of his whip, drew blood from the man’s chest. The man flinched. Knaggs addressed us, but I must have been the only black person who had any inkling of what he was saying. They had sent an armed expedition ashore, far up the coast, and had captured Tomba and thirty of his followers. Knaggs mocked him, calling him General Tomba.
You will have recognized the name of the ship, The Love of Liberty. I had been sold to Captain David Williams, Mijn Heer’s good friend.
Now I am going to tell you the whole story of what happened on that ship, but, because we are short of paper, I shall tell you to write down only the parts which concern your father. The rest you will just have to remember.
Captain Williams and his crew regarded Tomba as so dangerous that they kept him in chains in the boys’ hold, separated from the other men. The next time I saw him, they had brought him out on deck, as they did once a day, for air and forced exercise. Suddenly, almost as one person, the women around me rose to their feet.
“Tomba, Tomba,” they cried.
Tomba, who had been led out shuffling the irons which held his ankles, turned and raised his manacled hands, acknowledging their greetings. H
e spoke a few words in their language and at once, the guard flicked his whip at him. The women saw the lacerations from the beating he had received and there were cries of angry sympathy. Then the guard forced him to the forecastle, where he and the boys took their food.
This happened every day, so I knew him and his name, but he didn’t know me then.
While we were still anchored off Elmina, I managed to send a message to Augusta with a local canoe man, begging her to buy me, but nothing came of it.
Then we sailed the short distance to Cape Coast, where there was a great English slave-trading castle. Again I tried to send a message, this time to the Reverend Philip Quaque. I hoped he would recall our conversation at the wedding and thought he might buy me and employ me to teach the children in his school, but again nothing came of it.
I would not have thought to ask Richard Brew to buy me but, as things turned out, he breathed his last on the very day our ship anchored off Anomabu.
Late that afternoon, while Williams was ashore, drinking at Brew’s wake with other slave ship captains, a monstrous cloud, a black tower riven by jagged blades of lightning, descended upon us from the east. The crew drove us into the darkness of the female hold and abandoned us to our fate. The storm seemed to pluck the ship from the surface of the ocean and then plunge it down into the depths, again and again. Inside the hold, we, too, were repeatedly thrown into the air and then dashed down upon the boards, this way and that, until at last, having done its worst, the squall passed on, leaving us to a fitful, painful sleep, a sleep from which eight of us never woke. Perhaps, it struck me later, Brew’s spirit, like Osei Kwadwo’s, needed an escort to the next world.
When Captain Williams returned to the ship the next morning, he brought his nephew, whom you know, with him.
Brave Music of a Distant Drum Page 5
