by Arthur Japin
I gave up on the chessboard and grains and ran away to find Kwame by the magic lantern. My mind was reeling with my discovery, but I kept it to myself. I snuggled up to my friend and watched the story in pictures of one Struwelpeter, who was only a child but whose fingers and nose were snipped off as punishment for no other crime than failing to keep spotlessly clean.
One morning in that last week van Drunen instructed a few soldiers to entertain us with hand puppets. Half hidden behind a cloth, arms aloft, they played a wooden husband and wife who kept beating each other about the head with sticks. Kwame and I were rolling over the ground laughing, when I suddenly noticed my father’s presence. His arrival had not been announced, and he was without his retinue. The look in his eyes was vacant. He stood there for some time, watching us. Finally he gave a nod of assent and left, as if the sight of Kwame and me enjoying ourselves had reassured him.
On the evening before the Hollanders’ departure, Kwame and I were summoned by my father. The Asantehene received us in the throne room, but the council of dignitaries was absent. There were some tribal headmen in attendance, including Badu Bonsu, the king of Ahanta, but after a few kind words they withdrew. My father addressed us through his speaker, as was his custom. They had discussed the matter beforehand. The speaker adopted a formal tone, almost a drone.
“Kwasi, Nana has taken an important decision, a most fortunate one for you,” the speaker intoned, eyeing me. Nana means papa. It was the customary term of address for the sovereign, but coming from the lips of the speaker it always made me feel slightly cheated.
“. . . important for your future. Nana has decided on a great mission. He has heard numerous encouraging accounts of the riches of Europe, of the knowledge of the white men. You shall go to gather them on our behalf.”
“Just as they have come to us, so we shall go to them.” It was my father himself who was speaking now. He did not look at me, but kept his eyes fixed ahead as if he were addressing a crowd.
His speaker added: “Nana has organized it thus. The Hollanders will feed you and teach you all they know. Nana will miss you, but finds comfort in knowing that you understand what this means to our people.”
I understood nothing. I glanced at Kwame, and when he did not react, at my father.
“Tell him about the son of Adusei Kra,” he told the speaker.
“Nana, in his great wisdom, has understood that you, Kwame Poku, are still in need of solace after the loss of your father. So he does not wish to separate you from your friend.”
My father lost his patience. “That is not the only reason,” he broke in. “Kwame is the son of my sister.”
“Nana lets it be known that you are his special concern, since you are the son of his beloved sister. If the gods are willing, you will one day succeed Nana. So in your case a knowledge of Europe may be of even greater consequence.”
“But Nana,” I asked, “where are we to go?”
“Overseas,” the speaker replied.
“Far away?”
“Yes, far,” concluded my father. He dismissed the speaker, telling him to take Kwame with him. Once my father and I were alone his attitude changed. He rose, held me tight and kissed me, but I did not have the strength to hug him in return. I was like the dead at the hour of their own funeral, astounded by the truth, but no longer capable of taking any action.
“Kwasi, Kwasi . . .” he murmured again and again, rocking me in his arms, “. . . we will love you when you return. As we do now. More even. You will be an important man. More important than I. Kwasi . . .” At this point he was called away to attend to the Dutch envoys.
From van Drunen’s report:
When the palace gates were opened, the men who had escorted us into the inner courtyard fled: they are forbidden to see the king’s women, on pain of death. The Asantehene, thronged by hundreds of his women, came to us, not walking, but dancing! He shook hands with each of us, whereupon we occupied the seats that were assigned to us. Before us sat a score of eunuchs. H.H. took a seat among his most prized wives. Most of them wore white paint on their torsos and faces, and had shaven heads. But others had let their hair grow in certain places to form a pattern of crescent moons, snakes, rosettes, and so on. They took turns to perform a dance, and sang fitting songs. When H.H. himself began to dance once more, all his women showed their approval: they ran towards him, whirled around him and tried to mop the perspiration on his head with their cloths. Subsequently they sang some songs of their own composition. The king’s sister arrived a little later; she was dressed in an embroidered yellow silken shift and lace veil. She was accompanied by fifty female slaves, all of whom filed past us, dancing and striking all manner of contorted poses. The proceedings as a whole were impressive in their exotic splendour, and the grandeur of the occasion was the more marked for never having been witnessed previously by either Europeans or natives.
After the meal the king went to the palisade of his palace, where he was completely taken by surprise in the gloom of the night by the spectacle which we had mounted for him with considerable e fort and expenditure. Suddenly, the white frontage of our temple, topped by the Dutch flag, was flooded with light as if by magic. The illumination was achieved employing the most modern techniques. Within the Greek façade stood a statue, which was lit up from behind by means of mirrors. The columns were lit from below with focused light beams. With the aid of lenses from the magic lantern, moving images of rippling water, a burst of flames and passing clouds were projected. Beyond the façade stood urns with Bengal fire. Above them hung a blazing sun with rotating rays. On either side of the temple preparations had been made for an elaborate display of fireworks by way of a grand finale.
No less than three times did the king let it be known that he had enjoyed the spectacle. Each time he asked whether the edifice was now really his. The governor-general assured him that this was so, but unfortunately, a few minutes after the show had ended, a fearful storm arose, which blew the temple to pieces and scattered the wooden wreckage all over Kumasi.
The evening was concluded with the presentation, by the treasurer, of the gifts the Asantehene wished the Dutch embassy to convey to King Willem I: a golden pipe-bowl, a golden rudder, another silken shift, with the request that His Majesty wear it as a sash, six tiger skins, two live panthers, two macaws and a hawk.
The Asantehene then contributed two private gifts by way of assurance to the Hollanders of his devotion and of his intention to live up to the negotiated agreement: the gifts were his son Kwasi and his nephew Kwame. He declared that the young princes were to depart with us to Holland. He was sending his nephew, the heir to the throne, to accompany his son, in order that the two might find solace in each other during their stay in that distant land. He requested us to take the best care of both boys, with which entreaty we readily promised to comply.
When he sent for the boys to be presented to us they were not to be found, which angered H.H. so greatly that he uttered some apologies and terminated the festivities there and then.
Kwame and I had run off into the forest, to get as far away as possible from all the fuss and commotion. We whiled away the evening without finding the words to express our bewilderment at the unthinkable morrow that awaited us. We ran about, making a lot of noise with our laughter. We shouted louder and louder, until we found ourselves in the clearing with the newly erected temple. The place was deserted. We sank down among the wooden struts and fell asleep side by side.
We were woken up by a blast that seemed to signal the end of the world. The fireworks the Hollanders had placed all around seemed to have made an inferno of the temple along with the surrounding vegetation. The earth trembled. We were at the very centre of an explosion such as we had never seen before. There was nowhere to turn. We felt certain that we were about to die, and huddled close together under a sky ablaze with hellish red and lurid yellow. After a while some Dutch soldiers approached the temple to extinguish the smouldering fires with water. We had a few mom
ents in which to compose ourselves, but another shock was upon us: hardly had we crawled out from behind the columns than the noise of the jungle, which had made itself heard again once the pandemonium had ceased, suddenly fell silent. The soldiers noticed this, too, but did not know what it signified. We did. We ran away as fast as we could. A moment later the air was filled with the roar of a tornado tearing through the forest. Branches snapped and were blown away. Trees were uprooted. The temple was blown apart by the storm, and with the flying debris at our heels we fled into the palace.
That night Kwame and I slept apart. Each of us spent the night in the arms of our inconsolable mothers. Clearer than my memory of my mother’s face is my memory of the cloth she was wearing, of my head buried in the patterned fabric covering her heaving bosom. I do not recall any words of farewell either, only the rhythm of a song, sung in a halting voice. This is how I picture the two of us: she is sitting cross-legged on the floor, I am resting drowsily in her arms, and all the while she singsongs the adinkra symbol of Anansi, the five-rayed sun:
Children of the spider Anansi are we
And the wide world is our web:
Love, lust or fate
Bring us to the furthest reaches.
Whichever way we turn in that world-web
There are threads to grasp
And threads to let go.
On the day of our departure we sat tall in the saddles of our Arabian stallions, apparently unmoved. While the Dutch officers received yet more gold and slaves, Kwame and I were ready, our faces inscrutable.
Close to van Drunen and the musicians, who struck up their “March for the King of Ashanti” as a last salute, we headed the long procession. As we filed past the palace my father stood outside in the gallery. He waved his hand.
We came across scattered debris from the temple. Where the path disappeared into the forest, we passed two pillars and fragments of the collapsed frieze. The relief had been painted in grisaille, portraying a scene of strong white warriors with curved breast-plates and banners clustered around a triumphant woman on a throne guarded by a lion rampant. She wore a helmet, and although she held a spear in one hand and a shield in the other, two infants suckled at her large white breasts.
4
We had left everything: parents, kinsmen, toys, beds and clothing, servants, beliefs and native soil, our past and our future. For two boys who had been severed from their roots so abruptly, Kwame and I were remarkably composed on our journey to the Dutch fort of Elmina. The past was still too close and the future unconscionable. I do not believe either of us shed a tear. We made up for that later.
Despite all the romantic notions about travelling, the truth is that it dulls the senses. The traveller is always one step ahead of his feelings. New impressions eclipse concern for what is left behind. While amassing experiences of the world outside, his inner being goes to waste. Such is his state of mind until the next destination.
On 1 April 1837, around noon, Kwame and I set eyes on the sea. We dismounted quickly and raced across the palm-studded beach. Then we stopped in our tracks, awed by the pounding surf. Never had we seen the waters of the lake of Twi as enraged as this. But when the soldiers and porters, tired of the long hot journey, tore off their clothes and plunged into the waves we overcame our fear and followed their example, albeit gingerly. We took a gulp of water to quench our thirst, but had to spit out the brine at once, much to the amusement of the Dutch soldiers. They cleaved the water like fish. Great white bodies circled around us. Now they were naked we saw their skin was covered in hairs, either fair or dark. We had only seen this on animals.
The Dutch red, white and blue could be seen flying from the fort that loomed in the hazy distance: Fort Elmina. A salty fog hung low in the sky, with swirls of black smoke. The latter disquieted Verveer. He wished to proceed at once to the fort, without observing the official ceremonies of arrival. There was not even time for the band to play the patriotic tune they had struck up at each village we encountered on our way to the coast. The drums were silent as, at a brisk pace, we made for the Fanti settlement at Elmina.
There was a smell of burning. Two whole neighbourhoods had burnt to the ground only recently. People fled when they saw us coming; even an old woman lying on the ground, badly burnt, was abandoned by her relatives. The Dutch soldiers laid her on a stretcher, after which we hurried through deserted streets to the harbour. We rode over two drawbridges into the fort. Verveer withdrew at once, followed by his adjutants Tonneboeijer and van Drunen, in order to be briefed by the commander.
Meanwhile the palanquins were unloaded. The fresh recruits were herded into the slave cellars. There was some confusion as to where to house the panthers. Kwame and I were at a loss in the midst of the commotion. Although the unfamiliar glare of the whitewashed walls made us uneasy, we hardly dared to move. So we just stood there waiting for someone to find us. The salty air deposited crystals on our cheeks. We ran our tongues over our upper lips and it tasted as if we had been crying.
Van Drunen reappeared at long last; he directed us to a small cubicle with one bed. It was situated in the officers’ quarters, high above the courtyard. That evening we were both assigned to sit at table with the major-general, who—it must be said—treated us properly as princes. He instructed his adjutant Tonneboeijer to satisfy all our wishes, while Peter Welzing, the mulatto interpreter, was charged with keeping us company so that we might learn about the situation in Elmina.
After supper van Drunen drew our attention to an elegant, sinuous pattern that had been worked into the railing of the balcony. It was the letter W, he explained, and it stood for the initial sound of the name of the king of Holland. He made us say the name again and again until we could pronounce it exactly as he did. After this he took a torch and guided us on our first tour down the dark passages of the fort.
The old castle dates from 1482. It was built by the Portuguese on a cliff sacred to the inhabitants of Elmina. To appease them, a small sanctuary for the heathen godhead was created in an alcove. Van Drunen showed us the altar and laid an offering there of coconut and yam. He did so without ceremony or untoward display, indeed as if he were accustomed to doing so.
When the Dutch seized the fortress from the Portuguese a hundred and fifty years later, they laboured diligently to turn Elmina into the most important slaving post on the west coast of Africa. They reinforced the walls and expanded the storage spaces. They constructed a landing-pier and invented more efficient means of regulating the traffic of goods to and from Elmina. The walls of the dark cellars were fitted with iron rings, to which the merchandise was tethered. Here the odds were stacked against the men and women whom my father and his father before him had procured against payment. Many of them died an early death from exhaustion, starvation or injuries; others took their own lives in the putrid, writhing mass.
Van Drunen pointed out a narrow slit in the wall, through which a man could only just wring his body. One by one the slaves wrenched themselves through the opening and stepped on to the landing-stage, where they were assessed and sorted, counted, branded and herded into the hold. In this way the whole of the Dutch colony of Guyana was supplied with slaves.
The gallery over the women’s depot offered escape to a select few. The officers would gather there, accompanied on feast days by men of lesser rank, who had been away from home for so long that they could no longer control their lust. From the gallery they looked down on the female slaves, who did not cower and hide, but rather drew attention to themselves. In their despair they even jostled for prominence. The Dutchmen would make their choice from among these women, whereupon a rope ladder was lowered from the gallery. There was a scuffle to climb the ropes, but those who succeeded were thrown back into the crowd. Only the women who had been singled out were taken up on to the gallery. Such a woman would be taken to bed by the soldier, and as soon as he was done she would be lowered back into that sea of misery.
Yet she was better off than the others. She had
a glimmer of hope while she waited anxiously for the signs of pregnancy, for if she was with child her departure would be delayed until after the birth. If she was lucky enough to give birth to a half-caste, she would be freed and granted the use of a hut in the village and a little land. There she would live, among the Fante, together with her bastard child who was both her shame and her redemption. The child was baptized with the name of its father. This is why there are Africans in Elmina who go by Dutch names such as Bartels, Vanderpuye, Hensen, Bosman or Vroom.
Van Drunen led us to our cubicle. We took our clothes off. They were our only possessions. He draped the robes carefully over the back of a chair. After he left we tried to sleep the way we used to sleep in Kumasi, but were kept awake for a long time by the pounding of the surf against the battlements and the memory of our elongated shadows against the subterranean vaults. We thought we heard echoes from the depths of that labyrinth, footfalls on the steps, which led from nowhere to nothing.
That same night, 1 April, Major-General Jan Verveer wrote the following letter to the minister of Colonies:
It is with the greatest satisfaction that I give Your Excellency the assurance that the reception accorded to me in Kumasi surpassed the most lofty expectations and notably that the entire attitude of the king of the Ashanti has been profoundly gratifying. The Dutch flag has become that of the Ashanti, and will fly from the king’s palace henceforth. It pleases the king to call himself the subject of our honoured Sovereign. And the unconditional manner in which he has committed his beloved son and his nephew to the care of Your Majesty’s Government with a view to their acquiring a Dutch education speaks volumes, in my humble opinion. Enclosed please find the contract signed by myself and by His Highness the Asantehene of Ashanti with a cross in lieu of a signature. However, to ensure a sound understanding of the situation and to eliminate all grounds for potential criticism I wish to reiterate, in the present missive, the distinction between the recruitment of these thousand men and the acquisition of slaves in the past.
