by Arthur Japin
31 December 1847
Far too much time has elapsed since I requested permission to return home. I take many walks, and when I am not walking I read. The commander still has some books he can lend me, and fortunately I came here armed with a fair number of philosophical volumes of my own.
Everyone is celebrating the new year. The troops are permitted to carouse in the courtyard for once. The military band is playing, and a few native women are prancing around, almost naked. I cannot understand their lack of shame. This evening at dinner—no doubt I was staring at your likeness on the wall—the governor suggested I put on a happier face in the new year. One of the officers joked that I was offended by the coarseness of the tableware, as everyone in Kumasi was used to eating from golden plates. That was the least of my concerns. I had clean forgotten what I had told them about my childhood home, but I laughed with the rest and said he had me there.
If only I could be sure that we will meet again one day, then perhaps I would feel in more festive a mood. As it is, I am neither happy nor sad. This evening I am finding it impossible to rejoice at my return to these sorely missed shores. For the second time in my life I have abandoned everything I know.
It is past midnight now, so it is 1 January 1848, and I wish you every happiness and success in the new year.
22 January 1848
Herewith I am sending you my new-year greetings, along with all the letters I have written to you in the past three months. A Dutch brig sailed into the roads this afternoon. She is bound for Flushing. In conclusion I pledge to send further notice as soon as it is in my power to do so. Dear friend, the only preoccupation I have about my return to Kumasi is that it will be virtually impossible to exchange news. What if you fall ill? What if you have something urgent to tell me? I cannot remember a time when we were not in close touch. As it is I have no idea when the next ship will call, so I take this opportunity to assure you of my deepest affection. Also—and this is all the more important, perhaps, now that we are men—to convey my respect for the choices you have made. I think you will understand what I mean. With love, your Kwame.
P.S. It is 23 January and all my hopes have been dashed. A messenger has come from Kumasi with astounding news. Your father refuses to receive me. He has sent me two ounces of gold, that is all. My letter did not find favour. He is said to be deeply shocked that I have forgotten the Twi language. He does not wish to meet me until I have learnt to speak my native tongue. Yet there is no one here who can teach me. The proper place for me to learn the words is in the midst of our people in Kumasi, but I cannot go there. Banishment, that is what it amounts to!
Your father’s envoy was attended by two servants, one of whom lacked both lips and ears: they had been cut off for some misdemeanour. It was horrible. For a moment I could not imagine becoming inured once more to the kind of cruelty we witnessed when we were young.
Forgive me my turmoil. My mind is confused, and I must make haste to seal this parcel of letters to you. I will have to run to the quay to be in time for the last dinghy to cross to the Maria.
Where are you, oh where?
30 March 1848
The news from Europe is alarming. They say that revolution has broken out in Paris, and that Louis Philippe has been deposed. Van der Eb is sparing with information so as not to cause unrest among the men, but achieves the opposite. There is a wave of dissent in Europe. It is most distressing. Will you be safe in Weimar? Has the world gone mad? Nothing is as I thought it would be.
6 April 1848
What a life you lead nowadays. Your letter of 16 February reached me today in good condition, and your descriptions of balls, receptions and concerts reassure me. The conversations! How stimulating they must be. You will become blasé before you know it. The casual tone in which you mention having heard Franz Liszt conducting Flotau’s Martha . . . Do you realize that I envy you, if only for the delight of hearing real music. I have a few scores in my possession, which I read when my soul is melancholy. The notes fall into place in my head and I can, with some effort, enjoy a melody and even several instruments at the same time. But instead of abandoning myself to the music, I have to squeeze each note from my imagination. And there you are, enjoying concerts of the very best music on earth twice or three times a month, now that the Hungarian genius has become musical director at court. May you enjoy them on my behalf. When I thirst after beauty, I must drink from a reservoir that is both stagnant and shallow.
8 April 1848
A messenger is about to leave for Holland. I am enclosing a list of books I beg you to send me, for, as you know, reading is one of the few European skills that I consider life-enhancing.
There is little to report at this stage. Try not to worry about me. And continue to write—your letters do me a world of good.
17 April 1848
Thank you for your reply to my letters of late January. Your sympathy is a comfort. What can I tell you about my situation at present?
The news from Kumasi made me ill. I spent February in bed with a high temperature. The army doctor treated me with herbs and compresses against marsh fever. I told him I had respired what he termed mal aria for the first ten years of my life without adverse effects, but he insisted that I, like any Dutchman, had been felled by the climate. I lost my temper and told him he was mad, which outburst he took to be ultimate proof of my intolerance of the African air.
Throughout the period that I kept to my bed, Governor van der Eb visited me every evening. He would open the window, against the doctor’s explicit orders, and we would sit together listening to the sea. When he thought I was sufficiently recovered he steered the conversation to Kumasi. Hesitantly at first, he spoke of his visit to the capital, casually mentioning someone he had met, a banquet he had attended, just to gauge my sentiment. I listened attentively and wanted to respond to what he was saying, but the words would not come and he did not press for a reaction. Now and then he hummed a tune that had caught his fancy, or drummed his fingers rhythmically on the narrow arm of his chair. One evening I found I could identify the beat. Startled by my sudden intake of breath, he stopped in midair. I grasped his elbow and motioned him to continue. Then he resumed his tattoo, and I joined in. He asked me again why I had written my letter to the Asantehene in Dutch. I replied that I wished to address your father in my own words. Van der Eb said nothing. It was only then, in that long silence, that I realized that I should have waited until I had found a messenger who spoke Twi, and who could therefore translate my missive for me. I was too impetuous, and behaved recklessly.
With the recovery of my health I am gradually regaining hope. I can understand the Asantehene’s hesitation now, and have asked van der Eb if there is anyone to be found in Elmina who is fluent in Twi. I must learn the language. He thought there was no such person, but sent out a summons into the surrounding region all the same. Word eventually came from Fort Cape Coast that a suitable interpreter had been found, but that he was away at present on a mission in the interior. There are plenty of people who know a few Twi words or phrases, but never enough to teach me the language. However, I am feeling much better now, and have acquired a notebook from the garrison store in which to write every word of Twi that I hear or remember.
Meanwhile van der Eb is doing everything he can to temper my renewed ardour. Now that he can see that my resolve to return is undiminished, he has come up with an alternative interpretation of the Asantehene’s message. The king’s refusal to allow me to return, he suggests, was inspired by political motives rather than by any linguistic deficiency. He says the priests are vehemently opposed to fresh foreign influences, and regard me as an unacceptable successor to the throne. Besides, Kwaku Dua is reported to feel threatened by my presence in the region and to fear the superiority of my knowledge. How ironic. For it is he who possesses all the knowledge that I desire, and I would gladly exchange all of mine for his. That is what I shall have to write him. But in what words?
18 April 1848
&nbs
p; Van der Eb can say whatever he pleases, but I will not take umbrage. He has won me over for good with the care he lavished on me when I was ill. No doubt he believes he is acting in my best interests. He tells me to face up to reality, to accept that I shall have to stay here in the fort for an indefinite length of time. He suggested that I might make myself useful in the capacity in which I came here: as a soldier. So for the past few weeks I have risen with the troops, exercised with them, and shared guard duties. Once a week I spend an hour telling them about the country, the temperatures, soil conditions and customs, after which we go swimming and carouse in the settlement until sundown. All in good spirits. I do not go into too much detail, and now and then I just invent stories. Firstly because I have already told them most of what I remember, and secondly because it would not be prudent to be too candid. What if a conflict should arise at some time in the future, and I, as the new king of Ashanti, were to find myself at loggerheads with the Dutch? I must say that I enjoy the company of the men. There is a certain appeal to their simple, rough manners. It is only in physical strength that one man can distinguish himself from the rest, or in his ability to impress with tales of ribaldry. I confess that I join in with them from time to time, albeit hesitantly. I borrow their coarse vernacular and paint the kind of picture they expect from me. It is a game. The men listen with enthusiasm and find my fellowship congenial.
My military rank is, of course, too low for someone of my station. Van der Eb has renewed his promise to promote me to the rank of officer as soon as he receives permission from the Ministry. He has just sent a third letter to The Hague concerning my case. In the meantime he gives me a variety of tasks to perform in a transparent attempt to distract me from the thoughts preoccupying my mind. For example, he gave me the keys of the filing cabinets containing the ancient documents pertaining to Elmina, and suggested I spend the coming weeks writing a history of the fort. Did you know that the great admiral Michiel de Ruyter visited this place, and that Christopher Columbus called at Elmina on his voyage to the Americas? But why should that concern me? I am looking to the future, not the past. The only diversion I desire lies ahead of me.
Did you seriously mean that Sophie supports the liberals? I am not surprised at her sympathy for the lot of the lower classes. After all, she is sympathetic towards everyone, but that she should have managed to persuade her father-in-law to accede to their demands is most remarkable . . . Thank God things have turned out well, and that you are no longer in danger yourself. But until the student unrest at Jena has subsided, I think you would do well to be on your guard.
So people in Holland are clamouring for constitutional reform. How does this affect our poor king? Tell me all you know. Dammit, there are times when I hate being so cut off from the rest of the world.
If only I had thought properly about my letter to your father. If only I knew more than a few words of Twi. Today I was seized by the painful truth of the old adage, with which my mother used to caution me: “Words spill out like vomit—you can’t take them back.”
20 April 1848
I made a new friend today. He is the northerner I had been told about. Joa has been a slave in the Ashanti mines. Now he is a weaver, and supplies the Fanti with material for their famous banners. He is also experimenting with printing textile using a new wax-print method, which originated in Java. This type of oriental cloth, known as batik , has recently made its appearance here thanks to the gifts sent home by the Ashanti recruits serving in the Dutch East Indian army. The same men, in fact, who were handed over by your father to Verveer—for which contract you and I served as collateral. The cloths are highly prized by the local population. Joa wants to set up a trade in them.
He learned some Portuguese from the Angolan slaves in the mines. That language is not unlike Latin, so we can understand each other. Unfortunately his knowledge of Twi does not extend further than a string of admonitions. I am able to say “That basket is too light,” and, “Be quiet or you shall go hungry,” but I hardly think that will get me very far in Kumasi.
Joa has met a Fanti woman here, who cooks for him. His appearance is somewhat forlorn, but his face lights up as soon as she comes near. He is as besotted as a boy. It does me good to witness a little happiness. I intend to visit him regularly. This afternoon alone my memory was sparked several times. Simple Ashanti customs came to mind, such as shaving the armpits, which all our adult men and women do every day. I knew this, and yet I did not know. Little things like that. And Joa uses a brush to clean his teeth after each meal, in the manner of the Ashanti. Why did we stop doing that in Holland? Probably so as not to draw attention to ourselves. I have now removed my body hair and made a brush out of a twig with which I clean my teeth until the gums bleed.
24 April 1848
Two days ago I made a bargain. I took the turning-lathe presented to me by the Dutch government out of storage and gave it to Joa. He said the contraption might be useful for making shuttles and spindles. In exchange he gave me a small hand-loom. I have placed it in my room, on the left wall by the window. I have already learnt how to set it up, but make mistakes with warp and weft. This exercise offers me some satisfaction.
27 April 1848
When I close my eyes I can still see the shuttle flying back and forth. I have made considerable progress in the past few days, and have now acquired a certain ability in weaving. My only objection to the technique is that it is so rectilinear. Weaving a patterned cloth is not like freehand drawing: the configuration of a woven cloth must be fixed beforehand. I have little affinity with such a calculated approach. I do not wish to be hampered by the knowledge that my composition is following a prescribed pattern, that it can be analyzed and reproduced down to the last detail, that there is to be no surprise outcome.
Yet weaving is one of the great arts of our people, and therefore deserves my respect and dedication. I wish to comprehend and master the technique. So I have resolved to weave my own kente cloth, and have already designed an ingenious pattern for the clothing I shall wear for my homecoming. I have ordered the yarn from Joa, and it will be ready for me in a few days. I am having it dyed in the colours I remember most vividly. Orange for one. Yellow. And brown.
30 April 1848
Two missives have arrived, in quick succession, both reporting on the turmoil in Europe. The first tells of a plot by Dutch workers against the monarchy. The populace of Amsterdam appears to be calling for a republic, and for the death of Willem II. There have been riots and plundering. Van der Eb has been instructed to deal harshly with any unrest among the troops. The second letter, however, brings news of a reformed constitution, involving the relinquishing of extensive powers by the royal family. There was also a personal letter from the minister of Colonies to van der Eb, which moved him to make the somewhat cynical observation that the king had switched from conservative to liberal within twenty-four hours. Has Sophie managed to win her father over to her ideas, too? Or does he have so little confidence in Crown Prince Willem Alexander that he wishes to save his people from future tyranny? I understand that the king postponed informing his son of the new constitution until the very last—after the event, in fact—and that this greatly offended the crown prince.
What a fuss. It is all so far away. It is hardly my concern. My thoughts here are of other matters.
There has been no change. I have been helping the men with the repairs to the east side of the fort. Since it is no longer used for the slave trade it has been badly neglected. If the outer walls were not whitewashed twice yearly, you would be able to see how seriously they are crumbling.
Interest in Dutch trade is minimal. During the past six months only two transactions have been concluded in Elmina. The forest path to Kumasi is choked with undergrowth, which has slowed down communication to an arduous foot pace.
As soon as we have finished the mortar work, we will start work on the drawbridge. See, the future king of Ashanti is a carpenter! Shades of Peter the Great after all—which would
please the Wesleyan Society. I do not mind the hard physical labour, quite the contrary: it makes a welcome change. But the delay in my promotion riles me. That is small-minded of me I know, but none the less irritating for that. I realize I am beginning to set great store by futilities. That is how small my world has become.
Van der Eb tells me that there has been a march on the royal palace in The Hague by disaffected workers, but that King Willem averted a clash by appearing on the balcony and behaving as if the crowd had come to cheer him. The same happened the next day. Poor man. They say he insists that the populace were not calling for his abdication but showing him their respect. His hard-headedness, his proud bluff, was surely inspired by the Russian princess, don’t you think? But will the royal family be able to ward off misfortune?
1 May 1848
I beg you to do as follows: when you and Professor Cotta and your fellow students emerge from the mine shaft of the Reiche Seege, and your eyes have accustomed themselves to the bright light, look up at the sky. I see the same sun.
5 May 1848
Again the news from Holland is distressing. I am deeply shocked by the death of Prince Alexander at Madeira. How sad. And only twenty-nine years old. It is true that he was always delicate, but what gross injustice. That young man had a heart of gold. Another cruel blow to the House of Orange. Sophie must be devastated at the loss of her brother. I shall write to her at once. I presume all of you travelled to Delft for the funeral?
1 June 1848
When I accompanied Joa, whose skin is considerably paler than mine, to the local market to purchase a guava and three chicken legs for his beloved, we crossed a Dutch patrol. “Look, there go Light and Dark,” the commander called out, to make his men laugh. “Light, dark, light, dark!” they repeated in unison as they marched, as if responding to a prearranged signal. There was no malice in their voices. Van der Eb heard of the incident at supper, and concluded that it was merely a joke on the names of two officials in The Hague whom the king has charged with forming an independent government. He may be right, but I have my doubts. Not that I care. When I told Joa what they were saying, he shrugged his shoulders. “All men are the same colour down the mines,” he said, “but I prefer daylight all the same!”
