The Hundred Wells of Salaga

by Ayesha Harruna Attah

  “He’s right,” said another. “Although, there are still quite a few Europeans who ask for slaves.”

  “Most of my porters were captured by Babatu’s soldiers,” said a third man.

  The man beside Aminah curved his index finger, encircled with a knobbed silver ring, and spooned up a globule of porridge left in the calabash. She waited for his verdict, hoping it would free her.

  “What’s your name?” he said.

  “Aminah.”

  “Beautiful Queen Aminah,” he beamed. That did not reassure her.

  “Did you like the porridge?” she asked.

  He put his hand on her thigh and the pads of his fingers settled on her the way one’s feet steady themselves on new ground: on tiptoes at first, and then with all of one’s weight. His thumb and forefingers pinched the cloth covering the flesh on her thighs and then he found the opening of her wrapper and his thumb made contact with her skin. He traced circles and warmth grew in that area, threatening to climb up, but she willed the heat to stay under his fingers. She didn’t understand why her body was enjoying what he was doing, although it didn’t feel right. His fingers drew lines higher and higher up her thighs. His friends still talked, oblivious or pretending to be. She focused on her cover cloth puckering up and down every time he moved his hand. He drew his face closer to hers. His hot breath was inches away.

  “I’ll tell you about the porridge if we can go somewhere,” he whispered.

  His hand slithered up her thigh and his fingers were about to touch her triangle when she leapt up. She grabbed his bowl and hurried to gather those that had been left on the ground.

  “Hassana, Husseina,” she shouted, running to them. “Home!”

  She could barely steady her shaking hands as she made towards the twins.

  “Beautiful Aminah,” the man drawled and leaned back, staring at her.

  “Can we stay a little longer?” whined Hassana.

  Aminah ignored her. She wanted to be shrouded under something heavy. As she made her way out of the zongo, the grass beeped and bubbled and chirped and croaked and whistled and rustled and danced and bent. Overcome by fear of the world it concealed—leopards, jackals, crocodiles, horsemen, turbaned men—she made the twins run all the way home.

  She herded them into Na’s hut and left the pots and calabashes unwashed. Na would talk and talk the next day about the mess, about the leftover food attracting rats and the rats bringing snakes, but after the experience of that evening, Na’s words would be a soothing balm. As she made for the hut she shared with Eeyah, she heard the clang of metal hitting the ground. Baba. He always dropped things. She went to him.

  A small fire lit the room, held by the beautiful lamp with the fan-shaped crown and intertwined metal staff the blacksmith had gifted to Baba.

  “What do you think?” He lifted a tall brown boot embroidered with red thread. It wasn’t his best embroidery, but Aminah always felt warm inside when he asked for her opinion, and the boot was intriguing.

  “Beautiful.” She settled on the lone stool in the room. “Baba, I’m scared,” she said, after a beat of silence.

  “Why?”

  She couldn’t tell him about the turbaned man—she couldn’t tell anyone. Still, the conversation about Babatu and his raiding horsemen provided her with fodder.

  “The horsemen. What if they come while you’re away?”

  Baba was quiet. It was a measured, calm quiet. Not the oppressive, heavy breathing of someone who didn’t like silence. His quietness was his essence, and it had a way of cushioning the rough edges of the room. Baba had spread a gray sheet on the floor, where he piled his shoes. He reached for a knife, snipped a loose thread off the boot, and added it to the pile.

  “Nowhere is safe,” he said, after a while. “But we can’t live in fear. People keep talking of horsemen as if it’s a new thing. If it’s not the horsemen, it’ll be some disease, or a drought. There’ll always be an unknown thing coming for us. As for the horsemen, it’s because of places that have kings and queens. It’s in places like Botu, where everyone is equal, that you don’t find slaves. But there aren’t many Botus left. All we can do is pray for Otienu’s continued protection. Take care of your mothers for me. You are in charge now till I come back. Just don’t dream too much.”

  His large eyelids drooped, shaded by the light from the lamp. It was as if Otienu had shaped every part of his being in a gentle mold.

  Three days later, he left as a furor of drums announced the caravans’ departure at the break of dawn. Aminah and the twins saw him off, their scrawny arms flapping up and down to wave him goodbye, but Baba and his albino donkey were swallowed by the crowd. They would resume life as usual, Aminah thought, until he returned in a few months.

  Wurche

  To prevent the bustle of Salaga from encroaching on them, the royalty of the twin towns of Salaga–Kpembe restricted Kpembe to royals. Everybody else was welcome to stay in Salaga. But to Wurche, Salaga was like the soups her grandmother often cooked, bubbling with meat and fish of all types. It was home to Mossis, Yorubas, Hausas, Dioulas, Dagombas. While visiting, she often gazed with longing at the European weapons that had come up from the coast, at the horses brought down by the Mossis, and listened to the banter between the traders who wanted to get rid of their wares and the buyers who simply liked to bargain. Everything was for sale in Salaga. Etuto, her father, often took her to the Friday races here, but earlier in the week he had taken her brothers to meet the other chiefs of Kpembe at an emergency gathering in Kete–Krachi, a town with a powerful oracle who had become a mediator for kingdoms in the area. Wurche and her grandmother, Mma Suma, were therefore representing the family in the men’s absence. The women headed for the racecourse, passing by shea trees, their branches spotted with the oval bodies of a thousand storks. The women continued past broken-down huts and uncountable wells.

  “Coins from every corner of the world!”

  “Embroidered leather shoes!”

  “Maasa maasa maasa!”

  At the entrance to the racecourse, a madman danced as men thrummed on wide-rimmed drums—padada padada padada. Matted hair. Dust coating his body. Pa pa pa padada pa pa. He gripped a large piece of meat. He jigged his shoulders, slowly lifting one knee, then the other. Pa pa pa. Every muscle fiber of his brown arms and legs moved. The drummers pounced on the skins of their drums. Pa pa pa padadadada. Manic fire lit his eyes. He swayed left, then right. Wurche thought he would fall.

  The racecourse was haloed in dust as horses and their riders sped by. While coming to Salaga was a treat, Wurche could do without the actual race because Shaibu always won. The old Kpembewura’s son was in the lead, his gray horse caparisoned with a blue velvet saddlecloth and a matching hood. She flung out her hand, willing the other riders to go faster.

  Mma pinched the underside of Wurche’s arm. “These are the things that stop you from getting a husband.”

  The old ladies of Kpembe said Wurche should have been born a boy, that all she lacked was a lump dangling between her legs. They said she had pebbles for breasts and a platter for buttocks. Etuto said Wurche’s slender body made her a natural racer, but he never let her take part in the Friday races. It just isn’t done, he said. The old women of Kpembe also said she was her father’s favorite, but she didn’t agree with that. He was selective with the things he let her do.

  “Smile,” said Mma. “Frowning doesn’t suit a round face.”

  “This is a waste of my time. I should also be in Kete–Krachi.”

  “Your father said it was not right for a girl to go with them. And he’s right. The oracle of Dente is not to be joked with. He once led the Asante to victory by causing heavy rainfall. If you’re not Allah and you can make it rain, aren’t you to be feared? Besides, this trouble between the chiefs could turn ugly when the Kpembewura dies. I was a little girl when the last war broke out because the
three lines couldn’t decide on a successor. Believe me, these things happen in cycles.”

  Wurche barely heard her grandmother. If Dramani of all people had gone to Kete–Krachi, she should, too. Anything her brother did, Wurche felt she should be given the chance to try. Mma once told her that Wurche’s body was filled with a man’s spirit and Dramani’s, a woman’s spirit. Mma said it had to be Wurche’s mother’s parting gift to Etuto, since she had died giving birth to his child, and hadn’t always been treated well.

  Wurche observed her grandmother, who wasn’t watching the races either. The old woman was certainly scouting for potential grandsons-in-law. Wurche scoured the crowd: dignitaries from Dagbon in flamboyant indigo-striped smocks shaped like lunga drums; the Salaga landlords who loved to skimp on the taxes they owed Etuto and the other Kpembe chiefs; Hausa traders with white turbans encircling their heads; Mossi men in their long billowing smocks holding on to their donkeys; a sprinkling of white men; Dom Francisco de Sousa, the Brazilian who occasionally came up from the coast to buy goods. Originally from Sokoto, Dom Sousa was sold as a slave and ended up in a land called Bahia until he bought his freedom and returned to the Gold Coast. It was said that he liked coming up to Salaga during the races because it reminded him of Sokoto. There were women selling maasa and sour milk; men carrying smocks for sale; slaves fetching wood for their masters, their necks ringed with brass. The smell of rot wafted over. It was the one thing she didn’t like about Salaga: waste everywhere, with vultures left to do the work of cleaning up.

  Commotion from the crowd returned Wurche’s attention to the racetrack. Somebody had overtaken Shaibu. She leaned forward. The games were finally getting interesting. The new rider shot by on a white horse decorated with a leopard-skin saddlecloth.

  “That man is either very courageous or a fool,” said Wurche. “But that someone is letting Shaibu know he’s not talented pleases me greatly.”

  The brave rider gained a considerable lead. The others lagged behind, not daring to close in on Shaibu. When the white horse crossed the finish line, the crowd erupted. Wurche shrieked. The rider dismounted and waited for the prince and the others to get to the finish line.

  A small throng gathered before Shaibu and seemed to bow and scrape to his every word. Shaibu took the winner’s wrist and lifted it high. The crowd roared in applause again. Shaibu nodded at the victor and didn’t seem sour.

  “Who is that man who’s managed to get his way with Shaibu?” asked Wurche.

  “Moro,” said Mma. “I heard Etuto say he brought in what must have been hundreds of slaves into Salaga, just the other day. With time, his reputation could reach the likes of Babatu and Samory Toure.”

  “I haven’t heard of him.”

  “You don’t know everything, Wurche, especially when it comes to business in Salaga. To you, it’s insignificant, isn’t it? But people like Moro keep Salaga alive. You even grew up with him.”

  When Wurche was a child, explained Mma, Moro lived in Kpembe. He was Shaibu’s tail, always wearing a dirty sack. Wurche ransacked her brain. She couldn’t remember him.

  They made for the front to congratulate the winner as was customary. This was the first time in a long while that the winner wasn’t Shaibu, and Wurche was itching to meet Moro. They stood quietly, waiting for Shaibu to acknowledge them. Wurche had to bite her tongue; she wanted to be done with Shaibu as quickly as possible.

  Men came and went, shaking hands with Shaibu and Moro. When Shaibu noticed Mma and Wurche, he said, “Good afternoon, Mma Suma. Good afternoon, wild princess of Kpembe, the breaker of my heart.”

  “How is your mother’s family?” said Mma, bending her left knee, grimacing in pain. Wurche glowered. The woman had been complaining about aches in her knees for the past month. Shaibu was the one who should defer to her, not the other way around. But because he was a man, because he was a prince, Mma couldn’t help it.

  “In good health,” said Shaibu.

  “Your father’s family?”

  “In good health.”

  “How are you yourself?”

  “In good health.”

  “We thank Allah.” Mma turned to Moro. “This was a fine, fine race. And congratulations to you.”

  Shaibu, Mma and Moro turned to regard Wurche, who had forgotten that she too had to extend her congratulations. Something in Moro’s face, in his manner, shook her confidence.

  “My granddaughter seems to have forgotten her manners,” said Mma.

  “Well done,” said Wurche.

  Just then, a loud, throaty cry punctured the excited chatter. It was the kind of scream that raised hairs on the backs of necks. Everyone looked about, confused. A woman emerged, barely clothed, heavy metal ringed around her neck, and charged towards them. Moro ended her rampage, suddenly appearing behind her and whacking her on the shoulder. As her body crumpled, he bent over and helped her sit up, then lifted her off the ground and slung her over his shoulder. The woman, her brown skin blushed with red soil, writhed in pain; from her throat came a low rumbling. Who was this man? He cooed at her like a father admonishing a difficult child and patted her back. A man approached from the direction the woman had come, a chain in his hand, and looked about. Moro went to him.

  “One of the wild ones,” explained Shaibu. Then added, clearly tickled, “I don’t know how she escaped. The recalcitrant ones are kept in the sun, but well chained. It’s as if she knew there would be a gathering of royals. Came right for us.”

  On the way back to Kpembe, Wurche rode her horse, Baki, slowly, Mma sitting behind her. Mma complained if she did anything but walk like a snail.

  “Salaga is ruined,” said Mma. “I don’t come often, but every time I do, it seems to be in worse shape than before. When I was a girl, you could drink water from the wells. Now, I’m sure even slaves don’t want that water touching them. And that horrible woman who came at us…I hate to say it, but when we were under the Asante, that would never have happened. They were more tactical in the way they managed Salaga. Since they were forced out we haven’t built anything for ourselves. All we know is infighting.”

  Lost in her thoughts, Wurche grunted in response. Moro intrigued her. Was it the sharp symmetry of his face, the dark blue of his skin? Or was it because they had a shared past, one she couldn’t even remember? She tried to conjure up images, but her memory was as dry as half the wells in Salaga. Then, as often happens, thoughts of the past led to thoughts of the future, a future she would soon have to contemplate, a future that was appearing more unpleasant by the day because everyone was pushing for her to get married. She’d managed to escape the drudgery of housework by convincing her father to let her study with a teacher in Salaga, but even so, things had stagnated. The next level was to begin teaching women about being a good Muslim, but she could only do that when she was married, which she didn’t want. What she most desired was to help lead her people, the Gonjas. She hadn’t been named Wurche for nothing. Queen. The original Wurche led a battalion of three hundred men to safety. That such a woman had existed two hundred years before she herself was born should give her hope. And what of Aminah of Zazzau, from an even earlier era, who refused to get married and killed her lovers to prevent anyone from usurping her throne? Aminah of Zazzau could do these things after her parents died. Wurche didn’t want to lose her family, but was certain they would soon insist on her getting married. What would happen if she let them have their way, but only on the condition that she was allowed to choose? The general rule was royals married royals. What if she told them she’d chosen someone like Moro? A commoner. Maybe when he reached the status of Babatu, he’d be acceptable.

  Back in Kpembe, Wurche dismounted Baki, helped Mma off, and led Baki into the stable. In the courtyard of Etuto’s palace, a white man stood in front of Wurche’s father and brothers. They were back more quickly than she’d expected. Her father was seated on his ceremonial leopard skins, as one
of the three lesser chiefs of Kpembe. Did it mean anything that the other two were absent? And these white men! She found them more bothersome and less impressive than others seemed to. Their shea butter hue suggested ill health and she could feel her distrust for them in her bones. And every week now, some new white man came to see Etuto and the other chiefs, offering friendship. Salaga, her father had explained, was strategic—the meeting point between forest and Sahel, and within reach of the confluences of the Nakambe and Daka rivers with River Adirri, which eventually emptied into the sea.

  Guns, bottles of brown alcohol and bags of salt had been placed at Etuto’s feet. Next to the white man and his entourage were four trussed-up sheep, a pile of yams and two large elephant tusks.

  “Your people helped us shed the cruel yoke of the Asante,” Etuto was saying, “and for that we are forever grateful, but Salaga has not been the same since.”

  “And we recognize the importance of Salaga,” said the white man’s interpreter, a tall man with no hair. “Which is why we want to find ways to help you. Salaga is an important town to all of us and we need to open it up to the coast. With your friendship and help, of course.”

  “The Asante stopped sending kola here after you defeated them,” said Etuto. “We need kola nuts back in our markets in Salaga. The caravans will stop coming here if we don’t have kola. If you want Salaga to prosper, bring kola.”

  In the past, the Gonjas and other nations nearby owed the Asante annual tribute in slaves. The slaves worked Asante farms or were sent to lands such as Dom Francisco de Sousa’s Bahia. Then, the British defeated the Asante. When people in Salaga heard about it, they slaughtered every Asante in town. After that, the Asante choked off Salaga from the kola trade and, according to Mma, the town had never recovered.

  Wurche wiped the beads of sweat dotting her nose with the sleeve of her smock.

  “The kola nut,” Etuto said again.

  After the visitors left, Wurche rushed past her brothers into Etuto’s room. She wrapped her arms around her father, who stopped and soaked in the embrace. A bottle in her father’s pocket poked her breastbone. She settled on a skin in the antechamber, waiting for him to go in and change. He came back out, uncapped the bottle, took a deep swig, and grimaced.