Aminah watched the baby sucking greedily on Na’s breast as her mother stared up at the ceiling.
“Na,” said Aminah, snapping her mother out of her daze.
“I knew you were here. Sorry, I was just thinking…”
“About what?”
“Nothing in particular.”
“Motaaba’s father just came back from Jenne.”
Na watched her daughter with surprised, expectant eyes. It was cruel to make her mother think she was bearing news about Baba, so Aminah immediately explained. “Motaaba-Na said he brought her more than enough salt, so we were welcome to come for some.”
“That’s kind of her,” said Na, sending the baby’s mouth to her other breast.
“Should I go and get some?”
Na paused. “I did a sacrifice to bring back Baba,” she said suddenly. “I know we are supposed to accept whatever happens to us as Otienu’s plan for our spirits, as our destinies, but it’s easy to say and preach things. Life is never clean. I can’t accept that Baba’s destiny was to come into our lives and disappear without a trace. I’ve been so lost. I didn’t know what else to do, so I consulted with Eeyah and Obado. We gave Obado an old ram and he slit its throat. When you started talking about Jenne, I thought…I’d hoped the parli had worked.” Her voice grew thin.
“I’m sorry, Na…”
“We have to stay strong.” She hawked the phlegm in her throat. “Get some of Motaaba’s father’s salt. Tell Motaaba-Na she is welcome to come for whatever she wants in exchange.”
Issa-Na brought Obado and a slight, nervous man with duiker-like eyes to the house one afternoon. The clouds were fat and gray, the air was charged and hot, and everyone prayed for rain.
“The house of women,” said Obado, settling on a mat Aminah set down for him. “See how respectful she is,” he said to the small man.
A gust of wind blew Obado’s cap off, exposing his bald patch. Hassana ran to catch the cap and, in a show of false attentiveness, placed it back on his head.
The family sat around and the baby observed the duiker man, aware that his was a new presence. Aminah fetched water for the guests and missed the beginning of Obado’s speech, but when she got back he was saying their community was like a flock of birds.
“And so we need to work in groups, otherwise we are vulnerable. Our brother, your father,”—he paused and inhaled deeply—“has been gone from us for over a year now. And so when this fine gentleman, our own Issa-Na’s uncle, came to ask for my blessing, I couldn’t refuse, because this house needs a man, the way plants need water. Issa-Na’s uncle would like to ask for Aminah’s hand in marriage. Issa-Na said her husband and your husband, Aminah-Na, had been talking about marrying Aminah for a while and would have arranged a marriage on his return.”
Obado’s words felt like a punch to Aminah’s belly. Did Na know about this? Eeyah? Aminah stole a glance at Eeyah, puffing on the pipe between her teeth. She seemed unbothered. Issa-Na was beaming. Had she and Baba planned this all along? The moment was awkward but everyone was carrying on as if nothing outrageous was happening. The only person who appeared to share Aminah’s confusion was Na, who was bouncing her baby overenthusiastically on her lap. Aminah stared at her mother until their eyes met, and Na raised her eyebrows, as if to ask what Aminah’s move would be. Just as Obado was saying there was plenty of time to plan the wedding, the rain clouds burst. Na rushed to her room with the baby and Aminah followed.
Na lowered herself onto her mat and wiped the raindrops off the baby.
“Is it true, what they said?” asked Aminah.
Na didn’t answer immediately, then said, “The important question is, do you want to do this? Don’t worry about the rest of us.”
“I want what you have with Baba.” I want what you had with Baba. Neither sentence sounded right. Na said nothing. “I don’t mean to disrespect her,” continued Aminah, “but Issa-Na is lying about Baba wanting to marry me off. He would have said something to you…or to me.”
Na shook her head sadly. Her silence was telling another story, suggesting that Aminah had perhaps thought wrongly about her parents’ intimacy. It made her wonder…if her parents had had the great friendship she’d envisaged, would Baba have married Issa-Na? Aminah’s belly told her that even if it was at his family’s insistence, quiet, stubborn Baba would have had his way. So he had chosen Issa-Na.
“Don’t do anything,” Na said. “I will talk to him and tell him it’s in our nature to think things through and not rush to a decision. In a fortnight, I’ll send Issa-Na to bring him back and when he comes we’ll be so unreasonable with our demands, he’ll think twice about his request.”
Aminah was pleased that, despite her misery, Na hadn’t lost her fire.
Issa-Na went to her village to fetch her uncle, as Na requested. She left Issa behind because the journey was long and would take its toll on his already weak body. Sleeping arrangements changed: Na slept in her room with the baby; Eeyah shared her room with Husseina; and Hassana (who said Eeyah’s snores kept her awake), Issa and Aminah slept in Issa-Na’s room. Issa had started carrying himself with more confidence. His back stood erect, as if his mother’s absence allowed him to mushroom into his rightful place: man of the house. Aminah took him to the farm to work, and he was helpful, his small hands dropping seeds faster than everyone else.
A week later Issa-Na was still away. Eeyah was telling the story of the mischievous spider that loved to outsmart everyone, especially the king, but stopped midway and said she’d tell the rest the next day. Aminah didn’t like stories cut in half, but the baby had fallen asleep and she had to get her into bed before someone woke her again. She carried her into Na’s room, where Na was lying, arms spread like bat’s wings, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. She sat up, sniffled, and tried to wipe her eyes casually before reaching for the baby. Na set her down and wouldn’t look at Aminah, who suddenly grew irritated, wondering why she was mourning so much for a man who kept secrets from her.
“Maybe Issa-Na and Obado are right,” said Aminah. “We need to accept that Baba’s gone, mourn him, and give the baby a name. Is she going to be nameless forever?”
Na shot a look that could have scorched Aminah’s soul.
Aminah stood up, mumbled an apology and walked out, wishing she’d been less flippant. She strode in a path of blue moonlight, feeling more ashamed by the minute. She wanted to take a long walk, but the grass was wilder than it had ever been, so she sat on a rock outside the house and let her shame wash over her. She burst into tears, tears she’d held in for so long. They flowed and threatened not to stop. Then she prayed for Baba. That if he was still alive, he’d make his way back to them, especially for Na’s sake. That if he wasn’t, he’d made a safe journey to the ancestors. That the family could go on without him.
She didn’t fall asleep easily that night. Hassana kicked every time Aminah shifted to find a comfortable position. When she was shaken awake not long after she had fallen asleep, she thought she had been tossing and turning again. Then unfamiliar sounds grew louder. Horses neighed. People screeched. There was wailing, crackling, a steady clop-clop-clop that grew louder outside the window. Hassana and Issa were awake too. It was too dark to read their expressions, but Aminah could feel them sitting up, too scared to move.
“Wait here.” She peeked into the courtyard. Eeyah and Husseina were outside. Above the rooftop of the entrance, an orange dome blared, lighting up the sky as if the village were a massive bonfire. Aminah joined Husseina and Eeyah. Houses right next to theirs erupted in flame. The clop-clop-clop grew immediate. Issa and Hassana ran outside. The family made for Na’s hut, but a horse burst through the entrance with a rider dressed in black, billowing clothing. He seemed to be floating on air, a winged figure with a roaring fire behind him. He swivelled a long-barrelled gun above his head, in a display that would have dazzled at another time and place, but in th
at moment made Aminah want to cower under a rock. He knocked Eeyah down with the barrel, pointed the muzzle at the children, and commanded them towards the entrance. Issa stood rooted, shaking. Aminah picked him up and grabbed Hassana’s wrist. Hassana took Husseina’s hand.
“No one else is here,” Aminah shouted, frantic, desperate, hoping they’d leave their huts alone, not sure if they even spoke the same language. If she could save anyone, she wanted it to be Na and the baby.
The horsemen left Eeyah, who was not moving, and herded the children outside, where several other horsemen were leading people out of their homes. They rounded up everyone and roped them, one to the other, at the waist, mixing up men, women, girls, boys. It didn’t matter. Families were torn apart, tied up with other families. Aminah put Issa down and gripped his hand, securing her hold on Hassana’s wrist at the same time. She knew she was hurting them, but she needed to keep them together. All around, people cried, begged. Aminah looked back at the house; Na and the baby still hadn’t come out. She was relieved, because the baby wouldn’t survive the rough treatment. Aminah hoped Na was sleeping deeply, as she was wont to do sometimes. If she heard the commotion, she would surely come out.
The horsemen went around setting fire to rooftops. Others whipped the captives with fly whisks, yelling at them to move fast. Aminah looked back and still no one came from their compound. Had Na chosen not to come out?
The captives trooped single file, and when Aminah looked back, the whole village was engulfed in flames. Above them, the sky was cool and blue and indifferent, the moon haloed by wisps of white cloud. Aminah prayed Eeyah would wake up and rescue Na and the baby. A huge piece of char flew into the sky. The bright red fire ate everything, the smoke choked them, burned their eyes, and suddenly Aminah wasn’t sure if being left behind was a blessing. She walked in a daze, unable to process what was going on. Something bad had happened, something bad was happening.
Issa tripped, Aminah tripped over him and Hassana fell with them. Then Husseina tripped over Aminah. The horsemen had helpers. They lashed at Aminah’s shins, which got her on her feet. She straightened and helped Issa stand.
The village was burning up. They felt the heat even after the tallest tree appeared to be the size of a small branch. Nothing would survive a fire like that. Aminah choked up. Why had she been foolish? She should have woken Na. Tears made everything ahead watery. She couldn’t see where her feet landed. Had Na and the baby and Eeyah survived? She retched when she thought of them burning to death. People sniveled and sobbed and whimpered. The crickets sang their same song: Kreee-kreee-kreee.
Wurche
She awaited her wedding day with dread, like a slave waiting to be sold, sure the day would come, but not knowing when it would be. And Wurche was angry. When she asked for details she was only told it had to be an auspicious date. She didn’t like the man who had been presented to her, and who had already delivered the customary twelve pieces of kola to ask for her hand. Her anger, however, was not directed at Etuto and Mma, who had planned this; it was directed at herself, at how powerless she had let herself become. Even though she had agreed to marry the Dagomba prince, she still thought of ways to sabotage the wedding. Running away was the best way, but each plot she came up with crumbled like a moth-eaten smock when picked apart. Still, they gave her hope.
Her first plan was to move in with her mother’s family, not too far from the farm. But they were the ones, more than anyone else, who wanted Wurche married. Every day, people who claimed to be her aunts came to Etuto’s farm and mostly sat, waiting for the wedding day to be announced. The rabid glaze in their eyes when food was passed around suggested that they were so grateful to be connected to a royal family with resources (even if their main link, Wurche’s mother, was no longer there) that there was no way they would betray Etuto. If ever she tried going there, they would tie her up faster than lightning and return her to Etuto.
Her second plan was to run away to Asante. In her childhood, Mma had scared her so much with the idea of being sent to the Asante that she’d never overcome the fear of the short forest dwellers who would eat you without blinking. Mma said their cannibalism had made them the strongest kingdom in the region. But in truth the Asante grew strong because they controlled gold and kola, they had a king who could not be overthrown as easily as the Gonja kings, and the dense forest they lived in protected them from enemies even as strong as the British. Knowing all this didn’t allay her fears: fear sank its roots deep. Still, it would be the perfect place to go, but she didn’t speak their language and she would miss the spread of the savanna. She couldn’t have a horse in the forest. Also, once it was discovered that she was from Salaga–Kpembe, and that she was a princess, they would probably behead her.
So she succumbed to her initial idea that her agreeing to the marriage could be used to barter with her father: she would ask for an active role in ruling. But then the old Kpembe king died, and events happened faster than Wurche could have predicted.
A large group of women had gathered outside Etuto’s hut. It was magical, the way they appeared, like flies around a piece of fish, out of nowhere and in such numbers. Their individual voices were low, but collectively made a loud buzzing. One woman began to moan, and the moan became a scream.
“Wo yo!”
“Wo yo!”
“Wo yo!”
Wurche was convinced none of these women had even seen the Kpembe chief, and yet they were mourning him like they’d lost their children. Wurche found Mma dabbing her eyes. Not her too, she thought, but Mma had an explanation.
“He was the gum that held together our twin towns of Kpembe and Salaga, and the three lines competing for the skin. Now, the lines are divided on who will succeed him. I told you before—this will only create trouble. And the old Kpembewura was like a brother to me. He and your grandfather were very close. He was a good man.”
A group of men, most of them with great white beards, arrived on their horses, jumped off and strode into Etuto’s room, some even shoving the women out of their way. Wurche stole the chance to follow them in the flurry. She caught Mma’s eyes as Mma reached out to stop her, but she was faster than her grandmother and slid into the hut.
Inside, the men settled down in circles, those already seated fanning themselves with their whisks. Wurche saw Sulemana and Dramani and made her way toward them. She could feel stares piercing her body with disapproval. An older man wagged his finger at her. She sat by Sulemana, who shook his head at her and laughed. Etuto watched through puffy eyes, waiting for everyone to settle. He made eye contact with her, frowned briefly and then his gaze moved on. He seemed a man with a lot more on his mind than his rebellious daughter. She didn’t know what would happen with the Kpembewura dead, but it couldn’t be good for Etuto’s health. She looked around and saw Mma limp in, holding a gourd. She ambled in Wurche’s direction.
“It was too fast,” said one of the men to his neighbor. “Now, with this vacuum, vultures are already swooping in.”
“We are not equipped for war,” the neighbor responded.
The men’s whispers grew louder, and in walked Etuto’s mallam, the person whose advice counted the most. Etuto helped the old man onto the cow skin next to him, leaned in and whispered. Then he cleared his throat loudly, hushing the room. Mma had no choice but to sit down where she was; an immense relief for Wurche, because the old woman would have dragged her out.
“May the Kpembewura rest in peace,” said Etuto.
“Ami,” echoed the men in response. “Ami, Ami, Ami.”
“Here is what is going to happen,” continued Etuto. “We will head back to Kpembe in a day to meet the other Kanyase line elders to select the person who will be the next Kpembewura. We will then present the Lepo and Singbung lines with our chosen leader. Our line has been skipped for too many generations now, and when our kingdom was established, our great founder, Namba, left Kpembe to his three sons
: Kanyase, Lepo, and Singbung. One was supposed to inherit the skin, then the next, then the third. Why then have two taken over and left out one? Why have we been sidelined? There have been four Lepo chiefs and three Singbung chiefs for the last seven skins. Not a single Kanyase chief. Some people say that Lepo and Kanyase were twins, and so were counted as one, which is why succession has always gone to Singbung and Lepo, but this is wrong. Kpembe was left to all three of us.”
The men murmured among themselves.
“May the Kpembewura rest in peace,” said a man across from Etuto. “I will support you becoming Kpembewura, although I come with unfortunate news. Before we left Salaga, the other lines claimed the skin should go, not to you, not to Prince Shaibu, who has himself said he wants no part in being Kpembewura, but to Prince Nafu, because he has wealth. And at this time, we need the resources to rebuild Kpembe and Salaga.”
“Nafu doesn’t know the first thing about ruling,” said another.
“Nafu is not interested in uniting us,” Wurche said under her breath. “All he wants is to keep growing richer.”
“Wealth or not,” said Etuto, “the injustice has to stop. Three lines inherit the skin and we have to set right the balance on which our kingdom was founded.”
“What if the other lines don’t agree to our proposal?” asked the old man who had shaken his finger at Wurche.
“We have to get our people to agree first,” whispered Sulemana. “That’s the bigger struggle. But I think we’re all afraid to acknowledge that our own people might say no.”
“Then we will turn to our allies in Dagbon,” said Etuto in response to the old man. Wurche looked about. Everyone was focused on him. She realized that going to Dagbon meant her wedding was imminent. “My daughter once made an astute observation. She said our lines are like the cooking pots our women use: unstable on two legs, perfect on three. The two lines have become corrupt without our input. And we’ve grown content with playing a ceremonial role.”
The Hundred Wells of Salaga Page 5
