“There is nothing left to burn in Salaga. The town is burnt. What happened next?”
“We moved like lightning. More people were knocked off their horses. An arrow grazed my shoulder, but didn’t pierce my skin.
“Sulemana waved his rifle in the air and as he did so, an arrow tore through his leg. He stopped his gun show, cocked the rifle’s butt over his shoulder, and shot and killed his assailant before drawing back. Every time I moved ahead, my horse stumbled over bodies sprawled on Salaga’s red soil. By the time we got to the other end of the market, Nafu’s soldiers had retreated. Etuto, Sulemana, Adnan and the Dagbon soldiers shot their guns into the air. We’d won.”
“Wo yo,” said Wurche, watching Mma go from circle to circle, adding meat to the groundnut soup.
“Praise be to Allah, we survived,” said Sulemana, reaching for a chunk of meat.
“Why is Etuto the only one celebrating?” said Wurche. “I don’t understand. Why aren’t you all celebrating? You don’t know how many times I almost got on Baki to come and fight with you.”
“My aunts would never have let that happen,” Adnan said, patting Wurche’s thigh. “But if we were in Dagbon, my dear, master drummers would be singing all our praises by now. You’ve seen how we do things there.”
“These were people we knew,” Dramani responded; a relief to Wurche, who was about to be rude. She had to appear grateful since Etuto’s victory was, in large part, thanks to Adnan and his army. “People we went to the mosque with…It was a costly battle. I’ve thought a lot about what you’ve been saying, Wurche. We’re more divided than ever.”
Wurche, encouraged, said, “Yes, Dagbon and Gonja do things differently. We don’t even speak the same language. And in the search to expand both our territories, we’ve gone to war with each other. But, see, we came together and Etuto won the war. If we all come together, we can unite the north.”
“You Gonja men are too sentimental,” said Adnan. Men. He’d dismissed her.
“No, Dramani is right,” said Sulemana. “These were our brothers we fought, not some enemy from a strange land. There’s nothing sentimental about that.”
Adnan seemed to sulk, so Sulemana tried to placate him. “The truth is if we hadn’t had Adnan and Dagbon with us, we wouldn’t have stood a chance. We don’t know if Nafu’s still alive. Some people say he’s dead. Some say he turned into a crocodile and is now in a river somewhere.”
“I’ve concluded that war is senseless,” said Dramani. “I’m going to ask Etuto for permission to move to the farm after this.”
Wurche raised her brows. Apart from farming, how else would Dramani occupy his time? Farming was for people from slave villages like Sisipe. She wondered how Etuto would react.
“And Shaibu?” said Wurche.
“In Kete–Krachi,” said Sulemana. “He retreated faster than an antelope escaping a lion. I didn’t see him fight at all. Kete–Krachi is where most of them are. Etuto wants to go after them, but we need to recover first.”
“Why Kete–Krachi?” asked Wurche.
“To forge an alliance with the Germans based there, since Etuto collaborated with Dagbon and seems aligned with the British,” said Dramani, “I suppose the only big allies left are the Asante or the Germans. Going with the Asante would be servitude all over again, so they chose the Germans.”
“But, Etuto is still negotiating things with the British,” said Wurche. “He hasn’t formally aligned with them.”
“Sides are being taken,” said Dramani. “And I have a feeling it’s only going to get worse.”
* * *
—
Three days after Wurche’s arrival, those who had not fled to Kete–Krachi gathered in Etuto’s palace with representatives of the paramount chief of Gonja, the Yagbumwura, the kingmaker. Etuto rode a tall new horse, freshly imported from Mossi, with meaty shoulders and forelegs and a shiny brown coat. Wurche longed to take it for a ride.
Etuto dismounted. The Yagbumwura’s spokesperson put a new striped smock on him and gravely spread an old lion skin and an equally worn leopard skin on the soil. The skins of founding father Namba. He signaled for Etuto to come forth, and as he sat on the skins, one of the drummers pounded three times. No face smiled. A stranger might think it was a funeral. It should have been festive, but half of the people who should have been there had fled or died. Wurche was glad she had given Etuto reason to celebrate at the wedding. After the mallams left, people in Salaga–Kpembe came to greet Etuto, bringing gifts of sheep, cloth, gold, myrrh and slaves. Food and millet beer cheered the air somewhat, but the whole enskinning ceremony had been so sobering that Wurche spent the rest of the afternoon in Mma’s room, which was where she went to avoid Adnan.
Wurche was convinced something was germinating in her, but she wasn’t ready. She’d barely adjusted to the idea of living with someone else and couldn’t begin to fathom having to take care of a baby. Every day she eyed Mma’s pot of medicines, but the old lady lurked about her room as if she suspected Wurche’s intentions. The longer Wurche left it, the harder it would become to purge herself of Adnan’s child.
Early one morning, she rode Baki into Salaga. The air still stank of smoke, the narrow streets were filled with rubble and rubbish. “What did we do here?” she whispered. By marrying Adnan, she was complicit in this damage. If Etuto hadn’t had the support of the Dagbon army, he’d never have declared war. But he might also be dead.
The smell of rotten eggs wafted from the wells, odorous from sitting too long. The stench shot bile up Wurche’s throat. She paused till the nausea passed. A lone drum was being beaten, noncommittal. The market square only held a handful of people, slowly rebuilding, picking up their lives, continuing where they left off. It was reassuring, the resilience of people.
Before she arrived in the smaller market, where potions, herbs and purgatives were sold, Wurche saw Moro. He was herding a group of captives. He disappeared behind a rectangular hut, left his slaves behind, walked into the hut. She got off Baki, tied her to a tree and plotted. She could enter the hut and pretend it was the wrong place. Or she could just wait for him and greet him. But he could be her father’s enemy. Could she greet him in the street?
He came out and she panicked. She was in his path, but he was studying something in his hand and bumped into her.
“The beautiful one who frowns,” he said, beaming.
“I can’t be seen with you.”
“Why?” His expression was softer than the day they met, when he’d beat Shaibu at the races and whacked the slave woman.
“You’re in Shaibu’s camp.”
“I’m in nobody’s camp.”
“Can we talk somewhere privately?” As a Gonja princess, she could do whatever she wanted, but as a wife of Dagbon, she couldn’t. It was better to avoid angering Dagbon, on whose support Etuto still depended.
He suggested the hut he’d just walked out of. Inside, two men sat across from each other on a mat. She curtsied quickly and followed him into a second chamber. It was dark, reeked of fermenting millet, and was probably teeming with rats.
“How come you’re still in Salaga and not in Kete–Krachi?”
“I am working.”
“How do I know you didn’t fight against my father? Shaibu is your friend.”
“I’ve known Shaibu for a long time and I work for him, but I didn’t take part in this war.”
His words pleased her. A pit formed in her stomach. The world between her legs lit up, so when he reached forward and touched her cheek gently, she pressed his hand against it. This was everything. She’d waited so long for this. She’d dreamed up all sorts of scenarios. But the reality of being with him was a thousand times better. His smell—a little sweaty and nutty—hadn’t made its way into her fantasies. Nor the feel of his skin against hers—calloused but gentle. She knelt before him, and he seemed to hesitate, but sa
id nothing as she took off her smock, then his. He never broke his gaze, even as she quietly, frantically, sat astride him, cupping his flesh into hers.
“Katcheji,” said Moro, after. Yes, she’d strayed from her husband and was immoral, but that wasn’t her first thought. Instead, she mulled over how different this was from being with Adnan, who often left her feeling like a hollow vessel. This time she was pleased. She was both satiated and hungry, as if her body would burst from fullness and pleasure and the only solution was more. “What am I doing with a married woman?” continued Moro. “And a princess of two powerful kingdoms, at that. It can mean serious trouble for me. Probably not for you. I often find myself doing things and wondering how I ended up there. Then I tell myself it’s because I was raised to believe in destiny. I allow things to happen. It’s a dangerous way to live.”
She didn’t want to talk. When she said nothing, he laid his head against her chest. In one of her lessons with her teacher, she learned that the adulterer develops a stink worse than carrion. For a fleeting second, it scared her. What had she done? She was an adulterer. And yet, claiming the title inexplicably banished her fear.
“This is not dangerous. No one will find out.” She felt invincible. “Don’t go. Let’s spend our days in Salaga.”
“For now, I have to come and go. I work in Kete–Krachi too. And you have a husband.”
“When will you return?”
“If this is our destiny, soon. We can meet here. Maigida, the landlord, is a very discreet man.”
On the ride back to Kpembe, she replayed images of what had just happened. Twice she stopped Baki and wondered if it had been a dream. Then she realized that she hadn’t taken care of what was possibly sprouting inside her. She’d just complicated her situation.
That evening, when her monthly blood trickled down her legs, she rejoiced.
Aminah
A list of noisy things: lizards, dogs, donkeys, hyenas, chickens and guinea fowl, birds in general, flies and mosquitoes, geckos mating, Wofa Sarpong (the short man) during the day, Wofa Sarpong talking to his wives, Wofa Sarpong fighting with his wives, Wofa Sarpong’s wives fighting with each other, Wofa Sarpong’s wives pounding dried leaves or fufu, Hassana having her hair braided by Aminah, heavy rainfall on the thatch roof, the bracelets clinking up and down Wofa Sarpong’s first wife’s arms, the second wife’s singing, the third wife’s children yowling, local drummers coming around to beg, Wofa Sarpong fitting a cart on his donkey, big pigs, little pigs, the village crier bringing news from town, Aminah’s stomach most days.
A list of quiet things: the sun, snakes, stars, Aminah’s heart every morning, the thick forest surrounding Wofa Sarpong’s farm, seeds, millet seedlings bursting from seeds, the furry mold sprouting on everything, Hassana since arriving on the farm, Wofa Sarpong entering Aminah and Hassana’s room at night, his excited exhalations, Hassana breathing by Aminah, Wofa Sarpong slinking out, the night, heaviness falling and contouring every part of Aminah till morning came, Wofa Sarpong’s wives on the goings-on in Aminah’s room, moonlight.
He kept Aminah’s virginity intact. She wondered why, but to ask may have invited him to go beyond forcing himself into her mouth. She wanted to hide Hassana from that shameful thing he was doing to her. The thing they were doing. She considered herself involved, because deep inside she knew that by sinking in her teeth, she could change her life and Hassana’s. Even Wofa Sarpong must have known this fact—which was why he always appeared scared during the act. And yet, she couldn’t bring herself to do anything but lie still as he clutched at her face and throat until he got excited. When he’d get up to leave, her legs would grow heavy, her heart sore. She was always too ashamed to move. She would lie there, a part of her, of all things, grateful. That he didn’t take his act beyond her mouth meant if she ever got back to Botu, she wouldn’t be a ruined woman.
Botu. Did it still exist? She wasn’t even sure how far away they were, but this place was so different. Even the smell of rain wasn’t the same; more saturated, suffocating. It was after Wofa Sarpong left Aminah that she often thought of her parents and of home. She wondered if Baba made Na do the act Wofa Sarpong was forcing on her. Would love make it any less belittling? She began, again, to convince herself that her parents had had a great love, despite what her last days in Botu had led her to believe. She decided that by leaving their rooms when the raiders came, she and her siblings let go of Baba. Issa-Na’s going away was a betrayal of him. But not Na. She stayed in her hut because of her faith in Baba. It had to be her way of waiting for him. Sadness took over when she thought these things.
* * *
—
Quietness had seeped and settled into Hassana when they arrived on the farm, about ten months before. It spread within her like the mold that grew on their clothes, on their sheets, on everything. Whether it was because she realized there was no hope of returning to their old life, to her twin, or when Wofa Sarpong started skulking into their room, she didn’t say.
“Your sister is strange,” Sahada often remarked. She was a girl whose father owed Wofa Sarpong a debt and had pawned her to him until he could pay. Aminah wanted to ask Sahada to leave Hassana alone, but she merely grunted. Sahada must have thought Aminah strange, too, just a hair more approachable than Hassana. The only time glimpses of the old Hassana appeared were the moments when she sat between Aminah’s knees to get her hair braided. Often, Aminah would intentionally over-tighten a braid and, forgetting herself, Hassana would scream and hit her sister’s hand. Then just as quickly, she’d slide back into silence, relinquishing her head with quiet resignation.
Hassana washed the clothes and cooking pots of Wofa Sarpong and his family. The skin of her poor little hands became like land during the rainy season: ridged and eroded. Aminah worked on the farm, planting seeds, removing weeds, watering the seedlings, scaring away birds, harvesting millet and sorghum. She fed the pigs Wofa Sarpong kept in a thatch enclosure. She worked with four girls, three of whom had also been plucked from their villages at night. Sometimes, they went into the forest to forage for kola. It wasn’t kola season and, according to the first wife, girls weren’t supposed to harvest kola, but Wofa Sarpong was overeager and would insult them every time they returned empty-handed. On the farm, Wofa Sarpong’s first wife and her sons supervised the girls, making sure they weren’t plotting to escape or steal. She was the only person who spoke enough Hausa to communicate clearly with Hassana and Aminah.
In some ways, life wasn’t that different from Aminah’s routine in Botu. Some people had begun to remind her of people from home. Only now, she didn’t laugh much. She didn’t dream anymore. And she had a man forcing her to do bad things.
Wofa Sarpong was away often, with his donkey and cart. It was a mixed blessing when he was gone. His wives made the girls clean their rooms, Wofa Sarpong’s room, their children’s rooms, and after that they’d barely feed them. But Hassana and Aminah could relax at night without worrying that he was going to burst in. And, sometimes, the other girls would invite them to their room, separated from Aminah’s by a wall of woven palm fronds.
“In Botu, we had a water hole and sometimes the boys would pretend to be crocodiles and hippopotami to scare us,” Aminah told them once.
“In Larai,” another girl said, “when it rained, it was such a special occasion. We all ran out to dance in the light rain. There was no lightning and thunder.”
When they whispered these stories of home among themselves, Hassana barely spoke, but smiled when someone said something funny.
Wofa Sarpong’s wives were small women with hair cropped close to their scalps. The first wife’s face was carved with two sharp scars on either cheek. The second wife sang her words, which made Aminah think she would be sympathetic, but she was vile. The third wife sounded like a man. Aminah watched Wofa Sarpong argue with his women when they told him they’d run out of food; he would yell and rue the day he mar
ried them and sometimes he would let them go without provisions until they got on their knees and begged. It made her think of her parents’ relationship. If they ever argued, it was because her father had forgotten something. Head in the clouds, Na always said of him.
Days, weeks, months went on like that. Hassana said nothing. Aminah worked on the farm and allowed Wofa Sarpong to use her body to excite himself. On festive occasions they inherited clothes from the first wife.
Wofa Sarpong bought more girls to work on the farm and two girls moved into the room with Hassana and Aminah. It didn’t stop him from coming in for his nightly visit.
There were days when the sameness of it all got to Aminah. She would cry and wonder what the point of staying alive was. But she would see Hassana sitting by her, her shoulders rising and falling with each breath, and chide herself for thinking only of her own happiness.
One morning, Hassana woke up drenched in sweat. She tapped Aminah and couldn’t stop pouring out words.
“It was bright where I was,” she began. “We were in a boat on a big lake surrounded by tiny hills and the water was two different kinds of blue. In front, the water was light blue like the sky and in the back it was a deep blue, a blue I hadn’t seen before. There was a line between the blues. And then as we got off and stepped onto wet soil we saw that right next to the water was a thick forest. It looks like here but because of the lake it was brighter. The sun shone through. There were palm-like trees, but they were really tall. There were many of us getting off the boat. I couldn’t see faces, but there was a lot of confusion. And that’s where the dream ended.
“I’ve never seen a place like that before. Even the boat. It was big and had white squares of cloth on top of it that blew in the wind. It only means one thing. These are her dreams. Husseina is alive!”
The Hundred Wells of Salaga Page 8
