“Something Allah has meant to be, no one can destroy,” said Khadija. Aminah was surprised Khadija kept saying Allah and not Otienu. It meant her people had become people of the book. Not in Botu. Her people had refused to convert. That was one of the reasons Eeyah’s parents had had to move. “What about you? I’m sure people were lining up outside your door to ask for your hand.”
Aminah shook her head. “Only one. A wrinkled old man came to greet my family just before I got kidnapped.”
“I don’t believe you!” Her eyes opened wide. “Beautiful girl like you.” She clucked and turned her lips down. “Then people are truly blind.”
Khadija talked and talked and talked. Aminah went through moments when she wanted her to shut up so she could make sense of where she was, but mostly she was glad for her company. Loneliness would have plunged her into self-pity.
By the time Aminah woke up the next day, Khadija was gone. Was she to be resigned to a life in which people simply disappeared? Now, it was just her and the old lady. Her bladder was bursting, so she sucked in her fear and made for the outer room. Maigida led her outside, to the bush behind his building, and he didn’t shackle her as he’d done with the big group. He stood off to the side, paying little attention to her. Beyond the bush was open space that sloped up. Its disadvantages were many: running up the slope would be tough and Aminah could easily be shot.
“You’re taking too long,” said Maigida.
When she went back inside, the old lady hadn’t moved. She didn’t flinch when Aminah touched her, planning to shake her awake, but her skin was cool and dry.
“Maigida!”
“Ah ah! What now?”
“The old lady is dead.”
He took his time and shuffled in. He bent over and pressed her wrist. Then he sucked his teeth deeply. He left and returned with two boys. One placed his palms under the woman’s shoulders and the other grabbed her legs. They hoisted her up and out of the room without a word. Maigida came back in to inspect the area where she’d died and when he was satisfied he headed for the outer room.
“When will I leave?” asked Aminah.
“When your buyer returns.”
Maybe it was his height, or his baby face, round with small eyes, that encouraged her to keep asking him questions.
“Will I sleep here alone?”
“More will come.”
She was more worried about the old lady’s spirit. She hadn’t died happily. What if she became an evil spirit walker and returned to haunt the room?
A few people were brought in, but they were all sold by the end of the day.
Aminah lay awake on a bag of millet that night, listening to hyenas and jackals outside, and scratchy sounds inside. She fell asleep around dawn.
Days ran into days and Aminah remained cloistered in the back room. By the fourth or fifth day Maigida said, “I don’t know where your master is but he’s costing me money.”
The next day, Maigida grabbed her wrists and dragged her out of his building. The first cock hadn’t even crowed. They marched behind rows of huts, past the large mosque with its tall tower, and as he led her along narrow streets, Aminah stumbled, her stomach curdling from the stink of rubbish and decay. And fear. They were leaving the village, it seemed. They left the huts behind for tall grass and shea butter trees. Maigida walked so fast, skipping over objects, that she almost fell into a well, twice. A jackal scurried off as they approached a bushy area. Then other people came into view, gathered around a number of small ponds. Girls were washing themselves while men with long-barreled guns stood guard. Maigida ordered her into a pond that held only one girl. Aminah peeled off her wrapper and lowered herself into the water. Shivering, she washed herself. The water had barely touched her skin when it began to evaporate with the harmattan dryness. As the girls finished they climbed out of their ponds and were met by women clutching huge calabashes of shea butter. Aminah got out and an unsmiling woman gave her a dollop of shea butter, which she spread on her arms and belly and down her legs. The woman gave her another dollop. It was too much, but she jutted her chin forward, instructing that Aminah add another layer of oil. When satisfied, the woman signaled to Maigida. Before Aminah could pick up her wrapper, Maigida grabbed her wrist and they went back in the direction from which they’d come. Aminah pictured her discarded cloth, bunched carelessly on the grass, and wished she could go back and get it. But Maigida’s grasp was unrelenting. Instead of heading to his building, they stopped at the open market just before it. He took Aminah to a tree, shackled her ankles, and pointed to a large stone. She tried to make eye contact with him, but he wouldn’t look at her.
“Please,” Aminah begged. Please, clothe me. Please, not this. He said nothing else. Other raiders brought their captured people and sat them by her. She bent her head and saw her breasts, her black bushy triangle. This was the most exposed she’d felt since her exile from Botu. Even when she’d had on a wrapper, she’d attracted people like Wofa Sarpong and the turbaned man of the caravans. What would her nakedness bring? What had happened to the tall man who was to buy her? Why was nothing good coming to her?
She slunk to the ground, wrapped her hands around her legs and buried her head in the pocket between her knees. When will this end, she wanted to scream. Instead, she rocked back and forth, trying to ignore the sun’s rays roasting her back.
Wurche
The baby grew and grew and as soon as it could roll over, Wurche was ready for life to go back to normal. She carried Wumpini into Etuto’s quarters where, for the first time in a long time, he was on his own. Rifles, muskets, bows and arrows were dotted like stars on his wall. In every corner sat a canister of gunpowder. She was worried that, with one false move, her father would be blown to pieces, as had happened to El Hadj Umar Tall, commander of the Toucouleur Empire whose stock of gunpowder exploded and killed him. Etuto had liked the comparison to the man of valor, but said his enemies were far too many for him to let his guard down. The baby stared wide-eyed at his grandfather. Etuto took him, flung him in the air and caught him. Wumpini shrieked in delight.
Wurche laid down her agenda. “I want to join you the next time you meet the Germans and the British,” she said. “I’ll listen and tell you what I think when they’re gone. Already, I know the Germans are looking to poach the Salaga traders and have them go to Kete–Krachi.”
Etuto returned Wumpini to her and pointed to him.
“He spends more time with Mma than he does with me,” said Wurche.
“I hoped motherhood would cure you,” said Etuto. “Aren’t you better off teaching with Jaji?”
“Etuto, you admitted I did you a favor by marrying Adnan. You can’t keep dismissing me.”
“Fine. But this information is not new. They are calling Kete–Krachi ‘New Salaga.’ The Germans are working with the escaped princes and installing a new king of Salaga there. They just want to confuse the traders.”
“I know your strategy is going after the escaped princes,” said Wurche. “But, I don’t think that’s where you should focus. It should be on the treaties you’re signing with the white men. I heard a white German trader in Salaga…”
“Mallam Musa?”
“Yes, he said the British have ulterior motives. He might have said this because he’s German, but there was something earnest in his voice.”
“The princes have to be stopped because they are the ones trying to lure Salaga’s traders to Kete–Krachi. And people like novelty. Even if I am trying to teach them a lesson, so what? We have a saying that if someone offends you, you retaliate.” Etuto gestured to a pouf. “Sit. You must be tired from carrying this one around.”
Wurche sat, and bounced Wumpini on her lap.
“You are right about one thing,” said Etuto. “The Europeans are playing a game I don’t understand. We declared a neutral zone with both Germans and the British, but for some time
now, it has begun to feel as if they are competing with each other and not working with us. The British keep bringing me wonderful gifts. The Germans strike me as a bit cold when they come. They never stay with us or drink our beer. I don’t know what their plan is. But, Wurche, I don’t want you heartbroken. Before you get involved, ask your husband for permission.”
Adnan would say no, but she wouldn’t let that stop her. She asked why the agreements with the Europeans were important.
“They protect us from the Asante first and foremost, then the French, who would also like to take Salaga. It’s all about control, Wurche. Whoever has control of Salaga is most powerful. My goal is to have the Europeans come here to trade directly. No Asante middlemen. The Europeans want the same thing. If they come directly, people will come back to Salaga from Mossi, from Kano, from Yorubaland. Salaga will get back in shape. But we have to stay in charge. Kete–Krachi is for the Germans, and the British have the Gold Coast.”
“Honestly, these treaties do not sound beneficial to us.”
“They are. In fact, since the Europeans defeated the Asante, most of us have been able to sleep. Those days when we had to send over thousands of slaves in tribute were terrible. Your neighbor could sell you out just like that.”
Wurche wanted to tell her father that he was still enabling the trade, that he was never in danger of ending up a slave. She wanted to describe the people in Maigida’s room. But what solution could she offer to replace the lucrative trade? She hadn’t thought that far. Her father watched her. The whites of his eyes were now gray. He hadn’t had any episodes of staying in his room since he’d become Kpembewura. Wurche prayed he’d stay strong, because as soon as people found out that he had a weakness, they would exploit it. Etuto must also have been appraising her, because he said suddenly, “With all the changes happening, our alliance with Dagbon needs to remain as solid as possible.”
“Then let me help you,” Wurche said.
“Ask your husband first. All he needs is a drink now and then and he’ll lighten up.” He reached for his favorite gourd.
“The fellow is too stiff.”
* * *
—
Wumpini, round and squishy, lay on his back, legs kicking, toes curled. A line of drool slipped down his cheek. Wurche wiped it. She stuck a finger in his fist and he greedily grabbed it. His mouth rolled into an oval, as if he were trying to say something. She marveled at his helplessness, that she, too, had once been like him. She saw none of herself in him, but Mma insisted his gestures came from her. She picked him up, lifted her smock, and led his mouth to her nipple. His mouth swallowed her entire breast.
Adnan burst in with such force that the door’s curtain fluttered behind him. Wurche briefly regarded him, saw he was in no need of her, and continued to feed Wumpini.
“It’s dawned on me why men marry more than one wife.” He paused, and when she wasn’t forthcoming, said, “It’s because after children are born wives have no more time for their husbands. It’s Islam that has spoiled things. My great-grandfather had as many wives for every child that was born.” He laughed, clearly in a good mood. This was the time to strike.
“Did you enjoy shooting with Sulemana?” Topics had to be broached delicately, as if they were a bowl of eggs.
“Your brother is gifted with the bow and arrow. He caught a few guinea fowl. I missed every shot.”
“He taught me to shoot, but I can say with pride that I’m better than he is.”
“I find that hard to believe. Sule is extraordinary.”
Wurche cringed at the name “Sule.” No one called him that. Why did even his innocent words irk her? She shifted Wumpini to the other breast, so the baby’s wide eyes would be in view. Then she patted the space beside her. Adnan sat.
“Can I have your permission to work with Etuto?”
Adnan sighed. “And who’ll take care of Wumpini?” He flicked Wumpini’s cheek with a curled index finger, then stood up and stretched like a fat cat. He took off his shirt. His belly hung over his trousers. “I’m heading to Dagbon in two nights and I’ll be back in two weeks, inshallah. When we move back there, I’m sure your restlessness will be cured. My aunts will have plenty for you to do. In the meantime, take care of Wumpini.”
A familiar sentiment of panic rose in Wurche’s throat. She’d grown so comfortable with having him around that she’d forgotten their being there was temporary. Women moved into their husband’s homes, not the other way around. Only the war in Salaga had made Adnan move in with them.
One thick thigh emerged from a trouser leg, then the other. His movements, fluid and surprisingly nimble, made him seem at home in his body. As she watched him with melding repulsion and fascination, she consoled herself with having negotiated for Wumpini to walk before moving to Dagbon. She prayed that he would be like Sundiata, the Lion of Mali, and spend the first seven years of his life crawling.
* * *
—
Wurche was shaken awake roughly. When she opened her eyes, Adnan was crouching before her. She couldn’t believe two weeks had gone by so fast. Disoriented, she looked about. Wumpini was sleeping with his buttocks in the air. It had to be about two hours after midnight. Adnan unraveled her wrapper and rubbed his stubbly chin on her belly. Since Wumpini had been born, Wurche had managed to keep him at bay. Now, she tried to protest, pushed his hands off her thighs, but he barely heard her as he hoisted up her legs and pushed himself into her. At first she swallowed each thrust as it came, but as he grew more agitated, a bubble of heat formed in her belly and spread through her womb, through her legs. She kicked, and her heel made contact with something hard but organic. He staggered back, holding his forehead, and regarded her for a second. Then before she could stop him, he smacked her across the face. For the first seconds, the slap silenced the world. Then the pain rang in her ear. He slapped her again.
“It’s normal for a man to want his wife after being away from her,” said Adnan. “It’s normal for a husband and wife to have relations. What is not normal is for a wife to hit her husband. You pushed me, Wurche. You’ve never considered what I sacrificed to be here. That I also didn’t want this. That I might have also been forced to marry you. You haven’t even tried to get to know me.”
He left the room. Wurche curled into a ball and watched the baby, still asleep, despite the commotion.
* * *
—
In front of Jaji’s hut a staggering man trolled drunken tunes. The town was in ruins, but its spirit remained strong.
“Salaam alaikum,” said Wurche.
“Salaam alaikum,” sang the man. “Alaikum salaam!”
“Alaikum salaam,” responded Jaji, parting the curtain before her door, and shooing away the madman, who bowed and took the road to Kpembe, on which Wurche had just come. Jaji welcomed Wurche. Just as Etuto’s quarters were distinctly his—one could almost taste the metal in his room—so were Jaji’s. Her room smelled of incense and old paper. Books and rolled manuscripts were strewn across a cowskin. She put away a manuscript she’d spread open on the cowskin and told Wurche the women had not stopped asking of her. Wurche smiled sadly. After the fight with Adnan, he’d reported her behavior to Etuto, who had said she should defer to her husband and bide her time. The only reason she was allowed to come to Salaga was that the men of the house had gone to a meeting and Mma needed salt.
Jaji, head inches from the raffia ceiling, studied Wurche as if to unlock the things that went unsaid. It was a trick Jaji used to get her interlocutor to say more. Wurche knew better. Jaji went into the corner of the room and riffled through her collection of bowls and calabashes, dropping a metal plate in the process. She scooped water from a large clay pot and handed it to Wurche with a bowl of kola.
“I’m happy to see you,” said Jaji. “Because, sadly, my stay in Salaga is coming to an end. I am moving to Kete–Krachi. The imam has already moved. He has ca
lled for me to join him there.”
Wurche told her that Adnan, convinced that Wumpini would walk soon, was planning for them to move to Dagbon. “I don’t like Dagbon.” It was the first time she’d admitted this even to herself. She swallowed a large drink of water as her teacher observed her. “I am suffocating, Jaji. If I stay in this marriage, I’ll lose my mind.”
“Why? What has happened?”
“It’s simple: there is no love between us. Or maybe it’s me. I don’t like him and I don’t think I can grow to love him.”
Jaji said nothing. The silence in the room grew heavy. Jaji asked Wurche if Adnan had insulted her. Wurche said no. If he had insulted her father. Wurche said no. If he was a drunkard. Wurche said no. If he beat her. Wurche told her about the night when she’d kicked him.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jaji. “Let’s read what the Koran says.”
Jaji went to her well-worn Koran and lifted the pages delicately.
“Here’s one.” She read, “‘Those who intend to divorce their wives shall wait three months; if they change their minds and reconcile, then Allah is Forgiver, Merciful. If they go through with the divorce, then Allah is Hearer, Knower.’ This is for men.” She flipped the pages. “Listen. The good, educated Muslim woman should also be a good wife,” said Jaji. “I can’t find the passage, but it sounds like you are unable to be a good wife to Adnan. If I remember correctly, the verse says that a woman can divorce her husband because he beats her or forces her to do forbidden acts.”
“I prefer that he divorce me.”
“Why?”
“I married him to strengthen our alliance with Dagbon. My father wants to do everything to keep that link as tight as possible. If I divorce him, I’ll have to leave Kpembe and Salaga and hide in a well.”
Jaji had been married once, but her husband had died from smallpox. Something told Wurche that her teacher was happier widowed. Wurche excused herself. She had to get to the market and return to Kpembe before Adnan and Etuto got back.
The Hundred Wells of Salaga Page 12
