“Yes.” She didn’t pause to consider her husband or her son or her plan to escape. This was the start of what she really wanted.
“They leave tomorrow,” said Etuto. “At dawn.”
She went into Aminah’s room, thankful she’d already put aside some of her belongings. Aminah was curled around Wumpini’s portly form.
“I’m going to the Gold Coast tomorrow,” Wurche whispered. “Pick out three of my best smocks…”
Just then Mma poked her head in.
“Aminah, go and get sour milk from the Fulani boy for Sulemana’s voyage.”
“I’m going with him,” said Wurche.
“And your husband?” asked Mma.
Wurche shrugged, then turned to Aminah. “Pack when you come back.”
Aminah looked nervously at Wumpini, whose heavy breathing was now a series of snores. It was fine. Aminah could go and come back and the child would still be asleep. All three women left the hut. Wurche went into hers and found Adnan propped up in bed, his prayer beads looped in his right hand. She said nothing to him. She would need her gun for the trip, she would need a hat, and—this would surely please Mma—she would need her kohl. If a bit of charm and seduction was needed to convince the governor, so be it. As she riffled through her basket of combs and the jewelry she never wore, she heard a shriek. She rushed outside. Adnan followed. Etuto came out of his hut. Mma was clapping into the air and shouting. At her shins, Wumpini walked as if he’d been born doing it.
“Ay, Allah!” shouted Mma.
Wurche didn’t know whether to feign indifference or act surprised. In walked Aminah with two small pots. She paused, made eye contact with Wurche.
“Yes! Thank Allah!” shouted Wurche, rushing to pick up Wumpini.
“I thought this day would never come,” said Adnan. “Finally, we can go home. Etuto, my dear father, with your permission, we would like to head to Dagbon as soon as possible and give you your space.”
“And my journey tomorrow?” said Wurche, with Wumpini struggling to get down. She fixed her gaze on her father. His smock seemed to swallow him. She’d never seen him look so small. No one said a thing. Even the leaves stood still. “Etuto?”
“If your husband gives you permission,” he said.
Wurche, who didn’t want to give Adnan the satisfaction of telling her what to do, beckoned Aminah, and walked towards her room.
“Prepare the sacks I gave you, and put all your belongings into a sack or bag. Carry them outside. Then take Baki and tie her loosely to the tree outside. Put the sacks astride her and wait for me. Here.”
She strapped Wumpini to Aminah’s back, took a long, deep breath and went into her room. She picked up the gun Dramani had given her and looked about the room. She didn’t have time to go through the rest of her things. If Adnan was smart and saw Aminah carrying bags, he would start drawing conclusions. She left the room and saw Baki’s rump disappear through the entrance. Good. Aminah was almost ready. Adnan was the only one in the courtyard.
“Adnan,” Wurche said, walking towards him while holding the gun’s barrel. Adnan might think she was going to use it on him, but the smug expression on his face—the corners of his mouth tilted up and his nose snout-like—suggested it was the last thing on his mind.
“After we got married, I lay with another man,” she said, standing before him.
Silence. Adnan’s expression softened. He dropped his prayer beads and Wurche took it as her chance to flee. She told Aminah to run as she untied Baki. Aminah bolted, Wumpini bouncing up and down on her back, and Wurche followed, dragging Baki’s reins. The sacks made Baki sluggish, but she soon got off to a trot.
“Whore! Sheitan!” Adnan bellowed.
Wurche felt her pulse even in her ears. She and Aminah and Baki ran. Wurche looked back and was relieved but slightly disappointed when she found no one in pursuit. They got on the path that led to the forest and mounted Baki. Their destination: Kete–Krachi.
* * *
—
They passed through three towns before Wurche was confident that they were far enough from Kpembe to stop. They bought milk and maasa from a girl carrying a crown of a basket on her head, then continued the journey, stopping another three towns later to clean Wumpini and rest Baki. It seemed like Kete–Krachi would never come. After a day of traveling with pauses for food and rest, a man in Hiamankyen assured them Kete–Krachi was next.
As they entered the town, Wurche heard the sound of water lapping against a shore: a slap followed by a receding whisper, at once violent and soothing. She wondered how long it would take her to grow used to this place’s secrets, its nighttime smell, the sound of its dawn. The grass was dry and patchy, but the air was damp and her skin didn’t feel as taut as it did in Salaga. Several huts, some rectangular, some round, lined the road leading into the town. She’d planned her escape, but hadn’t planned how long she’d stay away. A man crossed the road into the town, a hoe slung over his left shoulder. Wurche greeted him in Gonja, but he returned a blank stare and only when she spoke in Hausa did he return a curt nod. When she mentioned Jaji, he shook his head.
“No horses,” he said instead.
“Why?” said Wurche.
“Dente doesn’t allow horses.”
Wurche sighed and dismounted. She shouldn’t get on the bad side of the powerful oracle of Dente on the first day in his town. She took Wumpini from Aminah, who scrambled down ungracefully. Wurche set Wumpini down, untied the sacks, handed two to Aminah and took the last. She tethered Baki to a tree with a complex knot and pressed her forehead to the horse’s crest.
Even if her relief was mixed with regret, Wurche felt a sudden desire to laugh. All these years, she’d felt caved in, imprisoned, and suddenly, finally, she’d broken free. She felt as if she were floating on air. She would miss her family, but none of them had said, Adnan is no good, here’s your way out.
They were strolling, but the town was only now waking up, so Wurche wasn’t worried. If they didn’t find someone who knew Jaji, they would go to the mosque. The local imam was sure to know her or her imam. A group of thin girls wisped by carrying empty pots. Wurche greeted them and described what Jaji looked like (tall, always in a straw hat when she was out) and two of the girls pointed to a rectangular house behind a set of round ones. Wurche asked them if Aminah could follow them to fetch water for Baki.
After Aminah watered Baki, they went to Jaji, who answered her door when they announced themselves and gasped with surprise.
“I’ve done a terrible thing,” said Wurche.
“What?”
“I’ve run away from my marriage.”
“Ay, Allah.”
Jaji offered them seats and asked them to sit while she got water. Then she wanted to be told all. Wurche, not wanting to appear small before Aminah, spoke in Gonja. She told Jaji she’d had enough of Adnan’s violence and that she ran away before he could take them to Dagbon, that if she stayed she would never get to do anything useful or any activity she enjoyed. Jaji said her accommodation was modest, but she was always happy to have Wurche’s help.
“What should I do about my horse? A man said I couldn’t bring her in because of the Dente.”
“Horses are fine in Kete,” said Jaji. “It used to be that in Krachi the Dente forbade horses. But he was executed last year. I don’t know if it means horses are now allowed there. I’m never really in Krachi…”
“He was executed?” said Wurche. She should have heard about it. Then again, Adnan had made sure she was shielded from all things political. And Moro, who would have told her, was long gone from her life. She wondered how long it would take before they saw each other again.
“The Germans shot him. They want to control the people and the people were only listening to the Dente. Before he was killed, people near and far were frightened of him. For a long time, he didn’t allow t
raders in Kete–Krachi. It was only after signing an agreement with the British that Kete became a market town. In fact, some people here think the reason the Germans shot the Dente is because he was friends with the British. Welcome to a new set of politics. I thought I was escaping Salaga…but I digress. The rules are more relaxed here than in Krachi. Go get your horse. You can keep it here. The person was mistaken.”
Wurche sent Aminah for Baki. Jaji’s room was smaller than any of the rooms in Kpembe. It was too small for four people, including one who had just discovered his legs. Wurche would have to search for other accommodation.
Aminah was gone for over an hour. When she returned her forehead was crumpled in sweat, confusion, and fear.
“The horse wasn’t there, Sister,” she said. She had searched everywhere. Even up and down the river.
Jaji sucked her teeth. “Theft has become the order of the day here.”
“I’ve had that horse since I was ten.” There had to be some mistake. She slid to the floor. She needed to feel grounded. “Are you sure you looked everywhere?”
“Yes, Sister.”
Wurche stood up, stepped out of Jaji’s hut. Aminah was not one for lying. She looked to the right: a laterite path lined with huts on either side of it. To the left: another red path with dawadawa trees. Ahead, the river raced by, brown and indifferent. She walked to the tree where she’d left Baki. No Baki. She went back to Jaji’s. Losing Baki was not part of her plan.
“She’s so unique; if the thief lives anywhere in Kete–Krachi, he’ll be caught,” said Jaji.
Wurche sank to the ground again. The loss of Baki made the move feel like a mistake. She stared at the pile of yellowing paper next to Jaji’s bed.
Aminah
Not long after their arrival in Kete–Krachi, Jaji announced she was expecting visitors, one of whom was not Wurche’s favorite person, but he’d been good to Jaji, so if Wurche didn’t want to see him, she was welcome to disappear for a few hours. Wurche stayed, sat on a mat, and didn’t get up when they walked in. Only she could get away with being rude to guests, and men, at that, Aminah thought.
When the guests arrived, she also recognized someone—the man who was supposed to buy her! He stared at her as if they knew each other, forcing her to look away. Of all the emotions going through her, the strongest was shame, which she couldn’t explain since she had done nothing wrong. The second man—Jaji called him Shaibu—was dressed in an ornate blue-and-white smock that kissed his ankles. The third was a pale man in a black uniform with a black belt and gold buttons, clutching a rigid hat. Aminah had seen pale men when they visited Etuto in Kpembe, but this was the first time she could stay close enough to study one. He had all the parts that a regular person possessed—eyes, nose, mouth, ears—and his limbs were similar to everyone else’s, but the browns of his eyes were green and almost glasslike. When he greeted in Hausa, his words were jerky and halting, and Aminah had to hold in her laughter. At first, Wurche stood stiffly by Jaji. Then Shaibu stuck out his hand and said something that caused her to crack a smile and shake his outstretched hand. She said something back to him in Gonja.
“Wurche, the lovely princess of Kpembe,” said Shaibu to the men, in Hausa. “I told her she’s rejected my advances since we were boy and girl, so I’ve come to accept that we are brother and sister, that we shouldn’t let our fathers’ sins affect our friendship. I am a peaceful man and I have no grievance against her.”
“And I told him he tried to kill my father,” said Wurche, back straight. She seemed to be enjoying the banter. Wurche thrived on conflict, or just being different from everybody else, it appeared. “You backed Nafu, so we’re enemies. And if you want us to be friends, you’ll find my horse and deal with the thief appropriately.”
“Wurche, we both know I am a coward,” said Shaibu. “My life comes first. The day I follow a group on a suicide mission, the sun won’t rise. I made sure to leave for Kete–Krachi as soon as that war began. Jaji told me about your horse. Someone stole one of my finest smocks my first week here. We’ll keep looking for it. Now, let me introduce my friends.” He gestured at the man who’d bought Aminah. “I believe you already know Moro.” Then he flung his hand in the direction of the white man. “And this is Helmut.”
Wurche regarded Moro and smiled strangely. It was a pout, with eyes that flirted and said Wurche knew some secret of his. Moro smiled back curtly.
Shaibu said when he heard that Wurche had moved to Kete–Krachi, they had to come pay their respects. “Moro made me, really. But it would have been impolite of us to ignore the wild princess of Kpembe, so here we are.”
They couldn’t stay for lunch, which was a relief, because Aminah had only made enough for four.
“Find my horse,” shouted Wurche, as they left.
* * *
—
When Aminah found out Baki had been stolen, she walked the entire way back to Jaji’s house as if clay had hardened around her feet. When she saw the way Wurche crumpled to the floor, she grew irritated, but she understood. Baki was like family to Wurche. For a week, Wurche couldn’t be consoled; she even wore brown mourning clothes. Jaji told her she could buy a new horse from the stables, but she wouldn’t budge. She said a horse couldn’t be replaced just like that. Aminah was sure Baki was lost simply because Wurche was too proud to ask for help. She’d told Shaibu to find the horse, but he didn’t seem the kind of man to involve himself in any kind of labor. Wurche could have gone to the stables herself to find out if someone had tried to sell a horse that looked like Baki; instead she wore mourning clothes. A small part of Aminah was happy the horse was stolen, because it meant one less task to worry about. She wouldn’t have to wake up before the sun rose to clean the creature. She hated that, just after she had wiped it, it would let out a long stream of urine that always, always splashed on her.
* * *
—
After that first visit, the three men would not stop coming to Jaji’s house. Every time they came, Shaibu ate, Helmut tickled Wumpini till he was in stitches and Moro watched Aminah. At first she concluded that he thought she had betrayed him by going with Wurche. But when his gaze continued to burn into her, her shame shifted into a small flutter, the tremor of a butterfly’s wings, and it became curious about him and began to return his stares.
One afternoon, Wurche’s fingers grazed the bottom hump of Moro’s upper arm and pinched his flesh as if she were owner of his body, the way one would hold a bag. She whispered in his ear, and whatever it was molded a frown on his forehead, making Aminah feel strange. Jealous. Just then he shifted his gaze to her and his scrunched lips stretched into a smile. She went outside. While she was washing the platter they had eaten on, he followed.
“Is Wurche treating you well?”
Her heart almost stopped beating. Words refused to leave her mouth, so she nodded and looked down at her washing.
Another afternoon, she prepared a delicious pot of rice and beans because she knew he would be coming to Jaji’s. She took her time, removed all the stones from the beans and washed the rice three times. The last time she had folded any love into a meal she prepared was in Botu. This time, she went to the market early, chose the best ginger and garlic, plucked the ripest tomatoes from Jaji’s garden. At the butcher’s she batted her eyes and asked for the softest cuts of mutton. So when only Shaibu and Helmut showed up she couldn’t hide her disappointment. Everybody thought she was sick. Jaji even insisted Aminah lie down. Her body felt pulled by the ground and it was hard to lift herself off the mat.
Later, when the room was quiet, Wumpini asleep by her side, Jaji and Wurche away, she realized she wasn’t thinking clearly. She was being foolish. This was a man who had tried to buy her, one who could be worse than of any of the others she had encountered so far. His physical appearance was distracting her. He was no different from the horsemen. He had taken Khadija to Salaga. He was beautiful to behold
; that much no one could deny. But beauty was so personal, Aminah thought. Her twin sisters, for instance—two people who shared the same dreams—had different ideas about beauty. To Hassana, their neighbor Motaaba was the ugliest boy in Botu. Aminah and Husseina didn’t agree, although adolescence had robbed him of beauty. What was it that made one person attractive to many people? Power? The madugu of the caravans was someone everyone thought handsome. Moro didn’t have half the madugu’s power, and yet she and Wurche were both attracted to him. She had to keep reminding herself of who he was.
* * *
—
They stayed with Jaji for three long months and tried to keep out of her way—Aminah took Wumpini for walks along the river and Wurche disappeared, but even the saintly Jaji had bad days. One morning, Aminah woke up early and stole the chance to bathe on her own before Wumpini woke up. Even with the twins Aminah had never felt so starved of time. It felt as if every minute awake was spent with Wumpini. So as she bathed she took her time, scrubbed every part of her body, and when she was done she felt good about life, a feeling that ended when she heard Wumpini’s piercing bawl. When she got to the hut, the stink of toilet hit her. Wumpini had relieved himself on a piece of paper on the floor. He was screaming in the corner and Jaji stood off to the side arms folded, her face expressionless.
“I am sorry, Jaji,” said Aminah. “What should I do about your work?”
“It’s fine. It’s just a newspaper.”
Aminah rushed to get a rag, soapy water and sand. It was clear Jaji had had enough of them. Aminah wondered if it meant they would soon return to Salaga—Wurche hadn’t said anything about how long they would stay, and Aminah was sure Jaji wanted to know. Aminah struck a match and lit a pot of incense, then took Wumpini outside for his wash. He kept hiccuping as she wiped his tears. His resemblance to Adnan was uncanny.
The Hundred Wells of Salaga Page 15
