A Different Sun: A Novel of Africa (13 page)

Part
Three

ACROSS THE

OBA RIVER

· 14 ·

Guide

I have learned to think thus: If an evening turns to day, a dry season comes to rain, and an injury brings pardon, surely I can turn—for the earth and the heaven have turned me in the night—and take the light of God’s word and walk out again into the day—light into light—and give myself to the thing I came for, even as less and less I know exactly what that is. It may be that we follow God only by losing our way.

—EMMA’S JOURNAL, IJAYE, AUGUST 1854

A
ROOSTER CROWED.
Emma turned her face, seeking the early light of her bedroom window, but the wall was dark. She turned the other way. Of course. Now she remembered. She and Henry had spent the night with Rev. Moore. After a year in Ijaye and the loss of Sarah, they were moving to a new mission, farther north, in Ogbomoso. A week ago, Moore had invited them to stay with him as they packed. Three days ago, she and Duro had disassembled the kitchen. Yesterday, Henry had covered the mattresses with ticking. There was little left at the house but their books and Henry’s papers, and Emma would take care of those today.

Henry’s side of the bed was cool, and she comprehended that he had likely been up for hours. The murmur of farmers heading to their fields entered her consciousness. Would a change in climate relieve her husband’s distress? Rev. Moore thought so. She was conflicted. Here she knew the turns in the stream, had memorized the stones around Henry’s garden, the beautiful lemon tree. And the house Henry had told her of in his proposal had cradled her during those months of grief. And then Tela and her schoolchildren and Rev. Moore were her constant support. Would letters from home ever reach such a faraway place? She feared moving to a town that had never housed white people. Surely chances for misunderstanding would be greater. Who would stand by them? And what of the route there? She imagined highway robbers.

But most of all, there was Sarah, whose grave she visited, imagining her an angel who might counsel and comfort. She would have to leave her.

Still, the unfolding of events seemed divinely ordained. A load of supplies with letters and money had finally arrived. The day it came, Henry entered the parlor, looking more vigorous than Emma had seen him in a long time. It was as though he had touched the bottom of a deep lake and, rushing up for air, had broken the surface with new life. An additional missionary was finally on his way and could replace them here. The fellow had already departed Richmond. “We can move forward,” Henry said. His blue eyes shone in their mysterious way but with an original beauty. “We should go for your sake,” he said, “a new beginning, a place less sorrowful.”

That afternoon, Emma had meditated in the chapel, a stray chicken her only companion.
If we stay in Ijaye
, she reasoned,
the rounds of illness will likely continue. We will be forced to return to Georgia, our daughter sacrificed for nothing. I did not come here to give up.

She found Duro at the kitchen fire. “If we move to Ogbomoso, will you come with us?” she said.

“Ah,” he said.

“Is it too far from your family?”

“It is not too far,” he said.

“I would be happy if you would come,” she said.

“I will come,” he said.

In the parlor, Emma’s fingers found their place on the lid of her writing box and she began playing the piano, the keys and notes in her head. Brahms. Light enough for a child, deep enough for a forest, tidal enough for her longing.

“I agree,” she told Henry that night. “Duro will come with us.”

In their bed, Henry ran his fingers along her lips. “
O-bow-mow-shaw
,” he said, emphasizing every syllable the same, and he kissed her and poured the word into her mouth.

After their time together, they talked into the night. “We should aim for August, the little dry season. Four or five days by caravan,” Henry said. “There’s money for a horse and a hammock. I want you to hire a handmaid. You’re going to need someone living in a native house while I build. You can teach her. It will be a comfort to you.”

Emma had inquired about one of Moore’s former pupils, a girl named Abike, and made arrangements with the mother. “
O ti nri nkan osu
,” the mother volunteered, which Emma took to mean “she has begun to see the monthly thing.” Emma had not chanced the petite girl’s age, but now guessed she might be fifteen, and just as well that she was initiated into young adulthood. One less hurdle. If anything, Emma might need to sew some bloomers for her and offer batches of old cloth.

Everything had come together except that Henry still needed Kunrumi’s permission to travel. It was one of the odd customs of the territory. The king must invite the
oyinbo
to come, and he must allow him to leave. Moreover, he must provide guards. It was bad policy, or perhaps a show of weakness, to have a white man leave your town and be attacked on the road. That must be where Henry was this morning, pressing the king for a departure date.

Moore’s guest room was now a pink glow. Emma rested her hands in the concave of her abdomen, between her hip bones. In a moment, she stood to dress. Most days she wore a cotton chemise, a single petticoat, and a corset she had made comfortable by relaxing the laces. Over this she slipped a white blouse and dark skirt. She took some time putting up her hair. When she was finished, she lingered for a moment on her image in the mirror. She touched two fingers to her tongue, wet them, pulled wisps of hair down around her neck and across her forehead, and put on her hat. Suddenly she was quite hungry. Moore might serve marmalade for breakfast.

Their friend sat under a tree at a table set with a white cloth and china. “The king has finally come through with the escort,” Moore said as he rose to greet her. “Rev. Bowman has gone looking for more porters.”

Before long, Henry came riding in on a sorrel horse, a little shabby-looking, but the animal picked his feet up nicely. “Why look at you,” Emma said.

Henry dismounted and tied the horse.

“Haven’t we got a guava for him?” Emma said. “What’s his name?”

“Caesar,” Henry said.

“Maybe he’ll grow into some greatness,” Emma said, caressing Caesar’s forehead.

“Were you successful?” Moore said.

“Kunrumi must have gone back and forth ten times on whether we should leave this week or next,” he said. “He did offer four guards on horseback. What a fellow.” He turned to Emma, his face bright. “A man has applied to be our guide. He heard news of our travel in the market. I’ll bring him by the house to meet you. He might stay on with us in Ogbomoso.”

Only a table and two chairs were left in the parlor, and the floors echoed as Emma walked across them in her packing. Her two older schoolboys came by and watched from the window, their arms latched up over their heads. They had the aspect of youngsters who have known disappointment. “Another teacher is coming,” she said. Their arms fell from their heads and she saw their limbs so long and young, and she thought she would cry. She took in a deep breath and walked onto the piazza.

“Mah,” one of them said, “I am sad.”

“I am sad too,” she said. They laid their hands gently in the crook of her elbows, and she returned the gesture. Later, she did cry.
Everywhere I go I leave children
, she thought. Then she coaxed herself. “I must remember the whole world is God’s. He can see what I cannot. My portion is to follow, even without understanding.” She shook her head to stop her tears and returned to sorting Henry’s notes. Just then her husband appeared at the front door, bringing someone behind him. She pressed at her eyes, to be sure they were dry. The fellow with Henry wore a camel-colored tunic over knee-length pants and had a chewing stick perched at his ear like a pencil. Fresh green leaves sprouted from one end and set against his brown skin provided him a gay and superior look. He was taller than Henry and Emma had to look up to meet his face. She had an immediate sense of force.

“Mrs. Bowman, meet Jacob Ladejo. He wishes to be our guide on the caravan,” Henry said. Then he turned to the man beside him, “Jacob, Mrs. Bowman.”

“You are welcome,” Emma said in Yoruba. She was well enough advanced in the language now to sustain basic conversation with anyone who was accustomed to
oyinbos
.

“Thank you mah,” Jacob said in English.

“Where do you prefer to sit,” Henry said to the man, “on an English seat or an African one?” He pointed to a mat.

“I know both, captain,” Jacob said, and this seemed a joke to Henry and he laughed. They took English chairs, Jacob adjusting his frame to the contours of the seat just as a gentleman in Greensboro might, but wearing leather sandals and still with the green bough on his ear. There was an energy in the room now and as she returned to her work, Emma hoped it was her husband who had ushered it in. From where she stood, she could get an angle on the man. She meant to estimate his age, though it was always difficult to figure an African.

He’s not over thirty
, she imagined, observing the smooth plane of his forehead. Then seeing how animated his brows were, she lowered her guess to twenty-two. He had not smiled, but still she thought he had a smiling face. It was the direct angle from his chin to his cheekbones. By the time she had finished packing the second box, she had settled at twenty-four and felt she might have gained some mastery over him.

All at once Henry seemed to miss her. “I thought you were joining us,” he said.

“I was given to understand differently,” she said, meaning to observe the lack of seating.

“Take my chair,” he said. Emma obliged, only to find a dangerous propinquity between Jacob’s legs and her skirt.

“Jacob was schooled in Sierra Leone,” Henry said, his voice echoing in her mind. Emma drew her eyes up from her skirts toward her husband. He seemed enamored with this fellow.

“Several years back he was sold to Portuguese traders headed for Brazil, but the ship was intercepted by a British squadron and he was released in the colony.”

Emma’s forehead tightened. There was already so much for her to think of.

“Wife?” Henry said.

“You spoke so quickly,” she said.

“Our man, here,” Henry said. “He was captured, sold in the slave trade as a lad, swapped about these parts until he was put on a boat for Brazil.”

Emma felt a shiver. She looked back to Jacob. He didn’t
look
like a slave, but let her say something appropriate. “We praise God you were released,” she uttered in his direction, her eyes lingering a moment on his nose. It broadened as he breathed, and she imagined he was less couth than she had first thought.

“I was stolen out of my village. Some passersby. For a time, maybe some months, I was traded in the area of Ibadan, from one family to another.” He drew lines in the air, to indicate the movement. “You know Ibadan?”

“Yes, certainly,” Henry said.

Emma thought of her friends the Hathaways. It was hard to imagine children traded in the shadow of their church. A thought came to her from her own backyard. Perhaps Mittie Ann and Carl had avoided having children because they might be sold. Clouds gathered in her mind. That dream she had of Sarah snatched away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a stray termite making its stunned and crooked way at her feet, no doubt shaken from Henry’s papers as she packed. She placed her boot squarely on it until she thought she heard the faint crunch.

“Were you ill-treated then?” she heard Henry whisper.

“Of course,” Jacob said, and his head went back, as if to save himself from a hit. “Iron,” he said, “even for children.” Emma’s eyes rested on the contours of the man’s neck. “The British schooled me for four years,” he continued. “When I was baptized, I became Jacob.”

“It’s a strong name,” Henry said.

This turn in the story offered Emma some ballast. “You write in English?” she said.

“Yes mah,” Jacob said.

“But why leave Sierra Leone?”

Jacob did seem to smile, that odd Yoruba smile of sadness. “Ah mah,” he said. “I came looking for my family. But they were all dead in the war. My entire village, everything sacked.”

The way he said “sacked” was so physical, Emma felt the hit in her stomach.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I need some water.”

When she reentered the parlor, Henry was arranging Jacob’s fee. “I’ll pay you three heads of cowries for the journey; that’s fifteen dollars,” he said, “though I’m still surprised you’d rather travel with us than apply to Rev. Moore for work. You know the British better.”

“I prefer you Americans,” Jacob said.

“Why is that?” Henry said.

Jacob waved his hand. “The British, the Portuguese. All of them remind me of slavery. Americans have fought for freedom, no?”

His voice carried the most bewildering tone—old and full of hope. It perplexed Emma as much as did Jacob’s idea that her countrymen had fought for freedom for someone like him.

“So we’re agreed,” Henry said. And when Emma did not immediately reply—“Wife?”

“Yes,” she said.

The two men shook hands like partners.