Ama (12 page)

He paused and watched as fresh palm wine was poured from a calabash into a cup. He took the cup and poured a silent libation. Then he took a draught of the sweet liquid.

He licked his lips, wiped his beard and continued his homily.

“If you behave well and work hard,” he promised them, “if you learn our language and adopt our customs, you men will be given wives, some from your own ranks, but others even from amongst our own Asante women. If you marry an Asante woman your children will be Asante.”

“So I say to you all: welcome to Asante. Turn your backs on your old lives. Look to a better future.

“We set off early tomorrow. I have purchased a new cloth for each of you. You will receive it the day before we arrive in Kumase. In Kumase you will be handed over to your new masters and mistresses. Your chains and shackles will be removed. You will join the families for whom you will be working. I wish you an uneventful journey and success in your new lives.”

* * *

At first light, the slaves were shepherded into their assigned positions.

A band of drummers led the caravan. Next came a small squad of musketeers.

Koranten Péte followed, with his guest, Sharif Imhammed. Each sat in a hammock, borne aloft on poles by four bearers. The horses had been left behind in Kafaba. There were too many tsetse flies in the forest.

The male slaves followed in groups of twelve, manacled wrist to wrist in pairs and spaced a stride apart along a heavy chain, just as in their journey from Yendi. Two armed guards marched before and behind each chain gang with some of the women and children between them. Each slave carried a head load, tribute goods from Yendi or luxuries from Kafaba.

Another squad of musketeers brought up the rear.

Koranten Péte's secretary poured libation and invoked the blessings of the ancestors. Then the royal horn was blown, the drummers struck up a rhythm and the procession moved off.

Nandzi and Minjendo were now both well enough to carry a load. They walked together, with Jaji their constant companion.

As they moved off, Nandzi began to hum a traditional dirge. In her mind she sang the words she remembered, inserting the names of those whose death she was lamenting, first Itsho and then, in turn, everyone else whose death she could recall. Then new words begun to form themselves. Dimly, she sensed Itsho's unseen presence. Her eyes were open but she seemed to be dreaming. Her spirit left her body. She floated weightlessly and saw the whole caravan from a great height.

“Why are you humming a dirge?” asked Minjendo.

Nandzi continued humming.

“Nandzi, don't you hear me?” Minjendo asked her, but Nandzi appeared to be in a trance.

She began to sing new words, softly, tentatively, adapting her rhythm to the beat of the drums.

“Oh you our ancestors, our grandparents

“And their parents; and their parents and grandparents:

“Hear our voice,

“Hear our lamentation.

“Oh you our ancestors, all those who in the dim mists of the past

“Have lived upon this earth and have gone before us into the world of the spirits:

“Hear our voice,

“Hear our lamentation.

“Advise us, help us,

“Succour us.

“Hear our voice,

“Hear our lamentation.”

As she sang her voice gained power. Minjendo turned her head and looked at her.
The spirits have possessed her
, she thought; and she was afraid.

“We too have died and yet we live still.

“We are as walking corpses.

“Hear our voice,

“Hear our lamentation.

“We have no drink to offer

“But we beg and beseech you:

“Hear our voice,

“Hear our lamentation.”

One of the older women began to join the chorus, “Hear our voice, Hear our lamentation,” and then another.

Soon all the women in the group were singing the chorus. Minjendo was the last to join.

“Our freedom has been taken from us

“Our spirits are chained to our dead bodies.

“Hear our voice,

“Hear our lamentation.

“Who will perform the rites which will free our spirits

“And send them to your world?

“Hear our voice,

“Hear our lamentation.

“Hear us, advise us, fortify us,

“Give us back life; give us back hope.

“Hear our voice,

“Hear our lamentation.”

Nandzi paused.

“Again,” the older woman called to her. She began again from the beginning.

Again and again they sang the dirge until they knew all the words. The song passed up to the beginning of the caravan; and it passed down to the end. Even the women who did not understand the words were moved to join in. The guards did nothing. One does not lightly interfere in matters concerning the spirits of the dead.

The singing of dirges is women's work. At first the male slaves listened in silence, like the guards. But the words of the song captured their misery and one or two began to join the chorus. The rules of the old society were losing their power.

Soon the lament had been taken up throughout the length of the caravan and the singing echoed across the plain as they trudged on. Again and again they sang it until the words were inscribed in every memory.

Only when they came to a river was the rhythm interrupted. The musketeers fired volleys into the air to frighten off the crocodiles and they waded across waist deep without incident. For the time being the spell had been broken.

* * *

Once they learned that Nandzi understood a little of their language, the guards were eager to boast of the greatness of the Asante state and to share some gossip

“Our King,” one of the musketeers told her, “has three thousand, three hundred and thirty three wives.”

Nandzi struggled with the figure. It was clearly a large number.

“They are the finest, the most beautiful women in the nation. If the King sees a beautiful woman, he will take her, even if she is another man's wife, or if she is a slave. Now you are quite a pretty girl. If the King sees you, he might well marry you. But be forewarned: no other man may sleep with one of the King's wives. To do so is to court terrible torture and certain death, both for the man and for the wife. Only the highest in the land can avoid this punishment.”

He looked around and dropped his voice.

“Let me tell you a story. This happened during the reign of our last king, Kusi Obodum. One of the King's own sons, Adabo, fell in love with one of his father's wives. The scandal became known. Adabo was a favourite son of his father, but the King's counsellors demanded that he be handed over to the executioners. It was only with the greatest of difficulty that the King was able to extract a compromise from them. The errant wife was executed but Adabo's sentence was commuted to castration. Do you understand, his balls were cut off?”

This was dangerous gossip. The man slowed down and walked beside Nandzi, speaking so softly that she could barely hear him. She opened her eyes wide and turned to look at him.

“Adabo survived the operation,” he continued, “and our present King, Osei Kwadwo, has created a special stool for him. He is the Chief Surveyor of Nuisance and Master of Those Who Keep the Roads Clear. We might well meet him on the way. You will recognise him by his gold sword and the gold and silver whips he carries.”

He looked around again to make sure that no one was monitoring his conversation. He dropped his voice almost to a whisper.

“Now do you know why the King created that job for Adabo? No? Well I'll tell you. When he was a young man, Osei Kwadwo committed the same offence, not just with one, but with four of the King's wives. Four. Can you believe it? Osei Kwadwo was Kusi Obodum's nephew and the heir to the Golden Stool. They couldn't kill him. He got away with no more than a scolding. They tried to hush the whole thing up, you know, but it is difficult to keep secrets in Kumase. They got Duedu, who was the captain of the harem, to confess and he was executed to save Osei Kwadwo's reputation. But the women in the palace have okro mouths, they gossip even with their slaves. So I warn you, in Asante there is one law for the nobles and another for the common people, especially slaves. If the King marries you, even if he never touches you, and you take a lover, you must expect to be tortured and to die.”

“Are you not afraid to tell such stories?” Nandzi asked him.

He looked around.

“Nobody heard me,” he said.

“My name is Mensa,” he continued, “what is yours?”

She told him.

“Nandzi,” he said, “I like you. How about it tonight? I mean when we camp. You and me. I mean, before the King marries you and it becomes too dangerous?”

Nandzi laughed. “Thank you but they tell me that I am already the property of your King. I would rather not take the risk.”

* * *

A few days later, they came to the customs post at the border of Asante proper.

Beyond the border the tree cover became more dense. Almost before they were aware of it, they found themselves enveloped in the rain forest. In that vast primeval wilderness the great road to Kumase, hacked through by the labour of countless slaves, was the only evidence of the puny genius of mankind.

The slaves surveyed their surroundings with awe.

Great multicoloured butterflies and moths flitted across the patches of bright dappled sunlight which reached the road. On either side, beyond the undergrowth, lay a domain of alien gloom. Tangled ropes, some as thick as a woman's wrist, hung from the highest branches, twisted into strange contorted shapes as they descended. The scent of rotting vegetation filled the air. Tiny shrill-voiced birds, with bright red and yellow and blue breasts and long curved beaks, swept out of the darkness to suck the nectar from the wild flowers which grew in the tangled roadside jungle.

“Everything seems different,” Nandzi told Minjendo.

The road was aligned to suit pedestrian traffic. It meandered this way and that, hugging the slopes of the small, closely-spaced, steep-sided hills which filled the landscape, skirting the great buttresses of a silk-cotton tree, sometimes plunging into damp, flat areas which would become impassable swamps during the rains. It was just twelve paces wide. Left untended for only a single rainy season, the forest would invade it and recover its lost territory. But this road had not been left untended. It was an important artery of the Asante economy and Adabo's maintenance gangs were forever slashing away with their cutlasses to keep it clear.

The slaves from the northern savannah were unused to the humidity. Their bodies and clothing were drenched in sweat and their wet black skin glistened in the speckled light.

The forest pressed in on them. From its depths came strange discordant sounds, a chorus of screeching, howling and wailing.

Minjendo gripped Nandzi's arm: “What's that?”

“Oh, it must be some kind of animal,” replied Nandzi, feigning calm indifference. “Jaji, leave go of me.”

“What kind of animal? I have never heard a noise like that before.”

“Well, maybe the animals that live in the forest are different from the ones we know.”

Minjendo was not satisfied.

“There it is again,” she cried. “Nandzi, ask the guard. I am afraid.”

“Papa Mensa,” Nandzi asked the musketeer who was her suitor, “I beg you, what is making that frightful noise.”

Mensa laughed.

“Those are the spirits of the forest. They are screaming abuse at us because they are angry that we have cut a road through their kingdom. Do you understand? Spirits, cruel, vindictive spirits.”

He laughed again.

“What did he say?” asked Minjendo.

Nandzi translated as best she could.

“But don't mind him,” she added. “He is just telling us that to make us scared.”

“How can you be sure?” asked Minjendo.

Nandzi had no reply.

She said only, “Spirits or no spirits, one thing is clear: it would be madness to try to run away and hide in this forest. You would get lost in no time. And if the spirits did not kill you, there must surely be wild animals there which would.”

“You are always thinking of escape,” said Minjendo.

* * *

In the late afternoon they passed a clearing planted with corn, plantain and cassava, all plants which were new to them.

“We must be approaching a village,” said Nandzi.

A old woman who had been hoeing straightened her back and took a break to watch the extraordinary procession.

“
Adwúma óo
!” cried the first rank of Asante musketeers as they passed.

“
Adwuma yé
,” she replied, “the work is good.”

“
Adwúma óo
!” Nandzi echoed the greeting.

“
Adwuma yé
,” the woman replied again.

Then the slaves behind followed suit and the greetings and replies rippled through the forest like the wind in a corn field.

Koranten Péte had sent a runner ahead to give notice of their coming.

For the villagers the arrival of such a large party of northerners was an event which would provide material for conversation for weeks to come. This was some recompense for the cost which they were obliged to incur in entertaining the party. The young scouts who had been on the watch all day came running in to announce the imminent arrival of the caravan. The chief put on his best cloth and the panoply which was the privilege of his office and, with drummers and umbrella bearers in attendance, he and his elders proceeded slowly to meet the oncoming party. The caravan's drums were heard in the distance and the village drummers replied. At the boundary of the village territory, the welcome party waited with quiet dignity. A swarm of small boys and girls ran this way and that, aware that some great event was about to happen, but unable to conceive what it might be and unable to contain their excitement.

A camp ground had been cleared and newly fenced. The slaves were served with water as if they were honoured guests. Palm nut soup was cooking in as many pots as the village could muster. And when the guests had eaten their fill the children, only dimly aware of the distinction between slave and free man, circulated shyly amongst the visitors, intrigued at their manacles and chains, offering them the bananas and pineapples, pawpaw and sweet limes which they had picked especially for this occasion.