Ama (65 page)

“Our brothers and sisters in Salvador are the key. Salvador is like the hub of one of Bernardo's cart wheels. Every
engenho
has links with the city. Those links are kept alive by the carters and the boatmen, by brothers like Josef. Here in the Recôncavo we have the numbers, but it is difficult for us to organise ourselves. It is the slaves in Salvador that must mobilise our Crioulo and mulatto brothers. It is they that must do the planning and give us the leadership. When they are ready and give the signal, every
engenho
in the Recôncavo will rise up. And when that happens, the country will be ours, just as Palmares was ours.

“Our greatest enemy is not the whites. It is our own disunity. They know that, of course, and they encourage it. Their Christian religion is one the weapons they use to divide us. That, by the way, was why I was disturbed when you told me the book you were reading was their Bible.”

“Bra Olukoya,” Ama interrupted, “I told you I am not a Christian. If I were to tell you the story of how I came to be here you would know that I will never become a Christian. But the Bible is a wonderful book all the same. It is full of marvellous stories. And it is the only book I have.”

“I do not doubt your word,” he replied. “You must tell us some of these stories. Perhaps we can learn something useful from them. What I hate about the Christians is their arrogance. They tell us that we are pagans, that we worship many gods. They tell us that there is only one god, the one they worship; but they are hypocrites. They themselves have many gods. They worship Jesus and Mary and they have hundreds of saints whom they worship too. How does that differ from us, I ask you? We also have one supreme god, Olodumare. We worship him through the many
orishas
who are all his children..”

They were silent for a while.

“Bra Olukoya,” she said hesitantly, “there is one thing that worries me.”

“What is that my sister?”

“I felt the power of your gods today and of Tempu too. Our gods are not so strong. We ask them to bring us rain, good hunting and fishing and to preserve us from the winds that destroy our crops. And even in those small things they often fail. It is hardly surprising that they could not save us from being captured and sold into slavery. But you yourself, you were serving the gods. How is it that they could allow you to be captured by your enemies?”

“Sister Ama,” he laughed, “at home if you had asked such a question you might have had your head cut off. I must admit that it has troubled me too, though I have never spoken to anyone else about it before. All I can say is that I do not know the answer. The ways of the gods are inscrutable. Sometimes they come to our aid; sometimes it as if they have not heard us or even. . . .”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he replied, “just an idle unworthy thought which came unbidden into my head. Slavery does strange things to us, you know. I am not immune.”

They were silent again.

“Bra Olukoya, you mentioned Palmares. I have heard the name before. Bra Josef mentioned it when I first came here. He said that once I knew Portuguese I would hear the story.”

“Good idea,” Olukoya replied. “We are all packed and ready to leave, but we mustn't go too early or we might be seen arriving. We can fill the time telling of Palmares. Like the knowledge of our gods, it is something we must nurture and pass on from generation to generation. It is a story that even we, who have come from Africa only recently, can be proud of.”

He rose to his feet.

“Brothers and sisters. Please gather round. Sister Ama has asked for the story of Palmares. It can never be retold too often and it will fill the time until we are ready to return to the
engenho
.”

* * *

“How old is Esperança, do you think?”

“Maybe eighty,” someone volunteered.

“Let's say she is eighty. This is a story of long ago. It started a hundred years before Esperança was born; and when it ended she was still not yet born.”

“It has not ended,” said Olukoya.

“My brother, you are right. It lives on in our memories. It is part of our present and of our future. One day we will honour the Palmarinos in public, not furtively, as we have to do today.”

“The story, the story!”

“All right, all right. The story! Let me begin at the beginning. Even the very first slaves whom the Portuguese brought to these shores from Africa ran away into the bush. They ran away even before they had learned the Portuguese language. . . .”

And so he told the long story of the independent African state which flourished for a hundred years in the forests of Brazil, pausing only from time to time to wet his throat or to point a moral which the tale revealed.

“Do you know what the worst thing was that we lost when we were taken into slavery? Of course you do. It was our families. Suddenly we had no grandparents, no fathers or mothers, no uncles or aunts, no brothers or sisters, husbands or wives, no children; no one to bury us with proper ceremony when we died, to send us to join our ancestors. Now, in Palmares, they began to build new families. The slaves regained some of their humanity and their children and grandchildren became complete human beings again.

“But this was something that the whites could not accept. They did not go to all that trouble and risk to bring Africans across the ocean in order that we should be human beings, citizens, Brazilians,
senhores
even. No, they brought us here for one purpose and one purpose only: to work us to death making their accursed sugar, that useless rubbish. So they determined to crush Palmares.”

He told them of the repeated attempts by the Portuguese and Dutch to conquer the twenty thousand Palmarinos and their king, the Ganga-zumba. He told them how the last Ganga-zumba negotiated secretly with the enemy and how his treachery was discovered and punished. He told them how the war continued under the leadership of their military commander, the Zumbi.

When he came to the end he said, “I have finished my story for today, but the story is not yet finished.”

“You have spoken well, my brother,” said Olukoya. “The struggle goes on even today. Soon after I was landed in Salvador, I heard about the heroic defence of the
quilombo
of Carlota in Matta Grosso and two years later news reached us that there was a war in progress in which an army of slaves had joined with our Tupi brothers to conquer a vast area in the state of San Jose de Maranhão.”

“Bra Olukoya. . . .” asked Ama.

“My sister?”

“Why do we of the Engenho de Cima not plan and just slip away one dark night and find a place to set up a quilombo of our own? Even here?”

“That's a question I have often asked myself, my sister, ever since I first heard the Palmares story. I think the answer must be that times have changed. Over the years the Portuguese have destroyed more and more of the forest to open up land for sugar and tobacco. If you go to the top of next hill and then climb a tree, you can look out over a plain where there are only patches of forest with vast open spaces in between. Grassland that is good for cattle, but bad for quilombos. With their superior arms the militias would find us and wipe us out in days. There is no way we could hold out like the Palmarinos did. They are even growing sugar now on Palmares land.

“No, if we want our freedom, if want to destroy slavery in this country, we will have to be more ambitious. We will all have to rise up together, those in Salvador and those of us in the Recôncavo. When the time comes, the smoke from the burning cane fields will be our signal. It will not be long now, but we still have much to do.”

CHAPTER 33

Josef returned from Salvador late one night.

He brought the mail to the kitchen the next morning and Ama took it out to the Senhor with his breakfast tray.

“Girl, what-is-your-name? Go and call Father Isaac and tell him that I want to speak to him,” he told her when he had read the first letter. “Father Isaac, the priest. Do you understand?”

Ama said she understood.

“Sit down, Father,” the Senhor said when the priest came. “Girl, pour the Father a cup of coffee.”

“Father, do you know any English?”

“English? No, Senhor. Latin, yes. A little Spanish, but no English. If I may ask, Senhor, why?”

“Look at this. The English consul in Salvador wants to do me the honour of being my guest. The Governor has authorised the visit. There is no way I can refuse. Please draft a reply for me to sign. Tell them that he will be welcome but that there is no one here who understands the man's language. If he does not speak Portuguese he will have to bring an interpreter with him.”

Please Senhor
, Ama imagined herself saying,
there is no need. I know English well. I could act as the Consul's interpreter if you would permit me to do so.

“What does it say? When will he be arriving?” the Senhor asked.

The English consul had come aboard
The Love of Liberty
. Ama tried to recall his face..

“Next Friday, subject to your agreement,” Father Isaac replied.

“Make a list. We'll invite all our neighbours to a banquet on Saturday night. And their wives too. They can sleep over and attend Mass on Sunday. You would like that, wouldn't you?”

He rubbed his hands together.

“We'll show this Englishman the meaning of Brazilian hospitality.”

* * *

There was a great hustle and bustle in the
casa grande
of the Engenho de Cima.

Additional slaves were brought in to help with the preparations. The seamstresses worked long hours repairing the uniforms of those who would wait at table. The best plate and silver was washed and polished. Linen was aired and ironed. Bernardo made new beds. The excitement was felt even in the mill and in the cane fields. It was almost as if the expected visitor were Jesus Christ Himself, or at least the Governor of all Brazil.

Ama was kept busy in the kitchen. She hadn't seen so much food since Osei Kwadwo's garden party at Breman. Wono was there too. And Josef would be serving at table.

The Senhora was flustered.

“We are short of one server,” she said. “Ama, do you think you could manage?”

“Of course, Senhora. At least I shall do my best.”

“I hope the guests won't be frightened by your bad eye; but there is no one else. Go to the seamstresses and get yourself fitted.”

Wono took Ama's hands and they did a little dance together.

Ama was in the sewing room, trying on her new dress, when the English consul arrived. It was the fanciest garment she had worn since Mijn Heer's death.

* * *

The dining room was ablaze with the light of a hundred candles and oil lamps.

On the brilliant white table cloth the silver and plate and glassware glittered and gleamed. Around the walls stood sixteen bare footed slaves, the men in smart livery and the women in full petticoats. Two Crioulos played fiddle and guitar.

The Senhor led in the beautiful young wife of a neighbouring senhor de engenho. She wore a dress of green damask and silk which took Ama's breath away. Slaves stepped forward to pull their chairs.

Ama turned to look at the next couple and suddenly felt faint. The Senhora was clutching the arm of none other than William Williams, the nephew of the captain of
The Love of Liberty
.

Can it really be him?
she wondered. He was deep in conversation with the Senhora, Portuguese conversation. Ignoring the slave whose duty it was, he pulled back the Senhora's chair at the lower end of the table. Then Williams took his own seat, facing Ama, next to the beauty in green who sat in the place of honour beside the Senhor.

The Senhor's daughter Miranda came in last, on the arm of Father Isaac. She was wearing a modest white organdie dress which Ama had helped to make. The priest led her to her seat at her father's left, where he could keep a watchful eye on her. This was the first time Miranda had been permitted to attend an adult function. She smiled nervously as Ama drew her chair for her.

Father Isaac rose and said grace. When the guests had added their amens, the slaves stepped forward to serve them, one slave for each guest. The first course was a selection of local delicacies, spicy green
pamonha
, corn paste with coconut milk cooked in strips of banana leaves,
efo
, a pungent shrimp dish and
acarajé
, a tasty black bean cake.

Ama poured red Portuguese wine into Miranda's glass. As she did so, Williams noticed her. He was struck first by her missing eye. Then he took another look and at once he knew her. He sat back in his chair and stared. Ama put down the bottle and retired to her position behind her young mistress. She raised her head proudly, returning his stare, but giving no indication that she recognised him as anything other than just another visiting white man.

“Just a sip, now,” the Senhor admonished his daughter.

“Senhor Williams, this is my daughter, the apple of my eye.”

Williams forced himself to pay attention to his host.

“Of course, Senhor, the good Father introduced us just a few moments ago. Senhorita Miranda, if I am not mistaken? A young woman, if you will permit me to say so, Senhor, of remarkable beauty.”

Miranda blushed and the Senhor smiled indulgently.

A silent signal sent Ama to the kitchen. When she returned with a tureen of steaming turtle soup Williams was deep in conversation with his host.

“Senhor,” he asked, “How long has this
engenho
been in your family?”

“Twenty-five years,” replied the old man. “It used to belong to the Jesuits. When they were sent packing from Brazil, the government sold it by auction. Mine was the best offer. Fortunately the great families decided not to bid.”

“The great families?”

“Rocha Pitta, stand up if you please,” the Senhor called to the husband of the beauty who sat beside him. “Our guest wants to know who our great families are.”