The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (31 page)

In September 1846 one of the members of the Five Columns Club bade farewell to the academy. We, as members of the Phoenix society, were beholden to elect a new honorary member from our midst to replace him. Someone suggested Crown Prince Willem Alexander, for, besides being the patron of our academy, he also attended lectures once a fortnight. When he declined the honour—“I seek knowledge and social entertainment, not committee stuff and nonsense”—there was much ado, for the privileges attached to membership of the exclusive club, like the social duties, were not inconsiderable. Moreover the Five Columns Club was veiled in secrecy. Some believed it was a masonic lodge. It was rumoured that members were initiated according to ancient rites that dated back to the Dutch revolt against Spanish rule, and which were normally the preserve of the aristocracy. Linse and Lebret showed little interest in competing for the position, but were willing to offer financial support for my candidature. I threw myself into the fray. The privileges meant little to me, but my aim was to be singled out as
primus inter pares
, and I set out to achieve my ambition as if my life depended on it. There was much rivalry among the candidates. Fortunately most of them soon dropped out of the race either from lack of funds and sympathy, or because of vulgar gossip. After a few weeks, which cost me a fair amount of money, there were only four of us left: Alphons Wenckebach and Hendrick van Voorst tot Voorst, who had the advantage of being well-born, and Cornelius de Groot and myself. Speeches and debates were held, during which Hendrick gave a disappointing performance and subsequently withdrew his candidature. Then Alphons came up with a master-stroke: he invited all the students of his year to a hunting party on his parents’ estate. Although Cornelius shot a deer and a wild boar, both he and I fell behind in popularity. Neither of us had relatives who could help our cause in comparable style.

I wrote to Sophie explaining the situation. She offered me the use of the Queen’s Pavilion, but I could not see what good a beach party would do in the rainy weather we were having that autumn. She also conveyed news of me to her mother. For the first time in a year, I received a missive from the palace. It was an invitation to the unveiling of the equestrian statue of William the Silent. After some gentle persuasion I was granted permission to bring along some of my fellow students. This was a twist in my favour, although the ceremony itself was ruined by a cloudburst. The common folk ran for shelter, but Queen Anna did not wish her husband to interrupt the ceremony and we were all obliged to remain seated on the grandstand during the downpour. Her chamberlain of long standing, Baron Mackay, made frantic attempts to hold an umbrella over Her Majesty’s head, which embarrassed him so deeply that he resigned from her service the following day. All in all, the occasion had the desired effect. The weather cleared and the festivities were even grander than at the coronation. The royal city was lit up as never before, thanks to new-fangled gas lighting that cast straight beams along all the facades. Even the orangeries were illuminated, and the streets glowed with thousands of lamps of every size and description.

Not long after that, I received notice of my admittance to the Five Columns. Wenckebach and van Voorst tot Voorst congratulated me. Cornelius de Groot was deeply offended. He gave up his membership of the student society and eventually vanished from our circle.

My investiture was to take place on 1 March, in the presence of Willem Alexander. The expenses were to be paid by me. I appealed to the Duke of Saxe-Weimar, who granted me the necessary funds so wholeheartedly that there was no cause for embarrassment on my part. The final hurdle was a formality: the speech I was to give on the festive occasion itself. It had to be entertaining and also edifying. I was already making mental notes for a discourse on drilling techniques when I received a message from the chairman instructing me as to the subject of my talk: the land I had come from, no less. For the next week I did not sleep a wink.

Meanwhile a suit had to be purchased, my hair modelled, a commemorative coin struck and, in keeping with tradition, a small portrait made for inclusion in the gallery of honour. Willem Alexander was strongly in favour of using the new invention of Daguerre, which he had recommended to us earlier. I offered to pay for a similar portrait to be made of Kwame, but he still found the idea distasteful, believing that the technique divested the image of its soul. I repeated my offer a few days later, telling him how much I missed him now that he was spending such long periods at the barracks. It was the truth. I wrote to him of the date and time of appointment with the portrait studio, and begged him to be there. I wished to carry his likeness with me.

On the appointed day Kwame did not turn up. Fortunately Lebret had come with me, so I had no time for despondency. I was wearing a new silk waistcoat, yellow with red stripes, and around my neck an elaborate red choker checked with yellow. To make sure that I kept quite still during the long exposure time, the artist strapped me to a wooden frame, at the top of which was a clamp for my head. Rods were inserted into my sleeves, one of which was fastened to a high chair-back, and the other to a lectern. To mask the stiffness of my pose in a pretence of reading, I was given a book to hold in my right hand. Only then did the man turn to his camera obscura.

While I stood there unable to move, a message was brought in from Kwame. I was glad, thinking he had merely been delayed. Lebret was so kind as to read the words to me:

I am sorry, Kwasi. Our lives are not meant to be held captive in
pictures. If you want to see my face, just look at your memories.
There you will find the Kwame you hold dearest.

I did not move a muscle during the entire sitting.

Dear Sirs, dear fellow members! While the office that you have so
graciously bestowed on me is most gratifying for the edification
and experience it will a ford me, it is also a most daunting proposition. When I cast my eye over my lack of familiarity with the
tasks so admirably performed in the past by my peers, when I
reflect on the extent of my intellectual ability and capacity for
work in comparison with theirs, I am filled with trepidation at
the honour of membership. Yet the difficulties inherent in the task
that lies ahead are as nothing compared to the far greater, nobler
pursuit of serving the interests of the Five Columns Club . . .

I think I must have drafted about twenty preambles. Some of them lasted three-quarters of an hour. They were so elegant that I could have simply appended the concluding remarks without anyone noticing that the entire speech was nothing but flattery. That was the easiest part. Next I had to marshall all my powers to describe my country. The necessary facts and figures I looked up in the library, as everyone could have done.

CLIMATE
The temperature is uncommonly hot and moreover
exacerbated by the so-called Harmattan and Sammering, two
land winds, which are liable to last several weeks on end, and to
be accompanied by a diversity of ailments such as fever, paralysis of the limbs and so on. Moreover, the high temperatures in the
interior of the land are further raised by proximity to the sands
of the Sahara Desert and to the Equator. The latter, however,
causes tempering of atmospheric conditions, for although the
land is only six degrees north of the Line . . .

In the same manner I gave a survey of the rest of the country, in successive sections bearing such titles as: CONDITIONS OF THE SOIL AND VEGETATION, WATERS, MOUNTAINS AND CAPES. When I reread my own treatise I could imagine it arousing the interest of those who had no knowledge of the country. I gave it to Linse and Lebret to read. They reacted with approval, although their hesitation did not escape me. I knew full well what was missing, and forced myself to rise to the challenge: to tell of such things as only I knew, which were not to be found in books: CHARACTER AND CUSTOMS OF THE PEOPLE.

On 1 March 1847 the premises of the society were decked with garlands. The young men presented themselves in full dress. I was exceptionally nervous. Lebret pointed out that my agitation was out of all proportion, but I did not listen. This would be a turning-point in my life. On that day I felt as though a door had opened which had until then been closed to the likes of me. The fact that I would have to leave my hardheaded cousin behind would not stop me from entering. I was about to show where I stood at last. Concerned about causing offence to my beloved Kwame, I made sure he would not be in the audience. His superiors informed me that he had been assigned to guard duty that evening.

Willem Alexander arrived with Jules van der Capellen almost an hour late, and some tact was necessary to lure the two friends away from the buffet and into the auditorium, but at last, after a brief introduction, I was free to speak as I had intended. I struggled through the courtesies and scientific chapters, and was halfway through my enumeration of agricultural products when I was distracted by the creak of a door being pushed ajar. I looked up, disquieted. I could not make out a face, but for an instant before the door closed again I thought I saw a dark hand on the knob. My voice faltered and I lost my place.

“Plants, silk,” I rambled on, “honey, rice, maize, diverse grains, and sugar cane, although it is unknown to the natives, who employ it for purposes of . . .”

A little cough from Linse, who was sitting in the front row, signalled that I was repeating myself. I skipped half a page to be on the safe side.

“Sweet and sour banana.”

By the time I came to the end of this section there were beads of perspiration on my forehead. I paused and took a sip of water. This was the moment Kwame, not wishing to cause a disturbance, had been waiting for. He gave me a nod and smile of complicity, delighted at having persuaded his commander to grant him leave of absence. Under his arm he carried a gaily wrapped parcel—evidently for me. He slipped into a seat in the fourth row. I mopped my brow and felt my heart sink. But I had to proceed.

“I intend to speak to you about the customs in the land of my birth. First I wish to invoke your forbearance, should you find it tedious to hear the recounting of events and circumstances of a displeasing tenor, in which the deficiencies, way of life, morals, customs etcetera of a rough, uncivilized and little-known people . . .”

I paused again, but did not dare to look up from my notes. For a few moments I thought of stopping there. These thoughts, which I had so painstakingly written down and copied no less than three times over to get them all just right, I had never spoken out loud. At last I summoned the courage to look into the audience. They were spellbound. Kwame, no doubt sensing my disquiet, nodded reassuringly. There was no going back.

“They are heathens! Fetish worshippers. The Ashanti believe in a supreme being, whom they call Jan Kampong, Lord of All That Is. They also believe in good and evil spirits, and in omens. Also objects can have their veneration, such as the magnet or lodestone. Their belief extends, too, to a life after this life, in the sense that he who is king in this life remains king after death, the slave remains a slave, indeed everyone is restored to his own station and occupation in heaven. And it is in this light that one should regard the custom of sacrificing slaves upon the death of a king, priest or other dignitary, in the firm conviction that the deceased will need their services in the afterlife. The same applies to the numerous human sacrifices occasioned by sickness of one or other luminary in the realm, by the afflictions of war, by accession to the throne or anniversaries, by rites for sowing and reaping and other special events. When the chief of a people dies, his throne is dyed black by soaking it in human blood. The death of a lower-ranking headman may require the sacrifice of no more than one or two children. At the time of my father’s investiture as Asantehene, however, the entire population of several villages was designated to follow him into death when he passes away . . .”

Gasps of outrage and shock rose from the audience, just as I had expected. The smile on Kwame’s face had faded. He glanced around him. I could see him biting his lip. Then he fixed me with a steely look. I was not going to give up now.

“An interesting example is the yam feast of
odwira
. Each year at the beginning of September, when the yams are harvested, all the district chiefs and military leaders are duty-bound to present themselves with their retinues in the capital. While they parade past the king of Ashanti, two groups of one hundred executioners each traverse the city, sowing dread. They advance slowly, beating their chopping knives rhythmically on the skulls of high-placed victims, as a warning of the fate awaiting certain dignitaries before the end of the festival. In order to remove all suspicion of disloyalty to the Asantehene, these dignitaries order slaves to be slaughtered all over the city. This is not to say that any man found lacking in devotion to the powers that be during the past year will escape execution. At the end of the festival, the holes in the fields left by harvesting the yams are filled with the blood of the victims, thus assuring continued fertility.”

Heads were shaken in disbelief, and there was some expostulation.

“You may wonder what induces me to recount the barbarism of a brutish, savage and uncivilized race. What can be the purpose of evoking monstrous acts which in the hearing alone fill us with horror?”

Why did I not hold my tongue? Why did I not spare Kwame’s feelings? All I can say is this: his pained expression spurred me on. Not out of cruelty—God forbid! I had no wish to hurt him; on the contrary, my aim was to ease his pain. Indeed his tears inflamed my desire to declare to him: see, they are not worth pining for. The anguish and loneliness that has been our lot is the doing of my own father, of our own people. What more can I say? Does not the wound in our hearts that will never heal attest to unspeakable cruelty and barbarism? Can there be any justification for the heartless manner in which we were banished from their midst? Why not join my cause? Take my hand and let us turn our backs on this barbarian heritage. Let us disown it. Once and for all.