The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (39 page)

I rested my head on her lap. I am not ashamed of that. I must have drifted off. When I awoke in the morning she was gone. I asked everywhere, but no one had noticed an Ashanti woman. Not in the village, not in the fort and even the night guard maintains that he did not see anyone in my company. No matter. I know what I know.

15 January 1850

I should know better than to hope for another glimpse of her, but I do. I keep my ears and eyes wide open every night. Once I saw someone walking along the surf. I called out, but there was no reply. I know she cannot still be here. Her absence from Kumasi is bound to attract undue attention, so she must have hurried back. I shall try to get some sleep tonight.

4 February 1850

I returned today from an extended walk in the forest, where I spent two nights. I did not go equipped for an expedition. I slept on the ground, ate the fruits of the trees and bathed in the river. It was not my intention to disappear for good. I was roaming the salt flats and was drawn ever closer to that wall of green. Once I reached the edge of the forest it was as though something beckoned me from the deep, shadowy interior.

My absence without leave angered van der Eb. Upon my return he berated me, saying I must not forget that I am still in the service of the Dutch army. I retorted that I had been promised promotion by that same army, and that so long as this advancement was withheld I was under no obligation. His reaction was to strip me of all my privileges for the time being. I am to join the common soldiers in all their duties and exercises. But he is a good man at heart. He must have been worried about me, just as a father would be.

Perhaps I was drawn by the memory of the adventures you and I used to have in the forest. Climbing trees, building shelters with leaves, eating wild berries, hiding out in a secret world of our own where we would survive without any help. This was not easy, as it turned out. I am no longer a boy.

I was carrying my chopping knife, but had great difficulty making headway on the ground. So I climbed up to the next level, above the thick undergrowth, as Kofi taught us, and clambered from branch to branch. In this manner I left the sunlight behind and advanced into the canopied gloom. I made little progress. I stumbled and grazed both my legs. I was bitten by mosquitoes, and my uniform was so scratchy that I had to take it off. I bumped my head and had to bandage the wound against parasites. I attempted to get rid of the leeches clinging to my thighs with a flame, but was unable to strike a spark owing to the moisture. When I picked the swollen bodies off with my knife, they left holes in my skin. Despite discomfort, weariness and frustration at my slow pace I pressed on, until I noticed a suspicious-looking thicket, which I took for a snakes’ nest. In order to overcome this obstacle I grabbed a liana and took a flying leap to the other side. My swing creaked ominously under my weight and snapped, dropping me into the very thicket I was trying to avoid. There was not a snake in sight, and as I lay there I imagined that you could see me making a spectacle of myself like the clowns we saw at the circus in The Hague. I could still laugh at my plight, thank goodness. I was too exhausted from my backbreaking tour to go on, and decided to rest during the night. I picked berries, gathered some dry branches to make a fire, and slept through the din of the jungle.

In the middle of the night I was startled out of my sleep by a shrill cry unlike the other animal sounds. I heard something scurrying about quite near. I made a noise to frighten the creature off, but then I heard the distinct sound of whimpering. I took a piece of burning wood from the fire to light my path and soon found a young monkey in the undergrowth. I recoiled, fearing that its parents would not be far off. But the leaves did not stir and the whimpers went unanswered, so I dared to take a better look. The monkey was of the species that is held sacred by the Boabeng and Fiema. He was in a sorry state: one leg dragged behind him and his tail was broken, probably from a fight with rivals or an attack by a predator. His injuries would have made him a liability to his clan, and consequently an outcast.

The poor creature was very thin, but nature had not yet completed her work. The terror in his eyes was so great that I was at a loss as to what action to take. I was afraid his heart might stop if I reached out to pick him up. Yet he did not run away, for he knew: whether I go forwards or backwards, I am lost.

I cleaved a coconut and mashed some fruit on a banana leaf, which I placed on the ground in front of the monkey, away from the fire. I sat down and waited at a short distance. The poor creature cowered in fright, keeping his eyes fixed on me. But his nose twitched at the scent of the food. In the end he gained confidence and ate in my presence. I left him alone for the night, and when I rose in the morning I pretended not to notice him peering at me from the undergrowth.

He trailed after me for the rest of the day, although he was very feeble. I advanced slowly, so as not to let him fall behind. I was beginning to enjoy my outing—it was the first time in a long while that I was not thinking about myself.

Towards afternoon I succeeded in luring the animal to my side with an offer of some food. He sat down to gobble up the fruit. He kept his eyes fixed on me, but the fear had left them. On account of his big eyes and the tufts of hair around his chin I named him Willem Alexander, for his looks reminded me of our new king.

By the end of the day I had won his confidence: he no longer followed behind, but stayed by my side, sometimes even limping ahead. If I lagged behind he would stop and look over his shoulder until I caught up.

The second night I did not get any sleep at all. I was kept awake by my small companion. There were predators about. I discovered large, fresh tracks, but had lost the ability to identify them. I kept the fire going and persuaded Willem to stay close to me. At one point a large beast passed by, which I could not see. I made a lot of noise and brandished a burning stick. That evidently did the trick. When the danger had subsided I noticed that Willem was crouching behind me. Rather than being frightened by my shouting, he had felt protected.

It was time to bring my expedition to a close. I had undertaken it on the spur of the moment, and had persevered out of sheer stubbornness. My muscles, skin and head cried out for a bath, for soothing ointment, clean clothes, soft pillows and cool bed-linen. In the years I was away I idealized nature as the love of my life. But the truth is that I am a stranger to her, a mere pinprick on her skin, a foreign body to be assaulted and repudiated.

I decided to retrace my steps in the morning, but what was I to do with Willem III? As if he could guess my thoughts he crept closer to me than ever. He posted himself at arm’s length, a wizened child with his head to one side and an imploring look in his eyes. I imagined him keeping me company in my room. Van der Eb would surely not begrudge me this diversion. The little fellow would be out of danger, he would survive despite his lame leg. But he would never set eyes on his natural environment again, and thus would resemble me. I offered him some food and clapped my hands a few times, after which he kept his distance for the remainder of the night.

I started working my way back at daybreak. After an hour I discovered a salty residue on the leaves and by midmorning I reached the salt flats. In those two days I had probably covered a distance of little more than a few hundred yards. I looked over my shoulder and, seeing my companion close behind, I turned and rushed at him. I gave him a few well-aimed kicks, whereupon he bared his teeth, and when I continued, he bit me viciously. I swung my knife and made to attack him. He cringed and cackled with fear, and still the dumb creature did not flee. I became frenzied, and flung a stone at him which grazed his bad leg. He scrambled up a tree. I took my belt and lashed out at him, striking him on the flank. To my relief he got the message. Screaming piteously, the king vanished among the trees.

I sank to my knees on the salty ground, overcome with exhaustion. My heart ached and yet I was content. These salt pans are replenished with tears.

10 February 1850

Osei Tutu’s priest Anokye has summoned the Golden Stool,
Sika Dwa
, from the sky. It came down on the knees of the Asantehene in a dark cloud amid rolling thunder, while the air was thick with flying sand. It is the throne to which I am entitled by birth, and it is there that the soul of our people resides. News came from Kumasi today that one of my younger brothers is to inherit your father’s title. I sat down at once to write a letter of protest to the Asantehene, and another letter to my mother, begging her to explain how this could have happened. Van der Eb still does not believe that I have seen her in the flesh. However, he appreciates the gravity of the situation, and is willing to send a special envoy to Kumasi at the earliest opportunity.

12 February 1850

I have received your cut-out silhouette. It is indeed a deft piece of work. You tell me that these paper mementoes are all the rage in Weimar, and that you have sent them to all your friends and relations who wear them on their person or hang them on their walls as if they were works of art. But what am I to do with such a thing? Of all the manners of portrayal this is surely the most inane. It is flat, featureless and expressionless, and tells me less about you than your footprint.

Forgive me my ingratitude. I have not been myself lately. Setting eyes on your profile distressed me deeply—your cut-out shadow mounted on a white ground, hardly more characteristic than an ink stain. I cannot bear to look at it.

Raden Saleh’s painting, too, has been drained of human expression. The salt has won. We have melted away. In many places the canvas is visible through the paint. Your left eye, cheek and shoulder have been spared until now, while all there is left of me is my nose and one of my knees. The colours have gone. You may be doing the rounds as a black silhouette in Weimar, but here your face is deathly pale.

Enough about the young ladies in Weimar, and more young ladies in Freiberg! I am sick and tired of them. All clamouring for a lock of your hair, because they are enchanted by the tight curls. And you allow them to pluck you like a chicken. You tell me they have even named their weekly meetings the “Ashanti Circle” in your honour—my goodness what a tribute—and that you actually grace these gatherings with your presence. You evidently still enjoy being the centre of attention. Attention, Kwasi, is not the same as acceptance. Being tolerated signifies not being equal.

All those balls and hunting parties, the grand personages who pat you on the back, your membership of the rakish Saxon-Bavarian drinking club—they mean nothing to me. Please spare me the details of life at court, the evenings spent in the company of your noble friends and your tête-à-têtes with Liszt. Your message has come across loud and clear—you are finding life at Athens-on-the-Ilm congenial! Enough!

Oh my dearest, most beloved friend, with whom I shared everything. If you do not feel the same as I do, who does? Don’t fret. Your friendship is safe with me, and I am only chiding you because I cannot bear the thought of one of those silly young ladies displaying you to her friends and then, after you have taken your leave, gossiping about you at the witches’ coven . . . Take no notice of what I have written. Go your own way. I am cursed with a deeply suspicious nature, and whatever you do, do not allow my distrust to divert you from your cause. Thank God you are more sanguine. That does not mean you are safe, but at least you have an open mind.

And remember this: if I were to live my life anew, I would prefer exile with the comfort of having you at my side to a life of ease in Kumasi deprived of your company.

16 February 1850

Since my excursion into the forest my mother has been visiting me in my dreams. She looks real, but I am unable to take her in my arms. She brings images and many words. She sits at my bedside, partially screened by the curtain, and teaches me poems. In Twi. I echo her words. Memorize them. And when I awake I make a note of the words I have learnt. Quite miraculous, don’t you agree? I try not to think about the cause or the meaning of this phenomenon. The spirit world is not rational. My notebook already contains one hundred and fifty new words, which I practise during the day in an effort to construct sentences out of them.

I have reached the point in my life where I take more pleasure in reliving past experiences than in living the present. Indeed, memory has more to offer than real life.

20 February 1850

What surprises me above all else is that people can be so blind. The world is so simply construed, but they appear not to see it. There is good and there is evil. That is all. You can tell the difference a mile off. But even the few people in whom I have put my trust over the years have been unable to keep them apart.

To do good is to have a good life. To do evil with intent is to have a bad life. Nature sees to that. I can see wrongs being committed, and I long to warn the wrongdoers of the misfortune they are in fact bringing down upon themselves, but when I open my mouth to speak I see how futile it is. I myself have never wronged anyone, and yet look at me . . .

The truth is this: my little monkey king fell foul of his clan. That is why he had to die. Nature is unequivocal in these matters. I had no desire to be implicated. You and I know better than most what happens when people start meddling with destiny. A king is a king, whether dead or alive, whether here or there. He who is weak must die. I have no regrets. I merely gave nature a hand. One branch withers, the other thrives—as Osei Tutu said.