Ama (11 page)

Minjendo looked up at her. There were tears in her eyes.

“There was a bush fire,” she said. “It started behind us, perhaps where we had camped the night before. The wind blew the fire in our direction. Suddenly it seemed that the whole world was alight. We were enveloped in smoke and ashes. The heat was unbearable. All manner of bush creatures came running past us. They were so intent on fleeing from the fire that they didn't seem to notice us: zebra and antelopes, grass cutters and porcupines, even snakes. And a whole family of lions, with small cubs, quite nearby, all running for their lives. Then we were all running too. For the men it was most difficult: if one fell, his chains dragged the whole gang down with him. I tried to balance my basket on my head as I ran, but it was impossible. Others just let their loads fall, so I did the same. I ran for a while, tripping and stumbling. All the time the fire was coming closer, catching up on us. I was tired out, and with the smoke, it was difficult to see. I was terrified. I thought I would have to give up.

“Then, then . . . “ she sobbed.

“Take your time,” said Nandzi, putting an arm around her shoulder. “Take you time. You had a terrible shock. But you are all right, you survived, you are alive. That is all that counts.”

Nandzi's calm was a disguise which she couldn't sustain. Minjendo's story had upset her. She saw a terrible vision of Itsho's crushed skull, with his brains spilling out and she too began to sob. She hugged Minjendo and they clung to one another and cried until they had no more tears.

“I was pregnant,” said Minjendo when she had wiped her face and recovered her voice. “I lost the child. There in the bush, with no one to help me. Nandzi, my sister: you cannot imagine the horror and the pain. And then everything went black. They told me afterwards that it was that Bedagbam man, the Master of the Caravan, the one they call Damba, who saved me. He had been riding up and down behind us, urging us on. I suppose that he wanted to make sure that he did not lose any of his slaves. He dismounted, threw me up across his horse's neck, and rode on. It was all done in a flash, they told me. I don't remember a thing: I might have been dead. Dead. Poor dead Minjendo, roasted alive without so much as a decent funeral. Her spirit wandering, wandering, but never finding her ancestors. Think of it.

“When I came to there was no more fire and we were in a new camp. We rested there for a few days, but we had lost most of our food and our water containers so Damba made us press on. Miraculously, no one had died in the fire; but some of the older ones and some of the children died on the road from hunger and thirst. Some had been burned in the fire and the burns turned bad so that they couldn't walk any more. They were left behind. I was lucky that I wasn't left behind too. Sometimes they let me ride on a horse when I was very weak.”

“Poor Minjendo,” said Nandzi. “What you have all been through. I didn't know.”

She looked around. Akwasi Anoma was coming down the hill. From his shambling gait it was clear that he was drunk. He was singing to himself but his speech was so slurred that they could not make out the words. They watched him. Others saw him too. Soon three hundred pairs of eyes were focused on him. He halted and tried to crack his whip but he could not give his wrist the necessary flick and the thong would not do his will. He cursed. Then he looked around him. Through his blurred vision, he seemed to realise that he was the object of close observation.

“What!” he cried incoherently. “Resting? Slaves resting? Get to work! Get to work! Guards! Do you hear me? Guards!”

The guards came running up. Some of them were slaves themselves, some the sons of slaves.

“I want a woman. Line up the women so I can make my choice.”

“I can't see him performing in that condition,” Minjendo nudged Nandzi.

The guards rounded them up, dragging and pushing them into a reluctant ragged row.

“Your mother!” Minjendo abused a guard who laid a hand on her, but she said it in her own language and he did not understand.

Akwasi Anoma swaggered up the line, inspecting his prey, prodding with his whip end, weighing a breast.

A woman's voice called from behind his back, “Besotted fool!”

He didn't understand the language but he heard the laughter. He turned round, and this time succeeding in cracking his whip. There was silence and he continued on his inspection. He arrived at the end of the line and started back.

Half way along, he made his choice. It was a young girl, no more than a child. He pointed at her. A guard grasped her hand and pulled her after him. She resisted and began to cry. At the same time there was a murmur of protest from the women. The guard dragged the girl away. His drunken master followed.

“Akwasi Anoma,” Nandzi called out, raising her voice above the hubbub.

On hearing his name the man stopped and turned.

“Who called my name?” he demanded.

Nandzi stepped forward.

“Akwasi Anoma,” she called out again and, before he could react, added, in his own language, using a word which he himself had taught her: “Beast!”

Then she walked calmly to the guard and took the girl by the arm.

“Release her,” she ordered.

The guard was used to taking orders. He did as he was told.

Akwasi Anoma called out, “Fool, fool. Take her,” and then “Guards, guards.”

The other guards, who had been watching these events with barely disguised amusement, now came to the rescue of their master.

The shock of Nandzi's challenge had sobered him. His attention had been diverted and he hardly noticed that the girl had made her escape.

“Bind the woman,” he ordered.

The guards grabbed Nandzi and, handling her roughly, bound her hands behind her back and tied her ankles together.

“I will make an example of her for all of you to see,” he announced. “No slave woman insults an Asante man with impunity. The rest of you, watch.”

Nandzi recalled the execution she had seen in the market square at Yendi. The victim had been bound in the same way. But she knew no fear, only mad, uncontrollable rage.

“Akwasi Anoma,” she called out yet again.

“What?” he asked, expecting a plea for mercy. The idea of commuting her sentence to one of judicial rape, inflicted by himself, crossed his mind.

“You are a drunken beast, a stupid drunken beast. I curse you,” cried Nandzi, “We all curse you.”

“Stop that witch's mouth!” ordered the enraged man.

* * *

Minjendo sat by Nandzi's side, doing her best to comfort her. Jaji, the girl whom Nandzi had saved from Akwasi Anoma's clutches, attached herself to them, ever ready to show her gratitude by carrying out any task assigned to her. Minjendo left her with Nandzi while she went to search for medicinal leaves and then set her to soak them in boiled water. Nandzi lay face down. All day Minjendo dribbled one infusion over Nandzi's wounds and persuaded her to sip another. For a while she had a high fever. Then, gradually, the open wounds on her back and buttocks began to form scabs. The itching drove her to distraction but Minjendo knew that the worst was over.

Early one morning, Koranten Péte stepped out of a canoe, followed by two musketeers.

He strode up River Road, searching for a familiar face.

One of the guards caught sight of him and called out, “Nana, Nana; we are here!”

Koranten Péte strode into the camp.

“Where is Akwasi Anoma?” he demanded.

Akwasi Anoma had not put in an appearance at the camp since the day he had had Nandzi whipped.

“He is in his house,” replied the guard.

Koranten Péte searched the man's face.

“In his house, is he?” he mimicked. “Then go to his house at once and tell him I want to see him. At once. Do you understand? Wait! Mensa, you go with him,” he ordered one of the musketeers.

The camp was filthy. Human excrement lay uncollected. The slaves were clearly dispirited. As soon as Nandzi was able, she had told Minjendo what orders to give; but Minjendo had earned no leadership status, as Nandzi had. She was just another young woman who happened to be Nandzi's friend. The women paid little attention. They carried out only the most essential activities. For the rest, they sat around consumed with self-pity.

It took Koranten Péte little time to get the camp cleaned up. He put each guard in charge of a squad of women and gave each squad a task. His company of musketeers arrived and he quickly set them to work too. He inspected each chained group of male slaves. Then he came upon Nandzi's prone, naked body, with Minjendo and her young helper by her side.

“What's this?” he demanded. “Why are you not at work with the rest?”

Minjendo did not understand the question but she read his body language correctly. She stood up and pointed mutely at Nandzi's back. After a restless night, Nandzi had been dozing when Koranten Péte had arrived and Minjendo had not seen fit to awaken her.

Koranten Péte called the nearest guard. By chance it was the very man who, on Akwasi Anoma's instructions, had flogged her.

“Who did this?” asked Koranten Péte.

Uncertain whether he was about to be rewarded or punished, the guard hesitated. Then he saw Minjendo pointing at him and decided it would be better to own up. At that moment Nandzi woke, and, lifting the cloth to cover her nakedness, sat up. Koranten Péte looked at her in astonishment.

“You!” he said. “Did you ignore my warning and try to escape again?”

Nandzi was still dazed. She ignored his question and said to Minjendo, “Please give me some water.”

Koranten Péte watched her drink and then wet the corner of her cloth to wipe her face. Suddenly there was a roar from the squad of women nearest the road. Akwasi Anoma was approaching, led by the musketeer who had been sent for him. The women all stopped their work and hooted and jeered at him.

“I'll talk to you later,” Koranten Péte said to Nandzi.

He signalled to the squad leaders and the pandemonium ceased almost immediately. He cut Akwasi Anoma's greeting short and led him to the far end of the camp, out of earshot but, since there was no private place in the camp, not out of sight. The slaves watched their conversation with increasing glee as they interpreted their body language. Their guards showed no less interest. Work came to a stop.

“It looks as if your bird man is in trouble,” said Minjendo to Nandzi.

* * *

Koranten Péte gave himself a week to prepare the slaves for the twenty day journey to Kumase, leaving the livestock to follow at a more leisurely pace.

The Asantehene had instructed that they arrive in Kumase in time for the next Akwasidae. Should they arrive in poor condition, Koranten Péte's reputation would suffer. And Koranten Péte had a reputation to preserve: he was a royal prince, son of Oduro Panin, King of Nsuta, one of the seven founding nations of the Asante confederacy; his wife, Abena Saka, was the Queen Mother of Mampon, another of the founding states. His name was a by-word for bravery. It was Koranten Péte who had led the Asante army which had defeated the Dagomba. And Koranten Péte was a rich man. The Asantehene had rewarded him generously for his military exploits: he was entitled to collect a one-third commission on the Dagomba tribute. So it was a small thing for him to bear the cost of fattening up his charges for a few days and providing each slave with a cheap new indigo cover cloth.

Once he had delivered his caravan into the hands of Akwasi Anoma, Damba had deliberately kept clear of the camp. He no longer had any stomach for the slave business. While waiting for Koranten Péte's return to Kafaba, he had spent his time studying the market and doing such business on his own account as his limited capital would allow.

Now he came to greet Koranten Péte and to join him in taking an inventory.

When they came to Nandzi, Koranten Péte turned to him and asked, “You know this young woman, of course?”

“Of course,” replied Damba, managing a smile.

He was still smarting from the rude reception she had given him when they last met and expected another rebuff. But Nandzi felt some remorse for her behaviour and smiled back.

“Show him your wounds,” Koranten Péte told Nandzi.

Slowly, reluctantly, she turned her back to them and dropped her cloth.

“She saved a young girl from Akwasi Anoma's clutches and he took his revenge,” said Koranten Péte.

“I am sorry,” said Damba lamely.

Those were the last words he spoke to her.

“That is a remarkable young woman,” he said to Koranten Péte when they were out of earshot. “I hope you will look after her well.”

“Have no fear. She will be going into the household of the most powerful woman in Asante, the Queen Mother herself.”

* * *

Nandzi had seen the river from the slave camp. She had been astonished at its great width: even in the dry season it was far, far wider than the Oti in flood. Koranten Péte established a temporary camp on the far bank.

He devoted a day to ferrying the tribute goods across. At dawn on the second day, the slaves were moved. The women went first, ten in each canoe, with ten PADDLERS to make sure that the swift current did not carry them downstream, and two guards armed with muskets.

When the women and children were all across, the men were unchained, one gang at a time. Secured only by manacles, they were marshalled down to the canoes under the eyes of an armed escort, carrying their loose chains with them. The humiliating conditions in which they had spent the last weeks had so sapped their spirit that tight security was hardly necessary. But Koranten Péte was taking no chances. Once they were safely across, they were again shackled together.

By nightfall the river crossing had been completed. Last to arrive were Sharif Imhammed and his small party.

At dawn, Koranten Péte stood before the assembled slaves. His spokesman called for silence.

“Yesterday we crossed the great Volta River,” Koranten Péte told them. “Today it lies between you and your old homes. If yesterday you had not yet given up all hope of returning to your own people, today you must do so. This river is not like other rivers. This one has no bottom. Other rivers turn into a trickle in the dry season: this one never. No man has ever waded across it. If you think you might swim across it, you are welcome to try: the crocodiles will make a meal of you. And if you contemplate stealing a canoe, remember the strength of the current which you have seen today: consider that it took ten strong men to steer a straight path across from the other side.”