Ama (19 page)

* * *

Osei Kwadwo's male relations had done their customary duty and were returning to the royal quarters.

“Wait,” said Owusu Ansa when they came to his wife's courtyard. “This work has tired me out. Let's rest a while.”

Ama and Esi peered through their peepholes. Their mistress's husband, like his companions, was smirched with blood. The professional executioners helped their apprentices to take down the loads from their heads. The lads, too, were covered with the blood which had seeped from their baskets. Ama and Esi gripped each other in fear. Every basket they could see was full of severed human heads.

“Wife,” they heard Owusu Ansa call, using an address of unusual familiarity. He was pissing against the wall of the courtyard. Konadu Yaadom might be Queen Mother. She might be several years older than he. But he would show everyone that he was her master.

“Wife,” he called again, “Bring drink for my guests. Their work has made them thirsty.”

“Husband,” replied Konadu Yaadom, appearing suddenly, “Your noble task is not yet complete. Deliver the results of your work. Then bath in your own quarters. When you have slept off the effects of what you have drunk, then, and only then, you may bring me your condolences on the death of our father. And never let me find you pissing against the wall of this courtyard. There is a proper place for that and you well know it.”

Owusu Ansa thought better of replying.

“And another thing,” she said, “I hope that the heads of my slaves Esi and Ama are not in one of those baskets.”

“How can you think to accuse me of such a thing?” he replied sulkily as he led his companions away.

* * *

All morning the death drums sounded in Kumase.

Only the executioners, the licensed assassins, roamed the streets, using muskets and swords, clubs and knives to kill whomsoever they found, without discrimination.

The wise had fled the city or had locked themselves securely in their compounds. It was not that they had not loved their late King; it was not that they doubted that he should arrive in the land of the ancestors at the head of large army of servants and retainers; it was just that they were themselves not quite ready to join that army at this time.

No one cooked, for smoke rising from a fire would warrant forcible entry and guarantee summary execution. The adults drank palm wine and chewed kola and the children drank water and cried silently.

In their hideout, Ama and Esi's shit began to smell in the heat of the day. They would have to endure the discomfort at least until after dark but they were nervous that the smell would rise through the stairs and lead Konadu Yaadom to investigate and find them.

“How long do you think we shall have to remain cooped up here?” Ama whispered, not for the first time.

Esi replied sharply, “Now how would I know? But if you want to stay alive, be patient. The worst of the slaughter must be over but we shall not be safe until after the burial. If we are lucky that will be tonight. Now shhh!”

She could hear approaching footsteps.

In the other cities of the confederation, Mampon and Kokofu amongst them, similar events were in progress. Each city was expected to provide a hundred corpses and twenty barrels of gunpowder for the burial and its aftermath.

At Bantama, the royal burial ground, the ‘souls' of the dead King were digging his grave, and their own. Their faces and their bare torsos were covered with the lines of white and red clay and charcoal which marked them off as sacrificial victims. By noon the huge hole was ready and the headless corpses began to arrive. They laid them shoulder to shoulder, head to toe, covering the bottom of the hole. The King's corpse must not be allowed to touch the earth. When the bottom was covered they began to build up interlocking walls of corpses, leaving only a space in the centre for the body of their ruler. The executioners guarded the site from foolhardy curious eyes and stood by with whips and swords in case of trouble. But there was none. Ever since Osei Kwadwo had so honoured him, each ‘soul' had lived with the certain knowledge that he was destined to accompany his master to the next world.

* * *

That night the royal horn blowers did not disturb the deathly silence which hung over the city.

The pallbearers manhandled the pallet with Osei Kwadwo's shrouded body down the narrow stairs. Without a word, lit by a single torch, they carried it to a place in the back wall of the palace where a hole had been cut. They passed the pallet through the hole. A single death drummer led the small cortege. No other sound was heard as they passed through the dark streets and then along the road to Bantama. The Chief Executioner supervised the placing of the royal body in the recess which had been left for it amongst the headless corpses. When dawn broke, there was nothing to be seen but a large mound of earth beneath the sacred Kumnini tree which gave the city its name, and a simple stake to mark the position of the mortal remains of the late king. Some time in the future the next Asantehene would order the exhumation of Osei Kwadwo's skeleton, also at dead of night. It would be taken to the Royal Mausoleum. The bones would be sewn together with gold thread and the assembled skeleton would be installed in a furnished room, supplied with food and drink. Each year the current holder of the office would pay homage to his royal ancestors in a secret ceremony, this way nurturing the bonds which tie the living to the spirits of their dead ancestors and to those of the as-yet-unborn.

* * *

When Konadu Yaadom returned shortly before dawn, Esi and Ama had cleaned out their refuge and bathed.

They had hot water on the boil for their mistress's ablutions.

“Where have you two been?” she asked and then continued at once, “Wake Opoku Fofie and bring him to me. While I am feeding him, get my bath ready. And prepare yourselves too. We shall be going out. Now get a move on: I'm in a hurry.”

Konadu Yaadom was clearly nervous. She found it difficult to decide how to split the forces at her command. Some must remain at home to guard her children: who could know what mischief Ntoo Boroko and his henchmen might get up to? At the same time she might herself be in great physical danger should the meeting turn nasty.

The Asanteman-hyiamu, the highest assembly of the Asante nation, was already in session when they arrived. Konadu Yaadom noticed the gross discourtesy done her by starting the meeting in her absence. At least, she thought, they had left a seat for her.

“Ama and Esi, go and sit where I can keep my eye on you. You, guards, keep close by, in case I need you. Amma Sewaa, bring a stool and sit just behind me. Listen well to what is said. Today history will be made.”

Ntoo Boroko was in full flight. As Konadu Yaadom took her seat he paused briefly and grudgingly acknowledged her arrival. Then he proceeded. He was setting out his view of Asante law.

Carefully disguising her unease, Konadu Yaadom looked around for Koranten Péte.

Ntoo Boroko drew attention to the absence of some person whose name had been expunged from the nation's history.

“He is talking about Akyaamah,” Esi whispered.

It was Ntoo Boroko's considered opinion that the offence that person had committed automatically debarred her children from any right to the succession.

Koranten Péte crept up behind Konadu Yaadom and whispered in her ear.

“Everything is in order. The Mamponhene will be here any moment now,” he told her.

“I have heard,” she replied.

“This debarment,” Ntoo Boroko was saying, “must include all descendants of the mother of the person whose name we may not . . .”

He paused without completing his sentence. Atakora Mensah, with the young Kwame Panin by his side, was leading in the ranks of his heavily armed Bron striking force. Immediately behind the Mamponhene, strode the tallest man Ama had ever seen.

“Konkonti,” Esi nudged Ama. “See his insignia: the Chief Executioner of Mampon.”

Ntoo Boroko retired to his seat without a word. Atakora Mensah, satisfied with the disposition of his forces, put his arm around Kwame Panin's shoulder and led him to the centre of the Council. The Mamponhene's seat was waiting for him and another was hurriedly provided for Kwame Panin. The man and the boy sat down without a word.

“Hasn't he grown?” whispered Amma Sewaa into Konadu Yaadom's ear. “He looks like a man.”

“Hush,” replied her aunt, secretly amused and pleased by her niece's pride in her brother.

“He looks just like a man,” Ama whispered to Esi, “So handsome in his kente and sandals. And so haughty!”

Ntoo Boroko was bamboozled. He had been outflanked.

“Nana Bremanhene . . . ” said Atakora Mensah quietly, indicating with a wave of his hand that his adversary should continue his speech.

Ntoo Boroko decided that his only course of action was to brazen it out and mobilise, by skilful oratory, the support in the Council which he had long been so assiduously courting.

“Nananom, my fellow Kings and Queen Mothers,” he said, “This is unheard of. It seems that we are faced with a coup d'etat. Any decisions we make in the presence of these forces will be made under duress. I propose that we suspend immediately our discussion on the selection of the successor to our dearly beloved Osei Kwadwo. I propose that we discuss instead this invasion of our constitutional rights by Nana Mamponhene.”

Atakora Mensah sprang to his feet.

“Nananom,” he said, “We deeply mourn the passing of our revered and beloved Osei Kwadwo. By law and custom established since the time of Nana Osei Tutu and Okomfo Anokye of blessed memory, responsibility for the designation of the successor to Nana Osei Kwadwo lies with our beloved Asantehemaa Nana Konadu Yaadom. It is for us only to approve or dispute her nomination. The Asantehemaa has authorised me to announce that she nominates her son Kwame Panin as the next occupant of the Golden Stool. I propose that her nomination receive our unanimous approval.”

Konadu Yaadom sat impassively. She would intervene if she had to, but for the present she chose to permit the Mamponhene to act as her spokesman.

Before Atakora Mensah had finished, Ntoo Boroko was on his feet shouting, “I protest, I protest . . . ”

Ama did not fully understand the cause of the excitement but she could feel the tension in the air. She saw the Mamponhene make an almost imperceptible signal. Searching for its target, Ama saw Konkonti, the tall Chief Executioner of Mampon, dart away behind the seated Councillors. As she watched him, he came up behind Ntoo Boroko, immobilised his victim's arms with his own left arm and with his right hand drew a sharp knife across the Bremanhene's throat. There was a sudden spurt of crimson blood. Ama clutched Esi in alarm and muffled a scream. Then she covered her eyes with her hands.

Esi's attention had been diverted by the baby Opoku Fofie and she had not witnessed the assassination. She looked up in time to see Konkonti release his victim. Ntoo Boroko's partly severed head fell backwards as his body fell forwards. As the body hit the ground the head bounced forward again. Then she heard the sound of retching. Ama was down on her knees and Esi went to her. A man tripped over her foot and almost fell. He swore at her as he rushed away. She thought she recognised the Kokofuhene, Kyei Kwame, preferred candidate of the assassinated Ntoo Boroko.

For a moment there was utter silence in the assembly; then uproar. In the confusion, Konkonti's assistants dragged away the corpse of their master's victim. Konadu Yaadom sat immobile, dumbfounded by the murder which had taken place not a stride away from where she sat. This was not what she had intended, not what she had discussed with Koranten Péte. She would have to take charge of the situation. That was her constitutional duty. But how?

Koranten Péte saved the day for her. He strode across and took Kwame Panin by the hand. The boy was confused, uncertain what he should do.

“Wofa?” he queried Koranten Péte. His voice was breaking.

“Kwame,” said the boy's hero, “Just do exactly what I say. Now stand here by your mother. Keep cool. Show a straight face, as if nothing has happened.”

“Nana,” he said to Konadu Yaadom, “You must act at once. Otherwise things might get out of hand.”

“Yes, but how?” she asked him.

“Disassociate yourself from this cold-blooded murder. State your determination that whosoever proves to be responsible, not only the one who carried out the act, but also whoever gave him his orders, will face the full force of Asante law. Say that the confederacy is in danger. Tell them that the only way to avoid widespread fratricidal strife is to elect Kwame Panin as Asantehene immediately. Demand a vote at once. When you win, and you cannot lose, insist that the Golden Stool be brought out and that Kwame be enstooled without further delay. Do all this in the name of Osei Tutu, Opoku Ware, Kusi Obodum and Osei Kwadwo.”

He turned to Kwame.

“My boy,” he said, “It is time for you to become a man. Are you ready? Then stand by your mother as she speaks. Stand straight and tall. Remember all you have been taught. You are about to be called to a great office.”

CHAPTER 11

Pity the adolescent King! Kwame Panin was plain Kwame no more.

Even his aunt, Konadu Yaadom, whom Osei Kwadwo's royal edict had made his mother, could no longer address him as ‘Kwame', at least not in public. Now he was Nana Osei Kwame, fifth Asantehene, successor of four illustrious forebears, whose feats in war and peace he was bound by duty and tradition to emulate. He was no longer free to wrestle and tumble and roam the palace with his cronies; to speak his mind to commoners and slaves; to jest with fools; to throw a tantrum.

He strained at the leash, impatient at the restrictions placed upon the freedoms he had so recently enjoyed. He was bored by the lessons in history, language and custom, law and public administration which aged men with grey stubbly beards imparted to him each day in Osei Kwadwo's old quarters. They taught him that as ruler of the Asante empire he might wage war but yet must never strike another human being; nor must he allow himself to be struck, for that would be an abomination. Neither must he ever walk barefooted, not even in the privacy of his own bedchamber. Like it or not his person was now sacred. He must spend his life in frequent communion with the spirits of Osei Tutu, of Opoku Ware, of Kusi Obodum and of his beloved Osei Kwadwo; and in return the heroic ancestral spirits would guide him in the exercise of the heavy responsibilities he now bore.