The Call of Zulina (37 page)

Reverently, she ran her hand over the intricacies of the silk fabric. She couldn’t read the writing woven in it in gold thread, but she knew that each design recounted a different proverb. Her mother would have been able to identify each one of them.

Such garments could be worn only by kings or princes, or occasionally by the most honored of princesses. Grace shut her eyes and tried to picture her own ancestors proudly parading in this royal rainbow-colored raiment.

Glancing down at herself, Grace realized for the first time that she was wearing nothing but a ripped-up piece of her dress top, a linen chemise, and her flounced petticoat with a tear in the front. She was dressed mostly in her underclothing! Of course, they were so grimy, shredded, and covered with ashes that few people were likely to recognize them for what they were. Quickly, she pulled off the filthy garments. She grabbed up the beautiful cloth and swung it over her left shoulder the way she had so often seen her mother do and then she tied it securely in place. Just the feel of the luxurious royal robe against her body made her feel like a different person.

Already the road that led down to the scorched grasslands was empty of all but a few indecisive stragglers. Almost everyone who intended to leave Zulina had already gone. At Cabeto's command, Hola—who was still there—had run through the fortress rooms and called for anyone who remained to come and be counted.

In all, sixteen people sat together. Grace and Cabeto and Sunba were there, and Hola and Safya. Ikem stayed. Three other men and two women were also there, and five little children who were left unclaimed.

“Maybe we could all go to your village,” Grace suggested to Cabeto.

Cabeto looked around at the old and the young, the men and the women. At the dark faces and the light, the broad and the narrow. He also listened to the different tongues being spoken.

“No,” he said. “The people would not all feel at home there. No, we have a new village right here.”

“Well, you can’t stay at the fortress,” Pieter DeGroot said. He was still with them, although he had already signed onboard a French ship and would be sailing before the new moon. “This is a valuable harbor here. Already it's being eyed by several men who jostle with each other to see who will take it over. The wisest thing would be to leave here as soon as you possibly can.”

“Then we will go,” Cabeto said, “… somewhere.”

As the others drifted away, Grace wandered around to the back of the fortress—back to the rocks over the harbor. Again, she stood alone and stared out to sea. What was it like on the other side of the ocean? In England, the land of her father—the land of the other half of herself? Were there others somewhere like her, with skin that wasn’t black and wasn’t white? Hair that wasn’t black and wasn’t red? Who didn’t know how to be either African or English?

“Are there others out there who do not fit in anywhere?” Grace said out loud.

“Yes. There be others.”

Grace gave a start and jerked around to see Ikem standing behind her. “Oh, I didn’t see you!” she said, flushing with embarrassment.

For several minutes, the two stood in awkward silence.

“You want to know why I did not at once tell about the traitor,” Ikem said.

“Everyone thought it was me,” Grace said.

“I did not tell because people change. I changed. The Dutchman changed. I did not tell because the traitor should also have a chance to change.”

Grace was silent for several minutes. Then she said, “I hoped my father would change. And my mother too. But now it is too late.”

Ikem said, “Who can say what time is too late?”

“S
omeone's coming! Someone's coming!” It was the excited call of little Tawia, who never just talked, but danced and sang everything she had to tell.

“Who's coming?” Grace asked with a laugh.

“Up the road! Up the road!” Tawia sang out.

Grace followed the little girl as she danced out the doorway and over the baked ground. Sure enough, if she squinted against the sun, Grace could see a stocky figure trudging up the path, balancing a good-sized head load.

“Who's there?” Grace commanded.

“Good Lord, Child, who you think it is?” came the weary reply.

“Mama?” Grace gasped. “Mama Muco?” Grace broke into a run.

“Mama!” she cried. She threw herself into the strong, familiar arms with such force that she knocked the head load clear off Mama's head. “I thought … I was so afraid … that you had … that you were …”

“Not me, Child!” Mama said. “When I saw Yao outside the wall, I went into your father's room and got his key and unlocked the gate. He would not tell me anything except that you were alive and there would be trouble so to get out. I quick grabbed me some things and I ran for the village.”

Tears streamed down Grace's face.

“Look at you!” Mama exclaimed. She stepped back and gazed at Grace, who was again draped in the beautiful royal
asasia
. “A princess, you are, Grace! More beautiful than your mother ever was.”

“Thank you,” Grace said, although she felt a little ashamed of herself for being presumptuous enough to have donned the royal apparel.

When Grace helped Mama Muco heft the head load back onto her head, a packet of millet fell out.

“Oh, Mama! You brought us food!” Grace gasped.

“It is a gift from a friend of yours,” Mama said.

Grace looked at her in confusion. What a thing to say!

“You know I have no friends,” Grace told her.

“A gift of more food than I could carry,” Mama said. “Milled flour and millet and sweet potatoes and cassavas and groundnuts—”

“We have barely eaten for three days!” Grace laughed. “Who could have known?”

When they got up to the fortress, Mama reached into her head load, pulled out a note beautifully written on fine paper, and handed it to Grace.

“Open it,” Mama urged.

Grace unfolded the linen sheet and read:

How marvelous it must be to actually do something that matters! This may be my only chance to act in a daring way and do something of worth. I do not ask for a wedding gift. Instead, I give a gift to you. Live and be happy, Grace.

Sincerely Yours,

Charlotte Stevens

“Charlotte?” Grace asked incredulously. But how—?”

“She came to me,” Mama said. That was all.

By the time the sun reached its height, the hungry group sat together to eat vegetable stew and share their experiences. “We have to leave Zulina,” Grace told Mama. “We don’t know where to go. We need someplace where we can start over again, but where?”

“I want to show you something,” Mama Muco said. She went over to her pile of belongings and rummaged through. She pulled out her old missionary Bible and leafed through it until she found the place she wanted and then pushed the Bible over to Grace. She pointed to chapter 61 in the book of Isaiah. “Read what the sacred words say,” Mama instructed.

Grace read aloud:

T
he Lord has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim liberty to the captives,
and the opening of the prison to them that are bound …
to give unto them garlands of beauty instead of ashes,
the oil of joy instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.

Grace looked up from the Bible. “
Opening of the prison
… ,” she repeated slowly. “We did that, Mama!
Joy instead of mourning … praise instead of despair
. We saw that right here! Everyone dancing and laughing with joy.
Beauty instead of ashes
,” Grace repeated slowly. Then more of a question than a statement, she said, “The compound?”

“Plenty of land there that didn’t burn,” Mama Muco said. “Sweet potatoes still lay in the far field. And coconuts, mangoes, and cashews hang on the trees. There's millet and groundnuts and cassavas and beetles aplenty to roast in the fire. The London house is gone, but there's mud and stone and sticks to build round huts, and more than enough palm fronds to thatch the roofs.”

Grace looked questioningly at Pieter DeGroot, and he nodded slowly.

“Yes,” he said. “It is the harbor and the land overlooking it that the men fight over, not that scorched parcel of earth. That land is yours, Grace. You would be as safe there as anywhere.”

Grace looked around her. Safya sat tall, looking calm and relaxed with her eyes half closed. Hola leaned against her, and Tawia snuggled on her lap, the little girl's lips making high bird noises. Ikem was there, his face creased by a smile—how could she ever have feared so kind a face? Sunba stood next to Ikem—so like Cabeto, yet so different. Oh, and Cabeto, of course. Dear Cabeto.

Even Mama Muco was here.

And now a place for them all.

“Yes, a new beginning,” Grace said as a smile spread across her face. “All of us together, but each one individual. A new village where we can each one be. A new beginning for us right here, right now. Beauty instead of ashes.”

THE END

B
y the late 1700s, slavers who had long gone up and down the coast of West Africa to find captives for the slave trade were pressing further inland. Little wonder, then, that the slave houses were such a jigsaw of languages and peoples. The words, names, and peoples in this book represent many tribes of the area, including Dogon, Wolof, Ga, Hausa, and Yoruba.

AH KEEN:
“Strong warrior.”

ASASIA:
Prized and valuable clothing reserved for royalty.

ASE:
The power possessed by a witch doctor or diviner.

ASKARI:
Soldiers of an African king.

ASSALAMOU:
“Peace be to you.”

BAKHAM:
“Thank you.”

BRONO:
One section of a tribal village.

BUBUANHUNU:
Impossible to calculate.

CAN TON:
A Dogon village built around a water hole.

COFFLE:
A group of slaves chained together in a line.

DASHIKI:
African buttonless shirt.

DIDHTE WAW?
: “Where are we going?”

DURBAR:
Celebration ceremony.

FOUFOU:
Traditional African dish eaten from a common pot.

HARMATTAN WINDS:
Seasonal winds that blow sand from the Sahara Desert across West Africa. Many believe that in the midst of such a wind, things suddenly become what they were not.

JOAM:
A slave at the lowest level of Wolof society.

JUJU:
A magic amulet.

KENTE CLOTH:
Wraplike royal attire made of fine imported silk, or of cotton with silk threads woven through. The usual design is made up of small geometric patterns, such as diamonds, cubes, triangles, and so forth. Each design is linked to an African proverb.

KYINIE:
Brightly colored parasol that symbolizes the sovereignty of African kings.