The Call of Zulina (38 page)

LANTERLOO
: An old gambling game played with cards and dice.

MAAFA:
The term used by Africans to refer to the slave trade. It means “the great disaster.”

NJADENGA:
“The Big One in the Sky”; God of the heavens.

NKONNWAFIESO:
The house where the stools of power are kept on a wood or clay bench and covered with a blanket.

NTUMPANE:
“Talking drums” specifically constructed to carry messages far and wide.

OBEAH:
Witchcraft.

OHEMMEA:
A high-ranking royal woman granted unusual power and great prestige.

OHLA:
Honorable leader.

OKYEAME:
A speaker who conducted negotiations and held court in the name of the king.

SAMANKA:
A medicine formulated to ward off harmful powers.

SIKA’GUA:
The Golden Stool that was the political-ritual symbol of unity and power and was believed to embody the spirit of the nation.

SLATTEES:
African kings who permitted Europeans to compete for African slaves.

SOFO:
A priest who entreats the ancestors for wisdom and guidance.

STAD:
African village.

THILA:
A guardian sent by the ancestors to stand beside people and protect them.

TOGBUI:
Prophets and prophetesses, avatars and sages who speak the words of the ancestors.

Discussion Questions

 

1. In
   The Call of Zulina
   , the first book in the Grace in Africa series, Grace Winslow straddles two worlds. Do you see her as more African or more English? On what do you base your opinion?
   
 

 

2. We meet three decisive women in this book: Grace, Lingongo, and Mama Muco. What are the strengths of each? How would the story have been different had any one of them lacked such strength?
   
 

 

3. Why do you think Joseph Winslow raised Grace the way he did? Do you see conflicting motives?
   
 

 

4. In what ways were Grace's actions bold? In what ways were they foolish? Could she have accomplished her goal any other way?
   
 

 

5. For more than two hundred years, people have debated who should bear the blame for the slave trade. How did each of the following groups contribute to that horrible period of history: Europeans? Colonials? Africans? Could the slave trade have survived without the help of any one of these? Why or why not?
   
 

 

6. What do you see as the significance of the wind that blows throughout the book?
   
 

 

7. It is always easy to look back at periods and events in history and judge them through 21st-century eyes. Two examples are attitudes toward marriage in the 18th century and the practice of primogeniture (the gifting of all the family land to the eldest son). What were the pros and cons of the marriage “deals” made on behalf of Lingongo? Of Grace? Of Charlotte? Pieter De Groote explains the reasoning behind primogeniture. Do these reasons seem valid? What were the drawbacks of such an arrangement? Why do you suppose it is no longer followed in most of the Western world?
   
 

 

8. John Newton, slave ship captain turned abolitionist and author of the hymn
   Amazing Grace
   , claimed that an additional great evil of the slave trade was the way it “debased” everyone who participated in it. How did the slave trade affect Joseph Winslow? Jasper Hathaway? Pieter De Groot?
   
 

 

9. How did Grace change by the end of the book? Do you think this change would have taken place without the trigger of her impending marriage to Jasper Hathaway?
   
 

 

10. By the final chapters, was Grace more African or more English? Why?
    
 

Bonus chapter from book two in the Grace in Africa series

The African sky sizzled a deep orange as a blistering sun sank over the far side of the village wall. All day long one
griot
after another had stood up in the village, each storyteller taking his turn at weaving together a piece of the tale of how a few African captives outsmarted and outfought the powerful white slave man in his very own slave fortress to win freedom for many. Each did his best to make his piece of the story the most dramatic, the most spectacular, the most breathtaking of all. Each one decorated his tale with songs and poems and gorgeously crafted words, so that when the entire story tapestry was complete, his part would shine out more brightly than the others. Each storyteller's efforts were rewarded with energetic cheers from the crowd.

Grace, settled comfortably between Mama Muco and Safya, grabbed at her little son who was once again doing his best to wriggle away from her.

“Stay close, Kwate,” she warned. Grace tried to be stern with him, but a smile tugged at the edges of her voice. Never in her life had she been as happy as she was at that moment.

As the sun pitched low on the stifling evening, as the feast goats crackled in the roasting pit, as children threw beetles in the fire to toast and then dig out and pop in their mouths, drums beat the celebration into a fever pitch. People had poured in from villages far and near to join the celebration and bring offerings for the ancestors, for the great rebellion was a part of their lives too. Their
griots
came along and jostled for a chance to stand before the people and weave in their own village's piece of the story. And because it is in the nature of a storyteller to be a bit of a gossip, each one tried to outdo the others in telling the latest news about the restoration of the Zulina slave fortress. A new white man ran it now, one announced. He was called by the name Hathaway, and he was a harder man than Joseph Winslow ever was.

Grace caught her breath. Jasper Hathaway? The man her parents had tried to force her to marry?

Another storyteller jumped to his feet. “The beautiful Princess Lingongo,” he said. “Even now she sits on the throne of her people beside her brother. I know this truth from one who just saw it with his own eyes.”

At this, Grace gripped Mama Muco's arm and caught her breath. “Mother is alive!” she gasped. “How can it be?”

Mama Muco kept her attention fixed on the
griot
. Thinking Mama had not heard her, Grace shook Mama's arm and said, “Did you hear that? Did you?” Only when Mama Muco refused to look at her did Grace understand; this came as no surprise to Mama.

“Does Cabeto know?” Grace asked. When Mama Muco still did not answer, Grace demanded, “What else is everyone keeping from me?”

“We cannot control what is happening around us anymore than we can change what happened to us,” Mama Muco said to Grace. “All we can do is decide how we will live our lives. Our life here is good. Let us be happy and give thanks to God for today.”

Far down the village's stone wall, out beside the rusty gate that still stood open, Hola shuffled impatiently, his musket propped against the wall.

“I want to hear the stories too,” he complained to Tetteh, who stood guard with him. “And I want a fistful of that goat meat before the good part is all gone!”

“You have heard those same stories every year for the last five years,” Tetteh said.

“But every year the
griots
have more tasty bits to tell us,” Hola answered. “Besides, every one of the last five years I have had to stand guard, even though no one has ever tried to do us harm. So what would it hurt for you and me to take turns at the gate tonight? I’ll go listen to the stories for a while, then I’ll come back and you can go listen.”

Tetteh shrugged. “We should not disobey our elders, but if you are not gone too long, I suppose
—
” Hola was out of sight before Tetteh had a chance to finish.

Just as Hola slid noiselessly in behind a clutch of other young men, the last storyteller finished weaving his tale and the drums pounded out
durbar
! Celebrate!

Mama Muco, full of wisdom and years, stood up and danced her way over to the fire. Safya, with her gentle ways and the look of sleep forever on her eyes, got up and joined Mama, clapping her hands and shuffling in time to the drums. Ama, who had only recently come to the village with her two brothers, followed. Then, one by one, other women shuffled up and joined the growing dance line.

“Come on, Grace!” Mama called out. But Grace hugged little Kwate to herself and shook her head. Actually, she was glad to have an excuse to stay out of the dance. She enjoyed watching, but the fact was, even after five years, she didn’t understand African dances. Whenever she tried to participate, she looked every bit as awkward and out of place as she felt.

There is no African in your hands and feet, Grace
, her mother used to tell her. Evidently her mother was right.

Tawnia, who was almost twelve, leapt to her feet and pranced toward the end of the line, but Mama caught the girl by the shoulder and gave her a gentle shove back.

“Child, you are not yet a woman,” Mama scolded. But as Tawnia stomped away, Mama rumbled a soft chuckle.

The men sat together in small groups and watched the women dance. Suddenly, Cabeto jumped up. As Grace laughed out loud and little Kwate clapped his hands, Cabeto waved his arms and danced with an awkward gait toward another group of men who had just helped themselves to roasted goat meat. He tore off his shirt and threw it down in front of an older man with graying hair and a sturdy round face.

“You, Tuke!” Cabeto called. “Will you be brave enough to dance?”

Tuke jumped to his feet. His arms flying wildly, he kept right on chewing as he danced over to a group of young men and threw his shirt down in front of them. Everyone roared with laughter as Hola answered the challenge. He jumped up, tore off his shirt, and danced more outrageously than the others.

“Dance, Hola!” Tawnia yelled, and everyone else took up the chant.

Tetteh, alone at the gate, struggled to see what was going on. Why was everyone calling Hola's name? Tetteh had to admit that Hola was right in his opinion that standing guard was the same as doing nothing. He was also right that there never had been a threat to the village. Maybe Tetteh would also go and watch the celebration … for just a few minutes, perhaps.

When the dancing finally stopped, Chief Ikem, his walking stick grasped tightly in his wizened arm, stood up in front of the fire. Shadows of dancing flame reflected on his midnight-black face. They seemed to bring to life the intricate tattoos etched across his forehead and down both his cheeks. When the chief raised his staff over his head, the drums stopped and flames shot up, sending a shower of sparks flying into the darkened sky.

“Five years past, in this season when all sweet potatoes be dug, we be a small band of survivors with no hope in us,” Chief Ikem said. “Five years past, when all sweet potatoes be dug, we work together to raise a village out of ashes left by the slave trader and the killer lioness. But now, those years lie with the ancestors. Tonight, with all sweet potatoes dug, we celebrate a happy village of peace and love.”