The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel (38 page)

But you turned them down. So they asked Professor Cotta for advice, did they? And he actually told them that you are so fully adjusted to life in Europe that your love of hearth and home has been snuffed out. Well I never. To think that they asked Dominee Molenkamp for his opinion (although why they had to ask I can’t imagine—he would have offered it anyhow), and that he blamed your “loss of nerve” on the flattery of the Weimar nobility who “spoiled” you and “undermined your religious sensibility,” no less! “Yet another example of a wasted education and dashed hopes” indeed.

The intrigues of metropolitan society hold very little interest for me at present, I am afraid. I need all the concentration I can muster to come to grips with this fresh sorrow.

It is past midnight now, and I have one more thing to say. I may as well tell you, for keeping silent will only add to the anguish in my heart, which is already labouring under the knowledge that I shall never see you again. It grieves me, Kwasi, that you told the minister you had no wish to return to Africa because that would mean “living among men whose morals, customs, ways and religion are not only strange to me, but also repellent.” Have you forgotten that I am here? Am I not like them? And are you not like me? Why tell me such things, if you know how they grieve me?

13 November 1849

Upon waking I was filled with thoughts of my father on his deathbed. I do not remember being sad. On the contrary. I loved him with all my heart and yet his passing left me feeling uncommonly elated. Something wonderful had happened.

There was an extraordinary force at work. How shall I put it? Do you remember entering the room where he lay in state? I did not dare at first, for I was gripped with fear at the proximity of death. But no sooner had I crossed the threshold than a great calmness descended. The dead body emanated energy. This was not a fancy—no, it was a veritable storm blowing straight in my direction. I flung out my arms and cupped my hands to catch as much of it as I could. It was like a jet of water splashing against my head and shoulders. When my body was sated I gave thanks to the gods for this gift and bade my father farewell. Upon leaving the room, however, I was overcome with desire to repeat the miraculous experience, and returned to my father’s side. The energy flowed as before. By the end of the day I had gone into the room six or seven times. I was in a trance. His love had become fluid.

“Thus I became acquainted with death on the lips of the one who gave me life,” René says somewhere. I have never heard anyone else speak in this vein, and yet I believe the experience of death is common to all men.

You must never forget, Kwasi my dear, how closely grief is linked with joy.

One last thing about my father: some time later I felt a sudden urge to visit his grave. I held out my hands flat above the ground and begged him wordlessly to bestow his miraculous strength on me once more. Nothing happened. No, a voice said within me, from now on you will have to marshall your own forces. In this way the dead can fortify the thoughts of the living. Is that the reason for our mortality, do you think? It sounds more practical to me than all those notions Dominee Molenkamp foisted on us. In any case I find it more appealing than the idea of resurrection.

19 November 1849

Will I ever be granted peace of mind? Wherever I turn I see nothing but tragedy. Today was no exception. Oh God, it was dreadful.

Yesterday morning van der Eb came to my room. I absented myself from assembly a week ago, for reasons of ill health. He enquired after the nature of my ailment, and I told him frankly that I lacked the strength to rise from my bed. He sent for some broth, helped me wash and dress, and held my arm as he took me for a stroll round the courtyard. I could see the troops staring at me from the gallery. I went back to bed as soon as I could get away. But in the evening I went down to the dining room, which pleased the governor. This morning he proposed a fresh task to keep me occupied. I was to convey a message to the English commander at Fort Coenraadsburg. Van der Eb is a good man, but
so
transparent.

It was a long time since I had ventured past the drawbridge. When I returned from my mission in the late afternoon I decided to take a walk along the shore as I used to when I first arrived here. The weather was oppressive. The briny air was heavy with mist. Leaving behind the last cluster of dwellings I took the path over the rocks in the hope of being alone. I had hardly sat down when I caught sight of a figure emerging from the misty blur: a man wearing a loin-cloth, covered in grime, stooping as he shuffled along. He was evidently looking for something on the ground, for he stopped in his tracks from time to time, picked up a pebble or a shell, turned it this way and that for inspection, shook his head and threw it away. I did not recognize him as Joa until he was in front of me. I went towards him and laid my hand on his shoulder. He raised his head and smiled.

“I am looking for precious stones,” he said, “but I cannot find any.” His hair was long and covered in dust.

“You might have to dig a bit deeper to find precious stones,” I offered, with a little laugh. I thought he was joking, but the way his eyes bored into mine told me otherwise.

“Sometimes they sparkle. Even in the dark. There are some very pretty ones. The only problem is how to smuggle them past the guards.”

“I’m sure you deserve a rest from your labours,” I said gently, trying to take his arm, but he shrugged me off and bent over to resume his search.

“I have promised my love a pretty gift.”

“I see,” I said, reproaching myself bitterly for not having troubled to visit him earlier. “Shall I help you then?” I sank on to my haunches and stirred the pebbles, as he was doing. Suddenly he drew himself to his full height, suspicious that I was mocking him.

“If the burden were the same for everyone, nobody would mind!”

I did not know what to say, and when he trudged off muttering to himself, I did not stop him. And yet, in a rush of selfish emotion, I envied my friend. In his befuddled state he still hoped to find beauty. As for me, I returned to the fort, empty-handed.

6 December 1849

Had we been kept on a leash and openly maltreated we would have put up a fight. We would have summoned our strength. We would undoubtedly have lost, but we have lost anyway. We were tolerated. And that is unforgivable. If you cannot accept a man wholeheartedly, then you should have the fortitude to repudiate him.

Waking up in the night I had a vision of extraordinary clarity . . . suddenly I was staring into the eyes of that poor soldier who jumped off the tower when we were here together as boys, soon after our arrival at the fort. In the limbo between waking and sleeping I saw him spread-eagled on the rocks, exactly as we had found him, but now he was convulsed with laughter.

“Indeed sir,” I told him, “they want to press-gang you into life, but you have given them the slip!” I could not conceive of a more radical rebellion against the Christian tradition.

“You are right,” he exclaimed. “True liberty lies beyond the gravest of sins!”

Then I swung an axe and cut off his head, which is, as you are aware, the Ashanti punishment for taking one’s own life, and I began to realize that it was all a dream. Suddenly I was wide awake, and greatly agitated. I got out of bed, drank some water and shook off the gloom.

Have no fears on my account. These are merely fancies that steal into the night. And it is getting light already. “To advance is to die. To retreat is to die. Better then to advance and die in the jaws of battle!” After all, that is the Ashanti way.

19 December 1849

I have come up with an interesting way of banishing my sombre thoughts. By now I am familiar with every inch of my stone walls, every yard of the fort and every hut in the settlement. The same mist gathers over the sea every day. The only difference from one day to the next is the size of the fishermen’s catch, which subject is hotly debated on the beach. I dare say there is more to their conversation than that, but I have lost the desire to engage with their lives. My favourite pastime nowadays is to take a walk along the salt pans in the midday heat and let myself be blinded by the shimmer of the sun reflecting on the crystals. It is a thrilling sensation. First I stare wide-eyed into the glare. Then I fix my eyes on the dark green forest at the far end of the salt flats. The effect is initially of blindness. Then everything resolves into a negative image, so to speak: a fringe of white trees hovering beyond a black plain. After a while the vision fades. In the same way I am able to see patches dancing before my eyes, in which I can make out certain configurations. Geometrical figures. Sometimes there are human shapes, too. I follow them with my eyes as if they were silvery-black butterflies, pointing the way ahead. They flutter this way and that as in a dream. These are nothing but fata morganas, I realize that, but at least they are always different. After twenty minutes or so my eyesight is restored and the figures melt into the trees, after which I start all over again. It is addictive. I often linger there until the flats take on the colour of the evening sky. Then I retrace my steps to Fort Elmina. The solitude of my cubicle is easier to bear when I am reminded that there is life outside.

24 December 1849

Today Joa presented himself at the gate. He asked to see me. He is a little better, it seems, and wishes to return to his native village to recover from his unrequited love. He is free to do so.

There is nothing left for him here. His workshop has closed down. The men who used to work for him have started their own businesses. Joa does not bear any grudges. He has lost all interest in profit-making. He asked me what he should do with my hand-loom. I told him to sell it. The money will stand him in good stead for his travels. I gave him my wages for this month. The journey is hazardous. Both of us smiled as we said goodbye, but his departure saddened me.

This will be my third Christmas in Elmina. The men’s spirits are high. They are to return home next week. The new regiment has already reached Accra. So once again I am to witness the changing of the guard. Van der Eb tried to persuade me to go back to Holland with the returning troops. He did not spare my feelings.

“You are intelligent,” he said, “well educated, well read, blessed with multiple talents. Why waste your aptitude on a nation that disdains the skills you have mastered? Be a man!”

I replied that I could not imagine anything more manly than hoping for the impossible. He grabbed me by the shoulders.

“You are deluding yourself. Why not face the facts? You are rushing headlong towards the precipice.”

I thanked him for his concern. I can see the hopelessness of my situation quite clearly. When he saw the sadness in my eyes he regretted his words and changed the subject. The men were planning a tableau vivant of the nativity; they already had an ox and an ass, and van der Eb suggested I might be interested in taking the role of the black king. An excellent occasion to wear my
kente
cloth, he concluded. I replied that the only role I have is that of Black Peter.

1 January 1850

A fate such as mine, my dear Kwasi, is only to be found in the classics. I am rereading them, and am finding that they contain the last words that still strike a chord in me. Ah well, so many people have known tragedy in their lives.

4 January 1850

What joy! I have seen my mother again. What sorrow . . . Last night, as I was taking my evening stroll along the parapet, I caught sight of a shadowy figure by the gate. I thought—you must forgive me—she was a village girl come to tryst with a soldier. I motioned for her to go away, or she would be noticed. Then she called my name: “Kwame Poku.” And again. I could not believe my ears. That voice! “Kwame Poku.” I rushed outside barefoot, but there was no one at the gate. For a moment I thought I had taken leave of my senses. Then I found her sitting under a tree. She was weeping at first, but did not wish me to see her tears. She composed herself, dried her cheeks, and only then did she let me embrace her.

Her face looked barely a day older, but she had to study me from head to toe to convince herself that I was truly her child. Her fingertips on my unshaven cheek! She poured her heart out, but I could not understand what she was saying. It did not matter. I understood her meaning. I told her what was uppermost in my mind, and in my agitation the phrases that I had prepared for precisely this occasion came out garbled. She nodded as though she could read my thoughts and smiled at me moist-eyed.

We sat there for an hour, perhaps two, until we were all raw inside. “Have you come to take me home?” I asked, but I had already seen the answer in her eyes. Kwaku Dua is unrelenting. Then she held me against her breast. My God, how I have grown! In this awkward pose she rocked me in her arms. With my cheek against her shawl I suddenly noticed that the pattern was the same as that of the cloth I wove some time ago . . . I jumped up, rejoicing at the resemblance, and made to run inside to fetch my cloth so that I might show her my handiwork, but she would not let me go. We lapsed into silence, without this being painful. Finally she started singing. I recognized the melody. It was our morning prayer of the day of the
Ady
. I understood the words!

Oh spirit of the Earth, you grieve
Oh spirit of the Earth, you su fer
Oh Earth and the dust within you
As long as I am dead
I will be at your mercy
Oh Earth, as long as I live
I will put my trust in you
Oh Earth, which will receive my body
We appeal to you and you will understand
We appeal to you and you will understand