No Sweetness Here and Other Stories

by Ama Ata Aidoo

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked me.

  ‘I am going to Mamprobi,’ I replied. ‘Jump in,’ he said, and he started to drive away. Hm . . . I nearly fell down climbing in. As we went round the thing which was like a big bowl on a very huge stump of wood, I had it in mind to have a good look at it, and later Duayaw told me that it shoots water in the air . . . but the driver was talking to me, so I could not look at it properly. He told me he himself was not going to Mamprobi but he was going to the station where I could take a lorry which would be going there. . . .

  Yes, my uncle, he did not deceive me. Immediately we arrived at the station I found the driver of a lorry shouting ‘Mamprobi, Mamprobi’. Finally when the clock struck about two-thirty, I was knocking on the door of Duayaw. I did not knock for long when the door opened. Ah, I say, he was fast asleep, fast asleep I say, on a Saturday afternoon.

  ‘How can folks find time to sleep on Saturday afternoons?’ I asked myself. We hailed each other heartily. My uncles, Duayaw has done well for himself. His mother Nsedua is a very lucky woman.

  How is it some people are lucky with school and others are not? Did not Mansa go to school with Duayaw here in this very school which I can see for myself? What have we done that Mansa should have wanted to stop going to school?

  But I must continue with my tale. . . . Yes, Duayaw has done well for himself. His room has fine furniture. Only it is too small. I asked him why and he told me he was even lucky to have got that narrow place that looks like a box. It is very hard to find a place to sleep in the city. . . .

  He asked me about the purpose of my journey. I told him everything. How, as he himself knew, my sister Mansa had refused to go to school after ‘Klase Tri’ and how my mother had tried to persuade her to go . . .

  My mother, do not interrupt me, everyone present here knows you tried to do what you could by your daughter.

  Yes, I told him how, after she had refused to go, we finally took her to this woman who promised to teach her to keep house and to work with the sewing machine . . . and how she came home the first Christmas after the woman took her but has never been home again, these twelve years.

  Duayaw asked me whether it was my intention then to look for my sister in the city. I told him yes. He laughed saying, ‘You are funny. Do you think you can find a woman in this place? You do not know where she is staying. You do not even know whether she is married or not. Where can we find her if someone big has married her and she is now living in one of those big bungalows which are some ten miles from the city?’

  Do you cry ‘My Lord’, mother? You are surprised about what I said about the marriage? Do not be. I was surprised too, when he talked that way. I too cried ‘My Lord’ . . . Yes, I too did, mother. But you and I have forgotten that Mansa was born a girl and girls do not take much time to grow. We are thinking of her as we last saw her when she was ten years old. But mother, that is twelve years ago. . . .

  Yes, Duayaw told me that she is by now old enough to marry and to do something more than merely marry. I asked him whether he knew where she was and if he knew whether she had any children – ‘Children?’ he cried, and he started laughing, a certain laugh. . . .

  I was looking at him all the time he was talking. He told me he was not just discouraging me but he wanted me to see how big and difficult it was, what I proposed to do. I replied that it did not matter. What was necessary was that even if Mansa was dead, her ghost would know that we had not forgotten her entirely. That we had not let her wander in other people’s towns and that we had tried to bring her home. . . .

  These are useless tears you have started to weep, my mother. Have I said anything to show that she was dead?

  Duayaw and I decided on the little things we would do the following day as the beginning of our search. Then he gave me water for my bath and brought me food. He sat by me while I ate and asked me for news of home. I told him that his father has married another woman and of how last year the akatse spoiled all our cocoa. We know about that already. When I finished eating, Duayaw asked me to stretch out my bones on the bed and I did. I think I slept fine because when I opened my eyes it was dark. He had switched on his light and there was a woman in the room. He showed me her as a friend but I think she is the girl he wants to marry against the wishes of his people. She is as beautiful as sunrise, but she does not come from our parts. . . .

  When Duayaw saw that I was properly awake, he told me it had struck eight o’clock in the evening and his friend had brought some food. The three of us ate together.

  Do not say ‘Ei’, uncle, it seems as if people do this thing in the city. A woman prepares a meal for a man and eats it with him. Yes, they do so often.

  My mouth could not manage the food. It was prepared from cassava and corn dough, but it was strange food all the same. I tried to do my best. After the meal, Duayaw told me we were going for a night out. It was then I remembered my bag. I told him that as matters stood, I could not change my cloth and I could not go out with them. He would not hear of it. ‘It would certainly be a crime to come to this city and not go out on a Saturday night.’ He warned me though that there might not be many people, or anybody at all, where we were going who would also be in cloth but I should not worry about that.

  Cut me a drink, for my throat is very dry, my uncle. . . .

  When we were on the street, I could not believe my eyes. The whole place was as clear as the sky. Some of these lights are very beautiful indeed. Everyone should see them . . . and there are so many of them! ‘Who is paying for all these lights? I asked myself. I could not say that aloud for fear Duayaw would laugh.

  We walked through many streets until we came to a big building where a band was playing. Duayaw went to buy tickets for the three of us.

  You all know that I had not been to anywhere like that before. You must allow me to say that I was amazed. ‘Ei, are all these people children of human beings? And where are they going? And what do they want?’

  Before I went in, I thought the building was big, but when I went in, I realised the crowd in it was bigger. Some were in front of a counter buying drinks, others were dancing . . .

  Yes, that was the case, uncle, we had gone to a place where they had given a dance, but I did not know.

  Some people were sitting on iron chairs around iron tables. Duayaw told some people to bring us a table and chairs and they did. As soon as we sat down, Duayaw asked us what we would drink. As for me, I told him lamlale but his woman asked for ‘Beer’ . . .

  Do not be surprised, uncles.

  Yes, I remember very well, she asked for beer. It was not long before Duayaw brought them. I was too surprised to drink mine. I sat with my mouth open and watched the daughter of a woman cut beer like a man. The band had stopped playing for some time and soon they started again. Duayaw and his woman went to dance. I sat there and drank my lamlale. I cannot describe how they danced.

  After some time, the band stopped playing and Duayaw and his woman came to sit down. I was feeling cold and I told Duayaw. He said, ‘And this is no wonder, have you not been drinking this women’s drink all the time?’

  ‘Does it make one cold?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Did you not know that? You must drink beer.’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. So he bought me beer. When I was drinking the beer, he told me I would be warm if I danced.

  ‘You know I cannot dance the way you people dance,’ I told him.

  ‘And how do we dance?’ he asked me.

  ‘I think you all dance like white men and as I do not know how that is done, people would laugh at me,’ I said. Duayaw started laughing. He could not contain himself. He laughed so much his woman asked him what it was all about. He said something in the white man’s language and they started laughing again. Duayaw then told me that if people were dancing, they would be so busy that they would not have time to watch others dance. And also, in the city, no one cares if you dance well or not . . .

  Yes, I dance
d too, my uncles. I did not know anyone, that is true. My uncle, do not say that instead of concerning myself with the business for which I had gone to the city, I went dancing. Oh, if you only knew what happened at this place, you would not be saying this. I would not like to stop somewhere and tell you the end . . . I would rather like to put a rod under the story, as it were, clear off every little creeper in the bush . . .

  But as we were talking about the dancing, something made Duayaw turn to look behind him where four women were sitting by the table. . . . Oh! he turned his eyes quickly, screwed his face into something queer which I could not understand and told me that if I wanted to dance, I could ask one of those women to dance with me.

  My uncles, I too was very surprised when I heard that. I asked Duayaw if people who did not know me would dance with me’ He said ‘Yes.’ I lifted my eyes, my uncles, and looked at those four young women sitting round a table alone. They were sitting all alone, I say. I got up.

  I hope I am making myself clear, my uncles, but I was trembling like water in a brass bowl.

  Immediately one of them saw me, she jumped up and said something in that kind of white man’s language which everyone, even those who have not gone to school, speak in the city. I shook my head. She said something else in the language of the people of the place. I shook my head again. Then I heard her ask me in Fante whether I wanted to dance with her. I replied ‘Yes.’

  Ei! my little sister, are you asking me a question? Oh! you want to know whether I found Mansa? I do not know. . . . Our uncles have asked me to tell everything that happened there, and you too! I am cooking the whole meal for you, why do you want to lick the ladle now?

  Yes, I went to dance with her. I kept looking at her so much I think I was all the time stepping on her feet. I say, she was as black as you and I, but her hair was very long and fell on her shoulders like that of a white woman. I did not touch it but I saw it was very soft. Her lips with that red paint looked like a fresh wound. There was no space between her skin and her dress. Yes, I danced with her. When the music ended, I went back to where I was sitting. I do not know what she told her companions about me, but I heard them laugh.

  It was this time that something made me realise that they were all bad women of the city. Duayaw had told me I would feel warm if I danced, yet after I had danced, I was colder than before. You would think someone had poured water on me. I was unhappy thinking about these women. ‘Have they no homes?’ I asked myself. ‘Do not their mothers like them? God, we are all toiling for our threepence to buy something to eat . . . but oh! God! this is no work.’

  When I thought of my own sister, who was lost, I became a little happy because I felt that although I had not found her, she was nevertheless married to a big man and all was well with her.

  When they started to play the band again, I went to the women’s table to ask the one with whom I had danced to dance again. But someone had gone with her already. I got one of the two who were still sitting there. She went with me. When we were dancing she asked me whether it was true that I was a Fante. I replied ‘Yes.’ We did not speak again. When the band stopped playing, she told me to take her to where they sold things to buy her beer and cigarettes. I was wondering whether I had the money. When we were where the lights were shining brightly, something told me to look at her face. Something pulled at my heart.

  ‘Young woman, is this the work you do?’ I asked her.

  ‘Young man, what work do you mean?’ she too asked me. I laughed.

  ‘Do you not know what work?’ I asked again.

  ‘And who are you to ask me such questions? I say, who are you? Let me tell you that any kind of work is work. You villager, you villager, who are you?’ she screamed.

  I was afraid. People around were looking at us. I laid my hands on her shoulders to calm her down and she hit them away.

  ‘Mansa, Mansa,’ I said. ‘Do you not know me?’ She looked at me for a long time and started laughing. She laughed, laughed as if the laughter did not come from her stomach. Yes, as if she was hungry.

  ‘I think you are my brother,’ she said. ‘Hm.’

  Oh, my mother and my aunt, oh, little sister, are you all weeping? As for you women!

  What is there to weep about? I was sent to find a lost child. I found her a woman.

  Cut me a drink . . .

  Any kind of work is work. . . . This is what Mansa told me with a mouth that looked like clotted blood. Any kind of work is work . . . so do not weep. She will come home this Christmas.

  My brother, cut me another drink. Any form of work is work . . . is work . . . is work!

  The Message

  ‘Look here my sister, it should not be said but they say they opened her up.’

  ‘They opened her up?’

  ‘Yes, opened her up.’

  ‘And the baby removed?’

  ‘Yes, the baby removed.’

  ‘Yes, the baby removed.’

  ‘I say . . .’

  ‘They do not say, my sister.’

  ‘Have you heard it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This and this and that . . .’

  ‘A-a-ah! that is it . . .’

  ‘Meewuo!’

  ‘They don’t say meewuo . . .’

  ‘And how is she?’

  ‘Am I not here with you? Do I know the highway which leads to Cape Coast?’

  ‘Hmmm . . .’

  ‘And anyway how can she live? What is it like even giving birth with a stomach which is whole . . . eh? . . . I am asking you. And if you are always standing on the brink of death who go to war with a stomach that is whole, then how would she do whose stomach is open to the winds?’

  ‘Oh, poo, pity . . .’

  ‘I say . . .’

  My little bundle, come. You and I are going to Cape Coast today.

  I am taking one of her own cloths with me, just in case. These people on the coast do not know how to do a thing and I am not going to have anybody mishandling my child’s body. I hope they give it to me. Horrible things I have heard done to people’s bodies. Cutting them up and using them for instructions. Whereas even murderers still have decent burials.

  I see Mensima coming. . . . And there is Nkama too . . . and Adwoa Meenu. . . . Now they are coming to . . . ‘poo pity’ me. Witches, witches, witches . . . they have picked mine up while theirs prosper around them, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren – theirs shoot up like mushrooms.

  ‘Esi, we have heard of your misfortune . . .’

  ‘That our little lady’s womb has been opened up . . .’

  ‘And her baby removed . . .’

  Thank you very much.

  ‘Has she lived through it?’

  I do not know.

  ‘Esi, bring her here, back home whatever happens.’

  Yoo, thank you. If the government’s people allow it, I shall bring her home.

  ‘And have you got ready your things?’

  Yes. . . . No.

  I cannot even think well.

  It feels so noisy in my head. . . . Oh my little child. . . . I am wasting time. . . . And so I am going . . .

  Yes, to Cape Coast.

  No, I do not know anyone there now but do you think no one would show me the way to this big hospital . . . if I asked around?

  Hmmm . . . it’s me has ended up like this. I was thinking that everything was alright now. . . . Yoo. And thank you too. Shut the door for me when you are leaving. You may stay too long outside if you wait for me, so go home and be about your business. I will let you know when I bring her in.

  ‘Maami Amfoa, where are you going?’

  My daughter, I am going to Cape Coast.

  ‘And what is our old mother going to do with such swift steps? Is it serious?’

  My daughter, it is very serious.

  ‘Mother, may God go with you.’

  Yoo, my daughter.

  ‘Eno, and what calls at this hour of the day?’

  They want me in Cap
e Coast.

  ‘Does my friend want to go and see how much the city has changed since we went there to meet the new Wesleyan Chairman, twenty years ago?’

  My sister, do you think I have knees to go parading on the streets of Cape Coast?

  ‘Is it heavy?’

  Yes, very heavy indeed. They have opened up my grandchild at the hospital, hi, hi, hi. . . .

  ‘Eno due, due, due. . . I did not know. May God go with you. . . .’

  Thank you. Yaa.

  ‘O, the world!’

  ‘It’s her grandchild. The only daughter of her only son. Do you remember Kojo Amisa who went to sodja and fell in the great war, overseas?’

  ‘Yes, it’s his daughter. . . .’

  . . . O, poo, pity.

  ‘Kobina, run to the street, tell Draba Anan to wait for Nana Amfoa.’

  ‘. . . Draba Anan, Draba, my mother says I must come and tell you to wait for Nana Amfoa.’

  ‘And where is she?’

  ‘There she comes.’

  ‘Just look at how she hops like a bird . . . does she think we are going to be here all day? And anyway we are full already . . .’

  O, you drivers!

  ‘What have drivers done?’

  ‘And do you think it shows respect when you speak in this way? It is only that things have not gone right; but she could, at least have been your mother. . . .’

  ‘But what have I said? I have not insulted her. I just think that only Youth must be permitted to see Cape Coast, the town of the Dear and Expensive. . . .’

  ‘And do you think she is going on a peaceful journey? The only daughter of her only son has been opened up and her baby removed from her womb.’

  O . . . God.

  O

  O

  O

  Poo, pity.

  ‘Me . . . poo – pity, I am right about our modern wives I always say they are useless as compared with our mothers.

  ‘You drivers!’

  ‘Now what have your modern wives done?’

  ‘Am I not right what I always say about them?’

  ‘You go and watch them in the big towns. All so thin and dry as sticks – you can literally blow them away with your breath. No decent flesh anywhere. Wooden chairs groan when they meet with their hard exteriors.’