He sat up.
“I was tired,” he said, examining the room for the first time. Then, “Open my bundle. Take out the soap and the sponge.”
She put them down on a stool next to the basin and moved towards the door.
“Stop,” he ordered. “Where do you think you are going?”
“I was going outside to let you take your bath,” she said.
He looked her in the eye and smiled. Guessing the import of that smile, she dropped her gaze.
“Oh no,” he laughed. “Why did you think I brought you with me? I have been working hard these past days. Now that the Vulture has left me in charge I am going to relax.”
He stood up and removed his cloth and dropped the drawers which were his only undergarment. He was naked. Nandzi looked away.
“Eh, young woman,” he said, “Are you shy? Have you never seen a man's thing before? Look, it is even standing for you.”
He washed his face in the warm water. Then he gave her the loofah and the ball of black soap.
“Start with my back,” he said. “Rub hard. It is days since I had a good bath. You know we Asante are not like you northerners. It is our custom to bath twice a day.”
As she scrubbed his back, Nandzi considered her position. She felt no attraction for this man. She had not been with any man since Abdulai had raped her. That rape had killed her desire. She flinched at the thought of being penetrated. But she could see no way out. Run away? To where, to what sanctuary? She knew no one in Kafaba. The man would set up a hue and cry for her and she would soon be caught. It was hard to be a slave. She had no choice.
He turned round.
“Now the front,” he said, holding up his arms so that she could soap his arm pits.
She bypassed his erect penis.
“Here too,” he told her, “But gently, mind you. Use your hand, not the sponge.”
He pulled off her cloth and grasped a breast in each soapy hand. She flinched.
“You are covered in dust,” he said. “Just rinse the soap off me. Then you had better bath too. Use my sponge.”
As he dried himself, Nandzi turned her back to him and soaped herself. It was a long time since she had had a good bath and she took her time, enjoying the warmth of the water and scrubbing the dust out of her skin. Then the man came from behind and took a breast in each hand. She felt the end of his instrument against her backside. Again she flinched. He rubbed his palms over her soapy nipples. She forced her mind away.
“Itsho,” she said in her own language, “There is nothing I can do. He is going to take me against my will. Help me if you can.”
“What is that you are saying? Have I not taught you Asante? Speak a civilised language to me,” Akwasi Anoma said to her.
When he had finished, but before he had withdrawn, he said, “What is the matter, child? Do you dislike me so much? This is a small thing between a man and woman. You must try better next time.”
Then he turned his back and soon he was snoring.
Nandzi was exhausted but she could not sleep. She felt humiliated and dirty.
“Itsho,” she whispered, “I could not help it.”
CHAPTER 7
The next day, while Akwasi Anoma was in the Upper Town eating his fufu, Damba's caravan entered Kafaba from the east and passed slowly down River Road.
Damba rode ahead, scanning the compounds left and right.
Nandzi was the first to see them. She was struck at once by the condition of her fellow slaves. They were clearly much the worse for wear: emaciated, dirty, exhausted and, so it seemed to her, desperately low in spirit. She searched the column for Minjendo, but the three hundred faces were mostly obscured by the bundles and baskets on their heads.
Damba found Nandzi before Nandzi could find Minjendo. He dismounted at once.
“Nandzi,” he asked, “How are you?”
Struck by the contrast with his own ragged, ill-clad charges, he continued, “You look well.”
As he spoke the words, he felt suddenly ashamed, ashamed of his slaves' condition and ashamed that, in spite of his affection for Nandzi, he had not had the courage to attempt to save her from servitude. This commerce in human beings is a bad practice, he thought. When the Ya Na put me in charge of the caravan, I felt honoured. Now all my ambition has gone sour: all I want to do is to go home and purge my memory of these bitter days, as I might scour my dusty body with caustic soap.
Nandzi had not answered.
“What! Have you lost your tongue?” he jested and then, examining her face more closely, “Is there something wrong?”
What sort of answer does this man expect of me? Nandzi wondered, as she inspected her torn toe nails. He saw me raped. He bound me to a pack horse. It is true that he permitted me to bury Itsho and kept me in his mother's house: for that I owe him; but if he and his fellows had never set out on their nefarious hunt for human beings, Itsho would still be alive and I would still be with my family.
She was in a dark mood. The business with Akwasi Anoma had upset her. The thought that Damba might be persuaded to help her to avoid having to spend another night with the coarse bird man flitted through her mind. She dismissed it. Damba took his orders from the Asante. Even in the remote event that he might succeed in rescuing her, she would then, more likely than not, end up having to sleep with him instead. Men are all the same, she thought. Only Itsho was different. And Itsho is dead.
Damba tried again.
“Where is Koranten Péte?” he asked.
“Kumase,” she answered curtly, raising her head and looking him straight in the eye.
“And who is in charge then?”
Akwasi Anoma had been sent for. Now he was approaching them.
“That man,” she said, pointing at him and spitting out the words as if they were some rotten food.
Akwasi Anoma saw and heard her.
“Bush woman,” he said. “You forget your status. Just remember that you are a slave. Point at me like that just once more and I will have some civilised manners whipped into you.”
Nandzi turned, expressed her contempt with a hiss, and went to search the column for Minjendo.
* * *
Minjendo was in a bad way, haggard and evidently ill.
She did not acknowledge Nandzi's greeting. Nandzi led her to the makeshift shelter by the cooking place. Her head load removed, Minjendo sank to the ground. Nandzi had to drag her into the shade. She sat with her head hung down between her knees. Nandzi brought her a bowl of water and helped her to drink. She spread one of her two cloths on the ground and made Minjendo lie on it. She took the corner of her other cloth, which she wore around her waist, dipped it in the water and wiped Minjendo's face.
The days which followed were a time of unceasing labour.
The three hundred slaves who had travelled on foot from Yendi had to be fed. The sick had to be nursed; wounds had to be dressed. Water had to be fetched from the river. Baskets of millet had to be carried down from the market. The shit of the chained men had to be collected and buried. Firewood had to be collected. The gruel which was the slaves' principal diet had to be cooked. The dying had to be comforted and the dead had to be buried.
Akwasi Anoma, nominally in charge, was of little help. He visited the encampment in the morning principally to give orders to the guards. The welfare of the slaves was of no concern to him. He regarded the responsibility which Koranten Péte had laid upon him as a license to indulge himself. He was often drunk by noon. Every afternoon he selected a different girl to service him. At least, thought Nandzi, resisting an impulse to intervene, he has lost interest in me.
Of Damba there was nothing to be seen.
The weakest of the slaves, the oldest and the youngest, died. The survivors responded to rest and to more regular meals, inadequate, unappetising and lacking in nourishment as they were. As the women regained their strength, more of them were able to share the work. There was no one to give them orders. The women who were willing, seeing Nandzi's
example, came to her to volunteer their help. The men were a problem. She bullied the guards, persuading them to unshackle them in batches to let them have some exercise; but they were not allowed to help with the heavy work, for that would mean leaving the camp.
As darkness fell, Nandzi would wrap herself in her cloth and instantly fall into a deep dreamless sleep. At the first glimmer of light, she would be back at work. I am working, she thought with a grim smile, like a slave; but as the work force grew, she found that she was spending much of her time giving orders, not by choice, but simply because there was no one else to do so.
One day, when the sun had reached its zenith, she called a halt to all work and told her fellows to find some shade and rest until it was cooler. The guards did not interfere.
Minjendo watched her.
“Once you ran away. Now you are doing our masters’ work for them,” she teased Nandzi.
She was stronger now, but Nandzi would not let her work.
“What else can I do? Our men are in chains. If we women do nothing, we shall all perish from hunger and thirst,” she answered.
She was secretly astonished at the role which circumstances had laid upon her shoulders. She had never before had to give orders, except to children.
“What are you thinking of?” asked Minjendo.
“Nothing, nothing. At least, nothing important,” replied Nandzi. “Perhaps some day I will tell you; but not now. Rather there is something you should tell me. I have not wanted to ask until now because you were not well. But now you seem much better.”
“What is it?” asked Minjendo.
“What happened on your journey to this place? You were quite strong and well when we parted outside Yendi; yet when you reached Kafaba you were so weak and ill that you didn't even recognise me.”
Now it was Minjendo's turn to be silent.
“You don't have to tell me. But maybe it will do you good to talk. We are all in this together now. None of us have family. We have to rely on one another.”
Minjendo looked up at her. There were tears in her eyes.
“There was a bush fire,” she said. “It started behind us, perhaps where we had camped the night before. The wind blew the fire in our direction. Suddenly it seemed that the whole world was alight. We were enveloped in smoke and ashes. The heat was unbearable. All manner of bush creatures came running past us. They were so intent on fleeing from the fire that they didn't seem to notice us: zebra and antelopes, grass cutters and porcupines, even snakes. And a whole family of lions, with small cubs, quite nearby, all running for their lives. Then we were all running too. For the men it was most difficult: if one fell, his chains dragged the whole gang down with him. I tried to balance my basket on my head as I ran, but it was impossible. Others just let their loads fall, so I did the same. I ran for a while, tripping and stumbling. All the time the fire was coming closer, catching up on us. I was tired out, and with the smoke, it was difficult to see. I was terrified. I thought I would have to give up.
“Then, then . . . “ she sobbed.
“Take your time,” said Nandzi, putting an arm around her shoulder. “Take you time. You had a terrible shock. But you are all right, you survived, you are alive. That is all that counts.”
Nandzi's calm was a disguise which she couldn't sustain. Minjendo's story had upset her. She saw a terrible vision of Itsho's crushed skull, with his brains spilling out and she too began to sob. She hugged Minjendo and they clung to one another and cried until they had no more tears.
“I was pregnant,” said Minjendo when she had wiped her face and recovered her voice. “I lost the child. There in the bush, with no one to help me. Nandzi, my sister: you cannot imagine the horror and the pain. And then everything went black. They told me afterwards that it was that Bedagbam man, the Master of the Caravan, the one they call Damba, who saved me. He had been riding up and down behind us, urging us on. I suppose that he wanted to make sure that he did not lose any of his slaves. He dismounted, threw me up across his horse's neck, and rode on. It was all done in a flash, they told me. I don't remember a thing: I might have been dead. Dead. Poor dead Minjendo, roasted alive without so much as a decent funeral. Her spirit wandering, wandering, but never finding her ancestors. Think of it.
“When I came to there was no more fire and we were in a new camp. We rested there for a few days, but we had lost most of our food and our water containers so Damba made us press on. Miraculously, no one had died in the fire; but some of the older ones and some of the children died on the road from hunger and thirst. Some had been burned in the fire and the burns turned bad so that they couldn't walk any more. They were left behind. I was lucky that I wasn't left behind too. Sometimes they let me ride on a horse when I was very weak.”
“Poor Minjendo,” said Nandzi. “What you have all been through. I didn't know.”
She looked around. Akwasi Anoma was coming down the hill. From his shambling gait it was clear that he was drunk. He was singing to himself but his speech was so slurred that they could not make out the words. They watched him. Others saw him too. Soon three hundred pairs of eyes were focused on him. He halted and tried to crack his whip but he could not give his wrist the necessary flick and the thong would not do his will. He cursed. Then he looked around him. Through his blurred vision, he seemed to realise that he was the object of close observation.
“What!” he cried incoherently. “Resting? Slaves resting? Get to work! Get to work! Guards! Do you hear me? Guards!”
The guards came running up. Some of them were slaves themselves, some the sons of slaves.
“I want a woman. Line up the women so I can make my choice.”
“I can't see him performing in that condition,” Minjendo nudged Nandzi.
The guards rounded them up, dragging and pushing them into a reluctant ragged row.
“Your mother!” Minjendo abused a guard who laid a hand on her, but she said it in her own language and he did not understand.
Akwasi Anoma swaggered up the line, inspecting his prey, prodding with his whip end, weighing a breast.
A woman's voice called from behind his back, “Besotted fool!”
He didn't understand the language but he heard the laughter. He turned round, and this time succeeding in cracking his whip. There was silence and he continued on his inspection. He arrived at the end of the line and started back.
Half way along, he made his choice. It was a young girl, no more than a child. He pointed at her. A guard grasped her hand and pulled her after him. She resisted and began to cry. At the same time there was a murmur of protest from the women. The guard dragged the girl away. His drunken master followed.
“Akwasi Anoma,” Nandzi called out, raising her voice above the hubbub.
On hearing his name the man stopped and turned.
“Who called my name?” he demanded.
Nandzi stepped forward.
“Akwasi Anoma,” she called out again and, before he could react, added, in his own language, using a word which he himself had taught her: “Beast!”
Then she walked calmly to the guard and took the girl by the arm.
“Release her,” she ordered.
The guard was used to taking orders. He did as he was told.
Akwasi Anoma called out, “Fool, fool. Take her,” and then “Guards, guards.”
The other guards, who had been watching these events with barely disguised amusement, now came to the rescue of their master.
The shock of Nandzi's challenge had sobered him. His attention had been diverted and he hardly noticed that the girl had made her escape.
“Bind the woman,” he ordered.
The guards grabbed Nandzi and, handling her roughly, bound her hands behind her back and tied her ankles together.
“I will make an example of her for all of you to see,” he announced. “No slave woman insults an Asante man with impunity. The rest of you, watch.”
Nandzi recalled the execution she had seen in the market squ
are at Yendi. The victim had been bound in the same way. But she knew no fear, only mad, uncontrollable rage.
“Akwasi Anoma,” she called out yet again.
“What?” he asked, expecting a plea for mercy. The idea of commuting her sentence to one of judicial rape, inflicted by himself, crossed his mind.
“You are a drunken beast, a stupid drunken beast. I curse you,” cried Nandzi, “We all curse you.”
“Stop that witch's mouth!” ordered the enraged man.
* * *
Minjendo sat by Nandzi's side, doing her best to comfort her. Jaji, the girl whom Nandzi had saved from Akwasi Anoma's clutches, attached herself to them, ever ready to show her gratitude by carrying out any task assigned to her. Minjendo left her with Nandzi while she went to search for medicinal leaves and then set her to soak them in boiled water. Nandzi lay face down. All day Minjendo dribbled one infusion over Nandzi's wounds and persuaded her to sip another. For a while she had a high fever. Then, gradually, the open wounds on her back and buttocks began to form scabs. The itching drove her to distraction but Minjendo knew that the worst was over.
Early one morning, Koranten Péte stepped out of a canoe, followed by two musketeers.
He strode up River Road, searching for a familiar face.
One of the guards caught sight of him and called out, “Nana, Nana; we are here!”
Koranten Péte strode into the camp.
“Where is Akwasi Anoma?” he demanded.
Akwasi Anoma had not put in an appearance at the camp since the day he had had Nandzi whipped.
“He is in his house,” replied the guard.
Koranten Péte searched the man's face.
“In his house, is he?” he mimicked. “Then go to his house at once and tell him I want to see him. At once. Do you understand? Wait! Mensa, you go with him,” he ordered one of the musketeers.
The camp was filthy. Human excrement lay uncollected. The slaves were clearly dispirited. As soon as Nandzi was able, she had told Minjendo what orders to give; but Minjendo had earned no leadership status, as Nandzi had. She was just another young woman who happened to be Nandzi's friend. The women paid little attention. They carried out only the most essential activities. For the rest, they sat around consumed with self-pity.
Ama Page 8