It took Koranten Péte little time to get the camp cleaned up. He put each guard in charge of a squad of women and gave each squad a task. His company of musketeers arrived and he quickly set them to work too. He inspected each chained group of male slaves. Then he came upon Nandzi's prone, naked body, with Minjendo and her young helper by her side.
“What's this?” he demanded. “Why are you not at work with the rest?”
Minjendo did not understand the question but she read his body language correctly. She stood up and pointed mutely at Nandzi's back. After a restless night, Nandzi had been dozing when Koranten Péte had arrived and Minjendo had not seen fit to awaken her.
Koranten Péte called the nearest guard. By chance it was the very man who, on Akwasi Anoma's instructions, had flogged her.
“Who did this?” asked Koranten Péte.
Uncertain whether he was about to be rewarded or punished, the guard hesitated. Then he saw Minjendo pointing at him and decided it would be better to own up. At that moment Nandzi woke, and, lifting the cloth to cover her nakedness, sat up. Koranten Péte looked at her in astonishment.
“You!” he said. “Did you ignore my warning and try to escape again?”
Nandzi was still dazed. She ignored his question and said to Minjendo, “Please give me some water.”
Koranten Péte watched her drink and then wet the corner of her cloth to wipe her face. Suddenly there was a roar from the squad of women nearest the road. Akwasi Anoma was approaching, led by the musketeer who had been sent for him. The women all stopped their work and hooted and jeered at him.
“I'll talk to you later,” Koranten Péte said to Nandzi.
He signalled to the squad leaders and the pandemonium ceased almost immediately. He cut Akwasi Anoma's greeting short and led him to the far end of the camp, out of earshot but, since there was no private place in the camp, not out of sight. The slaves watched their conversation with increasing glee as they interpreted their body language. Their guards showed no less interest. Work came to a stop.
“It looks as if your bird man is in trouble,” said Minjendo to Nandzi.
* * *
Koranten Péte gave himself a week to prepare the slaves for the twenty day journey to Kumase, leaving the livestock to follow at a more leisurely pace.
The Asantehene had instructed that they arrive in Kumase in time for the next Akwasidae. Should they arrive in poor condition, Koranten Péte's reputation would suffer. And Koranten Péte had a reputation to preserve: he was a royal prince, son of Oduro Panin, King of Nsuta, one of the seven founding nations of the Asante confederacy; his wife, Abena Saka, was the Queen Mother of Mampon, another of the founding states. His name was a by-word for bravery. It was Koranten Péte who had led the Asante army which had defeated the Dagomba. And Koranten Péte was a rich man. The Asantehene had rewarded him generously for his military exploits: he was entitled to collect a one-third commission on the Dagomba tribute. So it was a small thing for him to bear the cost of fattening up his charges for a few days and providing each slave with a cheap new indigo cover cloth.
Once he had delivered his caravan into the hands of Akwasi Anoma, Damba had deliberately kept clear of the camp. He no longer had any stomach for the slave business. While waiting for Koranten Péte's return to Kafaba, he had spent his time studying the market and doing such business on his own account as his limited capital would allow.
Now he came to greet Koranten Péte and to join him in taking an inventory.
When they came to Nandzi, Koranten Péte turned to him and asked, “You know this young woman, of course?”
“Of course,” replied Damba, managing a smile.
He was still smarting from the rude reception she had given him when they last met and expected another rebuff. But Nandzi felt some remorse for her behaviour and smiled back.
“Show him your wounds,” Koranten Péte told Nandzi.
Slowly, reluctantly, she turned her back to them and dropped her cloth.
“She saved a young girl from Akwasi Anoma's clutches and he took his revenge,” said Koranten Péte.
“I am sorry,” said Damba lamely.
Those were the last words he spoke to her.
“That is a remarkable young woman,” he said to Koranten Péte when they were out of earshot. “I hope you will look after her well.”
“Have no fear. She will be going into the household of the most powerful woman in Asante, the Queen Mother herself.”
* * *
Nandzi had seen the river from the slave camp. She had been astonished at its great width: even in the dry season it was far, far wider than the Oti in flood. Koranten Péte established a temporary camp on the far bank.
He devoted a day to ferrying the tribute goods across. At dawn on the second day, the slaves were moved. The women went first, ten in each canoe, with ten PADDLERS to make sure that the swift current did not carry them downstream, and two guards armed with muskets.
When the women and children were all across, the men were unchained, one gang at a time. Secured only by manacles, they were marshalled down to the canoes under the eyes of an armed escort, carrying their loose chains with them. The humiliating conditions in which they had spent the last weeks had so sapped their spirit that tight security was hardly necessary. But Koranten Péte was taking no chances. Once they were safely across, they were again shackled together.
By nightfall the river crossing had been completed. Last to arrive were Sharif Imhammed and his small party.
At dawn, Koranten Péte stood before the assembled slaves. His spokesman called for silence.
“Yesterday we crossed the great Volta River,” Koranten Péte told them. “Today it lies between you and your old homes. If yesterday you had not yet given up all hope of returning to your own people, today you must do so. This river is not like other rivers. This one has no bottom. Other rivers turn into a trickle in the dry season: this one never. No man has ever waded across it. If you think you might swim across it, you are welcome to try: the crocodiles will make a meal of you. And if you contemplate stealing a canoe, remember the strength of the current which you have seen today: consider that it took ten strong men to steer a straight path across from the other side.”
He paused and watched as fresh palm wine was poured from a calabash into a cup. He took the cup and poured a silent libation. Then he took a draught of the sweet liquid.
He licked his lips, wiped his beard and continued his homily.
“If you behave well and work hard,” he promised them, “if you learn our language and adopt our customs, you men will be given wives, some from your own ranks, but others even from amongst our own Asante women. If you marry an Asante woman your children will be Asante.”
“So I say to you all: welcome to Asante. Turn your backs on your old lives. Look to a better future.
“We set off early tomorrow. I have purchased a new cloth for each of you. You will receive it the day before we arrive in Kumase. In Kumase you will be handed over to your new masters and mistresses. Your chains and shackles will be removed. You will join the families for whom you will be working. I wish you an uneventful journey and success in your new lives.”
* * *
At first light, the slaves were shepherded into their assigned positions.
A band of drummers led the caravan. Next came a small squad of musketeers.
Koranten Péte followed, with his guest, Sharif Imhammed. Each sat in a hammock, borne aloft on poles by four bearers. The horses had been left behind in Kafaba. There were too many tsetse flies in the forest.
The male slaves followed in groups of twelve, manacled wrist to wrist in pairs and spaced a stride apart along a heavy chain, just as in their journey from Yendi. Two armed guards marched before and behind each chain gang with some of the women and children between them. Each slave carried a head load, tribute goods from Yendi or luxuries from Kafaba.
Another squad of musketeers brought up the rear.
Korante
n Péte's secretary poured libation and invoked the blessings of the ancestors. Then the royal horn was blown, the drummers struck up a rhythm and the procession moved off.
Nandzi and Minjendo were now both well enough to carry a load. They walked together, with Jaji their constant companion.
As they moved off, Nandzi began to hum a traditional dirge. In her mind she sang the words she remembered, inserting the names of those whose death she was lamenting, first Itsho and then, in turn, everyone else whose death she could recall. Then new words begun to form themselves. Dimly, she sensed Itsho's unseen presence. Her eyes were open but she seemed to be dreaming. Her spirit left her body. She floated weightlessly and saw the whole caravan from a great height.
“Why are you humming a dirge?” asked Minjendo.
Nandzi continued humming.
“Nandzi, don't you hear me?” Minjendo asked her, but Nandzi appeared to be in a trance.
She began to sing new words, softly, tentatively, adapting her rhythm to the beat of the drums.
“Oh you our ancestors, our grandparents
“And their parents; and their parents and grandparents:
“Hear our voice,
“Hear our lamentation.
“Oh you our ancestors, all those who in the dim mists of the past
“Have lived upon this earth and have gone before us into the world of the spirits:
“Hear our voice,
“Hear our lamentation.
“Advise us, help us,
“Succour us.
“Hear our voice,
“Hear our lamentation.”
As she sang her voice gained power. Minjendo turned her head and looked at her. The spirits have possessed her, she thought; and she was afraid.
“We too have died and yet we live still.
“We are as walking corpses.
“Hear our voice,
“Hear our lamentation.
“We have no drink to offer
“But we beg and beseech you:
“Hear our voice,
“Hear our lamentation.”
One of the older women began to join the chorus, “Hear our voice, Hear our lamentation,” and then another.
Soon all the women in the group were singing the chorus. Minjendo was the last to join.
“Our freedom has been taken from us
“Our spirits are chained to our dead bodies.
“Hear our voice,
“Hear our lamentation.
“Who will perform the rites which will free our spirits
“And send them to your world?
“Hear our voice,
“Hear our lamentation.
“Hear us, advise us, fortify us,
“Give us back life; give us back hope.
“Hear our voice,
“Hear our lamentation.”
Nandzi paused.
“Again,” the older woman called to her. She began again from the beginning.
Again and again they sang the dirge until they knew all the words. The song passed up to the beginning of the caravan; and it passed down to the end. Even the women who did not understand the words were moved to join in. The guards did nothing. One does not lightly interfere in matters concerning the spirits of the dead.
The singing of dirges is women's work. At first the male slaves listened in silence, like the guards. But the words of the song captured their misery and one or two began to join the chorus. The rules of the old society were losing their power.
Soon the lament had been taken up throughout the length of the caravan and the singing echoed across the plain as they trudged on. Again and again they sang it until the words were inscribed in every memory.
Only when they came to a river was the rhythm interrupted. The musketeers fired volleys into the air to frighten off the crocodiles and they waded across waist deep without incident. For the time being the spell had been broken.
* * *
Once they learned that Nandzi understood a little of their language, the guards were eager to boast of the greatness of the Asante state and to share some gossip
“Our King,” one of the musketeers told her, “has three thousand, three hundred and thirty three wives.”
Nandzi struggled with the figure. It was clearly a large number.
“They are the finest, the most beautiful women in the nation. If the King sees a beautiful woman, he will take her, even if she is another man's wife, or if she is a slave. Now you are quite a pretty girl. If the King sees you, he might well marry you. But be forewarned: no other man may sleep with one of the King's wives. To do so is to court terrible torture and certain death, both for the man and for the wife. Only the highest in the land can avoid this punishment.”
He looked around and dropped his voice.
“Let me tell you a story. This happened during the reign of our last king, Kusi Obodum. One of the King’s own sons, Adabo, fell in love with one of his father's wives. The scandal became known. Adabo was a favourite son of his father, but the King’s counsellors demanded that he be handed over to the executioners. It was only with the greatest of difficulty that the King was able to extract a compromise from them. The errant wife was executed but Adabo's sentence was commuted to castration. Do you understand, his balls were cut off?”
This was dangerous gossip. The man slowed down and walked beside Nandzi, speaking so softly that she could barely hear him. She opened her eyes wide and turned to look at him.
“Adabo survived the operation,” he continued, “and our present King, Osei Kwadwo, has created a special stool for him. He is the Chief Surveyor of Nuisance and Master of Those Who Keep the Roads Clear. We might well meet him on the way. You will recognise him by his gold sword and the gold and silver whips he carries.”
He looked around again to make sure that no one was monitoring his conversation. He dropped his voice almost to a whisper.
“Now do you know why the King created that job for Adabo? No? Well I'll tell you. When he was a young man, Osei Kwadwo committed the same offence, not just with one, but with four of the King's wives. Four. Can you believe it? Osei Kwadwo was Kusi Obodum’s nephew and the heir to the Golden Stool. They couldn't kill him. He got away with no more than a scolding. They tried to hush the whole thing up, you know, but it is difficult to keep secrets in Kumase. They got Duedu, who was the captain of the harem, to confess and he was executed to save Osei Kwadwo’s reputation. But the women in the palace have okro mouths, they gossip even with their slaves. So I warn you, in Asante there is one law for the nobles and another for the common people, especially slaves. If the King marries you, even if he never touches you, and you take a lover, you must expect to be tortured and to die.”
“Are you not afraid to tell such stories?” Nandzi asked him.
He looked around.
“Nobody heard me,” he said.
“My name is Mensa,” he continued, “what is yours?”
She told him.
“Nandzi,” he said, “I like you. How about it tonight? I mean when we camp. You and me. I mean, before the King marries you and it becomes too dangerous?”
Nandzi laughed. “Thank you but they tell me that I am already the property of your King. I would rather not take the risk.”
* * *
A few days later, they came to the customs post at the border of Asante proper.
Beyond the border the tree cover became more dense. Almost before they were aware of it, they found themselves enveloped in the rain forest. In that vast primeval wilderness the great road to Kumase, hacked through by the labour of countless slaves, was the only evidence of the puny genius of mankind.
The slaves surveyed their surroundings with awe.
Great multicoloured butterflies and moths flitted across the patches of bright dappled sunlight which reached the road. On either side, beyond the undergrowth, lay a domain of alien gloom. Tangled ropes, some as thick as a woman's wrist, hung from the highest branches, twisted into strange contorted shape
s as they descended. The scent of rotting vegetation filled the air. Tiny shrill-voiced birds, with bright red and yellow and blue breasts and long curved beaks, swept out of the darkness to suck the nectar from the wild flowers which grew in the tangled roadside jungle.
“Everything seems different,” Nandzi told Minjendo.
The road was aligned to suit pedestrian traffic. It meandered this way and that, hugging the slopes of the small, closely-spaced, steep-sided hills which filled the landscape, skirting the great buttresses of a silk-cotton tree, sometimes plunging into damp, flat areas which would become impassable swamps during the rains. It was just twelve paces wide. Left untended for only a single rainy season, the forest would invade it and recover its lost territory. But this road had not been left untended. It was an important artery of the Asante economy and Adabo's maintenance gangs were forever slashing away with their cutlasses to keep it clear.
The slaves from the northern savannah were unused to the humidity. Their bodies and clothing were drenched in sweat and their wet black skin glistened in the speckled light.
The forest pressed in on them. From its depths came strange discordant sounds, a chorus of screeching, howling and wailing.
Minjendo gripped Nandzi's arm: “What's that?”
“Oh, it must be some kind of animal,” replied Nandzi, feigning calm indifference. “Jaji, leave go of me.”
“What kind of animal? I have never heard a noise like that before.”
“Well, maybe the animals that live in the forest are different from the ones we know.”
Minjendo was not satisfied.
“There it is again,” she cried. “Nandzi, ask the guard. I am afraid.”
“Papa Mensa,” Nandzi asked the musketeer who was her suitor, “I beg you, what is making that frightful noise.”
Mensa laughed.
“Those are the spirits of the forest. They are screaming abuse at us because they are angry that we have cut a road through their kingdom. Do you understand? Spirits, cruel, vindictive spirits.”
He laughed again.
“What did he say?” asked Minjendo.
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