A slave followed, carrying the King's armchair on arms outstretched above his head.
“Is that the famous Golden Stool?” whispered Nandzi, somewhat disappointed.
“Shh!,” replied Mensa, “No one, not even the King, sits on the Golden Stool of Asante.”
Next came more slaves each bearing on his head an enormous royal fontomfrom drum. The elephant skin was stretched tight against a frame work of what were surely human thigh bones. Certainly the decorations were human skulls. Nandzi opened her mouth to question Mensa, but she thought better of it and swallowed her words.
The Royal Drummers who followed the drum bearers, raised their arms and beat out the praise names of the King and his predecessors, “Osei Tutu, Opoku Ware, Kusi Obodum, Osei Kwadwo. Conqueror of Banda. Conqueror of Wassa. Master of Dagomba. Osei Koawia it was who vanquished them all.”
A short distance behind followed a group of women, shaded by an umbrella which was only a little smaller and less grand than that of the King. Through a gap in the silk screens which a retinue of young girls held up to protect their mistresses from public gaze, Nandzi caught a glimpse of women of such beauty, regal pride and elegant attire as she had never seen before. They were dressed simply, all in the same deep red cloth, but their earrings, necklaces, bangles and bracelets were all solid gold.
“The King's wives,” she whispered.
“Shh!” warned Mensa, “You will get us into trouble.”
“Well, aren't they?”
“No,” replied Mensa, “No man may look on the face of a wife of the King and live. That is the Queen Mother, Konadu Yaadom.”
“Which one?”
“Can't you see? The young woman in the centre, with the gold head-dress.”
“Come, you are teasing me. That woman is young enough to be the King’s daughter and you tell me that she is the Queen Mother? She is not much older than I am.”
“The Queen Mother is not the mother of the King. And she is already a widow. Her husband, Prince Adu Twum, died less than a month ago. That is why they are wearing mourning cloth,” whispered Mensa hoarsely, “If you will just be quiet, I will explain to you later.”
“Then where are all the wives?”
“Shh!” Mensa warned again.
The Asantehene and his party made one circuit of the square. With his right hand the King acknowledged the cheers of his subjects. His armchair was set down. The members of his party ranged themselves around him. His supporters helped him to his seat. A squad of young men sat on the ground before him, gold handled scimitars raised high. Before them sat a crowd of small boys, the older ones proudly brandishing elephants' tails which seemed to have been dusted in gold; the youngsters waving ostrich feathers.
Immediately behind the King stood a bodyguard of handsome youths wearing leopard skin waistcoats, embellished with numerous gold and silver sheaths in each of which was a small knife with a blue agate handle. To one side were the akrafó, the King's souls, identified by the gold plates hanging on their chests. Pretty young girls, each carrying a silver basin, stood behind the chairs of the dignitaries.
The king clapped the tiny gold castanets which he wore on his forefinger and thumb. At a signal from the Chief Linguist the horns played a fanfare and the drums rolled. In the ensuing silence the Linguist poured libation, calling on the ancestors for their blessings.
Then the Chief Crier and Eulogist rose to his feet and, to the accompaniment of extravagant gestures, sang out the encomiums of the King for all to hear.
“Oh mighty Monarch,
“Son of Osei Tutu,
“Son of Opoku Ware
“Son of Kusi Obodum
“Who in the world can stand comparison with you?”
After each phrase he paused and the drums answered.
“The Bandas and the Wassas felt the heat of your fire
“And fled.
“The cavalry of the Dagomba heard the sound of your muskets
“And fled in panic.
“All the world’s monarchs place their necks beneath your feet.
“The whole world is yours.
“Who can equal your wealth and power?
“It is not for nothing that you are called Osei Koawia,
“He who fights in the afternoon.”
Then a fearsome war-cry rang out from his lips.
“Asante Kotoko, kum apem, apem beba.
“Asante Porcupine. Should our enemy kill a thousand warriors, would not another thousand immediately come forward?”
Every Asante man and boy rose to his feet, and the women too. Punching the air with their fists, they repeated the Crier’s words, drowning out the reply of the drums; but the newly arrived slaves, ignorant and uncommitted, remained seated.
While the roar of the crowd was at its height, a company of the younger executioners rushed into the arena, flying here and there like a brood of frenetic headless chickens, hurtling through the air, spinning, swirling around in frenzied gyrations, chanting their own distinctive nasal warnings and from time to time raising their swords and clashing them in unison against those of their fellows. As the drumming and dancing reached a crescendo, the giant Chief Executioner made a fearsome entrance, cow’s tail in his left hand, bloody knife of his office in the other. His face and body and the horns of sasabonsam which stuck out from his forehead were painted in red and black, the colours of death. He danced in a more measured style than his minions, but the threat of his vocation was apparent in every movement. The human skulls suspended from his waist struck one another as he lunged this way and that. Nandzi was not alone in shuddering at the menace of this chief of licensed killers. Then, suddenly, the drumming stopped and the death dancers were gone.
The Criers called for silence. In the ensuing hush, the Chief Linguist announced that the distinguished army commander, Koranten Péte, would now deliver the annual tribute of the King of the Dagomba, the Ya Na. Mats were laid out before the royal party. Koranten Péte signalled to the slaves to take up their loads. Nandzi and Minjendo took their places behind him as he made his way slowly to the royal podium and the other slaves followed in twos.
Koranten Péte came to a halt. While he waited for the King to complete a private conversation with the Chief Linguist, Nandzi had an opportunity to take a closer look at him and at the Queen Mother, who sat nearby.
“Nana Okyeame,” Koranten Péte addressed the Chief Linguist, “It gives me great pleasure to deliver to Nana Asantehene the annual Dagomba tribute. The Ya Na has particularly asked me to convey to Nana assurances of his loyalty and fidelity and of his high personal esteem.
“The tribute comprises the goods which will now be laid before Nana, the slaves who bear these goods and herds of cattle, sheep and goats which are at this moment being driven to Kumase and which, I understand, have now reached Mampon.”
The Linguist repeated Koranten Péte’s words to the King.
Koranten Péte continued, “I beg leave to deliver the goods.”
The King indicated his consent. Nandzi and Minjendo deposited their head-loads. Then, on Koranten Péte's instructions they helped those who had followed them to do the same.
While this was under way the Royal Musicians kept the assembly entertained with their sankos and flutes, drums and gongs and bells.
The King rose to make a formal inspection of the goods and then he shook hands warmly with Koranten Péte.
The Chief Linguist clapped his hands for silence.
“Nana Asantehene has asked me to remind you that he rewarded the distinguished leadership, great personal bravery and unquestioned loyalty of General Koranten Péte in the conquest of Dagomba with an entitlement to one third of all tributes collected. At the invitation of Nana Asantehene, Nana Péte has already made his selection.”
Nandzi whispered a translation to Minjendo.
“I hope that he has chosen us,” said Minjendo. “Nana Péte would not be a bad man to work for. At least we know him.”
Though it was alre
ady late afternoon and the shadows were lengthening, the most important business of the day was yet to come.
Accompanied by horns and drums, the first of the visiting Kings now led his retinue of supporters to greet the Asantehene. Again, as earlier in the day, umbrellas spun and flags waved. Bare-headed and bare-chested, the visitor approached.
“Nana Asantehene,” he said, “Please accept my assurance of my utter devotion and that of my people. As proof of our allegiance, I should be honoured to receive your foot upon my neck. We are as nothing before you. All our property, our gold and slaves, our very lives, are yours to command.”
Then he sank to his knees and placed his forehead on the ground.
The Asantehene stretched out his hands which the visitor grasped in his own. They exchanged a few private words and then, Asum Adu, Minister of Finance and Keeper of the Royal Treasury, handed the visitor a small brass chest containing a valuable gift of gold dust.
The visitor made an appropriately fawning speech of thanks and took his leave, to be followed by the next in the queue.
Nandzi yawned. She had had enough of this pomp and ceremony for one day. Moreover, she badly wanted to piss. Just as she was wondering whether the guards would let her steal away to the outskirts of the crowd to relieve herself, Koranten Péte gave the signal. He had received permission to leave.
CHAPTER 9
In the days which followed various strangers appeared at the camp and took parties of slaves away. Nandzi and Minjendo watched nervously but no one came for them.
The next Saturday, Mensa appeared. He was not in a good mood.
“I've been sent to fetch you,” he said. “You had better put on your good cloth.”
“Where are you taking me?” asked Nandzi.
“To your new mistress.”
“My new mistress?”
“Yes, the Asantehemaa, the Queen Mother. You saw her at the Adae, do you remember? You thought she was one of the King’s wives. Nana Koranten Péte has sent me to take you to her.”
“Can my friend come too?”
“Young miss,” said the musketeer, “Remember who you are. You have been brought here to work, not to spend your time gossiping with your girl friends.”
He held up his right hand to still Nandzi's protest.
“And while I’m on that subject, let me give you some friendly advice. You are going to live and work in the royal palace. The palace is a dangerous place. If you value your skin, be humble. Learn to keep your mouth shut. Never speak unless you are spoken to. Never draw attention to yourself. Listen and learn. We have a proverb which says that at another’s hearth, you do not have the same freedom you might have in your mother’s kitchen. Remember that and you will have a better chance of surviving.”
“What do you mean, ‘a dangerous place’ and ‘a better chance of surviving?’ Why?”
“There you go again. I have already said more than I intended. I was a fool to offer you the benefit of my wisdom. Now gather your things, say goodbye to your friend and let's go.”
* * *
In the shade in the far corner of the courtyard sat a man and a woman, each on a low stool. The woman had dropped her cloth around her waist. A baby was feeding at her breast.
The man called out to Nandzi, “Young woman, come.”
She recognised the voice: it was Koranten Péte’s. Could this woman be the Queen Mother? she wondered. In her confusion she tried to recall Mensa’s advice. She crossed the courtyard, stopped in front of them and curtsied. They both looked at her.
“Nananom,” she said, “My grandparents, I give you the morning greeting.”
Koranten Péte nodded approvingly.
“Nana,” he said to the woman, “You remember I mentioned I would be bringing you a gift. Well, here she is.”
He turned to Nandzi.
“You told me your name but I have forgotten.”
“They call me Nandzi,” she said.
As the woman moved the child to the other breast, Nandzi saw it was a boy.
“She had better have a good Asante name. It is Saturday today. I will call her Ama. Ama Donko. Do you understand?”
She turned to Koranten Péte. “Does she hear Asante?”
He nodded.
“From today your name is Ama,” said Konadu Yaadom, speaking slowly and raising her voice as one does to foreigners. “Ama is a good Asante name. We give it to a girl who is born on Saturday. Today you have been born again as an Asante girl. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, please, Nana,” Nandzi replied.
She thought, the woman must be deaf; and she thinks I'm stupid and deaf too.
The child had fallen asleep at his mother's breast.
“Esi,” the mother called.
There was no reply and no one came.
“E-si!” she called again.
“Typical Fanti girl,” she said to Koranten Péte, “Lazy, untidy, never there when you need her.”
“Here, Ama,” she said to Nandzi, wrapping the sleeping child in a cloth, “Do you know how to hold a baby?”
“Nana, please: yes,” Nandzi replied again.
“Then take my child and sit with him there on that stool until Esi arrives to show you your duties.”
She turned to Koranten Péte.
“Wofa,” she said, half rising to shake his hand, “thank you for the gift. I hope she turns out as well as you promise. Slaves are so unreliable these days. Just look at Esi. She has probably gone off to the market on some pretext. The real reason will no doubt be to meet her lover.”
Just then a lad burst through the gate, followed by a crowd of younger playmates. He was brandishing a wooden musket.
“Bang, bang,” he cried as he rushed in, aiming his toy gun successively at Konadu Yaadom, Koranten Péte and Nandzi.
“Kwame,” shouted Konadu Yaadom, “Stop that nonsense at once and come and greet Nana properly. Opoku, you too.”
She raised her finger to show the other boys the gate and they fled.
“On, Nana Péte,” said Kwame, putting down his gun and using both his hands to shake Koranten Péte’s right, “I didn’t see it was you. You are welcome. You are always welcome. How are things in Nsuta and Mampon? Have you been in any more wars lately?”
Without waiting for a reply he took up his gun and took aim at Nandzi. “Bang, bang. Another dead Dagomba,” he said and then noticing that his victim was a stranger, “Hallo, who’s this?”
“Kwame Panin!” threatened Konadu Yaadom, “Mind your manners, or you'll know what’s what. Now go and play. Opoku, you too. I have matters to discuss with Nana. Wait, where is Amma Sewaa?”
“Looking after the girls,” the boy shouted back as he skipped and jumped on his way out to rejoin his friends.
Konadu Yaadom looked after him and said, “Tchtt! The boy is wild. Wild! Sometimes I have difficulty controlling him. He is forever fighting with his elder sister and bullying my poor little Opoku.”
“He’ll settle down,” said Koranten Péte, “Just give him just a few years and he’ll be mature enough to start attending Court.”
“That is just the trouble,” replied Konadu Yaadom, “I very much doubt that we have a few years.”
The child slept on Nandzi’s lap. She listened to the conversation attentively, but carefully maintained a blank expression on her face. If my new mistress thinks I am dumb, she thought, then I will act dumb. However, her performance was unnecessary: they talked on as if she did not exist.
“What do you mean?” asked Koranten Péte, carefully putting his beaker of palm wine down beside him. There was a look of concern on his face.
“Nana is ill, seriously ill,” said Konadu Yaadom. “Did you not see him at the adae? He could scarcely walk. I have tried to persuade him to go to Okomfo Tantani for advice, or even to the Muslims, but he refuses. He says it is a small thing and it will pass. I hope he is right, but I fear otherwise.”
She paused.
“I am telling you this in the utmost confi
dence, do you understand?”
“Of course, of course. I noticed that he was not his old vigorous self, but I must say that it didn’t strike me that it was that bad,” said Koranten Péte. “I thought that it was just concern about the news from Akuapem that was troubling him.”
“No doubt that is a factor, but I fear that there is much more to it than that. Wofa, with you of all people, I know I can be quite frank.”
She paused again.
“I don’t think Nana has long to live.”
Koranten Péte rose from his seat and took a few steps. He covered his eyes with his hands as he considered the implications. Then he sat down again.
“His death would cause a major crisis,” he said. “The boy is hardly ready to take over.”
“What is more,” added the Queen Mother, dropping her voice, “I have intelligence that the Bremanhene, Ntoo Boroko, has got wind of Nana’s illness. Immediately Nana dies, so my informants tell me, he plans to use force to enstool Kyei Kwame, the Kokofu king, as Nana’s successor. The sudden death of our young Kwame Panin, I am told, is a key element in his plan.”
“I had no idea,” said Koranten Péte, shaking his head. “How long have you known this?”
“Not long. If you hadn’t sent me a message that you were coming to see me today, I would have sent for you.”
“What do you propose to do?”
“I want you to smuggle Kwame out of Kumase. Take him back to Mampon. Brief Nana Mamponhene thoroughly about the situation. Let him make discreet preparations to march on Kumase at any time at short notice, bringing Kwame with him. I will keep him informed of the condition of Nana’s health and warn him at once if there is any sign of a sudden decline.”
“Who will look after Kwame in Mampon?”
“Definitely not, I repeat not, his natural mother, my dear elder sister, Akyaamah. She has already done enough harm to Asante. In fact, Kwame’s presence in Mampon must be concealed from her. It is not beyond her to side with the Kokofus against her own son, just to spite Nana. But I leave that decision to your own best judgement. Kwame will accept whatever you decide. The boy worships the very ground you walk on, you know. He has done, ever since your great victory in the north.”
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