Ama
Page 14
Ama and Esi talked quietly about their secret plan which, it seemed, they would soon have to implement. The Hausa men were washing their hands and feet, passing from one to another a curious metal vessel with a handle and a spout. When they had finished, they stretched their mats on the ground and arranged themselves in two rows, each with his legs tucked under him. Sharif Imhammed led them in a chant in the same language which Ama had heard them use for prayer before. They had only one god, Damba’s mother had told her. They prayed only to him and to one powerful ancestor who was the servant of that god. It was this ancestor, whom they called Mohammed, who conferred on them their many occult skills.
“See how they count their beads,” said Esi. “It looks as if they fear that that one will be lost or stolen if they don’t keep checking the number.”
The men changed their posture, kneeling and touching the ground with their foreheads. Then, after a moment's silent meditation, they had finished their prayers. All this Ama had seen before, though Esi had not. But what came next was new to Ama too. They craned their necks to watch. A young assistant brought Sharif Imhammed a smooth wooden board, about two spans long and one span wide. He laid it on his lap. The assistant put down beside him a small clay pot with a lid. He then produced a long white feather and appeared to slice off the end of the quill at an angle with a sharp knife. Ama and Esi exchanged incredulous stares. Others had moved closer to watch, blocking their view. They rose to join the spectators. On Ama's back, Opoku Fofie whimpered and then went back to sleep. Up in the royal bedchamber, a torch was extinguished. Perhaps the light was disturbing the ailing King.
Sharif Imhammed removed the cover of the clay pot. He dipped the sharpened quill into the pot and then removed it. Then he began to chant in his language. While he did so he held the feather in the space between the thumb and first finger of his right hand and began to scratch the board with it. Ama pushed her head between the shoulders of two of the watching men and strained to see the marks. She could make nothing of the twists and curls. The small crowd began to murmur, but Sharif Imhammed paid no attention, chanting and dipping and scratching. Once he paused and handed the quill to his assistant for sharpening. Then he resumed his chanting and the making of marks until he had covered the board with them. The assistant took the feather and the pot and put them both away.
“It is Kramo magic,” said someone.
There was a murmur of awe at the man's secret knowledge; and puzzled anticipation of what was to come.
Esi said, “I fear.”
The assistant rose and went to fill the kettle with water. Sharif Imhammed held the board upright within a brass basin and the assistant poured a trickle of water over it. The marks on the board became blurred and indistinct as the black liquid was washed down. The master dampened a clean white handkerchief and wiped and washed the board until all the sanctified ink had passed into the vessel. The assistant emptied the kettle onto the ground. Then he held it as his master poured the liquid from the bowl into it.
“Now I remember. I have seen it before,” said the same man who had spoken earlier, “They will make Nana drink that liquid and that, by the grace of the ancestors, will heal him and make him well again.”
“Saa?” asked the watchers, “Is that really so?”
“Ampá. Indeed it is,” came the reply as Sharif Imhammed and his assistant rose to climb the stairs.
“Intshallah,” said the assistant, who had heard and understood.
* * *
Konadu Yaadom came down to feed her baby.
Ama watched her mistress as she moved Opoku Fofie from one breast to the other. Suddenly, she felt a longing to have a child of her own, to love and be loved by. But the only father she could have considered for her child was dead. Itsho. She hadn’t thought of him for a long time. Had his spirit abandoned her, she wondered. She closed her eyes and concentrated fiercely, trying to summon up a vision of his face.
Opoku Fofie had fallen asleep at his mother's breast.
“Here, take him,” she said to Ama. “Try not to wake him when you change his cloth.”
She covered herself and rose to her feet. Amma Sewaa made to follow suit.
“No,” said the Queen Mother, “Stay with Esi and Ama. Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow may be a long day.”
They lay down on the mats. The torches flickered fitfully. Even the soldiers on guard dozed.
In the distance the midnight horn players sounded their message to the citizenry.
“I excel all kings in the world,” they proclaimed.
“Whilst I live no harm can come.
“I am a mighty king.
“No one dares trouble me.”
They had not been informed of their monarch's critical condition.
Time passed.
Suddenly a piercing shriek disturbed the peace of the night. Ama sat up. No one else seemed to have heard.
“Esi, Esi,” she whispered, shaking her friend.
Esi turned over. Ama tried again. Esi sat up, immediately wide awake.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I could swear I heard a terrible cry,” Ama replied.
They looked up at the bedroom window. Shadows moved. There was a murmur of conversation.
“I don't know what you heard,” Esi said, “but I think it's time to go.”
The baby lay snuggled up against Amma Sewaa, who slept on. In the courtyard, there were signs of movement. Others had noticed the activity upstairs.
As they slipped out of the gate, they saw torches being lit in the late King’s apartment.
“Pity the resident wives,” said Esi as they made for the next gate. “They will be the first to go. Do you think they will be crying for the King or for themselves?”
There was someone approaching them across the dark courtyard. Esi drew Ama aside. They waited for the drunken man to lurch past. He was singing to himself.
Ama recognised the voice.
“Nana's husband,” she whispered to Esi, “Oheneba Owusu Ansa.”
“Blind drunk from the sound of him,” said Esi, “And well he may be.”
The guard was fumbling with his keys in the dark as they reached the gate.
“Queen Mother's slaves,” said Esi, “We have been sent.”
“Hurry up then,” said the guard, angry at having had his sleep disturbed by the drunken prince.
In the next courtyard they paused and held a whispered conference. They were reluctant to wake the guards and thus leave evidence of their passing, but there seemed to be no alternative. Just as they had come to a decision, there was a banging on the far side of the gate. Still half asleep, a guard demanded identification. It was Koranten Péte. They hung in the shadows as he strode by with his bodyguards. Again, Esi and Ama were allowed to pass before the gate was locked.
The guard on duty at the gate to the Queen Mother's courtyard knew them well. Generally they steered clear of his roving hands, but tonight Esi put her arm around his waist and whispered in his ear.
“You never saw us pass this way. Do you understand?” she demanded.
“What's in it for me?” he asked.
“A bowl of Esi's special fufu and light soup,” she replied.
“And what else?” he asked.
She rubbed her body against his for a moment.
“We shall see,” she promised.
Pulling herself away, she took Ama's hand. As they passed this last barrier, she called out in a hoarse whisper, “Remember, now: forget you ever saw us.”
“Remember your promise,” he called back.
* * *
There was a small store room under the steep stairway which led up to Konadu Yaadom's bedroom.
Over a period of weeks they had removed the rubbish which had found its way there: cracked pots, an old fufu pestle and a mortar which had split in two. Then they had bribed a carpenter who was repairing a leak in the roof to fix the hinges and install a heavy Hausa latch on the inside of the door. They paid for the la
tch with some of Esi's savings from the illicit commission which she levied on her market money.
There was no space to stand upright and barely enough to lie down side by side. Inside the tiny room, it was pitch dark and the air was dank and still. They had laid in a stock of water and dry food; but they would have to steal out at dead of night to dispose of their waste. Two small peepholes through a stair riser gave them a narrow view out into the courtyard.
“Nothing to do now but wait. Let's try to get some sleep,” whispered Esi.
“How long do you think we'll have to hide?” asked Ama.
* * *
The late King’s quarters were ablaze with light and activity.
The slaughter started without delay. Two of Osei Kwadwo’s ‘souls’ were decapitated first. Their severed heads, still dripping with blood, were given to a third ‘soul’. With one head firmly held in each armpit, this messenger bore the official news from the Chamberlain to the Chief Executioner. The word ‘death’ was not spoken, for the founder-priest, Okomfo Anokye, had decreed that no one should ever refer directly to the death of any Asantehene. The message was understood without a single word passing.
As soon as the messenger had deposited the two heads in a basket, he laid his neck upon the Chief Executioner’s stool. In a moment the heads were three. The headless bodies were dragged away leaving trails of blood. The Chief Executioner, still spattered with his own first victim’s blood, went at once to inspect the late King’s body. Then he summoned his cohorts to prepare for their work by dancing that fearsome dance which they alone were entitled to perform.
“Tonight, let the knives speak: let no other tongue be heard,” they sang.
The male relations, brothers, sons, nephews, gathered in the room of the dead King. Prince Owusu Ansa opened the cupboard where he knew his late father kept his private hoard of imported liquor. They drank quickly to fortify themselves for the task at hand.
“Our father, Nana Osei Kwadwo, is on his way to the next world. The ancestors will know his greatness by the size of the entourage which accompanies him,” said Owusu Ansa. “Drink up, collect your weapons and let us get to work.”
The Chief Executioner had an escort ready for them. A death drummer, beating his fateful message, led the way out of the palace. A party of sober professional executioners followed the drunken family amateurs. Last came the apprentices bearing empty baskets.
“Wait, let me collect my musket,” said the Prince as they came by his wife’s courtyard.
Then he had a drunken idea. The two pretty young girls who served his wife and looked after her baby would join his father’s escort. Konadu Yaadom might be Queen Mother, but she was also now his wife. He would teach her who was master in the house.
“Esi,” he called, “Ama.”
He knew their names, though he had never spoken to them.
“Where are you, slaves? Come out and meet your honourable fate! My father must not go on his journey alone!”
Through their peepholes, Esi and Ama could see sword and knife blades glinting in the flickering light of the torches. Both were bathed in sweat and conscious of the rapid beating of their hearts.
The royal prince fired his musket into the air. In spite of herself, Ama cried out. Esi clapped her hand over her companion’s mouth.
“Prince, come. Let's get going, there is no one here,” someone said.
* * *
Back at the royal quarters, Osei Kwadwo’s favourite wives were carrying out their last earthly duties, preparing their common consort’s body for burial.
They were surrounded by the most senior of the late King’s ‘souls.’ Bound and gagged, their red, white and black faces were turned away from the corpse and the indignities to which it was being subjected.
It was Konadu Yaadom’s shriek which had awakened Ama. She had been sitting by Osei Kwadwo’s bed, dozing fitfully. She had opened her eyes and seen at once that the King had stopped breathing. She had felt his pulse and then put her ear to his heart. It was then that, against all custom, the involuntary scream had escaped her lips.
“Amma Sewaa,” she said, shaking her niece to awaken her. The baby slept on peacefully.
“Where are Esi and Ama?”
Amma Sewaa sat up, rubbed her eyes and looked around.
“Nana, please, I don’t know. I was sleeping.”
“Give me my boy.”
She would keep the baby securely strapped to her own back for the next few hours at least.
Koranten Péte came through the gate.
“Wofa, where were you? I was worried,” said Konadu Yaadom.
“I was detained,” he said, looking around and observing the activity in the courtyard. “Is it over?”
Konadu Yaadom nodded. Koranten Péte quickly assessed the situation. He thought he discerned the first glimmer in the eastern sky.
“It’s too late to bury him before dawn. It will have to be next midnight. Everything is ready. All I need to do is to send Nana Mamponhene a message. I shall do that at once. Atakora’s forces will leave Mampon as soon as it is dark. They will be in a secure position on the outskirts of the city before dawn tomorrow. Then let Ntoo Boroko do his worst: we shall be ready for him. Now let me go upstairs and pay my last respects. I am sorry I was not here to bid him farewell.”
* * *
Osei Kwadwo's male relations had done their customary duty and were returning to the royal quarters.
“Wait,” said Owusu Ansa when they came to his wife’s courtyard. “This work has tired me out. Let’s rest a while.”
Ama and Esi peered through their peepholes. Their mistress’s husband, like his companions, was smirched with blood. The professional executioners helped their apprentices to take down the loads from their heads. The lads, too, were covered with the blood which had seeped from their baskets. Ama and Esi gripped each other in fear. Every basket they could see was full of severed human heads.
“Wife,” they heard Owusu Ansa call, using an address of unusual familiarity. He was pissing against the wall of the courtyard. Konadu Yaadom might be Queen Mother. She might be several years older than he. But he would show everyone that he was her master.
“Wife,” he called again, “Bring drink for my guests. Their work has made them thirsty.”
“Husband,” replied Konadu Yaadom, appearing suddenly, “Your noble task is not yet complete. Deliver the results of your work. Then bath in your own quarters. When you have slept off the effects of what you have drunk, then, and only then, you may bring me your condolences on the death of our father. And never let me find you pissing against the wall of this courtyard. There is a proper place for that and you well know it.”
Owusu Ansa thought better of replying.
“And another thing,” she said, “I hope that the heads of my slaves Esi and Ama are not in one of those baskets.”
“How can you think to accuse me of such a thing?” he replied sulkily as he led his companions away.
* * *
All morning the death drums sounded in Kumase.
Only the executioners, the licensed assassins, roamed the streets, using muskets and swords, clubs and knives to kill whomsoever they found, without discrimination.
The wise had fled the city or had locked themselves securely in their compounds. It was not that they had not loved their late King; it was not that they doubted that he should arrive in the land of the ancestors at the head of large army of servants and retainers; it was just that they were themselves not quite ready to join that army at this time.
No one cooked, for smoke rising from a fire would warrant forcible entry and guarantee summary execution. The adults drank palm wine and chewed kola and the children drank water and cried silently.
In their hideout, Ama and Esi’s shit began to smell in the heat of the day. They would have to endure the discomfort at least until after dark but they were nervous that the smell would rise through the stairs and lead Konadu Yaadom to investigate and find them.
Esi replied sharply, “Now how would I know? But if you want to stay alive, be patient. The worst of the slaughter must be over but we shall not be safe until after the burial. If we are lucky that will be tonight. Now shhh!”
She could hear approaching footsteps.
In the other cities of the confederation, Mampon and Kokofu amongst them, similar events were in progress. Each city was expected to provide a hundred corpses and twenty barrels of gunpowder for the burial and its aftermath.
At Bantama, the royal burial ground, the ‘souls’ of the dead King were digging his grave, and their own. Their faces and their bare torsos were covered with the lines of white and red clay and charcoal which marked them off as sacrificial victims. By noon the huge hole was ready and the headless corpses began to arrive. They laid them shoulder to shoulder, head to toe, covering the bottom of the hole. The King's corpse must not be allowed to touch the earth. When the bottom was covered they began to build up interlocking walls of corpses, leaving only a space in the centre for the body of their ruler. The executioners guarded the site from foolhardy curious eyes and stood by with whips and swords in case of trouble. But there was none. Ever since Osei Kwadwo had so honoured him, each ‘soul’ had lived with the certain knowledge that he was destined to accompany his master to the next world.
* * *
That night the royal horn blowers did not disturb the deathly silence which hung over the city.
The pallbearers manhandled the pallet with Osei Kwadwo’s shrouded body down the narrow stairs. Without a word, lit by a single torch, they carried it to a place in the back wall of the palace where a hole had been cut. They passed the pallet through the hole. A single death drummer led the small cortege. No other sound was heard as they passed through the dark streets and then along the road to Bantama. The Chief Executioner supervised the placing of the royal body in the recess which had been left for it amongst the headless corpses. When dawn broke, there was nothing to be seen but a large mound of earth beneath the sacred Kumnini tree which gave the city its name, and a simple stake to mark the position of the mortal remains of the late king. Some time in the future the next Asantehene would order the exhumation of Osei Kwadwo’s skeleton, also at dead of night. It would be taken to the Royal Mausoleum. The bones would be sewn together with gold thread and the assembled skeleton would be installed in a furnished room, supplied with food and drink. Each year the current holder of the office would pay homage to his royal ancestors in a secret ceremony, this way nurturing the bonds which tie the living to the spirits of their dead ancestors and to those of the as-yet-unborn.