Ama

by Manu Herbstein

  The path took them through a broad grassy swamp and up onto the low sandy hill where the coconut palms grew.

  A gang of small boys stood around the base of one of these trees, peering upwards. They paid little attention to the passing slaves: the sight was not unusual. Suddenly, as Ama passed, a heavy object fell from the tree and the boys scattered. She looked up and there, at the top of the slender stem, sitting amongst the fronds, sat another boy. How on earth, she wondered, had he got up there?

  But there was no time for further speculation. They were now on the beach itself. Here nothing grew. The sand was a blinding white in the bright sun. Ama screwed up her eyes. The hot sand burned the soles of her bare feet so that she had to keep moving. More small boys played in the surf. She flinched as a wave bore down on one of them. He disappeared. She was about to call out to a guard when there he was again. She wondered at his bravery. But why was he in the water? It was not like swimming in a river. River made her think of crocodiles and she scanned the shoreline.

  “What is that?” she asked, grabbing the guard’s arm.

  At the end of the curve of the bay there rose a great white edifice, sparkling in the sunlight, dominating everything else in sight.

  “That is the house of the white man, the Dutch governor,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye. “Did I not tell you that the whites are twice as tall as normal human beings? It is because they are so tall that they need such big houses. It is called Elmina Castle. That is where we are going. Do you see the smaller castle up on the hill? That is called Fort St. Iago.”

  They passed two imposing houses, each surrounded by beautiful gardens with trees laid out in straight rows.

  “Do you see those trees? The white man, again. He orders the trees: ‘grow in straight lines,’ and they obey him.”

  That was too far-fetched. I am not such a fool, thought Ama. Everything this man is telling me must be lies. But then, whom should I believe; and what?

  Their way was barred and they turned right along the bank of the stone-lined channel which connected the Benya Lagoon to the sea. Ahead of them was a curious bridge and beyond it Ama could see what looked liked a small forest of dead trees, without leaves but with a network of ropes hanging from them. As they climbed from the beach to the road, she saw the brig, floating in the lagoon, but she could make nothing of the masts and rigging. There are just too many mysteries in this place, she thought. But give me time and I will sort them out.

  They crossed the bridge and climbed the short hill beyond. On their right was a large town.

  “Women and children slaves this side,” cried Akyeampong. “Set down your loads over here.”

  Two men came out of the castle. One was black. Though the skin of the other was light in colour he was of normal size. Like his fellow, he a wore peculiar red garment, somewhat the worse for wear; but apart from that he looked just like a bleached version of a normal man. Ama thought to ask her friend the guard if this was a white man, but he had been called away. These two also seemed to be guards, judging from their long whips.

  Ama was at the head of the line of women with Esi beside her.

  “This way,” called the white in a sort of broken Asante. He was looking in her direction but she assumed that he was speaking to someone behind her.

  She looked back and saw the shackles being removed from the first of the male slaves. Then the guard grabbed her arm roughly and manhandled her across two short wooden bridges which crossed a deep channel filled with water. Esi tried to follow her, but the other guard restrained her. They called out to each other plaintively. Who could tell if they would ever see each other again? Perhaps Ama was being taken away to be eaten?

  The guard stopped in a dark portico. She saw shadowy figures and heard a voice speak in a language she had never heard before. She thought she recognised Akyeampong’s voice, too, but she could not understand what he said. Before her eyes had time to adjust, the guard pulled her again so that she almost fell. Then they passed out of the darkness and into the bright light again. She was aware of a great courtyard with white walls as high as the highest forest trees rising up on all sides. She caught a glimpse of many people, as in a dream. Then she was pulled down a dark narrow passage into another courtyard, with walls as high but smaller and quite empty. The guard took a key from his belt and unlocked a narrow iron gate. He thrust her through the opening, banged the gate closed and relocked it.

  Ama was bewildered. She had heard and seen so many strange things that morning. She gripped the iron bars and looked out at the courtyard. The sun was overhead and the stone floor was drenched in sunlight. Then she heard a sound behind her. Startled, she turned quickly. In the darkness all she could see was the whites of many pairs of eyes. They all seemed to be staring at her. She pressed her back against the gate. Then she heard quiet sobbing. It sounded like the crying of a child. Now she could see that there were women sitting shoulder to shoulder with their backs to the walls of the room. Others sat and lay on the damp stone floor. Apart from the gate where she stood, there were no other openings for light or air. She took a step forward and breathed deeply. The air she inhaled was pervaded with a foul smell of unwashed bodies and old shit and piss.

  There was a noise from the courtyard. The gate was flung open and Esi was pushed inside.

  “Esi, it is me, Ama.”

  Ama put her arm around Esi’s shoulder and hugged her. Esi was rigid with shock and fear.

  “Come, let us see if we can find some place to sit.”

  * * *

  When Ama woke, there was not a single glimmer of light in the dungeon.

  The smell struck her and she wanted to vomit. The air was unpleasantly hot and humid, yet the floor she lay on was cold and damp. She was thirsty and she wanted to piss. She screwed up her eyes but she could see nothing. She could hear the sleep sounds of many women and children.

  She tried to think. That very morning she had been walking along the beach, watching the naked boys playing in the waves, breathing deeply in the salt air. Now she was in a place worse than death. Or, is this death? she wondered. The dungeon had already been crowded when she arrived. All the other women in the caravan had followed her, one by one. The women who had already spent some time in the dungeon - how long? she wondered - had resented the new arrivals and there had been squabbles and abuse in several languages, her own, Asante and others she did not understand at all. They were all victims of the same unseen oppressor and yet they fought amongst themselves.

  She tried to pray to Itsho, but the words would not come. She needed peace, a quiet place on her own, before she could communicate with him. She would pollute the world of the ancestors if she tried to call him from this place of damnation.

  She heard a sound from the courtyard. Keys turned in the lock. Esi was sleeping next to her, nearer to the gate. She shook her gently and whispered her name in her ear.

  The gate opened. Esi sat up.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Where am I?”

  A man entered, carrying an oil lamp, keeping it low, looking at the faces. His own face remained in the shadows. He brought the lamp up close to Esi's face. Then he said something, just one or two words, in a strange language. He grabbed Esi's arm and pulled her upright. She gasped and stretched for Ama, but it was too late. The man dragged her through the gate and banged it shut. Some women woke and spoke.

  “Ama,” Esi cried but her voice was muffled as if a hand had been placed over it.

  Silence settled over the dungeon. Ama lay awake, not knowing what to do, what to think.

  Time passed. Then there was the sound of the key turning in the lock again. The gate opened and Esi was pushed inside. She was sobbing deliriously. Ama stepped over bodies in the dark, guiding her to her place. She tried to comfort her.

  “What happened?” she asked, but Esi could not speak.

  EUROPEANS

  Both thy bondmen, and thy bondmaids, which thou shalt have shall be of the heathen that are round about
you; of them shall ye buy bondmen and bondmaids. Moreover, of the children of the strangers that do sojourn among you, of them shall ye buy, and of their families that are with you, which they begat in your land: and they shall be your possession. And ye shall take them as an inheritance for your children after you, to inherit them for a possession; they shall be your bondmen for ever.

  Leviticus 25, 44 - 46

  When Dom Diego de Azambuja, the agent of the Portuguese king, built the Castle of São Jorge da Mina in 1482, he established the first long-standing European presence in West Africa. In 1637, after several abortive attempts, a Dutch force expelled and supplanted the Portuguese. The Dutch were to keep the Castle for 235 years, until the British bought them out in 1872.

  CHAPTER 13

  Director-General Pieter De Bruyn stood in the shadow, leaning against one of the plastered arches which framed the second floor balcony.

  It was Sunday afternoon. He had spent the morning in church, eaten to excess in the company of his officers and drunk enough wine to make him drowsy. He unbuttoned his high collar and fanned himself ineffectively with his left hand. The air was still within the high enclosing walls of the courtyard. On the roof a row of white-breasted black crows cried their raucous cry. It was hot. The moisture in the air was almost palpable. Drops of perspiration trickled from his balding pate, down over his wrinkled forehead, onto his thick grey eyebrows and into his eyes. He felt the sting of the saltiness of his sweat and wiped his eyes with the handkerchief which he kept clasped in his right hand.

  Sven Jensen, the young Chief Merchant, stood leaning over the balcony a few paces away. Jensen was immaculate. His white uniform was perfectly pressed. His shock of blonde hair shone in the midday sun. The gold braid on his epaulets sparkled as he turned to speak. Jensen seemed immune to the climate. Indeed he seemed to thrive on it. De Bruyn sighed.

  “They are coming now, sir”, said Jensen.

  Remaining in the shade, De Bruyn peered down into the courtyard below. He heard the grinding of the hinges as the iron door was opened.

  “I hope you have a better selection for me than last week,” he said. “Emaciated, ugly bitches. I took the best of a bad lot but she turned me off. I sent her back to her hole unused. Must be old age creeping up on me. When I was younger I would have just covered her face and got on with it.”

  “This is the batch which Akyeampong brought in on Thursday,” replied Jensen. “There are some with a bit more flesh on them.”

  He knew: he had already tested a sample.

  Impotent bugger, the DG, thought Jensen, I cannot live without a fuck practically every day and yet it seems that De Bruyn can manage a stand only on Sundays. And two weeks without a woman. The old boy must either be pulling himself off or he is impotent.

  “I hope you will find a candidate more to your taste today, sir,” he said.

  The Company's Board in Amsterdam had its rules. Company servants were not permitted to take concubines. The lower ranks were forbidden from so much as spending a night in Edina and they were locked into the Castle before dark every evening. They were certainly not permitted to bring women to their quarters nor even to handle the slaves. Offenders were flogged till the blood ran. But the officers, including the Director General, flouted the rules with impunity. All that was required of them was that they exercise reasonable discretion.

  Two guards, Kobina and Vroom, lounged against the wall in a corner of the courtyard. They were dressed in ragged scarlet trousers, inherited from deceased Dutch soldiers. They were barefooted and stripped to the waist. Idly, they flicked their rawhide whips at one another. The third guard, Kofi Kakraba, was somewhere in the dungeon, shouting at the seated women, kicking those who did not understand him, cracking his whip in the dark, to force them onto their feet and out.

  The women blinked and rubbed their eyes. At this time of the afternoon, the sun lit up the wall opposite De Bruyn and half of the stone floor below. Vroom shouted at them in broken Dutch, careless of whether they understood or not. Kobina clapped his hands and gesticulated, herding them into a corner. More women came streaming past the iron gate. The guards divided them into two lots and lined the first up against the sunlit wall. They stood there, confused and uncertain, flexing their limbs and looking around. One yawned and stretched her arms. Some began to chatter. One woman began to sing a dirge in a high-pitched voice. Coming out of the dungeon behind them, Kofi Kakraba silenced them with a harsh command and a crack of his whip. They cowered against the wall.

  Ama stood in the shade and hugged herself. She thought she recognised Vroom.

  What now? she wondered.

  She looked around the courtyard. The floor was of stone flags, their surface worn smooth, if she had only known it, by nearly three hundred years of traffic of the bare feet of female slaves. Near the far corner there was a raised platform covered with wooden boards. Above it stood an iron frame supporting a wheel of the same metal, from which there hung a chain, coiled alongside. A wooden bucket stood on the platform. Ama raised her eyes and examined the whitewashed walls. The sunlight reflected from the white surface made her blink. She looked away to avoid the glare. High above her, she caught a glimpse of a head of golden hair.

  Vroom prodded the women with the butt of his whip, urging them to stand upright and look ahead. They murmured in sullen confusion and resistance.

  De Bruyn put the telescope to his eye and focused on the first female slave. Satisfied that the women would give them no trouble today, the guards relaxed; but kept their eyes on Jensen. They could not see De Bruyn, who was concealed in the gloom, but they knew he was there. De Bruyn did not fancy the first woman: she was scrawny and ugly. He examined each female slave in turn. Most of them were dressed in torn and ragged cotton wrappers, wound around the waist or under the arms, with the loose end tucked in to hold it in position. Their heads had been shaved. De Bruyn waved the back of his hand dismissively to Jensen who conveyed the message with a sign to the guards.

  The guards moved the first group of women away and motioned to the other set to replace them. Ama was fifth. By her side stood Esi, short, fat Esi, her eyes meekly on her feet. Ama looked up and, with a start, again caught sight of Jensen. The golden-haired red-faced god in his spotless white uniform astonished her. That must be a real white man, she thought. She nudged Esi and, with a nod of her head, directed her gaze up at Jensen. Esi stared, her mouth open. She recognised him; she was sure of it. It was Jensen who had had her the night before, in the dark courtyard, against the wall, from behind, without ceremony. She could still feel the pain in her loins and the humiliation and degradation of being taken like a dog.

  “That is the pig,” she muttered to Ama. “I am sure: that is the pig that raped me last night.”

  De Bruyn raised the telescope again. He was looking for youth, a smooth ebony complexion, a full face, a well rounded torso and a clean body-cloth. But above all he searched the slaves’ unseeing eyes, seeking . . . He could not put a word to whatever it was he was seeking, perhaps some sign of humanity, some sign of the human warmth he craved, the warmth only a woman could give. Invariably what met his eye was pain, humiliation and despair

  He stopped at Ama. Wide-eyed, forgetful of her condition, Ama was trying to make sense of the divine apparition above, the golden pig-god, the essential white man.

  Without lowering the telescope, De Bruyn brought his thumb and index finger together.

  “Fifth from the left,” he said.

  Jensen raised the five fingers of his right hand and then moved the index finger from left to right. Kofi Kakraba placed a hand on Ama's shoulder. She flinched, but he held her firmly. The guard looked up at Jensen, who nodded. Seeing this silent exchange of body language, Ama guessed what lay in store for her.

  “Mama, the pig wants to eat me,” she shrieked in her mother tongue.

  “The pig wants to eat her,” echoed another woman, following Ama's line of sight.

  A third woman took up the refrain. Soon they
all raised their voices, in a Babel of languages and in a mixture of fear, anger, sympathy for Ama and relief that she had been chosen rather than themselves.

  De Bruyn put the telescope down and covered his ears with his hands. The threats of the guards and the crack of their whips rose above the women's voices. Kofi Kakraba walked across to a corner of the courtyard and returned with a wooden chair which he placed in the sunlight in view of the watchers above. Then he dragged Ama across and signalled to her to stand on the seat. She was confused. What do they want of me? Perhaps the pig-god up there is a cannibal. She shuddered at the thought. Stubbornly she stood her ground, staring at the guard with narrowed eyes, hating him. Kofi Kakraba was a big man. His shoulders were broad and paddling a canoe through the breakers had given him huge biceps. In Kumase, Ama thought, he would have been an executioner. He took three steps; then stopped just behind her, bent his knees and suddenly wrapped his arms around her waist. Ama screamed, but before she knew what had happened, she was standing on the chair. Then her tormentor reached up and grabbed her cloth where it was tucked in above her left breast and pulled it down. Without giving her time to react, he ripped off the beads which hung around her waist. Kobina applauded; Vroom shouted an obscenity.

  Ama now stood stark naked. She noticed Jensen looking down at her and covered her pubis with her hands. For a moment the other women were silent. Then they took up their wailing again. From behind, Kofi Kakraba grabbed hold of Ama’s wrists and, moving one foot back to maintain his balance, pinned her arms behind her back. She cried out in pain but he held her immobile and exposed. Vroom looked up and Jensen nodded. Vroom was light skinned. The Dutch called him “Yellow,” avoiding giving him the name of his Dutch father. He forced Ama’s legs apart so that he could better see her private parts. He was looking for signs of the clap. He stuck his index finger into her vagina making a lewd comment to Kobina, who stood by his side. Ama struggled to free herself from Kofi Kakraba’s grip and screamed abuse at Vroom. He withdrew his finger and raised it to the light to examine it. Then he put it under his nostrils. Satisfied, he stood aside and showed the finger to Jensen and shook it once, signalling a clean bill of health.