Ama

by Manu Herbstein

  Suddenly she felt overcome by exhaustion. The stress of the past three days in the female dungeon and of the afternoon’s events had drained her. She went back to the bed and within moments she was asleep.

  It was dark when she awoke but the room was lit by candles. A small dining table had been laid. De Bruyn had ordered a light meal for two. He had shared a brandy with the captain of the Dutch ship and, making his excuses, had delegated Jensen to entertain the visitor.

  He took Ama by the hand and drew her to the table.

  “I am sorry that I had to abandon you, my dear Pamela.” he said. “However, business before pleasure, as they say. I have left our guest in the capable hands of that young scoundrel, Jensen.”

  Ama let him ramble on. What can he be talking about? she wondered, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. De Bruyn pulled a chair for her and guided her into position.

  “When a gentleman pulls a chair for you, my lady Pamela,” he said, “You must move in front of it, so, and as he slides the chair forward, you sit your pretty rump on the seat, like this. Are you comfortable? A little further forward, perhaps?”

  Mellowed by the brandy and anticipating the pleasures of the night ahead, De Bruyn was in a genial mood, amused at the pantomime he had set up.

  “Now, my love,” he continued, knowing full well that Ama did not understand a single word, “you must learn to use a knife and fork like a Dutch lady.”

  The words Dutch lady reminded him of his late wife, Elizabeth De Bruyn, but he resolutely erased the image. Elizabeth would certainly not have approved of this tête-à-tête. He carved the duck and served a portion onto Ama's plate, humming tunelessly as he did so. Then he tasted the warm Rhenish wine and poured a full glass for Ama.

  “That will relax you, my darling,” he said.

  Ama watched him use his knife and fork.

  “Eat, eat,” he told her, his mouth full, noticing her hesitation. He rose and moved to stand behind her and taking her hands, showed her how to hold the implements and cut the breast of duck which he had served her. The contact with her bare arms and shoulders excited him but he controlled himself and returned to his seat.

  Ama cut a piece of the duck, impaled it on her fork and, watching De Bruyn for approval, put it in her mouth.

  “Excellent,” he said. “And now,” raising his glass and indicating to her that she should do the same, “A toast.”

  Looking her straight in the eyes and touching his glass against hers, he said, “To a long and intimate friendship.”

  Ama returned his gaze for a brief moment and then, puzzled, dropped her eyes.

  “Drink, drink,” he urged her as he put the glass to his lips and sipped the wine.

  Ama was thirsty and drained her glass as if it were water. De Bruyn was amused.

  “Slowly,” he said, chuckling and chucking her chin. “A lady drinks her wine like this,” and he demonstrated.

  Relaxed by De Bruyn's evident good humour, Ama smiled.

  “Oh, that is beautiful,” he said. “Please smile like that again, for me.”

  He bared his ugly stained teeth at her and, feeling the glow of the wine, Ama could not help laughing at his expression.

  “This conversation is too one-sided,” said De Bruyn. “You haven't opened your mouth once to speak. And, come to think of it, we have not been properly introduced. My name is Pieter. Pieter De Bruyn. But it wouldn't do for people to hear you calling me by my name. You should call me Mijn Heer.”

  He pointed to his chest and repeated, “Mijn Heer.”

  Then he pointed to her and said, “Pamela.”

  Ama pointed to herself and said, “Ama.”

  Her name had already been changed once and once was enough for her.

  But De Bruyn insisted, “No, I am Mijn Heer and you are Pamela. Say your name, say Pamela.”

  Ama decided to humour him.

  “Pamela,” she tried.

  “Excellent.” said De Bruyn, “Now again. Pamela, Pamela, Pamela.”

  “Pamela, Pamela, Pamela,” echoed Ama.

  “You have a sweet, melodious voice. Now try Mijn Heer. Mijn Heer, Mijn Heer, Mijn Heer,” he said, pointing to himself again.

  “Mijn Heer, Mijn Heer, Mijn Heer,” sang Ama, beginning to enjoy the game and pointing boldly at De Bruyn.

  “What is my name?” he asked her, pointing at himself.

  “Mijn Heer,” replied Ama.

  “And yours?” pointing at her.

  “Pamela?” Ama tried.

  “Splendid. You are a clever girl.”

  Sensing the approbation in his voice, Ama glanced up. For a moment De Bruyn appeared lost in his thoughts and Ama was able to observe him unnoticed. Thin wisps of grey hair swept untidily across a bald red crown. He had enormous, untidy, grey eyebrows. His light blue eyes seemed to vanish into his head. Ama had never seen blue eyes before. She stared at them, fascinated.

  “But one thing you must know and remember very well at all times,” said De Bruyn, as if continuing his unspoken thoughts, “is that I am the Director-General of this great castle of Elmina, which we took from the Portuguese in the year of our Lord 1637. I represent the Assembly of Ten who control the United Dutch West India Company from our headquarters in Amsterdam. I have to maintain the dignity of my office. You must treat me with respect. If you fail, if you dally with any other man, I shall send you straight back to where you came from this afternoon. Do you understand?”

  What with the brandy and the wine he had taken, De Bruyn's speech was beginning to be slurred. He rambled on as if talking to some one who understood his every word. Then he rang a small bell. What next? Ama wondered. A servant came to clear the table.

  “No, no. Leave the wine and the glasses,” he said. “And tell the chef I say the duck was very good and the yam pudding, too.”

  “Now, my dear, it is time for bed,” he told Ama after the man had left.

  He put his hands on her bare shoulders and looked into her eyes. She dropped her gaze. He lifted her chin and forced her to look at him, as one might do with a pet dog. With his fingers still under her chin, he leant forward and kissed her gently on the lips. Then he looking into her eyes again and holding her gaze, he loosened her cloth. Instinctively, Ama grabbed it, but it was too late and it fell to the floor. She felt doubly naked without her beads.

  This man may be ugly and his breath may smell of drink, she thought, but at least he seems quite gentle.

  De Bruyn feasted his eyes on her body. Then he began to remove his clothing. As he took off each piece, he handed it to her, indicating that she should lay it on an armchair. When only his drawers remained, he beckoned to her to remove them for him.

  What choice do I have? she thought. My fate cannot be worse than Esi's.

  “Mijn Heer,” she asked him as she pulled his drawers down over his erect organ, “Who is the pig-god and what does he do here?”

  “I beg your pardon?” replied De Bruyn, wondering what she was saying. “Do you want to piss?”

  He showed her the chamber pot and went to wait for her. Ama took her time. On the bed she found him snoring quietly. She covered him with a sheet and lay down by his side.

  De Bruyn woke in the middle of the night with his bladder bursting. After relieving himself, he returned to the bed and woke Ama from a deep sleep. His foreplay aroused him but drowsy as she was, Ama was barely aware of the man's caresses.

  As he entered her, she saw a vision of Abdulai. By an act of sheer will she wiped it clear.

  De Bruyn moved in her. At first she felt nothing. Then she thought of Itsho. She saw his crushed skull. She buried him again in his shallow grave. De Bruyn was losing control and he stopped his plunging to prolong the coupling. He sought her lips. She struggled to free her mouth.

  “Itsho,” she called out, “Itsho, Itsho.”

  Itsho was inside her. Again she called his name. Fiercely, she drew him to her.

  De Bruyn could no longer control himself. As he moved in her again, she respon
ded and they drove each other on.

  “Itsho,” she called again, “Itsho,” and together they came to a climax.

  “Pamela,” said De Bruyn. Then he forced her mouth open and sought her tongue.

  “Pamela, thank you,” he said when he had kissed her.

  A moment later he had rolled away. Soon he was snoring again.

  Ama lay on her back, thinking. It was strange. Itsho was dead. She had buried him herself. Yet she had felt his presence, felt him making love to her as if he were still alive. Perhaps he had sent his spirit from the place of the ancestors into the body of this strange white man. She tried to reach out to him, whispering his name but he had come to her call once and he would not come again.

  Her thoughts drifted. She forced herself to concentrate and consider her options. I am a slave. This Mijn Heer has bought me, along with so many others. I am his property. He is the master of this great castle and my master too. He will send me back to the female dungeon at sunrise if he so chooses. Apart from Esi, trapped down there (and there on my account too) I know no one in this place. I have no friend, no one I could speak to, no one to advise me, no one to speak for me. Mijn Heer seems no different from other men: a little childish; lonely, perhaps; needing to be cuddled and loved; and with his sex’s animal need to penetrate a woman. True, he is ugly and he is old. But he seems reasonably kind. She smiled as she recalled how she had knocked him down. Now it seemed funny. I was so scared. He could have had me killed. What if I had done such a thing to the Asantehene, or to any free Asante man for that matter? Why did Mijn Heer spare me? And why did he make me sit with him to eat? Never before in her life had she sat at a table to eat and never had she eaten with a man. Except, just once, she thought, with Itsho. They had arranged to meet in the corn fields and she had grilled a chicken and taken it for him. Itsho had insisted that they share it. Yet he was usually such a stickler for custom. Itsho is dead. Itsho tried to save me. The Bedagbam killed him. I shall never see him again, until, one day, I join the ancestors myself.

  Is there really another world where the ancestors live? she wondered. Where? Under the ground or in the sky? Or are their spirits all around us, but somehow invisible? When Mijn Heer was inside me just now, I really felt it was Itsho. Could it be so? If his spirit could come into Mijn Heer's body like that, is Itsho trying to tell me something, to advise me, to help me? How she longed to hold him to her, to caress him, to take his head upon her chest. She looked across at De Bruyn. He had stopped snoring. Men look so defenceless and innocent when they sleep, especially after they have spent their energy. She wiped a strand of hair from De Bruyn's forehead and then wondered at her nerve. Her thoughts returned to Itsho. What could his message be? Could his spirit influence Mijn Heer to help me, to look after me? She had heard their guards say that they would be sold to other white men and sent far across the sea. How could that be? Will they send us in canoes, like the ones I saw in the sea? The sea seems so huge and I could see no land on the other side. Even when the Oti is in flood, you can see the far shore. Maybe the sea is in flood now? Maybe in the dry season it will shrink to a trickle as the Oti does when the rains fail?

  De Bruyn was snoring again. Ama gathered her cloth and went to the window. The sky was clear and full of stars. The light of a full moon was reflected on a calm sea. She could see the white surf breaking on the shore and she heard its gentle roar. Edina lay below the castle walls, enveloped in dark mysterious shadows. She sat on the broad window cill with her back against the Dutch bricks in the jamb. She hugged her knees. What is the moon, she wondered, and the stars? She knew some of their names, but what they were, that was a puzzle. Could each star be a dead ancestor? Which one is Itsho then? And are the ancestors of the Bedagbam and the Asante and the white men there too? How can one know? So many things in the world are so difficult to understand. When they had first fallen in love, Itsho had been amused at her outrageous inquiries and this had encouraged her to search for more questions to ask. Soon it had become a habit and she had begun to look at the world in a new way. But Itsho had become scared. She was trespassing upon the territory of the earth priests. If she was not careful, he had warned her, she would be accused of witchcraft. Noticing the subtle change in his attitude (she knew Itsho much better than he knew himself) she had stopped sharing her inquiries with him. But her secret habit of speculation and reflection had acquired a life of its own and was not easily denied.

  Itsho or no Itsho, I have no choice. I am lucky this man selected me for his pleasure. I have had two good meals and a bath; he has given me a fine new clean cloth to wear; I have slept in his bed. It is true that he has used me, that he did not ask my consent, that I am his chattel to deal with as he chooses; but he did not take me by force, he did not hurt me. If I am honest with myself, I have to admit that I have missed having a man all this time. Kwame Panin didn't really count, for all his boyish passion. Old and ugly as he is, this scrawny man is surely my only chance of survival. If I could only make him love me and need me, perhaps one day he would even let me go back home.

  She concentrated her mind on those she loved best. Tabitsha, my mother, how you must have mourned the kidnapping of your first born. You cannot even know that your daughter Nandzi is now called Ama. Tigen, my father, wise old greybeard, so stern, but with a twinkle in your eye. How you loved and cherished me when I was small. Her first memories were of Tigen grasping her hands and swinging her through the air, round and round and round, up and down, and then, when he had put her down on her feet again, the two of them stumbling around dizzily as if they had taken too much pito. I must have been as old then as Nowu was when I was taken. Poor Nowu, he was so ill and he must have had such a shock. And baby Kwadi, he must be quite a big boy now.

  They could not even imagine a small part of what she had been through. And here I am now, sitting at the window of this great castle, with its master, a white man, sleeping there in his bed.

  The sea reminded her of the savannah, it was vast, open, you could see far into the distance. Except there were no baobab and silk cotton trees growing in the sea!

  De Bruyn spoke in his sleep.

  “Elizabeth,” he said, “I will be home soon.”

  For a moment, Ama was startled; then she chuckled to herself. She yawned and stretched her arms. Then she went back to bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  When De Bruyn awoke, it was already light.

  He was late for his morning inspection. He rose and dressed quickly and quietly, without waking Ama. He leant over her and gazed at her sleeping form. Such a beautiful child, he thought, surprised at the tenderness he felt for her. Then the bell for seven o'clock brought him back to the real world of duties and responsibilities, trade and correspondence, and he turned to go.

  As he left the room, Augusta was waddling down the corridor, chewing on a tweápeá stick. Following her at a respectful distance, a bare-footed slave girl bore a bucket and broom and ostrich feather duster.

  “Good morning, Augusta,” De Bruyn said hurriedly as they shook hands.

  Barely allowing her time to remove the chewing stick and return the greeting he continued, “I am late. I overslept. You will see the reason.”

  He indicated the door behind him with a cock of his head.

  “I like this one. She is beautiful; and clever, too. I think I will keep her for a while.”

  He squeezed Augusta's hand and continued in a confidential whisper, “Speak to her and tell me what you think.”

  “I am late for my inspection,” said De Bruyn. “We will talk later.”

  The young slave curtsied to De Bruyn as he passed and he nodded to her absent-mindedly.

  Augusta watched him until he turned the corner.

  Not for the first time she thought, As the years pass, you look more and more like a swamp reed dried in the sun and, looking down at her own corpulent frame, I look more and more like a ball of fufuú.

  “Àgòo,” she called, announcing
her entry, as she opened the door to the De Bruyn's bedroom.

  She was surprised to hear the customary reply, “Amêê.”

  “So, young woman, you understand Fanti?” she asked as she entered, looking to see whom it was that she was addressing.

  Ama had been feigning sleep as De Bruyn dressed, uncertain as to how she should behave, but she had risen from the bed as soon as he had closed the door. She had washed her face in the brass basin of water she found on the dresser and was drying it with the towel as Augusta entered.

  “Please, yes, Madam,” she said.

  “I mean, no, Madam,” she continued in some confusion, curtsying as she spoke, “but I do hear Asante small.”

  “Oh, Edinas and Fantis and Asantes, we are all the same family, “ replied Augusta, settling her considerable bulk into one of Mijn Heer's comfortable arm chairs. “We are all Akans. We fight amongst ourselves, of course, but it is the fighting of brothers.”

  “Where do you come from?” she continued, signalling to her assistant to get on with the work.

  “Please, they brought me from Kumase,” replied Ama, thinking it best to avoid the complication of trying to explain the location of Tigen's hamlet.

  “Ah, Kumase, I hear it is a great city,” said Augusta. “Some time you must tell me about it. What is your name?”

  “Please, they call me Ama.”

  “Ama. That is a good name. My name is Augusta, alias Efua Kakrabaa. I am one of the most important traders in this town.”

  She nodded towards the open window, beyond which lay the grass and matting roofs, the winding narrow streets and whitewashed swish walls of Edina. She gestured impatiently to the young girl who was holding the brass chamber pots mutely requesting her approval to take them out of the room.

  “I deal in cloth,” she continued. “Bombay, broad cloth, calicoes, ginghams, guinea cloths, sattins, seersuckers, silks, taffaties, worsted damasks, fringes and all kinds of cotton stuffs. Every kind of cloth the Dutch bring in their ships, from all over the world, from India and Batavia and from Europe. Linens from Germany. And the new cotton prints from Manchester, in England. Have you heard of these places? No? Well I do not know them either. The Director General tells me they are far away, many months journey on the sea. As for me, I have been once to Axim and many times to Manso and to Cape Coast, but that is as far as I have travelled.”