Ama

by Manu Herbstein

  Tomba bowed his head.

  “There are many things I do not know,” he said. “You put me to shame.”

  “Tomba, lift up your head. You know that that was not my intention. Agree to let Ama have this baby. We will give her, and you, all the love and support we can. Ama will teach your child to read and write, as she is teaching us. We will survive together in this country. Africa will survive in Brazil. One day Brazil will become part of Africa, a better Brazil, a better Africa, without slavery and without the wars which feed it. And your child will be part of it.”

  * * *

  For the first time since their marriage, Williams brought Miranda home.

  Ama was busy preparing their bedroom for them when Miranda walked in. Her face lit up when she saw Ama.

  “Ama, atúù,” she said as they approached, using the Asante which Ama had taught her.

  “Senhora Miranda, awâwâwâ,” Ama replied as they embraced.

  They stepped back and held each other at arm’s length. Each looked at the other; then, eyes wide, each pointed at the other’s belly and giggled. They embraced again. Then they went to sit side by side on the bed.

  “Tell me all the news,” Miranda demanded. “I want to know exactly what has happened here since I left. My mother tells me nothing; well, nothing of any importance. I didn’t even suspect that you were pregnant, let alone married. All of a sudden. Who is he?”

  “He is called João. He comes from the Engenho do Meio. But we are not married. Not in church, anyway. The Senhor would not permit it.”

  She gave Tomba the name by which the Portuguese knew him.

  “What nonsense, Ama,” Miranda said.

  Ama knew the look of concern on her face was genuine.

  “Why, in heaven’s name?”

  Marriage to Williams, or was it living in Salvador, had changed Miranda, Ama noticed. Such a casual profanity would never have passed her lips when she was a child.

  “I think it would be better if you asked the Senhor that question yourself, Senhora Miranda,” Ama replied, “but it is not really important. Everyone knows we are married. But tell me about yourself. How long are you going to stay?”

  “Until my baby is born. Senhor Williams says he needs a break from my extravagant habits. He complains that I am driving him into debt. So my pregnancy has provided him with a convenient excuse to send me home to Mother. For the duration, at least.”

  “Won’t you miss him?”

  “Of course, but he has promised to come down at least twice a month. He says he is going to get Josef to teach him how to sail. Oh, Ama. He is such a wonderful husband. Not at all like the stuffy Portuguese men. He has taught me so much. Do you know that I can read and write English now? And speak it a little, too.”

  “I don’t believe you. Show me.”

  “Heh! Cheeky, cheeky! Speaking to your mistress like that. I’ll have to report you to the Senhor.”

  She saw Ama start at the rebuke, smiled at her little joke and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Tchtt! Tchtt! You didn’t take me seriously, did you? You see, my little one-eyed beauty, I have penetrated your disguise. I know all your secrets. Senhor Williams has told me everything about you. Everything!”

  “Everything?”

  “Everything! You wicked girl. Why did you keep so many secrets from me? Don’t you see? Now we can talk together in English and when Senhor Williams is not around, no one else will be able to understand a word?”

  “I don’t think the Senhora would approve of that. Do you?”

  “Hmm! Perhaps you are right. I didn’t think of that. But at least we can read to each other. Story books. Novels. I love English novels, don’t you? They are so much more interesting than those boring Portuguese stories about the saints. Realistic, Senhor Williams says.”

  “What have you been reading?”

  “Tom Jones. Tom Jones is my favourite. And Pamela. She is so brave. Heh! Senhor Williams says that when he knew you before, your name was Pamela. It that true? How many other names do you have, dear Ama, that you have never told me about? You really are a most secretive person. I want you to vow to me that from now on you will have no secrets from me, not a single one. And I will make the same vow to you. Ama, promise!”

  “Senhorita Miranda, I mean Senhora, how you have changed! The ideas that just come tumbling out, one after the other!”

  “Ama, your vow! Repeat after me, ‘I vow that I will never keep another secret from Miranda, so help me God,’ and cross your heart.”

  “Senhora, I cannot do that.”

  “Why not? Why not? Ama you are not my real friend. I would do anything for you, anything. And when I ask you for just this small favour you refuse. I think I am going to cry.”

  Ama put her arm around her shoulder and hugged her. Miranda sank her head into Ama’s breast. Ama rubbed her back, comforting her as she had done when she was just a girl, before she had married. After a moment Miranda sat up straight.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “I don’t think I shall cry. But tell me why you won’t take my vow, you little vixen.”

  “I beg your pardon, Senhora, I am not your little vixen; nor anyone else’s for that matter,” said Ama.

  It struck her that Miranda was acting out the part of a romantic heroine in one of the novels her husband had given her to read. She smiled indulgently, recalling the idle months she herself had spent reading her way through Mijn Heer’s library. Then a thought struck her.

  “Tell me, tell me,” insisted Miranda.

  “In a moment,” Ama replied. “But first I want to ask you something. Those books which Senhor Williams has been giving you to read, are they brand new, or do they have someone else’s name written inside the front cover?”

  “How did you know that? My mother always said she suspected you of being a witch. Have you been practising black magic, with your drums and cutting the throats of poor cockerels and things?”

  “What was the name?”

  “I forget. I’ve never seen a name like that before. It’s not Portuguese and not English.”

  “Try to remember.”

  Miranda smiled slyly.

  “You tell me,” she suggested. “Guess the name and I’ll tell you if you’re right.”

  “Pieter de Bruyn,” Ama said confidently.

  Miranda looked at her, flabbergasted.

  “My mother was right,” she said. “You are a witch. How could you possibly know that?”

  “Now, your vow,” said Ama, quickly changing the subject. “Are you going to tell me all the intimate secrets which you and Senhor Williams share? How would he feel about that?”

  Miranda put her hand over her mouth and stared at Ama.

  “I didn’t think about that,” she said morosely and then almost at once her face brightened and she continued with a note of triumph in her voice.

  “It’s simple,” she said. “We can leave those out. ‘All secrets except those shared with husbands.’”

  “You win that one,” said Ama. “By the way, has Senhor Williams taught you to play chess?”

  “Yes, but I’m not very good at it. It’s so boring.”

  “Let’s make it more interesting. I challenge you to a game. Only this time the rules will be different. I will play with the white pieces, but only eight of them: the king and the queen, the knights, the bishops and the rooks; no pawns. You’ll play black and you will also have eight pieces, only they will all be pawns. What’s more, when it is my turn to move, you must warn me in advance just what move you plan to make next. Oh yes, and since I’m playing white, I’ll make the first move.”

  Miranda looked puzzled.

  “Ama, I don’t understand you. That wouldn’t be fair. I wouldn’t have a chance. What are you talking about?”

  Ama took her hands.

  “Senhora Miranda, I’ll give you a clue. It’s a parable, like those in the Bible.”

  Miranda looked her in the eye.

  “Senhor Willia
ms told me how you lost your eye,” she said. “No, I give up. I never was much good at riddles. Explain it to me.”

  “It’s simple,” said Ama. “The black pawns are the slaves, us. Do I have to say more? And you are asking us to tell you all our secrets. You see Senhora Miranda, you are the daughter of the Senhor. I am his slave; I am your slave. I love you dearly and I know that you love me too. But I am still your slave. Can’t we just be friends and each decide which of our secrets we want to share with the other?”

  Miranda got up and went to the window. She stood there a long time, looking out towards the horses in the paddocks. When she spoke it was in such a low voice that Ama had to strain to hear her.

  “Senhor Williams received a new book recently. His uncle sent it from London. It was written by a man called Dr. Adam Smith. It’s not a novel. I think it’s called An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, or something long and boring like that. Senhor Williams says it’s a wonderful book, but that most of it is much too difficult for me to understand. He is so clever, Senhor Williams. Sometimes I wish I were a man.”

  She came back and sat on the floor, legs crossed, in front of Ama, looking up at her.

  “Dr. Smith says that slavery is stupid and that it is also wicked. He says it spoils the soil. He says it costs us more to keep you all as slaves than it would if we gave you your freedom and paid you a wage, like we do with the overseers and the Tupi. He says the real reason that we keep slaves is not that it makes us rich but that it makes us feel powerful, especially our men. Senhor Williams says that the more he thinks about it, the more he sees the truth in Dr. Smith’s arguments.”

  Ama saw that Miranda was crying. She said nothing but took a handkerchief and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

  “Ama,” she said. “If one day the Engenho de Cima becomes mine, I will set every slave here free. And you will be the first.”

  “Hush,” Ama replied. “You must not speak of your parents’ death like that. I believe you; from the bottom of my heart I believe you. But please don’t tell the Senhor the way you feel; nor the Senhora. Let it be a secret between us, just the two of us.”

  * * *

  Miranda’s child arrived first.

  Together, she and Ama had prepared one of the guest rooms for the delivery. When her waters broke they sent down to the senzalas for the midwives. The women surrounded her bed, constantly moved her arms and legs around and urged her to “pucha, pucha, Senhora.” Benedito’s wife offered her a crucifix to kiss, put a rosary on her belly and prayed to Santa Miranda to watch over her namesake. The Senhora, Miranda’s mother, walked up and down distractedly, giving orders which the women pointedly ignored: for once, it was they who were in charge. Ama sat by Miranda’s side throughout; it was she who announced to her that her baby was a girl, she who held the baby while the cord was cut and smeared with oil and pepper, and she who took it upon herself to give the infant her first bath.

  Miranda insisted that when Ama’s turn came, a week later, she should give birth in the same room. The scene was much the same, except for the absence of the Senhora, who was indisposed, and the reversal of the roles of the two young women. But whereas Miranda’s labour had been short, Ama’s was long and painful. The child was a boy. Miranda bathed him but by the time she brought him to show to his mother, Ama had fallen into an exhausted sleep.

  When she woke, it was evening and the candles had been lit. Miranda sat on an upright chair by her side, holding Ama’s sleeping child. Williams, who had arrived some days before, sat in an armchair nearby.

  Tomba stood at the end of the bed. He shifted his weight uneasily from one bare foot to the other. Williams had never recognised Ama’s João as the Tomba who had been her co-conspirator on board ship but Tomba was always nervous in his presence, fearing that revelation of the past might result in his being sold to a distant engenho. He was uncomfortable in the presence of all whites, but Williams more so than others. Miranda, too, had failed to win his confidence, though not from want of trying. Tomba had his reservations about Ama’s friendly relationship with her mistress and had tried to persuade her to have her child in her cabin rather than in the casa grande; but Ama had persuaded him, with some difficulty, that it would be in the baby’s best interest to accept Miranda’s kindness.

  Now Miranda lifted the baby.

  “João, take him and show him to Ama,” she commanded.

  Tomba did what he was told. Mother and father smiled at one another as Miranda brought a candle closer so that Ama could inspect her child.

  “Here, João, won’t you sit down?” Miranda said, pulling a chair forward for him.

  Tomba shook his head awkwardly.

  Williams, sensing their need for privacy, inclined his head in a signal to his wife that they should leave. Miranda rose to go and then hesitated.

  “Wait,” she said. “There is one thing I must discuss with Ama before we go. Senhor Williams has to return to Salvador soon. We have decided to have our baby baptised in the chapel on Sunday, a week from tomorrow. We are going to call her Elizabeth, Senhor Williams after an old English queen and me after Santa Elizabeta, mother of John the Baptist. If you will agree I . . . we, would like you to have your baby baptised on the same day. We can discuss it later but I thought you might like to talk about what name you intend to give him while João is here.”

  She leant down to kiss Ama on the forehead.

  “I’ll come back and bring you some soup after João has left,” she said.

  * * *

  At Miranda’s suggestion the boy was baptised under the name of Zacharias.

  “Zacharias was the father of John the Baptist, so it’s appropriate, since our babies were born so close together. My brother is going to be Elizabeth’s godfather and I have persuaded Senhor Williams to be god-father to Zacharias, unless you have someone else in mind, that is.”

  “Senhora Miranda, are you sure that there will be no objection?”

  “About my husband being godfather to your son? From whom? My parents? Just let them object. It is none of their business. And Senhor Williams has already agreed.”

  “That’s not what I was thinking of.”

  “What then?”

  “Zacharias and Elizabeth were husband and wife, you know.”

  “And that means your Zacharias is going to marry my Elizabeth? What rubbish, Ama. Sometimes I think you are just too sensitive. What made you think of such a thing?”

  By the Sunday of the baptism, Ama’s son already had a name. On Saturday, the seventh day after his birth, Ama rose very early, an hour before the work bell was due to sound. Josef went from cabin to cabin in the dark, rousing all the slaves. When they had assembled at the usual place, he poured libation, praying briefly in Fanti and then switching to Portuguese so that all could understand.

  “Spirits of our forefathers, we greet you. I am Josef from Anomabu. With me are all the Africans of the Engenho de Cima. Spirits of our forefathers, we bring you this drink and beg you to accept it. We have risen early this morning to welcome a new arrival in our midst.”

  “Who is the mother of this child?” he asked.

  “I, Ama.”

  “And the father?”

  “I, Tomba.”

  “Ancestors of Ama and of Tomba, bear witness, we beg you, to the arrival of their first child. It is a boy. Watch over him, guard him, make him strong and wise, honest and compassionate.”

  “Tomba, what name do you give to this child?”

  “I call him Kwame for the spirit of the day on which he was born; and I call him Zumbi in honour of the great King of Palmares.”

  There was restrained applause. Josef spilled garapa on the ground.

  “Spirit of Zumbi of Palmares, we call upon you. Enter into this our boy-child and make him great, even as you are great.”

  Josef sat down on a stool and Ama gave him the child.

  He dipped his right forefinger into a small bowl of water and used it to wet the tongue of
the baby. He did the same again; and then a third time. Then he addressed the child.

  “Kwame Zumbi, if you say this is water, let it be water which I place upon your tongue.”

  Wono offered him another small bowl, this one containing garapa. He performed the same custom, saying, “Kwame Zumbi, if you say this is garapa, let it be garapa which I place upon your tongue.”

  Finally he said to the child, “Kwame Zumbi, I have shown you the difference between water and strong drink. If you say it is black you see, let it truly be black. If you say it is white you see, let it be white.”

  He rose and gave the child back to Ama. Tomba drank from the bowl of garapa and Ama also took a sip.

  “Now we have shown your son to the ancestors,” Josef told them, “you are free to bring him out of doors.”

  The slaves lined up to shake hands. Then the bell rang.

  “Just in time,” said Josef. “I am sorry we had to rush it so.”

  * * *

  Life at the Engenho de Cima was little changed. The annual cycle of the safra, of St. John’s Day and the feasts of the Virgin Mary and the other saints, of Christmas and Easter, continued in an unbroken succession. Slaves worked the ten years, more or less, which fate had allotted to them, died, and were replaced by fresh purchases from Africa. One year slipped into the next.

  In spite of their good intentions, Senhor and Senhora Williams visited the Engenho de Cima only at infrequent intervals.

  Williams’ expanding business interests kept him occupied and Miranda, encouraged by an indulgent husband, became increasing involved in the high society of Salvador. When they did come, they never brought Elizabeth or her younger brothers and sisters.

  “The journey across the bay is too dangerous,” Miranda told her parents.

  The Senhor became increasingly frail but steadfastly refused to follow his chattels to the grave. The Senhora’s hair turned white and she spent more and more of her time in prayer and reading the lives of the saints, leaving the day to day running of the casa grande to Ama and the other domestic slaves. Increasingly Jesus Vasconcellos took over the running of the business, although the Senhor, in spite of his decrepitude, never allowed him an entirely free rein.