Ancestor Stones

by Aminatta Forna

  One day I noticed something about this dream, which I had had a great many times before. Something missing. I stood back and looked at my dream, the way you might look at a painting or a view. I looked everywhere, from the path leading up to the door, to the empty hammock swinging at the front of the house, I even searched the corners of the rooms. Nowhere. You see, in my dream there was no man. Just me and my house and my children.

  And I knew I was as happy as I ever would be.

  On the final day of my father’s forty days, my mother stood alone and naked in her room, waiting for the women to come who would wash her. The house had been swept, the drapes removed from the windows, shutters opened, mirrors revealed, the pictures of my father gone, too — given away to friends and relatives as keepsakes. All but one: a photograph taken before his slow death began. It showed my father standing alone in front of his house. Whenever he was photographed, which was not often, it was alone. Always. Except for the picture of him sitting alongside the other advisers to the obai, the one you once showed me in a book written by an American academic who came here as a young Peace Corps. He was leaning slightly forward, unsmiling, gazing with a terrible intensity into the camera lens as though he was trying to look into the future. Either that, or he had some unspoken dislike for the photographer.

  The clothes she had worn during her mourning were gone too, with the exception of one simple house dress left for her to wear. It lay across the bed behind her.

  My father would be my mother’s last husband. There were no brothers for her to choose a new husband from, the way she had chosen him. Maybe a cousin or a nephew could be brought in to take care of her. Maybe she would become a praying wife, join a household run by another woman. But in my heart I knew my mother would never be capable of living like that, she who had always been a head wife.

  Outside, smoke from a charcoal pit drifted across the compound. the carcasses of a sheep and a goat hissed on their spits. Vats of rice bubbled on a row of three-stone fires. Women called to each other, lifted lids, passed wooden spoons from one to the other, heaved huge pots, cuffed a child here and there or clapped hands at the dogs who wove their way through the fuss. There would be prayers, then libations performed in my father’s honour by members of the society, heedless of his Muslim faith.

  I should not have looked in at my mother, but I did. Hidden where she couldn’t see me, behind the shutter of the open window. In all my life I cannot remember having seen her naked except that one time. I had never even seen her without her hair covered.

  There she stood, in the centre of the room, like a child waiting for her mother to come and dress her. Arms by her side, palms turned out, staring into the shadows. Folds of empty skin at her belly. Long, flat breasts. Her hair white and soft as the clouds.

  Her lips were moving, a murmured prayer. In less than a minute the women would arrive to lead her to the stream. She knew what was coming, she’d been through it before. They would remove the last mourning dress, would wash her arms and hands, her body and her face. They would give her water to rinse and spit. They would wash away her old life and warn my father’s spirit from coming back to her. For she was no longer his.

  Then I realised she was not staring into the shadows, but at the portrait of my father. And though I couldn’t hear what she was saying I realised she was not praying, but talking to her husband one last time. Once she gestured with her right hand and as she did, offered a glimpse of her face to me. I saw the grief and the love there. And suddenly I felt hot with shame for spying on her. I turned and walked away.

  Once when I was a teenager I accompanied an aunt on an errand to another village. We passed a woman bathing alone in a stream. She acknowledged the two of us by inclining her head.

  ‘Good morning, Ma,’ I returned.

  My aunt shook her head. ‘Good morning, Pa,’ she corrected.

  I had heard of women like her, though I had never seen one. They were women who had become members of the men’s society, not like the silly girls who banged the tortoiseshell drum — they were being punished. No, rather these were women who had already married and borne their children, women of age and wisdom, who had earned a certain kind of respect and whom the society honoured with their title. As we continued I turned my head again and again to look again at the woman, standing there up to her waist, alone in the water.

  The memory of this came to me as I sat with my mother, Ya Isatta and several of my aunts, among them the one with whom I had walked from one village to the other. They were visiting to congratulate me on the success of Kholifa Turay Cloth Merchants, though in a remarkably short time the talk had turned to my continued unmarried state. My elders had turned out in force to urge me to take a husband. The store was a success, they were pleased at that, naturally. But now I would need a man to help me. I could not see why they should say this. They were telling me to give away what I had worked so hard to build up. Besides, I was happy.

  Once, in the hollow of a dead tree behind our home, a wildcat gave birth to her kittens. I used to climb a nearby tree and watch them for many hours, playing outside the den while their mother caught rats and mice to bring back to them. After a few months they began to accompany her on hunting trips in the early morning. In those times she taught them to creep up on a partridge until they were inches away, to avoid the cobra’s lair and to steal the eggs from the nests of birds. The seasons passed, the tree crumbled into soft powder, an aardvark dug a warren beneath it. At night sometimes, rarely, I would catch a glimpse of her and her tiny dark-skinned baby scratching at the termite hills. Another time a she-leopard and her two cubs were mobbed by monkeys on the banks of the stream; the mother fought her assailants tooth and claw, bringing down four or more and lacerating a dozen others before she retreated.

  My aunts thought that I was unnatural not to want a man in my life, but to me it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

  I said nothing, I watched my aunts’ faces, I nodded and dreamed and at some point my mind travelled back to the day I went walking with my aunt and saw a mambore for the very first time.

  From the day a woman joined the men’s society she would be called Pa, give up her creel and learn to use a line and hook, exchange the stool at the back of the house for the hammock at the front, swap her snuff for a pipe. And she relinquished her place in the society of women.

  The mambores. The women who lived as men.

  My aunts’ voices droned on like flies in the summer. I stopped listening and dreamed. I saw the house that was sometimes round and sometimes square. I saw the fat, happy children. I saw the empty hammock swaying in the early evening breeze.

  And in that moment I saw something else.

  I saw the hidden path curling between the trees.

  My mother was ready. The women had knocked on her door and now she preceded them down to the river. She walked with her chin up, one shoulder bare where her dress had slipped. The silence blew through the gathered crowds like a breeze, people stood and watched in awe.

  Women were coming from every direction, out of houses, up the path, through the crowd, women laying down their cooking spoons, women preparing to leave the fires unattended, women squeezing through the people. One, two, three. Ten, twenty, thirty. Seventy, eighty, one hundred. One by one the women fell in behind my mother, from the oldest to the youngest.

  Every woman in the village. Except one, and that one was me. I let them pass. I stepped aside to join the men.

  Yes, it’s true. I can see you’ve guessed it, but don’t know quite whether to believe it. Me, your own aunty. Well, you’ve guessed right. It was nothing dramatic. I let the men of the society come to me. I let it be known that I would consider relinquishing the birthright of womanhood in exchange for the liberty of a man. And in time they found me. After all, there are few women who would choose such a life. Naturally, there were those things I missed, mostly the company of other women. But I had made the life I dreamed of, and it suited me. I had taken my own
path, neither right nor left.

  After a while we heard the singing and knew it was over. When the women reappeared their mood was changed, they were dancing, shuffling their feet through the dust, swaying their bottoms. Somewhere in the centre of them all she walked alone. They had dressed her in a new costume made from a heavy blue fabric: a silk damask of four hundred threads, real damask from Syria, double-sided with highlights of silver woven through the design.

  I knew because it came from my own store, I had chosen it myself. On her shoulder she wore a sash of the same cloth, her hair was hidden inside a tall headdress. My mother, walking towards an unknown future. As beautiful as a bride on her wedding day.

  CONSEQUENCES

  14

  Hawa, 1991

  Sugar

  It had rained during the night, an unseasonal rain. In the morning the ground was stained in dark patches, like sweat. The light was dull, there were no shadows at all. And yet the rain had done nothing to clear the air, which was heavy and hot. I woke early, went outside to urinate and afterwards I lay on my bed, looking up at the rafters.

  From somewhere in the darkness above me a drop of water fell slowly through the dense air, shattered upon a rafter and showered on to me. I didn’t move. I felt the water sliding down my face. In my mind I saw the next drop, swelling and growing like a ripe breadfruit ready to drop from the tree. Instead of a drop of water I imagined a great fruit whistling through the air, smashing on the rafters and covering me in sticky flesh and juice. With that thought I pulled myself up.

  There was a hole in the roof, and by the time the rains came the zinc would have rotted in a dozen more places. I told myself I must remember to tell him when he came home, so he could go and borrow a ladder from my uncle opposite and climb up there to take a look. He would know what to do. He would send into town for a hammer and nails, and some sheets of zinc. Then he would climb up there again to fix it, while I prepared him something to eat. Maybe groundnut stew, which was always his favourite with smoked catfish from the river. Or then again I would have made that to celebrate his homecoming. Maybe a bowl of pepper soup and some coco yams. Or sour sour. Or cassava leaves. There were no leaves left in my plot, I had lost them all to the locusts. I would have to go into town to the covered market, to see what I could find. I would buy only the best: the youngest, sweetest leaves.

  Whenever he came home the truck dropped him off at the roundabout in town and he would walk to the house. Not sticking to the road, but in a straight line. Cutting across from one road to the next, through backyards and down the sides of the houses. His walk came from me, not his father. Of course, they taught them these things as well. How to walk in straight rows, swinging their arms and raising each leg up high, holding it there for just a moment, letting the heel drop to the ground so it sent up a little spurt of dust. Not looking this way or that. All the time with their eyes fixed straight ahead. When he came home people looked up to watch him pass. Little boys ran after him, begging to try on his cap or else placing their small feet in the prints left by his boots. Even before I saw him in the distance, I could always tell when he was on his way.

  That dark morning I went out to the yard and called for the girl to get on and light the fire, while I washed. I untied my lappa and hung it up on the peg. I stood there for a moment and looked down at a body I no longer recognised. Loosening all over, as though I was shrinking inside. I pulled at a handful of my skin, and felt the flesh slip away from the bone. My body was nearly smooth, the hair no longer had the energy to grow. After all those years spent stripping the hair away. I soaped myself, using the last sliver of the soap my son had brought. Imperial Leather: the soap wore away until all you were left with was the label. And then I doused myself with water from the bucket, dried with the lappa, slipped on my plastic shoes and made my way back inside.

  The girl came to inform me there was no sugar for the tea. Stood in front of me holding out the empty blue cardboard box with the red lion stamped on the cover.

  ‘So you told me yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that,’ I told her. ‘Perhaps you think I’m senile, that I don’t remember.’

  ‘No, aunty.’ But she didn’t go away, just stood there with the box in her hand. As though I would magically fill it up again.

  So I asked her: ‘You think I can snap my fingers like that and make sugar for you?’

  ‘No, aunty.’ She spoke softly, especially when she was being rude. This girl could go back to her family for all I cared. If she ever became somebody’s wife they’d send her back with sixpence on her head in no time at all.

  ‘“No aunty, no aunty.”’ I mimicked her. ‘So what do you want me to do?’

  ‘Maybe you can buy some when you go into town.’ And she had the audacity to look me straight in the face when she spoke. Straight in my eye! Such insolence. I snatched the box and threw it upon the fire. You just had to watch the change come over her when Lansana was home on leave. Like a cat on heat. That sullen face suddenly all pouts and simpers. Encouraging his teasing. Brushing her breasts against him whenever she passed, hiking her skirt up round her thighs when she sat down opposite him. Then and there I promised myself I’d be rid of her before his next visit.

  At breakfast the girl ate noisily. Swallowing great mouthfuls of porridge and plugging her face with hunks of bread. She’d eat me out of house and home, this one. I stood up and removed the dish, before she could finish the lot, otherwise there would be nothing left for tomorrow except carambola from the tree that hung over the wall from my neighbour’s garden. And that always gave me problems with my stomach.

  ‘Have you ironed my dress yet?’ I asked her.

  ‘You haven’t given it to me,’ she said with her mouth still full. Always with an answer. Too clever for her own good. I would have thrown it at her, but for the fact it was my best dress. I stepped inside to prepare myself.

  I sat down in front of the mirror and creamed my face, using some of the face cream Lansana had given me. On the side of the jar along with some kind of Arabic writing was a drawing of a woman with black, black hair and eyelashes, red, red lips and white, white skin. She was holding a rose up to her face. A red rose. I dusted my face with a little talc and dabbed some perfume on my neck and between my breasts from the little bottle I kept hidden from the girl. I put it carefully back in its place behind the loose stone in the wall.

  The girl came in with the dress just as I was replacing the stone. Now I’d have to find a new place for the bottle. I stood and watched her out of the corner of my eye as she laid the dress on the bed. She was making a good show of pretending not to be interested in what I was doing.

  ‘Go count the chickens,’ I told her, just to get rid of her. Go count your chickens before they hatch, I thought. She’d get a surprise soon enough when I sent her on her way. That would wipe the smirk off her face.

  I slipped the top over my head. It was tight-fitting, with narrow sleeves to the elbow. I regretted then that I had sent the girl away. She might have made herself useful helping me, but it was too late for that. By the time I managed to get my head through and straighten the bodice I was damp with sweat. I stood with my legs apart while I wound the lappa three times around my waist and then sat back down again for a moment to catch my breath. My jewellery box was on the table in front of me. I opened it and rummaged through the odd buttons, hair clips and safety pins until I found what I was looking for. The pair of gold earrings.

  I let them drop from one palm into the other. I pushed them through the holes in my ears and lifted the mirror up to my face. I turned my head from side to side, feeling the weight pulling at my lobes. The reflected light bounced from my cheekbones. I took them off and inspected them again. One of the hoops was very slightly dented. I rubbed my finger across the place, as if I might smooth it out. It didn’t matter. Nobody would see. All they would notice was the size of the hoops, the quality of the gold. Eighteen carat. Twenty-four probably. Such good quality, a son buys
nothing but the best for his mother.

  Outside I heard my neighbour calling. I didn’t answer. I stayed where I was. Let her think I wasn’t at home. She’d only be coming to bother me for the four cups of rice I borrowed from her the week before. Let her wait. She had plenty of rice. I had seen inside her storeroom myself. It was full of food. The Government had warned against people who hoarded food, driving up the prices so everybody suffered.

  While I waited for her to clear off, I searched for my umbrella and when the coast was clear I stepped out of the house.

  I walked to town. I didn’t have the money for transport. The rain was gone, replaced by the sun. I walked the whole way, carrying my umbrella aloft. When Lansana gave it to me I told him it was the widest one I had ever seen, and it was true. It provided me with a pool of shade to walk in.

  With each step I felt the earrings swing against my face. Every so often I lifted my hand to my face to feel them again. I wished I’d brought the mirror with me so I could stop and look at them.

  A tune came into my head and I hummed for a while as I walked. Then I remembered it was something my first husband used to whistle and I stopped. Both my first and second sons lived with him now, working in the butcher’s trade. They didn’t visit their mother as often as they should; I suspected him of turning them against me. But then they were as soft and foolish as him. Still, you can’t throw away a bad child. They were my sons. I would always be their mother. The rest of it is up to God. Now Lansana, my Okurgba, my warrior — he’d made me proud. Followed my brother into the Army, where he had been promoted I don’t know how many times. He wore stars on his shoulders and sent me gifts he paid for with his salary.

  Outside the Contehs’ house the awning had yet to be dismantled, though the chairs were gone. The opening of the house had been Wednesday past. I hadn’t been invited. I could have gone anyway, but I chose not to. The Contehs didn’t know it but I knew they whispered about me behind my back. That morning I would have liked them to see me pass, but the house was quiet. In fact, the street was empty. A thought came to me. I glanced around. I lowered the umbrella and rolled it up. I veered towards the front of the house. The thatch of banana leaves on top of the awning was already fading, the green bamboo poles that held it up had begun to blanch. Still nobody looking. I reached out and hooked the handle of the umbrella around the pole nearest to me, gave it a good yank. I walked on. Behind me the awning lurched violently as one corner collapsed. Never looking over my shoulder, I raised the umbrella over my head, and walked on to the end of the street.