“For a few days we lived in freedom. Then our food stocks began to run low. I volunteered to lead a night raid. Foolishly I agreed to let an overseer called Pedro join us. The man was addicted to cachaça and when we arrived at the Engenho, his thirst got the better of him and he defected. We knew that the militia would be on its way in the morning, with Pedro as its guide. We knew also, only too well, that we would have no chance against them. Your father volunteered to go and give himself up. He knew that they would execute him but he hoped that Senhor Gavin and Senhora Miranda would have arrived from Salvador and that his surrender might persuade them to spare the rest of us. Your mother insisted on going with him and, of course, they took you along. Do you remember any of this?”
I’m not sure what to say. The truth is that I don’t know whether I remember or not. The past is like the dense, early morning fog which sometimes rolls off the sea into the cidade baixa.
“There is little more to tell. They set up a court, tried your father, found him guilty of murdering Jesus Vasconcellos, and sentenced him to death by hanging. Your mother told Senhora Miranda how the man had raped her and she begged for mercy, all in vain. The Senhora said it was enough that the rest of us had escaped severe punishment. The truth is that Tomba was not Senhora Miranda’s property and his death was no loss to her. And then there were the demands of the militia. Justice! The blacks must be taught a lesson. Mercy? Never! The blacks must be taught a lesson.
“They hanged your father from the branch of a tree. There is more, but I am not sure that I should tell you.”
The wind is rising and Josef has to reef the sail.
“Tell me,” I insist.
“They wouldn’t let us take his body down. It hung there for five days, decomposing. That was to teach us obedience.”
“I remember nothing. Where was I all this time?”
“Senhora Miranda took you from your mother and kept you isolated. She wouldn’t even let her say goodbye to you before she took you away to Salvador.”
A picture comes into my mind. A horse-drawn carriage. I shut my eyes and try to concentrate. It was the first time I had been in one, all red leather and shiny brass. I was so excited.
“Did they take me in a carriage?” I ask.
“Kwame, your memory is coming back. Yes, a carriage with four horses.”
I am sitting in the carriage on the leather seat, by a curtained window. I hear the horses neigh. We start moving. I draw the curtain aside. There, hanging from the branch of a tree, is the corpse of a man. The Senhora, sitting beside me, sees it, too. She slaps my hand down and the curtain falls back to hide the vision. She grabs me and forces me across to the other side of her, between her and Senhor Gavin.
I summon up my courage.
“Senhora?”
“Yes, Zacharias.”
Her tone discourages enquiry.
“Senhora, I saw ... Was that ...?”
“Zacharias, you saw nothing. Nothing! Do you understand? Nothing! Now what did you see?”
“Senhora. I saw ... nothing.”
“That’s a good boy. Now just settle down and enjoy the ride.”
Josef
The trip across the bay is uneventful. Kwame is deep in thought. From time to time he shakes his head as if in silent conversation with himself. He seems close to tears, but I judge it better to say nothing.
The gateman at the Consulate tells me to report to Senhor Gavin at once. I knock and he calls out to me to enter. He is sitting behind his desk. I greet him and take the papers out of the satchel. I separate the letters from the Engenho and hand them to him. When I start to replace Ama’s manuscript, the Senhor asks, “What’s that?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I tell him, with a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Nothing?”
“Just some papers Zacharias gave me. I put them in the satchel to keep them dry during the journey.
“Give that to me,” he says.
He puts on his spectacles and starts to read.
I stand there, waiting, gently rubbing the carpet with my toes.
“Call Zacharias,” he says, without looking up.
When we get back, Ama’s manuscript is lying on his desk.
“Zacharias,” he says. “Pull up a chair and sit down.”
I withdraw and wait, ready to receive his instructions.
“How was your holiday? How is your mother?” he asks Kwame and goes on without waiting for an answer. “Do you want to know why I told Josef to bring you back from the Engenho?”
He picks up the manuscript and puts it down again.
“We are leaving,” he says. “For London. Me, the Senhora, and Elizabeth. Tonight we shall sleep on board The Love of Liberty. We sail at dawn when the tide turns. Any questions?”
Kwame knows all this. I have told him already. If he has prepared any questions, he decides not to put them. He just looks at his feet.
“The new Consul, Mr. Bates, arrived two days ago on our ship. I will introduce you to him later. From now on, you will report to him.”
The other door opens and Senhora Miranda bursts into the room.
“My dear ...” she says (she always calls him that). “Oh, Zacharias, I didn’t know you’d arrived. How did you find your mother?”
“I’ve finished with him, dear,” says Senhor Gavin. “You may take him to your office.”
“Oh, one thing more, Zacharias,” says Senhor Gavin, taking the manuscript in his hand. “What’s this?”
“It is a document, Senhor,” Kwame replies, “dictated to me by my mother and given to me by her. It is mine.”
“Zacharias, my boy, you forget your status. A slave has no right to own property of any sort without the express permission of his master.”
“Oh, Gavin,” says the Senhora, “is that really necessary? Come, Zacharias.”
Zacharias
Senhora Miranda asks me to sit down. I haven’t yet had a chance to greet Iphigenia, my wife, and Nandzi Ama, my daughter. My heart aches for them.
“Zacharias,” the Senhora says, “tell me all the news. How is your mother, how is my dear Ama? I really would have loved to give her a hug before we leave for England. Senhor Gavin has told you about our departure? It is your friend Elizabeth. She has no time for the Portuguese boys. If we don’t find a husband for her soon, she will turn out to be an old maid.”
I wait patiently for the gush of words to end.
“Senhora, last night my mother had a stroke. She cannot move and she has lost the power of speech.”
“Oh, my God,” says the Senhora and hides her face in her hands.
“Why did you come back to Salvador? Why did you leave her?” she asks.
“The Senhor ordered Josef to bring me back, at all costs,” I tell her.
“Of course,” she says.
We sit in silence.
“You should go back as soon as possible,” she says. “I’ll ask Senhor Gavin to speak to the new Consul about it.”
Then she asks me, “What was that business with the Senhor?”
I pause, wondering how to reply.
“About some papers?” she says.
“Senhora, my mother dictated the story of her life to me. She intended me to keep the manuscript and to hand it on one day to my daughter. I gave it to Josef to keep in his letter satchel. I guess that Senhor Gavin saw it and took it from him before he had a chance to return it to me.”
The door opens. It is Senhor Gavin. He stands at the threshold without entering. He is holding my mother’s manuscript.
“Zacharias,” he says, shaking it up and down, “I have glanced through this. Very interesting. In fact, unique. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I shall take it to London and have it published. Your mother will be famous.”
That is all. He closes the
door behind him.
“Senhora Miranda,” I say. “That was not my mother’s intention and it is not my wish.”
“Oh, don’t be difficult, Zacharias. Trust the Senhor. He knows what he is doing, and you can be assured that he will always act in your best interest. Now, my boy, I will miss you. Have you seen Elizabeth? You must say goodbye to her before we leave.”
“Senhora, my mother told me that you promised her many years ago that once the Engenho passed into your hands, you would give her her freedom.”
“She told you that, did she? I really don’t remember. But what good would it have done her? We have looked after her since she became blind, and we shall continue to do so now that she has had a stroke. If she were free, who would be responsible? Who would house her and feed her and clothe her? Zacharias, I know that slavery is an evil system, in principle at least, but you must be practical.”
“Senhora, on several occasions you have promised me my manumission papers. I hope that you have not forgotten.”
“Zacharias, I spoke to Senhor Gavin about it just this last week. He says he is sorry but it is just not possible at this time. You are a key man in the Consulate. The new Consul knows little Portuguese. He will depend on your help. Senhor Gavin has promised me that you will get an increase in your wages. If you save wisely, in a few years you will be able to buy your freedom, whether the Senhor approves or not. I am sorry. I hope you understand.”
I do understand. Promises mean nothing to these people. I understand that now.
“Senhora, there is one other matter I should like to clear up before you leave. It is about my father, Tomba.”
I see a cloud pass over her face.
“What about him?”
“The manager, Jesus Vasconcellos, raped my mother.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“My mother says she told you. It was his custom, raping the slave women.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“My father punished Jesus Vasconcellos for raping my mother. He cut off his tongue to punish him for all the abuse that had issued from his mouth; and then he cut off his genitals to punish him for all the pain and humiliation he had inflicted on my mother and the other women.”
She bows her head. I wonder whether she might call Senhor Gavin. She looks up.
“Zacharias, what is this all about? I took you away from the scene of those dreadful events. I have treated you as if you were my own son, Elizabeth’s brother. Tell me the truth, have I treated you badly? Have you been short of food, clothing, loving care, even? Have I not taught you to read and write both Portuguese and English, as well as, even better than my own daughter? Now, let’s hear no more of this, please. All this happened years ago. It is past history, long past, better forgotten.”
“Senhora Miranda, all those years ago when you took the small boy, which was me, away from my mother, away from the Engenho, do you remember that I pulled aside the curtain of the coach window and saw my father’s body hanging from the branch of a tree? You slapped my hand to let the curtain fall back, and you pulled me away from the window and made me repeat: I saw nothing, I saw nothing, I saw nothing. Do you remember? My mother did not tell me this. How could she? Only you and Senhor Gavin and I were there, behind the curtains of that carriage. Do you remember? All these years, I have buried that memory and acted the grateful foster son, but ‘I saw nothing’ was a lie. You forced that lie on me.”
“Zacharias, stop!” she shouts, “Stop!”
She twists in her seat.
“You let my father’s body hang in the sun, rotting, for five days. You took me away and prevented me from helping my mother to bury him.”
She stands up at last. I speak softly.
“Jesus Vasconcellos was your employee. You put him there. You must take responsibility for what he did, not only to my mother, but to the other women, too.”
The door opens. Senhor Gavin is there with another man. He must be the new Consul.
“Miranda, dear, I thought I heard you call. Is something wrong?”
She turns away to hide her tears.
The Senhor smiles at the other man and speaks to him in English.
“This is the invaluable scribe and clerk I was telling you about. He will act as your interpreter until you have mastered Portuguese. Mr. Bates, may I present Zacharias Williams?”
Looking each man in the eye, I say, “That is not my name. I have been born again with the name my mother and my father gave me before I was baptized. My name is Kwame Zumbi.”
“Kwame Zumbi, eh?” says Senhor Gavin. “Very pretty. Now tell me, Zacharias, who has given you the power to change your name? Mr. Bates, I hope I am not leaving you with a problem. This boy was christened Zacharias. I was (and am) his godfather. I honored him with the use of my own surname. His name will remain Zacharias Williams as long as he remains my property.”
I look away, out of the window, down to the port where The Love of Liberty lies at anchor, one ship amongst many, some newly arrived slavers from Mina and Angola, others freighters loaded with the products of slave labor, bound for European ports.
I keep my counsel. Say what they will, my name is Kwame Zumbi. My name is Kwame Zumbi, and I will see to it, one day, that my daughter Nandzi Ama knows my mother Ama’s story. I will see to it.
AUTHOR BIO
After taking a degree in Civil Engineering, Manu Herbstein left South Africa in 1959. He was twenty-three. He stayed away for thirty-three years, living and working in England and Scotland, India, Nigeria, and Zambia. He first worked in Ghana in 1961 and has lived there since 1970. Nowadays he visits his home town, Cape Town, at least once a year.
Manu Herbstein’s novel, Ama, a Story of the Atlantic Slave Trade, won the 2002 Commonwealth Writers Prize for the Best First Book. The novel’s companion website (http://www.ama.africatoday.com), won an Award for Innovative Use of New Media at the 2003 Highway Africa conference in South Africa.
Brave Music of a Distant Drum won an honorable mention in the 2010 Burt Award for Ghana, founded and funded by the Canadian philanthropist Bill Burt and administered by the Canadian Organization for Development through Education (CODE), through the Ghana Book Trust.
Glossary
Adowa, Akan: Asante dance
Akan, related West African peoples (including Asante and Fante) and their languages
allotment, market garden
Asante, Akan people of Ghana; their state; their language
asantehemaa, Akan: queen-mother of Asante; leading female royal (but note: not necessarily the mother of the Asantehene)
asantehene, Akan: king of Asante
Asase Yaa, Akan: female spirit of the earth (Thursday born)
awâwâwâ, atúù, Akan: greeting and reply of friends after a long separation
Bedagbam, Bekpokpam name for people of north eastern Ghana, more generally known as Dagomba
Bekpokpam, People of north eastern Ghana, more generally known as Konkomba; see also Kekpokpam
cachaça, Brazil: cheap rum distilled from sugar waste or molasses
cadeira, Brazil: curtained sedan chair
casa grande, Brazil: mansion, home of the senhor de engenho
cidade baixa, Brazil: lower city of Salvador
crioulo, Brazil: creole; African slave born in Brazil
Dagomba, people of north eastern Ghana, also known as Bedagbam
doek, head cloth
Elmina Castle, slave-trading castle built by the Portuguese at Edina on the coast of present-day Ghana in 1482-86
engenho, Brazil: sugar mill, or plantation
Engenho de Cima, Brazil: Upper Plantation
Engenho do Meio, Brazil: Middle Plantation
escravos, Brazil: slaves
Fante, West African Akan people; their states; their language
fontom
from, Akan: talking drum
fogo morto, Brazil: derelict estate
Golden Stool, symbol of the unity of the Asante state
guinea corn, sorghum
Jesuits, Order of the Roman Catholic Church; one time slave owners, expelled from Brazil in 1759
Kekpokpam, area of north-eastern Ghana inhabited by a people who call themselves Bekpokpam (known to others as Konkomba; their language is Lekpokpam)
kòse, Akan: expression of sympathy; sorry
ladina, Brazil: female African born slave who has been baptized and who understands Portuguese
maakye, Akan: morning greeting; good morning (pronounce: maa-chi)
malungo, Brazil: slave who was a fellow-traveler on a slave ship
massapé, Brazil: heavy clay soil suitable for the cultivation of sugar
maté, Brazil: tea-like beverage
milréis, Brazil: old unit of currency
Mina, Brazil: the West African Gold Coast or Slave Coast
Misericórdia, Brazil: Charitable Brotherhood of the Holy House of Mercy
mma yeñkô, Akan: let’s go
mónsoré, Akan: plural imperative of soré, get up
Na, title of Dagomba king
Palmares, Brazil: famous seventeenth century independent settlement of fugitive slaves
safra, Brazil: sugar harvest season
Sasabonsam, Akan: mythical ogre of the forest
senhor de engenho, Brazil: master of the sugar mill; owner of a sugar plantation
senzala, Brazil: slave cabin, hovel
shea-butter, fat made from seeds of the Shea tree, used as food, and for illumination, cosmetic purposes and making soap in West Africa
speculum oris, instrument shaped like a pair of scissors, used to force the mouth open
Tupi, people who lived in Bahia before the Portuguese colonized Brazil
vamos, Brazil: let’s go
Ya Na, title of the Dagomba king
Yendi, the Dagomba capital
Zumbi, commanding officer of the army of Palmares
Brave Music of a Distant Drum Page 13