“Women and liquor,” Cousin Comfort said, after the last elder had departed.
“What else would you expect?” Aggie asked as she collected the empty glasses on her tray. “Men.”
Peggy leaned back in her chair, exhausted but triumphant. In the global scheme of things, it was a small victory. It wasn’t a cure for cancer, or the solution to the Israeli-Palestinian problem, or free democratic elections in Iran. But the lady king of Otuam had convinced three corrupt elders to confess their crimes, and that was surely something, the death knell of the old ways. She felt something fluttering within her, rising, ready to soar. Was it hope?
She picked up her cell phone and called Nana Kwesi. After much discussion, they decided on measures to collect the fishing fees. Every day Daavi, whose reputation was above reproach, would examine the catch as the boats came in, write down how many baskets had been caught, collect the tax, and give it to Nana Kwesi, along with her records, every week or two when he visited Otuam. Nana Kwesi would deposit the fees in the Nana Amuah Afenyi VI royal account of the Rural Agricultural Development Bank where they would stay cedis, rather than magically transforming themselves into bottles of Johnnie Walker Red.
18
Peggy’s next task was to tackle the land sales. This, she knew, would be a far thornier issue than the fishing fees because it involved much more money and was a far more emotional subject. It concerned farms, livelihoods, and houses people had built with their own hands.
Though she had repeatedly asked her elders about the sale of stool lands, none admitted to knowing anything about it. And no one admitted to ever having seen a land records book.
“Even if you won’t give me the book, I can still find out who bought land,” she said at one loud council meeting. “Tsiami, tell the town crier to walk throughout Otuam and cry the message that anyone who bought any land in Otuam since five years before my uncle went to the village for good must bring me the receipts or they will lose their land. And he should also cry that no new land sales will be valid unless Nana Kwesi or I sign them and accept the money. Go now.” Tsiami resignedly stood up and slouched out the door.
“Why five years before?” Isaiah the Treasurer asked, shifting uncomfortably.
“Because I have a bad feeling that when he was very ill you people took advantage of him and signed your names to land sales receipts. So I will take a careful look at all receipts that my people bring me.”
Within half an hour a tall, muscular man came by holding what looked to be part of a rusty muffler, which he banged loudly with a stick. Kwame Aidoo belonged to a family known for having the loudest voices in Otuam, which is why for centuries they had been the town criers. They were fishermen, and the elders had to catch one of them down at the beach before or after their fishing forays and pay them in advance for several hours of loud crying.
As Kwame Aidoo banged his muffler, people came out of their houses and stood silently, watching him curiously. “People of Otuam!” he bellowed in a ringing voice. “King Nana Amuah Afenyi VI has decreed that anyone knowing anything about the sale of Otuam land since five years before the late king in the fridge went to the village for good must come forward and tell her about it. Tell this to all your family members and friends. All those who have sold land, or bought land, or know of any such transactions must come forward and tell the king! They must bring her their contracts and receipts! If they do not, she will confiscate their land! All new land sales must have the signature of Nana or Nana Kwesi, or they will not be valid! ”
Kwame Aidoo then walked down to the next group of houses. He walked up and down Main Street twice, and then farther into the bush so everyone would hear him, or hear from their friends what he had cried.
Throughout the day, men and woman trudged up to the Other Cousin Comfort’s house, receipts for land purchases in hand. Peggy carefully looked at each one, thanked the buyer, and tucked it into her notebook. Toward evening, as she and Nana Kwesi drank Cokes, they went over them.
“These don’t have sales dates,” she said, sighing heavily, leafing through a stack.
“These don’t have the name of the person representing the stool who received the money,” he said, knitting his eyebrows together.
Peggy shuffled her receipts and said, “This one is dated two years ago, when the late king was still alive, but Uncle Moses and Isaiah the Treasurer signed it, not Uncle Joseph.”
“This one, too,” Nana Kwesi said, plucking one from his pile.
Peggy rummaged through another stack. “These five all seem to be for the same piece of land, sold to five different people. Isaiah the Treasurer received the money.”
“Yes,” Nana Kwesi agreed, looking through his stack. “I have four of those, too.”
“Now we know where he got the money to buy his three taxis.” Peggy pushed all her receipts into a heap, rubbed her tired eyes, and said, “Most of these receipts seem to be illegal. I think it will take time to sort this out.”
Nana Kwesi nodded.
Peggy was particularly disturbed by the receipts issued while Uncle Joseph had still been alive. Many of them, for several acres each, had been signed by Uncle Moses and Isaiah the Treasurer. At the next council meeting, she held these receipts in the air.
“Why did the late king in the fridge not sign these?” she asked. “Why did you sign them? ”
“The late king was going to the village for a cure,” Uncle Moses replied tartly. “He asked us to sign for him.”
“What happened to the money? ”
“We gave it to the late king.”
“The one who needed me to send him money for medicine?”
Uncle Moses shifted uncomfortably. “Why are you blaming Isaiah and me? Tsiami also sold land when the late king was ill. You should question him! ”
“I needed that money for a hernia operation!” Tsiami countered. “What about Isaiah the Treasurer!”
“You’ve had three hernia operations!” Uncle Moses cried. “And no scars! Quite a doctor you have!”
Suddenly the three corrupt elders were shouting and pointing fingers at one another. They were standing, yelling at the top of their lungs, slapping the table, and making all kinds of accusations.
“You stole the money that farmer gave you for the land near the road—”
“Yes, but I gave half to you so you could get that fancy cell phone—”
“No, I used that money to bury my cousin—”
Peggy thought, How quick they are to betray one another. There truly is no honor among thieves. She sat there quietly, intent on pulling important pieces of conversation out of the great whirlwind of accusations. Periodically she jotted down notes in her little notebook.
Over the next few days, land sales receipts continued to come in. Peggy decided that Nana Kwesi would study them at leisure once she was back in Washington and interview the people who bought the land, or thought they had, as well as the elders who took the money. Peggy would consider each sale and decide what to do about it. Perhaps the purchaser could pay the stool a portion of the sales price again and be permitted to keep the land. If they couldn’t, they could try to get the money from the elder who had taken it. Or they could simply leave the land, giving it back to the stool.
A married couple approached Peggy about buying two beachfront lots, which she sold them for the princely sum of three thousand dollars cash, which she put immediately into the royal bank account. She would use this money for the funeral, she decided. But she was saddened to think how many land sales had disappeared into her elders’ pockets rather than being used to benefit the town.
Peggy knew it was time to choose her new elders and told the town crier to roam about banging his drum and letting her people know that anyone who wanted to join the council—including women—should show up at the Other Cousin Comfort’s house for an interview with the king. When candidates showed up, Peggy planned to pepper them with questions about their vision for an improved Otuam.
One afte
rnoon, as Peggy and Cousin Comfort sat at the dining room table sipping beer in the heat, the front door swung open and a woman stomped into the house in an old field dress and apron, her tatty head wrap askew. In her callused hands she held a machete, the kind housewives used to open coconuts and pineapples.
“Nana!” the woman cried in a husky voice as she approached the table and performed a crooked curtsey. “I have heard that you want strong women on your council.” Cousin Comfort eyed the machete with apprehension.
Peggy looked the woman up and down and considered. She certainly had a commanding presence. And her voice was very loud, loud enough to make herself heard in council when the men tried to drown her out, as they certainly would.
“What is your name?” Peggy asked. “How old are you? What are your qualifications? Can you read and write?”
“My name is Mama Amma Ansabah,” the woman replied, sheathing the machete in her belt. “I am sixty-seven years old. I was born in Otuam but moved away with my husband for many years. Last year I returned here to take care of my sick sister. I don’t know how to read and write, but I can tell wrong from right, which is more important, and I let everybody know if they are doing well or not. I already tell everybody in town if they are misbehaving. My neighbors said that I am so loudmouthed and nosy and bossy that I should put these qualities to good use and join your council.”
This was exactly the kind of woman Peggy was looking for.
“Would you care to have a beer with my cousin Comfort and me?” Peggy asked. Aggie, who had been standing against the kitchen door with her arms crossed, grinning, quickly brought Mama Amma a beer.
Mama Amma plunked herself down in the chair, gulped her beer in a long swig, set down the empty bottle, and belched. Then she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Cousin Comfort squirmed a bit and played with her gold bangle bracelets. She was a lady, an only child carefully educated by adoring parents, who dressed and spoke with delicacy and refinement. Peggy worried, wondering, What would Cousin Comfort think of Mama Amma?
“You have a lot of thieving old men on your council, Nana,” Mama Amma said. “Dogs, snakes, and crocodiles. They don’t care about the children of Otuam. If you let me join the council, I will keep an eye on them. I will keep them in their place when you are not here and make sure they don’t steal another penny.”
Peggy told the woman she was accepted and should attend the council meeting at the end of the week.
After she left, Cousin Comfort surprised Peggy by smiling broadly and saying, “Nana, of all the applicants, I like that one best of all.”
Peggy had been hoping for a mix of women, some with the wisdom of old age, like Mama Amma, others with the energy of relative youth. But women in their thirties and forties, it seemed, didn’t have time for the council. They were raising children, keeping house for their husbands, and working full-time selling fish on Main Street or merchandise in their little shops.
Just three women, including Mama Amma, presented themselves: feisty, firebrand grandmothers known for honesty and for keeping their large families, and even their neighbors, in line. And so, after some private discussion with Nana Kwesi, Peggy added six new elders to her group of six, the three older women and three middle-aged men. Peggy knew from experience that many people who felt a rush of importance by joining a committee dropped out after a few meetings, once the dull reality set in of sitting around a table for hours listening to others ramble. She would be glad if even one strong, honest person stayed on her council.
Her elders’ reaction to the new council members varied. Baba Kobena looked forward to younger, energetic elders working to bring prosperity to Otuam. Uncle Eshun, too, said the time had come to start transferring power to the younger generation. Uncle Moses and Isaiah the Treasurer, though, were dead set against the addition of new members, especially that frighteningly unfeminine Mama Amma. Such changes would surely lead to unruly arguments.
To Peggy’s surprise, Tsiami grudgingly agreed to the change. “Do what you want,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t really care, but these young people and women must treat the male elders with respect.”
Peggy stifled a laugh. She knew that by respect he meant “look the other way.” That would never happen. She had handpicked these people to make sure of it.
Peggy’s hopes quickly became reality. The addition of the new members to the council created a sharp generational and gender-based rift at the very first meeting. The younger men weren’t afraid to tell the older ones when they were being stubborn, uncooperative, and corrupt, and neither were the older women.
When Mama Amma asked about recent land sales, for instance, the old elders would accuse her of disrespect.
“Why don’t you just answer the question?” Mama Amma said with undisguised contempt.
“Because you are a woman and shouldn’t be asking us such questions,” Uncle Moses answered quickly.
Turning to Peggy, Mama Amma said, “You see? They disrespect women. They have stolen the town’s funds and expect us just to sit here and permit it. I want you to put them all in jail, or at least fire them from the royal council and confiscate all their money.”
The meeting quickly erupted into a loud quarrel. Ah-go! several male members cried, but Mama Amma just kept talking about the terrible things that should happen to wicked thieving old men, and her voice was louder than those of all the male council members combined. Peggy sat back and watched. She had already made her decision not to punish her elders, but she was glad to see that Mama Amma was more like an American woman, self-confident and unafraid to express her opinions. A generation ago, no woman regardless of her age would have dared to contradict men in their seventies and eighties.
But the worst argument of all occurred when Peggy explained to the council that from now on they would deposit all fishing fees into the royal bank account of the Rural Agricultural Development Bank, and they would be using checks for all town business.
“What’s a check?” asked Isaiah the Treasurer.
“It’s a piece of paper drawing money on a bank account,” Peggy explained. “You write an amount on the check, and the person you are paying takes it to the bank and gets the cash from your account from the money you put in. Between the records of cash deposited and the checks, we will have a written accounting of all money going in and out of the royal bank account. Nothing more can go missing.”
There was a moment of stunned silence as the elders considered this. Baba Kobena said, “I thought the bank was a safe place to keep your cash, safer than under your bed, and when you wanted some of your money, you would go to the bank and get your cash back.” The other elders nodded.
“But I think this new thing, checks, is a very good idea,” he continued. “If we keep a careful record of all the money and where it goes, we will save more, and we can dig more boreholes for the children. We can help pay the school fees for parents who can’t afford their kids’ books and uniforms so they keep them home from school. It is too late for me to learn, but I want my grandchildren to read and write. It is the most important gift we can bestow on the younger generation.”
“It will be a very good thing for the town,” Uncle Eshun agreed, pounding the floor with his cane for emphasis. “Sometimes, Nana, as the recorder of funerals, I have people coming to me begging for money for a coffin for a relative who died suddenly. I usually don’t have it to spare. But if the town has a bank account, we will have money to help these people, and they can pay it back over time.”
“And it will prevent these wicked old men from stealing the town’s funds,” Mama Amma growled.
Uncle Moses stood up trembling with anger. “It is against all tradition to use these modern American checks!” he cried, spitting the last words. He bent forward from the waist and gestured excitedly. “The ancestors will grow angry! They will curse us! There will be drought, famine, floods, illnesses! ”
Uncle Moses proceeded to recite all the terrible things that would happen to them
if they used checks, though Peggy knew he was really only thinking of the terrible things that would happen to him if he couldn’t steal anymore. He was practically listing the ten plagues of Egypt. Blood in the water! Festering boils! Hailstorms! Toads! Swarms of gnats and locusts! The death of the firstborn! But actually he was saying, No whiskey! No beer! No vodka!
He slapped the table. He shook his fist. His big cheeks inflated like he was blowing the royal cow horn, and with his brown bald head and long gray mustache Uncle Moses looked more like a walrus than ever, a very angry walrus, as he ranted and raved. Finally he needed to take a deep breath and collect himself, or he might have had a stroke right then and there, a very dangerous thing to do in a town with no doctor, no ambulance, and no hospital. He sat down and gulped his beer.
Peggy studied him. He had recently confessed his stealing, shamefaced and contrite, begging her not to put him in jail or make him pay back the money. Yet here he was erupting into a tantrum at the news that Peggy was going to prevent future theft. She slumped a bit in her chair. He hadn’t learned anything. Nothing.
“I think there’s a very good reason you don’t want checks, Uncle Moses,” Peggy said, sitting up straight. “The angriest people, you know, have the most to hide.” She glared at her elders sitting around the table.
Tsiami shook his head. “He’s right that the ancestors won’t like these checks,” he said. “They will tell me so next time I talk to them.”
Peggy was exasperated. “The ancestors want what’s best for the future of Otuam,” she said. “The ancestors want clean water for the kids, good schools, and a better health clinic. The ancestors do not want the elders to steal the town funds and waste them on women and liquor.”
At the top of her voice, she cried, “There will be No. More. Cash.” After each word she pounded her fist down on the wobbly table so hard all the beers teetered and her elders had to grab them to prevent them from falling over.
King Peggy Page 25