King Peggy

by Peggielene Bartels

  Recently, the church, bursting with energy to help still others, had started looking a bit farther afield. It had created a Foreign Missions Ministry and hoped to find a suitable town in Africa to assist. One of the members had read the Washington Post article on Peggy and been impressed with her devotion to helping her people. Now the pastor wanted to meet with her at the embassy to learn about the needs of Otuam.

  Pastor Be Louis Colleton was a tall, broad-chested man with wide-set eyes, a strong, wide face, a short gray goatee, and a booming voice. His presence commanded attention immediately, which perhaps had something to do with his former position as an army drill sergeant during his twenty-year military career. Yielding to an ardent spiritual calling, he had studied to become an army chaplain, and after his retirement from the army became pastor of Shiloh Baptist Church in 1996.

  Arriving at the embassy with some of his foreign mission associates, Pastor Colleton explained to Peggy that for a long time he had wanted to sponsor a community in Africa, even though his local community also had great needs. He felt an intense longing for the places and people his ancestors had left behind.

  “Most black people in the United States are blessed, compared to the rest of the world,” he explained. “We’ve had a brutal history here, and we still have problems, but who doesn’t have access to clean water? Who can’t go to an emergency room for immediate treatment? What child can’t learn to read and write? My church feels that the best way to show gratitude to God for our blessings here is to search out the neediest people and help them.”

  Peggy told the little group about Otuam’s many needs, and as she spoke about the water, the schools, and the clinic, Pastor Colleton looked her directly in the eye and studied her face as if he was trying to make up his mind about her. His was a long, probing look, as if he wanted to pierce through her flesh and view nothing less than her immortal soul.

  Finally he said, “We could possibly help you with all of that. Naturally, anything we do has to be approved by the church’s joint ministry and follow our regulations, but I think all of that might be possible.”

  Peggy’s heart skipped a beat. Really? They might help her with all of that?

  Two weeks later Pastor Colleton asked to meet with Peggy again for further discussion of Otuam’s needs, this time one-on-one. Peggy went into detail about her elders’ misuse of the town funds, the opening of the bank, her actions to prevent future thefts, and her reliance on a higher power to help her through her many challenges. “All the town money will go to benefit the town now,” she said, “and—”

  Suddenly the pastor seemed to make up his mind. “I’m promising you a commitment from Shiloh and its pastor,” he said. “My word is binding and trustworthy. You are heartily committed to helping your people, putting yourself second after their needs. You are humble yet strong. You have a sincere relationship with God and are not ashamed to talk about it. You are the one God wants us to help.”

  Peggy was almost crushed by gratitude and humility. That night as she poured her libations, she said, “Thank you, God. Thank you, ancestors. Thank you, Mother. Maybe I won’t have to do this all by myself.”

  Shiloh Baptist was interested in building a church in Otuam, attached to a school that would run from kindergarten through high school and be administered by Shiloh missionaries. Although the town already had three elementary schools, the church wanted to provide students with a superior education starting at the earliest level.

  In February Shiloh Baptist sent two missionaries to tour Otuam and report back to the pastor. Nana Kwesi showed them ten acres of grassy meadows that Peggy was ready to give them for the school and church. Because the land wasn’t far from Main Street and the royal palace, many children could walk there, and the church would buy school buses for those living farther away.

  The visit to Otuam cemented Shiloh Baptist’s commitment to the town. In May, the church held a ceremony in which it made a formal covenant with Peggy to take on the responsibility, to the best of its abilities, for the spiritual and physical well-being of Otuam. Wearing her kente cloth and crown, Peggy stood beside Pastor Colleton in front of the altar as he read the covenant:

  We, Pastor Be Louis Colleton and the congregation of Shiloh Baptist Church of Landover, Maryland, covenant with one another and with the Lord to adopt the people of Otuam, Ghana, West Africa as our spiritual responsibility … and to provide care, teaching, and support for continued growth and development.

  There it is, in black and white, she said to herself, gasping in wonder as she surveyed the crowd of church members. I’m truly not alone in this anymore. God has sent me the spiritual and financial help I so sorely need.

  Fund-raising, planning, and building the school would take two or three years, at least. In the meantime, the church wanted to start a program whereby church members could sponsor kids’ education. Many Otuam families had difficulties sending their children even to the two free public schools as they had to pay for uniforms, books, and testing fees.

  Pastor Colleton decided that the sponsored kids would attend Mr. Yorke’s school, the best in town, and would receive breakfast and lunch every school day to alleviate the burden on their families. The cost of tuition, books, testing fees, uniforms, and meals was about three hundred dollars a year, depending on the child’s grade. During their visit, the missionaries had taken photos of several poor children who desperately needed scholarships, and though the sponsorship program wouldn’t be officially kicked off until later, some members viewed the photos, fell in love with a crooked smile or a pair of big brown eyes, and agreed to sponsor them. Peggy wired the money to Nana Kwesi, who informed the ecstatic parents and gave the money to Mr. Yorke.

  The church also started meeting with a local fire chief who could advise them on purchasing used ambulances suitable for Otuam’s rutted roads (a good used one cost about fifteen thousand dollars, though it would cost a few thousand more for shipping and customs duties). A local businessman pledged to hold fund-raisers to buy two and to send Otuam’s nurses to Accra to train on the ambulances’ modern medical equipment. He would contribute a portion of the cost himself.

  In July Pastor Colleton handed Peggy a check for seven thousand dollars to build a borehole. A Washington-area journalist paid for another one. Nana Kwesi had determined that while many families in outlying areas had to walk very far for water, the greatest number of people would benefit if the two new boreholes were placed along populous Main Street. And these boreholes would be state-of-the-art: electric, so you didn’t have to jump up and down on a pump, and filtered against all water-borne contaminants, which often leached into well water.

  Next Nana Kwesi hired a reputable firm to test the area for the best places to dig. The contractors found that Otuam had plenty of good water just below the surface almost everywhere, and while underground boulders would prevent drilling boreholes in some small areas, Peggy could, later on, when she obtained more donations, dot the entire town with black water tanks.

  But for now there would be two. It was with great relief that Peggy sent off the money the donors had given her for the boreholes. Water, she said to herself as she left Western Union. I am giving them water. True, it wasn’t running water, nor were the two boreholes nearly enough for her entire town, but it was pure, drinkable, free water in busy locations and would mean the saving of several hours of effort every day for hundreds of families. Each borehole took only a week or so to build.

  To spur interest in the church’s new foreign mission, Shiloh offered its members a trip to Ghana and Togo with four days in the Otuam area in October. They would visit the great slave castle of Elmina, attend the ceremony inaugurating their borehole, and experience the grand funeral of an African king. Peggy was delighted that her donors would attend the royal funeral.

  Another piece of good news was the amount of money piling up in the royal bank account. Within three months of returning home, Peggy had ten thousand dollars, which included land sales and fishing fee
s, though Daavi warned her that the coming months would bring in less fish, due to rains and choppy waters. Peggy was happy, of course she was, but she couldn’t help thinking of all those years of waste. Ten thousand dollars could purchase one and a half boreholes, or dozens of computers for the schools, or a doctor’s salary for half a year, or send twenty kids to high school for a year.

  But she shook off these regrets and started thinking of everything she wanted to do for the town after the funeral, improvements she could make as the fishing fees piled up. Main Street desperately needed a large public latrine, maybe six or eight seats each for men and women, kept clean by around-the-clock attendants. She wanted her people to have dignity, which was not afforded by relieving oneself in a bush or against a wall, not to mention the stench and health dangers such activity produced. The latrine would be located near enough to the elementary school without a bathroom that its teachers and students could use it.

  Otuam could also benefit from a bakery. Currently, Main Street merchants bought loaves from other towns to sell in their little shops. The bread—which was white, flavorless, and probably without a vestige of nutrition—wasn’t fresh, and it cost more than it would if it were baked in Otuam. Peggy could imagine the mouth-watering aroma of fresh-baked bread wafting over Main Street and the long lines of customers eager to buy loaves still warm from the oven. Maybe she would start a bakery herself, which would employ several people.

  Many elderly people had also complained to Peggy that they couldn’t see well and needed glasses, but the nearest optometrist was in Winneba, and very expensive. Peggy wondered if she could persuade a charitable organization to come to Otuam with eye charts and low-cost glasses.

  And she wanted to open a carpentry shop—perhaps this could be in conjunction with the new school—where boys (and girls, come to think of it) would be taught how to make tables, chairs, and cabinets, learning a trade while at the same time providing Otuam with useful household items at a reasonable price. And maybe she could convince the bank to get involved in microfinance—making tiny loans of one hundred or two hundred dollars to help residents expand their businesses, sell more merchandise, and hire more employees.

  Then there was the urgent need for a library. The Shiloh Baptist School would have one, but in the meantime Otuam’s kids needed to explore the world of books, needed to learn how to use the Internet. Perhaps she could fix up a building on Main Street, obtain donated books and computers, and set up a little library until the school was completed.

  Yes, there was much, so very much she could do with the town income. It belonged to her people, not to her council, and she would make sure every last penny benefitted Otuam. Her heart soared with hope when she envisioned the Otuam of the future, where people had dignity, jobs, education, water, and health care, where prosperous little businesses flourished.

  Though it wouldn’t happen overnight, change was coming to Otuam. She could feel it.

  21

  Though by tradition Tsiami was supposed to be her right-hand man on the council, Peggy didn’t talk to him much anymore, preferring instead to talk to Baba Kobena, and of course her regent, Nana Kwesi. But one day Tsiami called her with amazing news. He had been pouring Coke on Peggy’s stool when it piped up and complained that it didn’t like Coke anymore. It wanted schnapps, like the big men’s stools in the room next door. And it didn’t want to be alone anymore; it wanted to be moved into the other stool room and have the male stools for company. Tsiami obediently moved Peggy’s stool into the other stool room, never allowing it to touch the ground, and reverently placed it on a shelf. He poured schnapps on it, and it told him it was happy. Then he gently laid a goatskin over it so it could go to sleep next to its new companions.

  Peggy found it fascinating that her stool had, in effect, become a male stool, able to imbibe hard liquor. This must be connected with her own increasing strength as king. As she wielded more and more influence over her community, her stool became stalwart. Perhaps it didn’t care anymore if she was a man or woman. After all, kings carried the same burdens. All kings had to be strong.

  There was also news—frightening news—about Nana Tufu. One evening he had been sitting with his tsiami, Papa Adama, and his elders on the concrete plaza in front of his Main Street palace, enjoying the breeze, which he felt playing around his lower legs and feet. Suddenly, he felt something wet on the back of his right leg, right above his ankle. He looked down and to his horror saw a mouse eating his leg, burrowing its head into the flesh right above his heel. Blood pooled behind his foot.

  Nana Tufu jumped up and screamed. His elders, who saw the damage done to his leg and the mouse staring at them with wild eyes and a gore-smeared head, started chasing the creature. It darted around the palace, then inside through the open throne room door. The elders knew they had to kill the mouse because it might not be a mouse at all. It was quite possibly an evil spirit who, at the instructions of a witch, had turned itself into a mouse to attack Nana Tufu while his leg was so bewitched it didn’t feel the gnawing. After half an hour they cornered the mouse and beat it to a pulp, then they burned what remained.

  Meanwhile, Nana Tufu carefully washed and bandaged his wound. But he and his elders knew that worse was likely to come. Over the course of the next few days, his lower leg and foot swelled. The painful throbbing was almost unbearable. Nana Tufu went first to the clinic in Winneba for antibiotics, and when his whole leg swelled up he went to the hospital in Cape Coast for more antibiotics.

  Peggy knew that antibiotics couldn’t cure a witch’s curse. Supporters of Nana Tufu’s cousin, who was fighting him for the position of royal mediator of Otuam, may have hired the witch to curse him as a warning. Or quite possibly there hadn’t been any witchcraft involved, and it was simply the ancestors letting Nana Tufu know he should relinquish his position with as much grace as he could at this late date.

  When Nana Tufu called her saying he might have to have his leg amputated, she cried, “Nana Tufu! Just let your cousin have the title. If you do that, I am certain your leg will heal. If you cling to your position, you will lose the leg, or even your life.”

  But Nana Tufu refused to give in. “I will die in this position if I have to,” he said. “I am not giving it up.”

  Stubborn, Peggy thought as she hung up the phone. Why was he so stubborn? She shook her head sadly. Then it occurred to her that the royal mediator of Otuam, known for his fairness and negotiating skills, wasn’t very good at mediating his own dispute at all.

  When it comes to ourselves, Peggy thought, we are often blind.

  The dispute between the cousins escalated to a dangerous level. When Nana Tufu’s rival spread the word that he was going to be enstooled one day in July, Nana Tufu’s supporters let it be known that they were prepared to prevent the enstoolment at all costs. Both men brought in reinforcements prepared for a battle on Main Street. As the sun rose, perplexed citizens found the street full of police cars from Winneba and Mankessim to keep the peace.

  The local court in Saltpond issued an order instructing both men to stop calling themselves the Nana Tufu and to abstain from attending to any official duties until the matter was decided in court. This was a very serious order. If either claimant disobeyed, he would find himself sitting in a real prison in Saltpond, with hard-core criminals for roommates. Peggy was glad that violence had been avoided and the courts had become involved. Although Ghanaian kings resolved many disputes in their jurisdictions, there were some cases where the courts had to step in and help the kings.

  So Nana Tufu sat disconsolately in his Main Street palace. Though his elders came by sometimes for beer, it was a solemn little group. They held no council meetings, resolved no disputes, and attended no funerals or weddings in an official capacity. Nana Tufu’s tsiami, Papa Adama, known for making the loudest, longest speeches of any tsiami in the region, suddenly found himself silenced. Perhaps it was saddest of all for him.

  Peggy’s own tsiami was also in the news. Late one
night, perhaps at one or two in the morning, Uncle Moses had an upset stomach and left his cottage in the courtyard bearing a flashlight to light his way to the communal outhouse. To his surprise he saw Tsiami’s wiry frame loaded up with a dozen two-by-fours balanced precariously over one skinny shoulder as he tiptoed out of the courtyard as quietly as he could.

  “Tsiami!” Uncle Moses barked, and Tsiami turned so quickly that he dropped the two-by-fours, which clattered to the ground in a heap. “Are you the thief who has been stealing the palace building materials all these months?”

  Tsiami shrugged as he bent down and started collecting the two-by-fours. “I’m building a new house,” he explained. “These materials come in handy.”

  “But you’re stealing,” Uncle Moses said.

  “You’re a fine one to accuse me of stealing,” Tsiami replied, neatly stacking the wood. “I’m just taking a few supplies that nobody will notice missing. I’m a family member so I’m entitled to share in any family wealth.”

  Tsiami picked up the stack of two-by-fours and started walking out of the royal courtyard.

  “Come back!” Uncle Moses pleaded, but Tsiami had disappeared into the bush.

  By this time several people, having heard the crash of lumber and subsequent argument, had come out of their houses and seen Tsiami leaving with the wood. Well before the sun rose, Nana Kwesi had received several calls about the theft, and he called Tsiami, ordering him to bring the supplies back immediately. “I’ll bring them back later,” he said.

  “What! After you’ve built them into your house like you did with all the rest? You bring all those supplies back if you have to yank them out of the ground! You, of all people, should know that the ancestors will punish you and your family if you don’t bring them back. The stools must be very mad at you. You drink half of their libations, and now you have stolen part of their house.”