Around noon, the members of Shiloh Baptist and other nonroyal dignitaries were invited into the palace to see the effigy on the brass bed and the late king on the royal chair. The Shiloh people looked splendid in the elegant black and red funeral outfits made by a Winneba seamstress.
Late in the afternoon, when the kings and queen mothers were finally permitted into the chamber, Peggy led them first past the effigy on the brass bed, a shellacked piece of wood painted dark brown and dressed as a king. Then she pushed through the curtains and walked into the other room to view the real body, which was sitting among large vases of orange and yellow flowers. Behind him were two towers of black and red balloons.
She was startled to see that Uncle Joseph, too, looked like an effigy, a hard, painted thing without any indication that a human soul had once inhabited it. Oh, Uncle Joseph, she said, her heart lurching as she remembered his bright eyes, kind smile, gentle voice. She wanted to cry, but with all the kings and queen mothers around her, she had to quickly pull herself together.
He wore a gorgeous gold and black cloth over a white silk gown that came down to his elbows, a black velvet crown with gold-painted wooden decorations, and heavy jewelry. In his right hand he held the traditional goat’s hair scepter, and his left fingers were slightly curled for visiting kings to give him money to pay the ferryman who would carry him across the river of death to the land of the ancestors. As they did so, the kings and queen mothers would bend down and whisper in his ear prayers they wanted him to take to the other side.
As Peggy approached the throne, she was even more shocked by her uncle’s appearance. For one thing, he had been such a big, tall man, larger than life, and now he seemed wizened, shrunken. Naturally, she knew that many people shrank as they grew old, and evidently this had happened to Uncle Joseph in his last years. But even his face had changed in the morgue. In life Uncle Joseph had had a long face, with heavy-lidded eyes. Now his face seemed shorter, his eyes smaller. Whatever they had done to preserve him for two and a half years had truly changed him. Her heart sank. I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out earlier, she told him.
At least he seemed to be smiling. Peggy was glad that he was happy with the funeral, even if it had been a long time in coming.
“Is everything all right?” asked Queen Mother Ameyaw of Elmina, who had appeared by her side.
Peggy shook her head sadly. “I wish I could have buried him before now,” she said. “I barely recognize the man I knew. It makes me sad to see him so changed. I got him out of the fridge as soon as I could, but still, it took too long.”
“I know,” Queen Ameyaw replied. “But death is all-powerful, Nana. It changes everything, and we must accept it.”
Peggy nodded and tried to steady her quivering lower lip. With one more silent apology to Uncle Joseph, she swept out of the palace back to her place under the tent to watch the Asafo drummers.
That evening Peggy sat in the dark tomb with her uncle in the coffin. Now was the time to speak to his spirit, to tell him everything she wanted him to tell the ancestors. Now was the pivotal moment of the entire funeral.
It was well known that most people, terrified of spirits, blocked themselves from seeing and hearing even the most benevolent beings standing right next to them. To make communication between the worlds easier at such a crucial time, therefore, Tsiami had given her a mild hallucinogenic consisting of special herbs, which he placed on her tongue.
Often, in such cases, the living king saw the dead one sitting up in the coffin as if he were alive, and the two of them held a lively conversation, during which the live king gave the dead one messages to take to the ancestors, and the dead one offered the live one words of advice. Then, unburdened of all earthly duties, the deceased would gratefully leave the netherworld between the living and the dead and fully join the ancestors waiting for him, smiling, arms outstretched in gleeful welcome. Once he lay down and became dead again, that was the signal that the conversation was over and the lid should be nailed down. Peggy sat in the dark, wondering whether she would see an apparition, or at least hear a voice, as she had in the past.
But this time, perhaps because she was expecting it, nothing happened. She was just there, in the dark, with the body. After several minutes of waiting, she decided she would speak to him. “Uncle Joseph,” she began in a clear voice, “I hope you are pleased with the magnificent funeral I gave you.”
Silence. Nothing. Peggy didn’t feel as if any spirit was in the room with her. When she was back home praying and pouring libations she sometimes got the feeling that someone was with her, but now she sensed nothing at all.
She cleared her throat and told him about the boreholes, and the high school, and the kids’ scholarships. She told him about all her goals for Otuam and asked him to tell the ancestors to keep her strong despite all the obstacles she knew would be in her way.
Then she waited, truly expecting an answer of some sort, a voice, a feeling, a sigh in the darkness. But there was nothing. Only silence. Was he not there?
“Have a good journey, Uncle Joseph,” she said. “May you find peace with the ancestors.”
Soon after, Tsiami, holding a flashlight, opened the door. The time was up. The beam of white light lit up the body in the coffin, which seemed to be absolutely grinning now. Well, she said, I’m glad you’re happy.
Her official duties were done. She had planned to stay around for the secret royal burial rituals, some of which would be performed by the Asafo and others by the members of the council of chiefs. But Peggy was so completely exhausted, so drained, that she decided to return to the hotel in Winneba with Nana Kwesi, Papa Warrior, and Ekow, and go to bed early.
As they got into the van, Peggy thought, Well, it’s done now. Tomorrow there’s a farewell lunch with my most important guests, and a church service where Pastor Colleton will give the sermon, and a bit of drumming and dancing that we will watch, but not anything truly draining. Everything I’ve worked so hard for the past two years is, for the most part, over. And it was a huge success. She went to bed feeling oddly empty when she had expected to be euphoric, but maybe that had to do with exhaustion.
Sunday evening Peggy bid the neighboring kings and queen mothers farewell, except for Queen Ameyaw of Elmina, who would stay in Otuam another week. The three-day extravaganza was over. Yet despite her fatigue, for a second night she couldn’t sleep deeply.
The following morning at six she received a phone call from Nana Kwesi.
“Tsiami called me just now to say there was a terrible ruckus in the palace last night,” he said. “There were the sounds of doors banging, and dishes being shattered, and angry voices, though no one could make out exactly what they were saying. People in the palace courtyard heard the noises beginning at midnight, even though the palace was empty and dark. Some of them crept in there with flashlights, but they couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. So they believe it was a spiritual fight, that the ancestors weren’t happy to receive your Uncle Joseph. After the people left the palace, the noises started up again and continued for several hours.”
Peggy frowned. What could the ancestors be upset about? She had followed all the rituals for royal burial with great precision and had spared no expense. So they couldn’t be mad about his funeral. But perhaps Uncle Rockson had been yelling at Uncle Joseph for letting the palace go to rack and ruin. Yes, surely that was it. And once the two uncles had had it out, things would be quiet in the palace. She pushed it out of her mind.
“Also, the fetish priests of the god Inkumsah told Tsiami they couldn’t go into a real trance for the dancing and had only pretended to. They are worried that the cave god didn’t speak through them, which also indicates something is wrong.” That, too, was very worrying.
“And last night when they slaughtered the cow to the ancestors at the woodland shrine,” Nana Kwesi continued, “the elders were each supposed to take a few pieces and leave the rest behind for the spirits. But they are all complaining that Tsiam
i stole the entire cow before they could even get there. They have uttered curses against one another, and they want you to come to Otuam today to resolve the issue.”
Peggy had hoped to rest that day, but that would be impossible with her elders stealing meat and uttering dangerous curses. After breakfast she bid a fond, sad farewell to the members of Shiloh Baptist, who were off to tour the Ashanti capital of Kumasi before flying back to Washington. Then she drove to Otuam to investigate the mystery of the missing beef.
Sitting on her golden stool, Peggy listened to her elders’ complaints against Tsiami. The butcher was supposed to slaughter the cow next to the shrine, chop off some of the best pieces and put them inside the little igloo-like building of concrete blocks. Then he was supposed to tell the elders when it was their turn to come and divide up the rest of the carcass.
“But Tsiami was waiting there with trash bags while they slaughtered the cow,” Baba Kobena said accusingly, “and didn’t even let them give the ancestors the good pieces. He carted off as much meat as he could carry before anyone else could get a piece. The prime rib, the rump roast, the sirloin, all the best bits went into Tsiami’s trash bag and all he left was cow bones. He is like a greedy lion that kills an antelope and doesn’t share the meat with his own kin.”
Peggy’s eyes felt as if they had glazed over. She asked the stool for energy and said, “Tsiami, what do you have to say about this? ”
Tsiami stood up with great majesty and began picking at his cloth, draping and redraping the fabric over his left shoulder and arm. Finally he wadded it up in a ball and held it firmly in place with his left elbow. He frowned as he said, “The reason Baba and Uncle Moses came to the shrine before they were called is because they were planning on stealing the entire cow. I just got to it before them, so they are mad. They cursed me for taking the beef, asking the ancestors who didn’t get the beef to punish me, and I cursed them with the same curse to make things even.”
Tsiami gave his head a vigorous scratching and added, “You know, Nana, you always favor Baba Kobena, so if he had stolen the whole cow you probably wouldn’t have said anything. By taking the beef, I only prevented Baba’s theft, for which you should thank me. Plus, as your tsiami, it is clear that I should receive a larger share. Baba and Uncle Moses are the greedy lions.” He sat down.
“Lions!” Mama Amma Ansabah cried, popping up from her plastic chair. “You are giving yourselves too much dignity. You are warthogs rooting around for whatever you can push into your snouts—whiskey, beer, beef, and everything else.”
As other elders stood up and cried, Ah-go! Peggy called on them to speak with a polite Ah-me! Early that morning she had naïvely imagined that it would only take her an hour or so to resolve the beef issue, that she would then be able to return to the hotel to rest after all the funeral activities. But one hour of discussing the beef turned into two, and then five, and then eight. The extended family members of the elders also wanted to be heard; they, too, had been expecting some beef and thought it heinously unfair that Tsiami had stolen it.
Sitting next to Peggy on the dais, Papa Warrior grew increasingly agitated as the time went by. “These people are talking in circles,” he said to her in English. “How many things can they say about Tsiami stealing the beef? He freely admits he did it. So why don’t you just punish him and let’s go back to the hotel? I want a beer.”
Peggy shook her head, sending some drops of sweat flying. “I have to have patience, Papa Warrior,” she said. “I need to listen to everything everyone has to say before rendering a decision.”
“You can get blisters on your butt if you want,” he said, “but I’m taking a cab back to the hotel. Otherwise, I might kill them.”
She put a hand on his arm. “Stay here with me.”
Though a woman was fanning her with a towel, Peggy wondered if she might keel over in the heat and roll down the steps like a ball. She had no idea how she could make Tsiami return the beef, which his large family had probably already devoured, especially knowing that the other elders were hot on their trail. One thing was very clear, however: every elder who had uttered a curse would be required to return to the shrine with a bottle of schnapps and reverse it.
As the sun set, Peggy postponed any further testimony until the following morning. In the van, Papa Warrior said, “You should do like Henry the Eighth and cut off their heads. Except, since they have no brains, they might not miss their heads. The elders’ headless bodies would show up in council with just as much intelligence as before their decapitation. I wouldn’t mind the bodies showing up for council meetings if the mouths were somewhere else.”
Peggy was having a hard time following this reasoning and frowned. “Papa Warrior, what are you talking about? You’re talking nonsense.”
“I’m talking nonsense? You just spent eight hours listening to grown people arguing over a sack of meat and I’m talking nonsense? And we’re going to go back there tomorrow to continue this discussion about beef that has already been eaten? ”
True, Peggy wasn’t looking forward to it. Little did she know that she would soon hear a revelation so shocking that all discussion of beef would be forgotten forever.
After dinner at the Lagoon Lodge, she crawled into bed, finally sinking down to the bottom of her familiar silent black lake. There she remained until her cell phone buzzed loudly.
Slowly she opened her eyes as the phone chirped away. She looked at the clock; it was a few minutes past midnight. She looked at the phone; it was Nana Kwesi. What on earth was he doing calling her at such an hour? She pushed herself up on one elbow and grabbed the phone.
“Hello,” she said, groggily. “Are you all right? Is something wrong?”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Nana,” he said, “I don’t know how to tell you this so I will just say it. I just got a call from Cousin Charles, who heard it from one of the late king’s nephews. The morgue has been trying to reach you for hours, but no one there has your phone number.”
Peggy rubbed her eyes. Nana Kwesi wasn’t making sense. “Why would the morgue be trying to reach me?” she asked. Surely they weren’t going to ask for more money?
“Nana, the morgue says they gave you the wrong body. Uncle Joseph is still there, and you have buried a stranger in the royal tomb.”
The morgue director, Frederick Aduako, had been doing his weekly inventory that day and was shocked to find that the king of Otuam, whom he thought had been handed over to Peggy’s elders a few days before, was still floating serenely in his tank of formaldehyde. It wasn’t every day relatives came by to pick up a king, and he remembered Peggy vividly because she was a female king and an American, and she had argued charmingly and successfully to have the morgue fees reduced. She had also mentioned several times that the magnificent funeral would be held on Saturday, October 9, and here it was Monday, October 11, and her uncle was still in the tank.
Mr. Aduako searched all his paperwork but found he didn’t have a phone number for Peggy. He did have one for the late king’s nephew, whom he called immediately with the shocking news. The late king’s nephew didn’t have Peggy’s number either, so he called Cousin Charles, who called Nana Kwesi, who called Peggy.
Peggy was stunned. “I just can’t believe it,” she said, as tears started to stream down her cheeks. “After all the money I saved, after everything … Maybe the late king’s children are spreading this rumor to embarrass me because I wouldn’t let them attend. Maybe it’s all a lie.”
There was silence on the phone. Peggy saw before her the square head with the small eyes, when Uncle Joseph had had a long face with big eyes.
“Let’s go to Otuam tomorrow and get to the bottom of it,” Nana Kwesi said.
Papa Warrior was surprised to see Ekow banging on his door after midnight, telling him he had to come quick because Peggy was very upset. When he arrived at her room, he found her crying, and it took him a few moments to understand what she was saying. Finally he understood.
“Idiots!” he cried. “After all that … You mean they brought back the wrong body?”
Peggy sobbed.
Papa Warrior shook his head. “They’re lucky we are Fantes. If this happened to an Ashanti king, those elders would disappear and no one would ever speak of them again.” Peggy stood up shakily and ran into the bathroom. It seemed as if her insides had turned to mush.
In the wee hours of the morning, she and Papa Warrior had a long talk. Had everything been for nothing then? she asked him. The dancing, drumming, feasting, the five hundred guests, the rituals and prayers, had it been not a dignified funeral but a grisly farce? Should she plan another funeral, in a year perhaps when she had saved up more money, and really bury the late king the second time around?
They both agreed that that would be ridiculous, not to mention costly. She couldn’t leave the stranger in the family tomb, which was, most likely, the reason why there had been a supernatural brawl in the palace the night before. Her ancestors were shocked that there was a stranger in their midst and were punching the intruder, who had been smiling broadly at finally getting buried. Perhaps he had been punching them back, insisting that he stay.
She curled up in a ball on the bed and sobbed like a child. Papa Warrior sat beside her and laid a cool hand on her heaving back. Looking back on her life, there had been only one thing more hurtful than this—her inability to carry a child to term and William’s resulting abandonment. Yes, that had hurt worse, devastating her self-image as woman, wife, and would-be mother. But then she had crafted another image, that of a king efficiently bringing progress to her people. Now that image, too, it seemed, had been sullied. She would appear a buffoon, the object of ridicule and derision. A dignified funeral indeed. For the wrong man.
Once her emotions had poured themselves out and there was nothing more to pour, she began to feel calmer. After all, it had not been her fault. She had done everything a king could do for her predecessor. Surely her uncle, and her people, would recognize that. They wouldn’t blame her. Regardless of misidentified royal bodies, she had brought Otuam water and was in the process of bringing many other much needed improvements. Yes, she would get through the body switching, somehow, and continue to move her town forward. She recalled the bright smiling faces in that first town meeting, how reluctantly the people had left the throne room when Tsiami told them it was time to go home. Her people appreciated her and would forgive this mistake that had occurred on her watch.
King Peggy Page 34