King Peggy

by Peggielene Bartels

  Everyone in the room was stunned. Finally, the president cleared his throat. “I think, under the circumstances, Nana, we can reduce the fine. We will fine you two million cedis for the fault, and you must pay another two million cedis to the radio station to keep quiet.”

  Peggy nodded. She took two million cedis, which was about $140, out of her purse and promised to wire the rest after she got home, as she was running low on cash. Then she asked, “But who told the radio station? ”

  “Oh, that was the children of the late king as well,” Tsiami replied. “They wanted your disgrace to be broadcast all over Ghana. They bragged about that, too.” He dropped both hands into his lap and stared at the wall.

  “Well, that explains it,” Peggy said. As she walked slowly to the van, Nana Kwesi stood close to her on her right side, Papa Warrior on her left.

  A few days later when Peggy came into the throne room and sat on the stool, she looked at the crowded room and saw that Baba Kobena and Isaiah weren’t there and mentioned it to Mama Amma Ansabah. Mama Amma chuckled. “They are hiding for very shame,” she said. “Whenever townspeople see either of them, they laugh and point and ridicule them as the men who brought the wrong king back from the morgue. Yesterday some children threw goat dung at them.”

  Baba Kobena would probably never show up at a meeting again, considering his humiliation, or if he did so, no one would listen to him. Having no shame whatsoever, Isaiah the Treasurer might pop up, smiling and waving as if nothing had happened (he had a bit of Kwame Lumpopo in him), but she would instruct Nana Kwesi to tell him to stay home in future.

  But there were two other misbehaving elders, and Peggy wondered what she should do to them. Uncle Moses had been very wicked, indeed, killing the late king, stealing so many fees, and threatening to burn down the palace. She would have liked to kick him off her council, though he could no longer do any harm there as no one would listen seriously to an old man wearing a woman’s dress. It was evident to all that the ancestors were punishing him, and Tsiami had said they were poised to do more. The stools had told him that Uncle Joseph would come back to get Uncle Moses a month after his burial. Peggy wouldn’t have long to wait to see if this prediction came true.

  And then there was Tsiami himself—building supply thief, land sales thief, and fishing fees thief—who might very well outlive them all at this rate. She could picture him on his hundredth birthday, leaping through his pineapple fields, swinging a machete with his muscular arms to harvest his sweet fruit, and pausing to bounce an infant and a toddler on his knees, children he had had with his new wife. Whatever he did, the stools obviously liked him and would forgive him anything. There would be no divine retribution there, as there had been with Uncle Moses. No, she had better let Tsiami alone.

  After Tsiami opened the meeting and poured libations, Peggy said, “I want to tell you that our program of sponsoring children’s school fees has barely begun. We will add many more children to the program, and Shiloh Baptist will put their photos on the church Facebook page to encourage their members to sponsor them. So if the Americans haven’t chosen your child yet, don’t worry. Help is on the way. By God’s good grace, it will come.”

  Those assembled nodded in approbation. “I am leaving Ghana soon,” Peggy said. She never told them the exact dates of her coming and going in case someone might try to put a curse on her airplane, but she needed to let them know the time was coming. “Is there anything else to be discussed? ”

  A woman stood up and said, “Nana, I can tell by your face that you are very sad about the funeral. Please, let it go. It has already happened. What can we do now? ”

  Peggy nodded. The sadness still clung to her a bit, but it was fading. She couldn’t concentrate on the failures of the past when there were so many challenges in the future.

  A man rose from his seat and cried, “By the grace of God we have a good king. Nana has made it possible for water to be brought here and for the Americans to sponsor our children’s education. Whoever goes to bed and whoever wakes up, their last and first thoughts should be to pray to God for Nana, to ask him to give her the strength to do everything she can for this community.”

  “God bless you!” several cried out in English.

  “Eye dze!” You have done well.

  “We are so proud of you! ”

  Yes, they were proud of her, these simple farmers and fishermen and grandmothers. She had worked hard for them, and despite all the obstacles and wickedness she had encountered along the way, they loved her. She floated in the happiness of that knowledge, as if it were her mother’s loving embrace.

  27

  While many issues had been resolved, Peggy had made no decision about Ekow. If he hadn’t gotten drunk at the palace the night they switched the bodies, she would already have given him the money to buy his kiosk, but after that she didn’t know if she could trust him. Would he start drinking again as soon as she gave it to him? Papa Warrior thought so, telling her that clearly Ekow hadn’t reformed. Just look at how he behaved the night they had buried the right king: drunk out of his mind.

  Peggy considered the issue. Ekow had surely stopped for the most part, given the fact that he looked and acted like a new man. That night at the palace was a highly unusual event, after all, as the tossing about of royal corpses would have unnerved even the most dedicated reformed alcoholic. Peggy had heard that getting rid of an addiction often involved ups and downs, several steps forward and then a step or two backward. It was all part of the process, and Ekow had been drunk only one night out of the past twenty-six, of that she was sure. Though Papa Warrior tried to talk her out of it, Peggy decided to give Ekow a chance. Everyone, especially when they tried hard, deserved another chance, and Ekow was family.

  After the three of them ordered their breakfast on the veranda, she said, “Ekow, here’s the two hundred dollars you wanted to start your business.” She held out two one-hundred-dollar bills, and Ekow lunged for them. But Peggy wouldn’t let them go, so there was a tug of war until Ekow finally dropped his hand. “And if you waste this money, I’ll never give you another dime,” she said sternly. That probably wasn’t true, she realized, even as she said it. But she didn’t want him to know.

  To her surprise, Papa Warrior pulled his wallet out of his pocket and removed a hundred-dollar bill. “And here’s money to buy merchandise for the shop. If you spend it at a bar, when I come back to Ghana in a few months I will kick your ass from here to Takoradi and back.”

  “Yes! Yes!” Ekow cried, plucking the bills from Peggy and Papa Warrior. “I promise I won’t waste it this time! And I swear!”

  With loud cries of “O! O! O!” Ekow flew up the stairs, pausing to do a little dance on the landing, and flew back down, laughing, waving the three hundred-dollar bills in the air, and jumping up and down in utter elation. It did Peggy’s heart a lot of good to see him so happy, to see how a few dollars—her first microfinance loan, come to think of it—could transform someone’s life. She said a fervent prayer to the ancestors to continue to guide and help Ekow, whom she loved for her dead sister’s sake, and for his pain, and striving, and joy.

  Peggy and Papa Warrior were all packed, their large bags in the lobby, and waiting on the veranda for Nana Kwesi to pick them up and drive them to the airport. Her brother would be spending six weeks with Peggy in Silver Spring before returning to Australia, which made her very happy. She was already planning on cooking his favorite African dishes to fatten him up a bit.

  Papa Warrior had bought a prime lot on the main road through Winneba, where he planned to build a gas station, car repair shop, and motel, though he had had difficulty purchasing land. The minute he agreed to an asking price and he showed the seller his Australian passport as identification for the transaction, the seller doubled or tripled the price, as Westerners were generally thought to be multimillionaires. Papa Warrior invariably stormed off in disgust at such chicanery. He finally found a property where the seller stuck to the original asking
price even after learning that the buyer was from Australia. In a few months he would return to Ghana to start construction and help Nana Kwesi look after things in Otuam.

  Peggy was delighted that Papa Warrior would move to Ghana at least part of the year to help her. He couldn’t move permanently because he had four children in Australia, and besides, dealing with Otuam full-time might drive an impatient man like Papa crazy. But it was a gesture of love and support that she would always be grateful for.

  Nana Kwesi would probably also be grateful for Papa Warrior’s help as it would lessen his own burden. She had been sad to see him so thin and haggard, trying to keep up with her constant requests, driving here and there and doing this and that. Yes, she had issued many commands, and probably he was getting tired of them, especially with all the stress of the funeral and body switching. Now that the funeral was over and there was no great rush to put the finishing touches on the palace, she hoped things would be as they had been, that his angelic smile and the bounce in his step would return.

  While Peggy and Papa Warrior sipped Star beer, enjoying the sea breeze, Peggy found it hard to believe that tonight she would leave Ghana for Silver Spring, back to her little condo and her increasing heap of American bills. In two days, she would drive her ancient sputtering car through the Rock Creek Parkway to the embassy, hoping it wouldn’t stall. She would be answering the phone for the Information and Public Affairs Department, making copies, and typing letters.

  Thinking back on her visit, she had to admit it hadn’t gone at all as she had planned. For one thing, she hadn’t seen William, or even tried to. Oh, she would always love him for what they had shared. And while it was sad to lose even the hope of a dream, it was also very good. She had a new purpose in life now.

  Ekow was the greatest success story of this trip, or at least so it seemed. Only time would tell there. No sooner had he received the money than he called the man in Accra selling the kiosk and arranged to buy it later that day. He spent the next two days fixing it up and painting it blue and white, with a sign that read IN GOD WE TRUST KIOSK because Ekow knew he couldn’t always trust himself, but he could trust God. On the third day he purchased his wares and opened shop. From now on, if he didn’t blow it, Ekow would have regular work, a small but reliable income. He would be a man, proud of himself again. The future had never seemed as bright for Ekow as at that moment.

  But along with this victory came Peggy’s overwhelming feeling of failure with the royal funeral. There was just no getting around it. The children of the late king and her corrupt elders had wrought their revenge on her, a very humiliating, public revenge. For the rest of her life, would she be known as the king who buried the wrong body? Would people point and laugh at her forever? Or would the story die down over time, as stories often do?

  Yes, of course it would. Her people were already grateful for the palace and the boreholes and the funeral equipment they could borrow free of charge. They would be even more grateful once she had brought them the high school, and the ambulances, the public latrine, and the bakery. While they might laugh at the story of burying the wrong king (even Peggy had to admit this tale had its comic aspects, particularly if your name wasn’t Peggy), the people of Otuam wouldn’t hold it against her.

  There was so much more to do, she knew, and until the day she died she would be fighting to help them. Surely they would appreciate that. The love that was just beginning to grow in their hearts for her, their king, would flourish, thrive. It was overwhelming to think that thousands of people, farmers and fishermen, housewives and small business owners, would love her, who had felt unloved for so many years. And then there was the love and support of Papa Warrior, and Nana Kwesi, and all those people at Shiloh Baptist Church.

  She suddenly recalled the ancestor who had appeared beside her bed one night during her first trip to Otuam. He had told her, “You may not be aware of it yet, but there are so many people taking care of you spiritually, mentally, and physically.” She had thought he meant the ancestors, not the living. Yet she couldn’t have been more wrong. There were many, many living people involved. She was bound to them and they to her by thick strands of generosity, kindness, and support, which made her feel even more generous, kind, and supportive to others—to the thirteen communities surrounding Otuam, to the rest of Ghana, to all of Africa. Her wildest dream was establishing a kind of grassroots movement to empower poor communities across the continent. If change had come to Otuam, why shouldn’t it come elsewhere? She would need a great deal more help to do any of this, she knew, but so far whenever she needed it, help seemed to be forthcoming.

  Surely there were wonderful opportunities ahead. The defining moment of this third trip shouldn’t be the horror of the wrong corpse on the throne, but the triumph of the boreholes. To bring clean water from the ground was a microcosm of African transformation, a symbolic event for everything good that could happen.

  The borehole ceremony had continued after the unwelcome interruption by the late king’s daughters. And toward the end of the speeches, a typhoon of sorts had suddenly planted itself directly over Otuam. Looking out the large window, the crowd in the throne room had seen such cascading sheets of water that it seemed as if the palace had been built under Niagara Falls. Those who had been draped over the window ledges to watch the proceedings pushed their way inside and stood huddled and dripping along the walls. Several leaks sprouted from the throne room roof, and her townspeople quickly set out buckets.

  Pastor Colleton stood up to talk again because he was very good at talking and there was, quite frankly, nothing else to do until the deluge subsided. “God is showing us the bounty of fresh water,” he said in a ringing voice. “This is a sign that our well will never go dry.”

  It occurred to Peggy that the pastor was referring to the Bible story of Jesus who, standing next to a well, said, Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again. But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.

  It was such a beautiful thought, that her well would never go dry, and to Peggy it spoke not only of the water in the borehole, but of the font of all blessings, worldly and spiritual. It would remain fresh and clean and life-giving forever.

  Eventually the downpour tapered off, then stopped altogether as the sun came out and cast its warm gaze on a world that was refreshed. The trees in the palace courtyard seemed to stand taller, their countless green arms reaching toward the golden light. The coating of golden-red dust had washed off the chickens and goats, which raced to drink deeply from the sudden puddles.

  Some walking, others driving, the group inside the throne room made its way to Main Street, where they would have the ribbon cutting ceremony to officially open the boreholes. At the church borehole, Tsiami poured libations, and Pastor Colleton prayed before cutting the ribbon. The man guarding the pump turned on the tap, filled a cup with water, and handed it to Peggy to drink.

  Thank you, God, Peggy said silently as she tasted the town’s water. It was cold, sweet, and clean.

  Peggy’s memories were interrupted by a horn beeping in front of the hotel. A moment later she saw Nana Kwesi standing in the entrance of the veranda, waving. He strode toward her with a bounce in his step and smiled.

  Epilogue

  Uncle Moses died on November 13, 2010, fulfilling the prophecy that the late king would come to get him a month after his burial, which occurred on October 12.

  Ekow has remained sober, working sixteen hours a day at his little kiosk and making enough to support himself. He has earned the respect of all who know and love him and says this is the happiest time of his life.

  Peggy is currently saving the town income from fishing fees and land sales to build a public latrine and create a library with Internet access for Otuam’s kids.

  In October 2011, Pastor Colleton and members of Shiloh Baptist Church will travel again to Otuam. They
will hand a letter of intent to build a high school to the local government representative and interview architects and builders. During the trip, Shiloh members will meet with all children hoping for scholarships and their parents, take photos of the kids, and officially register them in the program. These photos will be placed on the church Facebook page so that anyone, even non-Shiloh members, can sponsor an Otuam child.

  Peggy and Pastor Colleton will visit hospitals in Accra to determine the equipment and training Otuam’s nurses require to maximize the benefit from the gently used ambulances they will purchase.

  In August 2011, a third borehole was donated by the Imperial Supreme Council Ancient and Accepted Scottish Rite Masons. Several other groups have approached Peggy about helping Otuam. All charitable efforts will be coordinated by Shiloh.

  In May 2011, she joined Shiloh Baptist Church.

  Peggy still works at the embassy and still drives her 1992 Honda Accord.

  Authors’ Note

  This is the very real story of Peggielene Bartels, king of Otuam, Ghana, and the first two years of her reign. The names of some people have been changed to protect their privacy, and one minor character is a composite of two real people. All the events and conversations occurred, though for purposes of conciseness some scenes have been abbreviated, others combined from several related events into fewer scenes, and a few details altered. Some characters who were present have been left off the page if they did not participate significantly in the events portrayed. Notably, Eleanor Herman traveled with Peggy to Ghana in September 2009 and September 2010 and was personally present at the events in those sections of the book. But because this is Peggy’s story, one not greatly enhanced by a writer sitting next to an interpreter in the corner of the room, taking notes, Eleanor does not appear in the book.