The Book of Negroes

by Lawrence Hill

  "Since you are so strong and can make such beautiful jewellery," I said, "why don't you take a second wife? Our chief has four wives!"

  He laughed. "I cannot afford four wives, my little one. And why do I need four wives, when your mother gives me all the trouble I can manage? The Qur'an says that a man must treat all his wives equally, if he is to have more than one. But how could I treat anyone as equally as your mother?"

  "Mama is beautiful," I said.

  "Mama is strong," he said. "Beauty comes and goes. Strength, you keep forever."

  "What about the old people?"

  "They are the strongest of all, for they have lived longer than all of us, and they have wisdom," he said, tapping his temple.

  We stopped at the edge of a forest.

  "Does Aminata go wandering off alone this far?" he asked.

  "Never," I said.

  "Which way is the mighty Joliba, river of many canoes?"

  "That way," I said, pointing north.

  "How far?"

  "Four suns, by foot," I said.

  "Would you like to see the town of Segu one day?" he said.

  "Segu on the Joliba?" I asked. "Yes. If I get to ride on your shoulders."

  "When you are old enough to walk for four suns, I will take you for a visit."

  "And I will travel, and cultivate my mind," I said.

  "We will not speak of that," he said. "Your task is to become a woman."

  Papa had already shown me how to scratch out a few prayers in Arabic. Surely he would show me more, in good time.

  "Mama's village is over there, five suns away," I said, pointing east.

  "Since you are so clever, pretend I am blind and show me the way home."

  "Are we cultivating my mind now?"

  He chuckled. "Show me the way home, Aminata."

  "Go that way, past the baobab tree."

  We made it that far. "Turn this way. Take this path. Watch out. Mama and I saw three white scorpions on this path yesterday."

  "Good girl. Now what?"

  "Ahead, we enter our village. The walls are thick and as high as two men. We come in this way. Say hello to the sentry."

  Papa laughed and saluted the sentry. We approached the chief 's rectangular house, and passed the four round homes, one for each wife.

  "Let me know when we pass Fanta's house."

  "Why, Papa?"

  "Perhaps we should stop in and drum your favourite bucket."

  I laughed and slapped his shoulder playfully and told him, in a whisper, that I did not like that woman.

  "You must learn respect," Papa said.

  "But I do not respect her," I said.

  Papa paused for a moment, and patted my leg. "Then you must learn to hide your disrespect."

  Papa walked on, and soon, two women came upon us.

  "Mamadu Diallo," one called out to Papa, "that is not the way to educate your daughter. She has legs for walking."

  My father's real name was Muhammad. But every Muslim man in the village was thus named, so he went by Mamadu to distinguish himself.

  "Aminata and I, we were having a little chat," Papa told the women, "and I needed her ears close to my mouth."

  The woman laughed. "You spoil her."

  "Not a chance. I am training her to carry me the same way, when I am old."

  The women bent over, slapping their thighs in laughter. We said goodbye, and I continued to direct Papa past the walled enclosure for bathing, past the shaded bench for palavering and past the round huts for storing millet and rice. And then Papa and I came upon Fanta, who was pulling Fomba by the ear.

  "Stupid man," she said.

  "Hello, Fourth Wife of Chief," Papa said.

  "Mamadu Diallo," she said.

  "No salutations for my little girl today?" Papa said.

  She grimaced and said, "Aminata Diallo."

  "And why are you dragging poor Fomba thus?" Papa said. She still had the man by the ear.

  "He led an ass to the well, and it fell in," she said. "Put down that spoiled girl, Mamadu Diallo, and help us fetch out the ass before it soils our drinking water."

  "If you let go of Fomba, who needs his ear, I shall help you with the ass."

  Papa let me down from his shoulders. Fomba and I watched Papa and some other men tie vines around a village boy and send him deep into the well. The boy in the well wrapped more vines around the ass, and was hoisted out. Then Papa and the men hauled out the ass. The animal seemed undisturbed, and on the whole less bruised than Fomba's ear.

  I wanted my papa to teach me how to tie vines around the belly of a donkey. Maybe he would teach me everything he knew. It wouldn't hurt anybody if I learned to read and write. Perhaps, one day, I would be the only woman, and one of the only people in my entire village, to be able to read the Qur'an and to write in the gorgeous, flowing Arabic script.

  ONE DAY, MAMA AND I WERE CALLED from our millet pounding to attend a birth in Kinta, four villages away in the direction of the setting sun. The men were weeding the millet fields, but Fomba was told to fetch his bow and a quiver of poisoned arrows and to walk with us for our protection. When we arrived in Kinta, Fomba was given a place to drink tea and rest, and we went to work. The birth stretched from the morning into the evening, and by the time Mama had caught the baby and swaddled him and brought him to his mother's nipple, fatigue had gripped our bones. We took some millet cakes in hot gumbo sauce, which I loved. Before we left, the village women warned us to stay off the main trail leading from the village, because strange men—unknown in any neighbouring villages—had been spotted lately. The villagers asked if we would like to stay the night with them. My mother refused, because another mother in Bayo was expecting her baby at any time. As we prepared to leave, the villagers gave us a skin of water and three live chickens bound by the feet, along with a special gift of thanks—a metal pail, like the big washing bucket Fomba used the day he killed the goat.

  Fomba couldn't carry a thing on his head because his neck was always bent to the left, so Mama told him to carry the pail, into which the chickens were stuffed. Fomba seemed proud of his acquisition, but Mama warned him that he would have to surrender it when we returned to the village. He nodded happily and set out ahead of us.

  "When we get home, can I have the pail?" I asked.

  "The pail belongs to the village. We will give it to the chief."

  "But then Fanta will get it."

  Mama held her breath. I could tell that she didn't like Fanta, either, but she watched her words.

  We walked under a full moon that blazed in the night sky and lit our path. When we were almost home, three hares dashed in front of us, one right after the other, disappearing into the woods. Fomba set down his bucket, lifted a throwing stone from a flap at the hip of his loincloth and cocked his arm. He seemed to know that the hares would scurry back across the path. When they reappeared, Fomba pegged the slowest hare in the head. He stooped to pick it up, but Mama held him back. The hare was thick around the middle. Mama ran her finger along the body. The rabbit had been pregnant. It would make a fine stew, Mama told Fomba, but next time he saw rabbits streaking across the trail, he should sharpen his aim and take the fastest one—not the female lugging babies in her belly. Fomba nodded and draped his swollen prey over his shoulder. He stood up and resumed walking, but suddenly bent his neck even further to the side and listened.

  There was more rustling in the bushes. I looked for another sign of the hares. Nothing. We walked more quickly. Mama reached for my hand.

  "If strangers come upon us, Aminata—" she began, but got no further.

  From behind a grove of trees stepped four men with massive arms and powerful legs. In the moonlight, I could see that they had faces like mine, but with no facial carvings. Whoever they were, they came from another village. They had ropes, leather straps and knives, and an odd, long piece of wood with a hole at one end. For an instant, they stared at us and we looked at them. I heard the click of fear at the back of Mama's th
roat. I longed to run. Never could one of those thick, clumsy, loud-breathing men catch me whirling and dashing and sidestepping among the trees, flying down the forest paths just as quick as an antelope. But Mama had the water skins balanced on a platter on her head, and I had some pineapples balanced over mine, and in the instant that I hesitated, wondering what to do with those platters, worrying that the fruit would tumble to the ground if I moved too awkwardly, the men encircled us.

  Fomba was the first among us to move. He grabbed the man with the odd stick, locked one arm around his neck and hit him on the head with the chicken bucket. The man stumbled. Fomba grabbed his neck with one hand and twisted it, hard, to the right. A gurgling sound escaped the man's throat before he fell. Fomba turned and reached for me, but another man came up behind him.

  "Fomba," I cried out. "Watch out!"

  But before Fomba could turn, he was clubbed in the back of the head. He crumpled to the ground. The rabbit carcass slipped off his shoulder. I hadn't imagined that a man of his size and strength could fall so quickly. A man bound Fomba's hands, slipped a knotted rope around his neck and picked up the rabbit. But Fomba did not stir.

  Mama shouted at me to drop the fruits and run. But I couldn't move. I couldn't leave her. She faced the men and called out like a warrior: "Curses of the dead upon you. Let us pass."

  The men spoke in a strange tongue. I thought I recognized the words girl, young and not too young—but I wasn't sure.

  Mama switched to Fulfulde. "Run, Daughter," she whispered, but I couldn't. I just couldn't.

  She was holding her birthing kit, and still had the water skins balanced on her head. She was carrying too much to flee, so I stayed beside her. I could hear her breathing. I knew that she was thinking. Perhaps she would start shouting, and I would join her. Our village was not far. Someone might hear us. Two men grabbed Mama and knocked down her water skins. Another man grabbed me by the arm. I flailed and kicked and bit his hand. He pulled it free. He was angry now and breathing harder. When he lunged for me, I kicked with all my might and got him where his legs came together. He groaned and stumbled, but I knew I hadn't hurt him enough to keep him down. I turned to run to my mother, but another man tripped me and pinned me to the ground. I spat dirt from my mouth and tried to wriggle free, but I had no strength against the one who held me.

  "This is a mistake," I said. "I am a freeborn Muslim. Let me go!" I said it in Fulfulde and I said it in Bamanankan, but my words had no effect, so I started screaming. If any villager happened to be out at night, perhaps he would hear. Someone bound my wrists behind my back and slipped a leather noose around my neck, which he tightened just to the point of cutting off my breath so I couldn't scream and could barely breathe. Gagging, I waved wildly at the men. The noose was loosened enough to let me breathe. I was still alive. Allaahu Akbar, I said. I hoped that someone would hear the words in Arabic and realize the mistake. But nobody heard me. Or cared.

  I craned my neck to look up from the ground. Mama broke away from one man, slapped at his face and bit his shoulder, then grabbed a thick branch and belted him in the head. He paused, stunned. Mama charged the man who held the strap around my neck. I pulled against it, straining toward her even as it choked me. But another man intercepted her, raised high a big, thick club and brought it swinging down against the back of her head. Mama dropped. I saw her blood in the moonlight, angry and dark and spilling fast. I tried to crawl to her. I knew what to do about spilling blood. I just had to get my palm against the wound, and to press hard. But I couldn't crawl, or wriggle, or move an inch. The captors had me firmly now, the leash tightening once more around my neck. They forced Fomba and me up, and we had no choice but to follow.

  I struggled against the leash to look back over my shoulder, and saw that Mama was still on the ground, not moving. I was slapped hard in the face, spun forward and shoved in the back. Over and over and over again I was shoved, and I had to move my feet.

  Other than in her sleep, I had never seen Mama motionless. This had to be a dream. I longed to wake up in my bed, and to eat a millet cake with Mama, and to admire the way she dipped her calabash in a clay jar and brought out the water without spilling a drop. Soon, for sure, I would be free from these evil spirits. Soon, I would find my Papa, and together we would run back to Mama, wake her before it was too late, carry her into the cool walls of our home.

  But I was not waking.

  The longest cry rose from my lungs. The men stuffed cloth in my mouth. Whenever my pace slowed, they shoved me again in the back. We walked so fast that I had trouble breathing. They removed the cloth but showed me, with angry hand signals, that they would stuff it back in my mouth if I made a sound. On and on they made me walk, further from my Mama. Smoke hung in the air. We were circling outside my village. The drums of Bayo rang out warnings of danger. I heard popping, over and over. It sounded like branches cracking from trees. The drumming stopped. Through a gap in the woods, I could see the flames. Bayo was burning.

  Five more strange men joined us, leading three captives—also yoked— toward us. From one man's wide-legged gait in the light of the moon, I recognized my father.

  "Fa," I called out to him.

  "Aminata," he shouted.

  "They killed Ba." The man holding my strap smacked my face.

  "You are less than porcupine shit," I hissed at the captor, but he didn't understand.

  I watched my father. The other captives struggled against their ropes, but my father walked upright and tall, rubbing his wrists together until they slid free. He jabbed his fingers into a captor's eyes, pulled the knife from his hands and sliced through the strap around his own neck. When another captor rushed forward, Papa plunged the knife deep into the man's chest. The captor seemed to sigh, stood long enough for my father to remove the knife, and dropped dead.

  I wanted my fa to flee and to find Ba on the trail leading away from Bayo. If there was still life in her, I wanted him to save her. While shouting broke out among our captors, Papa ran to me. He slashed at the man holding my yoke, cutting deeply into his arm. The man slid down and moaned in agony. Two men jumped my father, but he flung them off. He stabbed one, then the other, and was circling three injured men. Then one of the captors hoisted an unusual, long, rectangular stick. He pursed his lips and pointed the stick at my father from a distance of five paces. Papa stopped where he was and held up his palm. Fire exploded from the stick and blew Papa onto his back. He turned his head to look for me, but then his eyes went blank. The life gushed up out of Papa's chest, flooded his ribs and ran into the waiting earth, which soaked up everything that came out of him.

  There were two new male captives. I didn't recognize them. They came from different villages, perhaps. I looked at them pleadingly. Their eyes sank. Fomba dropped his head. The male captives could do nothing for me. They were all tied at the hands and yoked by the necks. To resist was suicide, and who but my own father and mother would fight for me now, and fight to the death?

  My feet felt stuck to the ground. My thighs felt wooden. My stomach heaved up against my chest. I could barely breathe. Fa was the strongest man in Bayo. He could lift me with one arm, and send sparks flying like stars when he pounded red iron with his mallet. How could this be? I prayed that this was a dream, but the dream would not relent.

  I wondered what my ba and fa would tell me to do. Keep walking! That was all I could imagine. Don't fall. I thought of my Mama walking in Bayo with her soles dyed red. I tried to keep their voices in my head. I tried to think about drinking mint tea with them at night, while my mother laughed and my father told melodious stories. But I could not feed those thoughts. Each and every time, they were starved, flattened and sucked out of my mind, and replaced by visions of my mother motionless in the woods and my father, lips quivering while his chest erupted.

  I walked, because I was made to do it. I walked, because it was the only thing to do. And that night as I walked, over and over again I heard my father's final word. Aminata. Aminata. Amin
ata.

  Three revolutions of the moon

  I LIVED IN TERROR THAT THE CAPTORS WOULD BEAT US, boil us and eat us, but they began with humiliation: they tore the clothes off our backs. We had no head scarves or wraps for our body, or anything to cover our private parts. We had not even sandals for our feet. We had no more clothing than goats, and nakedness marked us as captives wherever we went. But our captors were also marked by what they lacked: light in their eyes. Never have I met a person doing terrible things who would meet my own eyes peacefully. To gaze into another person's face is to do two things: to recognize their humanity, and to assert your own. As I began my long march from home, I discovered that there were people in the world who didn't know me, didn't love me, and didn't care whether I lived or died.

  Eight of us were taken captive outside Bayo and neighbouring villages. In the darkness, Fomba was the only one I recognized. I stumbled forward, and didn't notice for hours that the yoke was rubbing the skin of my neck raw. I could not stop thinking about my parents, or what had happened to them. In one moment, I could not have imagined life without them. In the next, I was still living but they were gone. Wake now, I told myself. Wake now, sip from the calabash by your sleeping mat and go hug your mama. This dream is like a set of soiled clothes; step out of them and go see your mama. But there was only an unbearable nightmare that would not end.

  While we walked through the night, others were attached to our string of captives. In the morning light, I noticed Fomba walking with his head down. And then I saw Fanta. There was no sign of the chief. Fanta too was yoked about the neck. Her eyes darted left and right, up and down, peering at the woods and evaluating our captors. I wanted to call out to her, but she had a cloth stuck in her mouth and a rope holding it in place. I tried to meet her eyes, but she would not greet my glance. My gaze fell to her naked belly. The chief 's wife was with child. I guessed that she was five moons in progress.