The incident must have pushed Wurche to act, because not long after, Shaibu brought news that they could build a home behind Jaji’s. The Germans had authorized it. It suggested permanence. And Aminah found she was glad. As much as she had liked the people in Kpembe, she had more freedom in Kete–Krachi. It didn’t take long to clean Jaji’s hut, so she spent many mornings walking along the river with Wumpini, her mind wandering. She was so pleased with the news that when Moro offered to build the huts, she said she would help him. She couldn’t tell what spirit had possessed her to be so bold.
“Speaking of Germans,” said Wurche, after Shaibu’s announcement, “where’s Helmut?”
“He’s gone to Salaga, then he’ll continue on to Dagbon,” said Shaibu. “They have to clear up a problem. It sounds like the British have breached the agreement they signed with your father and the Germans.” He craned his head forward, wet his lips as though he were about to eat a tasty dish, and said, “He seems to have taken a shine to you.”
Wurche ignored him and asked when the building would begin. Moro was ready to begin the next day.
He showed up as the muezzin’s second call to prayer was rising to a long, loud wail. Wurche came out of Jaji’s hut and greeted him coolly. Aminah tried to understand their relationship. Moro would smile at Wurche, she would respond as if she didn’t care, then she would try to touch him and he would stiffen up.
Moro brought sacks of wattle and a straight stick and told Aminah to stand in the middle of what would become the first hut. He handed her one end of the stick, angled the other end and used it to trace a circle in the earth. Wurche instructed that the door face the sun. She was like a hawk, watching every move Moro and Aminah made. It was only when Wumpini woke up and came outside that Wurche left Moro and Aminah alone, but before she did, she trained her eyes on Aminah, as if she could tell the emotions coursing through her.
Moro dug a foundation in the circle, Wumpini played nearby atop a pile of sand, and Aminah went down to the river to fetch a pot of water. She missed Kpembe’s wells and how they were right in the middle of the compound. Droves of cattle dragged carts of salt along the riverbank and canoes glided up and down the river. In one canoe were about ten people—mostly girls, with metal ringed around their necks. Aminah shuddered, wondering where they would end up. Aminah wasn’t free either, but she was no longer faced with the uncertainty that they were. She watched them until they became one with the horizon.
On the second day, as she was pouring water into a small hole Moro had dug in a mixture of sand and wattle, he touched her hand. His mud-caked palm rested just above her wrist and she felt a surge of energy run up her arms. He seemed on the verge of saying something but held back. He took his hand away. Excitement and fear mixed together in her body. He’s a slave raider, Aminah reminded herself. Just then, Wurche came out of her hut.
On the third day, Moro said, “I am glad things happened the way they did.” Aminah didn’t look at him, unsure if she was allowed to have this conversation. “It means we can be friends.”
She studied the block she was placing on the wall, her heart pumping wildly. As Wurche’s property, did she have the right to a friend? At Wofa Sarpong’s they were so isolated from other people that the question had never come up. She forced herself to think of Moro’s evil side. The people in the canoes flitted into her mind. She didn’t want a friend like Moro.
* * *
—
Aminah missed the simple beauty of Botu. Apart from its trees and gentle hills and the water hole, their huts were colorful and covered with beautiful shapes and lines. In Kpembe and Kete–Krachi, the huts were white and black or just mud-colored. When they finished the huts, Aminah traced three lines around her hut’s door and drew waves between the lines. Wurche said nothing. Working on the huts reminded Aminah that she liked working with her hands. If Wurche ever let her go, if she won her freedom, she would want to make things. Clothes or pots. Or shoes.
Na used to tell her to speak her troubles, not hold them in, although neither of them had practiced this often enough. She hadn’t found a sympathetic, disinterested ear for a while, but something in the way Jaji talked to Wurche—with a hint of respect, even though she was the teacher—something in her eyes, told Aminah she could trust the teacher with her problems. When Wumpini napped, Aminah went to her. She was seated on a mat, clutching large sheets of paper. Aminah stood by the wall, cleared her throat, and knelt down. Jaji’s brows rose to kiss the edge of her white veil, and Aminah burst into tears.
“Oh dear girl, what’s wrong?” said Jaji reaching forward and taking Aminah’s hand.
Aminah sniffled, searching for words. “I am nineteen,” she began and then couldn’t stop. She told Jaji about Baba’s disappearance, about being snatched by the horsemen, losing her brother and sisters, staying in a forest and ending up in the Salaga market. Tears had blurred her vision and Jaji wiped them with the hem of her veil.
“Will I ever know freedom again?” asked Aminah.
Jaji sighed. “I’ll tell you what I’ve been hearing.” She looked above Aminah’s head, towards the door, and lowered her voice. “The chiefs here, in Salaga, and all over the place, really, have been signing treaties with the English and the Germans. What most of them don’t know is that the treaties are calling for an end to slavery. One of my own teachers, Alhaji Umar—you have seen him around the mosque, white hair and white beard, Salaga’s old imam—he used to say the chiefs should resist the English and the Germans. He calls them Christians. But last time I talked to him, he said he understood why the chiefs were signing treaties; their arms were toys compared to the weapons of the Christians. The mighty Asante, for instance, have already been defeated a few times. You look lost. I hope I’m not confusing you.”
“No, Jaji,” said Aminah, wondering when the teacher would make her point.
“Good. He said the Christians have some good ideas. They are bringing all sorts of improvements, like more schools, wide roads, more security. And they are calling for an end to slavery. Alhaji Umar said the Christians, like us Muslims, took part in slavery for centuries, they encouraged the slave raids that the likes of Babatu and our friend Moro specialize in, and suddenly they want it to end. In the Gold Coast, which is where this newspaper came from—I’m learning English, you see—slavery has been banned. Just over the river, imagine. It’s called emancipation.”
Aminah didn’t realize how much Jaji talked, and began to regret sharing her story, especially since Jaji’s solutions mattered across the river, not here. Her solutions meant Aminah should have stayed with Wofa Sarpong.
And as if the teacher had heard Aminah’s thoughts, she added, “All this is to say, it’s only a matter of time before it comes this way, and I personally will be glad when that happens. My advice is to bide your time. Wurche will understand when the time comes. She has a kind heart.”
Aminah was about to thank Jaji for her time to prevent her from going on, when the rushed patter of running feet broke the conversation. Outside, a short distance away, a large crowd had gathered in a circle. Their blended voices were loud, rough, incomprehensible, yet somehow they managed to move as a unit. Jaji grabbed her straw hat and went with them. Aminah followed, praying Wumpini would continue sleeping for a while. Jaji tapped the shoulder of a woman on the outside of the throng and asked what was happening.
“He’s a thief!” said the woman, spit flying from her mouth, her eyes bulging wildly. But she couldn’t say what he’d stolen. Realizing she hadn’t given any useful information she said, “He was being beaten and asked to be taken to the German barracks.”
Jaji nodded and backed away from the crowd. Aminah wanted to follow them to find out if he was the man who had stolen Baki. She pushed herself into the crowd, became one with it. These were things she used to do in Botu. If Wurche asked where she’d gone, she would pretend that she thought Jaji had done the same. She pushed until
she was in the middle of the crowd, which allowed her peeks of the person being dragged along. His semi-naked body was covered with welts, his face swollen. He couldn’t walk, so two men had propped him up by the armpits. Some people shouted for him to be beaten more and others asked that everyone stay patient, wait for the Germans. Aminah could barely see where they were going. She was carried along with the crowd’s thrust, so when they stopped, she almost fell.
The whitewashed German barracks, the largest buildings in Kete–Krachi, were bordered black on the bottom, their gardens adorned with whitewashed rocks. They had stopped in front of the smallest building, and from it came a thin white man in the same kind of uniform Helmut wore. Another white man came out, then another, till there were six of them carrying heavy-looking arms.
The one who seemed to be the highest in command pointed his gun at the crowd, causing it to part. The two men who’d been carrying the accused stepped forward and dumped him in the dirt.
“He stole a cow,” said the man on the right, wiping his bloodied hands on his smock.
“What does your imam say?” asked the white man in halting Hausa.
“The thief insisted that we bring him to you,” responded the man with the bloodied smock.
The white men conferred with each other. One of them went over to the accused and studied him.
“Take him to your imam,” said the leader of the white men. “And stop beating him.”
The crowd groaned and the two men collected the beaten man, as one would pick up a lifeless object. Aminah separated herself from them and ran back to the house, almost fainting from fright when she arrived. Wurche was carrying Wumpini, a tear on his round cheek, the back of his plump hand in his mouth. Aminah narrated the whole affair, but Wurche wasn’t satisfied. She swiped a slap across Aminah’s face. The first time she’d done that. For some reason, Aminah guessed it wasn’t really about her leaving Wumpini alone.
Wumpini squirmed out of his mother’s grip and stretched out his pudgy arms for Aminah. Wurche drew him closer to her chest and carried him to her hut. Aminah’s ears still rang from the slap. Once, in Salaga, Aminah overheard someone say the only way a slave could be free was if his or her master died. She didn’t have it in her to kill Wurche or anyone, but now she thought it would be easier if Wurche died of a terrible illness. Then, just as quickly, she felt bad for nursing the thought.
* * *
—
Aminah entered Jaji’s room with a tray of boiled yam and bitter-leaf stew. The usual guests were gathered. Jaji had burned incense and the scent had filled the room. Moro took the tray from Aminah as if he were relieving her of a heavy load. Meanwhile, Wurche was telling the group that she wanted to raise animals.
“I’ll start with chickens. Aminah will do the building. She finished our house with the nicest designs.”
Aminah thought Wurche hadn’t noticed the designs.
“I’ll help her,” said Moro.
Aminah wanted to see Wurche’s reaction, but she couldn’t look at the woman’s face. No one’s, really. She felt naked. She felt everyone’s eyes on her. She shifted her gaze to Helmut, the other outsider in the group. His boyish face reddened from the pepper as he ate. He was oblivious to the tension Aminah felt. She wondered what made him different from his brothers, those who held guns at the crowd when they’d brought in a criminal, treating them as if they were the criminals. Why, wondered Aminah, was Helmut always at Jaji’s or with Shaibu and Moro? No other white men associated so closely with them. He wiped his wet nose with the back of his palm. Her thoughts drifted back to Moro. If he was as kind as he seemed to be—constantly offering to help—why did he raid villages, split up families, sell people? These questions scratched at her insides and prevented her from even trying to be friends with him.
“The Salagawura is throwing a naming ceremony for his son,” said Shaibu. He turned to Wurche. “Will you come?”
“Doesn’t it sound ridiculous to you, naming a person who lives outside Salaga ‘Salagawura’? It’s disrespectful and senseless,” said Wurche.
Aminah still didn’t understand much about local politics, but she knew Wurche had betrayed her father by coming to Kete–Krachi, a fact she made up for by always vehemently defending him. The people who fled to Kete–Krachi after some big battle in Salaga had elected a new chief, the Salagawura, as the head of the Salaga immigrants, but Wurche called him illegitimate, useless.
“There is only one chief of Salaga,” continued Wurche, “and he’s the Kpembewura.” She turned to Helmut and said, “Your people caused this.”
“I just take orders,” said Helmut, sniffling.
Wurche said she wasn’t going to the ceremony and stomped out, calling Aminah and Moro outside. She stopped next to Aminah’s hut.
“I’ve decided. I’ll raise chickens.”
Chickens reeked, so Aminah was not thrilled at having a coop for a neighbor.
Wurche pressed her palm to Moro’s arm and raised the other hand to shoulder height. “Just this high. Aminah, stand there and stretch out your hands.” She stretched hers too, and their fingertips touched. Wurche pressed into Aminah’s hands and stared at her with a look that confused Aminah. A cross between desire and admonishment. Then just as suddenly, Wurche let go and went to Moro. She squeezed his arm and led him back into Jaji’s hut.
That night, Aminah couldn’t sleep. Anger had filled her chest. Wurche’s touching game and Moro’s coolness. Moro and everything he stood for. It was good she was angry. When with Wofa Sarpong, she was squeezed of all feeling, which was probably why she did nothing for so long. Anger was good. Anger motivated her. Anger made her bite Kwesi’s nose. Who knew where anger would lead this time?
The next day, Moro showed up before Aminah had even bathed. She wiped the crusty corners of her mouth and passed her palms over her eyes. Her hair was untidy, but there was nothing she could do.
He’d brought strips of dried palm leaves that they wove into mats and eventually hoisted up and supported with sticks. They finished the chicken enclosure with a door. Aminah opened and closed the door, amazed at how beautiful it looked. Moro came to her side. Then he placed his palm over her hand on the door. She snatched her hand away.
His gentle expression was briefly replaced with confusion. He broke his gaze, looked off to the side, then stared at Aminah.
“I wish you didn’t kidnap and sell people,” said Aminah, before she could stop herself. Saying those words made her bolder. “Why did you want to buy me? To make me your slave?”
“No. Not to make you my slave. When I saw you in front of Maigida’s, it felt like I’d been searching for you without knowing I’d been searching. It felt as if every horrible thing I’d done in my past was so I could find you.” He paused, then said, “I’m sorry for everything you have suffered.”
In Botu, Eeyah often talked about “licabili.” Aminah had never given it much thought. It was the belief that whatever path you took in life, it would take you where it was supposed to take you. It hadn’t been as important to her because things had been the same for the first fifteen years of her life. She knew Botu so well and had no reason to leave it, so it had never seemed like life would take her somewhere else. Did it mean that everything she had been through—losing her family, the horsemen, Wofa Sarpong—had led her to this man? Her palms sweated. She used to think that Otienu could control the things that happened to you if you appeased him or if you were good, but who Otienu was or where he dwelled, she couldn’t even say. Eeyah used to say Otienu was everywhere, but now she wasn’t sure. Maybe things occurred just because and there was no why. They stared at each other, and he smiled. Aminah willed herself not to smile back. She was too confused.
Wurche stepped out of her hut. She opened and closed the new door, marveling just as Aminah had earlier. “Wonderful work. Let’s not waste a single moment. Aminah, feed Wumpini and then go get the chick
ens from the market.”
Wurche
When she’d first seen Moro, she’d been hopeful that, with Adnan out of the way, they could rekindle their romance. And when he flinched every time she tried to touch him in the places he liked, she decided to be bolder. She began to touch him around Aminah—because anybody with eyes could sense what was brewing between them—but he would pry her fingers away. Once, through gritted teeth, he’d warned her to stop. That evening, when only he and Shaibu had showed up at Jaji’s, they’d had a conversation about Aminah.
“I want her back,” he’d whispered.
“I paid for her,” said Wurche.
“She was not yours to pay for. I’ll buy her back from you, then.”
“She’s not for sale. And if you carry on like this, she will be. But I’ll sell her to someone going south on the river.”
With that last statement, Wurche had unleashed on him all her buried frustrations, her rage, her confusion—a flood of emotions that annoyed her. She wasn’t proud of having bought Aminah, especially at a time when she’d been wrestling with the concept of owning people. Nor was she proud of threatening to send Aminah south. But mostly, she was unsettled by the sudden thought of life without Aminah. Aminah anchored her. For one, the girl took Wumpini off her hands. But also, when Aminah was around, she felt safety and peace and something more she wanted to keep buried. This something more appeared in her dreams, with Aminah slowly taking the place of her friend Fatima. In waking life, though, Wurche was sure Aminah would never be as willing as Fatima had been.
But Wurche kept such thoughts and feelings at bay. She had plenty to keep her busy—more pressing matters than dreams that couldn’t come alive. She liked her independence in Kete–Krachi, but she also missed Kpembe. She missed having a horse and the space to ride it. She missed her family. She missed the politics of Kpembe. In order to go back to Kpembe and truly thrive there, she needed to stay independent. It meant having money. Now that she had a new business, she would start saving. When she made enough money from the chickens, she would start buying horses. It was more lucrative. Money also meant power. Staying independent meant having information. She taught the women of Kete–Krachi with Jaji during the day and spent evenings studying Jaji’s manuscripts when Shaibu, Moro and Helmut weren’t around. When they showed up, she pressed them for political developments in Kete–Krachi and beyond. She learned that the Germans had recruited a large number of Hausa men for their army, that the British were also moving farther up the region, even as far up as Dagbon, to sign treaties with the chiefs. The Germans were not happy about this. But, again, she only got flashes of information, because the men only wanted to be regaled by Aminah’s food and Shaibu changed the subject whenever she tried to get more details.
The Hundred Wells of Salaga Page 16