One evening, she followed Shaibu and Helmut to the German barracks. She hoped that by spending more time with them she would learn about the European strategy. Her thinking was that if she found enough intelligence on the Germans, Etuto would forgive her when she returned to Kpembe. More importantly, she would become the person to deal with the white men because she understood them. She would be able to tell if they were helping or hurting her people.
A full blue moon hung low in the sky, casting a clear path. The river shimmered in the moonlight, calm and glassy, until a canoe rowed by. At the barracks, two seated guards leapt up, saluted Helmut, and said nothing as Wurche and Shaibu trailed him. Helmut led them up a veranda and into a main hall.
The room contained twelve wooden chairs arranged in three rows, facing a desk with another wooden chair. In Kpembe meetings were arranged in circles. A black, white and red flag was stuck in a pot next to the desk in front. Helmut herded them through a doorway to the right of the desk. A small lamp was stuck in the wall, a miserable wisp of black smoke wafting up from the tip of the fire. The lit hallway was lined with doors on either side. Helmut led them into his room. In it was a wooden bed laid with a white sheet and pillow; a desk with three piles of books; and two chairs next to the desk. Shaibu made for a large wooden contraption. He sat before it and flipped up its cover, revealing a row of ivory and black rectangles that he pounded on with all his being.
Wurche sat on the bed, frightened, as Shaibu released cacophonous discord from the instrument. After she’d overcome her fright, she went closer and tried to figure out what Shaibu thought he was doing. Helmut shoved Shaibu off the seat, and played a beautiful somber tune. Shaibu nodded, stuck his hands in the air as if he were holding an imaginary stick, and bobbed his head. White people were strange, and Shaibu was being sucked into their world.
“What is this?” said Wurche.
“A piano,” said Shaibu.
“Bach, a German composer, says there’s nothing remarkable about playing it. And he may be right,” said Helmut. “It was also cumbersome to ship, but it keeps me from being homesick.”
He opened a large chest and riffled through it. He held out a green bottle and three clear glasses—the same kind Mma kept in her treasure chest of gifts she’d received from the Europeans—and set them on the table. He poured out liquid as clear as water and passed the glasses to his guests. Wurche held hers, small and smooth, sniffed its contents and almost passed out. It smelled even stronger than the stuff her father liked. Shaibu, still annoying Wurche, suggested she drink it in one go. She did as he said and poured the drink into her mouth, swallowing it in one gulp. The liquid burned her throat, choking her. Helmut downed his and patted her back. She found nothing pleasurable in it and pulled a face.
“It’s what comes after that’s wonderful,” said Helmut.
Her insides warmed. She took another drink. Helmut’s eyes were even greener in his room, and he fixed them on her. She’d seen that look before. In Moro’s eyes, in Adnan’s eyes. Could he really be interested in her? Shaibu had kept hinting at it, but she’d brushed it off as Shaibu’s eternal silliness. She’d never trusted Helmut and his people. Wurche refused the next round of drinks. She needed to stay clearheaded.
“What are your people doing here?” she asked, the drink pushing the words out of her, erasing the politeness she’d been trying to maintain.
“Wurche, not now,” started Shaibu.
Wurche said when she was young they never saw people like Helmut. Yes, there were people with pale skin, but they were just like her people—same kind of hair, just stripped of brown color. Then suddenly it seemed as if, day after day, more pale people with unusual straight hair and multicolored eyes were showing up. “We were told that you would protect us. But from what?”
“From people like the Asante,” said Helmut, his face red. “The Asante dominated you for decades…Your own father told me this.”
“We can fight our own wars,” said Wurche. “And you say you are helping us, but how are we to know it’s not to take over our land and drive us away?”
“If we wanted that, we’d have fought a war,” Helmut said.
“Enough,” said Shaibu.
Helmut grabbed a roll of paper from his table, sat by Wurche and spread the sheet in the space between them. It was a map. The inscriptions were not in Arabic, like the maps Jaji had shown her. This one was bigger and showed places she hadn’t seen before, some shaped like chicken wings.
“This is the whole world,” said Helmut. Various places had been marked in ink: in the western and southern parts of Africa and parts that lived in the blue of the ocean. He pointed to Europe, then slid his finger down the curvy dome of Africa, and said if he’d traveled that distance in a ship, it had to be for a good reason.
“My people moved, too,” said Wurche. “And it was to conquer other people.”
“It’s about friendship,” said Helmut.
Wurche wasn’t convinced, but she was tired. When Helmut offered to walk her home, she didn’t refuse, and at her door, he pressed his lips to the back of her hand. She wondered if he would be more honest if Shaibu were not around. So the next day, she asked Aminah to prepare tuo with baobab powder soup, a dish Helmut relished. She put the bowl of tuo and jugs of millet beer in a basket, clasped the basket’s handle over her arm, and took zesty strides to the barracks.
“Good day,” she greeted.
“Good day,” the first guard said, his almost transparent eyes slitting with suspicion. She wondered if he was the one who had allegedly spurned Hafisa, the woman who sold boiled groundnuts wrapped in outdated Gold Coast newspapers. Hafisa had given birth to a child the color of one of her own nuts, and when she’d gone to the barracks after pushing the baby out, the guard would not even look at her. Wurche asked for Helmut, but he was not there. As she handed the guard the basket, a chilly gust of wind suddenly swooped down. The sky darkened and trees that had seemed sturdy swung from left to right. Wurche ran, pellets of water splashing her cheeks. By the time she got to her door, the rain was pouring in sheets and had soaked her. The weather in Kete–Krachi was often like that: violent and unpredictable. She peeled off her wet clothes and slunk into bed, waves of dejection washing over her. Her mission had failed. Her thoughts drifted to Kpembe, as they always did when she was alone and often after a difficult day. When she’d first arrived in Kete–Krachi, Mma had sent a messenger begging Wurche to return. There was no message from her father, her husband or her brothers. It was comforting knowing that one person still cared for her, but a word from Etuto would have carried more weight—she wanted to know that her father missed her, needed her. And yet, nine months had gone by and not a peep.
Later, Wurche took the flimsy manuscript of a Nana Asma’u poem to bed in the dim light of the room, with the sound of the river lapping in the evening’s quiet. She always read through the poems first to get a sense of their themes before copying them for Jaji—even though they were ultimately always about a person she was not: a good woman. She preferred doing her own reading, about people such as Alexander the Great, but Jaji’s library only held fragments of such literature. She’d barely started the first line when claps cut through the silence. She went to the door and met Helmut’s beaming grin. In his hand, a small lantern. He thanked her for the tuo and asked to take a walk with her. She changed into a smock and riding boots.
The smell of ash, dawadawa trees and rain lingered in the air. The sky was pitch black—the moon nowhere in sight—but spangled with stars. They said nothing to each other as they edged towards the river. She wanted to ask him again what he was doing in Kete–Krachi, but not with the combative approach she’d used before. She had to learn to be patient.
“You don’t mind if this is a long walk?” said Helmut.
“I wore my riding boots.”
A herd of cattle grazed on the bank, their long horns like a garden of
thorns.
“The Fulani believe that cattle come from water,” she said. “They say a water spirit impregnated a woman who lived by the river. In those days, cattle lived in water. The spirit drove the cattle from the water for his human children. He taught them how to herd the cattle and breed them. That’s why you always see Fulani people with cows.”
Helmut asked if Aminah was Fulani. Wurche, who had never asked Aminah where she’d come from, said, “Yes, from somewhere around there.”
She was embarrassed that she knew nothing about the person who took care of her child. About the person whose beauty was invading her dreams. Was Helmut, too, in love with her?
“She works very hard,” he said.
Wurche wondered where the conversation was going. The walk needed to end if he’d invited her to ask about wooing Aminah.
“Why did you say that?” she asked.
He hesitated, then said, “I read a dossier with information on the region, in which the Fulani were reputed to be lazy. The report said they would rather lord it over others and own slaves, mostly because they were some of the first converts to Islam.”
“And it said what about Gonjas?”
“Only that the name came from the Hausa word for kola.”
“There’s more.”
“And perhaps yours being a higher civilization because you’re Muslims. One group was described as having a despot for a king and his people, drunkards.”
A hint of triumph passed over Wurche, quickly replaced by annoyance. What was this big dossier? And why lump a whole people as lazy or hardworking or drunkards? She knew people in Kpembe who worked the land till their joints grew stiff and she knew people who drank till their lips turned pink.
They reached a part of the river where felled logs lay. Wurche lowered herself onto a log. The rough ridges of it poked her skin. Helmut sat too, placed the lantern on the grass and inched towards her. She wanted to push him away. She wasn’t in control of her insides. Her emotions were spilling out, all over the place.
“Do you have the dossier?”
He shook his head. “I read it in Germany.”
It would be good to know what kind of white people were coming to places like Kete–Krachi, and if they were there to help or if it was for their own benefit. She had to stay calm. If she got angry, she would upset him and lose the only link into their world. She asked him about his family.
His father taught in a place called a university, a school for adults. His mother raised his five siblings and him. He thought his parents lived uninteresting lives, so after completing the year of required army training, he volunteered to stay on, which is why he got sent to Kete–Krachi. He grew up in a town called München, also by a river, like Kete–Krachi. He was recently made lieutenant, but still felt like he mostly took instructions.
“Nothing exhilarating,” concluded Helmut. “Now tell me, how does a princess from Salaga end up in her enemy’s camp?”
“Running away from a husband she was forced to marry. What else has Shaibu told you?”
“He says good things about you. That you used to beat him in horse races when you were younger.”
“Is he doing anything about my horse? Are you? It’s been over nine months.”
“I haven’t heard anything about a stolen horse yet. We get a lot of cases of livestock. Sheep, cows.”
“Some time ago, there was a man caught for stealing a cow. Aminah told me you referred the case to the imams. Why didn’t you just arrest him?”
“Because your imams are to you what priests are to us. They are important for keeping the peace, and we don’t want that to change.”
“And the Dente wasn’t important for keeping the peace? You executed one of our religious leaders. To me, it seems like you are pushing us against each other.”
“It happened before I came here, but I heard he was anything but peaceful.”
Wurche stretched her arms to the skies. The European strategy was definitely divisive. She observed Helmut. He seemed an honest man.
Later, he walked her to her door, and again pressed his lips to her hand.
* * *
—
Outside Jaji’s house, two dogs sniffed at each other. One was small and black, the other big, with a mottled brown coat. The big dog tried to mount the small dog, but the small dog wasn’t having it and barked. The big dog backed off, went off to a tree, lifted his hind leg and let out a stream of urine. The small dog chased after the big dog and started sniffing him again, tried jumping on him. The big dog, encouraged, tried again to mount the small dog. The small dog snarled. And on the dance went. Every time they drew close to Jaji, she flapped her straw hat at them. Wurche saw a white dog approach from the distance. The small dog ran up to it.
“That little dog is flitting from one dog to the next,” said Wurche. “A true flirt.”
“There are too many of them,” said Jaji, fanning herself with the hat. “Apparently since the Dente was executed dogs now run this town.”
“How so?”
“Remember for a long time he didn’t allow in many outsiders. It’s the traders who brought in the dogs.”
It made Wurche think of Baki. She brushed off the thought because she didn’t want her good mood ruined. Jaji relished Saturday mornings, when she didn’t have to teach Koranic school or the women of Kete–Krachi. And Wurche liked her teacher best on those days, when she could sit by the learned woman while keeping stock of her business. Sales were so good that they had invested in more chickens and Wurche was able to pay Aminah a small cut. Small, because she had to save. Aminah collected the chickens’ eggs into baskets and sold them raw, boiled, and fried. Women bought the raw eggs, children on their way to Koranic school liked the boiled eggs, and men loved the fried eggs inserted into canoes of bread (and spying on Aminah, Wurche imagined).
The dogs yapped at each other. As she watched them, she asked Jaji why she hadn’t remarried after her husband died. “You surely have urges,” said Wurche.
“When you find me locked up in my room, I’m surmounting those urges. Besides, I’m not sure a husband will understand the work I do.”
“Aren’t you lonely?”
“I don’t have time to be lonely,” said Jaji. Wurche didn’t believe her. Jaji didn’t even have close companions. Her extended family lived near Sokoto, a two-week journey away. Even though Jaji, Shaibu and Helmut provided company, it was nothing like what family brought. Wurche missed her father and brothers and Mma. She was glad she had Aminah, her quiet companion, whom she now saw approaching from the market, holding Wumpini’s hand, a basket hanging from the elbow of her other arm. She handed over the cowries from the sales she’d made and headed into the house. Wurche wondered what went on in the girl’s head. She had never seen a frown pleat Aminah’s face. She wore a quiet smile that wasn’t always happy, but was pleasant and grounded all in her company.
“Stop it,” said Jaji, startling Wurche.
Wumpini had grabbed a stone and aimed it at the dogs.
“Don’t be cruel,” said Wurche.
“They’ll bite me,” said Wumpini. Her chest ached. She didn’t want her son to be a fearful person. If Mma were around she would say it was because Wumpini was growing up without the authority of a father. When she was younger, she wondered if growing up without a mother had made her hard, as the women of Kpembe often described her. Now, she didn’t believe any of it, because she’d had a mother: Mma had taken care of her. If anything, what Wumpini was missing was the closeness of family, where everyone played a role in raising a child. The sooner they returned to Kpembe, the better. She had to work harder to get information out of Helmut, to understand what the white men wanted, and she had to make more money.
Wurche decided to personally deliver a basket of eggs to the barracks, hoping to find Helmut. Usually Aminah did the delivery. She gave the basket t
o Bonsu the cook, an Asante man who had lived in Salaga before the war broke out.
“It’s not a good day,” said Bonsu, seated before a big bowl of dishes flecked with food. His cheeks were wet with tears.
“What’s wrong?”
“The Asantehene has been captured and the English are exiling him to some Seychelles place.”
Wurche hadn’t always been sympathetic to the Asante because they had demanded so much of the Gonja, but rather them than the Europeans. Now the Europeans had defeated the most powerful king in the region; who knew what they could do next? The door whined open and out came a pasty soldier, followed by Helmut, clutching his empty breakfast plate. She patted Bonsu’s back and waved at Helmut. His face reddened and he waved back. She asked if they could take a walk that evening. He nodded and went back inside. The interaction had been strange. Helmut had been more guarded than usual. Perhaps because his fellow white man was around. When Bonsu thrust Wurche’s basket in her direction, his eyes were like small ponds. He shook his head and went back to scrubbing dishes.
* * *
—
That night, Wurche was determined to keep the mood light, to extract as much out of Helmut as possible. She even answered his prying questions about her marriage, which he likened to that of a European queen called Catherine the Great. Helmut said, almost conspiratorially, “After she ran away from her husband, she took on a lover.”
The Hundred Wells of Salaga Page 17