She told him about the Germans going up to Salaga and that Wurche wanted to waste no time in getting there. But she would rather stay in Kete–Krachi. She wanted choice. She wanted freedom.
“What would you do if you were me?” said Aminah.
“I have been in your situation,” said Moro. “In many ways, I still am. I grew up in one of the slave villages of Salaga and Kpembe, in a place called Sisipe. So I am considered a descendant of slaves. I was very young when I was taken to live in the Kpembewura’s palace. My parents thought I was lucky to be taken under the former king’s wing. They didn’t even protest when I told them he had recruited me to raid villages when I came of age. My father said everybody comes onto the earth to fulfil a number of tasks. Life will lead you to that place, so do each task well and let life take care of the rest.”
Moro paid for the hoe he’d been looking at. The seller wore round wires over his eyes, a piece of jewelry Aminah had never seen before. What about the two of us, Aminah wanted to ask him. Why had their lives been linked if she was going to be sent far away? She was finally letting that thought bloom: that their paths were linked for a reason.
“In Salaga,” she said, “why didn’t you take me then and why didn’t you come back?”
“I saw you and thought you were beautiful. And that it was sad that you were with that short, ugly man. I didn’t know what your relationship was, at first. When I found out he was about to sell you, I made an arrangement to buy you. I didn’t have enough money because Shaibu had asked me to buy him smocks in the market from the sales I made. I couldn’t go back to Kete–Krachi without the smocks. My plan was to get my pay from Shaibu and return in three days with the money to finalize my exchange with Maigida, but Shaibu didn’t pay me for a week, and Wurche had already bought you by the time I got back to Salaga. It seems like Shaibu’s my friend, but I’m really his servant. Royals never let me forget that I am descended from slaves.
“When I returned to Salaga, I was angry with Maigida, but thankful he hadn’t sold you to a stranger. Then I heard that Wurche had moved to Kete–Krachi. I had to find out if she’d brought you with her. I was the one who begged Shaibu to go to Jaji’s to pay our respects and there you were, even more striking than when I first saw you. It seemed like destiny was working in our favor.”
“And now, it’s pushing me away again,” Aminah said, despite herself. “So I get to Kpembe and then what? I won’t stay a slave forever. Unlike you, I wasn’t born into a life of servitude.” Aminah regretted her words. She’d meant no harm.
“I am going to Sisipe,” he said, “to farm the land. When you told me I shouldn’t sell people…I heard you. I had been trying to get out for a while, but your words were the push I needed. Go to Kpembe because she needs your help. Then ask for your freedom. Keep asking. She’ll hear you too. After that, you’re welcome to come to Sisipe if you’d like.”
He reached out, timidly at first, then firmly pressed Aminah’s shoulder and let it go.
* * *
—
That afternoon, Wurche, Aminah and Wumpini sat on a cart laden with their belongings and chickens and headed for Salaga. Aminah hadn’t realized that Wurche wasn’t the wealthy woman she’d first met. She was surprised that they couldn’t even afford their own donkey. It was sobering and made her feel sorry for Wurche, made Aminah glad she was still with her for the return to Kpembe. When Wurche and Wumpini had settled back into life in Kpembe, if it was still standing, Aminah would ask to be set free.
The donkey cart came to a stop in front of a building that the cart owner claimed was the Lampour mosque. It was pocked with bullet holes like a starlit night, and the owner refused to go on. Wurche argued with the man and tried to get him to take them to Kpembe, but he said it was his last stop.
“It smells like burnt tuo,” said Wumpini, as Aminah took him down from the cart. At nearly four, he was taller and trimmer, but still carried his weight in his bones. She retrieved the two baskets of chickens and looked about. Wumpini was right. The air reeked of ash. It reminded her of the day she’d lost her home. A few steps ahead, she made out a naked corpse. The cart almost ran over it as it departed. Aminah held Wumpini close and pressed her palm over his eyes. In the distance, gunshots sounded. Ka-ka-ka-ka!
Wurche rooted through one of the sacks and brought out a long gun. She thrust it into Aminah’s hands and told her to wait while she arranged for them to get to Kpembe. Aminah looked at the gun, inscribed with Arabic. It was a weighty object she could have done without. It didn’t make her feel any safer.
“Why is everything broken?” asked Wumpini. “Where’s Mama?”
“Some bad people came to burn the place,” said Aminah. “Sister will be back soon.” Everywhere they turned was a stack of broken-down walls and thatch and cinders. It would be a miracle if Wurche found transportation. Aminah put the gun down, but immediately picked it up when a man covered in soot approached them. Where was Wurche? But the man kept walking.
Wurche strode over with someone Aminah thought she recognized. They got closer and Aminah wasn’t sure what to say to him. He was, after all, the person who had brokered her sale.
“Maigida,” she said coolly.
“You look well,” he said, then turned to Wurche, who pointed at the chickens.
“Maigida has kindly agreed to keep our chickens until I can come back for them,” explained Wurche. “We have to walk to Kpembe.”
Aminah placed the chicken baskets in Maigida’s back room. While the rest of Salaga had fallen apart, it was a room conserved in time. It was whole and had kept its moldy fermented smell. How many lives had been exchanged in there? Where were they now?
They left Maigida’s and began the trek to Kpembe. On the narrow streets of Salaga, people bent over piles of smoking rubble, their clothes torn and filthy, and gathered the charred remains of their lives. One man lowered a pot into a well and rinsed the soot off his face.
“Another well!” exclaimed Wumpini.
“Salaga is the town of one hundred wells,” said Wurche.
“Why are there so many wells here?” asked Aminah.
“They were built to wash slaves after long journeys,” said Wurche.
A town created to sell human beings, thought Aminah. A town like that could not prosper. It was probably why Salaga had suffered so many wars.
“What are slaves?” asked Wumpini.
I am your mother’s slave, Aminah wanted to say.
“People who are owned by other people.”
“Why…”
“Wumpini, save your energy,” said Wurche. “We have a long walk home.”
What should have taken just under an hour became a two-hour long punishment. The road was blocked with stones piled high, and twice, white men in the same uniform Helmut wore had set up their caravans. They were laughing, some of them even half undressed and cooking. They didn’t look menacing, but Wurche took out her gun and herded Aminah and Wumpini into the bush at the side of the road.
They crossed the forest where Aminah had learned to mount Baki and where Wumpini had practiced his walking. Patches of black and brown had replaced the beautiful green that had once covered the forest’s floor. Trees that had once seemed grand were now dry, charred at the roots.
By the time they reached Kpembe, Wumpini was covered in dust, Aminah had a splitting headache, and Wurche was walking faster than ever, steps ahead of Aminah and Wumpini. Aminah would have the done the same if she were in Wurche’s shoes. At the palace, the main halls were intact, but the huts in the outer ring had burned down. Even the two stones that used to guard the entrance had disappeared. Cautiously, gun held out in front of her, Wurche led them into the inner court. Mma was folded over the well close to Sulemana’s room, one hand on her back, the other reaching for the a pot in the well.
“Mma,” said Wurche, lowering the gun to her side. The old lady whippe
d herself around, then clasped her mouth, dropping the pot into a thousand shards. She came closer and her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, thank Allah! Alhamdulillah. I expected the worst.”
“I expected the worst, too,” said Wurche, embracing her grandmother.
Mma struggled to pick up Wumpini, squeezing him in a tight hug. She leaned over and hugged Aminah. Then she turned to the compound. “Maraba, maraba, maraba! They’ve come back!”
This eventually drew out Sulemana and some of Etuto’s younger children. Etuto was the last person to come out of his hut. Aminah marveled at how, in two years, the tall man had developed a stoop, his shoulders hunched as if invisible hands were pushing him down. His skin was sallow and blotchy. And he had shed the weight that once made him appear frightening. All in the compound watched with bated breath. Etuto wrapped his arms around Wurche. Aminah was surprised when a loud sob issued from Wurche. She was glad no one had been hurt. She was happy for Wurche. It also meant that Wurche didn’t need her. She could ask for freedom.
Wurche
Wurche hid the soft swell of her belly under large smocks. She had been vomiting for a few weeks. At first, she thought it could be explained by nerves. Then she thought she was adjusting to Kpembe’s well water. A few weeks later, in her mirror, she saw a round bump sitting unusually low on her belly. She did everything to avoid Mma’s scrutiny, and the only thing that worked was foisting Wumpini on the old lady.
She was glad to be back with family, especially since Adnan had returned to Dagbon. With glee, Sulemana recounted how her husband had demanded his bride-price be returned, refusing to go back to Dagbon empty-handed. A wife with royal blood or his bride-price. He stayed in Wurche’s room for close to a month and was only placated when Etuto used his powers as Kpembewura to force a lesser chief to give up a daughter to Adnan. In retaliation, that chief defected to Kete–Krachi, as had many of Etuto’s once-trusted soldiers. That and the German attack had proved costly to her father, a fact Wurche was sensitive to since she hadn’t helped her father’s health by running away. She was now determined to stay and do everything in her being to appease him.
But the baby embedded in her womb was not going to help.
Only Aminah had noticed Wurche was carrying. The girl feigned ignorance for a while, then asked one evening what Wurche was going to do when the baby came out. Wurche pretended she didn’t know what Aminah was talking about. Of course, the baby would cause a stir once she delivered it, the way everyone knew, from the light, iroko-wood skin of the Kete–Krachi groundnut seller’s baby, that the father was a white man. But that was no reason to get rid of it. Helmut had been good to her, shown her tenderness in a way neither Adnan nor Moro had. She had kept convincing herself that she was sleeping with him to learn German secrets and tactics, and a minor infatuation didn’t hurt—it propelled her—but she was also sad to be away from him, from his gentleness and honesty. But soon it was clear their dalliance was never given a chance to develop weight or complexity, because her sadness faded when she saw her family: Mma with Wumpini; Etuto, in spite of his frailty; Sulemana. Aminah.
* * *
—
One morning, terrible contractions made it impossible to keep the secret in her belly hidden any longer. Wurche barked at Aminah to fetch Mma. Pain tore through her body and she held in a scream, settled on the floor, and exposed her belly. She thought childbirth got easier after the first time. When Mma arrived she clasped her mouth, then gathered herself and sent Aminah to get the midwife and her assistants from the house across the street.
The baby was small with a full head of curly hair, and at first, no one remarked on her color, since most babies came out looking pale.
But by the first week, the baby’s skin hadn’t baked into a deep brown; if anything it had grown lighter, the hue of shea butter kissed a golden brown by the sun. And the baby’s eyes were clear like glass, with flecks of green. After eight days, when Etuto was allowed to see the baby, he came in and wordlessly walked out of Wurche’s hut.
“They are talking about me, aren’t they?” asked Wurche. Aminah was wiping the baby as Wurche rested in bed. She looked at Wurche and opened her eyes wide. “I have a white baby and they think I’m a whore.”
“Sister, people say your baby is beautiful.”
“And my father? He hasn’t given a name. He hasn’t said a word to me.” Wurche paused. Milk issued from her breasts and stained her cotton blouse. She fixed her eyes on the orange whorls stamped on the door’s curtain. The snail-like shape repeated in almost translucent patterns even as she shifted her gaze to Aminah. “Can you believe that I didn’t know who Wumpini’s father was at first?” She paused, read Aminah, who shifted her attention from the sandy brown baby on the bed to regard Wurche. “If it was Adnan or if it was Moro.”
Aminah stiffened, then went back to wiping the baby. She lifted the little girl’s fat thighs and swiped her buttocks.
“But soon it became clear Adnan was very much his father.”
Relief washed over Wurche. The intention was not to hurt Aminah, but to fulfill her own selfish need to tell somebody who knew all parties involved. Also, there was something about confessing to Aminah in particular that provided catharsis. She wanted Aminah to hold her. To just hold her. Instead, Aminah swaddled the baby in linen and handed her back to Wurche.
“You’re not upset I’ve told you this, are you?”
Aminah shook her head.
“You never say anything. Tell me how you honestly feel.”
Aminah paused.
“I’ve already forgiven Moro,” she said, finally. “And I don’t think you’re a whore. You’ve loved several people and that’s not a crime. I saw the way the baby’s father looked at you. It reminded me of my parents. He loved you…”
Then Aminah frowned and wrinkled her nose.
“What is it?”
“I want my freedom.”
Aminah left the room before Wurche could respond.
* * *
—
Two weeks went by and Wurche’s baby still hadn’t been named. At first Wurche thought Etuto was going through one of his bad moments, but when she saw his messenger coming out of his hut laughing heartily, she stormed in.
She greeted him, curtsying with all the politeness she could muster.
“Wurche,” said Etuto, regarding her from where he sat on his pouf. He didn’t get up to embrace her or smile or point to some new gadget he’d been gifted. His eyes were puffy and red. The vapor of alcohol hit her where she stood, more than an arm’s length away.
“Etuto, my baby has no name.”
“The father names the baby.” He whisked a fly off his cheek.
“The baby’s father is not here, so the grandfather takes on that role.”
Etuto studied Wurche for a long time.
“Name it what you like,” he said.
Wurche’s heart ached. Her father had never been so cold to her.
“Please,” started Wurche.
“What do you want me to say? First, you take off, making me look like a fool before everyone from here to Dagbon. It was fine when it was other people defecting, but my own blood? Let me finish talking. I understood, eventually. Your spirit and Adnan’s spirits were not matched, and I was forcing you to kill your spirit. I got over that betrayal. But this I don’t understand. These people have destroyed me. Us.”
“I have no explanation. But, I need your blessing. Do it for the baby.”
Wurche got on her knees to beg, but Etuto stood up, grimacing as he straightened his back. Life was funny. She, who had mistrusted the white man, now had a baby whose father was white. Her father, who went to the white man with open arms, refused to accept one of their children.
“Well, as they say, the child of a whore will be a whore too.”
He went into his inner room. Wurche watched
the curtain settle back into place and swallowed the gulp that had blocked her throat. All her life, she’d been afraid of this one unsaid fact of her mother’s identity. It didn’t bother her as much as she’d expected, but it angered her that her father thought he could use it to insult her.
Days later, she decided to name the child Bayaba, after her mother.
* * *
—
Since Bayaba’s birth, silence had wrapped around the compound and tightened its downy grip, especially on Wurche, who was considering going back to Kete–Krachi or somewhere on the Gold Coast, near the sea. She’d heard that women with children like hers were not a rarity there. Etuto had sent Sulemana there to meet the Gold Coast governor and Wurche had wanted to go with him, but Mma begged her to hold on until the child could walk.
Wurche wanted to tell Aminah that she had set her free, but she would wait until Sulemana returned. She needed to have at least one person on her side.
Because it had grown so quiet in the palace, the wail that shook the compound awake a few days later was so loud, so deep, it rang in the ears even after it had stopped. Wurche threw on a smock, left Bayaba sleeping, and went outside, where a messenger was kneeling before Etuto and Mma. Etuto, as still as a pot of water, was staring above the messenger’s head, not even a ripple shaking his body. The wail had issued from Mma. Aminah was there, holding Wumpini’s hand.
“What’s going on?” asked Wurche.
“Something has happened to Sulemana, but it was said in Gonja, so I didn’t understand.”
“Sulemana and the others have been killed,” Mma said in the same tone Jaji’s students used when learning their lines. “At Yeji. We don’t know if it was bandits or your father’s enemies.”
“It’s not true,” said Wurche. “It can’t be…”
“I’m finished,” said Etuto. “This is the end. They are coming for me.”
The Hundred Wells of Salaga Page 19