A Different Sun: A Novel of Africa (19 page)

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Dry Season

Recently we visited the night market, where women sell into the wee hours, their babies sleeping beside them. A thousand oil lamps on small wooden tables, quaint displays of green and red vegetables, the low hum of voices.

[A written line blacked out.]

The lack of women friends is a severe hardship. No one to talk to but one’s husband [something crossed out]. My face is darker in the mirror. I may never be able to go home. What would my family say? Henry has found a friend in Jacob. I think they trust one another. The rains will come and we can plant a garden. It must be I worry about losing this one too.

—EMMA, THE RED DIARY, OGBOMOSO, OCTOBER 1854

A
HALF DOZEN BROWN
lizards claimed the post just over Emma’s head. “Shoo,” she said, waving. They blinked their eyes. A wisp of dogwood flittered through her mind.
Our Father who art in heaven.
What was it?

Her belly was just swelling and she kept her corset loose. It was the beginning of her second dry season, her second baby, her second school. The number of students varied, but by October she had four regular pupils besides Abike and Wole. When she showed the oldest boy a primer and explained that the writing was his own language, he pressed his hands on the page as he might examine the leather of a drum, to see if it was tight enough to release good sound.

She encouraged the children to teach her Yoruba words. In exchange, she gave them an English one and then they wrote both on the blackboard. Many of their words were new to Emma; they might contribute to Henry’s vocabulary. One boy taught her
deho
: hunting for a cricket by digging out its hole. He acted the word with such zest that
digging
seemed a poor equivalent. Emma asked the word for
blue
and was told “color of sky.” “No, blue,” she had said, showing the color in their own clothes. This time she was given “color of water.”

In her days, Emma felt almost secure, only to discover in moments of solitude that something frightening and unknown lingered beneath the surface of her life. Or perhaps the feeling was more akin to a free fall; nothing substantial held her up. She was not helped when they received news that the new Baptist missionary had died in Accra and was buried at sea.

“Poor man,” Henry said.

“Yes,” Emma said, imagining the tiny bark of the man’s casket, the cold water enveloping it, there and gone. She clasped Henry’s arm against her chest.

Since the confrontation with Jacob, she tried to avoid him except in Henry’s company. She did not believe an apology was due, though she felt regret and hoped a natural remedy might be accomplished. There might come a time when she would need him.

Two weeks later, Henry and Duro made a large fire for roasting guinea fowl. Henry had bagged them on his way back from a neighboring village. After Duro had cleaned the birds, Henry dredged them in salt and a little flour, his shirt sleeves rolled up as he worked, and she took pleasure in watching him. His forearms were one of his best features, taut and purposeful, a bit hairy but not wildly so. She admired the way he secured the fowl in a dress of sacking, tight and true as a bolster on a divan. The birds were now hidden in the ashes, where he had put them to roast along with several coco yams. Henry’s ways were charming when they were alone. His use of a hillbilly colloquialism or his penchant for washing his face squatting at a bucket out of doors became again the attractive elements of the daring man she had met in Georgia, and she welcomed every moment of such feeling. It seemed to her that a marriage needed rekindling, just like a fire, or it would lose its power.

Evening came on and the moon with it. By eight o’clock, a soft wind blew in the compound where they were still sitting around the fire, she in her hammock chair, Henry on the ground. He had some piece of writing and the tin lantern, and they were quiet. She thought about Georgia, where, in the afternoons, light was slanting across yards and fields, the shadows of pines stretched out long as roads. There, in the mornings, her father might be having some acres turned to lie fallow; in another field, root vegetables would be fattening. Standing, he would look at the land, holding the bridle slack, the horse, damp nose to the ground, searching out the last of the clover.

Her husband kept working. She felt the smallest impatience, something the size of a walnut. At last, he spoke. “Jacob tells me a diviner sees Wole being a book boy.”

“What did you say to that?”

“I reminded him diviners don’t light our path. But I figure a
babalawo
must be right on occasion; otherwise he would lose his station.”

She brooded. Her impatience with Henry’s inattention to her was now about as large as a bucket. Just as the impatience was nearing elephant size, she heard a most rankling sound, thin and determined, and her first thought was of the guinea fowl they had eaten, risen charred from the fire to perform a lamentation. Henry’s pen jumped across the page. “What in tarnation?” he said. The sound came again.

“Jacob’s banjo,” she said. “We haven’t heard that since we arrived.”

Her husband gathered his writing and the lantern. It sprinkled light. “I hope he’s not trying to woo a woman with that song,” he said.

Emma lifted her head with a start as her mind went to Abike. She found the girl with Duro. “Let me help you to bed,” she said, feeling suddenly alert.

After her time with Henry, she was still wakeful. “We’ll have to tell them soon,” she said. “My dresses are getting tight; I’ll need to let them out again.”

“Yes, soon,” he said, and turned over to sleep.

On the Sabbath, Henry shared their news with Duro and Jacob. Emma told her handmaid. Emma felt awkward Monday morning when she wore one of her looser dresses, but by afternoon, the idea of a new baby seemed woven into their communal life. Even Jacob saluted her, and she felt the natural remedy had come.

She was sitting in the Africa room with Abike, threading a needle, when the Mohamedans arrived on horseback. The men looked very fine indeed. Their faces were oval and dark, their movement fluid as smoke. Henry wished her attendance and she was happy to oblige. The silver tray came out and the china teacups. They gathered on colorful mats. Emma knew a smattering of their language, Henry a fair amount, and they, being traders, knew some Yoruba. One was Fulani, the other two Hausa, from the north, former enemies but all cozy now through mutual interest in trade. They were headed for Ilorin, the Mohamedan citadel Emma thought of as a siren calling her husband. But today she was too full of life to be worried about Henry’s wanderlust. They would be in Ogbomoso for some time; Henry had spoken of a church.

The men showed her beautiful objects, including an ivory tusk carved out to create a multitude of elephants, walking single file, head to tail, the work so dainty it looked like lace. Emma dared not ask the price. As a gift, they left an ornately patterned leather stool. It was a pleasant evening. She only rebuked herself a little for thinking, at one point, that the men were a bit arrogant to show her such fine things that were beyond her means.

The dry season leapt forward. Henry laid the mattress near the door, where they might catch a breeze. In the day, every bit of shade brimmed with those retreating from the heat: men, women, children, goats, chickens, squirrels, lizards, birds. Just when you wanted water, rivers shrank; creeks vanished. Turtles pressed into muck. Leaves withered and the shady spaces shrank. The sun proved itself daily, coming and going, chariot of fire, the Yoruba god Shango. Yet Emma discovered a new will and a different thirst. She made herself a loose African dress that would not bind her waist or her wrists, and everyone admired it, even her husband. She went to the Iyalode’s and worked with the women, especially Sade, her petite student and champion buttonhole maker. Back home, she dipped Henry’s tin cup into the cooling water pot, drank lustily, and saved the last bit to pour over her head, even dousing her dress. Emma felt she was getting very close to something that had been worrying her for a long time, something more troubling even than Sarah, something fiercer than Henry or her father, something as frightening as where you would be if you had never been born. Perhaps she was finally breaking through to a true experience of God. She had tried so hard to have it.

Just as she was on the cusp of this awakening, she and Henry were invited to the Baale’s compound for a festival day. Emma resented it. She did not relish the thought of buzzing insects and warm drinks and grilled meat—who knew
what
. Nor did she welcome an opportunity to observe the king’s wives dance for him. She already had her sweet domestic view of the women, gained when she called at the eldest wife’s house. She did not wish to upset it if they should dance half naked. She sidled over in her mind and caught a glimpse of that question. She had touched it more than once, but not recently.
Was Henry ever stirred by the notion of more than one wife?
It was a frightening thought, but in moments of fear and longing she had caught herself pulling on it as one might press a wound to gauge the extremity of feeling and find an edge.

“
Must
I attend?” she said to her husband. “It will be taxing to sit so long in the heat.”

“We’re living in the man’s house,” he said. “The priests will be there. They have given permission for us to attend and would take our absence as an affront.”

Emma went to her husband and took his thick brown hair in her hands. She kissed his mouth hard. “I hope I don’t die,” she said. “It would serve you right.”

Emma wore the muslin dress from Ijaye and a green ribbon at her neck. Henry was waiting for her in the compound, talking to Caesar, explaining that they would be riding to the festival. There would be other horses, drums, and shouting. The horse should not be afraid. Henry assisted her in mounting, then handed her their gift to the king, a goblet purchased in England, now nestled in a native basket. He swung up behind her. A dozen men dressed in white skirts arrived to lead them. Briefly Emma considered Abike and Jacob. Was it appropriate for them to be left together, possibly alone? Well, it was too late to worry about it now.

The streets were thronged with people. They found the Baale established on a chair at the front of his house. He wore a long white skirt, no blouse but a huge necklace of red coral around his neck, and a most beautiful beaded crown, not so tall as some Emma had seen but intricately done in blue, brown, and yellow. Atop the crown’s cap, four crescent buttresses rose skyward, and right there where they joined sat that ever-present bird. There were drummers off to the side, dressed in fine
agbadas
, some working with the talking drum that was supposed to send messages hither to yon. The interspersed beats entered Emma, and she felt the vibration inside her.

A royal servant stepped forward to offer the salutation. “The Baale salutes the
oyinbo
and his wife. He is happy you have come. You are welcome.” The king did not look at them directly but moved his head in agreement. Emma thought it an odd way of doing things.

“Hold your hat so it doesn’t fall,” Henry said. “Then bow your head when you present the goblet.” He gave her arm a squeeze, and she was reminded of their knowledge of one another, deepened because they lived in a country where they were foreigners to everyone but themselves. Emma wasn’t sure if she should hand the glass to the king or his attendant. The Baale was exercising a horsetail whisk, whether as a fan or to keep off flies she wasn’t sure. Just as she made a motion toward the servant, the king opened his hands and she offered it to him. He turned it over, ran his hand along the smooth sides, and shook his head in agreement.

“Thank you. It is fine. You are welcome.” He looked into Emma’s eyes, and she thought his face registered grave responsibility and a momentary joy. The servant pointed in the direction of two European-style chairs. Thank the good Lord. They were arranged in the shade of a tree and there was enough space around them that she and Henry might breathe. From her seat, Emma took stock of the mounds of yam and cassava laid out on mats. The drumming started back up and reached a crescendo. Everyone looked toward a large passageway. It might, Emma surmised, lead to the king’s private courtyard. Sure enough, his eldest wife, Ronke, was making her appearance, her long neck ringed with gold. She pushed the air out in front of her and then brought up her backside, as if the air offered points of leverage. Seeing the woman’s chest covered, Emma thanked the Lord again. A second wife appeared. She made a circle of her arms in front of her, gently raising and lowering them, as she moved to the drumming. A third wife lowered her hands and face, turned herself in half circles, and made progress over the ground by scooting back on her legs rather than forward. And so on until all the wives were dancing, no two alike. But they wore identical dresses with beads sewn on a fringe that swayed as they moved along. Emma joined the clapping. The women processed to the king. Now he stood and danced briefly with the wives, lightly shaking out the whisk. There was lots of clapping and he returned to his chair. The drummers began to sing. Emma could not catch the words, but Henry gave her the gist of it. First the Baale was praised for his purity, honor, and courage. He had killed a number of elephants and even as a young boy he was a great warrior, fighting off the infidel Fulani who had been rebuffed at Ogbomoso. Finally he was praised for his generosity. At last the drums and the singers had told enough stories.
Oh good
, Emma thought,
we’re drawing to a close
. But other men must dance. Drums must talk again. Children must perform gymnastics. Palm wine needed drinking. Emma’s head listed to one side. She was so sleepy. At last they reached the grand finale, what everyone had come for: distributions of yams and cassava to the head woman of each compound. Emma was worn out. Certainly the afternoon had deteriorated: men laughing with their mouths full, children relieving themselves in public. She found herself repelled by the women’s large flat feet and the king sliding down in his chair. She couldn’t imagine why she had earlier thought he reflected the seriousness worthy of a monarch. Flies swarmed everywhere.