Ama (14 page)

A great roar of welcome rose from the assembly.

The King wore a plain cloth of dark green silk and simple white leather sandals with gold and silver charm-cases on the straps. There the simplicity stopped. From head to ankles, he was adorned with the finest gold ornaments: on his head a crown of black velvet decorated with solid slabs of gold and the mysterious multicoloured aggrey beads. Just below the crown a red silk ribbon encircled his forehead. At his neck he wore a chain of imitation snail shells cast in solid gold; hanging over his right shoulder a silk cord on which hung three golden charm-cases; his arms were covered with bracelets of gold and aggrey beads; there were several gold rings on every finger; his chest was covered with a golden breastplate in the shape of the unfolding petals of a flower; around his knees hung bands of aggrey beads and around his ankles strings of exquisite tiny gold ornaments in the shape of coins, musical instruments, weapons, animals and birds. From his left forearm hung lumps of unformed solid gold, in the same raw state in which they had been wrenched from the earth.

Weighed down by this enormous burden of gold, the King walked slowly and with difficulty, supporting each wrist on the head of a page boy. Attendants surrounded him, ready to grip his elbows and his waist, should he stumble. What with the fan bearers waving their ostrich feather fans and the umbrella bearers, he could move neither left nor right.

Nandzi studied him as he passed.
This man is ill,
she thought. He has a serious illness. She pitied him. She recalled a day when she and Itsho had broken open a termite mound to look for the queen and of her disgust when they had at last found the distended immobile body. This king seemed to have as much freedom to move as that termite queen. And yet his subjects seemed just as loyal. Itsho. The thought of Itsho kept coming back to her this afternoon. She looked up at the cloudless sky.

A slave followed, carrying the King's armchair on arms outstretched above his head.

“Is that the famous Golden Stool?” whispered Nandzi, somewhat disappointed.

“Shh!,” replied Mensa, “No one, not even the King, sits on the Golden Stool of Asante.”

Next came more slaves each bearing on his head an enormous royal fontomfrom drum. The elephant skin was stretched tight against a frame work of what were surely human thigh bones. Certainly the decorations were human skulls. Nandzi opened her mouth to question Mensa, but she thought better of it and swallowed her words.

The Royal Drummers who followed the drum bearers, raised their arms and beat out the praise names of the King and his predecessors, “Osei Tutu, Opoku Ware, Kusi Obodum, Osei Kwadwo. Conqueror of Banda. Conqueror of Wassa. Master of Dagomba. Osei Koawia it was who vanquished them all.”

A short distance behind followed a group of women, shaded by an umbrella which was only a little smaller and less grand than that of the King. Through a gap in the silk screens which a retinue of young girls held up to protect their mistresses from public gaze, Nandzi caught a glimpse of women of such beauty, regal pride and elegant attire as she had never seen before. They were dressed simply, all in the same deep red cloth, but their earrings, necklaces, bangles and bracelets were all solid gold.

“The King's wives,” she whispered.

“Shh!” warned Mensa, “You will get us into trouble.”

“Well, aren't they?”

“No,” replied Mensa, “No man may look on the face of a wife of the King and live. That is the Queen Mother, Konadu Yaadom.”

“Which one?”

“Can't you see? The young woman in the centre, with the gold head-dress.”

“Come, you are teasing me. That woman is young enough to be the King's daughter and you tell me that she is the Queen Mother? She is not much older than I am.”

“The Queen Mother is not the mother of the King. And she is already a widow. Her husband, Prince Adu Twum, died less than a month ago. That is why they are wearing mourning cloth,” whispered Mensa hoarsely, “If you will just be quiet, I will explain to you later.”

“Then where are all the wives?”

“Shh!” Mensa warned again.

The Asantehene and his party made one circuit of the square. With his right hand the King acknowledged the cheers of his subjects. His armchair was set down. The members of his party ranged themselves around him. His supporters helped him to his seat. A squad of young men sat on the ground before him, gold handled scimitars raised high. Before them sat a crowd of small boys, the older ones proudly brandishing elephants' tails which seemed to have been dusted in gold; the youngsters waving ostrich feathers.

Immediately behind the King stood a bodyguard of handsome youths wearing leopard skin waistcoats, embellished with numerous gold and silver sheaths in each of which was a small knife with a blue agate handle. To one side were the
akrafó
, the King's souls, identified by the gold plates hanging on their chests. Pretty young girls, each carrying a silver basin, stood behind the chairs of the dignitaries.

The king clapped the tiny gold castanets which he wore on his forefinger and thumb. At a signal from the Chief Linguist the horns played a fanfare and the drums rolled. In the ensuing silence the Linguist poured libation, calling on the ancestors for their blessings.

Then the Chief Crier and Eulogist rose to his feet and, to the accompaniment of extravagant gestures, sang out the encomiums of the King for all to hear.

“Oh mighty Monarch,

“Son of Osei Tutu,

“Son of Opoku Ware

“Son of Kusi Obodum

“Who in the world can stand comparison with you?”

After each phrase he paused and the drums answered.

“The Bandas and the Wassas felt the heat of your fire

“And fled.

“The cavalry of the Dagomba heard the sound of your muskets

“And fled in panic.

“All the world's monarchs place their necks beneath your feet.

“The whole world is yours.

“Who can equal your wealth and power?

“It is not for nothing that you are called Osei Koawia,

“He who fights in the afternoon.”

Then a fearsome war-cry rang out from his lips.

“
Asante Kotoko, kum apem, apem beba
.

“Asante Porcupine. Should our enemy kill a thousand warriors, would not another thousand immediately come forward?”

Every Asante man and boy rose to his feet, and the women too. Punching the air with their fists, they repeated the Crier's words, drowning out the reply of the drums; but the newly arrived slaves, ignorant and uncommitted, remained seated.

While the roar of the crowd was at its height, a company of the younger executioners rushed into the arena, flying here and there like a brood of frenetic headless chickens, hurtling through the air, spinning, swirling around in frenzied gyrations, chanting their own distinctive nasal warnings and from time to time raising their swords and clashing them in unison against those of their fellows. As the drumming and dancing reached a crescendo, the giant Chief Executioner made a fearsome entrance, cow's tail in his left hand, bloody knife of his office in the other. His face and body and the horns of
sasabonsam
which stuck out from his forehead were painted in red and black, the colours of death. He danced in a more measured style than his minions, but the threat of his vocation was apparent in every movement. The human skulls suspended from his waist struck one another as he lunged this way and that. Nandzi was not alone in shuddering at the menace of this chief of licensed killers. Then, suddenly, the drumming stopped and the death dancers were gone.

The Criers called for silence. In the ensuing hush, the Chief Linguist announced that the distinguished army commander, Koranten Péte, would now deliver the annual tribute of the King of the Dagomba, the Ya Na. Mats were laid out before the royal party. Koranten Péte signalled to the slaves to take up their loads. Nandzi and Minjendo took their places behind him as he made his way slowly to the royal podium and the other slaves followed in twos.

Koranten Péte came to a halt. While he waited for the King to complete a private conversation with the Chief Linguist, Nandzi had an opportunity to take a closer look at him and at the Queen Mother, who sat nearby.

“Nana Okyeame,” Koranten Péte addressed the Chief Linguist, “It gives me great pleasure to deliver to Nana Asantehene the annual Dagomba tribute. The Ya Na has particularly asked me to convey to Nana assurances of his loyalty and fidelity and of his high personal esteem.

“The tribute comprises the goods which will now be laid before Nana, the slaves who bear these goods and herds of cattle, sheep and goats which are at this moment being driven to Kumase and which, I understand, have now reached Mampon.”

The Linguist repeated Koranten Péte's words to the King.

Koranten Péte continued, “I beg leave to deliver the goods.”

The King indicated his consent. Nandzi and Minjendo deposited their head-loads. Then, on Koranten Péte's instructions they helped those who had followed them to do the same.

While this was under way the Royal Musicians kept the assembly entertained with their sankos and flutes, drums and gongs and bells.

The King rose to make a formal inspection of the goods and then he shook hands warmly with Koranten Péte.

The Chief Linguist clapped his hands for silence.

“Nana Asantehene has asked me to remind you that he rewarded the distinguished leadership, great personal bravery and unquestioned loyalty of General Koranten Péte in the conquest of Dagomba with an entitlement to one third of all tributes collected. At the invitation of Nana Asantehene, Nana Péte has already made his selection.”

Nandzi whispered a translation to Minjendo.

“I hope that he has chosen us,” said Minjendo. “Nana Péte would not be a bad man to work for. At least we know him.”

Though it was already late afternoon and the shadows were lengthening, the most important business of the day was yet to come.

Accompanied by horns and drums, the first of the visiting Kings now led his retinue of supporters to greet the Asantehene. Again, as earlier in the day, umbrellas spun and flags waved. Bare-headed and bare-chested, the visitor approached.

“Nana Asantehene,” he said, “Please accept my assurance of my utter devotion and that of my people. As proof of our allegiance, I should be honoured to receive your foot upon my neck. We are as nothing before you. All our property, our gold and slaves, our very lives, are yours to command.”

Then he sank to his knees and placed his forehead on the ground.

The Asantehene stretched out his hands which the visitor grasped in his own. They exchanged a few private words and then, Asum Adu, Minister of Finance and Keeper of the Royal Treasury, handed the visitor a small brass chest containing a valuable gift of gold dust.

The visitor made an appropriately fawning speech of thanks and took his leave, to be followed by the next in the queue.

Nandzi yawned. She had had enough of this pomp and ceremony for one day. Moreover, she badly wanted to piss. Just as she was wondering whether the guards would let her steal away to the outskirts of the crowd to relieve herself, Koranten Péte gave the signal. He had received permission to leave.

CHAPTER 9

In the days which followed various strangers appeared at the camp and took parties of slaves away. Nandzi and Minjendo watched nervously but no one came for them.

The next Saturday, Mensa appeared. He was not in a good mood.

“I've been sent to fetch you,” he said. “You had better put on your good cloth.”

“Where are you taking me?” asked Nandzi.

“To your new mistress.”

“My new mistress?”

“Yes, the Asantehemaa, the Queen Mother. You saw her at the Adae, do you remember? You thought she was one of the King's wives. Nana Koranten Péte has sent me to take you to her.”

“Can my friend come too?”

“Young miss,” said the musketeer, “Remember who you are. You have been brought here to work, not to spend your time gossiping with your girl friends.”

He held up his right hand to still Nandzi's protest.

“And while I'm on that subject, let me give you some friendly advice. You are going to live and work in the royal palace. The palace is a dangerous place. If you value your skin, be humble. Learn to keep your mouth shut. Never speak unless you are spoken to. Never draw attention to yourself. Listen and learn. We have a proverb which says that at another's hearth, you do not have the same freedom you might have in your mother's kitchen. Remember that and you will have a better chance of surviving.”

“What do you mean, ‘a dangerous place' and ‘a better chance of surviving?' Why?”

“There you go again. I have already said more than I intended. I was a fool to offer you the benefit of my wisdom. Now gather your things, say goodbye to your friend and let's go.”

* * *

In the shade in the far corner of the courtyard sat a man and a woman, each on a low stool. The woman had dropped her cloth around her waist. A baby was feeding at her breast.

The man called out to Nandzi, “Young woman, come.”

She recognised the voice: it was Koranten Péte's. Could this woman be the Queen Mother? she wondered. In her confusion she tried to recall Mensa's advice. She crossed the courtyard, stopped in front of them and curtsied. They both looked at her.

“Nananom,” she said, “My grandparents, I give you the morning greeting.”

Koranten Péte nodded approvingly.

“Nana,” he said to the woman, “You remember I mentioned I would be bringing you a gift. Well, here she is.”

He turned to Nandzi.

“You told me your name but I have forgotten.”

“They call me Nandzi,” she said.

As the woman moved the child to the other breast, Nandzi saw it was a boy.

“She had better have a good Asante name. It is Saturday today. I will call her Ama. Ama Donko. Do you understand?”