THE MIDWIFE LIVES IN A round mud hut with a thatched roof at the southernmost tip of the city. I draw more attention than I want to when I arrive. I can feel several pairs of eyes, like the brush of fingertips, as I get closer to the entrance. There’s a chorus of dogs and chickens that seem eager to nip at my heels and perhaps should, as they loudly bark and cluck, “Impostor!”
Of course I’m not allowed into the compound because I am a man, but a young boy, probably the midwife’s son or nephew, comes out with the midwife and sets a small bench down for her to sit upon so that she can see to my wound.
“It is a very small wound to warrant such a long journey. I cannot imagine this was outside the expertise of the royal healers,” she says. Her voice is deep as a man’s but with twice the music of any woman I’ve met. There’s a shrewd twinkle in her eye, but the rest of her face remains neutral.
I have my reply ready when I see the girl step out of the compound, a deep indigo Adire cloth wrap covering her from chest to ankle, copper coins winking from the ends of her braids.
“I… uh…”
“Motashakr awi, Khala Monifa,” the girl says to the midwife as her gaze darts my way, once, I think. I hope.
“Afwan, my girl. If the cough becomes worse, you come to me,” the midwife replies, then adds, “Tayo will walk with you as you head home.”
The girl shakes her head. “No, no. I have many stops to make. I am trying to find that honey to sweeten Iyin’s tea.”
“I insist,” the midwife urges.
“But I cannot pay you what is owed for such a kindness,” the girl whispers, trying desperately to keep her voice low enough that I cannot hear. I pretend to be preoccupied with the pain in my hand, which has almost completely disappeared.
The midwife shakes her head and grips both the girl’s’ hands in hers. The girl bends down. Now I cannot hear the rest of the exchange, and before I have a chance to react, she’s walking down the street with the boy in tow. I follow them at a distance. I’m not even that discreet about it,
The midwife doesn’t try to call me back.
When the girl stops to buy spices, I pause at the opposite stall and pretend to haggle over sandals. When she stops for incense, I fall back a bit and purchase some sweet and spicy kelewele and nearly burn the skin off the roof of my mouth in the process.
“Everyone can see you are following her,” the man jokes as he peels more of the blackened fruit and drops it in the oil.
“Following who? I am on official business.”
He wants to draw me into a conversation, but as I said, I am on business. She is my business. He’s right, though: I am not good at blending in. When she turns a corner on a busy street, she and the boy weave so quickly in and around the stalls, I lose them. It’s clear this is their market and I’m just a visitor.
The whole endeavor is silly. I know this. Father has already set up meetings with the noblemen of the local mosque to inquire about several girls who are eligible for marriage and willing to travel, or at least be sent home to await my return from the pilgrimage. There is no need for me to meet the girl until nearly all the details have been set.
This is my father’s plan, so he can keep himself busy. I am acting like a spoiled child. But this is the last chance I will get to indulge myself in the beauty and poetry of life. I walk a bit farther into the crowd, unsure of exactly where I am, and am caught off guard by the slave auction clogging the path. The host has hired musicians and servers to hand out sweetmeats, as if the whole affair is a festival instead of a horror show.
I’ve finally caught up with her. She whips her head to the side and catches me off guard.
“Why are you following me?” she asks feverishly. “No, no. Don’t look at me. I can’t be seen talking to you,” she adds in lilting Bambara. The boy serving as her escort places himself between us and hurls his gaze up at me with the ferocity of a true warrior. I respect it. He would defend her if need be.
“How did you know I spoke Bambara?” I ask, curious.
“Your accent. We had a slave girl in our compound who was from Bamako. It was not hard to figure it out. Again, why are you following me?”
“I never admitted to such a thing,” I say.
“You don’t have to admit your crimes to be guilty,” she says, a bite remaining in her tone.
“I have never committed a crime in my life. I—”
My mind draws a blank. I never considered that she might confront me. My plan always had me on the side of pursuit. And then I laugh.
“What is so funny?” she asks.
“Your boldness. I had planned to follow you from the midwife, find out what you liked, where you lived, maybe even your name, and then I would surprise you with a gift of dates or that honey you’ve been looking for.”
“H-how?” she stutters, and breaks her own rule to look over at me. She quickly directs her gaze toward the auction. “Does that usually work on the other little birds in the market?
“What is this business of birds? Is it an insult?” I ask.
“They feed on the scraps thrown to them. Birds are beautiful and useless until they are eaten by larger prey,” she says with ease. As if she’s used this line to describe other girls before.
“Well, that is an insult. And, no, in that case I do not consider you a little bird, nor do I spend time with useless people. I don’t consider people useless. Every person has value.”
“Of course they do—this auction proves it,” she says, and juts her chin toward the boy being sold.
“Not like that. Isn’t there somewhere else we could talk?” I ask without shame.
“No,” she says quietly but firmly.
I look behind us, and the crowd has filled in in such a way that it’s almost impossible to make a discreet retreat.
“I could invite your family to the sultan’s feast as my guest,” I say.
“A common soldier feasts with the sultan?” she laughs, and even though it is at my expense, I instantly love the sound, like wind chimes just before a storm.
“Would you believe that I am not really a soldier?” I say. “I might dress like this to make it easier to move about in a strange city.”
“If you’re not a soldier, I’m not a slave girl,” she says sarcastically.
Now it’s my turn to laugh. The ring on her finger, the expert twists in her hair smack of nobility. She cannot fool me; I know wealth when I see it. I’ve made myself an expert in concealing it every day. The slave boy, thin and obviously unused to a lot of attention, is nearly shivering as potential buyers take him in.
“He has a mother somewhere. A father. Were they unfortunate casualties of war, or did they sell him because they could not feed themselves? What life awaits him?” she asks, her voice much quieter than before and laced with concern.
I fight the urge to look at her. “No one knows.”
“His new master knows, because he will be the one to choose it for him,” she says tightly, and then draws in a long breath as if to say something else, but stops. It’s several moments later that she speaks again. “The lane is opening. I will ask you once more: Why are you following me?” She sounds like an irritated mother chastising her child.
“I want… I want to get to know you.”
“Do you wish to sell me something?”
“Does that happen often? No. I have nothing to sell,” I reply.
“When will you be leaving, you and the other soldiers and noblemen? How long will we know each other?” she asks. I don’t miss the disconnect in her voice. She’s already written me off. This has to have happened to her before. She is too beautiful not to be approached by men who promise her the world and leave every wish completely unfulfilled. She’s too smart to be tricked by witty banter and a sly smile.
I was willing to lie, cheat, and bribe my way to her door, but she has asked an honest question and I have to give her an honest answer. She knows that whatever my intentions are, they must be brief, and what kind of girl gets involved with a man, a foreign man for that matter, who she knows will be gone before the rains begin? Tayo, less inclined with each passing minute to forgive my intrusion on their walk, presses close to her side and glares at me.
“Unfortunately, our time will be short,” I say with all the joy leached from my endeavor. I realize too late that this was a fool’s errand. My father was right, as he most often is. She’s quiet for so long I think she might not speak at all.
“Good. It’s gotten late, and I have an inkling where to find my lemon-scented honey. I will go to buy some tomorrow as soon as the market opens. If you can find the merchant, you will see me again,” she says matter-of-factly.
I’m too shocked to ask questions, and I don’t have the opportunity. She and the boy slip through the crowd like river eels.
And now the game begins.
I turn to the nearest three people and ask them all. “Law samaht, where can I find lemon-scented honey?”