Chapter 8

 

 

MICHAEL WAS VAGUELY AWARE he had just over a week to get the elders’ approval for his project—well, their approval of him. He’d been foolish in expecting things to be easy after his first visit. They were turning out to be very complicated. He still had no clue what they expected of him or what he could do to win their trust.

Were the elders united or divided? Most importantly, were they willing to be convinced? According to Sefah, the soil already showed evidence of the formula’s efficacy. That had to account for something. In any case, it was the only evidence of the product’s—and, hence, his—genuineness.

There had to be a solution, and he planned to find it. He’d go and see one of the influential elders—the plan his uncle had thwarted with his visit the day before. He needed to find out how many elders were on his side, then he’d request a formal meeting. That was the plan for today.

There was a lot to do and so little time. As he prepared to leave, a rush of excitement surged through him like an omen of good things to come. He had a strong feeling something important was about to happen, and he didn’t want to sit around waiting for it to happen.

 

****

 

Esi sat in her room waiting for Mansa. They’d decided to go to the river together and do their washing. As she waited, her mind wandered to her favourite subject, and she smiled.

He is back in Ebinom!

A giddy sensation rushed at her. How she wished for a chance to talk to him, even once. Their encounter in the forest remained vivid in her mind. He’d scared her when he’d spoken out of the blue from behind, and her legs had turned to wax when their eyes had met. That day, she’d felt something so special, so intense, that her heart had blossomed.

She knew, however, the feeling was one-sided. What he’d done was an act of chivalry; he would have done it for anyone. Knowing this, however, didn’t stop her from thinking about him or her heart from beating faster whenever thoughts of him popped into her mind.

Forget him, she’d told herself many times, trying to convince her heart it was for the best. The way she’d looked that day wasn’t how she wanted him to remember her, anyway. If Ɔdomankoma listened to her prayers, there would surely be another opportunity to make an impression on Michael.

As if her thoughts had conjured him, he appeared from the corner of the neighbouring house. Esi saw him through the window and suddenly felt embarrassed, as though she’d been caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to do. The look on his face snagged her attention, and her heart went out to him. His face was cast in deep sorrow that made her ache inside. Why was he depressed? She wanted to call out to him. When he got close to her window, he looked up as if he knew of her silent presence watching him. Gasping, she ducked.

“What are you doing?” someone spoke, causing her to jump.

She spun around before registering that it was her best friend’s voice she’d heard. “Mansa! You frightened me.”

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.”

Mansa went to the window and peered out. “You didn’t know Yaw Badu was passing by?”

“No.”

“I’ll go call him, then.” Mansa headed for the door.

“No!” Esi’s face heated up. “Mansa, don’t.”

Mansa turned around, a teasing grin spread across her face. “We can spy from the door.”

“Yes,” she said enthusiastically and followed her out. There was no harm in watching from a distance. Was there?

 

****

 

Michael sensed he was being observed, then he felt silly. He and his project had become the freak show du jour. Everybody was watching him. Still, unable to shake off the feeling, he turned. Nothing. This wasn’t the first time he’d felt the sensation of being on display. The same instinct had surfaced at one of the village gatherings. At the time, he’d hoped it was some cosmic connection with Forest Girl, but it couldn’t have been, for he’d never seen her.

Get a grip. You’re wishing too hard.

In spite of his admonishment, his mind threw questions at him, derailing his efforts. What if he found her? Would his mother allow him to marry her instead of the stranger she was forcing on him? He’d be marrying from Ebinom, wouldn’t he? Shouldn’t Papa be happy with that?

Right now, though, he had too much on his mind to think of Forest Girl. Cosmic forces at play or not, something seemed to be working against him. No elder he’d targeted had been home. They all seemed to have gone farming or hunting or something.

He walked to the bus station, where a small group of people were gathered, waiting for the mini bus that plied between Ebinom and Kumasi. He turned right without looking directly at them. He wanted to gather his thoughts. He needed a Plan B, but where to start? There was so much politicking going on that it amazed him. Things hadn’t changed much, but now, his awareness of it had grown. Politics ran the community.

The elders were like the gods of the living, their word serving as the final authority on everything. He began to appreciate anew what his father had represented, realising that Papa must have had more influence than he had ever imagined. Could he take advantage of that? He missed his father all the time, but right now, the loss weighed heavily on his heart.

He reached the primary school but kept on walking. His steps became faster, as though propelled by an invisible force. Only when he reached the blacksmith’s shop, the last building, did he know where he was headed.

Five minutes later, he stood at the edge of the cemetery and stared awhile, stunned for a moment at just how many people had died…and how many more were waiting to follow. He took his first steps towards his father’s grave.

A rush of emotion swept over him as he knelt beside the grave. He brushed away the dried leaves on the tombstone. Oblivious to everything around him, he observed silence as though, if he remained quiet enough, he’d connect with the dead.

“Why?”

He asked this simple question, which seemed to encompass the entirety of his confusion and pain. Why had he died so early? Why was he so silent at a time when his counsel was needed?

But all Michael had was the abiding silence, and a dying wish. He clutched a tuft of earth.

“I can’t do that, Papa,” he pleaded.

A wife was too precious for him to obtain one against his wish. He could feel his nose get warm and his eyes water. He willed himself to be strong, for men didn’t cry. He waited silently, hoping for inspiration. None came.

“Why are you so damned silent?” he yelled in anger. “Tell me what to do.”

A soft gust of wind blew through the trees in answer to his plea, yet, he heard nothing on the breeze. In the ensuing silence, everything he’d been trying to hold together in the past few weeks broke loose, and he wept.

 

****

 

The riverside wasn’t crowded. Esi had just finished her mound of clothes and was now helping Mansa finish up hers. They’d been silent for a while as they concentrated on completing the task at hand. Esi’s shoulders and back began to ache. Having missed the last washing day, her friend had a larger pile than usual.

“When can you do my hair again?” she asked.

“You know I can do your hair any time.”

Esi smiled. She’d been trying to take her mind off Michael, but her attempt at conversation had so far been stale. His melancholic expression had imprinted on her memory. He seemed to be all she could think of lately, and sometimes, it bothered her. But right now, something else concerned her.

“Why do you think he looked so sad?”

Mansa didn’t answer for a while, and Esi began to wonder if her friend had heard her, but before she could repeat her question, Mansa spoke.

“Maybe the elders are being hard on him.”

“What exactly are they asking for?”

“I don’t know. I’ve heard people talk, but no one really knows what the elders are demanding of him. I only know they’re not allowing him to use the soil medicine he brought.”

Feeling even more depressed than before they started the conversation, Esi fell silent. “Do you want to play ampe after washing?”

“If you want.”

Grown girls like her and Mansa didn’t play ampe, but she hoped the physical actions of clapping and jumping would shift her mind’s focus off Michael, even if for only a few minutes. It might be a small step, but at least, she was making the effort to stop thinking about him.

They finished laying the last batch of clothes on the grass to dry, and as they began the game, she saw Serwaa Badu approach with her laundry. They were somewhat friends, but Serwaa was a year or two younger. She greeted them and set her things down to prepare them for washing.

Esi and Mansa played ampe for a while but soon got bored with it and sat down again. Esi’s attention went back to Serwaa Badu.

“Do you want help?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” Serwaa said, welcoming the help.

As they washed, Esi’s mind inevitably recalled her conversation with Mansa. Her lips twitched, itching to ask Serwaa about her brother. Surely, she would know something.

Forget him, Esi.

Reminded of the futility of such probing, she bit her tongue and focused on the laundry.

 

****

 

At last, Michael stood up and began his journey back to the village. He wondered how much time he’d spent on his knees. Could he have used the time more constructively? What had the ancestors told him?

Nothing.

He was his own master, and only he had the power to solve his problems. Yet, as he walked away, he couldn’t help the light-heartedness he felt.

The old primary school came to view on his left, its wooden walls having been worn by the vagaries of the weather and other wood-eating predators. Was it still in use? A simple structure, its classrooms had no doors or windows. He could see only a few chairs and tables in each room, and even those looked like they hadn’t been sat on in a while. It seemed so long ago that he had been a pupil there. In those days, there’d only been tables in the classrooms. Pupils had had to carry their own chairs to school every day.

It had made sense then. If you were going to attend school, first, you had to justify your inclusion. There was also the fact that those who went to school were valued a little less than the farm children. Having them carry their own chairs had been a way of making sure they grew up to be strong, for most would have to work the farms someday.

The farm children woke up earlier for some reason, and that was credited to them as diligence. In the mornings, they’d be seen carrying their baskets and machetes and would ridicule those carrying chairs. Had anything changed?

“Hey, Obroni!” he heard someone call.

Obroni. White man. The bold appellation, a barefaced confirmation that they thought of him as a stranger, filled him with anger. He regarded them, three men, one much older than the other two, sitting under a mango tree sharing a pot of akpԑtԑshie. They extended a hearty invitation.

“Or have you forgotten how to drink?” one of them teased.

Michael contemplated this awhile. Akpԑtԑshie was a strong brew. The elders told jokes about the white men who’d visited in the past being unable to hold their own. If he were to prove he was still one of them, maybe…

Gossip could be a very powerful weapon, especially in the custody of three drunken men. Michael sat with them, and they passed him the calabash they’d been drinking from. He took a swig, and his companions cheered him as though welcoming a hero back home.

Damn, he thought, stifling a cough.

 

****

 

Esi wrung the item she’d just washed. It had been quite dirty, and she’d spent several minutes getting a particularly stubborn stain out. She held it up for inspection. The stain could no longer be seen, but what caught her attention was the size of the T-shirt. Serwaa’s smallish structure signified the garment couldn’t belong to her. That left only one possibility—it belonged to one of her brothers. Her expression changed to shock as she gasped, dropping the T-shirt into the water.

“What is it?” Mansa demanded.

Esi felt her face get hot.

“I just washed your brother’s shirt,” she whispered to Serwaa.

“Are you sure?” Serwaa asked, frowning. “I thought I had washed all of their things.”

“Really?” Esi slowly picked it up again, hoping her initial assessment had been wrong.

Serwaa took it from her and inspected. “You’re right. It belongs to my brother.”

Esi glanced at Mansa and caught her friend’s concerned look. A girl only washed a man’s clothes if she was related or married to him, so she knew Mansa understood her apprehension. Washing an unrelated adult male’s clothing wasn’t so much a taboo as it indicated one’s lack of virtue. If people saw a girl washing the clothes of a man who didn’t fall under the right category, she was automatically assumed to be sleeping with him. That sort of thought could stain a reputation for a lifetime.

“I am sure no one saw you washing it,” Mansa reassured her.

Serwaa agreed and rinsed it out. “Maybe Ɔdomankoma is trying to tell you something.”

Esi cast a doubtful look at her best friend. What could Ɔdomankoma be telling her? Why had he put a man’s clothes in her hands?

Serwaa explained, “We were all washing from the same basin, and your hand caught that one.”

“What are you saying?” Mansa asked.

Esi had guessed what Serwaa was driving at. She and Serwaa’s brothers weren’t related, so the only message Ɔdomankoma could be sending was—

No, she told herself. It can’t be.

A tense silence followed as they all stood contemplating the gravity of Serwaa’s suggestion. A thought occurred to Esi, and turning to Mansa, she knew her friend was wondering the same thing.

Which brother?