COVER

DEDICATION

FOR MY MAAME, BARBARA ELAINE JOHNSON ALEXANDER, WHO TOLD THE BEST STORIES

EPIGRAPH

MY CHILDREN GLIDED ON THE GREAT RIVER

OVER THE DEPTHS OF DEATH…

THEN, ONE DAY, SILENCE…

—DAVID DIOP

MAP

A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

This is historical fiction. It is a novel inspired by history, based on the real lives of the Asante (A·shan·ti) people, who are native to a region of West Africa now known as Ghana. It was a hard story to write, but it was one that needed to be told. I wrote it for the me nobody knows. For the you who is still becoming. For the possibility that is in us. The great poet, philosopher, and abolitionist Ralph Waldo Emerson said, Be an opener of doors. I’ve tried to be that here. Now you must walk through. With your eyes unshut. With your heart unlocked. And your mind as free as the mighty sea… Akwaaba!

ASANTE KINGDOM

SEPTEMBER 1860

CHAPTER ONE

THE STORY OF OFFIN

There was even a time… many seasons ago… when our people were the sole supplier of the purest and most valuable gold in the world… The river was bedded with enough gold to make a century of royal stools for the Asante kings… A thousand shiny bracelets for their wives… Then came the foreigners… Invaders disguised as friends… pretending to be students of our way… with only one lesson to learn… how to steal our fortunes… But we fought them off… protected our rich land, our river… the Offin River… It flows to the east, into the mighty Pra, which travels over one hundred and fifty miles down to the Coast, where it drains into a vast blue unknown that we call the Big Sea… On the rolling sides of Offin are deep forests and farmlands and villages and a boy of the same name… You see, on the morning of your birth, eleven years ago, your maame squatted at the edge of the water, and… Offin carried her fifth child on its shoulders at first breath… It is true, I was there, that you stopped crying as you floated off like a ship inching toward the horizon… The river Offin grabbed you with an invisible cord wrapped around each moment of your day… held you like a mother cradles a baby… pulled you like the moon does the earth… Ever since, you and the water have been bound… river and son, wave and flutter… That is how you got your name, my grandson…

THE STORYTELLER

There was even a time

is how my papa’s father,

Nana Mosi, the village storyteller,

begins most of his

fireside tales

always starting

in the middle

of a thought

like we were to know

what even came before

always speaking

in slow,

deliberate spurts

about the past

like it lives

in him,

like it still matters

always repeating some things

and pausing at other times,

with a toothy smile

that raises one eyebrow,

right before

the thing he knows

we cannot wait

to hear.

Though he is nearly eighty now

and seldom speaks,

when he does,

I hang on to all his words,

the lulls in between,

and I remember

the stories

like a pigeon remembers

its way home.

IN THE DREAM

I sprint across

the clearing,

past a leopard

teaching her cubs

how to count to ten.

After I grade them,

I dart between the maze

of forest trees

and discover a pot

of boiling plantains

by the river.

Picture me running

over rocks and grass

swept up in the cool breeze

rushing to the water

diving off the back

of a—

SCHOOLED

Offin, how old was

beloved Queen Victoria

when she became heir

to the throne? Mr. Goodluck Phillip, our teacher, asks,

startling me

out of my dream.

My cousin,

who thinks he is better

than me at everything,

giggles, then shoots

his hand up fast,

but Mr. Phillip is talking

to me, staring

at me, daring

me

to answer incorrectly.

I will like Kofi Offin

to answer the question, please, he says.

Dunwõtwe, I proudly answer,

standing among

my classmates, smiling

like I just bit into

the sweetest mango.

I do not see

the lightning

almost slice

the skin

from my palm,

but I do feel the scorch

of the rod

across my hand

and in my bones.

I even taste its sting

in my mouth.

Queen’s English, please, Mr. Phillip says,

as calm as rain, like

he did not just attack me

with his jagged cane.

Eighteen, I say quickly.

That is correct. The Queen was eighteen, he adds, looking at the whole class,

when her uncle died

of pneumonia,

making her the rightful heir.

I am not teaching you

to count in English for nothing.

Sorry, Mr. Goodluck Phillip, I say,

looking down at the purplish welt

burning my sable skin,

and trying not to cry

in front of everyone,

especially Ama,

and my cousin,

who now looks like

he is happily eating

my mango.

OUR TEACHER

Kwaku Ansah

was sent

many, many seasons ago

to Akra

to attend

The Queen’s Missionary School

at Osu for the Propagation

of Better Education

and Improved Language,

and when he returned

he had “improved” his name to

Goodluck Kwaku Phillip,

and insisted

to the Council of Elders

that we needed

to be propagated

as well.

ON A MISSION

Mr. Phillip seldom smiles,

is lanky and tall,

wears wire-rimmed glasses

and big-collared shirts

with strange bows

around his neck,

frowns when he speaks our Twi,

insists that we call him

by his new names,

does not like

riddles or bean stew

or most things

we are used to

in our village,

and swears

that he has been anointed

to rescue us

from our old selves

and help us discover

our true ones.

MY OLDER BROTHER

Kwasi once told me

that Mr. Phillip informed

his class that

English is regularly spoken

in Akra and on the Coast,

and if we want to become better,

learned men and women,

we must learn

to speak

this mother tongue,

and when a boy responded,

I do not know about your mother, sir,

but my maame speaks Twi

the entire class erupted

in laughter,

including the boy,

until Mr. Phillip’s cane

slashed his buttocks

so hard

he was unable to sit

for three days

and it left

a long, thin gruesome bruise

that swelled

across his buttocks,

making it look

like he was smiling

from behind.

LIGHT SENTENCE

The punishment

for my crime,

for answering

in my own Twi

instead of talking

in the stale, foreign language

that Mr. Goodluck Phillip

makes us speak

in school,

is to stay

after school

so that he can teach me

to read

from The Dramatic Works

of William Shakespeare,

which I enjoy—though

I cannot let him know—but

which I can barely focus on

because I want to be in the river

and my forearm is throbbing

and I cannot stop thinking

about the end of the day

when Ama came up to me

and whispered,

But you knew the correct answer, Kofi,

so do not feel so bad,

and her breath smelled

like honey

and pine

and possibility.

AMA

I have known her

since we were

giggling babies

swathed in cloth

on our maames’ backs

while they sold yams

and cassava

at the market.

We played together,

learned together,

swam together,

even dreamed together

about our futures

until hers was nearly ruined

when her parents died,

leaving her homeless

and alone.

So, now I mainly get

to see her in school,

since she spends

the rest of her time

cleaning

and being the house girl

for her uncle’s family

in exchange for food

and a roof.

AFTER SCHOOL

When we finish reading together,

Mr. Phillip makes me repeat

different English words,

praises my efforts, then says

that if I want to be

a young man of intellect

I should pay attention

to where my tongue lies

when I roll my Rs,

and even though

I hate the taste

of his alien words

on my tongue

I just nod

and say,

Thank you for

the instruction, sir.

WAITING FOR ME

outside

is Ebo,

my best mate,

leading a band

of youngsters

in search

of the few

gold specks

still swimming

in the streets

and ditches

after last night’s

heavy rainfall.

TAKEN

Ama walks

toward me,

carrying a large water pot

on her head,

a bundle of timber

in her arms,

and her baby cousin

draped across

her back.

It will not hurt long if you use this, she says,

placing the timber

on the ground and

taking my arm

in her hand.

She rubs my bruise

with a large, fuzzy, green leaf

and a flash of warmth

rushes through me

like a wave.

I do not feel

my eyes closing, but

I can feel every hair

on my body

jump at the sun.

Is that better, Kofi?

Yes. It. Is.

Now, do not swallow this or you will cough until you die, she says,

handing me the leaf. I cannot tell whether she is serious or not.

…

It is a joke. It is just a clove leaf, mainly used to make the pain of a bad tooth go away. You will be fine.

It has the smell of something in my maame’s stew… Thank you, Ama.

Are you and Ebo going to swim now?

If the river is you, I will swim… is what I wish I could say. Instead, I answer, No swimming today. It is too dark.

WHERE I GO

each day

after school

is both hideout

and oasis.

It is where I am student

and king.

A place that holds me

and my destiny safely

in its deep-blue arms.

The river

where I splash

and splish

and kick

into twilight

until the stars emerge

or Kwasi

comes growling

like a hippo.

KOFI, OUT OF THE WATER, NOW!

IT IS ALMOST DARK!

Sometimes

I pretend to not hear

him telling me

what to do

just because

he is older

and bigger,

but when it comes

to swimming,

I have to listen,

because all the elders

in my family

and mostly all

the old people

in our village

say that the river

is cursed

at nighttime.

KOFI, OUT OF THE WATER, NOW!

IT IS ALMOST DARK!

Sometimes

I pretend to not hear

him telling me

what to do

just because

he is older

and bigger,

but when it comes

to swimming,

I have to listen,

because all the elders

in my family

and mostly all

the old people

in our village

say that the river

is cursed

at nighttime.

CONVERSATION WITH EBO

CHALE! Ebo hollers, handing me a palm full of red berries.

Just in time—I can use a sweet snack.

Also, I collected these, he says, showing me a bag of kola nuts.

What, you are preparing our dinner now, chale? I say, laughing.

Oh, these are not for you to eat.

What are they for, then?

For you to present to Ama’s uncle when you ask to marry her, he adds, laughing.

You are a nut, yourself.

Your obsession is so obvious, Kofi.

I am not obsessed.

You are. And you are afraid to tell her.

I am not.

Then do it, big man, tell her how you feel, he says, peeling away the kola’s white skin.

How I feel? You sound like my sisters.

Ei! Your sisters are smart. And beautiful, he says, looking way too excited.

My sisters are married and their husbands will skin you for thinking those thoughts.

Only two are married. Esi is free, no? She is dark and comely. You think she will come to me? he says with a smirk.

Ebo, you are a fool.

So, tell me, what was Goodluck’s penalty? he says, chewing away at the kola seeds. Did he make you hold a stack of books over your head and say your numbers in English?

No, we just read.

Torture.

In truth, it does not bother me. I actually enjoy it.

A witch has cast a spell on you, chale.

To be, or not to be, I say in my best Mr. Phillip imitation.

Ei! Speak Twi! We are not in class.

Ebo, how much gold did you find?

I promise you, barely a crumb.

At this rate, you will be an old man with a cane and no hair before you collect even a Benda of gold, I say, laughing, then turning to leave.

Then I will die rich and happy with my one Benda, he says, laughing too. Ei! What about the river?

I cannot swim today. I must get home.

I will walk with you, then. In case your cousin and his herd are waiting.

And what will you do if they are?

I will run for assistance. HELP! HELP! I will scream, he says, laughing.

You are a true friend.

Seriously, do you think I have a chance with your sister?

Daabi, I tell him, shaking my head. Not in a hundred seasons.

TROUBLE

When I arrive

at our compound

Kwasi and Nana Mosi

are seated

on opposite sides

of an ivory game board,

playing Oware.

So focused

on winning, which

no one has ever done

against Nana Mosi,

Kwasi does not

even look up

when he tells me

that everyone

knows of my wrongdoing

because my cousin

came around earlier

singing

like a guinea fowl.

AFTER LOSING

three straight times to our

grandfather, Kwasi finds me

counting in English.

CONVERSATION WITH KWASI

Mr. Goodluck Phillip is still miseducating his students, ei?

He says he is on a mission to widen the sea of our intellect and understanding.

He is on a mission to capsize our culture, I promise you.

Nana Mosi beat you again?

Our grandfather has been playing Oware for nearly one hundred years. He is unbeatable. This I know.

He just needs better competition probably.

You are the one with jokes, he says, laughing. It appears that I am not the only one with an adversary.

Can you teach me to punch like you?

Fighting is not the answer.

That is easy to say for someone who fights as well as you do, Kwasi.

You have a sharp mind, little brother. Try using that. Outsmart him.

My thoughts are no match for his fast legs, or his powerful fists.

But there are things you have that are powerful. Use these.

What kind of things do you speak of?

Am I to come up with every answer to your problems? Figure it out.

…

You must face this, head high.

But what if I—

Ei! The bird who dares to fall is the bird who learns to fly!

What does that even mean?

It means that Maame is looking for you, and she is not pleased, he says, laughing, then tapping me on the head and walking away. You will be fine. With our cousin, I mean. Not with Maame. He laughs again.

…

PUNISHMENT

I am banished

to bed

for the night

without drink

without dinner

by my maame,

who is only silent now

because she plans to wait

to unleash her wrath

on me

when my father,

who is away

mining,

our business,

returns.

GOLD DIGGER

During the rainy season

Papa leaves

before the sun breaks

and works

two full days

panning

for gold

along the banks

of streams,

leading dives

into the rapid river,

and scooping up

shiny pebbles

and golden nuggets

with a shovel

that he invented.

WHEN I WAS SMALLER

before my schooling began,

he would take me

with him,

sit me on the riverbank

while the women

filled their large trays

with sand

and gravel,

and washed it

over and over

till all that was left

were shiny specks

of gold to be dried

in shallow calabash bowls

under the sun.

I would sit there,

captivated

by the sparkling dust,

watching him

paddle in boats

carved from tree trunks,

plunging

in and out

of the water,

swimming like a fish

in Offin.

I would sit there,

quietly staring

at the horizon

wondering

what lay beyond.

WHEN MY FATHER RETURNS

after the next sundown

both my parents scold me

in the worst way

with a never-ending lecture

on discipline

and responsibility

telling me,

It is when you climb

a good tree that we push you.

What does that even mean? I think,

and what does it have to do

with Mr. Goodluck Phillip caning me

for speaking Twi

instead of English?

So I just nod in agreement.

Papa shakes his head

and leaves.

My maame now smiles,

then hands me

an orange-and-red kente cloth.

I got it at market.

You will wear it

on the opening day

of the festival.

Thank you, Maame!

Ei! YOU WILL NOT SPEAK THAT FOREIGN LANGUAGE IN MY HOME.

Medase! I quickly say, showing my gratitude in our Twi, and thinking I cannot win for losing.

Come, I boiled fresh yam for you and Kwasi. You will eat, yes?

Yes, I answer, taking a bite,

looking grateful,

not wanting to hurt

her feelings.

WE PLANTED YAMS

in the dry season

and now the stems

are yellow,

which means

three things:

the yams are finally ripe,

we will celebrate

the harvest of the yams

at Bayere,

the annual Kings Festival,

and for the rest

of the rainy season

I will be eating yams

until I choke.

THE KINGS FESTIVAL

is eight days

of no school

of plays

about Anansi the trickster spider

of kente costumes

and plenty-plenty of tasty food

of loud drumming

and competitions

of lots of bowing

to the Kings

and the Paramount Chiefs

and all the other chiefs

of honoring

the departed

of prayers

for protection

and prosperity

of lengthy speeches

about our future

and the past

of remembering

the big war.

CHAPTER TWO

THE STORY OF THE BIG WAR

There was even a time… nearly two hundred seasons ago… when the villages of Upper and Lower Kwanta lived as one family… The land was vast… its crops, plenty… The water was wide enough for each of our people to wash, to drink, to swim… together… We shared the river… and the endless pieces of gold resting in the basin… until, one day, a week’s worth of mining went missing… Now, this is where the story gets complicated… It was suspected that two men from Lower Kwanta had stolen the gold and traded it with foreigners on the Coast… So, the King of Upper, Nana Manu Bambara II, went to see Nana Nii Boateng, the King of Lower, who was drinking and entertaining foreign guests… King Boateng, embarrassed in front of the foreigners, his “wonderfuls,” did not take kindly to being accused of harboring the criminals… An argument ensued… insults were thrown… and battle lines were drawn… It was a horrible war… many men were killed… homes were ruined… life was interrupted… until our King got very clever and blocked access to our land (as if land could be owned), to its rich soil, to the harvest, and, thus, to their food supply… which led to their hunger… a truce… and a treaty.

THE BAMBARA TREATY

In order to avert the horrors of war

this treaty is made

and entered into

between Upper Kwanta,

its dependencies, and heirs,

and Lower Kwanta,

its dependencies, and heirs.

1st     There shall be perpetual peace

between both parties,

and neither party shall

have any claim

upon the other.

2nd     Upper Kwanta shall have authority

over the river and its gold deposits,

to be stored in an undisclosed location,

but the King of Upper shall guarantee

a fair, annual distribution

of twenty-five Benda of gold

to Lower.

3rd     The King of Upper agrees not to block

the harvest, and shall permit

Lower farmers to cultivate,

for the purpose of instituting

normal production of crops.

4th     The Kings agree

that the villages shall convene,

befriend, compete, and feast

together at a Festival

to occur annually

in honor

of this peace treaty.

5th     And finally, in the event any subject

of Upper or Lower does violate

this treaty by an act of disrespect

or any crime of magnitude,

a joint Council of Elders

reserves the right of punishment,

to be dealt with

according to the laws

of our people.

DISPUTE

They are the wretched of the earth.

They do not stand a chance

in the festival contests.

We will once again destroy

the lowest scum, my cousin hollers,

tossing a ball around

during our lunch break

in the courtyard.

They are us. They dream like we do. They wake like we do. They eat like we do. They are us. No more, no less, Ama interjects. You should really pay attention in class.

A crowd forms around them

as rain begins to dribble

from the grim sky.

They do not eat as well as we do,

and they never will, silly girl, he continues,

getting a few laughs. And I do listen

to the lessons.

Upper won the war.

Lower lost.

They are not us… THEY. ARE. YOU!

Our servants.

SHE IS RIGHT, THEY ARE US, I shout, before I realize what I have done. Ama smiles at me. My cousin scowls at me.

Do not butt in, little cousin, unless you want some of this wahala, he says, balling his fists.

I do not want any of this trouble, I think, as a classmate, thankfully, distracts him.

I have heard they are building a big wall. A fortress, in case there is another war, says the mate.

Do not be stupid. They are not that smart. But if they do come for us, my father has the big gun, remember, says my cousin, aiming his finger at me and Ama. Plus, we have all the gold, and he who owns the gold eats first, and eats best. That is the only lesson that matters.

Without hesitation, Ama shakes her head

like she feels sorry for him,

then fires back

with a might

that could lift a log.

The mind of a fool is like a broken pot. It holds nothing.

Everyone laughs

at her mocking

of him, loudly,

including me,

which pricks him so much

he comes over

and punches me

in the belly

so hard, my whole body collapses,

and I spew

my lunch.

Who is the fool now?

AMA JUMPS

in my cousin’s face

and calls him

the meanest thing

she can think of—ABOA!—which

really is not that bad,

because my cousin

probably believes

he actually is

an animal,

king of his own jungle,

always roaring

and wreaking havoc

on me.

He lifts her

off the ground

as she screams,

trying to break free, then

he

kisses

her.

He. Kisses. Ama.

You know you like that, little house girl, he says,

dropping her.

MY COUSIN

does not walk around,

he marches, thinks

he is a soldier,

is stronger

and taller than me

by two coconuts,

which I have seen him

nearly split open

with his hard head,

then offer to

whichever girl

he is fond of

at the time.

He outran me

last spring

from the village

to the river’s edge,

and is so big and tough

he is allowed

to chop timber

with the big men.

But none of that matters

right now, because

Ama has been disrespected,

her honor plunged

into the damp red clay,

and I think I understand

what Shakespeare meant

when he said,

Love never did run smooth.

Forget peace.

This means war.

THE BATTLE

I run into him

headfirst

with the force

of a million thunderstorms

and knock him down.

I do not need Kwasi

to train me, I think.

I am an able hawk

hunting my prey.

The thud

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