Ama by Manu Herbstein - Chapter 13

AMA by Manu Herbstein

CHAPTER 13

Director-General Pieter De Bruyn stood in the shadow, leaning against one of the plastered arches which framed the second floor balcony.
It was Sunday afternoon. He had spent the morning in church, eaten to excess in the company of his officers and drunk enough wine to make him drowsy. He unbuttoned his high collar and fanned himself ineffectively with his left hand. The air was still within the high enclosing walls of the courtyard. On the roof a row of white-breasted black crows cried their raucous cry. It was hot. The moisture in the air was almost palpable. Drops of perspiration trickled from his balding pate, down over his wrinkled forehead, onto his thick grey eyebrows and into his eyes. He felt the sting of the saltiness of his sweat and wiped his eyes with the handkerchief which he kept clasped in his right hand.
Sven Jensen, the young Chief Merchant, stood leaning over the balcony a few paces away. Jensen was immaculate. His white uniform was perfectly pressed. His shock of blonde hair shone in the midday sun. The gold braid on his epaulets sparkled as he turned to speak. Jensen seemed immune to the climate. Indeed he seemed to thrive on it. De Bruyn sighed.
“They are coming now, sir”, said Jensen.
Remaining in the shade, De Bruyn peered down into the courtyard below. He heard the grinding of the hinges as the iron door was opened.
“I hope you have a better selection for me than last week,” he said. “Emaciated, ugly bitches. I took the best of a bad lot but she turned me off. I sent her back to her hole unused. Must be old age creeping up on me. When I was younger I would have just covered her face and got on with it.”
“This is the batch which Akyeampong brought in on Thursday,” replied Jensen. “There are some with a bit more flesh on them.”
He knew: he had already tested a sample.
Impotent bugger, the DG, thought Jensen, I cannot live without a fuck practically every day and yet it seems that De Bruyn can manage a stand only on Sundays. And two weeks without a woman. The old boy must either be pulling himself off or he is impotent.
“I hope you will find a candidate more to your taste today, sir,” he said.
The Company's Board in Amsterdam had its rules. Company servants were not permitted to take concubines. The lower ranks were forbidden from so much as spending a night in Edina and they were locked into the Castle before dark every evening. They were certainly not permitted to bring women to their quarters nor even to handle the slaves. Offenders were flogged till the blood ran. But the officers, including the Director General, flouted the rules with impunity. All that was required of them was that they exercise reasonable discretion.
Two guards, Kobina and Vroom, lounged against the wall in a corner of the courtyard. They were dressed in ragged scarlet trousers, inherited from deceased Dutch soldiers. They were barefooted and stripped to the waist. Idly, they flicked their rawhide whips at one another. The third guard, Kofi Kakraba, was somewhere in the dungeon, shouting at the seated women, kicking those who did not understand him, cracking his whip in the dark, to force them onto their feet and out.
The women blinked and rubbed their eyes. At this time of the afternoon, the sun lit up the wall opposite De Bruyn and half of the stone floor below. Vroom shouted at them in broken Dutch, careless of whether they understood or not. Kobina clapped his hands and gesticulated, herding them into a corner. More women came streaming past the iron gate. The guards divided them into two lots and lined the first up against the sunlit wall. They stood there, confused and uncertain, flexing their limbs and looking around. One yawned and stretched her arms. Some began to chatter. One woman began to sing a dirge in a high-pitched voice. Coming out of the dungeon behind them, Kofi Kakraba silenced them with a harsh command and a crack of his whip. They cowered against the wall.
Ama stood in the shade and hugged herself. She thought she recognised Vroom.
What now? she wondered.
She looked around the courtyard. The floor was of stone flags, their surface worn smooth, if she had only known it, by nearly three hundred years of traffic of the bare feet of female slaves. Near the far corner there was a raised platform covered with wooden boards. Above it stood an iron frame supporting a wheel of the same metal, from which there hung a chain, coiled alongside. A wooden bucket stood on the platform. Ama raised her eyes and examined the whitewashed walls. The sunlight reflected from the white surface made her blink. She looked away to avoid the glare. High above her, she caught a glimpse of a head of golden hair.
Vroom prodded the women with the butt of his whip, urging them to stand upright and look ahead. They murmured in sullen confusion and resistance.
De Bruyn put the telescope to his eye and focused on the first female slave. Satisfied that the women would give them no trouble today, the guards relaxed; but kept their eyes on Jensen. They could not see De Bruyn, who was concealed in the gloom, but they knew he was there. De Bruyn did not fancy the first woman: she was scrawny and ugly. He examined each female slave in turn. Most of them were dressed in torn and ragged cotton wrappers, wound around the waist or under the arms, with the loose end tucked in to hold it in position. Their heads had been shaved. De Bruyn waved the back of his hand dismissively to Jensen who conveyed the message with a sign to the guards.
The guards moved the first group of women away and motioned to the other set to replace them. Ama was fifth. By her side stood Esi, short, fat Esi, her eyes meekly on her feet. Ama looked up and, with a start, again caught sight of Jensen. The golden-haired red-faced god in his spotless white uniform astonished her. That must be a real white man, she thought. She nudged Esi and, with a nod of her head, directed her gaze up at Jensen. Esi stared, her mouth open. She recognised him; she was sure of it. It was Jensen who had had her the night before, in the dark courtyard, against the wall, from behind, without ceremony. She could still feel the pain in her loins and the humiliation and degradation of being taken like a dog.
“That is the pig,” she muttered to Ama. “I am sure: that is the pig that raped me last night.”
De Bruyn raised the telescope again. He was looking for youth, a smooth ebony complexion, a full face, a well rounded torso and a clean body-cloth. But above all he searched the slaves’ unseeing eyes, seeking . . . He could not put a word to whatever it was he was seeking, perhaps some sign of humanity, some sign of the human warmth he craved, the warmth only a woman could give. Invariably what met his eye was pain, humiliation and despair
He stopped at Ama. Wide-eyed, forgetful of her condition, Ama was trying to make sense of the divine apparition above, the golden pig-god, the essential white man.
Without lowering the telescope, De Bruyn brought his thumb and index finger together.
“Fifth from the left,” he said.
Jensen raised the five fingers of his right hand and then moved the index finger from left to right. Kofi Kakraba placed a hand on Ama's shoulder. She flinched, but he held her firmly. The guard looked up at Jensen, who nodded. Seeing this silent exchange of body language, Ama guessed what lay in store for her.
“Mama, the pig wants to eat me,” she shrieked in her mother tongue.
“The pig wants to eat her,” echoed another woman, following Ama's line of sight.
A third woman took up the refrain. Soon they all raised their voices, in a Babel of languages and in a mixture of fear, anger, sympathy for Ama and relief that she had been chosen rather than themselves.
De Bruyn put the telescope down and covered his ears with his hands. The threats of the guards and the crack of their whips rose above the women's voices. Kofi Kakraba walked across to a corner of the courtyard and returned with a wooden chair which he placed in the sunlight in view of the watchers above. Then he dragged Ama across and signalled to her to stand on the seat. She was confused. What do they want of me? Perhaps the pig-god up there is a cannibal. She shuddered at the thought. Stubbornly she stood her ground, staring at the guard with narrowed eyes, hating him. Kofi Kakraba was a big man. His shoulders were broad and paddling a canoe through the breakers had given him huge biceps. In Kumase, Ama thought, he would have been an executioner. He took three steps; then stopped just behind her, bent his knees and suddenly wrapped his arms around her waist. Ama screamed, but before she knew what had happened, she was standing on the chair. Then her tormentor reached up and grabbed her cloth where it was tucked in above her left breast and pulled it down. Without giving her time to react, he ripped off the beads which hung around her waist. Kobina applauded; Vroom shouted an obscenity.
Ama now stood stark naked. She noticed Jensen looking down at her and covered her pubis with her hands. For a moment the other women were silent. Then they took up their wailing again. From behind, Kofi Kakraba grabbed hold of Ama’s wrists and, moving one foot back to maintain his balance, pinned her arms behind her back. She cried out in pain but he held her immobile and exposed. Vroom looked up and Jensen nodded. Vroom was light skinned. The Dutch called him “Yellow,” avoiding giving him the name of his Dutch father. He forced Ama’s legs apart so that he could better see her private parts. He was looking for signs of the clap. He stuck his index finger into her vagina making a lewd comment to Kobina, who stood by his side. Ama struggled to free herself from Kofi Kakraba’s grip and screamed abuse at Vroom. He withdrew his finger and raised it to the light to examine it. Then he put it under his nostrils. Satisfied, he stood aside and showed the finger to Jensen and shook it once, signalling a clean bill of health.
All this time, De Bruyn’s telescope had been focused on Ama, her eyes, then her breasts. Her chest was pressed forward by Kofi Kakraba who still gripped her arms behind her back. Her breasts were small but they stood high and firm. Anticipating future pleasure, De Bruyn felt his rising penis straining against the tight trousers of his dress uniform. Now that Vroom had moved aside, he dropped his sight. Within the circle of his view he saw the mound of her pubic hair.
“Dear God”, he prayed silently, “forgive your humble servant for his carnal desires,” and forced himself to think of chess. At his age, he knew, too much forethought and he might not be able to manage an erection when the time came.
“That one will do,” he said to Jensen.
Jensen gave his final signal of approval. Their whips cracking, the guards herded the women though the gate, forcing them back into the dungeon. Kofi Kakraba had released his grip. Ama now stood silent and alone on the chair, attempting to pull herself together, to muster her spirit to face the next ordeal.
The guards came back. Kobina returned Ama’s cloth to her and told her, not unkindly, to get down from the chair.
“Send me a bucket of warm water,” De Bruyn said to Jensen as he turned to open the door to his bedroom.
Jensen clapped his hands.
“Water, warm water,” he called.
De Bruyn unbuttoned his coat as he walked across to the tall south-west window. He opened the shutters and lent out to hook the clips to the iron hoops. He scanned the distant curve of the horizon for sails but there were none. He stretched and yawned. The air was still; it was too early for the afternoon’s sea breeze. He took a deep breath and turned to study his image in the standing mirror.
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” he called.
It was the guard Kofi Kakraba, carrying a large copper basin on his head.
“Bring it here,” said De Bruyn and helped him to lower it to the floor, a few feet before the mirror. He dipped a finger into the water to test the temperature.
“You may go,” he said, turning again to the window, “but wait outside the door.”
Barefooted, Kofi strode silently across to the door and closed it just as silently behind him.
Ama had been given a bowl of rice and palm soup. It was the first real meal she had had since her arrival. She was hungry and she ate quickly. As soon as she had finished, Kobina told her to get up.
“Where are you sending me?” she asked him.
“Oh, so you hear Fanti?” he asked.
“Where are you sending me?” she repeated, scowling at him.
“Never you mind,” he said, taking her by the hand.
“Come,” he said, but she resisted.
“My little sister,” he said, turning to her. “Let me give you some friendly advice. In this place you will find life easier if you co-operate. Do you understand? Now come with me. The Director is not going to eat you, he is only going to fuck you.”
He laughed as he pushed her gently before him. It was a pun that always amused him.
Ama did not understand. For one thing Fanti sounded different from Asante, it was full of ‘z’ sounds. And then Kobina had used the same Fanti word for ‘eat’ as he had for ‘fuck’ and she could neither fathom his meaning nor understand his play on words.
What she thought she heard was, “He is not going to eat you; he is only going to eat you.”
In her fear, Ama remained silent. Kobina directed her to a long, steep flight of black and white stone stairs, keeping close behind her. She was startled by the first of three strokes of a bell close by. There was a landing and then they turned to climb the second flight, this time of wood. The stairs creaked as they climbed, reminding Ama of Konadu Yaadom's staircase in Kumase. How happy she had been there, in spite of her captivity, and how stupid to have got herself into this pickle. Two polished brass guns, pattereroes, protected the top of the stairs. Now she thought that they had reached the level of the balcony from which she had seen Jensen looking down into the courtyard. She looked down over the balustrade. The courtyard was empty. The 'pig-god', as she thought of him now, was nowhere to be seen. They turned a corner. At the end of a wainscoted corridor their way was blocked by a solid white door, covered with ornate mouldings. Kofi Kakraba was on guard, squatting on his haunches with his back against the wall. Silently, he withdrew the clay pipe from his mouth, acknowledged their presence and with a sideways gesture of his head, indicated to Kobina that he should knock on the door.
“Enter,” called De Bruyn from within.
Kobina opened the door and gently propelled Ama into the room.
“Yessir,” he said, poking his head through so that he could be seen.
De Bruyn, gazing out at the Atlantic, did not turn. Receiving no reply, Kobina gently closed the door. Then he squatted against the wall opposite Kofi Kakraba.
“Got a light?” he asked.
When he heard the door close, De Bruyn turned. Ama was standing where Kobina had left her. De Bruyn walked across and stood before her. He looked her straight in the eye. Confused, afraid, shy, modest, Ama dropped her eyes to the ground. This is not the ‘pig-god,’ she thought. This is an old man. Or perhaps they can change their appearance at will?
She shuddered.
De Bruyn took a step back and ran his eye over her body.
“You are very young, my child,” he said, “and very nervous.”
He spoke in Dutch and Ama did not understand.
She remained silent, her eyes still averted from his gaze, thinking, how harsh and unpleasant their language is.
De Bruyn took her hand. Again she was afraid and she trembled. No white man had touched her before. She wanted to look at him, to see what was wrong with his skin that made him such an ugly colour. She was curious, too, about his hair, but she was scared to look at him. His unwashed body smell mingled with that of the civet perfume with which he had anointed himself. Ama was conscious that she smelled of the dungeon. She wondered whether he would notice.
De Bruyn led her to the mirror and stood her before it, facing it. The copper basin was just behind her.
“Look,” he said, lifting her chin with his hand.
Ama had seen small hand mirrors before in Kumase. Her mistress had had one and she had often stolen a secret moment to study her own face, trying to puzzle out the meaning of the image, as she once had with Itsho. But she had never stood before a full length looking glass. Forgetting De Bruyn, she gazed at her reflection with wide eyes. She moved a hand to stroke her shaven scalp and, seeing the movement copied in the glass, dropped it to look at the original. De Bruyn watched her with a smile, pleased with himself. This trick never failed to amuse him.
“There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass. . .” he said in English.
Then, without warning, he grabbed the end of her cloth and pulled it from her, quickly crushing it into a bundle and throwing it to a far corner of the room. For the second time within an hour, Ama stood stark naked. The beads which Kofi Kakraba had torn from her earlier had not been returned to her. Instinctively, she covered her nakedness with her hands. Her feet, she felt, were stuck to the floor. She turned her head to look at De Bruyn and then as quickly dropped her eyes. Again she was afraid. As for rape, it would not be the first time. She would fight. But Kobina had said this man would eat her. She stared at her eyes in the mirror, a deep penetrating stare. The eyes stared back at her. She saw the anguish in her own expression and her fear was compounded. Then, for the first time she noticed the image of her own naked body, her round arms, the swell of her breasts, the dark areolas about the nipples, her full hips, her slender legs, her little feet. Her eyes widened. She moved her hands away and saw the mound and her private hairs.
All this time De Bruyn was talking to her in his language, but Ama understood no word of what he was saying and paid no attention to him.
“Now my little princess,” he said, “you are really very beautiful. You must surely be of royal blood? Most definitely a princess. And that is what I shall call you, Princess. No, no, on second thoughts I shall call you Pamela.”
“Now Pamela,” he continued, “I am going to give you a bath.”
In anticipation of the pleasure of cupping Ama's breasts in his soapy hands, lathering her cunt hairs, massaging her lips, inserting a soapy index finger into her pussy, De Bruyn felt his penis struggling against his tight trousers. Quickly, he pulled off his boots and socks, stripped off his coat, shirt and trousers and threw them onto the bed. Now he was wearing only his drawers. Pausing for no more than a moment, he let them drop to his feet. Now they were equal in their nakedness. As God made us, he thought. Ama saw his erect penis reflected in the mirror and braced herself for what was to come.
De Bruyn took a cake of soap and washed and lathered his hands. Standing behind Ama, he placed his left hand on her left shoulder and took her right breast in his soapy hand. Ama panicked. Twice before she had been taken by force. Instinctively she swung round. Thrown off balance, De Bruyn took a step back, placing his foot on the edge of the basin, tipping it over and flooding the floor boards. At the same time Ama's outstretched arm swung round and her clenched fist struck him. Already off balance, De Bruyn toppled over backwards. As he fell, the back of his head hit the corner of a table, drawing blood and causing him to cry out in surprise and pain.
Outside the door, the guards, hearing his cry, stood up, uncertain what to do. A moment later, they heard De Bruyn calling, “Guards, guards!”
No sooner had the words escaped his lips than De Bruyn became aware of the ludicrous nature of his situation. He lay there stark naked, the black woman, equally naked, standing there immobile staring at him. The blood had left his engorged penis and it had shrivelled to its normal size. He stretched out to grab his drawers and threw the garment over his organ.
The guards opened the door.
“Wait,” called De Bruyn, but it was too late. Pausing only for a moment to assess the situation, Kobina rushed to De Bruyn, lifted him to his feet and helped him to a chair, De Bruyn all the time clutching his shame cloth.
“Oh my God,” cried De Bruyn.
Kofi Kakraba spun Ama around and for the second time that day grabbed her wrists and pinned her arms behind her back. He began to run her out of the room.
“Wait!” commanded De Bruyn.
He had lifted a hand to the wound in his scalp. Now he lowered it to look at the blood.
“Pass me that towel,” he said to Kobina. “Now dip it in the water.”
There was a little water left in the basin.
“Now pass it to me. Pass it to me,” he repeated.
Keeping his drawers in position with one hand, he wiped the wound on his scalp with the wet towel. It stung a little, but he realised that the damage was superficial.
“Now get out! Both of you, get out,” he screamed at the two guards.
They scurried for the door and closed it noisily behind them.
Ama remained standing where Kofi Kakraba had released her. She had struck this old white man who seemed to be the chief of the castle. Surely now he would kill her. She wanted to run. But where to? The guards were outside the door. There appeared to be no escape. And how far could she get in her nakedness?
Ama got down on her knees and, cupping her right hand in her left, blurted out hysterically,
“Nana, grandfather. My lord, my master. Forgive me. It was a mistake. I didn't mean to harm you. You startled me and it was in my surprise that I swung round. Do not kill me, I beg you. It was a mistake. It was a mistake. I didn’t do it on purpose.”
Her words were swallowed by her crying. She sank her head upon her knees and sat there, unable to decide what to do next and unable to control her sobbing.
De Bruyn, guessing the general import of her plea, pulled on his drawers and rose gingerly to his feet.
“Get up, you stupid baggage,” he said as he picked up the basin and took it to the door.
“More water,” he ordered as he passed it to the guards. “And mind, if one single word about this incident gets abroad, you will both be on the next ship leaving for Guyana. Do you savvy? Not a single word,” and he drew a finger across his throat.
When Kobina returned with the basin, De Bruyn had donned a gown and had persuaded Ama to get up and wrap her cloth around her. He directed the basin to the alcove he used for his weekly bath.
“I suppose you know how to bath yourself?” he said to Ama wryly and handed her the cake of soap, a loofah and a towel and pushed her gently into the alcove. Then he drew the curtain to allow her to bath in privacy.
Ama's mind was still in a turmoil but she didn't need a second invitation to scrub off the filth of the dungeon. As she lathered herself, she slowly recovered her self-control. She concentrated her mind on Itsho and when she succeeded in summoning up an image of his face, he was laughing. Then she began to see the ridiculous side of what had happened and smiled involuntarily to herself. The soap was mildly perfumed and the water was warm. Enjoying the luxury and in no hurry for whatever was to come next, she took her time.
“What are you doing in there woman? Hurry up, I also want to take my bath,” called De Bruyn.
“Here, take this and put it on,” he continued and hung upon the curtain rail a piece of Ijebu cloth which he had taken from his wooden chest.
They had no single word in common but were somehow managing to communicate. Ama dried herself and wrapped the blue cloth around her. She drew the curtain and came out, not quite sure whether that is what he had intended.
“Yes, very pretty,” he said in response to her questioning look.
“Come now, Pamela,” he continued, taking her hand firmly in his.
“This is our marriage bed,” he said, chuckling at his own joke. “Lie on it and I will join you shortly.”
All her life, Ama had slept on a mat on the floor. She had seen Konadu Yaadom's ornately carved bed in Kumase, indeed Nana had taught her how to arrange the bedclothes. But this massive four-poster was something different. She climbed onto the white cotton sheets and lay there stiffly, unable to relax. De Bruyn went to take his bath, delicately drawing the curtain behind him.
Ama had only a short time to consider her next move. The man would reappear soon and there was no doubt he would try to climb on her. What should she do? She thought of Tabitsha, her mother. Tears came to her eyes and she began to sob quietly, considering her predicament. She had seen De Bruyn's penis. It seemed to be no different from any other she had seen, in spite of its peculiar pink colour. There was no doubt what he wanted of her. But what then? Surely when he had squirted his semen into her and had his little sleep, he would send her back to the dungeon of the female slaves, to the darkness, the fetid smell of stale piss and septic shit, the damp, the shared misery of a hundred women without hope. What if she were to resist him, to fight? She knew that she could not succeed. She could not match his strength and anyway, the guards were at his beck and call. He seemed to have forgiven her for what she had done to him, but would he do so a second time? What if she were to succumb to his wishes? She knew how to please a man and, unless white men’s sex was very different from that of blacks, she was confident she could persuade him of her own excitement, even though she felt only repugnance and pain. She propped herself up on one elbow and looking through the open window saw the broad blue expanse of the ocean. She recalled the walk along the beach on the way to the castle. How she would like to go and touch it. She had no doubt that it was water, but it looked so different from the rivers and lakes she knew. Perhaps she could swim in it as she had learned to do as a child in the flood lakes of the Oti and seen the little naked boys doing not three days ago?
De Bruyn’s call from behind the curtain, “Well, are you ready for me?” brought her back to reality. Then she knew what she would do. She would not resist, but neither would she co-operate. She would lie there limp and let him do what he had to do, but she would not help him and she would not encourage him. If he wanted her to give him real pleasure, he would have to earn it. And even if he sent her away in disgust, back to the dungeon, at least she would have kept her self-respect.
“Ah, Pamela, “ said De Bruyn, as he drew the curtain. “There you are. Now we shall see,” and he licked his dry lips.