Free Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi Page A

uncle Fiifi always ignored him. The first night they were there, Quey had wanted to talk to Badu about the trade agreements straightaway. He thought the sooner he could get the chief to agree, the sooner he could leave. That night, Badu had invited all the men to drink at his compound. He brought them enough wine and
akpeteshie
to drown in. Timothy Hightower, an officer eager to impress the chief, drank half a caskful of the home brew before he passed out underneath a palm tree, shaking and vomiting and claiming to see spirits. Soon, the rest of the men also littered the forest of Badu’s front yard, vomiting or sleeping or searching for a local woman to sleep with. Quey waited for his chance to speak to Badu, sipping his drink all the while.
    He had had only two cups of wine before Fiifi approached him. “Careful, Quey,” Fiifi said, pointing at the scene of men before them. “Stronger men than these have been brought down by too much drink.”
    Quey looked at the cup in Fiifi’s hand, his eyebrow raised.
    “Water,” Fiifi said. “One of us must be ready for anything.” He motioned to Badu, who had fallen asleep in his gold throne, his chin nestled down into the round flesh of his belly.
    Quey laughed, and Fiifi cracked a smile, the first that Quey had seen since meeting him.
    Quey never talked to Badu that night, but as the weeks went on he learned that it was not Badu he needed to please. While Abeeku Badu was the figurehead, the Omanhin who received gifts from the political leaders of London and Holland alike for his role in their trade, Fiifi was the authority. When he shook his head, the whole village stopped.
    Now Fiifi was as silent as he was every other time Quey had brought up trade with the British. He looked out into the forest in front of them, and Quey followed his gaze. In the trees, two vibrant birds sang loudly, a discordant song.
    “Uncle, the agreement Badu made with my father—”
    “Do you hear that?” Fiifi asked, pointing to the birds.
    Frustrated, Quey nodded.
    “When one bird stops, the other one starts. Each time their song gets louder, shriller. Why do you think that is?”
    “Uncle, trade is the only reason we’re here. If you want the British out of your village, you have to—”
    “What you cannot hear, Quey, is the third bird. She is quiet, quiet, listening to the male birds get louder and louder and louder still. And when they have sung their voices out, then and only then will she speak up. Then and only then will she choose the man whose song she liked better. For now, she sits, and lets them argue: who will be the better partner, who will give her better seed, who will fight for her when times are difficult.
    “Quey, this village must conduct its business like that female bird. You want to pay more for slaves, pay more, but know that the Dutch will also pay more, and the Portuguese and even the pirates will pay more too. And while you are all shouting about how much better you are than the others, I will be sitting quietly in my compound, eating my
fufu
and waiting for the price I think is right. Now, let us not speak of business anymore.”
    Quey sighed. So he would be here forever. The birds had stopped singing. Perhaps they sensed his exasperation. He looked at them, their blue, yellow, orange wings, their hooked beaks.
    “There were no birds like this in London,” Quey said softly. “There was no color. Everything was gray. The sky, the buildings, even the people looked gray.”
    Fiifi shook his head. “I don’t know why Effia let James send you to that nonsense country.”
    Quey nodded absently and returned to the porridge in his bowl.
    —
    Quey had been a lonely child. When he was born, his father built a hut close to the Castle so that he, Effia, and Quey could live more comfortably. In those days trade had been prosperous. Quey never saw the dungeons, and he had only the faintest idea of what went on in the lower levels of the Castle, but he knew that business