Free The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel by Arthur Japin

was sending his nephew, the heir to the throne, to accompany his son, in order that the two might find solace in each other during their stay in that distant land. He requested us to take the best care of both boys, with which entreaty we readily promised to comply.
    When he sent for the boys to be presented to us they were not to be found, which angered H.H. so greatly that he uttered some apologies and terminated the festivities there and then.
    Kwame and I had run off into the forest, to get as far away as possible from all the fuss and commotion. We whiled away the evening without finding the words to express our bewilderment at the unthinkable morrow that awaited us. We ran about, making a lot of noise with our laughter. We shouted louder and louder, until we found ourselves in the clearing with the newly erected temple. The place was deserted. We sank down among the wooden struts and fell asleep side by side.
    We were woken up by a blast that seemed to signal the end of the world. The fireworks the Hollanders had placed all around seemed to have made an inferno of the temple along with the surrounding vegetation. The earth trembled. We were at the very centre of an explosion such as we had never seen before. There was nowhere to turn. We felt certain that we were about to die, and huddled close together under a sky ablaze with hellish red and lurid yellow. After a while some Dutch soldiers approached the temple to extinguish the smouldering fires with water. We had a few moments in which to compose ourselves, but another shock was upon us: hardly had we crawled out from behind the columns than the noise of the jungle, which had made itself heard again once the pandemonium had ceased, suddenly fell silent. The soldiers noticed this, too, but did not know what it signified. We did. We ran away as fast as we could. A moment later the air was filled with the roar of a tornado tearing through the forest. Branches snapped and were blown away. Trees were uprooted. The temple was blown apart by the storm, and with the flying debris at our heels we fled into the palace.
    That night Kwame and I slept apart. Each of us spent the night in the arms of our inconsolable mothers. Clearer than my memory of my mother’s face is my memory of the cloth she was wearing, of my head buried in the patterned fabric covering her heaving bosom. I do not recall any words of farewell either, only the rhythm of a song, sung in a halting voice. This is how I picture the two of us: she is sitting cross-legged on the floor, I am resting drowsily in her arms, and all the while she singsongs the adinkra symbol of Anansi, the five-rayed sun:
    Children of the spider Anansi are we
And the wide world is our web:
Love, lust or fate
Bring us to the furthest reaches.
Whichever way we turn in that world-web
There are threads to grasp
And threads to let go.
    On the day of our departure we sat tall in the saddles of our Arabian stallions, apparently unmoved. While the Dutch officers received yet more gold and slaves, Kwame and I were ready, our faces inscrutable.
    Close to van Drunen and the musicians, who struck up their “March for the King of Ashanti” as a last salute, we headed the long procession. As we filed past the palace my father stood outside in the gallery. He waved his hand.
    We came across scattered debris from the temple. Where the path disappeared into the forest, we passed two pillars and fragments of the collapsed frieze. The relief had been painted in grisaille, portraying a scene of strong white warriors with curved breast-plates and banners clustered around a triumphant woman on a throne guarded by a lion rampant. She wore a helmet, and although she held a spear in one hand and a shield in the other, two infants suckled at her large white breasts.

     

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    We had left everything: parents, kinsmen, toys, beds and clothing, servants, beliefs and native soil, our past and our future. For two boys who had been severed from their roots