Free Ama by Manu Herbstein Page A

cloth. The Consul dismounted and Damba escorted him on an inspection. The slaves looked at him curiously, sensing that he was a person of importance.
    â€œHow many?” asked Koranten Péte.
    â€œThree hundred,” replied Damba.
    â€œI take your word,” said the Consul. “You remain fully responsible until we reach the river. There we shall take an inventory together. Now, if you are ready to move let the priests pour libation and let us be on our way; it is already getting hot.”
    Damba gave the signal.
    â€œOh ancestors, you who watch over us day and night and who know all things. We greet you with this drink. Nana greets you with this drink. Take it, we beg you. We are about to leave Yendi on a great journey to the south. Guard us, we beseech you, from footpads and robbers and wild beasts. Let no evil person meet us on the way. Let the provisions we carry for the journey be sufficient. Let us find water when we need to drink. Protect us from fatigue and preserve us from disease. Let none of us die on the road.”
    So sang out the priests, Dagomba and Asante, as they poured the liquor. The malam’s formula was different but the sentiments were the same.
    Then the drummers at the head of the caravan began the steady beat which would accompany them on their journey. The caravan moved off slowly between the walled compounds. Soon they had left the town.
    â€œI am called Nandzi,” Nandzi told Minjendo.
    * * *
    They stopped in the heat of the day, scrambling for a patch of shade in the dry scrub.
    â€œWoman, bring me water,” said one of the men to Minjendo when she had helped him to put down his head load. He was a handsome youth, barely her own age.
    â€œWoman, bring me water,” she mimicked him. “Man, I am not your slave, you know.”
    â€œWe are all slaves now, my sister,” he said wearily, lifting his manacled hand and rattling the chain. “Please bring me water.”
    â€œNo talking, there,” called out one of their guards, nervous of rebellion in spite of the iron.
    Nana Koranten Péte rode up to the front of the caravan with Damba.
    Damba slowed his horse to a walking pace as they came opposite Nandzi. She studiously avoided looking at him, but she could not help hearing their conversation.
    â€œI want you to meet me at Kafaba,” the Consul was saying.
    He had not recognised Nandzi.
    â€œI have some business in Kpembe with the Gonja king,” he continued. “I will take a small party and travel down the Daka river by canoe. The rest of my people will travel with you. My horses will meet me at Kpembe port.
    â€œI shall need a few slaves as porters and cooks. That crazy young woman who tried to escape: can she cook? Then include her when you make your selection.”
    * * *
    Koranten Péte had hired three long dug-out canoes.
    The season of floods had passed and the flow meandered sluggishly between sandbanks. Up on the high banks tall trees grew, like a row of giant spectators, watching the passing traffic. Each was different from its neighbour: one ablaze with red flowers; the next straight-boled with a head of dark green; and another top-heavy with enormous spreading branches.
    The water was shallow. Soon the visible flow would stop completely and the river would turn into a series of ponds. The paddlers preferred to stand, one up front and one behind, and punt.
    The sandbanks were infested with crocodiles. The only evidence of the presence of man was an occasional fishing weir, two rows of strong long funnel-shaped wicker baskets set in a frame supported by the trunk of a large tree which spanned the river.
    Nandzi squatted half way along the second canoe, trailing a hand in the clear water. She could hardly remember when she had last been so idle; she had nothing to do but think. She wondered first about the trees, why no two seemed to be at all similar. Trees produced fruit and inside the fruit there were seeds. One might