We had no school in the village, so none of us had any education. But I always prayed that we would have a school one day, and Noah would acquire knowledge, travel the world and pursue a great destiny. I wanted to tell him so. Instead, I smiled and drew him to me, and I kissed soft words into his hair.
We did not have much to do on the farm that morning, other than to sprinkle water on the tomatoes and peppers that were beginning to sprout. Noah insisted on undertaking this task by himself. ‘Please take a rest, Mother,’ he said to me. ‘I can do it by myself. Let me do it, please.’
Since the death of his father, Noah had tried to take on more responsibility, as if to say, ‘I’m no longer a child.’ I knew how much it meant to him, so I allowed him to have his way. I showed him what to do and went into the kitchen to cook. Through a window, I watched him for a while as he worked, and I could not help wondering where he got the strength from. Just like his father, I thought with a proud smile. Tanto had always helped me out with household chores, something other men never considered doing for their wives. I used to complain to him that he was spoiling me. He would laugh and say he wanted to spoil me more. Watching Noah work, I wished a miracle would bring him back to us.
*
Following Chair-Lady’s unfruitful visit, the traders who owned stalls on Main Street blamed me for the collapse of their business, and they vowed never to forgive me.
In their bitterness, they spread hateful words against me, and I became very unpopular overnight. No one wanted to be connected to me. Main Street was the soul of our village; now, everyone blamed me for its fall and none cared to consider that I was still mourning the loss of my husband. Friends abandoned me. My neighbours, who had been very supportive at the time of Tanto’s death, looked the other way when they saw me in the street. Pa Umoh and his wife Ma Umoh, who had often paid me visits in the evening, no longer did so. Duka, the young fisherman who lived a few doors away, stopped bringing me fish. And the young men who had been so eager to woo me no longer walked past my house – not that I cared about this.
Mercifully, Noah did not suffer, and he did not seem to know that I had become an outcast in the village. My son had found happiness again – on our small farm and outdoors with his friends. This was all that mattered to me. I told myself that the future would take care of itself. I had hope.
But I had forgotten about the old Chief.
TWO
The village was blessed with good weather and tall crops. It was often quiet during the day, at which time the men and older children would have gone to the farms, the rivers and the forests. Most women, like me, owned a garden in their backyard, which often kept them occupied.
During harvest time, with the exception of market-days, the village bore a deserted look, as the women and children went to help on the farms. And as they harvested the crops, they serenaded the air with folk songs to encourage everyone to work harder. Our market took place every five days, and each market-day was like a carnival, a day to wear our best clothes. Main Street assumed a party atmosphere; the more dust in the air, the more interesting it was. In the evening, when business had closed, the sound of drums rolled through the village. We cooked our best food, and the men gathered under the trees to drink palm wine. Later at night, lovers met at quiet spots, exchanging gifts they had bought from the market.
That year, with my stall sold to another trader, I spent harvest time working every day on our small farm, sometimes with Noah. The farm provided us with yam, potato, maize, cassava and green vegetables, and we had a barn in which we stored our produce. Noah was always eager to work, but I limited him to the small chores.
About five months had passed since Tanto’s death. We were working on the farm one morning, when the old Chief rode into our lives. We had started early and had been working for about an hour when the sound of hooves reached us. Looking up, we saw the white horse, with its gleaming mane like a blade of light in the distance. It was the only horse in the whole village, and we knew that the rider could only be the old Chief.
We concentrated on our work, to prevent him from intruding on our lives. But he was not a man to be dissuaded, and he soon brought his horse to rest on the edge of our farm. ‘Keep working, don’t look up,’ I whispered to Noah.
For a few moments, we pretended that the Chief and his horse were not there. He coughed loudly to draw our attention. Getting no response, he raised his voice to announce his presence. ‘The Chief is present on this ground,’ he said.
He was a powerful Chief, even if he was now almost a bent old man. His subjects were expected to accord him respect. I knew that the consequences for not doing so could be grave.
I straightened up. ‘Long live the Chief,’ I said in greeting, with a curtsey.
Noah took a cue from me. He prostrated and said, ‘Good morning, Chief.’
The Chief was dressed in customary style, a long robe of many colours with a rope around his waist, which I had always found very funny, but not on that morning. He nodded at us and, without bothering to respond to our greeting, beckoned us with the red horsetail in his hand, the emblem of his office. Then he waved it in the air to chase away the flies that clamoured around his face. The horse neighed and reared in protest, apparently disturbed by the flies too. The Chief kicked it to silence it. In the distance, a handful of kids had gathered.
‘It’s well over five months since the passing of your husband,’ the Chief announced. ‘I’m sure you know what tradition requires of you.’
I felt at a loss. ‘What might that be, oh Chief?’ I queried respectfully.
‘You should know,’ the Chief responded. ‘You’re a widow now. You’re expected to know as a widow.’
‘No, Chief, I don’t,’ I replied with a frown.
He permitted himself a faint smile. ‘A meeting will be convened at the palace in a few days. An invitation will be extended to you. You’re expected to attend. Your rights and obligations as a widow will be spelled out to you then.’
He flicked the horsetail in the air. And then he rode away.
We watched horse and rider disappear into the distance, several kids running and screaming after them. And then the whole world became still. I was too shocked by the sudden visit to think properly. I asked myself what it was that tradition required of me. How could I not know it? I could not think of any answer.
‘What does he want?’ Noah asked, breaking the silence that had enveloped us. ‘Why did he come?’
I turned to him and managed a smile.
He pressed close to me. ‘Why did he come?’ he asked again.
‘I don’t know, but it’s nothing to worry about,’ I replied, running my hand through his hair.
We returned to work without another word.
*
The invitation came two days later, delivered by a ragged palace guard with no shoes. Across his shoulders, he carried a short stick – his staff of office. I thought he looked more like a herdsman than a royal guard.
Noah and I were working on the farm when he came. Like his master, he did not bother to observe any social niceties. ‘You’re expected to be at the palace by noon tomorrow,’ he announced crisply, then abruptly turned and left.
The next day, I arrived at the palace, as directed, accompanied by Noah. The palace was a rambling compound comprising several large huts built of red clay. The wall around the compound was tall, and one could see the thatched roofs of the huts jutting into the sky. The main hut overlooked the street, with the wall framing it on either side, and it had an elevated balcony from which the Chief often addressed the villagers. A large crowd had already gathered when we got there. Commotion swelled. Thick dust rose in the air. Everyone was chattering away, and I wondered what it was they were so excited about. I stayed on the fringe of the crowd, holding Noah by the hand. I did not put myself forward or attempt to announce my arrival.