Ama (69 page)

The Senhor was playing chess with Father Isaac on the veranda.

“Senhor, Father, I beg permission to make a request,” she told them.

“What is it?” grunted the Senhor.

“I want to get married, Senhor.”

“Who is the man?” asked the priest.

“His name is João, Senhor.”

“I have no slave of that name.”

“He belongs to the Engenho do Meio, Senhor.”

“Out of the question,” replied the Senhor. “Find yourself a man in this
engenho
.”

He turned to the priest.

“I won't have my slaves marrying outsiders, Father,” he said. “It only causes trouble.”

“Senhor, I beg you. Would the Senhor not consider buying João from the
senhor
at the Engenho do Meio; or selling me to the
senhor
there?”

“I will think about it. Now clear these things away.”

“I don't mind what the church says,” she heard him say as she went through the door, “marriage is not a proper institution for slaves.”

Unseen, she paused to hear the rest.

“When they get tired of their spouses, they have a tendency to poison them. Then the poor owner loses a slave through no fault of his own. What do you think, Father?”

“That is certainly a risk, Senhor. I have heard of such cases. The Church, need I say it, is in favour of marriage in principle. In practice the problem is that Africans are so lascivious that once they are married they regularly practice adultery; and that is an affront to the Church.”

* * *

Though his riding days had long since passed the Senhor could still get excited over the birth of a new foal.

He would raise himself from his rocking chair and waddle ponderously over to the paddock to caress the favourite mare which had so rewarded his loving care and attention. It was much the same with calves and lambs.

When it came to new
peqeniños
, as the Portuguese called black infants, he was less than enthusiastic. For one thing, there was the inevitable decline in the mother's productivity during and after pregnancy. For another, there was the risk of the loss of an asset through the mother's death in labour. And then if a child was born there was the cost of ten years' food and clothing before the new worker could begin to do the simplest useful tasks. In the Senhor's experience, moreover, there was a high probability that the child would not survive to that age. That would mean even more money down the drain. Taking everything into account it made economic sense to extract the maximum labour during the ten years, on average, of a slave's useful working life and then to purchase a replacement, rather than to attempt to breed slaves as he bred livestock.

“A few survive some years beyond their productive period,” he had told Williams. “We may not kill them off, of course. We just have to grin and bear the cost of maintaining those survivors: it is just one of the unfortunate circumstances of our sugar economy. Wherever possible we allocate light tasks to the maimed or ill or prematurely aged. That helps to cover at least part of the cost of their upkeep.”

Fortunately for the Senhor his economic philosophy regarding
peqeniños
was supported by what appeared to be natural law. The fertility of the slave women was low. The reasons were not far to find, had the Senhor only chosen to look: poor food; long hours of exhausting work; the widespread incidence of venereal and other diseases; and the absence of any form of medical treatment beyond that which the other slave women could provide.

Many of the slave women, moreover, were themselves reluctant to have children. Despair led some to induce abortion as soon as they became pregnant; the others often miscarried anyway; some of those who went to term abandoned their new born babies in the cane fields or in the surrounding bush, leaving them to die in infancy rather than live their lives in bondage. Many of those infants who survived the first hours of life succumbed to what the Brazilians called the seven day illness, which resulted from the unhygienic conditions in which the umbilical cord was cut. Then there were the hazards of measles, whooping cough and diphtheria which forest herbs might or might not cure. Even a child who reached adolescence might be sold by a
senhor de engenho
temporarily strapped for cash.
Why go through all the pain and suffering and heartache?
the women reasoned.

This story was repeated all over sugar Bahia. The
senhores de engenho
argued,
Why go to the trouble and expense of rearing your own stock, when Africa is so much more efficient and economical a slave farm?

Conditions for the female slaves in the
casa grande
were marginally better than for those in the cane fields and the mill. For one thing the work was not as hard and the diet, supplemented by left overs from the Senhor's table and stolen food, was more nutritious. It is true that the hours were long but on the other hand there was often a chance to take a nap in the afternoon, during the Senhor and the Senhora's own siesta.

But in the
casa grande
the women faced a new and different problem: the father of the unborn child was often white and the pregnancy the fruit of a relationship which invariably had an element of duress. Moreover the mother of a mulatto child might have to face the anger and contempt of the slave men whose potential wife, herself, had been appropriated by the Senhor or his overseers.

All these matters were discussed in depth and at great length when, a year after Tomba's first appearance, Ama discovered that she was pregnant.

“I had a daughter once, a dearly beloved child,” Tomba told her. “She was taken from me suddenly and by force, she and her mother, who was the only woman I had loved until I met you. You know the story. I have told it to you before. That loss drove me mad. Who but a madman would have taken it upon himself to launch, single-handed, a campaign to destroy the slave trade? I don't want to be driven mad again and I don't want you to be driven mad either. Let us be content with one another. Take something, I beg you, to abort the pregnancy.”

“No, no, no,” she replied. “I want to have the child. You do not understand. A woman is not a woman until she has brought forth. Tomba, I beg you too, do not make me do this thing.”

This was their first serious quarrel. There was little else for them to quarrel about. They lived apart and though Tomba ran over after his work several times a week, there were no petty domestic issues to divide them. They were united in their hatred of slavery and in their determination to resist it in any way they could. They had the deepest respect for one another; and lying together on the bed Tomba had made for them, they were able to escape, briefly, from the humiliation and harshness of their daily lives.

Tomba's unusual childhood had left him free of the gender prejudices which male dominated societies build into their offspring during their formative years. Of his mother he had no more than the dimmest of memories. Sometimes he wondered whether he really remembered her at all; perhaps he was just recalling what Ibrahima had told him of her. As for Sami, she had been like a beautiful pearl discovered in an oyster, a delicate object to be treasured, a source of constant amazement.

Ama had witnessed Tomba's courage in the most difficult of circumstances and she had also seen how deeply those whom she had known on board as ‘Tomba's people' revered him. She loved him with a fierce passion but she also had a deep respect for him.

They resolved the quarrel by agreeing to accept Olukoya's mediation. The
babalorisá
listened to them both. Then he closed his eyes and sat perfectly still, in silence, while they waited.

When he had finished his meditation, he said, “Tomba and Ama, my dear friends. I am sorry that I cannot accept this task. Please forgive me.”

“But why not?” they burst out simultaneously and then looked at one another and laughed.

Olukoya laughed too.

“May you always be of one mind,” he told them.

He continued, “My problem is that I made up my own mind on this issue long ago, even before Ama arrived here. Because of that I cannot be a fair arbitrator.”

“No matter,” Tomba told him. “We agreed before we came to see you that we would accept your advice whatever it might be.”

“Can you not guess what it would be?”

Tomba said, “No.”

Ama said, “I can guess.”

Olukoya said, “We need witnesses,” and sent his wife to summon Josef and Wono.

When they had all shaken hands, Olukoya explained the circumstances.

Then he said, “Josef, I beg you, pour libation for us. Summon the spirits of all our ancestors and ask them to let me speak with wisdom and compassion.”

Olukoya said, “Tomba, my brother, our brother. You have placed yourself in my hands. I thank you for the honour you do me. Ama, you too.

“Tomba, what I have to say might possibly cause you pain. If that is so, it will not be from any malicious intention, please believe me.”

Mystified, Tomba nodded.

“The five of us here, Ama, Josef and Wono, Ayodele and I, represent three different nations. Wono and Ayodele and I are all Yoruba. Josef is an Akan. Though Ama is well versed in the customs of the Akan, her own people are called Bekpokpam. I don't have to tell you that.

“There is one thing that the five of us have in common. We all grew up in large families, mothers, sometimes several mothers, fathers, grandparents, brothers and sisters. While we were growing up we witnessed both births and deaths within our families. We all share a belief in the continuity of the living, the dead and those yet to be born. We believe that when we die we go to join our ancestors.

“But in order for us to do so, for our spirits to rest in peace, custom must be performed. The performance of that custom is the work of our children.

“Because of your strange history, which you have shared with us, my brother, and from what you have told me, I know that these beliefs and customs have little meaning for you. That is the reason why I first declined to be your arbitrator. I am not a fair judge. Just look at us. Ayodele and I have two children. So do Josef and Wono.”

Tomba made as if to speak but Olukoya held up his hand.

“Wait please,” he said quietly, “I have not finished. There is another argument, concerning which there is no difference amongst us, all six of us, and which I believe will carry more weight with you. I know you, and not only by Ama's account, as a man of unsurpassed courage. It would be uncharitable for me to taunt your fear of a repetition of a loss which, as you have told us, affected you so deeply, as a want of courage. We have talked long into the night together, you and I, about what we need to do to regain our freedom. I think we are in broad agreement. But I have to ask you, if we do not produce children, what is the purpose of our plans; and if our generation fails, who will there be to implement our dreams? The Portuguese bring shipload after shipload of our fellows from Africa. Each generation dies out leaving just a small residue of Crioulos and mulattos. Many of them think not like Africans but like their masters or their white fathers. In order to achieve our aims we must create a new generation who know both Africa and Brazil, who are committed to Africa and committed also to the overthrow of slavery and the creation of a new Africa here on this soil.”

Tomba bowed his head.

“There are many things I do not know,” he said. “You put me to shame.”

“Tomba, lift up your head. You know that that was not my intention. Agree to let Ama have this baby. We will give her, and you, all the love and support we can. Ama will teach your child to read and write, as she is teaching us. We will survive together in this country. Africa will survive in Brazil. One day Brazil will become part of Africa, a better Brazil, a better Africa, without slavery and without the wars which feed it. And your child will be part of it.”

* * *

For the first time since their marriage, Williams brought Miranda home.

Ama was busy preparing their bedroom for them when Miranda walked in. Her face lit up when she saw Ama.

“Ama,
atúù
,” she said as they approached, using the Asante which Ama had taught her.

“Senhora Miranda,
awâwâwâ
,” Ama replied as they embraced.

They stepped back and held each other at arm's length. Each looked at the other; then, eyes wide, each pointed at the other's belly and giggled. They embraced again. Then they went to sit side by side on the bed.

“Tell me all the news,” Miranda demanded. “I want to know exactly what has happened here since I left. My mother tells me nothing; well, nothing of any importance. I didn't even suspect that you were pregnant, let alone married. All of a sudden. Who is he?”

“He is called João. He comes from the Engenho do Meio. But we are not married. Not in church, anyway. The Senhor would not permit it.”

She gave Tomba the name by which the Portuguese knew him.

“What nonsense, Ama,” Miranda said.

Ama knew the look of concern on her face was genuine.

“Why, in heaven's name?”

Marriage to Williams, or was it living in Salvador, had changed Miranda, Ama noticed. Such a casual profanity would never have passed her lips when she was a child.

“I think it would be better if you asked the Senhor that question yourself, Senhora Miranda,” Ama replied, “but it is not really important. Everyone knows we are married. But tell me about yourself. How long are you going to stay?”

“Until my baby is born. Senhor Williams says he needs a break from my extravagant habits. He complains that I am driving him into debt. So my pregnancy has provided him with a convenient excuse to send me home to Mother. For the duration, at least.”

“Won't you miss him?”

“Of course, but he has promised to come down at least twice a month. He says he is going to get Josef to teach him how to sail. Oh, Ama. He is such a wonderful husband. Not at all like the stuffy Portuguese men. He has taught me so much. Do you know that I can read and write English now? And speak it a little, too.”