A Different Sun: A Novel of Africa (23 page)

· 29 ·

Ilorin

E
MMA SAT ON
the piazza, counting stitches as she sewed—stopping at intervals to run a hand over her abdomen. The day was hot and the smell of ash still hung in the air. She had cared only for Henry’s return until he showed up, and then she was consumed again in anger—that he should leave her unprotected, that he should leave at all, that in his leaving, he also left open her heart. The household had not celebrated Christmas. Now her husband approached. She set her sewing aside and he laid eleven guinea eggs in her lap, one by one. They were beautifully small, dark brown, and neatly speckled.

“I’ve hired a night watchman,” he said. “He comes with the king’s recommendation; he has a rifle. I’ll be back in five days.”

She had prayed God’s forgiveness for the hardness in her heart, but when Henry and Jacob turned away, she let herself cherish it, knowing she sinned even as she did so. His sin was greater. She thought she noticed Abike leaning toward the two men as they left, as a flower bends toward light, and took it as a sign of her own feeling. She called her to come sit. “They won’t be gone long,” she said. To herself,
I have Duro, the Iyalode, I have other resources and friends
.

The next morning, she took up her writing box. She had hardly opened it since the fire. With the desk unfolded on her lap, she opened the red journal and dipped her pen. But she could not decide on what to record. Too often her diary reported on Henry. What would she say about herself? She saw Uncle Eli’s gift and thought on him, how he had worked even when times were hard, harder than any she had known. With his spirit in mind, she jotted a sentence.
In God’s time, all things are possible.
The words seemed empty. She looked out the parlor door to the compound gate. The king’s guard. At least she was safe. She dipped her pen in the inkwell.

How will I live amidst turmoil?
She studied her sentence. Her left thumb still tingled where it was cut. Did that mean it was still healing or never would? In pregnancy she had no blood flow. That was a great relief. Her eyes went back to her page.

Turmoil: inner and outer states of unrest.

With her scarred thumb she pressed the lever to release the secret compartment of her box. No secrets there. They were inside her.
Jacob
, she thought. And wrote,
finish shirt for Henry
.
She fancied sewing a shirt for Jacob. She would be required to measure him.
Spend more time in morning devotional
, she wrote. She put the scarred finger to her tongue. The baby kicked. She put her hand there and closed her eyes. Had the day turned even hotter? She was tired and rested her head against the chair. She woke in a chill, feeling it would take hours to open her mouth and call Abike. Duro found her and helped her to bed. When she woke again Abike was bearing blankets into the room. By that evening, she was so ill she could not lift her head. Intermittently in her illness, Emma woke and hugged her belly. “Stay with me,” she said, “stay,” turning to sleep again.

* * *

E
MMA KNEW IT
was afternoon by the way the sun fell across the bed. She lifted her right hand, and its movement was wondrous and complex. She made a bowl out of her palm and set it on her tummy. “Keep humming,” she said. Her thirst was enormous. Now she could hear the regular sounds of people in the street, the din of voices, music, drums. The orb of the sun slipped down like a huge mango into the upper portion of the low door. Only then did she remember the bell on the table beside the bed. She expected Abike, but Henry came.

“Hello,” he said.

“You’re back,” she said. He looked beautiful to her. “Water, please,” she said.

He brought to her not the clay pot but a pitcher, and a glass. They sat awhile.

“I have badly wronged you,” he said finally. “It was not my intention. That doesn’t matter. I don’t know what got into me. Sometimes I fear for what I might do. But I was wrong to leave again when you are so close.” He turned her palm over and traced the lines in it. “Can you forgive me?”

She waited a moment to begin. “I must believe we can do better,” she said, a little righteously she hoped. They continued to sit. The mango sun was gone now, though the light at the horizon still threw up shafts of light.

“You know I love you, Emma. I guess you do. But I don’t suppose you would have married me if you’d known how things would be, how difficult I mean.”

She wished to affirm what he said. He might emphasize even more how difficult he was.

“You were right, in fact,” he said. “The emir was inclined to let me come, but his council turned him against me. I was refused.”

She felt the slightest sorrow for him. Ilorin had been his dream. But she could not help feeling the elation of victory.

“I’m at rest on it,” he said. He bent and placed his hands on her belly and kissed that center of life. She could still be crushed by the sight of his hands.

“I brought you something,” he said. It was a lovely oblong of pink rock, studded with mica, about the size of his thumb.

· 30 ·

The Promised Land

H
OW STUPID AND
faithless, Henry thought, to go off again half-cocked. In how many ways would he hazard Emma’s life and the child’s? He loved Emma, was deeply fond of her. Her strength was what kept him upright. He would likely die without her. Then he got angry that he was in such a bind. The mission board might give him more help. After all, his assignment included exploration. He couldn’t do that sitting on a piazza. True, Ilorin could wait. But he hadn’t wanted the Baale to imagine his power over him. He also didn’t want to think on the limits of their economy. When would he learn? All of these impediments were God’s hand, God leading him, God chastising him. Why couldn’t he look at the Baale and see God in him, instead of a Comanche warrior? But enough of fighting with himself. He needed land, and there was only one way to get it: ask. Let the man crow over his failure in Ilorin. Get it done with.

When he arrived at the palace, the king was loquacious. He required Henry to come and see the tortoise he had recently gained.
The animal is fifty years if it’s a day
, Henry thought. It had pressed out a cool bed under a shrub, and the king pulled back the low branches for a better look. The turtle raised its head and if the man didn’t go and pet it like a dog. The animal lurched when his owner offered a large green leaf and the Baale let out a hearty laugh. They watched until the tortoise swallowed, pulled his head back, and bedded even farther under the bush.

“How have you been, my friend?” the Baale said.

“Quite well, thank you. I hope you are well.”

“How is your beautiful wife?” the sovereign said.

Henry had never heard his wife so praised. Maybe the man’s view of Emma would work to his advantage. “She was ill, but she’s much better,” he said. The next part was always difficult. “And how are your wives?”

“They are all well, only the youngest one continues unhappy until the day she obtains a hair comb such as your wife’s.” The king chuckled again. “Women are our joy and our ruin. Is it not?”

Henry tried to agree without seeming too enthusiastic and briefly considered how he might talk Emma out of a hair comb. One thing at a time. “I’ve come on a serious matter,” he said.

“Yes, I can tell,” the Baale said.

“I might as well be direct. I had thought on moving to Ilorin.”

The king made a noise through his teeth.

“I felt God was leading me in that direction. But the emir turned me down.”

“Yes. I have heard.”

“I figured you might have.” Henry thought he wouldn’t mind a drink of native punch. “If you give me some land to build here, I’ll start a trade school for your young men. We’ll bring books. I’ll build a church.”

“What of your love of Ilorin?”

“There is work to be done here. My wife expects a child. I’ll be much indebted to you.” Henry was beyond glad that Emma was not present to hear the next bit. “I see now that God means for me to remain here. Your town is peaceful. The children in my wife’s school have brains to catch knowledge. You have a number of fine artisans.” Henry looked back at the tortoise.

“Since you favor the north, I will give you land near the Ilorin Gate,” the Baale said.

The Ilorin Gate, Henry mused, the one leading out of Ogbomoso to the northern city. He’s not going to let me forget how I miscalculated, preferring another town to his own.

“You can look to the place where you are not going,” the king said, appearing grave.

Henry thought his leg might give. That line of soldiers started coming down his eyeball.

“In time,” the king continued, “you may see that Ogbomoso is the promised land.” Henry turned and looked the man straight in the face.

The Baale paused before smiling, and then he laughed in a high, soft way, as if he amazed himself. “You were the one who told me the story of Moses. Do you think only children remember stories?”

Walking back to his temporary abode, Henry ruminated on Moses. The prophet had never entered the promised land. What else had the man endured that had not been recorded in scripture? How did he doubt? Did his legs tremble like Henry’s and his eyes give way to queer visions? In the distance, a white egret swept over a brown field, looking for water. Henry didn’t have much time. Layers of brick had to be laid and allowed to dry before more could be added. Heavy rains could begin in late March. He would start tomorrow. But he would not tell Emma. She might be too pleased. Or he might wish to surprise her later. Let him be stolid and let her wait.

· 31 ·

Tea

I sometimes wonder if I write letters for myself as I have so little assurance you receive them. Wouldn’t I love to bring you here for an afternoon to see my life! So much I take joy in but no one to clap and say, “Well done, Emma.” So often a setback and no one to say, “Sit here, Emma, let me assure you of all the good you have already done. Let me tell you of the good yet to come.”

—EMMA IN AN UNSENT LETTER TO HER MOTHER, OGBOMOSO, JANUARY 1855

W
ITH
A
BIKE,
E
MMA
called regularly on the Iyalode. By now she and the woman governor could hold a fine conversation. If they got to an impasse, the girl helped translate. One evening, Emma chanced to mention to Jacob the pleasure she found in her friendship with the townswoman. She expected he would be pleased, seeing how he had been so instrumental in their first acquaintance.

“The Iya trades in native medicine,” he said.

“All the more reason I should continue to see her,” Emma said, confounded that he was not glad to learn of her progress.

“She will not hear the gospel,” Jacob said. He seemed almost insolent.

“Why do you say that?”

“She is very wealthy. She will not give up her life.”

“We were not sent here to do easy things but difficult ones,” she said, annoyed at his implied challenge to her.

The next time she and Abike sought the Iyalode, they passed a hairdresser’s shop. Abike pulled on Emma’s arm. “Please mah,” she said. “I wish to have my hair plaited.”

Emma had noticed that the girl’s hair did not look so neat as when she first joined them. “Of course,” she said. “I can go alone to the Iyalode’s.” She made arrangements with the shopkeeper and headed on her way, glad for the opportunity to prove herself. She meant to press into her the message of Jesus. Her friend was in her yard, sitting on a large red mat, organizing goods on trays.

“My girls will take it to the market for sale,” the Iyalode said.

Emma observed the lovely assembly: groundnuts in bits of calabash, fresh
akara
on green leaves, red peppers rising into small pyramids. “What is that?” she said, pointing to a tray she couldn’t make out.

“Chicken,” the Iyalode said.

Emma could see now and caught the stench. Very dead small chickens, still fully feathered but clearly inedible. “No one will want those,” she said.

“They will buy it for medicine,” the woman said. She seemed impatient and took a moment to stand, open her wrapper, and retie it. Emma caught a glimpse of cowry strings tied around her middle. She was lost in thought when the Iyalode commented on her new dress.

“My friend in Ibadan sent the fabric,” Emma said.

The Iyalode frowned. “The Ibadan should know that he who digs a pit for others must invariably fall into it,” she said.

Emma could not guess why the Iyalode was against Ibadan. Its reputation was no worse than any other town as far as she could tell. Except Ogbomoso, of which she had become quite fond through her resistance to Ilorin. The Iyalode offered refreshments, and Emma insisted that she let her contribute tea. “If you will only boil some water on your fire,” she said, and drew from her basket two teacups and tea leaves in a tin. The woman was willing. While they waited for the water, the Iyalode stretched out her legs and Emma, on her stool, let her legs relax under her dress.

“How is it coming?” the Iyalode said.

“What is that?” Emma said. “Oh yes, the baby. Well-well. Thank you.”

The tea was successful, though the Iyalode commented that a little sugar was always nice.

“We have decided to stay in your town,” Emma said, changing the subject.

“Ah. It is good,” her friend said.

“It depended on my husband’s judgment. At first he wanted to go to Ilorin.” Emma felt fortified, making a kindlier statement about her husband than she might have a week ago. She was wending her way into conversation about their mission, the mission of Christ.

“Ah!” the Iyalode said, as if Emma had just said her husband wished for them to live among thieves. “Even,” she continued, “if your husband moves on, you will continue here.” She patted the ground. Emma had gleaned that the Iyalode had a husband somewhere but they didn’t live together; it was often the native practice.

She said to the Iyalode, “That would not be possible. Where my husband goes, I must follow.”

“What of the sewing class?” the Iyalode said, placing a hand of claim on Emma’s arm.

“Of course I should miss—”

The Iyalode interrupted her. “Sade has been beaten.”

“What do you mean?” Emma said.

“The husband,” the Iyalode said, as if that explained everything.

“Her husband beat her?”

“Yes mah, for coming to the sewing class and your husband’s meeting.” The Iyalode nodded her head in agreement with herself.

“That’s terrible. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Where is she?”

“Mah!” the Iyalode said. “Even now, you were prepared to leave her.”

“No! I was not prepared. We are staying.”

“You were prepared to leave with your husband.”

Emma could see she would not win. “But why was she beaten?”

“The husband does not like her to offend the town gods.”

“I must go find help,” Emma said, “right now. Where is she?”

“She is in her compound,” the Iyalode said. “Everything is settled. I have done it.”

“How is it settled?”

“I have spoken with the chief; he has gone to Baale. I have told them Sade must come to the class. She can visit your meeting. Baale has agreed. The husband—” She dusted her hands. “He is required to buy Sade two goats.”

Emma left her friend’s house in a state of consternation. The woman had dominated the conversation entirely, and she had had no chance to speak of Jesus. Instead, she had to learn that the Iyalode had interceded for Sade, a woman Emma meant to be leading to the light of the gospel. Jacob probably knew all about it. He certainly knew about the Iyalode’s side business in native medicine. At the hairdresser’s, she found Abike’s plaits only half finished. A woman with anklets walked by, the silvery sound like a forgotten promise. What was the gospel? Sometimes it seemed to elude her, which was very strange. Jesus loves us and died for us. But how was Emma to show this message?

“I’ll send someone for you,” she said to Abike, wondering if she ought to be trusted even with this one life. What had her actions shown the girl about God’s love? Then she thought of how she would find Jacob in the compound, and she moved in his direction.