These thoughts of resistance, of strong will passed down to the women of her kin, some sort of inheritance, brought memories of Nzenwani II’s birth.
~*~
Manta wasn’t the one to believe in curses, more so generational curses. But when she looked at the little bundle of joy in her hands, she couldn’t help but think of just that. It was a dreadful May night in 1813. She had screamed her baby girl out of her womb a few minutes earlier, and the nurse had brought her to her, wrapped in a white calico. Manta peered at the face of the pale-skinned little girl cooing in her hands and thought about the things people inherit in their blood. She thought of how blood was memory, which carried the weight of those who came before us. She thought of what, from that memory, we take with us when we are born. What remains tethered to us, whether we want it or not? The burdens of blood, the scars, the silent wounds stitched into our lineage.
Maybe she, Manta, had inherited whatever subjected her grandmother, Nzenwani, to her fate many years ago. The same that chased her mother, Azabu, out of her home, that drunken night, into the forests, careless of what dangers awaited her. She was only thirteen. Out there, many wild things roamed—wild animals, the white slavers and of course the Asante warriors. Yet, she took to foot, walked day and night for seven nights, passing through unknown lands until she was hunted and captured by some Asante warriors.
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‘What will her name be?’ the nice nurse lady asked Manta, her slender Fante tone pushing through her thoughts.
‘Nzenwani…Nzenwani, after my grandmother.’
Manta didn’t know what it was that pushed those words out of her mouth, but she had no time to change her mind when the name forced its way out. It was as if all that while, the name had been lying flat, hiding in the grassland of her mind like a lioness stalking her prey, strategising, stealthily advancing, slowly gaining ground, matching forward. Manta didn’t see it coming. The name sneaked a surprise attack on her, pounced on her and ripped her throat apart.
‘That is a beautiful name!’ the nurse said as she scribbled something on a white card she held. Manta didn’t care to know what it was. She couldn’t read anyway.
She just turned her eyes back to her daughter’s face. Then she found that the young one looked just like her. Or at least shared some resemblance. Those little almond-shaped eyes comfortably plugged in their little sockets, the round face, mmaaa! Even their limbs had shared similarities. But what else did she inherit from her? The pain that ran through generations like an unending forest fire? The grief of women forced to give, give, and give again until nothing was left?
In that moment, Manta feared that blood could be more loyal to sorrow than to joy. That it could smuggle despair into the cradle as easily as it passed down dimples or laughter. Still, she whispered a prayer into her baby’s ear, begging the blood to be kinder this time. Begging that the inheritance be not only of curses, but also of resilience, strength, and newer possibilities because, even though she, Manta, had promised to right her mother’s wrongs (if there were any), the farthest she had gotten was making more mistakes.
What mistakes? Many, but start with how she got pregnant with her child and who the father was. Though Manta had vowed not to speak of it, everyone who saw the girl knew where she had come from. The child’s skin told a lot of tales, a blend of black and white. And anyone who saw the child had a version of the tale they told themselves, the part of it they believed.
Whore! They spat. How could she manage bedding with a White master? It was because of harlots like her that these Whitemen were getting too comfortable in a land that wasn’t theirs, taking what didn’t belong to them. Those were the words of those who pointed fingers at her. They never hid their disgust. She told herself, always, if that was what they believed, what could she do to change their minds? She left them to their thoughts.
Then there were those who believed in the innocence of women in her situation. Those who believed that when it came to the White masters, the opposite was true. Those who had either seen or heard, or had a close relative being forced to bed with the White masters. What a pity! When will these Whitemen stop abusing and taking advantage of our women? Those people always had a look of shame in their eyes. The look that said: we know what you have been through. We are with you. That Whiteman did wrong to touch you, to put his seed in you! Again, that was a version of the truth. She left them to it. If anyone had cared to spare a shilling for her thoughts, she would have told them: Whiteman or Blackman, it didn’t matter. The problem was with men. Skin colour didn’t change the animal instincts that etched themselves in them. This feeling that they could take whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. Look at her mother, Azabu. Mumuni was her clansman. Mumuni was black, had her skin.
And so, on that very afternoon under the scornful eye of the sun, on the farm near the river, the part of the lands Mumuni was helped Azabu to tend, that afternoon when he forced himself in her, broke through her and had his way with her, and planted his seed in her, all Mumuni needed to be was a man, not white, not black, just a man.
So, Manta had vowed not to talk about how she ended up pregnant with a Whiteman’s child. And she never did. Not even when her daughter Nzenwani became a grown-up girl, two round balls full of life appeared where there was once a flat chest, and insisted on knowing did she say a word.
‘They keep calling me a Mulatto and saying you are a whore…’ Nzenwani said, red-eyed, one afternoon when she returned home from the Castle school.
‘Look here,’ Manta said, dropping the fish she was scaling, holding Nzenwani’s gaze as if by that single act, she could speak to her soul.
‘None of those kids know what they are saying. Mulatto or not, you are a smart and brave girl. Don’t give a mind to their falsehoods and focus on what you want to study.’
‘So are you a whore?’
‘Ebei! Nzenwani! What big words you young children are learning these days! I am your mother, that is all that matters.’