Ancestor Stones (37 page)

Instead I thought about that day, a long time ago, when I sat in a rice-weighing station wearing my favourite pair of red shoes.

The smell of rice dust on a cool morning, so clean and pure. By contrast this room was sweltering and smelled of ink and sour milk. Then it had been the end of the rains, harvest time. The land had been opulent, bursting with hope and fertility. Now, halfway through harmattan, it was desiccated, a semi-desert. The sky was choked with dust. The city stank. Hope had shrivelled and crumbled away.

When people are afraid they stay indoors. They close shutters, bolt doors, hide behind the flimsy tin and cardboard walls of their huts. That day even the police stayed inside, safe behind the thick walls of their solid British-built stations. Only the madmen wandered the streets, dazed and smiling, unexpected lords of the city.

There is but one reason people would venture outside on such a day.

Women's voices as muted and soft as the music of water. I had fallen into a kind of wakeful reverie, at first the sound drifted over me as though it had escaped from my dreams. I stood up and walked across the room to the door. The standpipe was on the other side of the football ground. The women approached it up a steep, rocky path hidden between the houses, bordered by tall grass
on either side. Some were carrying plastic containers and brightcoloured buckets. They were barely clad, a tank top over loose breasts, a
lappa
carelessly knotted around hips or hitched up and tucked into underwear. Theirs was hot, damp, effortful work.

One of the soldiers, leaning against a door frame, had been picking his nose and flicking the hardened snot at an empty tin. At my appearance he straightened and followed my gaze in the direction of the women. I emptied the remains of my cup of coffee on the ground, nodded at him and we stood, both of us, watching.

A young girl at the water pipe with a baby on her back looked over briefly. I waved. She hesitated, then raised her hand and waved back.

‘Morning-o,' I called and she echoed my greeting before bending back to her work. I called again, to a woman in a black dress with a comb stuck into her partially braided hair. Then to a girl in an old print frock. Within moments the women had formed a cluster over the water pipe. From time to time one of them straightened and looked over in our direction. More women arrived, were beckoned over, set down their containers and joined the huddle.

Beneath their slouched bodies I could feel the alertness, the muscle and sinew quickening under the skin, as the soldiers watched the water women beneath hooded lids.

Redempta came and stood next to me. She was a big woman. I'm sorry you never knew her. She was not so tall, but wide and straight. We stood shoulder to shoulder. Redempta began to hum. I remember that, because at first I wondered what she was doing. And then quickly I realised and I joined in. It was a woman's song, one that we were taught by our elders, we used to sing it on the way to the river with our water jars and again on the way back when they were full and heavy. Perhaps the soldiers knew this, perhaps they didn't. They must have had mothers and sisters, so I guess they did. We hummed in unison and the sound of our humming carried across the empty ground to the women on the other side and gave birth to the miracle that followed.

Those that still held on to their plastic containers set them down, they began to wander over. In the lead was the woman with the baby on her back, she was dressed in an old slip that fell off her shoulders, a green cloth tied around her head. There was something slightly unusual about her, something that made you want to stare. I think it was her eyes, they were hazel instead of deep brown, she was a fair skinned woman. Too fair for most people's tastes, still I remember even then thinking that she was beautiful. I saw the caution in the tread of her feet on the ground, but nobody watching would ever have guessed it from the way she carried herself, the way all the women carried themselves, as though they had never known a day's fear.

I straightened the board with the sign on it. I went back inside to take my place. A few moments later I heard Redempta giving directions:

‘Collect a voting paper. Behind the curtain, doesn't matter which one. Mark your X. One X only, against the name of the candidate of your choice. Sign your name, or make your thumbprint before you leave. Thank you.'

After the women, word went around. Within a short time a queue had formed that flowed across the playing field and looped around the cotton tree. At first people came silent, shuffling, with lowered eyes. But when they saw us going about our business, when they saw how our will had triumphed over the soldiers who now stood uselessly to one side, they raised their heads, took their voting slips and pushed their thumbs into the ink pad with a flourish.

A man with a cockerel under his arm shook my hand and offered me the bird as a gift. I told him I was just doing my duty. A woman pressed a pair of skinned oranges into my hands. This time I accepted, I handed one to Redempta and sucked the juice out of the other. I was thirsty. There were other gifts, but the greatest reward of all came those times I pushed back my chair and went to the door to stare, with wonder, at the long line of people. Once I looked over at Redempta who, at exactly the same moment, raised her head from the pile of papers she was sorting; our eyes met, she gave me a wink and the slow smile that was hers.

Through the tightly woven streets in the east of the city, west to the whitewashed villas of the wealthy, south to the fishermen at the wharf, news that people were turning out to the polls spread through the city. Until finally, it reached the northernmost point, to the Army barracks on the hill with the painted cannon in the courtyard.

Nobody heard them coming, we were too busy taking names and counting heads, filling in voting slips and making thumbprints. Maybe we were too busy telling ourselves how clever we were. Maybe we had stopped paying attention.

The truck barrelled out of a side road, straight across the open space, sending people in every direction. From the canopy at the back jumped one, two, three — a dozen or more soldiers, guns at the ready. The people didn't wait to find out what was happening. Inside the station papers fluttered up like doves as people scattered. I wanted to run after them, to shout: ‘Come back!' I wanted to scream and weep to see them go like that, knowing they were gone for good.

It was for our protection, the Commanding Officer told us. Tensions were rising in the city. All the time he was speaking his eyes roamed around, gathering details. He ignored us when we thanked him and said we did not need his protection. Voting here had been peaceful. He clicked his fingers and pointed. There, two soldiers set off at a trot. There, another two, guns at the ready. There, there, there! Men raced hither and thither at his command, and when the activity came to an end, I saw they had the entire polling station surrounded.

Nothing to do then, but go back inside and wait.

Redempta and I, neither of us had a word to say to each other. We moved about the room, tidying the papers that had fluttered up in the panic, setting the chairs and the table back. When we sat down again we did not meet each other's eyes, but looked mutely at our hands. There was nothing left to do.

In the heat the minutes stretched out, one by one. I don't know how much time passed, less than an hour I would imagine although it felt like an eternity. Then came sounds of life from outside. I
straightened in my chair, cocked my ear. Redempta raised her head. Together we crept over to the window.

Advancing down the lane: boys, you know the ones, always hanging around hustling for a little money here and there, offering to watch your car, playing their music too loud. They came waving palm fronds, marching in choreographed mockery of the soldiers, in formation, until they were ranged on the opposite side of the football field. For a while they threw insults across at the soldiers, such colourful words, at another time I might have closed my ears. That day I listened and I watched intently.

There was one lad, dressed in denim shorts and a ragged T-shirt. Not a ringleader. More like a younger brother or cousin, somebody on the edge of what was happening but who yearns to be at the centre. It didn't take much to imagine his short life so far. Born with legs as skinny as bamboo that refused to grow straight but were bowed out and kept him home with his mother while the other boys were out playing. But later he became good at other things: mending stereos, fooling passers-by with card games. They give him a nickname and make him feel part of the gang. Most of the time. Except on the nights they put on their dark glasses and jeans and leave their homes, arms around each other, and come back in the early morning, with sour breath, smelling of cigarettes and perfume.

This lad threaded his way through the line of his companions, found himself a vantage point and stood square to the soldiers, a rock concealed behind his back.

The soldiers were a poorly trained lot. So many young men wanted to join the military; not for the pay which was miserable and on many months was never paid at all, but for the benefits — the unofficial ones, with which they supplemented their incomes. Everybody knew about the things they did, and yet even their parents and grandparents showed them respect, afraid to do otherwise. Everyone, that is, except the street boys. They had grown up side by side with the soldier boys in the same slum. The street boys knew which taunts were the most exacting. The soldiers stiffened and bristled to hear their mothers and sisters spoken of in such a way. An intake of breath, a sucking of teeth.

And somewhere among the ranks of the soldiers the bow-legged street boy's counterpart. One-time victim, now with a gun in his hand. Unconfident, nervy, his trembling forefinger wrapped around the trigger of his weapon.

A lizard scattered suddenly, foreshadowing what was about to happen. Another barrage of insults, and the bow-legged boy brought the rock out from behind his back and flung it with all his might across the divide. It fell short, sending up a small shower of dirt. Nobody was hurt, but somebody's nerve broke. A single shot, followed by another. Two bullets skidded through the earth. The third shot brought down the bow-legged boy, sent him flying backwards, legs and arms at awkward angles, like a scarecrow caught by the wind. The cotton tree shuddered, as a thousand bats flinched.

Time paused, as if considering whether to move swiftly on or turn back and reverse what had just happened. Time moved on. Realisation descended in an instant. Anger and outrage burst forth, the street boys began to advance. More stones. A volley of shots. This time aimed at the air above their heads, there would be no more casualties. The boys retreated with their wounded companion, swearing, holding up their fists, some still managed a swagger. Retreating all the same.

The colours of the day had fled, darkness was approaching. Redempta and I sat alone in the polling station among the ballot boxes.

A truck had arrived, collected some of the soldiers and driven away again. By my best estimate six, perhaps eight men remained. The van that was supposed to collect the ballot boxes was due in the next half an hour, but who knew now whether that would happen. At some point the soldiers would have to decide what to do with us.

I listened to the blood thumping in my eardrums, my breathing growing louder as the darkness closed in. Outside I could hear the bats leaving the cotton tree, taking to the skies one by one. I could see them through the window, watch them spiral upwards, their
dark shapes outlined against the silver-blue sky, stretch their wings and turn towards the sea.

I could only just make out Redempta's form in the half-light. I inched my way towards her through the gloom and whispered into her ear. She nodded briskly. We got down on to our hands and knees and crawled around, groping in the darkness until we found what we were looking for: the chain that had held the ballot boxes together. I removed my headdress, wrapping it around the chain to muffle the sounds, in case the soldiers should hear us. We sat back to back, passing the chain around and between us.

Whatever happened next we were as ready as we ever would be, we sat and held hands in the dark.

Footsteps. The door was opened, the young officer in command stood silhouetted against the sky. Behind him the cotton tree encircled by flying bats. Polling had now officially closed, he informed us. We had done our job. From this point on he would take charge of the ballot boxes.

‘We are instructed not to allow these boxes to leave our sight until they are properly handed over to be counted.' Redempta's voice was steady.

He would have expected us not to give in straight away. He replied smoothly: ‘Well, I am an officer of the Army. You can regard yourselves as having placed the ballot boxes in safe custody.'

‘We cannot do any such thing.' I spoke up, to show we stood together. ‘We are very clear about our instructions. The boxes must go to the centre to be counted.'

‘Exactly. And that's where I will make sure they are delivered. Believe me.'

Liar! He would have burned them, emptied them, thrown the ballot papers in the gutter, where they would float down to the sea like paper boats.

We were silent, Redempta and I.

‘Eh bo, aunty.' His voice was changed now, softer, respectful almost. ‘You've done your duty. You can tell that to your grandchildren. Now let me do my own. Look how dark it is already. My men will take care of you, make sure you get home.
The streets are unsafe, nobody will come to collect these boxes tonight.'

Neither one of us answered. We both thought this last bit was true. We had been forgotten. It was just us, this man and his soldiers.

‘Get up now. My men will help you.' The officer switched on his torch and directed the beam at us.

It makes me feel like laughing now to think of the sight we must have made. Two middle-aged women, dishevelled and squinting in the sudden brightness, sitting on the dusty floor of a classroom in our gowns and good shoes, holding on to our handbags. The chain that bound us together went around our waists and then through the handles of the three sealed ballot boxes. The key to the padlock was tucked down Redempta's bodice. As good as at the bottom of the ocean.