Two nights before the Bakatue Festival, a light-skinned man drove into Kukuwa’s father’s compound in a black car that looked like a small tent on wheels.
The pale people who arrived on ships drove around in similar versions.
The vehicle was a Type-A Citroën passenger car, with a four-cylinder engine. It had three tires on each side, six in total. The extra tires were plastered to the back doors. Black tarp protected the interior from the afternoon sun.
There were rumours going around the village that Chief Quayson had imported this car from Europe, along with a black Peugeot Coupé Docteur. People said it came from Europe, some place called France.
The light-skinned man said he was Chief Quayson’s driver. His name was Jojo. He was from Winneba, he said. Jojo wore a single breasted black and white pressed suit. Fishing season hadn’t started yet, so Kukuwa’s father and her brothers were home. None of them had ever seen a Fante man dressed like Jojo before.
“Chief Quayson has requested your immediate service in Cape Coast. Ewuradwoa is in trouble,” Jojo said in Fante, to Kukuwa’s mother.
Ewuradwoa Murphy was Chief Quayson’s youngest daughter. Kukuwa heard from the market women that she married Hank Murphy last rainy season.
Hank was a short man with striking red hair. Freckles spread across his nose and cheeks.
He was a British colonial administrator. His family had been in the Gold Coast since the 1830s. They traveled back to England often, she heard. Her cousin said they went there to birth their children, do their shopping, attend university, and get their medical exams done.
“The baby is four-weeks early and Ewuradwoa is having weak contractions. Her cervix refuses to open wide enough. Doc says she needs a C-section,” said Jojo, uncomfortably.
Kukuwa’s mother, Ma Ewuradwoa, nodded.
Korle Bu hospital, which was the best in all the country, was hours away in Accra. There was no way they could make the drive in time.
Ma Ewuradwoa had already delivered 14 of Chief Quayson’s grand-kids, so he trusted her. Everyone knew Ma Ewuradwoa for her non-invasive techniques. She got the job done without surgery. She was the best midwife in all of the coastal region.
Cape Coast wasn’t far from Elmina, roughly 20 km’s away. But because of the unpaved roads and the slow-moving vehicle, it took them over two hours to get there. Kukuwa stared out of the window, the whole bumpy way.
Chief Quayson was a generous man. In exchange for catching babies, he gave her mother chalewote slippers and expensive kente. He bought masks and other wooden statues from her brothers and uncles. On market days, he sent his house girls to buy food from Kukuwa’s other mothers and sisters. The boat her father and brothers used to fish, Chief Quayson had gifted it to them.
Chief Quayson lived in a very large estate, not too far from the Cape Coast forts. The mansion had a main building with two wings, 9-bedrooms in total. Six bathrooms, two kitchens, a study, and a grand hall where his constituents and guests met with him.
His estate was tidy. Even the columned loggias surrounding the courtyard were clean. Trimmed hedges greeted Kukuwa and her mother as they approached the front door. It had a stained-glass window.
Black and white octagon shaped ceramic tiles lined the floors inside. Family photos covered the walls in the hallway. Some were sketches painted in colour. Others were sepia family portraits. The women and girls in the pictures wore custom high-collared puffy long-sleeve tops, with ruffles at the front. The shirts were white and tucked into high-waisted kente skirts with satchels. The men in the photos wore kente ntuma wrapped around their left shoulders. They were surrounded by men holding large umbrellas. Others provided security. They held swords, knives, and guns.
Separate from the main house, Chief Quayson had three smaller guest quarters. Plus, a shrine for the ancestors. All the buildings were made of concrete blocks painted pink. Inside had pink concrete walls. The furniture was made of oak and maple wood, all imported from Europe.
The green kente drapes were all custom made locally.
On the way up the stairs, Kukuwa passed a study. It had a large mahogany bookcase filled with hardcover books. Candle flames burned on the cherry desk across from it.
She and her mother made their way to the bedroom they were being led to. Once inside, Ma Ewuradwoa, with the help of Kukuwa, managed to soothe Ewuradwoa Murphy’s pain naturally. They used herbs and oils to massage Ewuradwoa’s feet and belly.
Nobody asked what they were using. Not even Dr. Finnegan, the attending obstetrician gynecologist, who said very little.
Over the next thirty-hours, Ewuradwoa’s cervix dilated from the size of a kola nut to a papaya.
“No need to rush. Slow and steady. There you go, you’re doing great, Ewuradwoa. Small pushes. Exhale. Gentle. Gentle,” Ma Ewuradwoa cheered young Ewuradwoa on in Fante.
Ewuradwoa screamed while her husband grimaced beside her, as if feeling her pain.
“There you go. Great job, Ewuradwoa. I can see the head. Keep pushing. Gentle. Gentle.
Here it comes,” said Ma Ewuradwoa.
The child slid out, head first. A slimy gooey mess.
“It’s a healthy baby girl! Premature as she is.”
Ewuradwoa Murphy wept when Ma Ewuradwoa placed the child on her chest.
Kukuwa had been sent outside to pound fufu with the other girls, so she missed the arrival of Louisa Araba Marie Murphy.
Hank Murphy, the child’s father, was ever so grateful for Ma Ewuradwoa and Kukuwa saving his daughter and wife’s life.
He offered to send Kukuwa away to school at Wesley Girls’ High School in Cape Coast.
Her family was hesitant at first, but they finally agreed, right before the start of the school year.
“This should get you by for some time,” said Kukuwa’s father’s first wife. The older woman gave Kukuwa a big hug, “I added lots of tamarind, just like you like.”
“Thank you, Ma,” Kukuwa said, hugging her other mother back. “I’m going to miss you,” she said in Fante.
“We will miss you, too,” said her father’s second wife.
Kukuwa nodded and held back tears. Even though her mother was the third wife, all of them were family.
Kukuwa asked to excuse herself and went to visit the ancestral shrine. There, she made offerings of gratitude to the ancestors. She asked them for continued protection and guidance.
Then Kukuwa went to go find her paternal grandmother.
“She’s waiting for you by the stream,” her mother said, smiling, “Go see her, we will wait.”
Kukuwa approached the water. It was located close to their homestead, so it wasn’t a long walk. She could see her grandmother hunched over, filling a calabash. Nana was humming a song Kukuwa didn’t recognize.
Kukuwa paused to take in the view. She wanted to believe that she would return home again one day. But deep inside, something told her this would be her last time.
Maybe they all knew, including her grandmother.
“Kukuwa,” her grandmother called out, using Kukuwa’s Fante name, meaning, born on a
Wednesday.
Her grandmother, Mama Araba, was still hunched over, going about her business. She never looked back, but knew from the footsteps who it was.
“I have been expecting you. Come let me wash you before you go.” “Good afternoon, Nana,” Kukuwa greeted the matriarch in her family.
She removed her sandals as she approached.
“I washed already this morning,” Kukuwa explained, confused.
Mama Araba stood up and faced her. She was tall. Not as tall as Kukuwa’s mother, but tall. No one knew how old she was. Her eldest child, Kukuwa’s father, said Nana had walked the earth for over 1200 full moons. That was a lot.
Kukuwa had only lived through 150 or so full moons.
Her grandmother’s dark skin was still smooth around her eyes, though the lines around her mouth, and the skin around her knuckles, were wrinkled.
A black duku covered her head. A matching akatasuo cloth wrapped tightly around herupper body. Ntoma cloth covered her bottom half.
“Good, so you are already clean. I need to give you a spiritual bath before you go. Come, let me explain,” Nana said, holding her hand out to her granddaughter.
Kukuwa took off her own akatasuo. Slipped out of the ntoma. Then, she took her duku off too, exposing her hair, which her mother had plaited earlier.
She walked toward the water and her grandmother, unsure of what to expect.
“I want to tell you something,” said Mama Araba.
“Okay, Nana,” Kukuwa answered, taking her grandmother’s hand, “I’m listening.”
“You know, Kukuwa, I chose your mother for your father because I heard she was trained in the old ways. The other wives are gifted too, but we needed someone who knew plant medicine. That was your mother, and she even catches babies too. She’s the best around here, you know that?”
“Yes, Nana. She’s very good.”
“Good. Which is why you mustn’t forget her teachings, Kukuwa. I had a dream. The ancestors told me you will travel beyond the waters, to their foreign lands,” said her grandmother.
“I will?” Kukuwa asked, shocked.
Nana nodded.
“Where you are going, they will train you in a different way. Their ways are not like our ways, Kukuwa. They will try to undo the lessons your mother has taught you, my child. We hear they believe in a single sky-God up there,” Nana said, pointing to the clouds.
Kukuwa tried to understand what that meant, but said nothing. Instead, she waited for more wisdom to come.
“I consulted with the other elders. We are concerned these people will tell you that our ways are wrong. Don’t let that happen, Kukuwa.”
Kukuwa didn’t know what to say, so she kept quiet.
“The others have asked that I wash you before you go, with anointing oil we’ve each blessed over. The herbs sat under two full moons and three new moons,” Mama Araba said, pointing her head to the calabash she had just filled with stream water.
“Blessings and protection be onto you, Kukuwa, my sweet girl. May this bath help you retain the old ways you have been initiated into. Never forget.”
Kukuwa nodded, understanding.
Her grandmother led her deeper into the water, until it was to their waist. Kukuwa laid back and floated. Her grandmother laid hands on her, speaking rapidly. The old woman poured water from the calabash over Kukuwa’s body.
When Kukuwa came up for air, visions flooded her, past and present. She couldn’t understand what had just happened, but she felt different.
“It will be well,” her grandmother said, when they returned to the grass.
“Take this,” Nana said, handing her granddaughter a talisman on a chain.
“But it’s yours, Nana.”
“Keep this with you, Kukuwa. It will protect you. Never forget, you are a medicine keeper that catches babies.”
Kukuwa nodded, tears streaming down her face.
“I won’t forget, Nana. I won’t.”
—–
Image: Dall-E remixed