trees like gazelles springing into air. When she saw the women bearing yams and other fruits out of the farms, she observed how their posture was akin to colored women back home carrying melons on their heads. She felt a delight of recognition and pulled off the netted hat. “I’m not wearing this,” she said to no one in particular. Emma had discovered that the mosquitoes hardly bothered her anyway though they gave Henry fits. It was only at night when they buzzed around her head that she hated them.
She was grateful for deep woods where the forest canopy seemed half a mile tall and knit tight as a cathedral ceiling, and in the middle of the day the light was blue and the temperatures lower. Unlike oaks and maples, whose upper roots spread along the ground, the great African hardwoods were anchored with natural buttresses as tall as Emma was. Once in the bush an elephant came out and stood in the way.
This is a real elephant
, Emma thought,
not a circus one
, and rather than panic, she admired it. Some of the carriers wanted Henry to shoot.
No
,
Emma thought,
not this glorious being with its great animate ears and swinging trunk
. She was immensely relieved when Henry said no. They hadn’t time for slaughtering, and besides his rifle wouldn’t take it down; the elephant would run after being wounded or charge and it would need lots of spearing. There seemed a general disappointment before the elephant crashed off.
They came to a village on a river where the huts were built on stilts. To this point, all of the towns had been alike, one after the other, full of windowless mud houses, open markets, potteries and clothmaking out of doors, shrine houses for the
orishas
or community gods, lots and lots of drumming, and the air lavender with smoke from cooking fires. The fires produced a smell Emma had already come to enjoy, sweet and peppery. Here at the river village, they must, as always, ask permission to enter. An old chief came out, a string of women and girls behind him. It seemed a lot of daughters for one man. When things were settled, Emma asked about them.
“They are his wives,” Henry said.
“His wives?” Emma said. “They look like schoolgirls and he looks a hundred.”
She glanced toward the courtyard, where a number of the girls were eating around a common pot. She couldn’t tell that they were suffering, but it seemed an awful plight to be married off to a voracious old chief. They wore light wraps, their hair cut close.
“Do you think I might speak to them?” she said.
“By all means,” Henry said.
Emma made her way over to them. They watched with interest, but when she came close, several ran off. A brave young wife offered her space on a mat and Emma took a seat, grateful she had already decided against her stiff petticoats. She said “Good evening” in Yoruba and was met with much glee in this salutation. Emma wished she knew a Yoruba song, but she didn’t. So it was
Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie. When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing; wasn’t that a dainty dish, to set before a king?
The girls began to clap and required her to sing the rhyme several more times. Then they insisted she take her gloves off. They took turns trying them on and examined her hands. “Well, I’m charmed,” Emma said, and she was. She liked their spunk. Maybe that old chief had not ruined them entirely. The wife who offered Emma a place on her mat slipped a pair of milky beads over Emma’s neck and would not let her return them when Emma stood to leave.
One night between villages, the carriers had to build up a booth of grass for them to sleep under, and Henry preached in Yoruba and English, to include her, Emma supposed.
“Think of your love for your children. This is how God loves you, only ten thousand times more and still some. Leave off your idols. Through Jesus you will arrive at your Father, the one true God. The only gift you need give is yourself,” he said.
Her husband
She was grateful for deep woods where the forest canopy seemed half a mile tall and knit tight as a cathedral ceiling, and in the middle of the day the light was blue and the temperatures lower. Unlike oaks and maples, whose upper roots spread along the ground, the great African hardwoods were anchored with natural buttresses as tall as Emma was. Once in the bush an elephant came out and stood in the way.
This is a real elephant
, Emma thought,
not a circus one
, and rather than panic, she admired it. Some of the carriers wanted Henry to shoot.
No
,
Emma thought,
not this glorious being with its great animate ears and swinging trunk
. She was immensely relieved when Henry said no. They hadn’t time for slaughtering, and besides his rifle wouldn’t take it down; the elephant would run after being wounded or charge and it would need lots of spearing. There seemed a general disappointment before the elephant crashed off.
They came to a village on a river where the huts were built on stilts. To this point, all of the towns had been alike, one after the other, full of windowless mud houses, open markets, potteries and clothmaking out of doors, shrine houses for the
orishas
or community gods, lots and lots of drumming, and the air lavender with smoke from cooking fires. The fires produced a smell Emma had already come to enjoy, sweet and peppery. Here at the river village, they must, as always, ask permission to enter. An old chief came out, a string of women and girls behind him. It seemed a lot of daughters for one man. When things were settled, Emma asked about them.
“They are his wives,” Henry said.
“His wives?” Emma said. “They look like schoolgirls and he looks a hundred.”
She glanced toward the courtyard, where a number of the girls were eating around a common pot. She couldn’t tell that they were suffering, but it seemed an awful plight to be married off to a voracious old chief. They wore light wraps, their hair cut close.
“Do you think I might speak to them?” she said.
“By all means,” Henry said.
Emma made her way over to them. They watched with interest, but when she came close, several ran off. A brave young wife offered her space on a mat and Emma took a seat, grateful she had already decided against her stiff petticoats. She said “Good evening” in Yoruba and was met with much glee in this salutation. Emma wished she knew a Yoruba song, but she didn’t. So it was
Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie. When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing; wasn’t that a dainty dish, to set before a king?
The girls began to clap and required her to sing the rhyme several more times. Then they insisted she take her gloves off. They took turns trying them on and examined her hands. “Well, I’m charmed,” Emma said, and she was. She liked their spunk. Maybe that old chief had not ruined them entirely. The wife who offered Emma a place on her mat slipped a pair of milky beads over Emma’s neck and would not let her return them when Emma stood to leave.
One night between villages, the carriers had to build up a booth of grass for them to sleep under, and Henry preached in Yoruba and English, to include her, Emma supposed.
“Think of your love for your children. This is how God loves you, only ten thousand times more and still some. Leave off your idols. Through Jesus you will arrive at your Father, the one true God. The only gift you need give is yourself,” he said.
Her husband
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