Ancestor Stones - Aminatta Forna [49]
Now I smiled to myself. I imagined the expression on my husband’s face when he saw me for the first time. No longer a girl, but a woman.
I lay back, propping myself up on one elbow so that I could see where we were going. It wasn’t easy to do. The maka rocked so vigorously from side to side. I thought nothing of it: we were on an underused path. As we neared the town the paths would broaden and the makamen find their stride. I tried not to think too much about how crushed my gown was becoming; I concentrated instead on the sky and the ever-changing patterns in the canopy of trees.
I was thrown out of my reverie by a sharp pain.
‘Be careful!’
No reply. I tried to sit upright but my arms were pinned down by the steep sides of the hammock. The rocking and jostling persisted. I began to feel nauseous, saliva flooded my mouth. I struggled so hard I all but tipped out of the hammock. The makamen came to a halt and stood watching me as I tottered to the side of the path. There, in one great heave, I deposited my wedding breakfast into the undergrowth.
And so this was how I arrived at my husband’s home: my wedding gown flecked with vomit and my breath sour. Not that I need have worried. My husband was not there, in his place a message to say he was away on business. Many days passed before he returned.
In the beginning I refused to see what was in front of my face. I saw a big house with many rooms. I did not notice that it was empty as a cave, with plain walls and no furniture. I ignored the chickens that ran freely through the house, dropping their chalky turds. I failed to notice the cockroaches hiding in the crack between the door frames and the mud walls, flattening their skeletons to fit into the tiny space. I did not see the way the hill at the back rose abruptly up out of the earth, engulfing the house in its long shadow. I let my eyes pass over the bitch that lay in the sun, with swollen teats and dried blood under her tail. And I mistook the silence of my two cowives for acceptance.
They were all signs and there would be more, surfacing one by one, floating in front of me like flotsam from a shipwreck. Even when I was drowning I dismissed them all, first with foolishness, then with pride, and finally because I had put out my own eyes with hot pokers of shame.
From the beginning my face wore a happy expression and I forced myself to act the same way. When my husband returned I knew I had been right. I saw again how handsome he was: he had only to utter my name for me to shiver — a shiver that started behind my heart, trickled down my spine, crept up the back of my neck. Any time he called me I dropped whatever I was doing and ran to him. When he praised my cooking I was in ecstasy. Each morning I woke up and told myself how lucky I was. And for a long time I believed it. The bad feeling in my heart was overtaken by another feeling, a fluttering and leaping from somewhere below my belly, like a fish jumping on a hot pan.
Maybe this is something you don’t want to hear. You pity us, not so? You think we don’t have the same feelings as you — because of what was taken away, that we are dead down there. No desire. We come together with a man without pleasure. You see how hard it is for me to talk about these things: we are sworn to secrecy. And so we bear your contempt. But there are some things that should be said. So that you, at least, understand. Because you are our daughter. Listen.
For us it was something special: the gifts, the food — delicacies to eat whenever you want — friendships made that last for ever, singing and dancing, the company of women. For the rest of your life, wherever you are, when you are lost or alone, you may start to sing one of those songs and when you hear the voice of another woman join in the refrain — you know that woman is your sister. For all of us it was the first time we had been away from our mothers. That part was hard, even for me. I missed her.
That first night: sitting in the cold stream with the other girls, chewing on bitter