Ancestor Stones - Aminatta Forna [51]
Ngadie stepped up to a tall palm tree, reached up and scored the trunk three times with the blade of the knife. Sap poured from the wound. Ngadie dipped her fingers into it and raised them to her lips. She tied a gourd to the trunk beneath the flow. From higher up she took down a second gourd and from the way she braced her body, I could tell how heavy it was. This she lifted to her lips. She raised her head and for an instant seemed to stare right at me. I held my breath. The seconds passed. She lifted the gourd a second time and I relaxed. When she lowered it I saw her upper lip was crested with foam.
In the days and weeks that followed I noticed how often Ngadie slipped away. And how when she came back she lifted her feet a fraction too high and put them down carefully.
I was pregnant. I was eating a mango. The mango dripped with yellow juice and sticky goodness. I was enjoying it so much I worked my way right down to the seed and sucked the last juice from the hairy flesh that clung there. The liquid trickled down my chin. Some of the strands became caught between my teeth and I stopped to pick them out. It was then I noticed Osman watching me. Recently I had often looked up to find his eyes upon me in this way. I was sure it was because he loved me and was proud of me. I smiled at him. To show how happy I was. Osman continued to look at me. He did not return my smile. He stood up and he walked away.
For some time Osman had not called me to his room. Because I was expecting a child, I thought. I didn’t worry. One night for no particular reason I woke from a deep sleep. I lay on my back — it was difficult to sleep any other way — and I listened to the music of the raindrops dripping from the eaves of the house, striking the leaves of trees, splashing on to the ground. My eyes were closed. The noise of the rain was immense. I laid a hand on my stomach and rubbed my belly button, imagining the baby curled up inside. I was beginning to doze again when I felt the bedclothes being dragged from my body.
‘Yai!’ I screamed. I was being attacked by a night devil.
It wasn’t a djinna. It was Osman.
‘Get up!’ he told me. I hastened to do as he said.
‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘What’s happening?’ I tried to imagine what emergency had brought him here in the middle of the night. Osman came up close to me. Very close. He did not touch me. He sat down on the edge of the bed and was silent. I waited. My heart beat louder than the rain on the roof. It must be something very serious indeed. Then he told me to remove my clothes. I stared at him through the darkness. I wondered if I had heard correctly.
I was told a woman should never say no to her husband. ‘Osman, it’s late,’ I began, ‘and I’m sleeping.’
My husband stood up suddenly. As dark as it was I could see his features flex. He inhaled deeply. I saw the gleam of his teeth as he smiled. I relaxed a little. When he spoke his tone matched mine. ‘Please don’t disobey me. You promised you would be a good wife to me. Isn’t that what you promised?’ I was standing in front of him. He reached up and caressed my cheek.
I nodded, yes, I wanted to be a good wife. I was a good wife. But I was tired. Also, Osman was behaving so strangely.
He slid both hands down my arms until he had his hands in mine, whispering: ‘Come, come, little one.’ Still I protested. Osman’s tone changed abruptly. ‘I have only so much patience for this foolishness, Asana.’
There my protests ended. Osman’s manner made me hesitate. Perhaps this was something between husbands and their wives that I did not understand.
In one way nothing happened that night, by which I mean Osman did not touch me. He made me stand in front of him until the rain stopped. He stared at my body, at my breasts, my belly, down below. The