The early light filtered through the woven mats that
served as windows in Nana Afua's hut, dappling the earthen floor. A steady
"thwack... thunk..." echoed within the round space, the sound of Nana
Afua grinding her spices. The dry grains offered a faint "shh-shh"
against the stone mortar with each press of the smooth river stone she used as
a pestle. Now and then, a tougher root would yield with a small
"pop!" I inhaled deeply, the air, already thick with the smells of the cooking fire, now carrying the sharp, fragrant notes of ginger and pepper being released. This rhythmic sound was a familiar comfort, a deep-seated part of her mornings that spoke of tradition and the quiet, steady rhythm of their
lives. It was the sound of home.
Since I could remember, Nana Afua had always prepared mine and her baba's dishes. Nana took full charge of the kitchen, despite the numerous household servants and slaves. I often wondered why Nana insisted on such labor. "It is a mother's duty to nourish her family, no matter how
many hands are available," Nana would often say, her eyes twinkling. Now
that my father, King Askia, was often away or too busy with court, Nana still
insisted on making their morning meal. And even though her beloved grandfather,
Baba, had left them six years ago, Nana still had me to feed. It was a comforting thought, a quiet ritual that anchored me in a world that often felt
distant from the palace's grand affairs.
"Amira, pass me that konkon of salt," Nana Afua requested, her hands already stretched out in my direction, anticipating the
movement. I reached for the small, carved gourd beside me and handed it over
with a faint sense of guilt prickling me. I had been lost in thoughts, admiring
Nana's effortless movements. Nana was making our famous fish pepper soup. The
poundo, which was cassava that had been cultivated, soaked, fermented, and
cooked, was being pounded nearby by the chief courtier Zariya and her daughter
Nala, a dull, repetitive thud distinct from Nana's gentle rhythms.
"Did you see how I added it?" Nana's voice came ringing in my ear, pulling me sharply back to the present. I nodded vigorously
like the agama lizard.
"I did not see it" I confessed internally, releasing a sigh.
In fact, I hadn't been paying attention the whole time. I didn't like cooking. The very idea of the time and energy wasted on
such practice felt... stifling. I much preferred to leave it to those who had a
specialty in such areas, like the chief courtier and Nana. I always enjoyed their cooking, and in my heart, I know I can't do better than them. Mine and Nala's specialty is roasting of bush meat – that's where the real skill lies.
"One day, Amira, you will have to prepare a meal for your husband, then all this knowledge I've given you will be of good use," Nana said, her eyes glistening with a mixture of wisdom and affection as her lips
exposed her yellowish teeth, the little wrinkles becoming more evident around
her eyes.
"Yes, Nana," I returned her smile, a genuine warmth spreading through my chest as I forced down the familiar wave of distaste at the thought of cooking for a husband.
Even if it meant getting my hands dirty and
withstanding this choking smoke, I would stay by her side every day just to see
her smile. My Nana was old, and I feared greatly for her passing, especially
after Baba had left us so suddenly six years ago. Yet, Nana refused to stop
going about her daily activities; she was more agile than ever, her spirit a
defiant flame against the creeping chill of age. I homestly believed it was
Nana's constant engagement, her insistent presence in their lives, that had
kept her mind still sharp, still very much with her, even as her physical
strength withered away daily. The thought made a familiar ache bloom in my chest.
"Come, child, what troubles you?" Nana asked suddenly, her gaze sharp, piercing through my polite smile and directly into the quiet worry in my eyes. It was uncanny, how Nana always knew. I was worried,
terrified that Nana would leave me just like Baba. Nana had been more of a
mother to me than my own mother, who had
long passed on. I had lived with Nana all my life and knew no other way apart
from all she had taught me – from cooking to kindness, from navigating the
intricacies of court politics to the quiet strength of Uzazzu women. The
thought of facing life without her felt like a vast, empty expanse.
But instead of confessing my fear, I offered a bright, almost too-quick smile. "Nana, let me go and check on the poundo," I
said, rising before Nana could protest, and pushed past the woven mat, slipping
out of the hut and into the glaring midday sun. The heat was a welcome
distraction, a physical sensation to override my emotional turmoil.
The hot sun glistened on my dark skin as I maneuvered past four tightly built huts which made up my grandmother's quarters. It was a familiar, comforting path.
"Good afternoon, Gimbiya," the cheerful voices of the courtier children greeted me as I walked past the giant mango tree that stood at the center of the compound. The sweet, ripe scent of the fruit filled the
air, a heady aroma that always reminded me of carefree afternoons. The children
struggled to bring them down, their small, dark forms scrambling amongst the
branches.
I stopped, to help little Sule, a boy no older than six, up the sturdy trunk so he could reach more of the fruits. "Don't
forget to bring some for me, eh," I chided playfully, as I left them to their joyful business. The familiar rhythm of the compound, the laughter of children, the sense of community – it was all I had ever known, and all I deeply cherished.
Suddenly, the clear, strong voice of the town crier sliced through the peaceful morning, shattering the quiet contentment. His cry
echoed unnaturally loud across the compound.
"Oyez! Oyez! Let it be known throughout the
compound! Gimbiya Amira, daughter of the revered Askia is required with haste
at the palace of the King!" The rhythmic beat of his talking drum, slung
across his broad shoulder and struck with a practiced hand, underscored the
undeniable urgency of his message. He wore a simple but dignified ochre tunic,
its edges embroidered with dark geometric patterns, and a leather amulet swung
against his chest as he moved. His eyes, though focused on his duty, carried a
hint of surprise, reflecting the unusual nature of the summons.
He was gone as soon as he had arrived, his hurried departure leaving a void in the air. I on the other hand hurried back to Nana's
hut, a cold knot forming in my stomach. My heart began to pound a frantic
rhythm that mirrored the town crier's drum.
Nana Afua had stopped grinding, the river stone silent in the mortar. Her gaze was sharp, already fixed on me as I re-entered.
"The palace calls. And with such urgency... before the court is over." A deep line of worry creased Nana's aged face, confirming my own mounting apprehension. The Askia never summoned me directly, and certainly not like this.
"Did you know about this?" I asked, my voice tight with unspoken questions.
"He did not tell me he would call on you so
soon," Nana replied, her voice soft but firm. "Go, my child. You must attend to the Askia's summons. Be respectful and speak with wisdom." Her warning was clear, a reminder of the treacherous currents of palace life.
Just then, the woven mat at the entrance rustled, and Nala, the chief courtier Zariya's daughter, stepped inside. Her usual playful
demeanor was entirely replaced by a serious urgency that mirrored the town
crier's.
"Gimbiya," she said, her voice a little
breathless, her eyes wide with concern. "Mama Zariya sent me. She says you
must come quickly. She is already laying out your finest bubu and head
wrap." Nala glanced between me and Nana, her brow furrowed.
"Something important must have occurred for the Askia to summon you so
directly, and with such haste."
A palpable tremor of unease ran through me, reaching deep into my bones. A direct, urgent call to the palace was not just unusual; it was unprecedented. What weighty matter could require my presence before the Askia's court, especially with such frantic haste, interrupting the morning
court? The thought sent a chill down my spine. I nodded to Nana, trying to mask
my apprehension, to project the composure of a princess, even as my insides began to churn. "I will go immediately, Nana."
I glanced at Nala, whose wide, worried eyes mirrored my own unspoken questions, a shared understanding of the gravity of the moment
passing between us. "Let's not keep the Askia waiting," I said.
With a swift movement, I turned, the image of the stern-faced town crier, the urgent beat of the talking drum, and Nala's worried
expression all imprinted in my mind as I hurried out of the hut. What could the
all-powerful Askia Ishaq possibly want with me? I wondered, the question
echoing the frantic rush of my pulse.