Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(105)

“But I don’t think I can do this,” he finished.

Georgia was waiting for Nena when she left Cort’s room, gently closing the door behind her. Georgia was a mess of tears and snot, looking a decade younger than her fourteen years. She was at Nena’s side before Nena had a chance to move from the door. She grabbed Nena into a hug, burrowing her face in Nena’s chest as she cried and tried to speak, but her words were muffled.

Nena gently stroked her hair, the hair she’d so lovingly fixed what seemed like eons ago. They’d been so happy then.

“It’s okay. This is for the best.” She extracted herself from Georgia’s arms. “Be with your father, okay?” She took a few steps backward, distancing herself, though Georgia kept coming, kept pleading.

“He’s just in pain. This is new to him, and he doesn’t understand. We can make him understand.”

“He’s right,” Nena whispered, spinning around so she didn’t have to see Georgia’s face. She began walking away.

“He’s not right!” Georgia yelled behind her, her voice cracking. “Please don’t go. Don’t go, Nena, please.”

Nena forced herself to continue walking, going against every molecule in her body. Georgia’s pleas haunted her, would haunt her forever.

“Please, Nena! I need you!”

Nena’s steps faltered. Her breath hitched. She rounded a corner, now out of Georgia’s sight.

“We need you!”

And it was those words that broke her. The wudini. The woman of stone. Her hand reached out to anchor her against a wall as she stumbled beneath the weight of what she’d just lost.





82


NOW


She returned to the home of her before. It was a merging of worlds so profound it weighed heavily on Nena’s shoulders. She arrived in Accra, then drove the couple of hours to Chigali, now a bustling town at the base of Aburi Mountain that she didn’t recognize. If memory served her correctly, N’nkakuwe was a bit farther up, a little less than an hour away.

She approached a small home where an older woman sold market items, rifled through the metal barrel of melting ice, and pulled out a sweating glass bottle of Pepsi. A rush of nostalgia took over, and she relished it. Her first thought went to Georgia—how she’d get a kick out of taking a swig from one of these old-school bottles. Then she was hit by the dull sadness that sneaked up on her more times a day than she cared to count.

When she asked about N’nkakuwe, the woman’s eyes glazed over with a sadness Nena easily related to.

“There is no more N’nkakuwe, child,” she said. “Has not been that way in a long, long time.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Auntie,” Nena replied, sighing. “I was hoping that maybe it was still here.” That no one had rebuilt the village was heart wrenching to hear.

Auntie shook her head slowly. “The land up there is haunted. Angry spirits of the murdered chief and his people roam the mountain. There is nothing but sadness and horror. All because their souls are in unrest.” She moved her right hand in the sign of the cross.

She told Nena that she was better off heading back to Accra, Kumasi, or whichever way she’d come. “Best leave the unhappiness where it lies.”

Nena appreciated the warning, knew well the superstitions of her people. She held those same beliefs, and it was one of the reasons why she’d returned. “I need to go,” she said. “I’m not afraid of ghosts or sadness. I’ve lived with them half my life.”

“Have you?” She gave Nena a closer assessment.

“N’nkakuwe used to be my home.”

The woman’s eyes grew large.

“Wo din de s?n?” She asked Nena’s name, squinting against the sunlight to get a better look at the strange, sad-looking woman dressed as if ready for safari, asking about a dead village in her British accent. “I think you may favor a man I once knew. Good man killed too young. Who are you, child?”

Nena pulled out money to pay for her drink. But the woman waved the cedis away, instead giving her a look that vacillated between suspicion and intrigue.

“Medaase,” Nena said, thanking her.

As Nena began walking away, the woman called out, “Mema wo nante yie.” I wish you luck. “N’nkakuwe ba baa.” Daughter of N’nkakuwe.

Nena’s eyes began to sting with hot tears at hearing the most beautiful words spoken to her in longer than she could remember.

On her way back to her Range Rover, Nena passed two other women. One of them was churning a long wooden spoon in a large cast-iron pot; the other sat in a chair, shelling a large bowl of black-eyed peas. Nena recognized the pungent smell of fermenting yeast and immediately knew they were cooking kenkey. Her stomach growled. Their slow stirring, shelling, having heard the auntie’s words, all mixing Nena’s worlds of then and now.

They saw her and said, “Akwaaba,” as she passed. She waved. They watched her get back into her truck and drive off, rushing to guzzle her Pepsi before it became too warm and lost its fizz.

By the time she reached the indentation, the spot that marked the beginning of the path toward N’nkakuwe, it was late afternoon. Tall willowy grass, vines thick as a baby’s arm, and leaves the size of bath towels had long overrun the roads she’d walked as a child, so she had to park her vehicle and hike the rest of the way. It wasn’t long before she began to see the ruins. The burned and hollowed-out skeletal remains of buildings once inhabited by people she’d lived among. To an outsider, the village would resemble a lost civilization from thousands of years ago, instead of less than two decades. To Nena, it was the place of her birth and the burial grounds of a lifetime.