Her Name Is Knight(Nena Knight #1)(6)
My shoulders jerk as if pierced with a sharp stick. That Auntie delegates where the place of women and men should be is archaic, and I have no plans to adhere to it. My fifteenth birthday will come in days, and when I am eighteen, I will attend university abroad, not in Ghana like Auntie thinks. I will travel the world as Papa did, learn even more languages than the ones Papa has taught me. No one will tell me what a woman can or cannot do. But I say none of this aloud. I value my head too much and would rather not be thumped on it with the heavy wooden ladle she wields or have my ears boxed.
My father is the village chieftain, so technically I am a princess. But there are lines even modern-day princesses dare not cross.
Ofori deftly dances beyond my grasp when I catch him stealing yet another of the bofrots. “Ey!” I yell, about to charge after him, but Auntie grabs me by the neckline of my school uniform, preventing me from leaving her side.
“These do not count!” Ofori laughs as he scampers away.
“Mind the snakes!” Auntie calls at his retreating figure. She says this at morning and at dusk, when the many snakes that share this mountain with us are the most active. There are other animals, bugs—no lions or predators, but still harmful things. However, snakes bother Auntie the most.
“Auntie!” I protest. “Ofori has eaten too many.”
“Hush, child.” She smooths her furrowed brows. “There are enough, and all will be well.”
Will it? What is it like to run the nightly village perimeter checks with Papa and my brothers? They check with the other men to ensure everyone’s made it back safely, that there is no outstanding business between villagers that may result in conflict. My chest tightens and my eyes blur with unwanted tears, as I know Ofori is off with Papa and the twins. He bemoans the privilege while I remain trapped in this sticky, boiling kitchen doing “women’s work.” The resentment burns in my chest, making me lose focus, and I nearly slice off a fingertip with the knife I am using to cut ripened plantains into diagonals.
Ofori is not considerate of others, not like Papa, who is fair, honorable, and the hardest worker. Papa never asks others to do what he would not do first. He is a leader, a big man, loved by most, and would never take more than his share of bofrots. Not like Ofori—
A burst of staccato noise cuts through Auntie’s chatter.
She waves it away as if shooing buzzing flies. “Boys practicing drums or whacking sticks in swordplay,” she says after clearing her throat of its slight tremor. “Maybe a hyena or other animal has wandered too close to the village perimeters.”
I nod, but I know better. And when screams begin piercing the walls of our kitchen, Auntie knows better too.
I freeze, the knife like an extension of my hand hovering over the cut pieces of fruit, all thoughts of frying plantains and bubbling bean stew vanishing.
Auntie reaches a hand—skin weathered and leathery from years of plunging them in hot water, churning banku and beating cassava leaves—out to me. “Aninyeh, wait!”
But I dash out the door, ignoring her increasingly frantic calls. I quicken my pace down the walk, through our high wrought iron fenced gates, and out into the unknown, moving farther from our compound, which is larger than most in the village because of our family lineage.
N’nkakuwe sits on the cusp between the old world and the booming cities of Accra and Kumasi. It is not Papa’s family land. He is from a tiny village in Fanti land, low-lying valleys nearly four hours from here. The history of my father’s people goes back hundreds of years to when the Ashanti and Fanti peoples warred among themselves for dominance and to trade with the Europeans who sought out African goods—goods being slaves.
But after years of war, the two tribes came together and began to blend their peoples. That is how my father came to be of both peoples. But when he was younger and newly returned from studying overseas, he met Mama at an open market in Accra. And because he loved her, he left his home to marry her. Mama was the chieftain’s only daughter, and by law, when Grandfather died, Papa became chieftain.
Mama was one-fourth Yoruba, Nigerian, on her grandmother’s side. The rest of her was Ewe, from her father’s side. Thus making me and my brothers a blend of all three great regions of Ghana: Ashanti, Fanti, and Ewe.
Of all things I will remember, this I know to be the truest of all: my father is an honorable man.
But even the most honorable of men have an enemy or two.
Tonight, those enemies have arrived with guns. With machetes. And with bloodlust as ravenous and destructive as a wildfire that will consume us all.
5
AFTER
When Nena finally made it to the van, she tried her best to ignore the probing glances from her team members. Yes, she was late. But it had all worked out, hadn’t it? She hurriedly shed her gear as if speed could shed her guilt at putting the team behind and possibly in jeopardy. She changed back into her flowing melon-colored evening gown, which had been chosen by her sister, not her. But Nena supposed Elin had done all right this time.
The van coasted away from the base of the long, winding drive of the Cuban’s estate. Five miles away, Miami’s upper echelon was drinking and dancing and likely hadn’t missed her at all.
The job was complete, minus a few hiccups, but the night was not yet over.
Charlie handed forward her gold clutch. It looked comical in his big, burly hands, hands that not twenty minutes ago had been shooting people to death.