Homegoing(23)

Quey finally freed himself from Badu and kept on walking. Cudjo’s message repeated in his head.

“I heard you’re back from London. Can I see you, old friend?”

When Quey had returned from London, he’d been too nervous to ask after Cudjo, but he hadn’t needed to. Cudjo had taken over as chief of his old village, and they still traded with the British. Quey had recorded Cudjo’s name in the Castle ledgers nearly every day when he was still working as a writer. It would be easy enough now to go see Cudjo, to talk as they used to, to tell him that he had hated London as he had hated his father, that everything about the place—the cold, the damp, the dark—had felt like a personal slight against him, designed for the sole purpose of keeping him away from Cudjo.

But what good could come of seeing him? Would one look have him back where he’d been six years ago, back on that Castle floor? Maybe London had done what his father had hoped it would do, but then again, maybe it hadn’t.

—

Weeks went steadily on, and still Quey sent no answer to Cudjo. Instead, he devoted himself to his work. Fiifi and Badu had numerous contacts in Asanteland and further north. Big Men, warriors, chiefs, and the like who would bring in slaves each day by the tens and twenties. Trade had increased so much, and the methods of gathering slaves had become so reckless, that many of the tribes had taken to marking their children’s faces so that they would be distinguishable. Northerners, who were most frequently captured, could have upwards of twenty scars on their faces, making them too ugly to sell. Most of the slaves brought to Quey’s village outpost were those people captured in tribal wars, a few were sold by their families, and the rarest kind of slave was the one that Fiifi captured himself in his dark night missions up north.



Fiifi was preparing himself for one such journey. He wouldn’t tell Quey what the mission was, but Quey knew it had to be something particularly treacherous, for his uncle had sought help from another Fante village.

“You can keep all the captives but one,” Fiifi was saying to someone. “Take them back with you when we split up in Dunkwa.”

Quey had just been summoned to his compound. Before him, warriors were dressing for battle, muskets, machetes, and spears in hand.

Quey moved further in, trying to see the man his uncle spoke to.

“Ah, Quey, you’ve finally come to greet me, enh?”

The voice was deeper than Quey remembered and yet he knew it immediately. His hand trembled as he held it out to shake with his old friend. Cudjo’s grip was firm, his hand soft. The handshake took Quey back to Cudjo’s village, to the snail race, to Richard.

“What are you doing here?” Quey asked. He hoped his voice didn’t betray him. He hoped he sounded calm and sure.

“Your uncle has promised us a good mission today. I was eager to accept.”

Fiifi clapped Cudjo’s shoulder and moved on to speak to the warriors.

“You never returned my message,” Cudjo said softly.

“I didn’t have time.”

“I see,” Cudjo said. He looked the same, taller, broader, but the same. “Your uncle tells me you haven’t yet married.”

“No.”



“I married last spring. A chief must be married.”

“Oh, right,” Quey said in English, forgetting himself.

Cudjo laughed. He took up his machete and leaned in closer to Quey. “You speak English like a British man, just like Richard, enh? When I have finished up north with your uncle, I will return to my own village. You are always welcome there. Come and see me.”

Fiifi gave one last cry to gather the men, and Cudjo went running. As he sped off, Cudjo glanced back and smiled at Quey. Quey didn’t know how long they would be gone, but he knew he would not sleep until his uncle returned. No one had told him anything about the mission. Indeed, Quey had seen the warriors go out a handful of times and never questioned it, but now his heart thumped so hard it felt like a toad had replaced his throat. He could taste every beat. Why had Fiifi told Cudjo that Quey wasn’t married? Had Cudjo asked? How could Quey be welcomed in Cudjo’s village? Would he live in the chief’s compound? In his own hut, like a third wife? Or would he be in a hut on the edge of the village, alone? The toad croaked. There was a way. There was no way. There was a way. Quey’s mind raced back and forth with every thump.

One week passed. Then two. Then three. On the first day of the fourth week, Quey was finally summoned to the slave cellar. Fiifi was lying against the wall of the cellar, his hand covering his flank as it oozed blood from a large gash. Soon one of the company doctors arrived with a thick needle and thread and began sewing Fiifi up.

“What happened?” Quey asked. Fiifi’s men were guarding the cellar door, clearly shaken. They held both machetes and muskets, and when so much as a leaf rustled in the woods, they would clutch each weapon tighter.

Fiifi began laughing, a sound like the last roar of a dying animal. The doctor finished closing up the wound and poured a brown liquid over it, causing Fiifi to stop laughing and cry out.

“Quiet!” one of Fiifi’s soldiers said. “We don’t know who may have followed us.”

Quey knelt down to meet his uncle’s eyes. “What happened?”

Fiifi was gnashing his teeth against the slow-moving wind. He lifted an arm and pointed to the cellar door. “Look what we have brought, my son,” he said.