ITOHAN & IMIAMIA
A story snippet from the novel I'm working on ...
I have been researching and writing a historical novel set in West Africa for longer than I would like to admit. It is a slog sometimes going through an extensive historical text, just to find information that might fill out a paragraph or two. But when I am able to inform my novel with these kernels of context and meaning, it’s worthwhile, and inspires my writing.
I’ve decided to share what I call “story snippets” about the lives of some of my characters in substack.com, a suggestion from my good friend, Yassir.
The following “snippet” or exerpt, as you like, is set in the Kingdom of Dahomey at the beginning of the 19th century.
The”recade,” the ceremonial axe/scepter of Dahomey kings
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ITOHAN IS SCORNED BY HER FATHER
Amadi had begun to take his good fortune for granted. He did not consistently pray to the orishas for help and guidance and began forgetting to make all of the necessary sacrifices in as devout a manner as needed to guarantee their favor and avoid their displeasure. He kept putting off the obeisance required to manifest the devotion the orishas required of their most ardent devotees. He was infatuated with his success and began to feel it more his doing than a gift from the divine.
He started out with one wife before becoming the head of his village. He was not the eldest of his father’s sons, but his father considered him a better successor than his older and younger brothers who were not as industrious as Amadi. His father, Agbo, was the village headman and in choosing who would follow him had to decide not only who would be more responsible to his family but who would best protect the village and allow it to prosper.
Amadi appeared to be a good choice. For eight years, his crop yields had been plentiful, especially his palm trees that provided oil for cooking, kernels for eating, and strong, fermented wine for drinking. He was able to slowly acquire more land and more slaves to work the land. And as he did so, his wealth and the number of his wives grew. His village prospered along with him, various family members and other villagers seeking him out for counsel and, frequently, help. The village had grown so large it was beginning to merge with neighboring villages. Soon, the villages might aggregate so many people that they could become a town.
His four wives maintained an active household for him and his 15 children. He had known his first wife, Akou, since he was a child. She had been pursued by a rival suitor but had convinced her father that Amadi was the best choice. Since she was her father’s favorite, he readily complied. Akou told Amadi on the day of their marriage that it was not her father who had chosen him but herself, and she wanted him to prove to her and to her father that by choosing Amadi, she had made the right choice.
His second wife was the daughter of a neighboring village head that wanted to create a strong bond with Amadi and their villages. Her bride price was high, but Amadi knew that his village would prosper because of the marriage and the interconnectedness that it fostered between the two villages. His last two wives were younger women whom he agreed to marry for meager bride prices, because their families considered them a drain on their resources, and they knew that Amadi would provide for them and their children. Amadi shifted the majority of the responsibilities for the most burdensome work on these wives, knowing they dare not complain to their families.
He had eight boys and seven girls from his wives, and he looked forward to the day when the girls would become old enough to marry and fetch good bride prices, as the daughters of the village leader.
His wives were active in the marketplace and more frequently than not made good decisions when bartering their vegetables, palm goods, and farm animals. They had increased his wealth well beyond what he could have imagined when he first became village head.
One day, when he was in a sour mood, his third wife, Efua, came to him. The day was overcast, and the red dust was whirling and lifted higher than usual by gusts from an unexpected northern breeze. Amadi hoped it was not the beginning of the harmattan. He had been troubled, because it was time for Dahomey to send the annual tribute in slaves to its overlord kingdom, Oyo, and Amadi would soon have to choose one or two men in the village to satisfy its share of the tribute demand. He dreaded having to do so, because it invariably alienated the families of the men who were chosen, who suffered without the assistance of their enslaved family member.
With eyes downcast Efua told him, “My baby has not started crawling yet, but she is showing teeth!” Both Amadi and his third wife knew it was a dreadful omen for a baby’s teeth to come in before she had started crawling. He was rattled. His eyes widened, and he stared at her with a contemptuous look. “Did you pray to Mawu when you were pregnant?” he said, referring to the god of the sky. She told him, “Yes, Amadi,” but did not want to remind him that he had chosen a scrawny goat as part of the required sacrifice to Legba, the most important orisha in the Fon pantheon of gods. “Your child did this!” he exclaimed. He tried to dismiss the growing anxiety he felt in improperly serving the orishas, as he went to find the baby.
He strode through the courtyard of his compound, and after moving into a doorway and through two adjoining rooms, burst into the innermost room where the baby girl was sitting, propped up. With a scornful look, Amadi shook his finger at his child, and yelled, “You are a curse that has been brought into my village to do us all harm!” Efua, who was afraid of her husband, stood behind him shaking and said nothing.
The baby, who had been in a playful mood turned toward him, as he reproached her. She was startled by the harshness of his voice and the meanness of his look for a moment, but then looked back at him with anger in her eyes just as strong as the anger she was receiving from him. Her eyes began to tear, but she bit her lip with her newly arrived teeth, because something about this young baby forbid her to display full-throated crying even when accosted by a force many times larger than her. In fact, she glared with pointed anger at her father for disrupting her pleasant mood; he was stunned by the ferocity of her reaction.
He quickly left the room and returned just as quickly with Imiamia, the Edo slave woman who farmed and tended to his Guinea hens. “Take this evil child,” he commanded. “I want her out of my sight!”
Quickly, Imiamia scooped up the child and brought her back to the room where she slept, making sure to rub the child’s back softly in circles and talk gently to her as she went. Once in her room, she stood the child up, who was now pouting. Imiamia was overcome with joy and also thankfulness that, for now, Amadi had decided not to kill the baby. “You are beautiful!” she said, searching the child’s face. Holding the infant’s tiny fingers between her thumbs and forefingers, she declared, “I will call you ‘Itohan!’”
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IMIAMIA HAD NOT ALWAYS BEEN A SLAVE
Imiamia had not always been a slave. In fact, she had lived a privileged life in the court of the Oba of Benin. Her husband, Adé, had been one of the finest metal sculptors in what many considered the greatest-walled city ever. Benin City, the capital of the Yoruba kingdom of Edo, was set behind mammoth tall and thick earthen walls that ran for miles around the city. Inside, earthen walls within earthen walls led to the palace of the Oba. The Obas, Yoruba kings, considered themselves the divine kings of the incomparable city fortress and the kingdom surrounding it.
Adé had studied the lost wax method of bronze castings. The heads he sculpted were so realistic looking they looked like they might speak. He had made a number that were highly prized by the Oba and his court. But nothing he did, not the fine castings of the royal Edo men and women nor his ability to take part in the luxurious court life, was as precious to him as his wife, Imiamia. As prolific as his artistry was, her ability to nurture any and all things she came in contact with was a greater gift. In fact, the way she inspired him was the key to his success.
That she had been unable to conceive a child was of little concern to Adé. As abundantly as the orishas had blessed her with life-giving energy in all she did, he felt at some point she would conceive a most extraordinary child. He made dutiful sacrifices to Ajala, the orisha who created human bodies and to the greatest of all orishas, Oludumare, who breathed life into all existence. As he performed his sacrifices, Adé prayed for that child.
And while he worshipped the orishas–including Ogun, the Yoruba orisha of iron and metal working–he was most devoted not to their divinity but to Imiamia, his wellspring of inspiration. Perhaps the orishas had seen this. Were they jealous of her and angry with him?
Secretly, he had cast a small bronze head of Imiamia, which he had kept well hidden. He had wanted to cast an image of her to capture the caring that inspired him. Adé would uncover the small bronze head each day before beginning his work, caress its face, and draw inspiration from it. It allowed him a way to inspire his art. Then he would carefully return it to its hiding place, where he felt no one would find it.
One day, while he was quite busy, he was interrupted by one of the eunuch messengers of the Oba, who happened to observe the small casting of Imiamia. Adé thought that he had shielded the sculpture from view, but the sharp-eyed messenger, who was trained to quickly observe all in his field of vision, saw the beautiful bronze for an instant, as Adé was swiftly putting it away. The messenger said nothing to him but reported it to the Oba, who was enraged that his artist would make a metal sculpture of anyone who was not a royal and, thus, of divine nature.
The Oba had the sculpture seized the following morning and then later that day had Adé brought to him. As Adé was being brought through the extensive palace, with long galleries, houses, and apartments for courtiers, he noticed several of the bronze bas relief sculptures he had created. He thought, “How severely can the Oba punish me, if my art decorates his walls?” He decided he would beg for his life but say nothing about Imiamia’s influence on his art. The Agba Akin, the linguist for the Oba, refused to let Adé speak, however. Instead, holding up the sculpture of Imiamia, he asked, “Does anyone speak for this man, who has defiled Ogun’s metal by making this profane sculpture?”
The foot steps of six palace guards broke the brief silence, echoing as they stepped forward. Two grabbed Adé’s arms, twisting them behind him. Another guard then took the sculpture from the Agba Akin and began beating the life out of Adé with it.
Imiamia had been forced to watch Adé’s death, but she had no time to grieve or even fear for her own life. The Oba wanted her removed from his lands. He realized that she had an energy that was powerful. If he killed her, he thought her energy might be released to confound and even, perhaps, assault him. She was immediately sold into slavery and moved well beyond the Edo Kingdom. Eventually she was purchased by Amadi, many days journey to the west in Dahomey.
In the Oba’s palace she had spent much of her time inside. But Amadi decided she was worth more to him outside, farming and looking after his guinea fowls.
While still unable to conceive, she retained her ability to impart energy and growth to whatever she touched. Her fields were verdant and yielded more crops than others’, even during years when rainfall was limited. Her guinea fowl were noisy and healthy, filling the coop and the area around it with a cacaphony of sound. Most guinea fowl attempt to wander, but Imiamia’s seemed to remain close, waiting for her to imitate their sounds as she called to them. They multiplied quickly, and Amadi had to have ever larger coops built.
Imiamia positively affected nearly everything and everyone she related to in Amadi’s compound. But she reserved her greatest caring for Itohan, the beautiful, stubborn child, who was an outcast like herself.
Copyright © 2024 Fred Smith