This Side Jordan (22 page)

– There was a line from a funeral song, long ago:

– Oh, my father, why did you leave me here? And what shall I do?

– Our Father –

– my father – my father which art in Hell –

– You cannot tell me, either of you. There is no advice from you or You. Two silences.

In the gathering darkness the bodies swayed and moaned with the fever’s beginning.

‘He saved me. He saved me. I was in the brothel, in the jail, and He saved me. I was in the fiery furnace and He saved me. I was in the lion’s den and He looked mercifully upon me.’

The palm leaves of the shelter were disarrayed by the wind, and the night was hot. The night was hot and still, and you could see the stars through the screen of palm branches, and the moon, thin as a golden necklace.

They were mostly women, the congregation. And when they sang, they sang of themselves, of despair and exultation. They sang in the warm night, and their cloths rustled in the half darkness. Their shoulders and big breasts lifted to the
song, and their sandalled feet shuffled in the dust, in the dark.

Nathaniel listened.

And the preacher.

‘What did the Lord say to Joshua? What did He say to Joshua? I’ll tell you what He said. He said, “Be strong and of good courage. Yes, be strong and of good courage, for the Lord thy God is with thee.” And the Lord said, “Don’t be afraid. Neither be thou dismayed. Cross Jordan.” That’s what the Lord said. And Joshua, he crossed over.’

The drums caught the rhythm and gave it back. And the women swayed, swayed and sang. They sang in the hot still night, with the smell of charcoal smoke and palm oil and frying plantain heavy in the air. And Nathaniel listened.

He listened to the preacher.

‘Do you think Joshua was afraid, brethren? Was that man afraid? Yes, he was afraid! Yes, he was afraid! Joshua had a big battle to fight and Joshua had a big river to cross. Yes, he was afraid. Nobody ever got to the promised land without a fight. Every man want salvation, and every man afraid, afraid to try for fear he fail. But the Lord say “Cross Jordan, Joshua”.
And the Lord say “Be not afraid, Joshua. Cross over. Yes, man, cross over that river and win that battle.”’

‘ – Yes, man! Yes!’

‘And Joshua say – “All right, God. I’ll try.” And he say “That’s right, God, I’ll try if You say so. Yes, sir, I’ll try if You say so.” And he tried. And when he got to that river, see what happened! Just see! Why, that river parted its waters. Yes, those waters rose up! And it says, those waters rose up in a heap far from the city that is beside Zaretan, and it says, those that came down towards the sea of the plain, even the salt sea, why, those waters failed. The Jordan was flooding its banks, because it was that time of year. And those big waters were cut off, this side, that side. And the children of Israel crossed over on dry ground.’

‘ – Tell it! They crossed on dry ground! Amen! Amen!’

The preacher raised his arms. He was a small man, and fat, but when he raised his arms he seemed to grow enormous, tall as the palms, and his arms reached out, reached out. The women swayed and their tears flowed down their singing faces.

‘That’s salvation, brother! That’s salvation! A man’s afraid. He’s got fear and he trembles and he won’t come forward. He’s afraid to cross that river, that Jordan. And then he tries. And what happens? I’ll tell you. Yes, I’ll tell you! He finds it’s easy, easy, easy! He finds it’s easy, for the Lord parts the waters, and he walks over on dry land. You going to come over?’

‘ – Yes, yes!’

‘You going to come over?’

‘ – Yes, yes!’

And they went forward, singing. And the preacher blessed them and prayed for them.

‘Come over into salvation! You, man, you!’

They surged forward, swaying and singing. Forward to be blessed.

In the warm night they sang, their voices hot and hungry. And the drums beat, beat, beat. The drums pulsed this hope, as they had pulsed the hope and despair of a thousand years, here, in this place.

And then triumphant, feet stamping, hands clapping, bodies sweating, voices shouting, triumphant –

Nathaniel listened. His throat felt tight with wanting to sing, and he clenched his hands that wanted to clap.

Then he stopped holding back, and he sang. He threw back his head and sang into the warm night.

– Oh, the River was many things. Now he knew it. The River was the warm slimy womb of all, lapping around the little fish, holding him so that he might not learn lungs. And the River was Jordan.

– The River was Jordan.

Nathaniel sang, his head thrown back, the look of him forgotten. He did not mind about his glasses, that they shone with his tears. He did not mind that his shoes needed polishing. The doubt and the shame, for the moment, were no more. Nathaniel sang, and his voice was deep and true.

– Who all can be saved? Oh, every man, every man, no matter what his trouble. I heard that You did not turn any away.

– The Kyerema had not known its name was Jordan. But perhaps, after all, when he set the boy’s feet on that path, he knew it was goodbye. Maybe he knew his son would have a strange new river to cross.

– The land was there. And the land was theirs. And the people crossed over into their land. The land was there, waiting for them, waiting for them to walk up the shore of Jordan. And the Lord gave the battle into their hands.

Then it was over. For a second there was silence. And in that second, Nathaniel wondered what Joshua had done once the walls of Jericho fell down. What had he done with the city, when it was his?

Then time began again. He must be crazy. He was going back – had he forgotten? – to the Forest and the dark River.

What was Jericho to him? What was Jordan to him?

I
t was late in the night when Aya wakened Nathaniel. The pains had been coming for about two hours. At first she hadn’t been sure, but now they were getting stronger.

Nathaniel looked at her face to see if she were frightened, and she turned her eyes away. He asked her.

‘Not of the baby,’ Aya said. ‘I’m not frightened of the baby.’

‘What, then?’

‘The hospital,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to go, Nathaniel.’ Then another pain came, and he watched her as she drew up her legs and moaned. When it was over, she turned to him angrily.

‘Why do you make me go there?’ she cried. ‘You don’t know! You don’t know!’

Suddenly Nathaniel was appalled at what he had done. It was not he who had to bear the child. Why had he not let her have it here, with the people she knew and trusted around her? What was it to him? Progress or pride? For his pride she now had to pay with her fear. He could not let himself think of it. Even to him, now, the presence of Aya’s mother would have been reassuring.

What if there was any trouble about Aya being admitted to hospital at this time of night?

‘Where’s Akosua?’ he asked.

‘She’s making some tea,’ Aya said. ‘I wakened her before.’

They dressed and went into the other room. The children were rubbing their eyes and blinking like two ruffled owls. When they were fully awake, they squatted cross-legged on their sleeping-mats, and stared with the ruthless curiosity of the young, as though they hoped Aya’s pains would soon reach screaming pitch and provide a dramatic entertainment.

Akosua, her cloth draped sparely around her gaunt body, came in with the tea and immediately began to question Aya sharply and minutely. Had there been blood yet? Was the child moving a little or a lot? The water had not broken? Were the pains small, like this – she half clenched her hand – or strong, like this – her thin fingers snapped in toward her palm in a vivid gesture of tension, and Nathaniel, horrified, looked away.

Aya said she did not know. Her voice faltered and she began to cry, softly, in jerky little breaths.

Akosua glared at Nathaniel.

‘Have you turned to stone?’ she demanded crossly. ‘You’d better hurry if you want to take her to that – that place –’

She said it as though the hospital were the Pit of Hell. Aya sobbed.

Nathaniel, angry and terrified, stumbled out to the street. He felt certain he would be unable to find a taxi. But of course he did find one. There were always dozens of taxis in Accra, day and night.

Akosua said goodbye to Aya as though she never expected to see her again.
The hospital seemed quiet as death. At first they went in the wrong door, and finally the watch-night, an old man in a Muslim robe and dishevelled turban, showed them the way.

They walked across the verandah, their footsteps loud in the dark silence. In the reception room a single bulb burned, and a sleepy clerk sat at the desk with his head propped on his hands. He looked up blankly.

‘Amegbe?’ he repeated doubtfully after Nathaniel.

Nathaniel felt his last drops of confidence ebbing away. What would he do if the clerk said he couldn’t find any record of anyone of that name? Would it work if he dashed him? And how much money would it take for the dash to be effective? Nathaniel realized he had only eight shillings and a few pennies left in his pocket after he had paid the taxi.

Aya gripped his arm, and looking at her, he saw her face was drawn with pain, but she would not cry out in front of the clerk.

The clerk saw it, too. Surprisingly, he brought a chair for her. And when he looked in the book, he found the name with no difficulty.

‘Wait,’ he said, ‘only a minute. She is coming – the sister in charge of the ward.’

Nathaniel wondered why he had doubted the clerk. Why, he was a fine man, very polite and thoughtful. Look at the way he had brought a chair for Aya. Why didn’t Africans trust each other more? His relief made Nathaniel feel weak.

The click-clack-click-clack of heels made him look up. The sister. She was an African. How incredibly white her uniform looked, how stiff and white and efficient. She was a slim, pretty girl, and for a moment Nathaniel felt hesitant about speaking to her. She was obviously a ‘been-to’, probably trained in England. Even her walk showed it – such rapid steps, so
much hurry. No African-educated person ever walked like that. Nathaniel wondered if everything Victor said was true.

Peering for a moment out of his misery, Nathaniel discovered that she was smiling at him.

‘Don’t worry about your wife, Mr. Amegbe,’ she was saying. ‘She will be perfectly all right.’

She was bending over Aya, talking to her in a low voice.

‘Please – ’ he burst out, ‘please – be patient with her. She does not speak much English, you see, and she is rather frightened. She has never been in a hospital before –’

‘It will be all right,’ the sister said soothingly. ‘She is among her own people here, really, you know.’

‘No – ’ Nathaniel stammered, ‘to her, her own people are her family.’

‘I know,’ the sister said. ‘But you are not to worry. It will be all right.’

She spoke to Aya again, this time in Twi. Aya looked up and the fear in her eyes began to recede. She answered the question in a whisper, and then, as another pain came, she reached out for the sister’s arm and held onto it. She reached out to this woman, Nathaniel realized, rather than to him.

Confidence returned. The sister did know. And it would be all right.

‘Thank you!’ he cried fervently.

The sister looked at him shrewdly, sympathetically.

‘You did right,’ she said, ‘to bring her here to have the baby.’

‘Do you think so?’ His eyes searched her face. ‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes,’ she said firmly. ‘Yes. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. I know what it is like.’

A look of comprehension passed between them. Was it
possible that this girl really did understand? Yes, yes she did. Victor had been wrong. Nathaniel felt a strange hunger to talk to her, to pour out all his indecision.

There was no time. But he had to say something.

‘Our country needs people like you!’ he cried impulsively.

That would sound foolish to her. How could he have let himself say it?

But the sister’s smile had no mockery in it.

Nathaniel turned to Aya and said goodbye, but she had already turned to the world that was within her. Her eyes were vague, and she said goodbye absentmindedly. Then she followed the sister down the corridor, towards the ward.

Nathaniel phoned the hospital three times the next morning. Each time it was the same.

‘Has Mrs. Amegbe had her baby yet?’

‘Who?’ a girl’s voice drawled.

‘Mrs. Amegbe,’ Nathaniel said clearly.

There was a short pause.

‘She is not here,’ the voice said finally, in a bored tone.

‘She is there,’ Nathaniel resisted the impulse to shout. ‘She went in last night.’

Another pause.

‘I cannot find her card. She is not here.’

‘She is there,’ Nathaniel said. ‘I beg you – go and ask if the baby is born.’

Another pause, very short this time.

‘She has not given birth,’ the voice said distinctly.

‘Pardon?’

‘She has not given birth,’ the voice repeated angrily.

‘But –’ Nathaniel began.

‘Visiting hours from four to six,’ the voice concluded.

There was a click.

Nathaniel did not believe for an instant that the voice knew one way or another, or that anything could have persuaded her to go and find out.

He could not tell Akosua.

‘Well,’ she snapped, ‘what is happening?’

‘It is not born yet.’

‘What did I say?’ Akosua demanded. ‘She did not want to go there. And now – look! A difficult birth – a difficult birth. How many hours? So many I dare not count –’

‘It is just twelve o’clock,’ Nathaniel said testily. ‘It is less than twenty-four hours.’

‘Oh, less than twenty-four? Fine, fine. Very easy. What do you know about it? When I had Abenaa, I was in labour only – what? – five hours. Twenty-four – don’t talk to me about your twenty-four. What are they doing to her there?’

‘Abenaa was your second child,’ Nathaniel said, certain she was lying anyway.

‘If she dies,’ Akosua said hysterically, ‘may her ghost never give you rest!’

‘Akosua! Can’t you stop it? Don’t you think I’m worried, too?’

‘You!’ Akosua yelped. ‘You! What do you know? If men had to bear the children, the world would die of your fear!’

Nathaniel walked out and slammed the door.

He had to come back, though, to eat his lunch. He was almost sorry the school was not in session, so he would have somewhere to go. Then he remembered he was not going back to the school next term anyway.

At two o’clock Aya’s mother arrived, vast and tent-like in a new dark purple cloth.

Adua was overwrought. Not trusting Nathaniel, she had gone to the hospital herself, demanding to see her daughter. She had not been allowed in, and they would not even tell her if the child had been born or not.

Akosua was in command of herself by this time.

‘Of course,’ she said scornfully. ‘They would not tell Nathaniel anything, either. What a fine place, where their doings are so shameful they must keep them secret –’

‘They’re not keeping them secret!’ Nathaniel cried. ‘In two hours I can go and see her.’

His head pounded and he wondered how much longer he could stand these two women.

‘By that time,’ Akosua said, ‘who knows – it may be too late.’

Adua rose ponderously, like a cow-elephant shifting up from its knees. Her small eyes glinted cruelly in the sweat-glistening moon of flesh that was her face.

‘How many times did I tell you?’ she cried. ‘Answer me only that one thing – how many times did I tell you not to take her there? She didn’t want to go. But oh yes, oh yes, you knew –’

Soon it would be over, Nathaniel thought. Soon they would know that the child was born, and they would forget all this. But now, now –

‘Wait,’ he said stubbornly. ‘Wait and see. It will be all right.’

The old woman waved her fat hands feebly.

‘She is my only daughter,’ she groaned. ‘Aya! Aya! Who is it that has killed you?’

‘She is not dead!’ Nathaniel shouted. ‘Who says she is dead? Can’t you stop it, both of you! You and Akosua! All day
long – I’ve had enough. Can’t you stop acting like a pair of parrots cackling from the treetops?’

Adua’s bulk rose up in front of him and she thrust her face close to his. She was waving her arms frantically now, and her heavy face was distorted with rage and anguish.

‘Better that my daughter had never married at all, if she had to marry you!’

She slumped down on the floor and began sobbing.

‘I am an old woman – I am an old woman – what is left to me – what is left?’

She called on her gods, loudly, hoarsely, without restraint, her huge body quivering on the floor.

Nathaniel thought he was going to be sick. Either that or pass out. Unless his body made him collapse, he would kick her, lying there on the floor like some great animal in its death throes.

He slammed his hand down hard on the table, his invariable gesture, the assertion that came with desperation.

‘Enough!’ he bellowed. ‘Enough! Stop it! I am going now. I will wait outside the hospital until it is time.’

The mound of flesh trembled on the floor, and then, surprisingly, Adua arose.

‘Nathaniel,’ she whispered, ‘I beg you –’

She was frightened. She was only frightened. It had not been malice against him. Just fear. Only that. And he had given her, for her consoling, the harshest words he dared.

‘It will be all right,’ he said. ‘You will see.’

But by this time their fear had filled him, too, and when he reached the hospital he almost expected to be told that Aya was dead.

As he had anticipated, the girl at the reception desk told him visiting hours did not begin until four.

A blue-uniformed African nurse was in the room, consulting a large book with names written in it. She glanced at Nathaniel. Then she asked him his name.

‘Amegbe –’ she said finally, as though her mind were on something else. ‘Yes. Let him go in now.’

Surprised, Nathaniel followed the receptionist.

‘Room four,’ she said, pointing down the corridor.

He did not know what to think. He paused at the door of room four and peered in apprehensively. It was a big room. There were four empty beds in it. The others were screened off with blue plastic screens.

Aya was there. She was there. Nathaniel gasped. She was lying there neat and beautiful. She could not read, but she was looking at a magazine as though she had been used all her life to such things. She was wearing her new nightdress. It was white cotton with a blue ribbon through the lace around the neck. Her face was calm and she was smiling at him.

‘Aya –’ he stammered, ‘what –? Are you all right?’

She laughed at his startled look.

‘Don’t you know?’ she said. ‘You told me you would find out.’

‘They would not tell me,’ he said. ‘I tried, many times. Is it born?’

‘Of course,’ Aya said complacently. ‘At eleven o’clock this morning. A boy, Nathaniel. Just like you said. A fine one. Seven and a half pounds.’

‘Is that big?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said professionally. ‘It is quite big.’

She laughed.

‘He was big enough for me.’

Nathaniel remembered her.

‘Are you all right? Was it all right?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was bad, but it was all right, too. It’s over. I didn’t know what it would be like. I didn’t know it would be like that. But it’s over. My mother said a woman forgets as soon as she hears him cry. It’s true.’

‘A son –’ Nathaniel said. ‘A man –’

He kissed her.

‘You did well,’ he said.

He felt he should say something solemn. But he could not think of anything.

‘You will be pleased with him,’ Aya said. ‘I knew he was mine as soon as I saw him. You could not mistake him, Nathaniel. Go and see him. They will let you.’

So he went. The nurse showed him the cot. Nathaniel could not see anything about this baby to connect it with him self. It was a brownish-pink fragment, wrapped around in a shawl, so that only its head showed. Its eyes were tightly closed.