The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

expression, which his father seemed to have vested in him along with his other qualities. Kwame spent much of his time in our wing of the palace in order to prepare himself for the throne that he would occupy once my father had died. I ran into him from time to time, but he always kept his eyes fixed on the floor and I did not venture to speak to him. Besides, I had my own reasons for sadness.
    I missed my brothers Kwadwo and Kwabena, the only two who had the same mother as I. She was my father’s first wife. My brothers were a little older than me and they were dearer to me than anyone else in the world. They were the only children who had free access to my room. One day I could not find them anywhere. I had three sleepless nights before someone dared reveal the truth to me. My father had handed over his own sons to the British envoy, who was to conduct them to Fort Cape Coast.
    I was inconsolable. Never before had an Ashanti prince left our territory. How could my brothers be obliged to travel the same jungle paths that the slaves conquered by my father had been forced to tread before? Were Kwadwo and Kwabena to be given to white men in exchange for Dutch gin and muskets? I had horrible visions of their plight. Eventually I was issued an official statement to the effect that the two princes would return within a few years as grown men; they would have amassed large fortunes and would come with beautiful wives, but I felt they were lost to me. Less than a month later news came that they had been ambushed on the way by Abyssinian caravan drivers and killed for their golden ornaments.
    I could not comprehend why my father had sent his sons to their deaths in this way and wished to hear some explanation, some remorse—just a cry of grief, if nothing else—from his own lips. But he did not show his face in the family circle for weeks, probably out of shame, and whenever I did set eyes on him the circumstances were too formal for me to approach him. My mind reeled with questions, but an Asantehene does not speak for himself. From the time a new king has been pressed three times on the Golden Stool—the repository of the spirit of Ashanti which was made to appear out of the sky by Osei Tutu’s priest—he employs the services of a speaker, who never leaves his side. The speaker is deputed to communicate the Asantehene’s opinions, thoughts and feelings. And although it still happened, albeit rarely and only in the most private quarters of the palace, that Kwaku Dua became once more the father he had been before his accession to the throne—when he was called simply Fredua Agyeman and would draw me on to his lap or take a stroll in the street holding my hand in his without this attracting any attention—I could never trust him again. I became apprehensive. My love was numbed by doubts. From then on, if my father happened to see me red-eyed, and sank down on his haunches to comfort me, I would brace myself and say it was nothing, just some grains of sand that had blown into my eyes. An Ashanti knows the salutary power of taboo: grief that is unspoken does not exist.
    In the old days I used always to be bathed together with my brothers. It was great sport. We wrestled with each other, splashed and drove our servants to despair. From now on I was bathed alone. I tried to put a brave face on it, but one morning a sudden douse of cold water unleashed my grief. The sense of loss was like a blow to the stomach. I fled to the dressing room, sobbing, and sent everyone away.
    There I was, huddled in a corner, when Kwame came in. He had seen my servants leave and thought the place was unoccupied. I raised my head and our eyes met. I saw at once that his reticence was not inspired by arrogance. He immediately dismissed all his attendants and sat down by my side, consoling me by breaking into sobs himself. I told him about my own sadness and asked him to tell me about his.
    “You know,” he said, “the family of a brave man always has