Twelve
Twelve
Sierra Leone, 1854
I grew angrier with each deliberate strike of my white chalk stick against the black tablet. It didn’t matter that I was just
one of three girls at this desk that was too small for us, like each of the wooden tables in the Institution’s forsaken claustrophobic
classrooms. It didn’t matter that the other girls were eyeing me nervously, begging me silently to calm down, for if Miss
Sass, at the other side of the room, saw how I was manhandling the chalk to the point of breaking it, she’d surely give me
the cane—again.
But why did I have to continuously inscribe and re-inscribe the writings of this man, this Samuel Crowther, a slave-turned-bishop
from Yorubaland? Why was his certainty of Africa’s “regeneration” through the Queen of England’s help so important for me
to learn that I had to write it again and again until I could feel his teachings in my bones?
Miss Sass flew to me from the other side of the room, grabbed me by the ear, and lifted me up. Hot pain sizzled through my
little body. The other girls held their breath as she plunked a book in my hands.
“Show me that you can read this passage,” she demanded.
I winced, wanting badly to rub my ear, but if I did, it would earn me a whack. Squeezing my eyes shut and opening them again, I peered down at the passages Sass pointed at. I’d read this one before. Crowther’s writing on his most recent expedition.
I sucked in a breath and read. “I asked whether the inhabitants of the Go—” I paused, gulped as Sass raised an eyebrow, and tried again. “Gomkoi were Pagans and Mohammedans; and was informed that they were all Pagans; that the males wore some sort of cloth around
their loins, but the females only a few green leaves. On asking whether they were cannibals, I was answered in the negative.”
Miss Sass looked disappointed I’d read it so well. There was nothing to criticize. “Now, children, what do you think Samuel
Crowther meant when—”
“But why does it matter of these people are pagan?” I said, closing the book with a snap. The girls all stared at me, terrified.
A plume of smoke curled up to my nose. I sniffled a little, but continued. “Why is their nakedness worth mentioning? Why would
either of these things suggest that they are cannibals ? I don’t understand it.”
I didn’t dare look up to see the grimace I could feel bearing down on me from the superintendent. And when Sass got a belt
out of her desk and began beating my hands, I cursed my loose tongue as tears pooled in the corner of my eyes.
But I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t Crowther but Miss Sass’s intentions I didn’t trust. The lesson hidden in this rote memorization
didn’t feel right. It felt insidious. All of us little African girls in our white bonnets and black Evangelical dresses down
to our ankles reading about cannibals and pagans. There was something in this lesson that didn’t sit right with me even if
I couldn’t articulate why at the tender age of eleven.
Three strikes. My hands burned and my back quivered in pain. One of the girls rubbed my knee to calm my distress. Miss Sass had just put her belt away when a gentle knock came from the door.
“Ah! He’s arrived!” Suddenly brighter, Miss Sass walked through the lifeless classroom with only two windows and opened the
door to reveal a tall man. “Our guest. A distinguished gentleman, by any measure.”
Whether she was attracted to him or not, I couldn’t tell. She drank up his dark brown skin, full lips, and sharp brows. His
black hair had been shaved down to nearly to the scalp, a thin carpet. I could tell he was military. It was that stern expression
that wouldn’t soften despite how hard he tried in the presence of us children.
But he wasn’t unkind. No, I could tell that too. He looked at each of us with the dignity we were never given by our teachers—certainly
not by Miss Sass. There was no reprimand when I locked eyes with him. He didn’t force me to lower my head in penance. After
Miss Sass barked at us to stand, he greeted me with a nod the way he would any other equal. I appreciated that at least.
The man went to stand at the front of the classroom by the fireplace. We were made to curtsy to him. I noticed, however, that
the teachers did not.
“Girls, we are joined today by a most esteemed guest I am hoping you will learn from.” Miss Sass stood beside the pulpit and
ushered the man to it. “His name is Captain James Pinson Davies, and at the age of twenty-six, he has already served with
the British Royal Navy—of course, in the West Africa Squadron. Everyone, quickly say hello.”
Like drones we answered in unison. We were tired, of course, as we always were past noon after the punishments and the embroidering. But Miss Sass must have thought it was some kind of once-in-a-generation anomaly to see an accomplished African man, and that the mere sight of one should stir us into a frenzy. It didn’t. It was quite mundane actually, especially for someone whose father was a king, but I was somewhat interested in learning about this Captain Davies anyway.
“Hello, girls. It’s good to see you children working hard on your studies.”
He was dignified, proud, and wanted everyone to know it. I understood the impulse and wholly believed it was something that
could only be learned in the most brutal circumstances. No one could ever convince me otherwise.
“I studied in a school like this too: the Church Missionary Society Grammar School in this very Freetown.”
Another victim. I wanted to shout it, but could already feel the sashes against my back.
“Mathematics and geography, Greek, English, Latin. I’ve learned it all and I’m sure in time you will too. I don’t believe
I’m being too bold in saying this, but you youths should count yourselves lucky; it’s in institutions like these that you’ll
separate yourselves from your peers as the elite of our future African society.”
Did he mean from the naked, pagan cannibals? But his bright eyes shone with genuine earnestness. He truly believed what he
was saying. He was excited for us, for our futures—the ones only a chosen few like him were lucky enough to have.
In his twenty-six years of life, Captain James Pinson Davies had been a teacher, an officer, and a merchant. He was off to
Lagos soon to grow his business.
“I have a penchant for industry. But one cannot just take from the world. You have to give something back. That’s why I’ll
be focusing on philanthropic work along the way. Only then can you consider yourselves truly rich.”
He was a veritable saint. Truly a perfect example of what was possible for people like us. Miss Sass’s lesson here was now crystal clear.
“If any of you children have any questions for Captain Davies, ask them now,” said Miss Sass. “And I will accept no slouching
or bending of the head as you speak.”
Ironic given the punishment she doled out when we did venture looking her in the eye as we spoke. Many of the tired girls
asked the simple questions that led to simple answers. He was born in 1828. Yes, he had been to Abeokuta and he planned on
going to Lagos soon. No, he had no children, as he was not yet married. He was also interested in cocoa farming.
And through it all, Miss Sass made her way around the tables, slowly ghost-gliding on the hardwood floor. She only stopped
at my table. I didn’t look up at her. I knew she saw my tablet—that Crowther’s words, which were supposed to be re-created
faithfully in chalk, had devolved into the word CANNIBAL? in capital letters followed by a stream of HAHAHA s that was only paused when Captain Davies walked in.
Miss Sass’s fury could always be felt through our thick dresses. My body would soon burn with pain again. I knew it all too
well. So I turned and raised my hand.
“Yes, child,” said Captain Davies.
“Miss Sass has always taught us that the Bible bids us to return good for evil,” I said, lowering my hand, feeling a keen
sense of satisfaction when I heard Miss Sass’s breath hitch in her wrinkled old throat. “I read it once in a book too. Do
you believe this to be true?”
“Yes.” Captain Davies answered so quickly, he looked surprised at himself. He pressed his lips together tightly, his chest lifted, but stuck there as if he were holding in a breath. And something about it all made me feel upset for him. Upset for myself. Upset for us all. Looking at him, I didn’t know whether to feel proud or furious, indignant, hopeful, even sad. I just didn’t know. I knew what I was supposed to feel. What they wanted me to feel—us to feel.
Relaxing his shoulders, he answered again, more calmly. “Yes, I believe this to be true.”
His answer continued to haunt me for a long time.
Windsor Castle, England – July 9, 1862
“I refuse, Mama!”
“You terrible girl! You will get out of this carriage, walk through those gates, and meet your husband!”
I gripped the leather armrest. “No! I said no!”
The coach driver could probably hear us. The horse had long come to a stop, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t getting out. I would
have stripped right there if I could. Mrs. Schoen, ever the Queen’s pawn, was only invited to this lunch to make sure I couldn’t
escape. The Queen surely knew Mrs. Schoen enjoyed living vicariously through the adopted African princess. She surely knew
all mothers seemed to turn into ghouls when their wills were defied.
Mrs. Schoen grabbed both my shoulders roughly. “The Queen herself arranged a marriage. A marriage for you . To a wealthy businessman of your race. Do you have any idea how—how few people will ever be able to say that in their lives?
How privileged you are?”
“Privileged? To be stuck in a gilded cage? To have my independence stolen from me?”
“ Independence? ” Mrs. Schoen said the word as if I had suddenly lost my mind. She swirled it around on her tongue with such disdain, I could feel the last bit of my carefully crafted self-control slipping away. “A girl of eighteen—what kind of independence do you need, exactly? Are there more parties you wish to attend? Or do you—” She clutched her frilly white blouse, one of the fancy ones for the occasion. “Do you already have a man? Have you already given yourself? My good Lord, have you already dirtied yourself—”
My heart skipped a beat as I thought of Rui’s breath on my neck. Then when I finally noticed the warmth between my legs had
swelled in the presence of my guardian , I felt suddenly sick as much as I did violated. I could barely stutter out a “N-No!” with a clumsiness that made me realize
she was winning. She was winning with her raving, socially climbing insecurity alone.
Was there something about mothers? Did they have some sort of preternatural ability to get under your skin so thoroughly you
wanted to scream and tear your hair out at the same time?
“No, Mama, I am a virgin.” I gritted my teeth from the indignity of even having to admit it. “Though if I were to lose my
purity, you would not be the first person I informed. Nor the second. Nor the third—”
“The devil has gotten into you, Sally.” She shook her head with the sense of urgency of a priest at an exorcism. Funny, because
like most in the Queen’s circle, she hated Catholics. “How can you speak to me like that? Your guardian. Your mama? How can
you be so hurtful? So insensitive to me? You have no idea how much I’ve sacrificed to raise you up since you came back to
England from Sierra Leone. I treated you like my own daughter.”
“Yes, you have a daughter, Anne. Why don’t you go bother her about her virtue?”
“Anne is married , as she should be.” Mrs. Schoen’s fingers dug into my flesh. She wasn’t just furious. She was terrified—terrified of the
possibility that my obedience was somehow perhaps not unconditional. “And if you end up becoming an unmarried spinster, the
shame I’ll have to suffer will be something you could never know anything about—”
“Oh yes, because how could a former slave who saw her whole family die ever understand suffering like societal gossip.”
“Stop talking about the past and look towards the future. Our future.” Her desperate dark eyes hadn’t softened even as she held my chin with both hands. “ Our future is at stake here. Sally, this is a world where appearance is everything. You must look the part, speak the part, play
the part, or you will be judged. By everyone . You will be ridiculed.”
The carriage driver knocked on my door. I ignored him. “And will you die because of that, Mama? Is there some secret poison
hidden within ridicule that I just don’t know about?”
Mrs. Elizabeth Schoen, the unhappy wife of a minister who seemed perpetually elsewhere, closed her eyes, sucked in a deep
breath, calmed herself, then gave me a piercing look.
“You’re making me the villain, Sally. How is that fair? It’s not. It’s not fair at all! You know I would rather die than hurt
you. You know I would rather put a knife to my own throat and slit it than hurt you. None of this is to make you sad. I’m
doing this for you.”
Some kind of trickery was happening here, a manipulative sleight of hand, and I wasn’t even sure Mrs. Schoen realized it herself.
My face screwed up. “And you should just listen to me. That is the right thing to do. I quarreled with my own mother. I didn’t
know I’d lose her so soon. I wish I could have more time with her. I wish I could have listened to her wisdom when I had the
chance. I won’t be here forever.”
“Your mother...” My cheeks flushed as I tried to imagine her, but her brown face was featureless in my mind’s eye. I guess
I was rather uncreative when it came to some things.
“She was free here, even before slavery ended. A lucky woman in that sense. But seeing others, she knew all too well the precious gift of being able to keep one’s child. The preciousness of that bond between parent and child.” She cupped my face with a hand, a tear forming in the corner of her eye. “If I were to die, then you’d really see. And by then it’ll be too late. Do you want that, Sally?”
Be wholly obedient to me now or you’ll hate yourself when I die. Oh yes. A manipulative sleight of hand indeed. And it was
heinous because of how effective it was. The idea of her sudden death began taunting me. I imagined Mrs. Schoen, a little
girl quarreling with her mother. Then I remembered quarreling with my own, when we were eating bean soup with my father and
she made me sit with my legs closed like a “woman of the Egbado.”
Mothers were always the same. But, as I bit the inside of my cheek hard and pursed my lips together to keep from bursting
into tears, I realized that I feared losing another.
Look at me. During the span of one conversation, I’d become an emotional murderer, a hateful ward, a potential whore, and
a spinster. The actual subject at hand—my arranged marriage—was long buried underneath the parade of guilt-inducing indictments
Mrs. Schoen launched at me with terrifying precision.
I looked in her eyes and realized what I knew all along. My marriage to a man I didn’t know wasn’t about me at all. My future
wasn’t mine. It was never supposed to be.
Was there anything in my life that was supposed to be mine?
This time the driver knocked on Mrs. Schoen’s door and, without wasting a moment, she jumped out of the carriage. Together
the two opened my door. I tried and failed to keep it shut, but they managed to drag me out onto the street.
Well, now that I was here, I couldn’t very well act out, could I? There were too many people watching.
Mama counted on me thinking this. She knew I wouldn’t act out, not here at the gates of Windsor Castle, with the servants ready to usher us into the palace. I saw her little satisfied smile and, for one half second, lost my mind. I wanted to throw off my coat and my knickers and run naked through the streets wearing leaves on my groin like those pagan “cannibal” fellows Crowther wrote about years ago. I wanted to climb the gates and pee on the lawn.
It wasn’t ladylike. I didn’t want to be ladylike.
I had to be ladylike.
It was at once my weapon and my noose.
You have one month to find a way out of this, Ina , I told myself as Mama and I were led to the dining hall. Pageboys were already running around coordinating between the chefs
and the ushers bringing the guests in for lunch. One month. Use that head of yours and get out of this.
We guests were to stand by our chairs. I counted at least forty, of which I was in the middle. The long egg-white table could
handle at least that much.
As Mama preened next to me, I peered around. Bertie stood almost directly opposite me on the other side of the table. He caught
my eye and winked at me. I ignored the idiot entirely.
Elsewhere, Gowramma tapped her foot impatiently with her wrinkled, half-awake husband. A few of Alice’s bridesmaids and their
husbands.
Marriage threatened to crush me at all sides. I pictured myself a year from now, perpetually pregnant, surrounded by babies
in the hell of my living room.
And what of my revenge?
Mr. Bellamy. Mr. Bambridge. Uncle George. McCoskry. Phipps...
I spied Harriet and her mother, Mrs. Phipps, on the opposite end of the table to my right. I remembered that night as a child
in the parlor room and my body shriveled with hatred. The indignity. Her mocking laughter.
She was laughing now too. Laughing with a man with hair the precise color of a pumpkin. His beard had grown so long it dipped in the center, reminding me of back home—those soft, overripe plantains too flaccid to keep from collapsing in on themselves. To have such a bizarre tuft of hair growing from his chin... any other time it would have made me laugh, but today this was no laughing matter. For the first time in years, I was looking upon William McCoskry. In the years since our encounter, he’d finally become the acting governor of Lagos Colony just last year.
“William, you must tell me all about the colony.” I had to strain to hear Mrs. Phipps. “It must have been impossible to deal
with all of those runaway slaves.”
“I did what I could for them in court.” McCoskry’s voice sounded like the gravel rolled over by the wheels of a carriage.
My body seized. “Of course, very few of them had any real education, so helping them within a civilized legal system took some work.”
I’d heard. Many fugitive slaves from the Americas and even in the British colonies where slavery had been outlawed had fled
to Lagos seeking freedom from their abuse. They were not some topic of chitchat at the dinner table. But Mrs. Phipps and McCoskry
carried on as if they were talking about the weather. As if they were comparing the state of their pets...
Mr. Bellamy. Mr. Bambridge. Uncle George. McCoskry. Phipps...
I was mouthing my list before I could stop myself.
Eventually, I did stop because Harriet was signaling to me awkwardly with her head. Her mother had to slap her back to stop
her cranking her neck, but soon I could see who she was gesturing toward.
A familiar face was staring at me. Familiar because I’d seen him just days before.
That unnerving young man. The one with the curly brown mop and the Africanized English accent. The one who promised he’d be meeting me again and soon. He stood several seats down from Bertie, perking up a little when I finally noticed him.
Almost as if to say, At last, you fool.
I placed my hands behind my back so he wouldn’t see my fingers twitching. I returned his dangerous smile with one of my own.
But every cell in my body told me to be on alert.
And then the trumpets sounded. Fanfare. Chin up, spine straight. Hands at your sides.
In walked Queen Victoria, tiny, round, and dour in her black attire, tired despite it only being noonday. Lord Ponsonby, royal
court official, kept a slow, accommodating pace as he led her to her seat at the table’s head. And he wasn’t alone.
In his black frock coat and bow tie, the African man who towered over the Queen carried himself with far more nobility than
that witch could ever muster. His hair had receded and his eyes were sunken with age, but Captain Davies was every bit as
handsome as when he walked into my classroom all those years ago. Just like then, he smiled timidly with gentle brown eyes.
But his broad shoulders and straight back boasted of his pride.
He found me immediately. Our eyes locked and a spark made my spine quiver. The heat rose in my cheeks. I saw the smallest
hint of trepidation in his expression that must have mirrored mine.
Mama beamed next to me, rubbing my arm with excitement. Then she blinked. “Wait a moment,” she said, touching her lip and
tilting her head, “who’s that behind the Captain?”
A burly Scottish man in a kilt and royal servant regalia walked two paces behind Captain Davies, Lord Ponsonby, and Queen Victoria—but he was nearest to the Queen, flanking her right side. His downturned eyes and large nose flared with confidence. His dark brown hair framed his face, his beard much more kempt than McCoskry’s. He was a handsome gentleman. Ferocious as if bred in the wilderness. His eyes were only on the Queen.
Bertie was trying to get my attention. And when I finally, much to my chagrin, gave it to him, he leaned in and whispered,
“John Brown. It was a good idea.”
The man Rui wanted inside the court at all costs. Sweat formed on my palms. There was nothing more exciting than a scheme
coming together. But with this sword of Damocles over my head, would I ever know why Rui cared so much to bring this man,
this former servant to Prince Albert, by Queen Victoria’s side? He hovered over the monarch like a protective shadow as she
stumbled to her seat, ready for her soup.
Captain Davies didn’t stumble. Several paces behind even Brown, but he kept his head up, dignified. Ah, so the empty seat
directly ahead of me, next to Bertie, was for him.
After the Queen sat, we all sat. But before the Queen could begin her assault on her bowl of soup, she stood to make an announcement
to the room of guests.
“This is Captain James Pinson Labulo Davies. He is a wealthy businessman in my colony of Lagos and is to wed my ward, Sarah
Forbes Bonetta, next month on August fourteenth.”
Bertie’s jaw dropped. The murmurs from the other guests were short-lived.
“You will congratulate them.”
The Queen had given an order. As Mrs. Schoen soaked in the polite and insincere applause, I looked at my fiancé and he looked at me. Neither of us seemed particularly moved. Wrinkles cut paths above his eyebrows. Well, age wasn’t one to spare any man. It hadn’t battered him too hard, but whereas I’d once seen him as a dignified twenty-six-year-old, he was now, eight years later, a distinguished gentleman. As such, he gave me a bow of the head, with an expression one gives a business associate.
“Wait...” In his seat, Bertie looked up from his uneaten soup and turned from side to side. “Sally’s getting married? Next
month?” He stared at Captain Davies, mouth agape.
Somewhere in the hall, I heard Gowramma snickering.