The Exile

By Marsha Temlock

The Exile begins in Yendi, once the seat of the Kingdom of Dagbon in the Northern Region of Ghana. Tani, the daughter of a royal Abudu chieftain and beautiful Andani mother, is caught in the crossfire between the two feuding Gates. Raised in a village steeped in superstition, Tani is branded as evil after her beloved mother is accused of disloyalty. Nine-year old Tani is exiled from her family and home, and struggles to survive as a street child in the slums of Accra. Her battle to overcome her demons and believe in herself is set against a backdrop of political unrest and modern-day tribal conflict. The Exile includes a historical and personal perspective of events leading to the 2002 massacre at the palace of the Andani king. Marsha Temlock has done her research and has also created a character whose strength and determination are tested throughout her journey.

“The Exile is more than a compelling story. It is the heart-wrenching journey of a young African girl set in a village in Yendi, the seat of Dagomba royalty. Tani's story reveals how the culture, history and tribal conflicts of Northern Ghana shape the lives of its present-day youth struggling to survive. Tani might be fictional but the setting is a carefully vetted, realistic view of what disenfranchised children suffer in this world filled with war, poverty, and life-threatening situations.The Exile should be required reading in all history classes and should be in all school libraries.”
Whitney Malone
Editor in Chief of a Macmillan Publishers children's division.

“I finished reading the whole manuscript just before I left for the Christmas holidays; have to admit I could not let it go in the latter part as I truly wanted to know what would become of Tani. It is a story that captures the reader ... a page turner as I got into it; I love the story.”
Prof. Akwasi Osei
Chair, Department of History, Political Science and Philosophy
Delaware State University

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marsha Temlock
• Release date: Mar 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370065172

Book preview

THE EXILE

A work of fiction set in modern day Ghana

Marsha A. Temlock

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. Copyright @ 2017 by Marsha A. Temlock

This book is dedicated to Stephen Temlock who lives in my heart forever and ever.

PART 1

YENDI

There is a Ghanaian proverb that says because God does not like evil he gave each person a name. It is common in Yendi, the place where I come from, for children to be named on the day of the week in which they were born. I arrived on a Wednesday so my name is Tani. For the first seven days of my life I was kept indoors for fear I would wander back into the world of the spirits where all children come. As I was a saanpaga (stranger) it was up to the head of our household to introduce me to the community. At my outdooring my father lustily called out Tani, Tani, and so I decided not to wander back to the spirits. But perhaps I would have been better off had I returned to the place where I was safe instead of venturing into to the world of the living.

Yendi is in the northern region of Ghana, which is one of the poorest and most backward areas of our country. Yendi is the seat of our king called a Ya-Naa who rules the Kingdom of Dagbon. My people, known as Dagombas, live crowded together in clusters of little shacks with few comforts. Life is hard, particularly during the dry season that lasts from November to mid-April, sending up dust and rutting the coppery clay roads where chickens, goats, and children wander freely. The rainy season, May through October, fills the ruts with water and makes the roads impassable. Yet, for the most part, the people are happy. And why not when umbrella acacias provide shelter; bulbous baobab, strength; and mango, sustenance.

Outsiders say we are a backward people because we are superstitious and practice ancestor worship. From an early age I was taught my ancestors are my link to the spiritual world, and as long as I honor them, my ancestors will protect me. And so it was for the first nine years of my life, yet now it is clear their spirits have abandoned me while the two royal gates or branches of the royal family claim rights to the throne.

The dispute over power between these gates, the Abudus and the Andanis, goes back six hundred years when Ya-Naa YaTanibu I, who ruled Dagbon from 1824 to1849, had two sons from different wives. The first son was an Abudulai, the second an Andani. Even though that was a long time ago, the fighting still rages. There was, however, a period of peace when my father, an Abudu, married my mother, an Andani. Marriage between the two rival gates is most unusual. The elders and soothsayers warned my parents their marriage was doomed but my father was set on marrying my mother, and she, flattered by this handsome, powerful man who promised to raise her above the other women in the village, believed him.

The Abudus never accepted my mother. They claimed she was a witch who mesmerized my father with her dazzling smile, flawless chocolate skin, gold-flecked brown eyes, and perfect teeth. How she must suffered living among them, caring for me, her only child.

Need I say my mother is the most beautiful woman I have ever known? I wish I had one tenth of her good looks for I am an awkward girl, thin and boney, all arms and legs. How my mother laughed when I used to complain I was ugly, reminding me The surface of the water is beautiful, but it is no good to sleep on.

Seeing me frown she patted my head. "You have a lovely smile. Did you know you were born at sunset? I wanted to call you Niena, brightening, but, sigh, it was not my place to name you."

I like my name, Tani, I insisted for I did not like to hear my father criticized.

Yes, he chose a good name. Now, let me get on with my work.

I know I inherited some of my mother’s stubbornness and, I hope, some of her courage, for I will need it if I am to survive.

My mother suffered living among the Abudus not only because she was an Andani, but because she did not fulfill her duty as a woman. I am my mother’s only living child. After me she bore twin boys, Dawuni, the elder, and Danaa, the younger, who died soon after they were named. Thereafter she was barren. It is the duty of African women to continue the family line. According to a Ghanaian proverb, the woman who has only one child has no children. Many have four or more children.

I suppose the spirits know what’s best even if I do not understand their ways. As for me, I would have liked brothers and sisters. I have no siblings other than my stepbrothers from my father’s first wife —Sibido, born on Saturday; and Azindo, born on Friday. I did not know these boys.

My mother loved me dearly and we were rarely apart. Together we enjoyed the privileges of royalty. We were well fed and lived in the largest house in our little village, which is made up primarily of huts. Our house was a cement blockhouse consisting of a living area, a bedroom, and a rainy-season kitchen. Father slept in the house while Mother and I occupied a smaller dwelling in the section reserved for women. In the dry season, Mother cooked our meals on a grill set over a wood fire in the courtyard or under a tree. She was an excellent cook and when my father’s council met in our house, she did not skimp on refreshments, for official business made the elders hungry and thirsty, a thirst that could be quenched with beer and akpeteshie, a homemade spirit of distilled palm wine or sugar cane juice. If the elders resented my mother being an Andani, this did not interfere with their enjoying her food and drink.

I often stayed outside when my father held these meetings and eavesdropped on the proceedings. I took delight in listening to my father’s voice rising above the others. My father was duty-bound to consult his council of royal elders, but he had the final word when it came to settling disputes and meting out punishments. As chieftain, he appointed members from the royal group to work under his direct authority, but he held his advisors on a short leash. He interpreted the law or ancestral will according to his own beliefs, and there were few who questioned his words, as it was believed his power was bestowed by the gods.

My father was an important man, way too busy with tribal matters to trouble himself with his only daughter. I did not mind because my mother made up for his lack of affection. She indulged me, was tender and loving, and made me feel special. I know it must have been difficult to be an outsider living among the Abudus, yet my mother never complained about her life. The women in the village could be unkind; they berated her behind her back, called her immoral because she had gone out of her way to attract my father and now held herself above them. If there were fault lines in the marriage, she kept them to herself. Shy and obedient, she performed her housewifely chores, assuming most of the burden for our family while my father spent his time socializing with the other men or meting out advice. My mother was my most gentle and caring companion who taught me to respect my elders and pay homage to our ancestors who live on even after death. Raised Christian, she believed God’s greatest miracle and true divinity was His creation of all things.

Everything, she said, has a kind of immortality—trees, rocks, even man-made objects of all kinds. When she tended her garden or pounded yams into fu-fu I would stand next to her and beg her to tell me stories about witches, even though the very thought of them terrified me.

Where are they? I asked.

They are everywhere; it’s just that we cannot see them.

But how do we know they are there if we cannot see them?

Oh, trust me, they are there, Tani, make no mistake. Are there not children who fall ill for no reason? Do not sturdy trees suddenly fall on houses? Have not powerful waters flooded our land and ruined our crops?

At night I would shiver despite the intense heat, while lying on my raffia mat thinking about the havoc the witches wrought, and pray fervently my ancestors and the good spirits would protect me. I sensed there were evil spirits all around me. One day, when I was helping Mother cut the vegetables for our dinner I asked her, Is it true witches can taken human form, that they could be here in our village?

Mother stopped stirring the rice with her long-handled spoon. The big aluminum pot was almost full to the brim. There would be chicken and tomato stew, my favorite, and the aroma of spices scented the air.

It is possible, she said, looking up. They look just like us. Therefore you must be careful, Tani, not to offend anyone.

My mother loved to sing and taught me this song to remind me of my place in the world when I complained or was sulky:

If you are hungry, cook yourself a meal.

Why do you cry?

You are the child of a yam farmer.

Why do you cry?

You are the child of a cocoyam farmer.

Why do you cry?

But I am not the child of a farmer, I said. I am the child of a chieftain.

Even more reason to respect the ancestors who are responsible for your good fortune and who may as easily take it away.

My mother must have been thinking about her own fate. Her heart began to harden against my father when he told her, No one woman can bring forth two lions, glad the twins had died.

After the twins died my father put my mother aside and took a younger, more fertile woman as his third wife. This one ordered my mother around which gave the women in the village even more reason to mock her.

I hated the way my father treated Mma but what could I do? What power does a child have over a parent?

Like most children in the village, I had responsibilities I was expected to carry out without complaint. I usually didn’t mind that my task was to get water from a borehole. The nearest borehole was a distance from our house but I didn’t mind since the long walk gave me a chance to socialize with other children.

Collecting water is one of the jobs given to children. Like the other girls, I was sent as often as two or three times a day to fill a bucket. We were lucky because our watering holes are free. In some villages, the residents had to pay to draw clean water but my father worked with the local officials who sent engineers to dig the boreholes, and that’s why we have clean water. In our country there is a lack of treated drinking water. The runoff from the heavy rains and the lack of plumbing pollute the water, Mother explained. She worried we would get cholera or typhoid and always boiled the water she used for cooking. If not for the boreholes the villagers would have to use water from a nearby pond, which is unhealthy and not fit for human consumption.

I remember that on a particularly hot day my father sent me on an extra trip to fetch clean water, and although I was suffering from the heat, I stopped what I was doing and got the pail. Along the way I met a friend who had been sick and now was well enough to go to the borehole. However, I lingered too long talking to my friend, which tried my father’s patience. When I got back to our hut my father was waiting and I could see from his expression I’d taken too long to bring him water. He pulled me aside and beat me with a cane. I turned toward my mother. Her eyes were dark and angry, but she did not stand up to my father. Instead of comforting me after my beating she turned her back and walked away. I cried for hours, feeling I’d been deserted, that my mother had allied herself with my father against me. But later that night my mother came to me. I couldn’t face her and turned my head away.

Tani, she whispered softly. I know you are angry with me, but you must never doubt that I love you. I will always love you no matter what happens.

No matter what happens. What was she trying to tell me? What didn’t I understand?

Like most children, I was lost in my own little world. I did not concern myself with tribal conflicts even when the old Ya-Naa died and we had to choose a new king. Let me back up and explain how this is usually done in the Dagomba Kingdom. Because we have two rival gates, the Abudus and Andanis, each gate is supposed to take turns selecting the next Ya-Naa, and for more than a hundred years this system of rotation worked. However, there was so much fighting who should rule us, the government stepped in and appointed Andani, Ya-Naa Yakubu II. My father was furious. He said Ya-Naa Yakubu II was chosen illegally and would not accept his authority.

I suspect, although I have no evidence, my father wanted to be the next Ya-Naa. He may have even married my mother with this in mind. By marrying an Andani he would have strengthened his position if there were an election. But, as I said, I have no proof. I only know what happened while the storm clouds gathered.

Cast aside by the new wife, my mother saw a way to get back at my father. One day she overheard my father and his elders plotting to remove Ya-Naa Yakubu II and restore an Abudu to the throne. Seeking her revenge, she went to her brother, my father’s arch enemy, and told him what she’d heard. From that day forward she began channeling information to the Andanis.

It was only a matter of time until my mother was caught spying. Remember she was closely watched by the new wife who was only too happy to report to the elders what she suspected. Of course the soothsayers railed against her. They told my father his wife’s allegiance to the Andanis had always been stronger than her loyalty to him. I do not believe this. I know my mother loved my father although it is true she deceived him. In my heart I forgive her. But my forgiveness was not enough to save us.

When my father learned of his wife’s betrayal he called a council meeting to decide her fate. I was outside reading a book when Uncle Dobegu came stumbling toward me. Uncle Dobegu, he is not my real uncle, is one of my father’s most trusted elders and he was always very good to me. Usually he smiles when he sees me, but this time Uncle’s face was long and he walked more slowly than usual.

"Mbapira, my uncle, I called out. I see you have a new dog."

Tagging alongside was a mangy dog as skinny and lively as Uncle was plump and doddering. True to his name, Dobegu is the name given to an ugly old man, Uncle had a lopsided grin, stumpy teeth, and googly eyes behind thick rimless glasses. The dear man was so blind he could not see two feet in front of him. Uncle claimed the eyeglasses were the reason he could not read or write, but with so many elders illiterate, Uncle Dobegu didn’t need an excuse for his lack of education. Still, he was ashamed of his ignorance and too proud to let me teach him the alphabet as I was learning to read and knew most of my letters.

I once asked Mother why it was Uncle Dobegu couldn’t read and write since I doubted it was the fault of his glasses. She said it was the spirits that kept him this way. They have their reasons and we are not to judge because Uncle Dobegu is a good man, though simpleminded. Uncle can do other things that are just as important.

I knew that was true because Uncle Dobegu was full of stories about the lesser gods that live all around us. Our ancestors live in the trees, the rivers, the mountains, and the sea that is far away from our village. The Supreme God created everything, he told me, his magnified pupils growing larger, but it is the lesser gods who are watching us.

"Mbapira, my uncle, Mma says there are witches…who live here in the village. They are more powerful than these gods that cause sickness and terrible things."

Uncle quickly poured a drop of his Malta on the ground to mollify a god who might be listening, and told me not to speak of such things.

Today Uncle Dobegu did not look as if he was in the mood to tell stories about the gods or have me read to him. Come with me, he said sternly which was not the usual way he spoke to me.

Obediently, I followed Uncle toward our house where I knew Father’s council was meeting. I’d seen many villagers go inside all morning, and was surprised so many people had been invited. Even though our house was the largest in the compound, I did know know if we had enough room for everyone.

Uncle was ancient in years, still he was my closest companion. For one thing, he never minded being interrupted from his employment—and most of the time he was just dozing—to lift me up on his shoulders to reach a cocoanut. He would break it open with his machete and scoop out the meat we would share while sitting under the shade of the tree, while he complained about his wife, his grown sons or some villager who was always taking advantage of his good nature.

I sensed something was wrong when, first. Uncle did not reach for my hand and, second, when he kicked the dog to get him out of the way.

"Please, Mbapira, I begged, butterflies flapping their wings in my stomach while I searched my memory trying to recall something I had done that would upset Father so much he would call for me while council was in session. What does Father want?"

Come along, Uncle repeated.

I followed Uncle Dobegu into the large antechamber where my father received guests and, before entering the house, took off my shoes. Uncle left me and took his place in the order of solemn men who served as Father’s advisers. Inside I recognized my neighbors but was surprised to see people from outlying villages as well. Word had spread rapidly. I realized I hadn’t paid any attention while the talking drums of Dagomba were relating the gravity of the situation.

As is our custom, my father sat on his special wooden chair that was set on a platform in the corner of the room facing his council members, who sat opposite on a long wooden bench. He was dressed in a colorful fugu, a cotton smock that was beautifully embroidered by one of the women in the village, and on his head he wore a red fez he reserved for special occasion—festivals, funerals, and meetings with government officials.

I looked at the men gathered in my father’s house who for some reason returned my glances with scorn. I began to sweat, for the room was heated with hate. I wanted to call out to my mother but the word Mma stuck in my throat.

I tried to stay calm. Whatever I’d done, Mma will protect me. My heart leapt toward her but my mother made no sign of recognition when I came in.

Mother stood in the center of the room. Her head bowed, her shoulders hunched, she did not raise her head when everyone turned to look at me.

You, there, my father commanded, addressing me as if I were some stranger. He pointed toward his wife. My heart pounding, I went up to my mother. Standing by her side I could smell her fear. I wanted to take her hand, but I was too paralyzed to close the gap that separated us.

My father rose to his full height. He turned to the elders. It is said a powerful man does not need to raise his voice to make himself heard. My father’s voice was measured and deliberate while he recounted the allegations against his wife, one by one. I tried to make sense of what he was saying and stared into his face that seemed more handsome than ever despite his raging fury. He stretched out his massive arms, his shoulders so broad they seemed out of proportion to his lower half. His black gleaming skin shone in the dim light of late afternoon, the cords of arteries throbbed in his thick neck. His heavy-lidded eyes that could hold magic when he smiled were hot as coals.

My father’s every word, every gesture, produced a groan, a gasp, a