Trokosi

By Augustine Sherman

Aisha Sesay has many dreams, dreams that ritual servitude will struggle to prevent from seeing the light of day. Laamisi Sesay, the fetish priest of the Asamoa Traditional Religious Shrine hidden deep in the forbidden forest, miles away from the village has within the confined grottos of his temple a shocking truth ensconced among his cluster of young virgins.
Like the other virgins, Aisha is there to serve the priest, elders and sponsors of the shrine without remuneration and without her consent. Regardless of her age, her family has given their consent for her to serve the gods of the shrine and marry too to the gods.
But when a former and freed trokosi filed a lawsuit through the firm of Runningwater, Chase and Foster, and the Rhode Island Attorney General office against the chief, high priest and government of Ghana, the practice of trokosi will never be the same again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365438431

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Trokosi

TROKOSI

BY

AUGUSTINE SHERMAN

9th Triangle

CONCEPT

GENERATION

Yorkshire · London · New York · Virginia

©

Copyright©2016 Augustine Sherman

ISBN:  978-1-365-43823-1

(A CONCEPT GENERATION PUBLISHING HOUSE BOOK)

For any information on the book or the author,

Please contact the following address:

16 Norwich Cresent, Chadwell Heath,

EM6 4UW London, England.

About the Author

This book is a work of fiction. Any person or persons living or dead closely or seemingly resembling its character or characters are purely coincidental. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved. Unauthorized duplication of this work is a violation of applicable laws in the United States of America, and under the international copyright law. Written permission of this literature work for reproduction, excerpts or brief quotations must be secured from the author or publisher

INTRODUCTION

If a girl runs away or dies; she must be replaced by another girl from within the same family. Some girls in ritual servitude are the third or fourth girl in their family suffering for the same crime, sometimes for something as minor as the loss of trivial property. It is still practiced in the Volta region in Ghana, in spite of being outlawed in 1998, and despite carrying a minimum three-year prison sentence for conviction. Beside the Ewes that practice the ritual of trokosi in Ghana, Togo and Benin also practice it where it is called voodoosi or vudusi. In Ghana the victims are commonly known as fetish slaves because the gods of African Traditional Religion are popularly referred to as fetishes and the priests who serve them as fetish priests.

Chapter 1

2000, Cranston, Rhode Island

Fourteen year old Chad Runningwater couldn’t wait to get home to tell his mother how his social studies teacher broke down and started crying in front of the entire class. Bursting into the house, he raced through the foyer, parlor, and dining room to enter the kitchen where Ivy Runningwater was busy basting her chicken for the oven.

Whoa! Whoa! Slow down, Ivy cried.

You won’t believe what happened today, Mom. Remember I told you my teacher’s from Africa?

Yeah?

He got a call today. Didn’t talk much; mainly did all the listening. After switching off his phone he stood there and get this…started to cry. When he couldn’t seem to control himself, Carrie Hurst got off her seat to console him. You know how she is.

What happened? Why was he crying?

Who knows; kept speaking some language—something about trocee, trocee—

Meaning?

I don’t know Mom. All I know he was crying like a baby. Carrie Hurst went next door to get Miss Ward. She teaches eighth grade.

And? She had completely turned her attention to her son, abandoning her half-basted chicken.

Miss Ward came and took him out and that was it.

Ivy Runningwater turned her attention back to her chicken, now stuffing it with seasoned breadcrumbs. "Maybe tomorrow you’ll find out what it was all about.

I figured some relative of his named Trocee died or something. I mean, he kept saying the name over and over, Chad said opening the fridge.

Wash your hands first please, Ivy called after her son.

Leaving the refrigerator door open, he stepped to the sink and rinsed his hands before returning to retrieve an apple. Biting on it, he slammed the fridge shut and said, Today’s the first time I really felt for the guy, Mom.

Does this mean you’re turning down your antipathy towards him?

Oh, Mom. Never said I hated the guy; I just don’t know why the school had to hire an African with a heavy accent—

What is he again, Ghanaian?

Yeah.

But you said he speaks well enough for your understanding, no?

He does, Chad suddenly had enough of his mother and started for the dining room.

Where’s your sister?

Don’t know! He replied skipping up the rear stairs leading to second floor where his room was. The house was a four bedroom, four and a half baths colonial situated in Cranston, off Broad Street.

Entering what he liked to call his private domain; Chad flung his back pack to the bed and followed it. He stared at the ceiling, mind drifting to Carrie Hurst. There was something about her he just couldn’t get out of his head. He knew he liked her but had no idea how to tell her. He wanted to tell his mother about his feelings for Carrie but felt too embarrassed to talk of such things with her. She might even try to pry further; maybe ask if he touched himself thinking about her. And that was something Chad wasn’t prepared to discuss with anyone. As for his sister, she was such a drag and completely intolerant, basically the last person he wanted to talk to about anyone or anything. His father was something else—a hard nose disciplinarian that extended even to his law firm, leaving his partners and every employee on edge whenever he was around. So, as far as Chad was concerned, when it came to turning to his father for advice on such a personal matter, he would definitely be barking up the wrong tree.

Rolling off his bed, Chad switched on his desktop. He opened the file labelled: Carrie Hurst and added his latest thoughts about her to his diary:

She looked radiant today, especially when she got up to console Mr. Fiajo. I know I’m running out of time to talk to her, because school is coming to a close and she’d be gone again. I wonder where they’re going this year. Asia, Africa? If only I have the guts to face her and tell her how I feel about her…

If it isn’t Mr. Weirdo— the voice called from his room door.

He turned to see his sister walking in, Get lost.

She was filing her nails, came to loom over him to see what he was up to.

He immediately clicked his computer to sleep. Get out!

Ignoring him she said, It’s all over the school, Mr. Fiajo broke down in front of you guys and started crying like a baby. What was that all about?

How would I know? he swivelled in his seat to face her. I think someone close to him kicked the bucket or something.

Wrong stupid. Gabrielle and I overheard Jim telling Miss Ward that Fiajo’s sister was finally set free today back in his country. They called to give him the good news that’s why he was crying. Now that she was a senior, Sarah felt there was no need to continue addressing her assistant principal as Mr. Ryan, when she could just call him Jim.

Was she in prison? Chad innocently inquired.

Sort of, Sarah dropped on her brother’s bed.

What does that mean?

She was freed from slavery, stupid.

I don’t understand; slavery from what, from where? I thought slavery was over. Like his sister, he had blue aqua marine eyes, blond hair and an unusual canny smile.

Trokosi, stupid, she chided still fiddling with her nails.

He kept saying trocee—

Not trocee, trokosi. It’s a traditional form of sexual slavery going on in Africa where Fiajo’s from.

Chad sat up, anxious. You mean someone can buy a girl and use her as his slave for sex? That’s cool!

How can you say that, you misogynist? You’re disgusting! Sarah stopped filing her nails, regarded her brother and said, Don’t tell me you’re already having wet dreams about girls.

His flushed face gave him away before he said, Don’t be foolish.

Sarah was smiling, You horny little devil. You’re starting to like girls. She put down her nail file and asked, So tell me, who is she?

Chad bounced off the chair. Get out!

Aw, somebody’s shy. But you can tell me. Maybe I could give you some pointers. She got to her feet. So who is she?

Get out I said! He walked to the door and waited for her to leave.

Seeing that her brother was serious Sarah edged out of his room, making a mocking face as she went by him.

Chad slammed the door shut returning to his computer.

*

The next morning before the beginning of classes, whispers among students about one of their teachers having a sister who’d been a sexual slave for thirteen years was the hottest topic being discussed.

Chad heard Carrie Hurst explaining to her two other halves, Lillian Bloomingdale and Marisa Greenfield. They say she was only seven years old when she was given to the high priest to serve the gods of the shrine.

I heard once a girl’s given to the temple of the gods, she’s immediately violated. There’s no sanctity regarding her virginity whatsoever, another girl offered.

Mr. Fiajo’s sister must be twenty years old now, the third girl suggested.

Poor thing, Carrie lamented. To think he’s been carrying it around all this time.

Chad wanted to join in and offer his understanding of what he’d spent all night reading on the subject of trokosi. But his inability to control his nerves whenever he thought of approaching Carrie restrained him yet. After his sister told him about what trokosi meant and called him a misogynist, he decided to look up both words. That was when it occurred to him that if he interrupted the girls by suggesting men who did such vile things were nothing but misogynists who should be wiped from the face of the earth, they might just welcome him into their mix.

Just when he was about to step forward, Phil Calloway entered the fray throwing his arm around Carrie. And what are you girls up to?

Carrie tore his arm from around her stepping away. Why do you keep doing that? I told you I don’t like it.

Phil Calloway smiled with that arrogant confidence, Thought you were crazy ‘bout me, girl. Is it because of the nerd? he gestured his head toward Chad fidgeting under the nearby tree.

This was the first time Carrie turned to look at Chad. She considered him briefly, smiled and said, So what if I like him?

Chad couldn’t believe what he heard. As he stood there slipping into wonderland, running to the place his fantasies frequently took him whenever Carrie came to mind, he didn’t see her walk up to him.

Hi, she murmured. Chad Runningwater, right?

Chad stared at her dumbfounded.

Hello? Anybody in there?

Yeah, no… I mean yes, Chad.

I’m Carrie.

Great! Chad wanted to cut and run. He was so nervous.

Something tells me you’re the shy type, Carrie was saying when Marisa appeared behind her.

Three years he’d been in the same class with her and not one day had Carrie Hurst shown any interest in him. She, Marisa Greenfield and Lillian Bloomingdale had always been a close knit threesome that never bothered to look his way, smile at him, or even ask his name. Now, out of the blue she was introducing herself to him.

Hi Chad, Marisa said.

Hi, he managed to return without falling apart. Chad’s eyes wandered beyond the two girls and saw Lillian Bloomingdale talking with Phil Calloway.

Carrie followed his gaze and yelled for Lillian to come over. He’s a flirt. Don’t you get it?

By the time Lillian joined them, Chad was fretfully responding to Marisa’s question about his new look. …So I finally agreed on the basis she help me research trokosi.

Lillian said, What are you guys talking about?"

His new look, Carrie explained. His sister offered to help him research trokosi if he let her make him up for school this morning.

Like the surf rock crop, Lillian complimented, running her finger along Chad’s brow.

He didn’t move.

Sure is better than the long stringy hair you wore since seventh grade, Marisa noted.

Yeah, I like what your sister did with it, Carrie said.

Attempting to shake off his stiffness, Chad explained, She prep-damped it with a shaping gel, blow-dried it with a vent brush before creating the side-parting and feather fringe up and back using your fingers—

Finishing it with a light hold hairspray, Carrie ended his statement and then asked, So what about trokosi is so important to you?

When my sister told me it had to do with virgin underage girls as young as five being sold as sexual slaves, I found it impossible to believe something like that could still be happening in the world today—

Can you imagine, Marisa added, we’re in 2000 and this kind of thing’s still going on?

So what’d you find out? Carrie asked.

It’s unbelievable. Chad seemed somewhat more relaxed. Had no idea how many kids out there, some even younger than us are going through so much hell. He mournfully shook his head, Man! I wish I was older. I’d go there and put a stop to this bull.

So how many of the slave girls were freed? inquired Lillian.

Four hundred. And listen to this, guys, Benin and Togo are also encouraging the same practice.

Countries in Africa? asked Carrie increasingly impressed with how much Chad had learned about Mr. Fiajo’s culture and tradition in one evening.

West Africa, Chad replied. The good news is some human rights groups are fighting to free the slave girls, but because of the indigenous people’s strong traditional beliefs, it’s increasingly very difficult.

I don’t understand why anyone would make a baby girl a sexual slave in the first place? whined Marisa.

Sometimes, they are as young as three years old, Chad opted. They’re given to the village fetish priests as sexual and domestic slaves, or ‘wives of the gods’ in compensation for offenses supposedly committed by a member of the girl’s family. Other times these girls are used as payments for debts incurred by some older member of the family, or as payment for favors sought from the shrine.

You mean if someone went to pray to the shrine’s god for something? Carrie asked.

Yes; most especially if that thing they prayed for is granted.

This is crazy, Lillian said.

You ain’t hear nothing yet, Chad returned, Beside sexually serving the fetish priest, these baby virgin slaves also serve the elders and owners of the traditional religious shrine without payment and without their consent—

This is pure evil, Marisa said leaning against the White Pine Tree.

The family or clan gives its consent for their baby virgin to become a sexual slave. They do it willingly, believing the child is marrying to the ‘gods of the shrine’. In this case the fetish priest, the servant between the gods and them, can have sex with the child because he represents the gods. And all this happens whether the child is too young, in pain, suffering or not, Chad explained.

It’s sickening!

The bell went off.

Chapter 2

1968, Bawku, Upper East Region, Northern Ghana

Most of Laamisi Sesay’s childhood years were spent loitering about the streets of Bawku. If his mind ever served him of any other time before he was eight or nine, it was vague memories about being alone on a farm with some very old man. He couldn’t recall a single detail about his time with the man, but knew his earlier childhood was rooted there. He spent his young years prowling the streets of Bawku during the day and sleeping in front of merchants’ stores and under peddlers’ tables at night. By the time he was thirteen, Laamisi found himself plying the highways from Bolgatanga to Tamale, working as a mate on trotros, whose drivers trusted him enough to serve them. The ensuing years were hard on him. He never benefited from any kind of formal education, but learned to speak informal English nonetheless.

After scraping together enough cash from his various trotro masters, fifteen year old Laamisi found his way to Accra where he spent the next three years hustling on the streets; engaging in any number of petty crimes and haggling. By twenty he ended up at the Babahura Mosque on High Street, where he honestly tried to commit to Islam but found the rigorous recitation of the Koran too taxing. Six months on, Laamisi ran away arriving in Sekondi-Takoradi, the twin seaside cities where enthusiasms and anticipations for job opportunities at the prospect of future oil exploration were attracting a lot of Ghanaians. But once he was there and learned it was all hearsay, Laamisi continued to hustle odd jobs and slept wherever he found at night to rest his head. When his situation became increasingly dire, he turned to the Church of God on Adiembra Road for help. There, Laamisi was accepted by the overseer, assigned to the cleaning crew and given a room in the basement. After months of total devotion to the ministry the head pastor began to closely observe the young man. Laamisi had told him he lost both his parents as a child and his grandfather reared him until he passed away, leaving him to fend for his survival.

And since you left the north you’ve been living on the streets? the pastor inquired of Laamisi.

Yes, Daddy, the twenty-one year old Laamisi replied the cleric.

Even though you haven’t had any formal education, Laamisi, I see your English isn’t so bad. If you like I could register you for night classes. Would you like that? the overseer had asked him.

Laamisi enthusiastically said yes but had no intention taking the man up on his offer. The first chance he got he stole the entire collection from the Friday anointing and prophetic service and took off for Koforidua in the Eastern Region. There, he ran into another street kid calling himself Jay Kumaga. Laamisi introduced himself to Jay Kumaga as Ofori Ansah, telling him he was originally from Accra. Before long they became close buddies, carrying out robberies and swindling whoever was foolish enough to fall for their tricks.

In September 1979, just months after seizing power, Rawlings stepped down in favor of an elected civilian president, Hilla Limann. When economic conditions worsened, Limann was deposed in a second coup on December 31, 1981, led by Rawlings. Eventually, he will go on to enjoy the support of workers and the poor for injecting a populist revolutionary spirit into Ghanaian politics. His Provisional National Defense Council suspended the constitution and banded political parties. As a result of this the country’s economy suffered a severe decline with unemployment hitting an all-time high. This caused hundreds of thousands of people to leave the country, most migrating to Nigeria. In 1983 the Nigerian government at the time initiated the forceful repatriation of one million Ghanaians to their home country.

With the worsening conditions in the country and the money he stole from the church running out, Laamisi, using an alias, Ofori Ansah, decided to follow Jay to his village in the Volta Region. The man had lost his father from a snake bite and was asked by his mother to return to take over the small family farm. Not doing much in Koforidua, Jay reasoned it would be best returning home to continue what his father left behind.

1983, Djedodo, Volta Region

Arriving in Djedodo, Laamisi felt very safe and comfortable with his new surroundings. Confident he was far from the clutches of the police, that is, if they were still searching for him, he took on a completely new interest after learning women in the town outnumbered men three to one. It wasn’t long before the twenty-three year old Laamisi took a wife, moving her into his friend’s family’s home. Even though Jay wasn’t too happy about the idea, his mother didn’t mind, saying the girl would be a great help around the house. It was a three bedroom made of clay bricks, covered with zinc grown rusty over the years.

A year later, Laamisi’s life will change when he met Baba Juma, the village high priest. Baba Juma had been quietly observing and studying the young Laamisi since Jay brought him to the village. Now that he thought the young man was ripe for the picking, he approached him one sunny afternoon on his way home from helping Jay plow the fields.

Ofori, Baba Juma called appearing from behind a cluster of undergrowth.

With cutlass in his hand ready to confront an attacker, Laamisi spun around. He saw that it was the high priest and relaxed his grip on the blade. Baba, it’s you.

Dressed in his usual neck and wrists’ regalia made of bronze and animal skin, befitting his stature as fetish priest, he balanced on a handmade Argali cane, a smirk across his swarthy face. I know you, he said.

Laamisi smiled, Yes Baba. I know.

No, you don’t understand, the high priest said. I mean I know who you really are.

Laamisi seemed quizzical. I don’t understand, Baba.

You are not Ofori Ansah—

Laamisi immediately dropped his cutlass, falling to his knees, My Baba! My Baba! he cried, repeatedly bowing his head at the man’s feet.

Feeling confident he had Laamisi where he wanted him, Baba Juma smiled exposing the few leftover cola nut stained teeth in his mouth. Get up my son, he touched Laamisi’s head.

Laamisi slowly got to his feet, his face strained with concern. Truly, the Baba was a true fetish priest. How in the world did he know his name wasn’t Ofori Ansah? Who could have told him but the gods?

You are called Laamisi Sesay, and you are running away, because the police are looking for you. Am I right?

Laamisi bowed his head, You are right, Baba. But please, please don’t turn me over to them—

The gods didn’t send me to you because they wish to have you imprisoned, my son. The gods saw something in you and asked me to tell you that you have been chosen to be my loyal apprentice.

Laamisi was quiet; he didn’t know what to say to the high priest. He’d met the man only once before. It was Jay that introduced him to the fetish priest, explaining Baba Juma’s fetish shrine was at the edge of his father’s farm where the thickest undergrowth of Djedodo’s forest began. Laamisi heard that the shrine was reputed for its resourcefulness and known for giving results. It held up to twenty-seven girls with ages between four to twenty-three years old. Not that this was news to him. What bothered him though was the fact a fetish priest powerful as Baba Juma would tell him the gods had chosen him of all people. Laamisi didn’t know what to say in response to the high priest, so he just stood there dumbfounded staring at the man.

Don’t allow what you’ve heard about the shrine to frighten you, my son, Baba Juma tried to assure the uncertain Laamisi.

But why me, Baba? I’m not fit to serve the gods, and I’m not even from this village or your region.

Only the gods know why they have chosen you, my son. My job is to inform you, teach you, and make sure when I depart to enter the land of our ancestors, you will do well to continue the good works as the gods demand.

But I’m married—

The gods have taken her, the priest said coldly.

I don’t understand, Baba—

You’ll find her dead from a snake bite between the potato rolls when you get home—

Laamisi took off like lightning.

You will come to the shrine after you have buried your wife, yelled the priest after the bewildered Laamisi, who by now was kicking up dust in the distance. And don’t say a word to anyone about our meeting!

Baba Juma watched Laamisi until he was out of sight before disappearing back into the cluster of undergrowth from whence he came. He was in his late sixties, tall, lean and jet black. His body was solid for a man his age, and his countenance confident. He wasn’t an attractive man; more so, when he smiled exposing ugly dark gums with a few scattered stained teeth. Something about Baba Juma’s face gave one an unnerving feeling. It was said a number of slave girls that slept with him to please the gods ended up committing suicide after.

*

As Laamisi was entering the compound he ran into Jay’s mother. Where is Ewuradwoa, Mame Esi?

Instantly recognizing the terror in Laamisi’s eyes the woman asked him, What’s wrong, my son?

Ewuradwoa! Where is she? Without waiting for a response he raced around the house and headed for the potato garden at the rear.

In the distance lying between two rolls of rich green leaves ready for harvesting, laid the body of someone. The words of Baba Juma came rushing back to him: You’ll find her dead between the potato rolls from a snake bite when you get home—

Laamisi moved quickly through the greens to reach the body lying motionless on the ground. It was Ewuradwoa. She was in the same flowery yellow wrapper and top he left her wearing that morning. Putting his hands on his head, Laamisi screamed dropping to his knees by the side of his dead wife.

Mame Esi came up behind him, what happen’ to her, Laamisi? Is she—?

Dead, Mame Esi! Dead!

Tears instantly filled the older woman’s eyes. But I just left her here getting ready to go to the market. What happened? What happened, Laamisi?

Snake bite! Snake bit her! Laamisi was beside himself. He raised Ewuradwoa’s head to his lap, Oh, Ewuradwoa!

The Kumaga’s home was somewhat isolated. Their nearest neighbour was at least five hundred yards away. By the time she received the news and spread it throughout the