Songs of War

1b

Pronunciation
Koobi: KOO-bee
Nyamekye: nyah-MEH-cheh
Nyantekyi: nyan-TEH-chee

Grandma eased into her chair, the worn bamboo creaking beneath her. My heart fluttered with anticipation; her tales were always an array of wisdom and laughter, with lessons woven so subtly you barely noticed them until they'd taken root.

"Let me fetch some goodies, my dear," she said, eyes twinkling. "You know what's better than a good story?"

I shook my head, playing along.

"A good story with snacks."

She shuffled away, returning moments later balancing a wooden tray. Two calabashes lined with fresh plantain leaves nestled atop it, piled high with golden plantain chips that crackled with promise, chunks of dried coconut, and plump groundnuts. Coconut water sloshed in two cups, completing the feast.

As I accepted my share, the scent of fried plantains made my mouth water. "Now, where were we?" Grandma asked.

"You were about to tell me how the gods blessed the five tribes with their gifts," I replied, leaning forward.

"Ah yes!" She took a sip of coconut water, savoring it before continuing. "This story reaches back to when the five ethnic groups first came to what we now call Gholda, then known as the Coastal Goldland. They dreamed of abundance, but found only barren earth, cruel skies, and beasts that hunted in the night."

I bit into a plantain chip, its salty crunch a counterpoint to Grandma's voice.

"Life weighed on them like stones. So the Gas, Ashantis, Ewes, and Dagombas joined as one, fasting and praying for three days straight."

The thought of going without food for so long made my stomach clench. I wanted to ask if children were exempt, but held my tongue.

"They offered what little livestock they had as burnt sacrifices. Their pleas reached the gods' ears." Grandma paused, popping coconut and groundnuts into her mouth. At eighty-something, her teeth were still strong enough to crack the tough shells – a marvel when most her age subsisted on mashed food.

"Each tribe's god bestowed a unique gift," she continued. "Abodie, the Ashanti goddess of nature's bounty, gave her people mastery over the elements. Kple, the Ga god of afterlife and dreams, granted the power to commune with spirits and walk in others' slumber."

I hung on every word, mesmerized. This was knowledge never shared in Gift School, where we learned only to harness our abilities (or in my case, to feel the ache of their absence).

"Wuni, the god of weapons and minerals, blessed his people with control over metal. Dua, goddess of healing, gave the gift of herbal wisdom and curative touch. And Lelame, the Ewe god of thought and feeling, granted telekinesis and psychic powers."

Wonder and confusion warred within me. Such profound truths, never whispered in the halls where children learned to read and calculate in our dialects. I attended only for those basic skills, the sole person in the entire nation without a gift – a wound that throbbed anew with each word of Grandma's tale.

The weight of being the only giftless child in school pressed down on me like a physical thing. I could still feel the stares, hear the whispers that followed me through the halls. Though I'd grown a thick skin, the ache of being different, of being less, never truly faded. Every night, I'd close my eyes and wish on every star for just a spark of magic to call my own.

Grandma's voice pulled me from my thoughts, rich with the wisdom of ages. "For many years," she said, "these gifts were a blessing, binding the tribes together."