THE FORGOTTEN WARRIORS

THE FORGOTTEN WARRIORS

By the time the children had eaten, night had reached the compound walls. The western sky still held a narrow band of bruised purple, but the first bats were already cutting across it, silent and quick.
Sika’s oil lamp stood upon an upturned crate, its flame turning the walls honey-coloured and throwing their shadows high into the rafters. Moths battered themselves against the glass chimney. The bowls had been scraped clean, yet the room retained the savoury smell of smoked fish and pepper, joined now by lamp oil, pipe smoke and the faint sourness of fermenting maize.
The children arranged themselves around Sika. Houéfa sat closest to the lamp. Dossi leaned against her shoulder, already fighting the heaviness creeping into her eyelids. Gbodja crouched rather than sat, ready to spring up whenever a new question required his entire body.
Sika drew upon her pipe.
“The Agojie were different,” she began. “You know how Sister Adeline lives a solitary life? She has no husband and no children of her own—except, perhaps, for all the children in her classroom.”
The children all nodded in agreement.
“Sister Adeline says we are all God’s children,” Dossi corrected her. “She says we are His flock.”
“And that we must serve Him, honour Mother Mary and obey the word of God,” Houéfa added.
Sika shifted in her wicker chair, which answered with a dry squeak. The children repeated Sister Adeline’s lessons with the unquestioning certainty of youth. She wondered how much of the old Dahomey would remain when their generation reached her age.
She still honoured the gods of her people, although she had learned to do so quietly. In her youth, prayers had been accompanied by incantations and offerings of food. Sometimes a chicken had been sacrificed and its blood given to the earth while the elders called upon the Vodun. Those ceremonies had become less common. The Roman Catholic churches had come, crosses had risen, and many of the old shrines had been abandoned or hidden.
Yet Sika did not believe a god ceased to exist merely because people had been taught not to speak its name.
“Sister Adeline is married to Jesus,” Gbodja announced.
Sika looked at him. “Is she?”
“She says she is a bride of Christ.”
“Then the Agojie were a little like Sister Adeline. While a woman remained Agojie, she could not marry an ordinary man or have a child.” Nana Sika though further for a beat
“She belonged to the royal household and was considered a wife of the king so she was already married in a way.”
Gbodja’s forehead wrinkled.
“Did the king have to kiss them all before they went to sleep?”
Dossi giggled. Houéfa covered her mouth.
Sika maintained a solemn expression. “No. It was not that kind of marriage.”
“He would have been very busy.”
“Yes, he certainly would Gbodja.”
“And his lips would become tired.”
“I expect they would.”
The girls began laughing, and even Sika could not prevent a smile.
“They were wives of the king in spirit,” she continued. “Their loyalty belonged to him and to Dahomey. Most would rarely have come close enough to speak to him. Some may never have seen him at all.”
“What was the king like?” Gbodja asked before the answer had been completed.
“Gbodja,” Houéfa warned. “Nana is trying to explain.”
“But she mentioned the king.”
“People said he was tall and strongly built,” Sika replied. “They said he carried himself as though the ground belonged to him.”
“Was he handsome?” Dossi asked.
“Some women thought so.”
“Did you?”
“I did not spend my youth considering whether the king was handsome.”
“Did you ever see him?”
“Nearly everyone in Abomey saw King Béhanzin or one of his processions at one time or another.”
“But did you?”
Sika looked at her over the bowl of her pipe.
“You ask far too many questions.”
Dossi turned her thoughts to a book of French fairy tales in the classroom. Its pictures showed princesses in enormous gowns dancing beneath chandeliers.
“If the Agojie were married to the king, did that make them princesses?”
“No.”
“Would they have had tiaras?”
“No.”
“What about ballgowns?”
Sika stared at her. “I do not think a ballgown would have been much use in the heat, forests and tall grasses of Dahomey… do you Dossi?.”
Dossi considered this and nodded. A long skirt would catch on vines, and a tiara would undoubtedly fall off if its wearer had to run. The matter was settled.
“Did they train very much?” Houéfa asked. “Sister Adeline said they were fierce but undisciplined. She said they believed courage could overcome proper soldiers and modern weapons.”
Sika’s smile disappeared.
“Sister Adeline teaches what she was taught not what she witnessed.”
“Does that mean she is wrong?” Gbodja asked.
“It means she knows the French account. That is not always the same as knowing everything.”
“But how do you know?”
“The people of Abomey spoke of the Agojie long before Sister Adeline came here. Old soldiers talked after the wars. Mothers told their daughters, and their daughters told their children. Not every history is written in a French history book.”
She leaned towards the lamp so her face was silhouetted by the candle light.
“The Agojie trained from before sunrise until their commanders decided they had done enough. They ran along roads, through forests and across dry creek beds. They climbed embankments, crossed rivers and forced their way through country filled with termite mounds taller than a man.”
“Did they become tired?” Dossi asked looking puzzled..
“Of course. They were human like everyone else, not gods.”
“But they kept running?” she continued
“Sometimes. Sometimes they may have fallen behind. Sometimes they may have collapsed and another woman helped them to their feet. An Agojie was not born able to march all day or fight five enemies at once. She had to learn, just as you must learn your numbers and letters.”
“Numbers do not make your feet bleed,” Gbodja observed.
“No,” Sika agreed. “But I have seen what they do to your head.” She tapped him lightly on the head with the mouthpiece of her pipe.
Houéfa laughed.
“What happened if a woman was not strong enough?” she asked.
“Strength was not everything. A duiker is smaller than a buffalo, but it is quicker and can pass through places the buffalo cannot.”
“Every creature survives by using what it has. I would expect it was the same for an Agojie. A smaller woman might have been faster. A quiet woman might have heard danger before anyone else. One who struggled with a musket might have been skilled with a blade. Another might have remembered every turn in a forest path after walking it only once. I expect they would have learned one another’s strengths and protected one another’s weaknesses.”
“What if someone was not good at anything?” Gbodja persisted.
“Then she might not have remained Agojie.”
“Would they have sold them?”
“Perhaps.”
“Would that have been shameful?”
“I expect it would have felt shameful to the poor girl. But there is no shame in discovering that you cannot live a certain life. The shame would be in pretending you could and becoming a danger to the women beside you.”
“What did they train with?” the door was open and Gbodja was going through it.
“Muskets, swords, spears and bows. Some learned to crew the cannon. They practised moving together and obeying orders when they were exhausted, frightened or surrounded by smoke.”
“Were they really frightened?” Dossi asked.
“I told you: they were human.”
“But soldiers are supposed to be brave.”
“A brave person can still be frightened.”
Gbodja frowned. “Then how do you know if someone is brave?”
“You discover it by what they do next.”
That answer silenced him for several breaths.
“Did the Agojie always win?” he asked at last.
“No. If they had, the French would not be here.”
“Why did they lose?”
“For the same reasons any army loses. Courage cannot promise victory.”
The room became still.
Outside, a nightjar called from the road.
Farther away, some small creature screamed once in the forest and was abruptly silent.
Dossi turned towards the doorway.
“They fought for Dahomey,” Nana Sika continued. “For their king, their homes and their people. You should never forget that. But courage did not make them invincible.”
She looked at the three children.
“It made them soldiers.”
Sika should have ended the story there.
The children had been fed; the bowls had been cleared and Dossi could barely keep her eyes open. A sensible grandmother would have sent them to their mats.
Instead, Gbodja raised his hand as though he were still sitting in Sister Adeline’s classroom.
“What about the men?”
Sika sighed. “What about them?”
“Were there men soldiers too?”
“Many. Dahomey had regiments of men who trained hard and fought bravely. The Agojie became famous because an army of women appeared extraordinary to outsiders. They did not defend the kingdom alone.”
“Could an Agojie defeat a man?”
“Some could.”
“What if he was much bigger?”
“Being bigger does not always make someone better.”
Gbodja leaned closer. “Could you defeat a man?”
“Why would I be fighting a man?”
“Perhaps he tried to steal your supper.”
“If a man were hungry, I would feed him. He would not have to steal my food.”
Dossi laughed sleepily.
“But could you defeat him?” Gbodja persisted.
“A determined woman can surprise a man.”
“Have you ever surprised one?” Houéfa asked.
“I have surprised many men,” Sika said with a laugh.
“By fighting them?”
“By being cleverer than they expected.”
“That would not be difficult,” Houéfa said.
Sika concealed her smile behind her pipe.
“Did the Agojie kill many people?” Dossi asked.
The humour left the room.
“Yes.”
“French soldiers?”
“French soldiers and others who would raise a hand against Dahomey.”
“Sister Adeline said they attacked villages and took women and children.”
Sika placed her pipe upon the crate.
The easier questions had ended.
“Yes; The armies of Dahomey raided villages,” she said. “They took captives. Some captives became servants or workers. Some were brought into Dahomean families. Others were sold to traders upon the coast.”
“As slaves?” Houéfa asked.
“Yes.”
The word rested heavily between them.
“Then Sister Adeline told the truth,” Gbodja said.
“She told part of it.”
“Which part did she leave out?”
“That the European traders paid for captives and sold weapons to the kingdoms that supplied them. The rulers of Dahomey also feared that if their kingdom became weak, their enemies would raid Dahomey and carry away its people instead. That was how they justified what they did.”
“Does that make it right?” Houéfa asked.
Sika looked at her eldest granddaughter. Houéfa was no longer young enough to accept a comforting answer simply because it came from someone she loved.
“No. Understanding why something happened does not excuse it.”
Dossi sat upright again, her tiredness forgotten.
“Were the Agojie bad people, then?”
“No one is entirely bad or entirely good. Sometimes people do things they believe they must do to survive. That may help us understand their actions, but it does not make every action right.”
“I am sure some Agojie enjoyed the power their weapons gave them. I expect others shared their food with frightened captives or carried a wounded companion from a battlefield.”
“Wearing the same cloth did not make every Agojie the same, just as wearing the same school uniform does not make you identical inside to the other children in your class.”
“So, they obeyed the king?”
“Everyone obeyed the king. They were soldiers, and all soldiers are trained to obey.”
“Even when an order was wrong?”
“A soldier may not know that an order was wrong until long after it has been obeyed.”
Gbodja studied her.
“How do you know what a soldier thinks?”
“How do you know what anyone thinks?” Sika replied.
“How do you know what the Agojie thought?”
“I only know what people have said.”
“Did you know any of them?” Houéfa asked.
“Everyone in Abomey knew of them.”
“That was not what I asked.”
“It is the answer I gave.”
“Did you ever speak to one?”
“Ordinary people were not permitted to speak directly to an Agojie or look her in the eyes. When one passed, people lowered their gaze to the ground. They were the king’s women—the Mino—and were shown the same respect as the king himself.”
“But did you ever speak to one?”
Sika reached for her pipe, discovered that it had gone out and set it down again.
“It was such a long time ago.”
“Did you know their names?” Dossi asked.
“The names of many Agojie were known throughout Abomey.”
“Which names?”
“Enough questions.”
Houéfa watched her carefully.
“You do not tell these things like stories.”
Sika turned towards her. Houéfa did not lower her eyes.
“How should a story be told?” Sika asked.
“Not the way you tell them.”
“Then perhaps you should tell the story yourself.”
“I cannot. I was not there.”
“Neither was Sister Adeline, yet that has never stopped her.”
“Did all the Agojie come from Abomey?” Gbodja asked quickly.
“No. They came from villages throughout Dahomey.”
“Have you always lived in Abomey?”
“No.”
Gbodja was already on to his next question even before the answer settled.
“Did you go to school with any girls who became Agojie?”
“There was no school in my village.”
Gbodja stared at her. “No school at all?”
“None.”
“Then where did you learn things?”
“From my mother, the other women and the village elders. Children learned by watching, listening and working.”
“Where was your village?”
“A long way from here.”
“What was it called?”
Sika retrieved her pipe and examined its cold bowl.
“It was a small village. You would not know its name.” In truth, it had been so long even Sika struggled to remember.
“Did any girls from your village become Agojie?”
“Girls left villages for many reasons.”
“That is not what I asked,” Gbodja said.
“No,” Sika replied. “It is not.”
“You always do that,” Gbodja complained.
“Do what?”
“Answer a different question.”
“Then perhaps you should ask better ones.”
“I ask very good questions.”
“You ask far too many of them.”
Dossi yawned and allowed her head to settle against Houéfa’s shoulder.
“Will you tell us more tomorrow?”
Sika looked at their three expectant faces.
“You have heard enough for one night.”
“That is not an answer,” Houéfa said.
“No,” Nana Sika replied. “It is not but it is the only one you will get.”
When the children were settled upon their mats, she extinguished the lamp.
And the darkness closed around them.