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Informationen zum Autor Gerald Early! a noted essayist and cultural critic! is a professor of English! African! and African American Studies and American Culture Studies at Washington University in St. Louis. He is the author of several books! including The Culture of Bruising! which won the 1994 National Book Critics Circle Award for criticism. Chapter One The Ariran's Last Life Maria Eliza Hamilton Abegunde When the first big boats arrived, I had not yet married. Along with all the girls in my age group, I was learning what I would need to know to go to market, court a mate, and, for me, initiation. For months I had been told to be patient as my parents worked hard selling herbs and woven cloth every four days to traders. Every morning after prayers, they both instructed me in things I should know about the history of our village and our family lineage. Sometimes, they would let me help in the weaving of cloth that would be used in the ceremony. I liked, especially, the white with gold threads at the hem. My mother was a master weaver and sewer, and every lappa, bouba, shokoto, and gele had a small fish on the inside hem to let it be known it was she. There were three of us to enter the egbe right before the festivals started. We were excited, but frightened and curious. We had heard only of what was done but couldn't believe it. In the village, the wind blew warm air through the tops of our homes. We lived in a compound surrounded by outer walls, which had two doors. Between the walls and our homes was six feet of space where warriors were always on guard. A family lived together in one area with several connecting rooms. If a man had more than one wife, then each wife had her own room and kitchen for herself and her children, but there were common areas where everyone ate and talked during the day. You saw everyone once you stepped outside. It was better that way. When one of us needed something, we asked the person nearest. Not like I see the world has developed where you have to travel miles to reach another family member, or where you suffer in silence because you do not trust the person next door. In the compound, I knew who my aunts and uncles were, which ones would chide me or let me get away with something. We didn't always agree with one another, but we did not go to bed angry. When the wind blew, the dirt in the compound covered everything. When it rained, we moved our pots to the back room and sat inside to talk. The chickens and goats found shelter where they could. There was not ever the silence of loneliness or fear as there is now. The girls in my age group all worked together. We were really young obirin then, some of us being taller than our parents. Some of us had already filled out in our bodies, and we had started ase. I seemed to be taller and bigger than everyone and my mother began speaking to me of marriage, but I was not interested. We learned many new things every day. How to cook, sew, make our own containers, and how to care for ourselves. How to weave and bargain a good price for what we sold and bought. We learned how to bead so we could make our own belts and necklaces or do our hair. So many centuries have gone by that I do not remember all. I only remember wanting to learn because I saw what joy it brought my family. The day the first big boat arrived, I was sitting on a ledge above the water. I had finished my morning duty of straining herbs to be used in medicine. When they were ready, my mother would show me the next step of forming the compound. If I was lucky, she'd let me watch her work and assist as I had on other occasions. I had swept out the front room where my mother, father, and I gathered at night with my aunts and uncles. I had rolled our mats and placed them in a corner of the main room. My father had no other wives, so my tasks were simple but many. I wanted to be away from everyone. We wer...
