Synopsis: The Tree of Forgetfulness

“Seven times they circled it, so that they would forget. So that when they died in that far off place, their spirits would not remember where they had come from, making it impossible for them to return to the shores of Whydah to seek revenge.”

The Tree of Forgetfulness is the story of Isabelle McKenzie, a young woman who follows her dreams back to Benin, West Africa, to unravel the mystery of her ancestry. Isabelle is plagued by nightmares about a boy, Olumide, stolen from his village in 1855 during a raid by the King of Dahomey’s Amazon warriors. Olumide’s story is revealed through Isabelle’s dreams: he is sold into slavery and sent to Mississippi, but vows to one day seek retribution against the woman who captured him.

Olumide never lives to mete out his revenge, but his desires live on in the nightmares of successive generations of his descendents. Isabelle, tormented by dreams that become more intense with passing time, ultimately travels to modern-day Benin to discover what it is this spectral boy wants of her, and to find answers that have eluded her family for years.

Prologue

The air lay limp and heavy, like a body dead on the ground. It was humid, and Senume could taste the rain coming from the south. It would bring with it lightning that would tear the sky and thunder like fe-bem-fe drums to drown out the sounds of the night. They needed the rain—the soil was parched and plants withered in the fields—but the storm would make it harder for Senume. It would slow her down, and she was already sluggish, weak from sleeplessness and hours spent emptying her stomach of plantains and yams and maize after the celebratory lunch.

She sat watching the others as they danced and sang. The younger girls were tall, some still lean like palm trees, their hips and breasts barely rounded. The older women were stout, their legs thick and fibrous like the trunks of cotton trees, with feet that raised the red dirt as they pounded the ground.

Senume took another scoop of palm oil and rubbed it on her chest. As she smoothed the oil over her skin, she pressed her fingers into her abdomen, feeling the light layer of fat that had grown over the muscles underneath. She wondered if the others had noticed. She wondered if they could see the fullness of her breasts and thickening of her waist that made her tunic tight.

Senume did not know how it had happened. She had taken the herbs as she was supposed to and had been with King Ghezo just once, after the last battle four months before. There had been something in the way the back of his hand brushed the thin skin of her neck as he placed the coral necklace over her head. It was just another trinket, one of many bestowed for her valiancy in battle, but he had looked at her differently that day so that her skin burned though the air was cool. And she had believed, though it was forbidden to be with any man, that it would be proper to go to the king when he summoned her in the night. There were other women who had taken the chance, many simply because they were curious about what it would be like to sleep with a man. They did not discuss it openly, but Senume had heard it whispered. And she had heard it said that King Ghezo was an exceptional lover, though she often wondered how these women would know the difference as most had been virgins as was required to join the elite female battalion.

The women had stopped their chanting and most were tending to their muskets and blades. A few sat filing their nails into sharp tips. When one of the younger girls broke the nail on her index finger, her friend chided: “You did not soak your fingers in salt water like you were supposed to.”

“I did,” the first said indignantly.

“But you did not do it enough. Your nails should be hard like mine, like the claws of a lion. What can you do with such weak nails?”

Two of the older women drew their swords and danced in mock combat. The others laughed, cheering on their favorite.

“I will take your head like I did with those men last battle,” one taunted.

The other chuckled. “Those were mere boys. Did you not see how their bodies were thin and their genitals barely formed? You, you do not have the strength as I do to kill any man!”

It was a ritual, the playful teasing as close to girlishness as was allowed. Normally Senume would have joined in and sung of her own prowess. But instead she sat to the side, her brass-plated shield propped on her lap, hiding all evidence of her impurity.

“Senume, why do you sit there in silence? Are you not excited? Or has the prize warrior tired of all of this?” one of the old women asked.

Senume smiled. “Me? Tired? Oh no. I am just thinking of how it will be tonight. I am going to add some more cowries to my musket.” Senume patted the gun that lay at her side, adorned with shells that marked the number she had killed.

A young girl, just a porter and not yet a warrior, walked over to Senume and sat beside her. “Soon you will have no more room for cowries on your gun, or even for necklaces around your neck,” she said enviously. “Look how many King Ghezo has given you.”

“He did not give them, I earned them,” Senume replied.

“Oh I know,” the girl said. “I only hope that one day I can be like you. I cannot wait till my apprenticeship is up. I have only a few more months.”

Senume smiled, remembering how she herself had idolized the more experienced warriors when she was a girl. She remembered the initiation, the sting of the priestess’ short knife as she ran it across Senume’s left arm, catching the thin trickle of blood in a skull. Senume had been one of the few who could look straight ahead, not blinking away tears or staring at the ground to stand the pain. She had swallowed the drink of blood and alcohol without retching, as one of the other girls did. She had held the skull to her lips and taken a complete mouthful, letting her tongue taste the liquid before it slid, like a warm, tart liqueur, down her throat.