Coming down the narrow path I saw them before they spotted me, Asana and Serah out in the dark water, beyond the fallen tree, their breasts bobbing round and high as young girls’ breasts on the surface. Asana as lithe and whole as ever she had been. Hawa standing with her back to me, slim and straight, a sentinel waiting for her son to come home. Mariama in her element, shaking her head, a shower of crystal droplets like an elaborate crown.
Four African ladies having a bath, a group of water maidens basking in the river.
And later, when we had climbed out and were drying ourselves, Mariama called me over. She grasped one of my hands in both of hers and pressed an object into my palm, something heavy, warm and smooth. I opened my fingers and looked down. It was wet and glossy: a pure, black pebble.
That was three years ago, and every year since I have returned to Rofathane, taking with me my husband, my daughter and my son. The seedlings have taken root and now the young coffee trees stand taller than my children. And we have planted more: limes, almonds and cashew nuts, chillies and ginger, too. The first crop left the village, loaded into a truck in wooden boxes with the words ‘Kholifa Estates’ stamped on the side.
I am writing this at my desk in the den. In front of me sits a bowl of stones, a gift to me from Mariama along with the one she gave me in Rofathane. In the silver light of the morning they seem to glitter, sending out flickers of light and the occasional flash, like tiny shooting stars. Especially the crystals, the black stones and a grey one, the one that looks as though somebody has pressed their thumb into it. On summer days the corals and reds shimmer in the sun. And in the evening it is the pale stones, the smooth opaque cream pebble, the chalky rocks, which continue to glow in the dusk, long after the sun has gone.
My daughter loves to play with them while I write and she waits for a moment of my attention. In her hands they rustle and click against one another. Yesterday she came into my room.
‘This is my favourite,’ she said, holding up a stone roughly in the shape of a hexagon, smooth to the touch, but with a pattern of ripples. Then she gathered up all the stones, bent her head down over her cupped hands.
She remained that way for a long time until I asked: ‘What are you doing?’
‘Listen,’ she beckoned me down.
I lowered my head to join her. ‘What is it?’
‘Listen to the noise they make,’ she replied. ‘It sounds like they’re talking.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many women from among my family and friends spent hours sharing their memories with me of how it was to live as a woman in our country’s past. They know who they are. I promised not to reveal their names. Instead I offer them my wholehearted thanks.
My stepmother Yabome Kanu devoted an entire summer to teaching me to speak Temne. She has patiently answered a myriad of enquiries and attended to many details of the novel on my behalf. Mother, muse, unpaid researcher. I am indebted to her.
In addition I owe my thanks to:
My cousin Morlai Forna for his assistance in researching in the village of Rogbonko and surroundings. My friend and agent David Godwin, for believing in me, for listening to my dreams and helping to make them real. At Bloomsbury, my editor Michael Fishwick for his passion for these stories, thoughtful editing and commitment to this book over three years. Alexandra Pringle for her advice on the manuscript and remarkable energy. Rosalind Hanson-Alp for lunch, laughter and advice relating to the fauna of Sierra Leone.
Above all to my husband, Simon Westcott, to whom I owe so much happiness.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Aminatta Forna is a writer and divides her time between London and Sierra Leone. Her memoir, The Devil that Danced on the Water, was runner-up for the Samuel Johnson Prize in 2003. Her most recent novel, The Memory of Love, is shortlisted for the Orange Prize for Fiction 2011.
FURTHER PRAISE FOR ANCESTOR STONES
‘Forna is a writer of startling talent … Ancestor Stones is written in a sumptuous prose which makes it a delight to read. Virtually every page contains breathtaking descriptions … The writing is luminous … leaves an impression of immense joyfulness, a sense of delight and wonder. Conveying the human spirit’s irrepressible love of life is the triumph of this magical book’ Daily Telegraph
‘A wonderfully ambitious novel written from the inside, opening up a particular society and delving deeply into the hearts, histories and minds of women’ Guardian
‘A dazzling storyteller, Forna vividly evokes the daily lives of African women and their brave attempt to alter their destiny’ Waterstone’s Books Quarterly
‘She tells stories as she breathes … after putting down the book one feels one has inhabited their world and times … Forna is capable of a prose of soaring beauty’ The Times
‘A beautiful novel by a great writer who always gives you a sense that you are eavesdropping on whispered conversations’ Daily Ireland
‘Mesmeric, elegant prose … equally extraordinary and vibrant with sadness and joy … Forna beautifully describes the chafing confines and glorious freedoms of lives whose rich continuity is being gradually rent asunder’ Daily Mail
‘A masterclass in modern writing … Forna’s is a beautifully constructed novel that merges voices from the past and present’ Works
‘Forna carries us through her novel with an enviable knack for storytelling’ Metro
‘An optimistic, truthful novel’ TLS
‘Heavy with myths and magic, it builds into a fascinating evocation of the experience of African women, and all that has been gained — and lost — with the passing of old traditions’ Marie Claire
FURTHER PRAISE FOR ANCESTOR STONES
‘Forna’s first novel spans continents and decades, piecing together a remarkable family history … the individual stories resonate with poignancy and strength’ Psychologies
‘It’s the personal that makes this book so gripping’ Big Issue
‘As a novelist, Forna deftly controls what becomes an epic canvas’ Literary Review
‘An extraordinary book, wide-ranging and wildly inventive’ London Review of Books
‘This is a work of literature that reached as deeply into the being of a white male Anglo-Saxon card-carrying bloke as, I dare say, it would touch the heart of any woman … a beautiful book … she has re-kindled the dying embers of a much more precious art — that of listening’ Evening Standard
‘Vivid, graceful prose … Forna’s tender, haunting novel is a celebration of the enduring power of such private narratives’ Sunday Telegraph
‘Forna’s skill in this exuberantly imagined novel lies in pressing such words and images between pages without dulling their spirit’ Observer
‘Her book gains strength and conviction as it goes on and the unhappy history of Sierra Leone unrolls before us’ Sunday Times