Chapter 19: The Yoruba Ogundele Akinyemi

After finishing with the slave traders, Francisco went to the slave quarters to speak properly with the newcomers, especially the blacksmiths — they would be the core of his future industries. When he reached the dormitories he called them and got straight to the point.

“Okay. I know most of your situation, and I don’t know if I can help you with everything you want, so let’s start with this: will you work wholeheartedly at what I ask, and what do you need to make that possible?” Francisco asked, serious and direct.

The three blacksmiths exchanged looks. They had expected to be driven until they broke, or punished for any sign of defiance. A master asking what a slave wanted — asking for wholehearted work as if it could be negotiated — was unheard of. For them, working whole-heartedly was demanded; there was nothing to discuss.

“I understand your confusion,” Francisco continued. “But first: this is not the United States, and in certain circumstances a slave can be freed. We are under the compilations of the laws of the kingdoms and the Seven-Part Code, so slaves are not, at least officially, mere objects. There are regulations. Even if the law can be violated, it is rarely worth it. If I mistreat you, aside from whether you will work hard, the risk of sabotage is large, not to mention rebellion. I’d rather establish an interest-based relationship to keep loyalty. Of course I will have servants and other slaves looking after you — we have just met and we paid a great deal for you. You are important for my plans, and I will not let you betray me or my family easily.” His voice carried a serious warning beneath the offer.

They looked wary. Suspicion was natural. Masters spoke differently; Francisco’s words unsettled them.

Ogundele laughed. “Hahaha. I like you, boy. You are not like those traders. If my legs worked I would gladly fight for your cause. Fine — I tell you: I want to forge, for food and for alcohol. With that I will work for you.”

“Deal.” Francisco called for a servant and had a bottle of aguardiente de caña brought — a common spirit in the viceroyalties. “Now, you two — what do you want?”

“Revenge,” said Makala Kiala, his face hard. “I want to kill the bastards who killed my father.”

“That’s difficult,” Francisco said slowly. “Those Portuguese are, after all, agents of the Portuguese crown. Openly confronting them is impossible for now. But I can gather information about who they are, and if one day I have enough strength I will help you. At least I can give you money so you can prepare your revenge.” He negotiated carefully.

“How can I trust you? You are one of them,” Makala spat, hatred burning in his eyes.

“One of them? Do you really think so?” Francisco asked, a little offended. “If that were true I would have crippled you for doubting me, or even killed you for open rebellion. Some white people are guilty of what happened to your family, but remember that not only Europeans traffic in slaves — your own people have been complicit, too.” He turned to the youngest man. “Kokou, tell them.”

The youngest answered in a quieter tone. “I am Kokou Ahozon, Fon, from Dahomey. I was taken by the war raiders of my region and sold with many others. It is not only the Portuguese. Ashanti, Oyo, even some of our own have taken part in the trade. The truth is ugly.”

“Precisely,” Francisco said. “I do not care about skin or tribe. I care about usefulness and mutual interest. I will not betray you because you are Black; I will betray you if you fail to protect my interests or my family. If you do your part and remain loyal, I will help you when I can, or I will give you money for what you need. Usefulness and loyalty — that is what I value.”

Makala hesitated. “Let me think about it,” he muttered.

“Fine. Work with the others until you decide. When you know, tell one of my servants and they will inform me,” Francisco said.

He turned to Kokou. “Now you.”

“I have always loved knowledge,” Kokou said timidly. “If I may be presumptuous… may I have a book?” The request sounded almost obscene; books were costly, and for a slave to ask for one was audacious.

Francisco considered, then replied, “If you help me with what I intend to do, I will not only give you your own book but also lend you volumes from the library. What do you say?”

“Sure — thank you, master, thank you,” Kokou said, his face lighting as if someone had handed him fire.

A servant returned with the aguardiente and set it before Ogundele. He took a sip, nodded, and grunted in approval. “Not bad. It will do for the moment. Okay, boy — you kept your part of the deal. Tell me: what do you want to do?”

“For now,” Francisco said, unfolding the blueprints he had copied, “we should decide what kind of forge you want. I don’t know forges, so I didn’t build one. I preferred to hear your opinion before hiring a master builder.”

“Our Yoruba forges,” Ogundele explained with the sobriety of a craftsman, “are clay mixed with sand and dung or straw to resist heat. We build a cylindrical or conical shaft furnace, one to two meters high, with a small opening at the bottom to let slag flow out. It should be a little away from the estate — smelting is sacred to us.”

“And the house?” Francisco asked.

“Simple: wooden posts for the frame, mud walls, a thatched roof. Not too large — just room for the furnaces and the bellows. Adapt to local materials and I won’t mind,” Ogundele replied.

“Maybe tile on the roof and bahareque walls. For multiple furnaces, make it about five by six meters. We’ll need heavy ventilation — this place is humid,” Francisco wrote everything down, embarrassed to admit he had assumed smiths lived in the forge itself.

Ogundele laughed. “You are not wrong; we often sleep near the forge because of the work. But living in it is dangerous — fires happen. You are too young.”

Kokou smiled. “I slept at the forge many nights when I served my master. I understand.”

“Tomorrow I will hire a master builder at the villa. Meanwhile, study these blueprints and tell me if you can copy the parts,” Francisco said, handing over the plans.

Ogundele frowned as he examined them. “This is familiar. The bottom is a boiling vessel, and there is a long tower like a chimney. It looks like a furnace. Are you trying to build a forge, kid? I don’t think it will work.”

“This is not a forge,” Kokou said, eyes bright. “It’s an alambique — a still — though an odd one. I’ve seen some on the coast. It’s like a forge for alcohol. That tall column is rare; what is its purpose?”

“It’s my invention,” Francisco said, a flush of pride in his voice — and in his heart he whispered, “Sorry, Edward Adam, you will be my first step toward a fortune.” Then aloud he explained, “By making the column taller, the vapors must climb. As they rise, heavier impurities fall back. Only the strongest, purest spirit reaches the top and escapes.”

Ogundele’s eyes widened, solemn. “You mean with that I can drink stronger liquor?” he asked. When Francisco nodded, Ogundele solemnly said, “I swear I will help you make it,” and, grinning with crude, eager joy, added, “But you must give me some — a bottle or two.”

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