“Anyanwu.” She said it very slowly, but still the woman asked:
“Is that all one name?”
“Only one. I have had others, but Anyanwu is best. I come back to it.”
“Are the others shorter?”
“Mbgafo. That is the name my mother gave me. And once I was called Atagbusi, and honored by that name. And I have been called?”
“Never mind.” The woman sighed, and Anyanwu smiled to herself. She had had to give five of her former names to Isaac before he shrugged and decided Anyanwu was a good name after all.
“Can I help to do these things?” she asked. Sarah Cutler was beginning to put food on the table now.
“No,” the woman said. “Just watch now. You’ll be doing this soon enough.” She glanced at Anyanwu curiously. She did not stare, but allowed herself these quick curious glances. Anyanwu thought they each probably had an equal number of questions about the other.
Sarah Cutler asked: “Why did Doro call you ‘Sun Woman’?”
Doro had taken to doing that affectionately when he spoke to her in English, though, though Isaac complained that it made her sound like an Indian.
“Your word for my name is ‘Sun,’ ” she answered. “Doro said he would find an English name for me, but I did not want one. Now he makes English of my name.”
The white woman shook her head and laughed. “You’re more fortunate than you know. With him taking such an interest in you, I’m surprised you’re not already Jane or Alice or some such.”
Anyanwu shrugged. “He has not changed his own name. Why should he change mine?”
The woman gave her what seemed to be a look of pity.
“What is Cutler?” Anyanwu asked.
“What it means?”
“Yes.”
“A cutler is a knifemaker. I suppose my husband had ancestors who were knifemakers. Here, taste this.” She gave Anyanwu a bit of something sweet and oily, fruit-filled, and delicious.
“It is very good!” Anyanwu said. The sweet was unlike anything she had tasted before. She did not know what to say about it except the words of courtesy Doro had taught her. “Thank you. What is this called?”
The woman smiled, pleased. “It’s a kind of cake I haven’t made before?special for Isaac and Doro’s homecoming.”
“You said…” Anyanwu thought for a moment. “You said your husband’s people were knifemakers. Cutler is his name?”
“Yes. Here, a woman takes the name of her husband after marriage. I was Sarah Wheatley before I married.”
“Then Sarah is the name you keep for yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Shall I call you Sarah?your own name?”
The woman glanced at her sidelong. “Shall I call you … Mbgafo?” She mispronounced it horribly.
“If you like. But there are very many Mbgafos. That name only tells the day of my birth.”
“Like … Monday or Tuesday?”
“Yes. You have seven. We have only four: Eke, Oye, Afo, Nkwo. People are often named for the day they were born.”
“Your country must be overflowing with people of the same name.”
Anyanwu nodded. “But many have other names as well.”
“I suppose Anyanwu really is better.”
“Yes.” Anyanwu smiled. “Sarah is good too. A woman should have something of her own.”
Doro came in then, and Anyanwu noted how the woman brightened. She had not been sad or grim before, but now, years seemed to drop from her. She only smiled at him and said dinner was ready, but there was a warmth in her voice that had not been there before in spite of all her friendliness. At some time, this woman had been wife or lover to Doro. Probably lover. There was still much fondness between them, though the woman was no longer young. Where was her husband, Anyanwu wondered. How was it that a woman here could cook for a man neither her kinsman nor in-law while her husband probably sat with others in front of one of the houses and blew smoke out of his mouth?
Then the husband came in, bringing two grown sons and a daughter, along with the very young, shy wife of one of the sons. The girl was slender and olive-skinned, black-haired and dark-eyed, and even to Anyanwu’s eyes, very beautiful. When Doro spoke to her courteously, her answer was a mere moving of the lips. She would not look at him at all except once when his back was turned. But the look she gave him then spoke as loudly as had Sarah Cutler’s sudden brightening. Anyanwu blinked and began to wonder what kind of man she had. The women aboard the ship had not found Doro so desirable. They had been terrified of him. But these women of his people … Was he like a cock among them, going from one hen to another? They were not, after all, his kinsmen or his friends. They were people who had pledged loyalty to him or people he had bought as slaves. In a sense, they were more his property than his people. The men laughed and talked with him, but none presumed as much as Isaac had. All were respectful. And if their wives or sisters or daughters looked at Doro, they did not notice. Anyanwu strongly suspected that if Doro looked back, if he did more than look, they would make an effort not to notice that either. Or perhaps they would be honored. Who knew what strange ways they practiced?
