Early in ‘The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi" (or The Black Man with the White Heart in the original Dutch) the reader is exposed to stomach-churning scenes of human atrocity. 

 But writer Arthur Japin, in taking the fictionalised voice of real-life 19th century Ashanti Prince Kwasi Boachi, points out that it is all too easy to do inhumane things to a person you do not consider human.

Japin quotes the fictional diaries of a Dutch diplomat, Van Drunen, in which that character describes stumbling over the detached heads of slaves, property of a recently deceased Ashanti warrior. 

 At the time, the Ashanti made common practice of sending slaves to the grave with their masters.

But Boachi, in a fictionalised footnote to his fictional narrative, explains that while "slaves, condemned men and defeated warriors were executed in Kumasi...it was not known to us in those days that the northern tribes also belonged to the race of men. 

The notion of a single human race, comprising a diversity of coexisting peoples who were in essence equal, was foreign to us”. 

In Europe, too, that notion had only recently arisen, and the practical implications were still inconsistent.  We knew only one people - ours – and the dangers to which our kind were exposed.  As a boy, the routine executions were little different to me from the slaughter of goats. 

“Later in life this boyhood insensibility filled me with shame, until I discovered that a man’s life counted for just as little in Europe at the time. 

The wars fought between 1792 and 1815 alone caused the sacrifice of one million five hundred and thirty thousand lives, not counting the loss of life in epidemics spread in the course of the conflicts.”

These blunt words are a sobering reminder that human behaviour is rooted in abstract concepts of values, definitions, and perceptions. 

Cruelty or kindness can be explained or motivated with the simple alteration of how one sees other people, how one defines a human being, and what values one holds dear.

‘The Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi’ deftly takes the reader through the evolutionary change in values and perceptions of one man in response to drastic changes in his cultural location.

  These changes prove to be irrevocable; within a few years the boys have lost their Twi and Kumasi becomes little more than a series of hazy memories. 

The novel convincingly shows that while culture and individuality are dynamic in one’s youth, they become more rigid with age.

The sins of power

The novel is set mostly in three locations: Kumasi, Holland, and Java.  Kwasi is the son of the Asantehene and his cousin, Kwame, is the matrilineal heir to the throne.  The boys, though uncertain of their date of birth, are roughly the same age and inseparable friends. 

It is Van Drunen who takes them to Holland at the tender age of nine, purportedly to acquire and return with the coveted technical knowledge of the oboruni, the men from beyond the horizon.  The boys don’t learn that they are collateral in a slave deal until it is too late to return.

The early part of the book takes us through the boys’ culture shock, which travellers will identify with, especially if they have gone from being a racial majority to a racial minority during their travels.

  In the case of the cousins, they are the first non-slave blacks to enter Holland, and become a freak-show sensation amongst their classmates and society at large. 

Because they are royalty, and a novelty, they find themselves as frequent guests in the King’s Court, flirting innocently with his youngest daughter. 

It is during these scenes that the novel reads like a Jane Austen affair with characters gossiping over the trivia of social graces, except in this case the two protagonists are virtually clueless and the high society socialites are either bemused or afraid of the foreign guests. 

When the ‘black Peters,’ a Dutch Christmas tradition, appear in black face-paint, one of them is so shocked to encounter real black boys that he is unable to continue his performance in character and leaves the scene in an inexplicable fit of rage.

The fascination in this novel lies in the opposite approaches taken by the cousins to deal with the change forced upon them. 

 The more Kwasi is reminded of his difference, the harder he tries to fit in, to change himself, to fit the new mould.  Kwame fights the tide at every step, always longing for home and struggling to retain his Ashanti identity, certain he will one day return to ascend the throne.

“Don’t confuse tolerance for acceptance,” he admonishes his cousin.  He knows that Kwasi will never gain the acceptance he longs for, and that all his adaptation is therefore ultimately futile. 

When Kwasi refers to Holland as his home, and later publicly attacks the Gold Coast as a savage and brutal land, he loses his cousin’s camaraderie.

In the end we learn from a 70-something Kwasi that neither approach has been successful.  Kwasi has found himself in Java, where he runs a coffee plantation in a vain effort to be accepted by the colonized as a true coloniser, at one point giving one of them a severe beating in a desperately frustrated attempt to demonstrate his superior position. 

 But neither his ‘fellow Hollanders’ nor the Javanese seem quite able to see him as human, let alone superior, and he once again finds himself isolated from humanity. 

The complex relationship between people in power and their subjects is beautifully symbolized by Kwasi’s relationship with Cornelius, who is first his protector from schoolyard bullies, and later his boss in Java despite his inferior intelligence and school performance. 

 Cornelius treats Kwasi as Kwasi later treats his Javanese servant: by turns abusively and kindly, insulting him or taking him into his confidence and showing his most vulnerable self.

The book is as much a meditation on power dynamics as it is about one man’s journey.

The arrogance of ignorance

In the end both cousins suffer terrible and tragic loss, especially the loss of their home.  Neither is able to return to their childhood paradise, and their novelty wears thin amongst Dutch society, which makes it clear that their presence has become more burdensome than entertaining.

With simple and poignant prose, Japin is able to convincingly take the voice of a real-life historical figure, and thus illuminate the past sins of the author’s own country, as well as those of a long-dead Ashanti king. 

 Not only does the reader gain a historical biography, she also gains an appreciation for how mistakes were made at a time when two peoples collided, and colluded, with only a rudimentary understanding of one another.

One has to wonder, what evils of cultural ignorance will future authors bring to light?