New Daughters of Africa

by Margaret Busby

  I had never in my life felt so alone until I answered that 3 a.m. call in my Hattiesburg apartment on December 26, 1995. I have experienced a familiar helplessness with Fr. Sylvester’s death; that is one ingredient a distant death never changes for an immigrant, but this time, I have not felt alone. I have not been alone. Flowers, calls, emails from friends and colleagues remind me of that fact; abundant gestures of concern and love from my children and family remind me I am not alone; members of the Triangle Cameroon Association holding a wake in my house to coincide with the wake in Cameroon remind me I am not alone.

  Two years ago, the UN Conference for Women came to NC State. I was on “The New South” panel with women who shared insights on immigration and the changing face of the South. When Regina Wang of the News & Observer interviewed me at the conclusion of the panel, I told her that “I hope it’s a place where I can live and thrive, where I can bring something positive and receive something positive back.” I used to obsess over what home is, what home means, where home is, but when I read Isidore Okpewho’s foreword to my book, The Sacred Door and Other Stories: Cameroon Folktales of the Beba, I relented and learned to take comfort in his words: “Makuchi may lament . . . that leaving her native Beba home in Cameroon has removed her from the warm, familial environment in which the tales in her collection were originally told, or that she has not succeeded in recreating with her children the traditional context of cultural education in which she was raised. But she is bringing that education to a larger, universal audience that includes her own children here in North America who, in time, will come to recognize that—to paraphrase an old Igbo (Nigerian) proverb—‘Where you mend the roof, there is your home.’”

  Tess Onwueme

  A Nigerian-born playwright, scholar and poet, she rose to prominence writing plays with themes of social justice, culture and the environment. She uses the theatre as a medium to showcase historically silenced views and shed more light on African life. In 2010, she became the Professor of Global Letters at University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire. A Nobel Prize in Literature nominee for 2016, she has won several international awards, including the Fonlon-Nichols award, the Phyllis Wheatley/Nwapa award for outstanding black writers, the Martin Luther King, Jr./Caeser Chavez Distinguished Writers Award, the Distinguished Authors Award, and the Association of Nigerian Authors Drama Prize which she won for her plays The Desert Encroaches (1985), Tell It To Women (1995), Then She Said It (2003) and Shakara: Dance-Hall Queen (2006).

  The Runaway’s Daughter: A Diary

  I sat there. Limp. Gazing into night’s misty face. The sky had a black eye and couldn’t stand it. She vanished. The stars, too. Washed their gleaming celestial hands off the sky that stooped sour and spewed his dirt into the gaping hole in my eyes. What remained was a dark hole poked in the eyes of day, filled with silence. I must find my way in it. My mother too—trying to ignite her way with a patch of light, forged from the flickering yellow oil lantern in her hand. My snoring brother Nosike was secured with the “Oja” woven sash and wrapper around what used to be her robust ebony frame. Her handful of wrappers were sopping bread loaf in water, furtively laid now in a ratty wicker basket. Waiting . . . waiting by that rickety door.

  That treacherous door! Wish you had the nerve to swing up close and hold her back! But you’ve always been a coward. You can’t even boast of a key. Any key. To lock her out of that world that she’s headed into now. Door, just find an excuse . . . any excuse to lock her in. But the traitor-door has conspired with all to rob me of her, my mother!

  The loaded basket will take center-stage on her bare head. I envy the scruffy cargo, now her chosen companion, and not me. I look out. See the moon. Like a shy new bride, trying so hard to shine through the dark deluge of our world. The stars surrounding her look dull.

  “Baby, it’s time.” She breathed hard as she tucked me gently into her bosom with the thickset arms that I wished I could remain glued to for life. Just to be a tag in my mother’s arms was all I needed in my world now to survive. A tag to somebody I know, my mother.

  “Baby, it’s time . . . I’m ready. Come see me off,” her hushed voice pleaded. At the mere mention of time, my bladder burst open, yielding its loaded contents, held tight since the evening cockcrow when Mama whispered to me that night was coming. That she’d have to hurry to cook okro soup for me, before her journey. Because it was time . . . Why does time have such a stranglehold on my mother? Who can arrest it? Papa? But where is he? Who is he? I don’t even remember his face. Never saw him since my toddler years when they say the pretty man sailed to England to drink tea with Her Majesty the Queen. I need him. Now! Somebody tell Papa to come kill this thing they call Time that is about to take my Mama!

  For many market-weeks, since Mama started stuffing my calabash with her clothes that she stole away from the scorching eyes of in-laws in our endless trudge to Iyi-Ada stream, she’s been loading me with secrets; whispering in my six-year-old ears that she was preparing to run away. She said I must never tell anyone.

  My body turned jelly in Mama’s trembling hands as she folded me into her bosom, humming magic lullabies to steady me, before prising open the wounded door of our hut. With the load rooted firmly on her head, my baby brother lodged on her broad back, and me dripping wet in her arms, she lingered in that spot, humming those enchanting tunes. Outside, the night habitués were at play: crickets, owls, frogs and rodents with other nocturnal associates busy calling their lovers for the mating season and clan supper. Night’s zillion sounds.

  But suddenly Mama stopped humming. She set my reluctant feet down. Turned her back against the door. Took her first step. Marching away and never looking back, as her kind eyes, like wet tar glinting in the dark, prodded me. Silence stood between us. And would soon be my sole companion. For so long, I’d held on to silence: my prop . . . my anchor—with no Mama, no Papa, no Bro . . . Aaaah! Silence had claimed me young and wedded me. I had no voice: I had no choice. My fumbling feet followed with my heart racing. Into the night. With darkness blooming, yawning in our faces. But she was resolute. Each step provoked a million icy fingers clawing me with chills, seizing my spine.

  “I’m cold. Scared, Mama. Please, don’t go. Stay!”

  Her portly legs sag but will not abort her mission. They press on. Still holding on to her load with one hand, the other stretched to pull me along as I stood shuddering beside her cooking hearth with much smoke and no fire. Her hand enveloped me. Tight. Tighter in that arm as she breathed hard into me, anointing me with her scent. Her fresh coconut breath stuck in my face. Soothing. Warm. I’d carry that with me far—especially when I was afraid. Years later, when I’d trip and fall—as I did so many times—and whenever I was losing myself, her soothing breath would guide me back in the way. We had reached the front gate of my primary school. Here, Mama broke into my thoughts.

  “Malio, I know you like school.”

  “Very much. That’s where I get to really play with my friends . . .”

  Mama stopped, turned me to face the school. “Child, listen: That school is your father. Your mother. Your life!” She nailed each word. “I pray they let you continue . . .” she sighed.

  “Who, Mama?”

  “Your father’s people.” Silence seized my tongue. “And, Baby, you know Mrs Onoh?”

  “Yes, Mama. Isn’t she the trader who sold you the cloth for my school uniform?”

  “Yes. I haven’t paid her . . .”

  “So, should I return the uniform to her?”

  “Oh, no! She wouldn’t even take it. Just tell Mrs Onoh that . . . Tell her that I’ll pay her some . . . day.”

  As she spoke, I fingered the thick khaki uniform that was already smiling at the seams around my waist. It was the only dress I had—apart from the one I regularly wore to school. Mama had made both uniforms from Mrs Onoh’s fabric. She’d spread the long piece of cloth on the floor and asked me to hold one end while she cut it into pattern pieces with her cooking knife, sharpened on the whet
stone. Grandfather Nnady also used that knife for shaving our hair, Nosike, me, with all the other children of the kindred. Mama stitched the pieces together with the black thread that women normally used in plaiting their hair. The khaki dress matched my small body. I was in love with it. I didn’t have to be flogged anymore by the headmaster who forbade colored dresses in his school. It made me feel so proud that after weeks of being sent home from school, I had not one but two dresses. I walked tall!

  “Yes, Mama. I’ll tell her.”

  “Great girl!” she cooed and pumped my hand as she pulled me closer to her. Years later, I’d look in the mirror and see her sleek blue-black body standing firm, like a soldier on guard. This guard of honour in my heart, my mother! Talking.

  “Baby, it’s okay to be afraid sometimes. But don’t you ever let fear conquer . . . control you. I’ve learned that along the way. And I’m still on my journey. Life! Ah!” she chuckled.

  “Mama, what is . . . this journey? When it will end?”

  “Ma-liii-jeeem.” She stretched each syllable, planting every strand of it in my head and heart. “Ma-li, who knows my journey? Nobody can tell . . .”

  “But . . . Mama . . . it’s . . . not my fault, is it?

  “What, Baby?”

  “That you’re leaving . . . Is it?”

  “Child, how can you say that?”

  “Mama, because sometimes when you were angry with me—like that day I cooked the only okra you had for soup with my playmates—you dragged me to the farm and beat me. Very hard. Yelling that it was because of me you were suffering. If it wasn’t for us your children, you said, you’d have left this bloody place long ago. That is what you said, Mama . . .”

  “Stop!” her throat bubbled with tears. “I’m sorry. Forgive me,” she sobbed. “Child, I was lost. Confused. Frustrated. Didn’t know what to do . . .”

  “But you want to run away and leave me. Why?”

  “I have . . . adult . . . matters . . . I com . . . committed . . . Marriage? Aaaah!” she took a deep sigh.

  “Adult matters? What are they, Mama? Tell me. You’re keeping secrets from me now, when you’ve always called me your handbag.”

  “Handbag?” She chuckled. “Child, you’re much too young to know. Someday, you will understand. Just wait till you grow up. But one truth I know: I will not lie to you.”

  “But you’re leaving me and won’t tell me where you’re going?”

  “Leave you? Never!”

  “And you’ll come back to me?”

  “To you, yes! Always. Carry you with me . . . in me . . . yes!”

  “And you will come back for me?”

  “Hmn . . . Some . . . day.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. All I can tell you now is that I will try. I’m just going where life takes me. But I will come back. Always. To find my bearings. You, my children are . . . my bearings. So help me. I need you.” She slumped under a tree. “And even now as I go away,” she continued, “remember this. You are not alone. Remain strong. Whatever they ask you to do, work hard,” she drilled into me. “Your dinner is in the forest. It never comes to you. You must go fetch it. Above all, stay humble. For obedience and humility go far. But don’t give up your dignity. Hold on to it! You hear me?”

  “Yes, Mama.” I was still soaking in her words, when she suddenly exclaimed: “Oh, dear! You’ve come too far already. I must take you back . . . to the village. Come! Let’s go.” She pulled me along as she made a roundabout turn. I could see we had left the village far behind. The only other wayfarers on the dusty track were the sheep in their nightly chewing and stargazing. We passed by them in silence, continuing our aimless march until Mama realized that she had gone too far. Then she’d sound her alarm note. Again!

  “Mali, we’ve gone too far now.” Back to where we began.

  “Don’t leave me, Mama!” I shrieked.

  “No, child. I must go . . .” She began to pull away, but I stuck to her like lint.

  “Baby, it’s too late. For you . . . for me . . . Night is here. You’ll walk me only a few steps back?”

  “Yes, Mama. I promise.” I rushed into her arms. Tears had taken possession of us. Fears too. We couldn’t see. Salty canals ran down our faces. We staggered back and forth. My mother would see me off, then she’d take me back to the village. And again, I’d see her off. Back on that dusty pathway. To that Nowhere and No Place that she called Her Journey. We went far on this back-and-forth circle of the interminable journey on the road I had no name for. Then the cycle was finally broken.

  A howl unleashed into Night’s monopoly tore up the silence, injecting new chills into me. And Mama too. She froze. For a moment. Only a moment. For nothing could deter her now. Nobody. Nothing. Not even the night.

  “We need to part now, Baby. Go back!” Then Mama turned around swiftly. Her feet pointed back in the direction of the village she was fleeing—as if that was where she was heading. With measured steps, backwards, Mama started walking away. Finally. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven steps. I stood there, counting her steps. Searching, tracing her footprints, now shadows in the dark. Till I lost count. And she kept moving. Moving. But I wouldn’t stop counting. Couldn’t. Shoeless, she walked backwards. Yes, backwards! So her footprints wouldn’t register the direction of her escape; as she said her mother taught her.

  My mother is . . . going. Going. I can’t hold her any longer. I can’t hear her any more. I just stand there. Gaping. Her shadow stretches, longer, and longer. Fading into the night that stretched into eternity. I shut my eyes. Tight.

  When they tore open, an eclipse ruled. The Moon. Red. Bloody Moon. Sucking and licking night’s ravenous tentacles. In my head, I saw Mama’s shadow, vanishing. Her feet pounding my heart. Still. Until night swallowed them. I could see her no more. My mother’s gone! Gone! I know it: Loss is what you have but can only keep and feel in your mind’s eye!

  Zuleica Romay Guerra

  From Havana, Cuba, she is a social investigator, writer and professor. Author of the titles: Studies of the Public Opinion in the Downfall of the Cuban Neo-colony (2012); Eulogy of the Althaea or the Paradoxes of Raciality, which was winner of a Casa of the Americas Award (2012); and The Pillories of Memories: Impression of Slavery in the Cuban Social Imaginary (2015) which won the Cuban Language Academy Award. She is co-author of articles and essays published in domestic and foreign publications and a lecturer in universities in several countries. She is a member of the Latino American Studies Association, LASA; of the Latin American Board of Social Sciences, CLACSO; and of the Cuban Committee of the Route of the Slave.

  Something About Me

  Some time ago, at an international event on cultural tourism in London, one of a trio of British businessmen commented on my black and almost symbolic presence among the Cuban leaders negotiating future tourist relations with the island. Wasn’t the presence of just one black person within such a representative group of people evidence that the Cuban Revolution had not succeeded in eradicating racial discrimination?

  “Forty-six years of revolution cannot erase 400 years of slavery,” I replied.

  And I began a detailed exposition of my life story, in which my earliest memory is of the figure of Crecencia Santa Cruz, the only one of my great-grandparents whom I met, when she was more than eighty years old and a victim of Alzheimer’s. In our apartment, during many hot nights, Crecencia would deprive us of sleep with her hair-raising cries of horror, loudly begging not to be beaten. Her inner return to childhood, the paradoxical privilege of senior citizens, had taken her back to the slave barracks where she was born, and to who knows to how many episodes of ill treatment, either as victim or as powerless onlooker, which even in the latter days of her life her mind could not forget

  I spoke to those Englishmen about my grandmother Elena, a militant fighter for the People’s Party in Cuba, about which she took unconditional pride. She was the very first person to explain to me that just through personal endeavour and total
adherence to the Revolution she could reverse the historic disadvantage that four consecutive centuries of exclusion left as a legacy for the disempowered and excluded in this country. “Your aunt,” she insisted, “who believes she is always right because she happens to be a school teacher, claims that slavery was abolished in 1886; but, my daughter, the truth is that it was indeed Fidel who removed our chains.”

  I referred to my father who, when he was only eleven years old, began to work washing cars in order to contribute to the family’s meagre income, until his natural intelligence enabled him to rise within the working hierarchy to become first of all a blacksmith, and later on a car mechanic. My father—who took part in the July 1953 attack on the Moncada Barracks as a paramilitary adventure, and was able to understand his own role by reading Castro’s “History Will Absolve Me”, on his own and secretly—was the first in the family to be honored for academic results, and during a very cheery Sunday lunch we celebrated his graduation from elementary school (sixth-grade).

  I told them how books initially came into my household as bait to keep us children in our beds when we refused to take a mandatory nap at noon And how books became our main spiritual nourishment, within a family that almost instinctively managed to tell the difference between chance and opportunity. My father encouraged in us the need to read, and he led us, compelled by the fraternal competition that gradually became staunch commitment, to graduate one at a time from university classrooms. Today, my father, whose calloused hands can still handle a drill skillfully, as well as a metal polisher, shows off our higher education diplomas with great pride, and he deliberates on political and ideological battles as might a teacher, a journalist or any other like-minded intellectual, concurring with our own existence as a sovereign country that has provided him with knowledge, and the capacity for analysis and argument.