by CP Patrick
Gifts are most apparent when babies first enter the world. Whatever is happening around them a direct reflection of their blessing. And I had been born with a most impressive talent.
Although Mama was thankful Orunmila had chosen our family, she cried. Mama knew she would have a short time with her newborn son. I could not stay with my family. Each day, as I grew older, my gift would mature and develop. And in time they would be unable to control me.
It was necessary for me to dwell with those who could teach me to manage the gift Orunmila had bestowed upon me. I would spend my life with the Awo. They would raise and protect me. This was the way of our people.
At sunrise, Bàbá took me to the Awo. There, on the outskirts of my village, along with all the others who had been born with great talents, I would learn to master my gift.
The Awo assigned a babalawo to every child, a mentor who possessed the same talents. I simply called my mentor “Babalowo,” for my speech during my formative years was troublesome. I liked the name. It reminded me of the word Bàbá. And Babalawo was like a father to me.
His frame was slim, but muscular. And his face and skin youthful. But perhaps Babalawo’s most striking feature was his height. He was taller than any man I had ever seen. Babalawo’s hair hung in long, twisted locks. Thick black and gray tresses intertwined like thread.
Babalawo’s appearance was misleading. He was old. He taught many over the years and took great pride in teaching me. I slept on Babalawo’s floor, my body stretched out on a special mat woven of feathers and lion’s hair. I was not an ordinary child, and so I could not sleep as ordinary children do. The hair from the lion calmed my spirit while I slept. And the bird’s feathers made certain I had pleasant dreams.
We went to the river every morning, cleansing ourselves in the healing waters. Babalawo prayed to the spirits to guide him. It was essential he taught me to find the balance between power and control. Once we were cleansed and had eaten a proper meal, I would begin my training.
“You know, Ajulo,” Babalawo would often remind me, “not all are chosen. Many come to acquire the gift of Atmokinesis through other means. Ways that anger Orunmila. But you are one of the elect. As long as you do the work She desires, you will be blessed.
“Your body. Your mind. All of you is sacred.”
Babalawo taught me to cup my hands as I focused my thoughts on developing a storm within my palms. As I expanded my hands slowly, the small clouds of rainfall grew large and powerful. I sent it over the tops of the trees and past the hills, where it dwindled until it was no more than a gust of wind.
As I grew older, I controlled the wind and rain with little effort, always cupping my hands to control the elements. Under the guidance of Babalawo, I became highly skilled. Often, I was called upon to do tasks Orunmila requested.
In times of war, I unleashed storms with winds so strong, trees fell to the earth. My torrential rains made the land full of wet patches, our enemies unable to reach our village due to the flooding. During droughts, when we needed water for harvest, I made certain to send enough rainfall for crops to grow and flourish.
I was never to use my gift to kill or for amusement. This was not why Orunmila chose me. I was chosen to do great things.
If only the slave raiders had not arrived by the element of surprise. I would have unleashed a mighty calamity. I could have trapped them in the wind and drowned them with rain. But they used their evil ways to hide themselves. They knew where the Awo protected the most gifted. And so the slave raiders attacked us first.
I tried to run, but I was captured. Babalawo was also seized, and we made eye contact, both of us bound as chaos ensued around us. The slave raiders constrained every man, woman, and child. They restricted our hands and feet so we could not defend ourselves.
Babalawo called out to me, “You do not need your hands, Ajulo. Send a storm from within. Call on Orunmila to guide you, and I will do the same.”
At first I felt nothing. But soon, for the first time in my life, I could feel a storm developing not within my hands, but inside of me. The elements churned within my body, growing strong and anxious, waiting to be unleashed. The winds began to blow. Rainfall followed.
As I looked to Babalawo for guidance, one of the slave raiders ran toward him with a long, sharp black knife. With one blow, he cut off Babalawo’s head. I watched as my mentor’s blood rushed over the dirt. Babalawo’s eyes remained opened as he watched the horror occurring all around us. I began to cry, and my world went dark.
I was but a few years away from becoming a man when I was taken from the Awo. If not for the slave raiders’ thievery, I would have completed my rights of passage. Orunmila was firm boys should not learn certain things until they became men. Who knows what great works I would have done?
To the slave raiders, I appeared youthful and healthy. But they were looking only at my body. My mind never recovered from seeing the death of Babalawo. There was not a single memory of my life that did not include him.
Aboard the slave raider’s vessel, I thought only of Babalawo. With each memory, I developed a sickness. A disease of heartache and loss. My body began to wretch and heave. One of the slave raiders came to inspect me as I continued to vomit. The bitter white bile covered my body. I tried, but I could not control it. The sickness was the memories of Babalawo’s death rising inside me, forcing their way out.
The slave raider called for one of his comrades, and together, they determined the best course of action for me. One took hold of my shoulders while the other took hold of my feet. They hoisted me over the side of the ship and tossed me into the sea.
The impact of my body hitting the salt water was painful. My wounds and broken skin stung and burned. Chains still bound my feet and hands as I began to sink beneath the waves. But even if I could, I would not have tried to keep my head above water.
I had no reason to live. No will to survive. I sank into the ocean, drifting beneath the water as my lungs filled with the cold blue. Soon I was looking down from above. I watched my body fade into the darkness of the sea.
Pain disappeared the moment my flesh died. But not the sorrow. The sadness remained, all encompassing, filled with memories of my life before the slave raiders arrived. The destruction of the Awo. The murder of Babalawo. My spirit continued to grieve long after my death in the sea.
I believe these memories forever bound my spirit to Goree. The land was beautiful. Green trees, mountainous coast, and the air filled with the scent of salt water. The blue ocean flowed on until it met for a conversation with the sky.
What were the sea and heavens discussing? The horror that occurred along this Western coast? Were they counting the number of African bones scattered about the land? Did they know the number of bodies buried at the bottom of the sea?
The slave port on Goree Island was not as active as the others, like Lagos, Jakin, and Grand-Popo. After my death, I visited them all, the visions of the destruction of people with black skin adding to my sorrow. Yet it was on Goree where my spirit felt most connected.
Goree was the last place I saw those from my village. Those who did not cross over remained at Goree, our spirits restive and intense. But those who did survive, those from my village who went aboard the slave raiders’ ships, I never knew what happened to them. Until Awiti arrived.
We all sensed her presence, but there was much confusion. We saw a woman walking about alive, with flesh and breath. Yet we could feel and hear her in the spiritual realm as though she were with us, among the dead. We had never known anyone with this ability. She was our first encounter with an immortal.
Awiti possessed much knowledge of the world. She had walked amongst the living and witnessed what became of our people once they left the shores of Africa. Their fate. This is what Awiti wished to share with us. And we did not like what she revealed.
Awiti asked, “Do you think sorrow and suffering is confined to these shores? That grief remains only among you dwelling here in the slave castles
? Do you think you are the ones with the most misery?
“You who are dead, you are the fortunate ones. Those of our people who survived, they have endured the real horror.
“Many of you know of the wickedness in the slave castles, for you were there. And many of you suffered on the slave ships before dying. Let me tell you the fate of those who remained aboard the ships.
“They embarked on a long journey at sea, and many died, for the conditions were so inhumane. The slave raiders did horrible things to our men, women, and children. And many of our people met with death this way.”
The elements within me began to stir, and the wind started to blow through the trees.
“Many of our people died or rebelled. The slave raiders threw their bodies overboard to be eaten by sharks or to drown in the ocean. But those who died at sea, they were the lucky ones.”
The fact the dead fared better than the living was impossible for us to imagine.
“Those who survived the treacherous journey were in for a worse fate. The ships would dock at ports all over the world. And from there, more suffering, as the slave raiders sold our people to the highest bidder.
“Our people were sold into a life of slavery, but the White man’s slavery is not like our slavery. They have constructed a system governed by evil and unnecessary abuse. It was there, in slavery, in a life of bondage and servitude, the true misery began. And it still remains today, for our descendants continue to suffer.
“Just as our country tries to rebuild from the stolen lives, our people who were enslaved have tried to rebuild. The slave trade is ending, but I believe its lasting effects will never end,” Awiti concluded.
This was what had become of our ancestors who went into the sea. Death and destruction. A torment that would endure for generations.
We were incited. Our collective force rose and swelled. The rains began to fall, and white streaks of lightening flashed throughout the sky, bright and blinding. Thunder sounded like the beating hearts of our people.
We gathered off the Western coast, calling out for other spirits to join us. Finally, we had places to send our indignation. We would direct the storms’ momentum at the lands where Awiti had seen the injustice of our people.
Our fury could not be contained to Goree. We unleashed it in varying degrees of strength and vengefulness. And for many years, across the world, there would be great suffering.
PART II
Death
(AND WHAT LIES BETWEEN)
12
split in two
Isle Derniére, LA (1856)
“Louisiana,” Awiti said. “Send it to Louisiana.”
Awiti had spent much time in Louisiana, and her memories called her there often.
She often said, “I believe a slave ship took my people to Louisiana.”
Perhaps my loved ones had endured the same fate. I looked forward to meeting Louisiana with my fury. So I demanded of Awiti,
“Take me.”
Louisiana was where Awiti saw the heads of our people placed on poles. The land was filled with the presence of many like me. Those who died with a sorrow so great, they were destined to remain in the spiritual realm forever.
Yet nothing Awiti shared prepared me for Louisiana. I listened to the spirits of slaves, each story of hardship more horrific than the last. But the spirits all agreed—1140 Royal Street, at the Corner of Royal Street and Hospital Street, was a place of great suffering.
The building was a large residence of sorts. It stood abandoned and clearly devastated by an unforgiving fire. Charred, burned wooden beams littered the ground. Broken glass lay scattered about, fallen from the large windows that were once picturesque. But even the burned, impoverished condition of the home could not mask the abuse that occurred there.
Evidence of torture remained among the debris. Chains sat among the blackened wood and soot. And the slave spirits of those who were unfortunate enough to reside there while they were among the living, their presence filled the entire dwelling. The house resounded with lamenting as they all cried out.
“Madame LaLaurie loves to whip me. She whips me simply to see wounds appear on my skin. Then, once my skin is broken and there is blood coming from my wounds, she rubs salt into them,” the spirit of a young woman told me.
“Do not go to the upper room in the left wing. For no one who goes there ever returns,” an older spirit warned.
“Madame LaLaurie gouged out Pierre’s eyes. He will never see again! And he has done nothing! Nothing!”
“Leah fell from the roof! Madame LaLaurie done killed her! We must tell her mother. Someone run get Delphine! Quick!”
The spirits continued to resonate their stories, their voices filled with fear as they remained trapped in their greatest moments of torment. They echoed throughout the burned dwelling as Awiti walked about the ruins, stroking chains that once bound wrists and ankles.
“Leah is here,” Awiti said. She called out to her, “Leah?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Leah appeared before us, hazy and soft as smoke coming from a pipe. She was a young slave girl. No more than twelve or thirteen years of age. Her white dress was shabby, full of holes and tears. Her dark hair disheveled. And her youthful body mangled, limbs broken and bashed.
She looked as she did the day she died. Her appearance evidence of the harm done to her. Some spirits choose not to show themselves for this reason, preferring only to be heard. But Leah wanted us to see her.
“What happened to you?” Awiti asked.
I also inquired, “Who would hurt a young girl in a cruel way?”
“Madame LaLaurie,” Leah replied. “I was brushing her hair when I caught a knot and the brush snagged. Her head jerked a bit, and she screamed at me. I tried to tell her it was an accident, but she chased me with a whip. She whipped me as I ran. See these cuts? Here and here? I ran to the roof, and there was no other way to escape her but to jump.”
Leah paused before continuing.
“And so I jumped.”
The charred mansion grew quiet.
“But I am free now.” Leah’s mangled form faded away.
The spirits began to speak in earnest as Leah disappeared.
“Madam LaLaurie chained Jean to the stove. She wanted her to cook on command. Wouldn’t let her leave the kitchen. Any business she had to do, she had to do right at that stove. Had her baby right there,” an older man said.
“In the torture room, Madame LaLaurie hung slaves. Stretched them out till their arms and legs broke right off their bodies. It was in the papers. Lots of folks was angry, but nothing was done to Madame LaLaurie.”
I could stand it no longer. I imagined my sons being stretched. And my wives! What if Madame LaLaurie forced them to jump to their deaths?
“Where can I find this Madame LaLaurie?” I asked, my anger evident.
“She is gone. Escaped on the ferry. You will never find her. No matter where you go in the world. Many spirits have tried. Wanted her to pay for what she done to ’em. She gone, but there’s plenty more like her.”
“And where can I find those like her?” I demanded.
“The Isle Derniére. That’s where those like Madame LaLaurie like to go,” one of the spirits said with certainty. “I will show you where.”
We came upon a small island off the coast of Louisiana. It looked like any other island. Light sand, dotted with green trees, surrounded by blue waters. White people walked about the island. They swam in the waters as the descendants of my people watched over their children and fixed meals.
The Isle Derniére was an obvious place of happiness for those like Madame LaLaurie. Their contentment rose above the clouds and filled the atmosphere. It made me even angrier. How I wished to be content. I knew what I had to do. I had never been so certain.
Awiti felt the same as she said to me, “Let’s destroy them.”
Awiti and I returned to the shores of Western Africa. We followed the routes of the slave ships, moving sl
owly and deliberately across the Atlantic. We called out to the stolen lives who had died at sea. The storm grew as they joined us, our winds and rain gaining momentum with each restless spirit.
Beyond a storm, we became a hurricane. Deadly and furious as we focused on the Isle Derniére. We came upon the island with the element of surprise, just as the slave raiders had attacked our villages.
Awiti and I were not impartial with our wrath. We did not mind watching the descendants of our people drown as they tried to save their masters’ children and things. Their suffering was necessary.
Death would afford them freedom. If they chose to cross over, they would forever be free from a life of bondage. And if their spirit would not allow it, if the lives they lived were filled with unforgivable abuse, they would stay with us in the spiritual realm.
I took great pleasure in destroying the Isle Derniére, the force of our hurricane so great we split the island in two. With our heavy rain, we submerged the island and watched the faces of men, women, and children suffering. They screamed as my children had screamed. I watched them drown in the waves. Just as my people had drowned when thrown off the slave ships. I felt nothing but joy.
At the end of our wrath, once our hurricane winds and the rain ended, nothing remained of the Isle Derniére. All of it submerged in the water. It ceased to exist.
What I felt was not a total and complete happiness. The obliteration of their island did not bring back my family. Death and destruction did not return me to the life I had before the slave raiders came to my village. I waited for my spirit to cross over. But it never did. And I know why.
Louisiana still existed. As did other lands where my people suffered. The destruction of the Isle Derniére was nothing more than a small victory. But it helped me come to understand my destiny. I realized a new purpose with those in the spiritual realm. And together, we continued the wrath of our retribution.
13
peace
Effingham County, GA (1881)