by CP Patrick
I try to visit Emilie as often as I can. When I cannot find her at home, I find her wandering the streets in her bathrobe—the one she was wearing when Rose died in her arms.
The neighbors offer sincere condolences, for none can imagine having to endure such hardship. I appreciate their apologies and prayers, but none can truly help us.
Whenever I find Emilie in the streets, I take her home to Maison Montaudoin. I bathe her and wash her hair with her favorite shampoo. I brush until it shines—one hundred strokes.
Then I feed Emilie the soup that I prepared a day or two before in case she wished to eat in my absence. It always remains untouched.
Soup is the easiest to slip into her mouth while she sits in the parlor with her eyes glazed over and blank, her legs folded beneath her in the rocking chair, our grandmother’s red knit throw over her shoulders. It was there she often rocked Rose to sleep.
Then Emilie asks me to play Edith Piaf. I reluctantly turn on the record, for it makes her smile, if only for a moment.
“La Vie En Rose est une très belle chanson, tout comme ma Rose,” Emilie says with a smile.
It is such a beautiful song, just like her Rose.
And then, the mourning begins.
21
i am not crazy
New York, NY (1957)
The Professor of Africa. That’s what they used to call me. I was so renowned in academia, scholars would come from all over the world to hear me speak. My areas of interest were colonialism and imperialism. The historical and lasting implications of the trans–Atlantic slave trade.
I have published many books. And I believe my royalties are in an account I can access when I become well again. That is, when they say I am well. Because the thing is, I am well. Except I am here.
Confined to this room where everything is white. Even the clothing they force me to wear. They have diagnosed me with schizophrenia. Said I have gone mad. But I am not mad, nor do I have a mental illness. In fact, I am quite lucid.
The problem is no one believes me. My department does not understand how one day I went from intellectual brilliance to being unable to recall the simplest material. Ill-equipped to teach the most basic of lessons. All of the information I spent my life studying just vanished.
I tried to explain to them what happened. I awoke one morning and my scholarship was gone. And so was Awiti.
Whenever I speak of Awiti, the doctors take lots of notes. Later, a nurse comes with a combination of meds that cause my mind to fog, and I sleep for days. Like my department, the staff here refuses to believe Awiti is real.
But I know she is real. I have held her. Caressed her skin and made love to her. I have heard her voice whisper in my ear saying she loves me.
I was giving a talk in Louisiana when I met her. I cannot remember at what university or the topic of my lecture. But I remember her.
Her dark hair hung almost to her waist. Brown, flawless skin, her face flushed and rosy from rushing in as she searched for a seat. Her dark eyes offering a silent apology for her tardiness. Then she smiled. And for the first time in my lengthy teaching career, I found myself attracted to a student.
The University warns professors during faculty orientation about the dangers of teacher-student relationships. I had many beautiful students in my classes over the years. They offered themselves in exchange for high grades. Others were genuinely attracted to me. But I never indulged.
I told myself they were still children. Fresh and new into their adulthood. The thought of them as childlike was always enough to deter me. But Awiti was different.
After the lecture, she approached me.
“That was a wonderful presentation,” she said. “Very enlightening discussion on what slavery did and continues to do this world.”
“Thank you very much…” I held out my hand.
“Awiti. My name is Awiti, Professor. I would love to take one of your courses.”
“But I do not teach here. I teach in New York. At NYU.”
“Then I will transfer and become a student at NYU.”
At the time, I thought she was merely flattering me, and we stood there, flirting and playful.
But guess what? She did.
When I saw Awiti enter my lecture hall the next semester, I could not believe my eyes. I am certain I stumbled through my discourse. And while the other students eagerly took notes, Awiti stared at me as if mesmerized. I guess you could say we were instantly captivated with each other.
Awiti often arrived early and flustered me. I tried not to look at her, but it was impossible. The hypnotizing dark eyes stared at me from the front row.
I often called on her randomly to answer questions, difficult questions, for I became paranoid my attraction to her was obvious. She was always prepared, her responses intelligent and well-thought-out. This only intensified my attraction.
When Awiti came to my office for her mandatory midterm evaluation, it was almost too much for me to handle. I stayed seated the entire time out of fear that if I stood up she would see the bulge in my pants. Enclosed in the small office with no windows, no circulating air, the narrow faculty desk between us, I could hardly focus on the evaluation.
“Keep up the good work,” I muttered. “You’re doing great.”
I wanted the fifteen minutes to end, and yet, I did not. I wished for time to move slowly. I prayed for the minutes to drag on so I could be close to her.
She smelled so lovely, like sandalwood and jasmine. Her fragrance filled the small space and lingered when she left. I had to excuse myself before my next appointment. Shit. I was in trouble.
During our next office visit, Awiti smiled at me. It was a smile that told a man everything he needed to know. She found me attractive. She wanted me. And in case I was being hopeful in reading her smile, when Awiti stood to leave, she reached over and slipped her phone number into my hand as confirmation. When her soft hands touched mine, it felt electric. I could still feel her touch long after she left.
I stared at the number for hours before I picked up the phone to call her. Awiti lived nearby, within walking distance to the university. She asked me to join her for the evening. It was more of a demand than a question. And I could not resist.
When Awiti answered the door, I knew then I had crossed the threshold I promised myself I would never cross. She was wearing a thin cotton dress, her dark nipples pronounced through the white fabric.
Her hair was loose and fell over her shoulders, down her back. A soft jazz record played in the background. John Coltrane, if I remember correctly.
Candles were lit, and their light emphasized the few possessions a student on a modest budget would be proud of: a record player with an impressive vinyl collection, stacks of books organized alphabetically, an oversized map of Africa, and fresh flowers from the street vendor.
The minimalism of the studio was not lost on me. The room contained the necessities—a desk and chair that doubled as a dining room table, and a futon that functioned for both seating and sleeping.
“Have you heard of the game uku-hlobonga?” I asked.
I had recently written a book review on the sensationalism of E.A. Ritter’s Shaka Zulu. While the novel had made for a highly entertaining read, I found it to be more fiction than fact. Yet another European’s fantastic idealism of Mother Africa.
Yet, one aspect of the story was undisputed—Shaka was the illegitimate son of Senzangakona, a young chieftain of the Zulu tribe. His father had played the tempting game of uku-hlobonga with a woman who was not his wife.
The beautiful art of extended foreplay was common. Young lovers released their sexual tension by teasing each other’s bodies to the point of orgasm without actual penetration. Although, Senzangakona found himself in a quite precarious situation, as I am sure most men did while playing this game. Unable to resist, he succumbed to the temptation, and Shaka was conceived.
“No.”
Awiti had never heard of the game. And without even knowing th
e details and instructions, she was ready to engage. Rather than ask for the rules, she whispered,
“I want to play. Teach me how to play.”
Her lips brushed against my ear. The room seemed to dim as the candles flickered, shadows dancing on the walls. I did not want to have intercourse with Awiti. But I did want touch.
Awiti leaned in closer to me, sensing the game involved intimacy. My mouth seemed paralyzed by the wetness of her lips. I was unable to return her kiss, unable to speak. I sat in the sweetness of Awiti’s kiss.
I felt myself begin to harden. I slowly unbuttoned her dress, making certain to exaggerate each release, revealing more and more of her brown flesh.
We were naked and on the futon moments later. She was an inexperienced lover, but that only made me more passionate and attentive to her needs. As an older man, rushing into the act of sex was no longer of importance to me. I knew the female body needed attention and stimulation more than it needed a quick orgasm.
I kissed every inch of her skin. I felt like I was kissing honey, her skin so golden brown and fragrant. Her small breasts fit perfectly in my mouth. I kissed and sucked them until her nipples were hard and pronounced. Then I tasted her, the wetness sweet in my mouth.
She moaned and squirmed, her thin thighs pressed against the sides of my head. I held her around the waist so she could not escape the flickering of my tongue. I wanted to make certain if she had other lovers before me, I would be the best. And I wanted to set the bar for any lovers who might follow.
We explored each other’s bodies into the early morning. We could not get enough of each other. After we released the built-up sexual tension between us, we talked. For hours. Until the sun came through her tiny window, bright and intense.
It shined a guilty light upon me, reminding me I was a professor who had spent the night making love and having intense conversation with his student. I had a faculty meeting in two hours.
Awiti joined me in the shower. We made love again, her dark hair soaking wet. The warm water flowing over the honey-brown skin. It did not take long for me to climax.
I arrived at the faculty meeting in the same clothes I had on the day before, my hair still damp. I heard nothing the faculty chair said. My mind kept replaying the last several hours of my life. And like that, she had me.
Awiti loved me. She shared many things with me. We talked about her immortality. She shared with me her ability to control the winds and rains. But she talked most often about the pain of her losing the family she would never see again. That her country would never be the same.
And there was so much she did not know about her past. So much she felt she needed to know.
“Can you help me?”
Even if I had wanted to, I could not help her. I could only speculate. Genealogy was not my thing. And even if it were, I had such limited information to work with.
A Luo name. Memories of a beautiful village that sat high above the road. Mountains with flowers. I was working with nothing. And this was further complicated by what Awiti wanted to believe.
She wanted to believe her family had gone to one of the slave ports on the coast of West Africa. And from there, to Nantes. Then on to Saint Domingue to harvest sugar. And if they had not died in the War of Independence, they were sold to plantations in Florida, South Carolina, Georgia, or Louisiana. And Louisiana seemed to be the place that called her the most.
Her family died as slaves, and that was if they did not die during the journey and hardships they endured crossing the Atlantic. This was the story Awiti had created for herself. It had sustained her for centuries.
But it was likely that—a story. Patchwork pieces of her history and facts she’d learned throughout time. A way for her to justify her searching. A legitimate reason for her revengeful hurricanes and storms. Awiti had found them, and in her own way, avenged their deaths.
I tried to tell her one evening, “Even though you have visited these places, slave ports on the coast of West Africa. Followed slave traders’ vessels across the Atlantic. Caused storms and hurricanes in retaliation. It does not change anything.”
I thought it best to be honest, for that is what you are when you love someone. You are honest, even if it hurts.
I showed Awiti a map of ancient Africa and highlighted the vast distance between ancient Luo and Oyo. If she were of Luo ancestry, it was quite unbelievable she made it to Oyo. This information made her weep softly, and I tried to comfort her.
“The family you lost the day your father told you to run… it’s true that you will never see them again. You will never find them, for they have long since passed on. But you have gained an entire village.
“Black people are your descendants, and they are all over the world. There are White people and other ethnicities who denounce slavery. Those who are devoted to helping Black people heal from their past and obtain equal rights. They are your family now. I am your family now.”
Awiti continued to weep. My love could not console her. Although I had been honest with her, Awiti would not rest. She continued to ask me questions about imperialism and slavery. The Africa before the Portuguese attacked her village.
She demanded we research books and maps. I loved her, so I shared with her all the resources I had. But it became all-consuming for her, and thus, for me. While I understood her pain, I longed for the carefree relationship we once had.
I expressed such, for that is what lovers are supposed to do— share their true feelings, and Awiti became enraged.
How dare I be selfish with my knowledge? How could I love her? How could I know facts about her country and not share them with her? She was furious with me. And forceful winds began to blow as a storm appeared amidst a bright sunny day.
One night, Awiti said to me, “I love you, Professor. And I am sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” I asked.
“For everything.”
When I awoke the next morning, Awiti was gone.
I showered, got dressed, and went to the university. I prepared for class as usual. And when I went to begin my lecture, all was blank. I had no knowledge of my research or the history I’d spent my entire career mastering.
At first my department believed the demands of being a top-rated professor, the research and publications, had been too much for me to manage. They placed me on sabbatical. When my sabbatical ended and I was still unable to meet the academic demands, the University placed me on administrative leave.
When I went before the board to petition for reinstatement, I decided to be honest. I told them I had fallen in love with a student named Awiti Akoth. And that she had taken my knowledge.
Awiti had the ability to acquire the gifts of others. She had told me so.
“Look into the academic records,” I said. “There aren’t that many transfer students. Find her and she will explain everything.”
The board said they looked into the matter, but there was no one at either university with that name registered as a student. I do not believe them.
I tried to tell them. Hurricane Audrey. Did they not see the damage done in Texas and Louisiana? It was Awiti. I tried to warn them. There will be more raging storms, more death. Because Awiti will forever be angry.
I will never forget the faces of the board members. Expressions of pity and sadness. Disgust. I remember snatches of conversations about mental illness, schizophrenia and how these things affected the most brilliant. And then, the men with the white coats came.
I have lost track of the amount of time I have spent in this room. I used to have visitors. Colleagues and students who remembered who I once was. But now, no one comes.
I am alone in the room with nothing but the memories of Awiti. My life that once was.
I know Awiti is real. She took my livelihood, but the memories I have of us, they sustain me. I lost everything for loving her. But it was worth it.
Sometimes I yell hoping someone will hear me. I try to tell them Awiti is real. I want her to return to me
because I still love her. I need her to tell my department they made a mistake. She can return my knowledge, and I can teach again. Perhaps, we can even marry.
Are you listening to me? Is anyone listening to me?
I am not crazy! Awiti is real!
“Professor,” a voice says softly.
“Yes?”
“It is time for your medication.”
22
fight
Waveland, Mississippi (1969)
If there is one good thing that comes from having to evacuate for Hurricane Camille, it’s getting to spend time with my favorite uncle. Soon as the news announced this hurricane was going to be one of the worst of its kind to ever hit Mississippi, Daddy made a decision. We had to go.
Daddy called Uncle Mike, his youngest brother, and said, “We need a place to stay to escape this storm.”
And before I knew it, Mississippi was far behind us. We were headed up the highway toward Washington.
Normally during hurricane season we hunkered down and boarded up the windows. Mama purchased lots of water and non-perishables. And Daddy made us all huddle together in the living room, surrounded by candles and flashlights.
One time during a bad storm, the winds started making the house sway. Daddy made us all climb into the bathtub. My older sister Telly, Mama, Daddy, and I sitting like we were in a canoe. I still don’t understand how the bathtub was supposed to save us if the roof caved in.
But there will be no bathtub survival tactics for Hurricane Camille. The weatherman said Camille’s winds are going to be so strong, the storm might level all of Mississippi.
Before we got on the road, Daddy made me, Mama, and Telly gather our most important papers, some clothes, and a few of our favorite things. Daddy didn’t even board up the windows. We just left. Don’t think I’ve ever seen my folks move so fast.
Daddy had tried to be patient with Mama, but she seemed to want to pack everything—pictures, little vases, pots, and pans. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore, and he snapped at her.