The Truth About Awiti
Page 25
“Run.”
Whenever I think of that fateful day, I cry. Rain falls from the skies, and storm clouds gather. Some in the spiritual realm try to comfort me, but I am often inconsolable when I think of what was and could have been. Rainstorms for Father and Mother. Storm winds stir for Amondi and her smile none could rival. Hurricanes rage against the prayers for what I wished and hoped for.
Jaramogi, Owino, and Onyango—I never saw them grow to become men. Father never made the sun go home again. And we never sat beneath the baobab tree waiting for him to help it to rise. There were no village feasts under the stars. And I never learned to sing like Mother. A man from my village never took me as his wife and smiled as I danced. My belly will never be swollen with Love.
My tears remind of the day Oranyan found me. I was so naïve and afraid. His arms and charm were there to rescue me. Was he waiting for someone like me? Hoping to bargain with someone who still believed in hope and love? Praying to find a foolish girl who believed such things could conquer all injustices?
“Do you truly love me enough to give me the one thing I desire most?” Oranyan asked.
“Yes.”
And it was my love for Oranyan that enslaved me in a different type of bondage. I sold myself with the promise of immortality. With the hope of giving myself an eternity to find my family. Yes, the choice was mine, but to this day I do not think it fair. For even with all of my sacrifice, I never saw them again.
Many have suffered, for the evils of slavery extended far beyond Africa. Our small village by the mountainside was but the beginning of many years of suffering for people with black and brown skin. So many have died at the hands of slavery and other injustices, it is impossible to count them all. And while many have passed on after their deaths, an infinite number of the dead remain among the living.
And when we find each other, we share our pain. Our memories rustle the air, and there begins a breeze filled with resentment. Gaining momentum off the coast of West Africa, we move across the Atlantic. Our sadness lingers in the air like the salt from the sea. A light white coating that stings like saltwater on broken flesh. We gather the suffering and anger, swirling and brewing, screaming and raging. And soon we are no more in control of the storm as we were our destinies.
As we move across the Atlantic, we gather the energy of those thrown into the sea. The storm goes to the sources of our pain, for our suffering and misery are entangled in the winds. We are the eye of the storm, striking the descendants of Black Faces and White Faces. We force them to reap the pain their forefathers sowed. In the moment, our stormy restitution is just and invigorating. But in the end, it is not enough.
No matter the destruction that ensues, I have learned no amount of vengeance can replace what I lost. There is no reparation great enough to substitute what was stolen. Is there truly a cost for an altered destiny? There is nothing that can overturn the curse of a nation that was once blessed.
Fragments of my past haunt me daily. A man with eyes like Father. The woman with skin like Mother. Flesh so dark I want to wrap myself in the black arms and remember. Laughter of children reminds me of my siblings. The memories remain at war with peace.
For eternity you will feel me in the wind. Whenever your skin turns cold, you will know I am near. I am one of the many dealt an unfortunate life. Awiti Akoth. A child born of misfortune as the rains fell on her village. One who should have been thrown away, for she was a girl sure to bring trouble. How I have lived up to Father’s naming of me.
“Remember what makes us special, Awiti,” Father reminded me all those years ago. “When your heart desires, you can control the rain.”
They say I will find peace when I am ready. I have tried for centuries, but I know this peace will never come. I am certain. And as much as this pains me, it is my truth.
a note from the author
“There was a time when you were not a slave, remember that. You walked alone, full of laughter, you bathed bare-bellied. You say you have lost all recollection of it, remember… You say there are no words to describe this time, you say it does not exist. But remember. Make an effort to remember. Or, failing that, invent.”
– Monique Wittig
The above quote is one of my favorites. Monique’s words truly embody how I felt when writing The Truth About Awiti.
There was a time when slavery did not exist. Many recollections of that time have been lost, history forever remaining in the uncollected stories of those who passed on. But I had enough information to remember. I had enough evidence to invent.
I enjoyed researching the factual events that appear in The Truth About Awiti. Many of the occurrences are so rich on their own, it was often difficult to fictionalize.
As a native of West Palm Beach, Florida, I was exposed to hurricanes and their damage from a young age. Our family actually had to evacuate for Hurricane Andrew, and I will never forget hearing the roaring winds. The gusts sounded like wailing and screaming. It is providence that these experiences, along with my educational background and love for fiction, have evolved into a historical fantasy novel.
I must admit there were times I was surprised to learn many of the deadliest hurricanes occurred where some of the most horrific crimes against Black people transpired. For example, in 2001 when Hurricane Andrew hit the same parish where dozens of slaves were killed during the 1811 German Coast Uprising. Or discovering that the Black River Hurricane devastated the exact region where the Zong Massacre occurred in November 1781.
Other connections were sensational in their own right, such as the Labor Day Hurricane of 1935. The deadly hurricane occurred only a few years after a Cuban man was murdered for his open love affair with a mulatto woman—a voodoo priestess who vowed to avenge his death. These are facts authors of historical fiction and fantasy dream of.
According to meteorological reports, most Atlantic hurricanes start to take shape when thunderstorms form along the West Coast of Africa and drift out over warm ocean waters. Many theories prevail throughout the African diaspora that hurricanes are manifestations of restless slave spirits affected by the trans–Atlantic slave trade. Further perpetuating this theory is the fact many hurricanes generate off the African coast, cross over much of the Middle Passage, which includes the Caribbean, and cause the most damage to Southern slave-holding states. Are such occurrences spiritual retribution? We may never know.
The majority of the chapters in The Truth About Awiti incorporate actual events that occurred in areas that played key roles in the trans–Atlantic slave trade and the institution of slavery. I encourage the reader to conduct their own research to understand the role the institution of slavery had on African, Caribbean, European, and American histories.
Acknowledgements
There are so many people who were influential in the writing of The Truth About Awiti. First and foremost, I would like to honor my ancestors who endured such a sorrowful existence during the trans–Atlantic slave trade. I am so thankful for those who survived. I am forever indebted to the men and women who left us with memoirs and historical evidence of defiance and overcoming life’s adversities. It is because of these stories I had enough information to invent a fictional timeline of the hardships people of African descent experienced and endured for centuries. My dear ancestors, thank you for persevering.
I would also like to thank my family, especially my husband, Joseph Patrick, and daughter, Nalah Palmer, for being patient with me as I worked endless hours to complete this novel. Thank you for allowing me to hide in my office for days and nights to achieve one of my dreams. Likewise, I thank my close friends for their sacrifices—particularly for listening to unfinished chapters (and the terrible early versions).
Thank you to my editor, Emma Simmons, who helped make The Truth About Awiti shine. Where would I be without someone to fix my past and present participles?
And of course, a special thank you to my readers. Thank you for taking this journey with me!
About the
Author
Christine Platt was born in 1976 in West Palm Beach. After graduating from Suncoast Community High School in 1994, she obtained a B.A. in Africana Studies from the University of South Florida, M.A. in African Studies from The Ohio State University, and J.D. from Stetson University College of Law. She began writing under the moniker CP Patrick after marrying her husband, Joseph Patrick, in 2010. CP Patrick enjoys writing fiction and fantasy interwoven with the African Diasporic experience. Her work is drawn from the inspiration of many, particularly Octavia Butler. She lives in Washington, DC with her husband and daughter.
Copyright © 2014 CP Patrick
All rights reserved.
ISBN:0692287736
ISBN-13:9780692287736