‘All I said was that they should stick to their own laws, laws that say we have a right to food, clothing and a roof over our heads. And we have a right to one day off in a week. One single day of rest after all the work they expect of us. Then they just decide to take it from us, and make us pay for what they owe us by right. Where’s the justice in that? No one’s allowed to make his own laws, not even the master.’ Tula gets to his feet, angry. ‘I’m going to bed. Bon nochi.’
The maze of paths makes it difficult to find your way in the dark as the village sleeps. The cabins are scattered everywhere and there seems to be little logic to the way they’re arranged. An outsider would probably think that the simple cabins of clay and palm leaves all look the same, but a cabin’s location in the village defines the standing of whoever lives in it. The closer a cabin is to the master’s house, the better the location. First come the house slaves, then the laundry women and the horse drivers. The field slaves live on the outer ring and that explains why their cabins seem to be built without any plan. A new housekeeping position means a new location, a place closer to the master. The senior elder’s cabin is the only exception. It occupies a central position next to the gathering space, the only place where fire can be lit at night without danger of setting the arid surrounding landscape ablaze, or worse, the other cabins.
A dim figure approaches and as he gets closer Tula recognises the unmistakable silhouette. Louis cautiously rests his hand on his friend’s shoulder and looks at him pityingly. Tula manages to force a smile and nods. They continue on their way in silence and as they turn the corner they see Speranza waiting by her cabin. She sees them approaching and runs to meet them. Speranza. Every time Tula sees her he can’t help thinking how incredible she looks. And he’s not the only one. Her looks managed to secure her a position as a house slave with the master and his family. She’s even been allowed to serve meals at the table, something set aside for the privileged few who also have access to the kitchen and get to share the leftovers with their own families.
‘What’s wrong, Tula?’ Speranza can see the injured look in Tula’s eyes. ‘Why are you so late? I was worried about you.’ Tula turns and shows her his back. Speranza’s eyes fill with tears.
‘What did they do to you? Why? Let me help you. Come inside, dushi, quickly.’
Louis tells her what happened that afternoon. He thought Tula was brave but should have know better. Whites don’t listen to field slaves. They never do. The only language they speak is violence. Louis suddenly pulls out a knife.
‘Put that away, Louis! Where did you get a knife? Have you lost your mind?’ Speranza glares at Louis with fear in her eyes and grabs him by the arm. ‘Not in my house, understand me? Not in my house.’ Louis tugs himself free.
‘Hey Tula.’ He positions himself inches from Tula’s face and stares his friend in the eye. ‘Let me know when you’re ready.’ He presses the point of the knife under Tula’s chin, just enough to hurt. ‘Ami ta kla awor!’
When Louis is gone Tula stretches out on his belly on the floor.
‘I’m feeling better. Rosita helped me. The pain will pass.’ Tula tells her what happened that afternoon down to the last detail.
‘You’re right, Tula, it’s unjust, but what can you do?’ Speranza responds.
‘I don’t know, not yet. But this can’t go on. It was already bad and now it’s getting even worse. If we put up with it, it’ll be the end of us. We can’t let that happen. They have to listen to us.’
‘Why don’t you try having a word with the priest. Maybe he can think of something. He’s white after all, and I’m sure he’ll listen to you.’
‘The priest is here on Sundays,’ Tula responds sullenly. ‘I have to work.’ But pride still glistens in his eyes and he’s secretly happy that he managed to catch such a warm intelligent woman as Speranza for himself. The priest. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? If anyone’s willing to listen it’s the priest. As long as Tula can remember, the priest has visited the plantation every Sunday without fail and all the people in the village were baptised by him. He’s a kind man, and he helped them all to understand that they would be rewarded in paradise in the hereafter. He told them they may not have been able to choose their life on earth, but its trials and tribulations wouldn’t be for nothing. Hadn’t the Lord Jesus died for their sins? Didn’t he live a life of affliction to open the doors of paradise for them too, the poor souls of this plantation?
The priest’s wise words are etched in Tula’s memory. With all his heart he had wanted the man of God to unite him and Speranza in holy matrimony. ‘Alas, it’s forbidden,’ the priest replied when Tula asked. ‘But don’t worry. In my prayers I’ll ask God for his blessing.’ Tula wanted to know why such a marriage was forbidden, but decided not to embarrass the priest with more questions. Speranza was his wife. That’s what mattered. She murmurs gently. He kisses her between her shoulder blades and can’t help thinking about the first time he ever laid eyes on her.
The listless road to San Juan meanders up and down between the hills of Bándabou. A cloud of dust follows the cart as it winds its lonely way through the arid valley.
‘Is it still far, Papi?’ Tula is sitting beside his father on the perch, excited. It’s the first time he’s been so far away from the plantation and he’s enjoying every minute. When they passed Santa Cruz on the way, they were stopped by a grumpy plantation overseer. Tula was terrified, but Jorboe didn’t seem to be bothered much. He handed the overseer a letter and the man responded with a stiff nod and gestured that they should continue on their way. Tula feels freer than he’s ever felt before. The very idea that he and his father can go wherever they want is just incredible, exhilarating.
After a sharp bend, the road dives into the dark contours of the manzanilla forest, an oasis of shade offering a rare but oh so welcome moment of respite from an otherwise merciless sun. Jorboe spurs the horse to pick up speed. A cool breeze blows across the perch. The clatter of the cartwheels is enough to drown out a conversation, but Tula is more than satisfied, sitting close to his father and enjoying every magnificent moment of their freedom. He slides closer and Jorboe turns to him, smiles, and throws an affectionate arm over his son’s shoulder. The say nothing for the rest of the journey, just sit in silence side by side.
When they arrive at San Juan, the unmistakable stench of urine hits them full on. The airless calm between the trees makes the dank air heavy and intense, almost impossible to breath. Tula struggles not to be sick. Jorboe skilfully manoeuvres the cart between the enormous barrels. Women with rags tied over their mouths and noses stir mechanically at the thick, yellow-green mush.
‘Indigo,’ says Jorboe with his hand over his mouth. ‘Thank God we don’t have to make that on our plantation.’ He stops the cart near the manor house. A man, white and stocky, descends from the porch and walks towards them. He holds out his hand, indicating that Jorboe should give him his papers.
‘Of course, yes,’ he mumbles softly. ‘One moment… Bastiaan!’ A young man roughly the same age as Tula comes running. ‘Bastiaan, take them to the barn. They’ll be collected later.’ He returns the letter to Jorboe and walks back to the house.
‘How’s your father these days, Bastiaan? Is that cough of his any better?’
‘Yes, mister Jorboe, a lot better thanks. Now he’s just sad that people from his village are being forced to leave.’
‘I understand,’ Jorboe answers. ‘But tell him they’ll be safe in my village. Hopefully that’ll reassure him a little. Do you know my son Tula?’
The boys exchange a friendly nod. ‘Bastiaan is the son of the senior elder here in San Juan. That makes you brothers,’ Jorboe continues. ‘I’m glad you finally had the chance to meet.’
A small group of slaves are lined up by the barn. The difference with the women back at the yard couldn’t be bigger. The slaves are washed and clean, almost polished, and seem completely out of place in the coarse surroundings.
‘Nine heads.’ The overseer’s voice sounds callous and hard. ‘Load them up and get back right away. You’re late already.’
‘Yes, master,’ Jorboe answers. He jumps from the perch and loosens the hinges of the tailboard at the back of the cart. Tula stays where he is, dumbstruck.
‘You too kid, get a move on.’ The impatient overseer slaps the side of the cart with his hand. Tula snaps to attention, jumps from the perch and hurries to the back of the cart to help his father. The people climb one by one into the back of the cart. ‘Jesus Christ, where is she this time? Afiba, how many times have I told you to keep your daughter with you? Where is she?’
‘I’m here.’ A slender figure appears from behind the barn. She wipes a lock of curly hair from her face with an innocent gesture.
‘Speranza, come here. This minute!’ Afiba turns to the bomba with an apologetic look on her face, but the man appears to have lost interest. Jorboe makes his way towards Speranza. ‘Come, let me carry you,’ he says, trying to be friendly. But Speranza pretends she doesn’t hear and walks past him unperturbed.
‘Would you mind?’ she says. ‘I could use a little help.’ Tula is rooted to the spot. ‘Eh but…’ His voice also lets him down in addition to his muscles. He extends a hesitant hand and helps her into the cart.
On the way back to Kenepa, Tula can’t keep his eyes off the girl in the cart and has to force himself not to keep looking back. Her long curly hair forms the perfect frame for her delicate face and caramel skin. Her eyes are light brown, close to green, and cheeky, taking in the passing world without inhibition.
A gentle nudge in the ribs brings Tula back to reality with a jolt. Jorboe shakes his head and laughs. Tula looks away, embarrassed, but he can still see Speranza out of the corner of his eye as she giggles with her mother.
V
The following morning, the penetrating peal of the slave bell resounds through the village. Speranza gets up every day before dawn to prepare breakfast for the family and is already gone when Tula wakes up and stretches. His back is stiff and still a little tender, but the burning sensation has disappeared thanks to Rosita’s healing balm.
As he steps outside his cabin he sees small groups of men and women making their way to the manor house and he joins the ever growing procession in silence. The slaves gather as always on the forecourt of the manor house to be given instructions on what has to be done that day. The bombas stand on the steps and divide up the work. Tula arrives with Quaku at his side and the pair are told to join a team of ten men charged with readying a reclaimed field for planting. It’s heavy work, mostly clearing stones, cutting away the thorny shrubs that grow all over the island, and loosening up the rocky soil. They pile up the stones at the side of the new field, forming a shallow wall that establishes its boundaries. The sky is cloudless, the sun blazing. There’s water to drink, but only a bare minimum. The men have little to say.
Tula and Quaku work side by side. Quaku has extra difficulty with this kind of hard labour, but it doesn’t seem to bother him and he does his level best to keep up with the others. Only the laborious wheezing of his lungs betrays his discomfort. After a while he’s finally forced to give up and rest for a while, saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth. Tula heads towards him.
‘Don’t sit down, Quaku. If you want to rest just walk between us, lean low, take your time and do nothing. But whatever you do, don’t sit down.’
‘What’s going on over there?’ The bomba’s thunderous voice resounds across the field.
‘It’s nothing, just a splinter, master,’ Tula responds. ‘It’s already taken care of.’
Quaku struggles to his feet and hobbles between the other men, doing his best to stay out of the bomba’s sight. His heart is pounding wildly, but it slows down little by little until he more or less recovers his calm.
By the time the men take a break around midday and seek refreshment in the shadow of the trees, Quaku is on the mend. He’s managed to drink something and eat some maize porridge, which has restored his energy. Tula is worried about his little brother: ‘Are you alright, Quaku?’
Quaku nods enthusiastically. ‘Bon bon,’ he says with a smile. Tula smiles too in response.
‘Good to hear, brother. Hold on just a little longer. You’ve made it halfway already. I’m proud of you.’
The whistle sounds and the men return to the field.
‘Quaku!’ The bomba is suddenly standing right in front of him. ‘I’ve got a different job for you.” He points off into the distance. ‘Do you see that wall over there? It’s much too far from the path. Take it down and rebuild it closer.’ Quaku stares at the overseer in confusion.
‘Is there something you don’t understand? Get a move on!’
Quaku drags himself in despair towards the pile of stones, grabbing one and throwing it as far as he can in the direction of the path.
‘Not like that,’ the bomba yells. ‘Just pick up a couple of stones together and start piling them up closer to the path.’ Quaku grabs a couple of stones and limps off.
Tula can see his younger brother from the field struggling with the heavy stones. He cups his hands around his mouth and sings at the top of his voice: ‘Aunke mi ta kamna den vaye di sombra di morto, lo mi no tin miedu di nada’.
Quaku turns in surprise and looks towards his brother. ‘Pasobra Abo ta ku mi,’ he sings in response.
The other men join in: ‘El Señor es mi pastor, nada ta faltami.’
Their song echoes across the broad and dusty valley and they move to its rhythm. When Tula’s group reaches the other side of the field, he turns and sees Quaku in the distance hobbling back and forth. His face is deathly pale, his heart pounding. He picks up another stone from the wall with all the strength he can muster, but when he turns towards the path his legs refuse to follow. He buckles over then falls over on his back.
Quaku!
Tula runs from the field towards his brother and finds him slumped on the ground. He grabs him under the arms and tries to right him, but Quaku just hangs in Tula’s arms and doesn’t react.
‘Yuda mi!’
Tula’s desperate cry for help is met with a glare of contempt from the bomba. The other slaves are too afraid to offer help and continue with their work. Tula runs to the bomba and tears the water bottle from his belt. He pours water over his brother’s face, but Quaku doesn’t react. The water washes over his chin and disappears into the ground. Tula slaps him in the face with the palm of his hand, but to no avail. Quaku’s rasping breath judders to a halt and he glides lifeless from Tula’s arms. Tula races towards the manor house, screaming at the top of his voice in desperation.
VI
The simple funeral in the slave cemetery is attended by two armed bombas, Caspar van Uytrecht, the former master of the plantation, and his son Willem.
Tula glares at his masters and cries out in despair: ‘Why…? How long does this have to last?’
The men pretend not to hear him and smirk at each other unobtrusively when one of the slaves almost falls over as he slowly lowers Quaku’s body into the grave with the help of three others.
After the funeral the slaves share their sorrow around a massive campfire, their doleful singing filling the moonless night. Tula is standing with Jorboe out of the light of the fire. The old man stares at the flames, visibly shaken.
‘We have to talk to them, father. I find it hard to believe that the boss in the city knows anything about what’s going on, let alone approves of it. He has to be told and I have to tell him.’
‘So what were you thinking of doing? Paying him a friendly visit? Forget it, boy, put it out of your head.’ The old man sits on his heels and stares at the fire with Tula standing at his side. Both are trying to stifle their grief. Tula thinks back to childhood days with his little brother.
‘You’re taking him with you and that’s that.’ Rosita is standing in front of the cabin, legs akimbo, hands on hips. ‘But mama…,’ Tula protests. ‘We’re going fishing. What
if he falls in the water?’
‘Just make sure he doesn’t. You’re big enough not to be fooling around. And I don’t want to find out you left him with one of your girlfriends like the last time. He’s so happy when he gets to tag along with his big brother.’
‘Yes, mam.’ Tula walks outside in a huff. ‘Get a move on, Quaku, we’re leaving.’
A cheerful Quaku skips ahead of his big brother along the sandy path leading down to the sea.
‘We have to pick up Louis first. It’s this way, Quaku.’
But Quaku doesn’t hear him. He hops along the path singing ‘Nos ta piskadó’ at the top of his voice. Tula watches him go and shakes his head. The boy isn’t fast on his feet, he thinks, so he decides to collect Louis first and then catch up with his little brother.
Louis is already waiting for him on a bench in front of his cabin.
‘What kept you? The sun is almost up. If we don’t hurry they’ll leave us behind.’
‘My brother…,’ Tula begins to explain.
‘Never mind. Let’s get moving.’
Louis takes to his heels and before Tula is aware of it his friend has disappeared out of sight around a bend in the path. Tula sighs and gives chase, but he reaches the brow of the hill his attention is drawn to a group of children laughing and cavorting in the mondi below. He recognises Willem, the master’s son, and a couple of his friends, limping exaggeratedly, shouting ‘Nnnos ta… Nos ta pppiskadó’, and falling about with laughter. Quaku! Where’s Quaku? He picks up the pace and races to the beach.
‘You made it, finally?’ Louis sneers.
‘Quaku,’ Tula wheezes. ‘Have you seen Quaku?’
‘If you would just get a move on we would all be on time. Quaku’s already waiting in the boat. What’s all the fuss about?’
Louis shakes his head and dives into the water. Tula dives after him and they swim out to the little fishing boat.
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