Blonde Roots

by Bernardine Evaristo

  The women concurred with a chorus of Dat’s right and Yes’m.

  Hang on a minute—who were the Maroons?

  “Come-now.” Ye Memé led me away by the arm. “We’ll go bak home an brew some nyice tea wid fresh molasses to mek it sweet-sweet.”

  We began to walk back to her hut.

  She—straight-backed, loose-hipped, soft-kneed, so that she bobbed and floated, even with the basket of bananas on her head.

  Me—stiff-hipped, awkward.

  While we walked, Ye Memé warned me to watch what I said in company, even among the ladies. Did I notice that Lyani wore a silver chain?

  “Well, sumbuddy wid-a lotta-lotta monee must-a give it her, which probablee onlee mean one purson—Evil Inkarnate Hisself, Massa Rotimi. An I don’t trust dat Olunfunlayaro eever. All-a-we look afta dat gyal becorze a-fore her mudder ded we promise. But tings so bad on dis here plantashun, sum folk do anyting to get favar wid de massas an she wurk up at de house. So be cyaful what come out yu mowt, yu hear?”

  I did hear, but I had to pluck up the courage to ask about the Maroons. Ye Memé would read between the lines.

  “So, Miss Omo, yu nyot let dat one rest?”

  “I can’t.” I was surprised that my reply came out with no negotiation in it.

  “Well, all right den. Just dis once. Maroon is runaway dat live free ina de hills long time. Folk say sum settelment goin bak almost one hundrid year. De massas hate dem becorze dem rade plantashun an burn crop, steel animal an farm tools. Hambush folk on de road too. Most a-dose dat run away to join dem is new slaves, com drektly frum Europa, and cyant stand dis plantashun life. Anyhows, as I told yu a-fore, most a-dem runaway git kort an git ponished, so why budder, enh?”

  She turned to look at me, but I kept my eyes on the lane ahead, swallowing hard.

  “Beside, yu skinnie self nyot last out in de forest one nite an even if yu find Maroon camp, which is hiley unlikely, dem nyot accept wooman like yu. Mi hear dey want strong men an yung breedin woman an dem iz suzpishus of strange runaway. Any-ways, I need yu here wid me becorze yu mi frend. Dis yur home now. Git uzed to it, like me. Dis mi home, betta or wurz. Onlee one I know.”

  Ye Memé, the feistiest woman I’d ever known, had admitted that she needed me, and now I knew for sure that there was indeed a route to freedom on this sorry island in the middle of nowhere surrounded by sharks.

  I couldn’t ask her how to escape, though, not then, and deep down I knew I wasn’t yet ready to run the risk of suicide, because it was either freedom or that. I’d never let those bastards flog me ever again.

  If I could help it.

  Instead I asked if she knew of anyone who had joined the Maroons.

  “A few. Magik iz one dat reach dem. He com from ova da wata long time ago, same place as yu. Beaten-up bad-bad like yu too. A melankoli fella, but oh bwoy, dat man so tall an criss an respecful all-a de wooman fall fe him, but he fall fe none-a-dem. Not even Ba Beduwa git her vampish claws into him an dat sayin sumting! Him put to wurk strate off in feelds a-fore dem realize him karpenter an he sent to wurk up at de big house afta dat.

  “Sundays him carve tings fe folk in de quarter an don’t charge nuttin but just aks to join famlees fer dinner. Yu see how we all love dat man? Magik, we call him. Magik Fingas, becorze everyting he mek so bootifal. Den, soon as he feel betta he just tek off. Four year later he return on rade as leeder of group-a Maroons call demself Maroon Guerrilla Armee.

  “See dat bench yu sit on in mi yard? One dat heavy an shinee an simmetrikal an look like it goin last ferever? Magik mek it. Yes, Magik! One in a millyan man. We all miss him, still.”

  “What was his real name?” I asked, my voice so measured the sentence came out as flat-lined.

  Ye Memé rummaged around in her mind before replying, “Mi cyant recall if I ever did hear it.”

  WE WERE NEARING HER HUT—our home.

  “Lookee-hear, Omo-dear.” She stopped to set down her basket and turned to me. “I been meaning to aks yu dis. I want mi bwoy Yao to have more storee in his hed dan what go round in mine about dis damn place, which, kwite franklee, give mi flamin hedake all de time! Yao will neva git outa dis hellhole exept to be sold to some odder plantashun, but de wurld out dere will get into his hed if yu help him reed an rite. I have contakt in de big house who will git book fe me.

  “Den yu can help de odder pikney too when dey get older an can keep sekrit. Dat why yu stay in mi yard lawng time. Furz, dem always send newcomer to me to look afta becorze I iz boss-woman, but den mi feel so sorree fer yu when yu come ina de mill, so mawga an mizerabel an unda fizzikal suffrance, dat mi decide a-tek yu on. Now yu git betta, yu must mek world bigga fe mi pikney. Hagree?”

  It would be a rebellious act. The masters didn’t want literate slaves. Yet I had been taught by Little Miracle, and not only got away with it, but it had been to my advantage.

  Of course I would teach Yao and maybe, some day, it might be to his too.

  In any case, how could I refuse?

  It was payback time.

  I was glad to earn my keep.

  LOLLI, YE MEMÉ’S YOUNGEST, was outside the hut holding hands with some playmates while skipping in a circle singin—“Ringa ringa roza, Pokat fulla poza, A-tizzoo, a-tizzoo, We all fall down”—whereupon they all collapsed on the ground in hysterics. Upon seeing us, Lolli jumped up and charged, leaping into her mother’s arms, letting her sweep her up and throw her so high into the air that she squealed, knowing that when her mother caught her it would be with large, safe hands.

  Lolli had sun-kissed ginger curls, freckles and lime-green disks for eyes, which started spinning when her mother planted wet, noisy smackers on her cheeks, neck, stomach, bare arms, her tiny legs. All the while Lolli was squeaking, “Do more, Mama, do more!”

  Even in hell there was such love.

  The hole that my children had left and Frank had once filled never felt more hollow than at that moment.

  As I was coming alive, my memories of what I had lost became more acute.

  It was so long since I had been loved by another that I couldn’t imagine ever being loved again.

  A BALM IN GILEAD

  A hand beat slowly against a goatskin drum. A second drum went against the beat. A third added to the mix and then a fourth and a fifth until suddenly tambourines began to crash and rattle all around me, the demented bow of a fiddle leaped and scratched, sticks ran up and down the wooden pegs of a xylophone, and the sound of a buffalo horn blasted long, bombastic flattened notes until the whole cave resounded with the truncated rhythms and rib-rattling reverberations of Aphrika.

  The congregation got into the spirit too, flinging their arms and legs all over the place, as if wet, heavy rope had replaced muscle and bone. People spun on the spot, heads rotating faster than the bodies to which they were (theoretically) attached, and everyone broke out into a babble of tongues—the product of overactive imaginations (if you ask me) rather than divine intervention : “Ferttia! Amanop! Agapopopop! Tububibi! Lelelele! Lawqum! Papzaraz! Peetimo! Chewe! Ququq! Bbezaal!”—and so on and so forth.

  There was so much noise in the cave it must have been heard all the way from the overseers’ quarters up to the Great House, which, I quickly understood, was the whole point.

  It was my first Sunday morning at the shrine, and amid the ruckus of this lively communal therapy session I stood tight-lipped. I had always pretended to talk in tongues at Ambossan services but as this shrine was only used by whytes, with none of the blak masters present, I didn’t have to. All that rhythm and vitality was simply too nerve-racking and exhausting at any time of the day, let alone first thing in the morning.

  It hit me just how much I longed for the good, old-fashioned church organ of my homeland: the drawn-out mumble and rumble of its pipes, which produced the kind of somber, soothing music the Ambossans despised, but which I, nonetheless, considered to be the sound of the soul of my people.

  I missed it.

  Carved deep into the hil
lside next to the Dong River Falls, the cavernous shrine had painted wooden effigies of the gods inserted onto rocky ledges and murals painted onto walls. Embroidered cloths hung as tapestries. On the altar were bundles of dried herbs, heaps of powdered glass, phials of rum, plaits of hair, chalk, stones, bananas, palm wine in gourds, candles.

  The high priest was a slave called Father O’Reilly (we sometimes got away with it), who wore a flap of colored beads and a headdress of three tall plumes. White pointillist dots were speckled all over his tanned, hairless, lithe body. He’d just delivered a sermon in the melodramatic oratory of the Ambossans, his tremulous voice oscillating among at least three octaves: from a belly-rumbling lower register to the more hysterical nasal shrieks of his head voice. He preached how the Great God Obulattanga had molded humans out of clay and, when he had completed the task, gave them to the equally Great God Olaranjo, who brought them to life through breath.

  His speech was perforated by the enthusiastic cries—“Praise be de Arishans! and Tell it like it iz, Fadder O!”—of the righteous standing around me.

  It never ceased to shock me that people believed these stories to be a true and accurate rendition of how we humans came into being. Granted, my own religion featured disconnected ribs and talking snakes, but at least we began life as a human part, not as flipping clay statues.

  I stood with Ye Memé and her brood at the front, Lolli’s warm hand fidgeting about in mine like a trapped little mouse.

  Ye Memé appeared to speak in tongues too, trying to project such uncharacteristic piety (head dropped, shoulders sloped forward) that I had to suppress giggles from rising to the surface. She didn’t entirely convince as one of the humble devout.

  Sweet Amadoma had sewn a white Sunday outfit for me—a lovely, floaty, feminine blouse that covered up my disgusting, butchered back, and the kind of ankle-length, swishy gathered skirt worn by the ladies to Percy’s balls up at Montague Manor back home. I hadn’t worn a skirt since I’d begun my new career as a slave, and what with my shaved head covered up by a pretty cream headscarf, I looked, for the first time in years, I admit, quite fetching. Going into the service I had even received one or two admiring glances.

  Amadoma had also sewn a new Sunday outfit for Ye Memé, patterned with the orange crest of the bird-of-paradise plant embroidered around the border. Earlier in the week she had approached the stoop, almost tripping over it, hugging the bundle of material to her chest. Ye Memé and I had been enjoying the last few hours of a Sunday evening, the bloodsucker sun finally going down over the mountain having drained us of every ounce of moisture.

  The children were playing Wha de time, Mista Wolfee? over by the silk cotton tree.

  “Oh! Anudder one?” Ye Memé had exclaimed. “Why, tank-yu kindly, Likkle Miss Amadoma.”

  Amadoma then rolled off down the lane with the slow, satisfied demeanor of a mission accomplished, hands crossed over her stomach. It was as if delivering her gift was enough. Ye Memé was unreadable, but when she saw me sneakily observing her (as was my wont), she slipped into a lopsided grin and rolled her eyes into a Wha cyan mi do, enh?

  Now back at the shrine, Father O‘Reilly suddenly ceased his preachifying, turned his back on the congregation, dipped into a basket, draped himself in a white cassock with a large red and gold cross appliquéd onto the front, and strung a rosary of red coral beads from his neck. I heard the shrine doors shut and looked behind to see them barring it with a plank of wood. A boy stepped out of the congregation, gave the priest an effigy of Christ on a wooden cross, lit a chalice filled with incense and returned to the suddenly stilled crowd, swaying the chalice as he wandered among us.

  It was the bitter, heavy scent of myrrh that I hadn’t smelled for so long I almost fainted when it was whisked directly underneath my nose. It was heavenly. For a moment I was back singing “Loving Shepherd of Thy Sheep” accompanied by the old organist Mr. Braithwaite inside the damp chapel at St. Michael’s Church, surrounded by a family I’d taken for granted until I lost them.

  The high priest started to recite a prayer that the congregation knew by heart. His voice quieter, manner serene.

  In de name of de Fadder an de Son an de Holee Gost.

  O mi Gahd, I glad to be here in dis place at mass an I iz veree sorree to sin against yu an by de help o-yur grace I will nyot sin again.

  Dear Jesu, have mercee on all de poor peepals who hav neva heard yur name.

  I love yu above all tings. Aaah-mi!

  The priest produced a chunk of cornbread in a bowl, offered it to the crucifix.

  Dear Hevenly Fadder, please accept dis here bred which iz goin becom we Lord body. I offer yu all mi joy an all mi sorrow. Aaah-mi!

  He poured some palm wine and water into a goblet and offered this too to the crucifix.

  Ye Memé’s voice rose above mine, loud and sanctimonious, and I couldn’t help but recall how often I’d heard my dear friend whisper through gritted teeth, “Iz dere a Gahd on dis island, Miss Omo? Iz dere? Well, mi neva see him, mi neva heer him, an him neva help me wid nuttin.”

  Dear Hevenly Fadder, I pray dat mi offerin become a part-a we Lord‘s, jus as de drop-a water now a-part-a de wine, which soon change into preshus blud. Aaah-mi!

  I got into the spirit too:

  “Lord Jesus, present within me, I adore you. I thank you for coming to me. Help me and all your children to keep close to you.”

  After all these years I found myself praying in a public place of worship to my own God.

  “Dear Lord, thank you for all your graces at mass. Help me to remember them when I leave church and go home. Help me to be in all things, at work and at play, a true child of our Father in heaven.

  “Dear Jesus, bless us all, now and always. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. Thanks be to God, Amen.”

  (P.S. And please help me to find a way to escape, ASAP. Thanks!)

  Then the drums started up again, the doors were opened and the congregation resumed its noisy convulsions.

  MOST SUNDAYS AFTER THE SERVICE I taught Yao to write, using a slate and chalk.

  Classes began with the Ambossan numbering system of addition, subtraction and multiplication—all to express one simple number, which I had learned, with great difficulty, while handling Bwana’s accounts. It was more complicated than the counting system I’d known, the 10s, 20s, 30s of back home, and Bwana had scoffed to hear me count thus, like I was a backward child, he said, typical of my genus who cannot comprehend basic arithmetic.

  The Ambossan number 12, for example, is expressed as 20 minus 5 minus 3. The number 45 is expressed as 20 times 3 minus 10 minus 5. The number 525 is 200 times 3 minus 20 minus 50 minus 5.

  Yao was hungry for any activity that exercised more than the muscles in his body. He didn’t need to be cajoled into study; he understood the luxury of an education. No exercise brought complaints, no class was too long, there was no whining such as Dis too borin, Auntie Omo. Instead, my model student was excited at the new thoughts coming into his head, making it feel bigger, he said.

  Counting up to 40,000 may have been a mouthful (10 times 2,000 in two ways), but he soon mastered it. As he did the Ambossan alphabet, consisting of 150 characters. It was really quite easy, once you’d learned it by heart.

  We sat side by side on the floor inside the tiny, claustrophobic hut for two hours until noon, the other kids banished, the door closed, sweltering, the hatch ajar to let in streaks of sunlight that radiated on the clusters of his knotted golden hair as he applied himself, head down, to the lesson at hand. I stroked his curls as he worked, untangled them or wrapped them around my fingers, remembering that I had a son of my own, somewhere, out there.

  And two daughters.

  I discovered that I was a natural, patient teacher, enjoying passing on what I knew so that one day, perhaps, this child could do something useful with it—for our people.

  As his brain cells multiplied, I watched him grow in confidence, assume a knowingness that mad
e him stand out—perhaps a little too much. Yao was already a striking child, tall for his age, like his mother, with a back not yet bent by cane and a spirit as yet unbroken.

  Sunday afternoons Ma Marjani came over to ours to teach me to cook food New Ambossan style, at the behest of Ye Memé, who was always busy tending to the allotment and washing her kids.

  Ma Marjani was raising Ye Meme’s son Dingiswayo as her own—a strapping eleven-year-old, with a stubby-blond brush that ran the length of his shaved head. He strutted about the quarter in a pair of outsized, hand-me-down cotton pants worn so that the waist hung (somehow) beneath his bum. It was in poor imitation of the local teenage troublemakers who walked with an exaggerated, determined, lopsided limp, arms swinging. I always thought they looked like drunken conscripts marching to war, trying to appear sober, or punch-drunk ones returning home from the front line. They’d grab the bulge in their crotches sporadically, and give it a good squeeze too, presumably to check it was still there.

  How many times did I hear Ye Memé say within earshot of these boys who had commandeered the silk cotton tree and were trying to intimidate all passersby:

  “Jus tink how dose great slave rebels of de past must be turning ina de grave to see dis lot. Dey rise up to lead rebellion against de massas on dese islands an giv demselves good, solid, historical nik-name like Willyam Konkara or King Alfred, nyot stoopidness like Bad Bwoy, Totallee Kross or Machete Monsta like dat lot ova dere. Dose boy pikney intent on self-destrukshun, like dem have powa, but wurz kinda powa, violent one. Miss Omo. It so sad, enh?”

  Then she’d shout out, “Sumbuddy should send fe dem fadders an tell em to clip de damn earhole of dose eeedyots!”

  Ye Memé’s younger children sprinted toward the cool older brother they saw only on a Sunday when he walked up the lane with the silly swagger that made men smile wistfully and women shake their heads at the sight of another aspiring gigolo. Sitting on the stoop with the little ones gathered at his feet, he showed them the blade he’d bound with twine with which he could kill and gut a crocodile—“Yes, mi do it! Like dis so!” Pretending to be a mythical hero he felled the beast again and again for the benefit of his rapt audience.