Blonde Roots

by Bernardine Evaristo

His horse kicked up the ground with a hind leg, shook its mane, sneezed phlegm right into my face and, if that wasn’t bad enough, proceeded to graze my lips with its huge, wet, flared, rubbery, smelly nostrils. I had to stand there and take it (even a horse had more status than me), while its passenger struggled to make a sentence come out of his mouth.

  He produced vomit instead.

  Gunge dripped down his bare chest like porridge.

  Christ! He was drunk as a skunk when it was still, by the sun’s reckoning, only ten o‘clock.

  He slumped over, head level with his mare’s.

  With conspiratorial familiarity, he slurred thickly, as if his mouth was still full of bile, “Look you, the interfering old sod is on his way here for a surprise visit accompanied by that smarmy, smart-arse brother of mine, Bamweasel. Since my holier-than-thou bookkeeper has absconded back to Londolo and been telling tales out of school, you, our naughty little runaway, will immediately relocate to the Great House to sort out my ledgers so that they are shipshape and Bristol fashion when the old sod arrives. Otherwise, he’ll have my guts for garters and I’ll have yours. Understood?”

  He thumped the mare, which about-turned and cantered off, its long, shapely legs kicking up the soil with bespoke, U-shaped shoes.

  HIDDEN BEHIND A PARADE of conifers and reached via a long driveway lined with logwoods, the wall of the Great Compound was painted with the most audacious geometric symbols layered onto each other: triangles, squares, circles, hexagons, pentagons, stars. Embedded in the images were tiny versions of the evil-eye motif of the ancient sun god Horus.

  Interspersed with these were picturesque “naive” paintings of daily life on the plantation:

  Head-wrapped slave women strolled down flowery lanes in Sunday-best whites twirling lacy parasols.

  There we were singing our hearts out with an eye-rolling passion at the temple.

  Or lazing on the banks of the Dong River smoking clay pipes.

  And our children danced around a maypole with giddy smiles plastered all over their rosy-cheeked little faces.

  All this in such an attention-grabbing array of colors that I almost got a headache just looking at it. There was garish yellow boiled from marigold; reddish-orange boiled from bloodroot; bright purple boiled from mulberries; various shades of green from spinach, grass and red-onion skin; pastel pink from roses; screaming-red from cherries; black from charcoal; white from slaked lime.

  Statues of the gods were mounted on top of the wall in between giant, white-painted clay balls.

  The wall was intended to both display wealth and inspire awe in the workforce. I recognized the distinctive artwork rendered by Ndebele artists who would have been brought in from Aphrika to do the job.

  As I walked around the wall of the compound to the back entrance, I tried to digest what was happening to me now. It was midmorning and yours truly wasn’t bent over with a machete in her hand—so no complaints there. Whether I would return to the quarter that night or sleep in the compound, I didn’t know. I couldn’t think about when I’d see Ye Memé and the kids or Qwashee again, and I certainly couldn’t entertain the thought of seeing Bwana again—so I blocked them all out.

  I looked back down the drive, across the lush, green, rain-nurtured meadows and over to the cane fields so far in the distance you couldn’t see or hear the workers and beyond that to the mountains. Up here among the gods, where the only sounds were of the parakeets and macaws, was a view so breathtaking, so removed from the beleaguered population in the valley below, that one could feel so spiritually elevated one could convince oneself one was in the Garden of Eden.

  King Shaka was waiting for me at the back gate, his eyebrows arched in the style of Well! Yu iz a dark horse, ain’t it. He told me to follow him to a pump in one of the courtyards where I had to scrub up behind a screen and put on a clean wrappa.

  Then he led me into the whitewashed main residence with its palm-thatched roof and white-painted wooden veranda, which surrounded the whole house, parlor palms placed either side of the totem-carved doorways.

  “Massa Nonso sleepin,” he said.

  This time he raised a single eyebrow.

  “Everybawdee must be kwiet. Come, mi show yu what a-do.”

  My naked feet squeaked down the corridors across the parquet strips of highly buffed floor. The smell of beeswax commingled with the saccharine fruitiness of vanilla-scented candles, which floated in silver bowls of water placed on round, marble-topped, single-stemmed console tables, their gold-leaf cabriole legs on mounts made of leaping golden fish, no less.

  As we walked toward the front of the house, the shadows of the domestic slaves flickered in open doorways but no one showed themselves. The soothing bouquet of bougainvillea swept through from the open windows of the rooms inside, and muslin curtains blew in the breezy whirr of fans suspended from the ceiling by shiny brass hubs.

  As I passed the kitchen, situated in an annex to the right, I was struck by the intense, nutty aroma of Green Mountain coffee beans being roasted and rattled on a metal tray. It transported me back three thousand miles to Bwana’s house in Londolo, where sacks of the stuff were imported every year to satisfy the family’s caffeine habit. I used to help myself to the cold, oily dredges in his morning cup.

  King Shaka mooched ahead. I followed him. At the end of a corridor, he dropped down a step to unlock Nonso’s narrow office door. Inside was a small chapel of a room, stuffy and unventilated. Disturbed by the fresh air, dust particles swirled all over the place, making me sneeze and cough as they swept into my nostrils.

  The room was crammed with shelves and cabinets. On the wooden floor were papers that had been ripped up, scrawled over, coffee-stained, crushed into balls, even made into models of birds that had failed their flight test and crashed to the ground.

  In the middle of the room was a mahogany desk whose four legs ended in elephant’s paws.

  On top of it were the plantation ledgers and a huge pile of papers.

  King Shaka waved his hand around the room and said, “Sort it out. Bwana send letta sayin him comin. Soon reach.”

  He swayed back down the corridor with a stiff back that knew it was being watched.

  At the end he turned around.

  “Mi cyant wate till him daddee git here an bust his arse!”

  I heard him chuckle as his feet padded back through the hushed house.

  I WAS ALONE.

  That hadn’t happened for years.

  I began to clear up the detritus, starting with the desk.

  Soon enough I came upon a stash of letters from Bwana to Nonso.

  Dear Son of Your Father,

  Trust you and the family are in fine fettle. Joyous salutations to dear Salmé and the children. Your mother sends her best regards also, as does our prodigal son, Bamwoze. Yes, indeed, you will be pleasantly surprised to learn that we, as a family, are now reconciled with your miscreant brother after his wayward dalliance with that half-breed.

  Bamwoze and I jest about his youthful rebellion these days, chuckling over a tumbler or two of that finest white over-proof from the estate. This we partake of in my study most evenings as the sun goes down over the city, man to man. I confess that my heart is gladdened to have our erstwhile dissenter now soaking up the wisdom of his elderly father with due respect.

  I have decided that the disgrace Bamwoze brought upon our great family has been consigned to the annals of history. You, therefore, will make space in your heart to forgive him too, although as well I remember, you were the most vociferous in declaring that we should banish him and any of his future offspring from the clan in perpetuity.

  His aberration is to be dwelled upon no more.

  To make amends, he has agreed to marry a delightfully placid and, I must say, very winsome young girl called Adiba. One of the daughters, you may recall, of my business associate, Chief Ezanaka, the CEO of Baringso’s Bank.

  Now that Bamwoze is of sound mind again, I have persuaded him, with no addition
al inducements whatsoever, to relocate to Home Sweet Home after marriage to join you in the management of the estate, anticipating no inconvenience to yourself, naturally. In these trying times two at the helm is better than one, you will agree, and, with complementing qualities, the pair of you will make a fine team. (Now, now, no squabbles. You are both grown men!)

  You, Nonso, are possessed of a quite remarkable enthusiasm and what we can pleasantly describe as incredible potential. Bamwoze, on the other hand, shall bring to the business partnership a sharpness of intellect, impressive eloquence, an authoritative bearing and, of utmost importance, a (renewed) mastery of social etiquette that will maintain, nay improve, relations with our neighbors, for we must depend on each other in times of uprisings.

  Not a day passes that we do not hear of slave revolts on the various West Japanese Islands, in particular the vicious rebellious forces on the island of Haiti, where our people have been the victims of what can only be described as a genocide, and those evil Maroon terrorists on New Ambossa are always ready to jump down from the trees to slit a poor man’s throat as he goes about his everyday business. Have you had any trouble from them lately?

  One is particularly cautioned by the stories one hears about the original terrorists, the Mongolo indigenes, Carawak or Arib or whatever they called themselves. They were similarly bellicose, treacherous and bloodthirsty when Man first arrived, although our hardy predecessors succeeded with much effort in eliminating the problem. Bone idle as the wiggers they were too, when brought from barbarity to neo-humanity and required to put in a good day’s work for their supper for a change.

  Such a cautionary tale is in the forefront of everyone’s minds, and you will be glad to know that plans are afoot to send troops to the island to mount a full-scale war against the current crop of subversives. Eradicate the pesky critturs once and for all.

  Enough! Enough!‘ Tis too depressing!

  On a more agreeable note, Blessing, naturally, is delighted that her “Bamzy-woo” is back embosomed where he belongs. In truth, it pleases me to see her mood improved again. Your mother deteriorated terribly these past few years pining for her little “Bamzy-woo.” Nothing worse than a sour-faced old woman traipsing around the house muttering to herself, eh?

  But with lightness in my heart, I declare that those dark days are over!

  I look forward to the estate audits in three months’ time, as usual.

  Drop me a line or two. A few words will suffice. Know you are a busy man.

  Your Loving Father

  KKK

  P.S. Trust Iffianachukwana is as robust as ever. I do worry about her. Don’t want to lose her. Make sure she is looked after, son. Oh hush. I know, I know, your father is such an old softie.

  P.P.S. Shhh, don’t tell your mother!

  Dear Son,

  It is with some consternation that I am forced to inquire as to what, exactly, is happening on my plantation. Djenaba sailed into Doklanda from New Ambossa yesterday, whereupon he immediately hurtled by carriage through the city to inform me that his position as bookkeeper had become untenable working under your office. Indeed, so untenable he was afraid to write me of the current “situation” until he had departed the island, for fear of unpredictable behavior from yourself. What, pray, is happening on my estate? I inquired, after I had calmed him down with one of my finest Codiba cigars. Thus refreshed he was able to inform me that you appear to have lost your way, somewhat. Rum for breakfast, lunch and supper? Surely not, I replied. Ten of my workforce deceased in one month alone? How come? Gambling at table, with my profits? ‘Tis not true! I protested.

  Nonso is neither a drinker nor a gambler, I avowed, determined to protect the reputation of my eldest son. A disciplinarian? Of course, but not to the detriment of the business. The Katamba men are honorable and decent and the lad has always been mindful of my maxim—Punish to deter or reprimand, but take life only as a final solution.

  I am loath to admit, however, that Djenaba was entirely convincing.

  Dear son, I await your reassurance without delay.

  Your Concerned Father

  Nonso,

  Took the liberty of writing to Chief Tembi over at Worthy Park Estate with a request that he personally ride over to tell you that your father is awaiting a reply from his correspondence. This, he assures me, he carried out to the letter, and you, apparently, assured him you would respond forthwith.

  Yet nothing.

  Whatever you are up to, it’s not too late to make amends. Show some respect and get in touch; otherwise I will have to take drastic action. My small stock of patience is fast running out.

  Father

  Boy,

  You always were a sullen little tyke, weren’t you? Now is not the time for sulking or hiding away.

  I have not been to the island for three years. Methinks it’s time for a little visit, don’t you?

  Congratulations are in order, by the way. Emblazoned across the front page of yesterday’s Morning News was a cartoon of

  NONSO KATAMBA ELDEST SON OF CHIEF KAGA KONATA KATAMBA I

  You were lampooned as the most despicable kind of planter-vulgarian—inebriated, gambling, unrefined, lecherous and stupid.

  That you have shamed me thus.

  Be aware that Bamwoze and I shall be arriving in four weeks on the Demerara Dream. Have the master bedroom prepared and be prepared to face your maker—me.

  Bwana was only days away. What was I going to do?

  First I had to clear up the office, checking every darned piece of paper trashed about the place in case it contained important information. When I came across a pile of paper thrown into a corner scrunched into balls, all of them scrawled with the mantra I HATE DADDY! I HATE MUMMY! I HATE BAMZY-WOO! I almost fell about laughing. Like, get over it, Nonso, you tosser, toppled out of my mouth just before I saw the man himself appear in the doorway like a propped-up corpse: sober, ashen, a silver satin wrappa that was slung so low over his almost child-bearing hips, tiny coils of black pubes showed.

  An excess of expensive aftershave flooded the room, drowning its mustiness. I recognized its unmistakable mix, favored by Londolo’s rich young gadabouts, as cedarwood, musk and the acid surprise of grapefruit.

  “Amused, are we?”

  Nonso had lost his fast, edgy, city-boy voice and adopted the droll, languorous mumble of the planters, as if the act of speaking was simply too, too tedious.

  I shook my head as vigorously as a child caught out in a lie.

  “Is our naughty little runaway going to let her master in on the joke?”

  I didn’t move an inch. Burning up. Not brave. Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit-shiiiiiit!

  But instead of the eruption of anger I expected, he sounded resigned.

  “It seems not. No one lets me in on anything. No one cares about that silly chap called Nonso who has so much potential he’s been left to rot away in this godforsaken hellhole with the savage bush nipping at his ankles and the workers biding their time before they come for him in his sleep with a machete to chop him up and barbecue him as choice tenderloin pieces.”

  WE, OR RATHER HE, fell into silence. A silence noisy with the buzz of bees sucking at the pollen of the bougainvillea at the window and the ack! ack! of parakeets in the trees outside. A silence so palpable the very walls seemed to be whispering. A silence that is never comfortable for a slave, when her master has stopped talking, yet continues to eyeball his possession.

  But it wasn’ t threatening with Nonso. It was almost as if he was trying to connect, or reconnect, to something.

  He lumbered toward me, tilted my chin up with the palm of his hands and forced me to confront his dunglike eyes—the only part of his chubby, boyish face that showed signs of growing into adulthood. Although they hadn’t matured, exactly, but diseased.

  “Oh, please, don’t be petrified of Nonso the Monster or whatever they call me. How else am I going to control a workforce of six hundred on my lonesome own-some? I have feelings too, you know,
it’s just that I can’t show them or I’ll be taken advantage of by the masses. Forgive my earlier abruptness; it wasn’t me but the drink. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say?

  “Anyway, fear not because I’m sure I suckled at your breast and you sucked the snot out of my nose with your mouth or some equally vile nanny-type thing when I was an infant and my mother was too busy shopping for diamond-studded nose-rings or platinum lip-plates or gold lame headscarves to bother looking after her firstborn. Besides, until you did a runner, the family thought of you with some affection, you’ll be fascinated to hear. Efficient, plain, dreary.”

  Then an unexpected compassion came into his voice, which was creepy.

  “Rest assured, I am not going to harm you, Omorenomwara. You have not felt the sting of the whiplash since you’ve been here, have you? Mnn?”

  My eyes watered, but I wasn’t sure if it was safe to shift them down.

  “As it happens, I would have made use of you up here earlier. Why waste such expertise? It’s just that the pompous old SOB was emphatic that you should, in his words, ‘be made to undertake an honest day’s work in the fields.’

  “I spared you that for a while, did I not? Then my grunt Rotimi goes and gets his favorite whore up the duff and comes groveling to me about lightening her workload.”

  He leaned closer.

  “Why not think of me as your invisible benefactor. Mnn?”

  Was he going to kiss me?

  Letting go of my chin, he brushed his fingers down my throat, stopping short of my clavicle.

  Then he swept an affected, world-weary arm over at the room.

  “Look at the mess Djenaba left this room in. But what do you do when your bookkeeper is an arsehole? Oh well, to the business at hand. Your job is to make my losses appear as profit. Understood? We call it creative accounting, don’t we? When the pompous old git enters the plantation on his fiery steed, you will go back to the fields. Fear not, if you do a satisfactory job, as I am sure you will, as soon as he’s gone, your new place of work will be this offce. Bamweasel won’t mind once I get him on my side. Easy enough when I let him install in the compound whatever tasty half-breed bitch he takes on as mistress.