Blonde Roots

by Bernardine Evaristo

  SHARON AND I SAT shoulder to shoulder in those candlelit hours, wrapped up in quilts on her front lawn.

  Our legs spread straight out in front of us like we were on our shared bed in the cottage again, wriggling our toes.

  My feet were bruised, scarred, crusty, burned, battered, my toenails blackened or broken off.

  Hers were smooth, creamed, plump, unblemished, her long, manicured toenails polished with blue glitter.

  I struggled for words, overwhelmed at the task of painting for her the pictures of my intervening years, unsure that I could. Should I pick out the main events or start at the beginning?

  Sharon, on the other hand, couldn’t get the words out fast enough and referred to our childhood as if it were yesterday.

  “Member yu waz always singing dat song to git at mi? How it go? ‘Lavanda bloo, diddy diddy, Lavanda green, When he is king, diddy diddy, Yu won’t be kween.’ Lemme tell yu, Doris, it reallee did piss me off! You waz always windin mi up and getting away wid it.”

  Arrested development, I think they call it.

  I had put my childhood in its rightful place, as history to be revisited but not relived.

  When I began to tell her about my punishment at the hands of Bwana, she winced and changed the subject.

  “Lawd! Member Percy?” she said, pinching my thigh.

  She told me that Percy had been enslaved too.

  Percy?

  Even though he was a slave trader himself.

  Are you kidding?

  “Dem call him Adongo an mek him wurk like a donkee at Wordee Park. De odder slaves despise him when dey find out who he iz. Ran off twice, end up krippel when ovaseer chop off him two foot. Non-a de odder slaves kould afford to feed him, or wanted to, so him starve an die.”

  The mighty so fallen, it was hard to imagine.

  BEFORE

  Name: Lord Perceval Montague

  Abode: Montague Manor, England

  Occupation: Feudal landlord

  AFTER

  Name: Adongo

  Abode: Hovel, Worthy Park Estate, New Ambossa

  Occupation: Field slave or (colloq) Feeld wiggarrrr!

  WHEN MORNING FINALLY MADE its exhibitionist entrance in all its blazing, hazy, twittering glory, my nephews brought their mum and auntie breakfast of thick red sazda porridge with peanut sauce. Ako barely touched his before scooting off to the warehouse, as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of us. Kolladao and Ndewele, clearly fascinated by me as their reinvented aunt, set off at a more reluctant pace for the stables to saddle up.

  Watching those boys disappear up the dirt pathway, dressed in clean calico loincloths, trailing whips in the gravel, I saw they had inherited my father’s gangly frame, his stoop and dogged walk. Something in their genes or the way Sharon once moved must have transferred—before she submerged herself.

  With a different twist of fate, those boys would have been growing cabbages on windswept moors by now, men of integrity, serfs who would rant about the workingman having his day. They wouldn’t be carrying whips to work knowing that, in order to keep their jobs, at least one person was going to feel its licks before the sun set.

  SHARON TURNED TO ME, looking as tired as I felt.

  “Betta go work, Doris, or Nonso git mad or madda. He iz one crazee man dese days. Bwana nyot so bad. Bwana haz morals but dat Nonso just a hanimal.”

  I coughed and almost choked.

  “Sure,” I replied, clearing my throat. “I’d better go fiddle the accounts to save Nonso’s sorry arse.”

  Except that was lowermost on my mind.

  I took a deep breath and decided to say what was uppermost, aware that wherever my sister’s loyalties lay, she would never betray me.

  I TOLD HER ABOUT Yao and Dingiswayo and their mother, Ye Memé, who had taken me under her wing when I first arrived and saved my life—and about Ma Marjani too, both good women and good friends to me.

  I told her about the imminent sale of the boys to the Amarikas and how it would break their mothers’ hearts.

  I told her that King Shaka would be instructed to keep the boys out of sight when Bwana arrived.

  I told her that by the end of the first day of festivities everyone would be so rat-arsed I could sneak off.

  I asked her, without stopping for breath, if she could, or would, help me escape with the boys?

  Sharon was silent for so long that when I eventually dared look at her, I saw tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “So dis iz how it go? Mi find yu onlee to loose yu, mi sista?”

  I wiped her face dry, which only made her cry more. Now I was the big sister and she was the big baby.

  I gathered her hands in the palms of mine.

  Yes, this is how it goes.

  “Wid yu, Doris, fe de furz time since I waz a-kaptcha it feel like mi git Sharon bak. I had to kill her becorze nobuddee wanted to know dat gyal. Bwana call mi Iffianachukwana an dat waz who I had to be. Sharon ded. Sharon famlee ded. Sharon home ded. Sharon kuntree ded. All I had to do waz mek shure Miss Iffe stay alive.’

  That’s all we ever did.

  “Mi cyant complane,” she added, sniffing. “I hav a gud life in dis place. I got it easee, parativly speakin. Yu had it harda dan me an if mi sista want fe free, she must be free. Cyant deny her dat.”

  I helped her rise to her feet, slowly. She stopped midway and rubbed her knees.

  Then, she stood upright, without leaning on the canes, and arched her back.

  A surprise, she was taller than me, and quite imposing.

  She would have been magnificent, once.

  Sharon blew her nose with her thumb and spun into action.

  “No use cryin in dis life. Cryin nyot help anybuddee. Mi neva cry cept today, Doris. Troolee, neva. Mi iz one bad-ass knuckle-hed. Best way, Sista.

  “Now lissan carefully. We hav to move like milatree operashun so yu don’t git kaptcha. I been here longa dan anyone so I know de ropes.”

  King Shaka had helped others escape, which was less shocking to hear than if I’d been told a day earlier. He and Sharon were good friends, she said, crossing her fingers—“Like dis!”

  He would hide Yao and Dingiswayo in one of the mountain caves.

  I would tell Ye Memé and Ma Marjani the plan, and get their approval.

  I’d been thinking of Qwashee too, wondering if my man was ready for a little freedom.

  “Okee-dokee,” she nodded. “Den yu must aks him, but onlee if yu trust him wid yu life.”

  “Ndewele mite be ready too,” she threw in, looking up at the sky.

  I was horrified. He might be my nephew, but he was also a slave driver.

  She leapt to his defense.

  “Yu tink say mi bwoys hav-a choice? What choice? Dem slaves too, like all a-we. If he don’t grab dis chance, he will live a-regret it. Ndewele always dreamin about bein free. De odders? Well, Kolladao like bein in charge, tek afta his poopa. Born leeder, dat one. Ako? Who knows what goes on in dat bwoy’ s head becorze him neva open up.

  “Doris, yu mite tink mi iz a selfish ole sow livin it up, but dis will show yu mi iz a betta purson dan yu tink. Why? Becorze mi lov Ndewele so much. Yu tink say I want him a-go? No ways! Mi know I hav to let him go. Big diffrance. It time fe dat bwoy to eskape afore he turn out like one-a his brudders.”

  What about the danger for those left behind?

  “Bwana neva suspec his Iffe. King Shaka always cova his trak so he be all rite. Ma Marjani one-a de best wurkers on dis plantayshun so dey shud leave she alone. Az fe dat Ye Memé? Nonso fava dat one fe some reason nobuddee can work out becorze she iz so damned facety an stand up to him. Mebbe he admire her deep down. Oh! Don’t be surprize about what I know, Doris. I hear everyting—about yu too, de new arrival wid de scar-up bak dem call Miss Omo, onlee mi didn’t know yu waz mi sista.

  “King Shaka will git message to Magik who always tek rekommendashun from him, so long az he onlee aks once in a bloo moon. Yu heard a-him? Leader of Maroon Guerrilla Armee, used to be ca
rpenta at dis place.”

  That floored me. Of course, she would have known him.

  I had, I replied, and always wondered if he was the man who’d been my lover back in Londolo.

  “What his name in dose days?” she asked.

  “Ndumbo,” I replied.

  Her eyes lit up.

  “An his home-kuntree name?”

  “Frank.”

  “Guess what, Doris. Same one, dearie, same one. What a gorjas man if eva I did see one. Him neva did speak much but I’m de kinda purson who prod an pry until peepal open up.”

  I almost passed out.

  “Magik’s men will come down to meet yu halfway, probablee. Mebbe yu luky an Magik hisself will come all de way for his ole sweetheart.

  “Lissan hard, Sista. Trik to eskapin dis place is to avoid de forest becorze it like trap an dose hounds will sniff yu out. Yu hav to hed fe de riva when de festival iz in full swing an de gards slak becorze dem don’t suspect anybuddee be tryin to eskape. Moment yu start a-walk, scatta peppa to confuze de dogs. Den, hed fe de riva an keep to it. Wade in de wata, Doris, member to wade in de wata, becorze dat way dose bludhownds neva pik up de scent an yu larfin all de way to dat place call Freedom Kuntree.

  “Whatever happen, Doris, member to wade in de wata.”

  Adrenaline made me feel as if I’d slept a full night.

  The first thing I did when I got into work, the office, was to sort out Nonso’ s accounts. Where money had been withdrawn and was unaccounted for, I entered it under a new heading—Gambling Debts.

  That should do the trick.

  I did follow one of his instructions to the letter. I made Yao and Dingiswayo disappear from the records.

  Then I printed up a fake account sheet to show Nonso, although King Shaka told me that our boss was in such a panic about Bwana’ s visit he’d spent all night hitting the bottle again. He’d spend all day sleeping it off, I replied, confident that surrogate mummy was taking care of business.

  Nonso needed me, the woman who had looked after him as a child, and in his fugged-up state he had no choice but to trust me.

  Once I’d stitched the pair of them up, I realized I had to take the milky-white sap of the oleander plant with me when I hit the high road, because if my neat little plan went awry, nobody would get a chance to roast me over a fire, alive or not, thank you very much.

  King Shaka was in and out of the office all day like a man on a mission. In between running errands for Massa Rotimi who was coordinating the welcome-home party, he’d been sorting out my Great Escape.

  Magik’ s men had been contacted via talking bagpipes and responded. We were set to go at the end of the morrow.

  Yao and Dingiswayo were to be taken to the mountain cave that night by King Shaka.

  We agreed that when I finished in the office, I’d go down to the quarter to tell Ye Memé and Ma Marjani our plans, which I was dreading.

  I’d then ask Qwashee if he wanted to come too.

  (I hoped the Frank-Qwashee conundrum would sort itself out.)

  I left the fake accounts information for Nonso on the desk, should he wake up and remember what he’d asked me to do before he drank himself into oblivion again.

  IT WAS PITCH BLACK when I made the trip back down the logwood drive. I held a candle before me, flicking off a plague of irksome midges, and found myself entangled in the luminous blue threads of glowworms that hung from the trees to catch their prey. As I stepped on twigs, it felt like I was crushing tiny bird bones. I prayed I’d avoid an encounter with the snakes and poisonous spiders that crept freely around the grounds in the absence of human sound.

  I was leaving Nonso’ s palatial quarters for the spartan world of the slaves’ quarter, and as I got nearer I could hear laughter and song: “Don’t sit unda de appal tree, Wid anyone else but mi, Anyone else but mi, anyone else but me.”

  People were staying up late, enjoying the prospect of a three-day holiday.

  They’d be so happy.

  When I entered that intense, noisy, throbbing, overcrowded society, it was as a changed woman.

  In less than two days, the inconceivable had happened.

  I had found a sister.

  I had become an aunt thrice over.

  I was making my second bid for freedom.

  I had carried out a serious act of sabotage, and I would soon meet the man I’d once truly loved.

  Above all, I had discovered the fate of my family.

  There would be no family reunion around the fire, no toasting muffins over it, no singsong and bashing of pans.

  Now that it was gone, I realized how much I was embedded in the past.

  I had to let it go because there was no future in it.

  But to let go of hope? After so long?

  I was tearing up inside, but I had to hold myself together.

  For myself and the boys.

  Until we were free.

  Then, and only then, would I allow myself to grieve.

  I FOUND YE MEMÉ and Ma Marjani waiting for me, both in their dirty work-a-day wrappas, sitting with King Shaka behind some bushes some distance from the silk cotton tree, which was noisy with revelers. As soon as I sat down, he slipped away to wait in the shadows.

  This was my call.

  After even the shortest time in the airy upper echelons of plantation society, my field worker friends suddenly seemed so downtrodden, so grungy, so deeply unpampered.

  The quarter looked so ramshackle too, so damned poor.

  “Hark! Look what de cat drag in!” was Ye Memé’s cut-eye greeting to me before she produced the loudest, most disgusted, most vulgar, most extended tchups ever directed at a human being.

  I thought she was going to land one on me and was prepared to duck.

  Instead she went to stand up as if to make a dramatic departure, changed her mind, sat herself back down again and with much arm-waving proceeded to get it off her chest.

  “Yu iz one ungrateful woman, Miss Omo. Yu iz a lyar an a deceeva. Mi did tek gud-gud care of yu an mek yu mi speshal frend when all dis time yu been keepin big-big sekret. What!? Yu wurk in Bwana house as hiz pursonal hassistance bak dere ova de wata an neva did tell mi? How yu tink dat mek mi feel to hear from odder peepal when I should be de furz to know? Yu iz one snake in-a de grass, laydee!”

  It was so good to see her again, in spite of her tirade. I knew that as soon as she let off steam, the valve would be just as quickly turned down and her rage would fizzle out. I had grown to love her and Ma so much. But I was afraid of what I had to tell them.

  The bottom line was that they were about to lose their sons.

  As best I could, I tried to explain myself to my two friends. How I didn’t want to be singled out as different. How I never thought anyone would find out about my past because I was consigned to field work forever. I even told them that I didn’t think they were interested in my life back in Londolo, because whenever I spoke of the capital city, they changed the subject. This had made me feel insignificant, I said, laying it on a bit thick. Worthless. Unaccepted.

  The women, so used to occupying the moral high ground, were taken aback that they could be at fault here. While they were in this doubting state, I broke the news about Yao and Dingiswayo’ s imminent sale overseas and my plan to thwart it.

  Ye Memé seemed helpless in the moments that followed. My friend, who was so powerful at times she almost appeared superhuman, could do absolutely nothing to alter the fact that two more of her children were going to be taken away forever.

  Watching her break down was awful. Ye Memé, the strongest woman I had ever known, lost it. She screwed up her face and emitted a silent scream. She threw herself onto the ground, thumped it with her fists. She clawed at the soil and grabbed fistfuls and stuffed them into her mouth, spitting them out when they choked her.

  Ma Marjani put a hand over her mouth and tried to restrain her. King Shaka and I joined in until she became subdued.

  All four of us then wept.

&nb
sp; King Shaka too, who, some sixty years after he had been kidnapped, still thought about his family back in Margate every day.

  The revelers under the tree hadn’ t heard a thing.

  Finally she sat up and spoke, looking as vulnerable as any adult could.

  “Mi betta go say gudbye to mi sons. Miss Omo, yu tell Mista Magik to com fe mi an de rest of mi pikney when dey iz olda. Mi nyot stay here no more if mi can help it. Dis iz too much fe a woman a-tek. Iz time fe Ye Memé to find some freedom. Ma, yu comin?”

  “No! Mi stayin” came the adamant, injured reply.

  Ma’s whole world was falling apart.

  “Ma Marjani ain’t climbin no mountanes or gettin tortcha if kaptcha. An mi tink it de best ting a-happen fe Dingiswayo, by de way. We lose dat bwoy but freedom mek a betta man out-a him, away from dose wotless gang boys he admire an aspire.”

  She paused, muttering, “If him reach...”

  I stood to go, never more energized, never more exhausted.

  WHEN QWASHEE OPENED HIS DOOR, wading out of the stupor of sleep, the irritation that flickered across his features was quickly superseded by relief. When he saw me, he hugged me warmly but when I told him my plan, he held me at arm’ s length.

  He then revealed a backbone I wasn’t, up to that point, quite sure he even possessed.

  “Yu want me fe up stiks an go off on wild-goose chase? Yu expect me to mek instant desishun to risk mi life? Yu know how lawng it tek mi to aks yu to come a-courtin? Mi ponda it fe ova a year, dat’s how lawng. Mi need time to mull it ova but yu don’t give me time. Iz dat reasonabal?”

  Nothing about our lives is reasonable, Qwashee.

  WE SPENT THAT NIGHT as if it were our last.

  Ripe, red pinches stained the glutes of his thin, hard thighs.

  Crab-claw scratches ran down his bony back.

  I sucked the blood out of his neck.

  “Yu iz one pashanate woman dis nite,” he whispered.

  “No—furious,” I grunted, leaving tooth marks on his shoulders.