Rococoa

by Balogun Ojetade (ed)

  “Your story is familiar to one I heard as a child,” the Nana Mother said. “It was of the Europeans who first came here. The Europeans said it was not true, and we believed them. They built these big trading castles. But the Abosom speak as you speak, and they compel me to believe you.”

  “Indeed, Nana, my story is true!” Ijeoma said. “When we came back, we tricked the white men at the dungeon into believing we were one of their ships! Please come with us we have the men locked away in the cells they locked us in.”

  Asantewaa brought a few men with her to inspect the dungeon.

  Ijeoma walked the Asantehene around, showing her every part of the large dungeon. She opened the cell and dragged the governor out. He was now a sloppy mess of disheveled clothes, sweaty, pale skin and greasy hair.

  “Oh, you can throw people in here, but you can’t handle it yourself!” Ijeoma sneered.

  She raised the governor’s head with the barrel of her rifle.

  Asantewaa stepped to him.. “You come to us sickly and hungry! We feed you and cure you of your plague and this is how you repay us? You are a devil of a people and you will not get away with this!”

  Asantewaa threw her robe off of her shoulder, cocked back her hand and punched the governor square in the eye. The governor fell from Ijeoma’s hold.

  As his face crashed to the ground, a gunshot sounded.

  The ranks of the white men who captured Ijeoma and Kwame, swelled, outnumbering the small number of men Ijeoma and the Asantehene brought with them. “Listen, niggers,” one of them snarled, “Now just what do you think you are doing here?”

  They quickly filled the dungeon and tried to disarm Ijeoma’s crew. Ijeoma reached for her musket but it wasn’t there. She then reached for her knife. But by the time she had it in her hand, the butt of her kidnapper’s rifle knocked her on her back.

  It took only a minute for a full out riot to break out. Even Asantewaa displayed her fighting skills, tossing a man over her shoulder and then stabbing him in the chest with his own knife before he hit the ground.

  The governor muscled up the energy to tackle William. The men exchanged blows falling into – and knocking over – crates. Kwame was fired at and had to flip behind a barrel of grain to avoid getting shot. As the slaver reloaded the rifle, Kwame raised the crate over his head and dropped it on the man.

  Just then, two other traders jumped him. Adams ran to Kwame’s aid, but was hit in the head with a long piece of wood. Ijeoma was pinned to the ground and could not free herself.

  Asantewaa was finally overwhelmed by two attackers. Adams and Kwame were subdued. William had gashes all over his face and Ijeoma was now held up against the wall by two of the Slavers.

  “Take these jungle monkeys out to the water and shoot them.” Nana Asantewaa’s escorts and Ijeoma’s crew were taken out through the ocean side door of the dungeon.

  The governor grinned. “Leave these three in here with me!” He gestured toward Ijeoma, Kwame and William. “Lock them in the breaking room. Girl, I’ll show you what I did to your sister tomorrow.”

  ####

  “Hey what is taking so long?” yelled the head slaver. Hearing no response he walked out of the back door. As soon as he turned the corner, he was grabbed in a tight choke-hold. Coconut and three pirates held five of the slavers at gun point. Coconut pressed a knife to the neck of the head slaver, and walked him back to the dungeon door.

  The other slavers turned to run out of the front doors and were met by Black Caesar and the rest of his pirates.

  “You jungle…!” the Slaver spat.

  His words were cut short by a flintlock pistol ball in the head.

  Black Caesar blew smoke out of the barrel of his pistol. “I have heard enough from white men outside of Africa; I will not hear them speak when I’m in my homeland!”

  Kwame grabbed the two men who held Ijeoma and threw one to the floor. Adams did the same.

  William delivered a fatal blow to the governor. He then turned to Nana Asantewaa. “Shall we skip your justice process and decide their fate right here?”

  Black Caesar flipped open his long coat and bowed to Asantewaa and the rest of the Africans with her. “Black Caesar is pleased to make your acquaintance. Now, let’s see the beautiful land Ijeoma told me so much about! ”

  Seven

  The dungeon was very difficult to clean. The blood and tears of the many Africans held there had merged with the structure.

  The white slavers’ bodies burned in a pile just outside the dungeon.

  Ijeoma and Black Caesar sat atop two hand-carved wooden stools. They were surrounded by Kwame, William, Adams and the entire village.

  In the center stood Nana Asantewaa and another woman, Iya Aduni, the village’s spiritual leader – originally from Yorubaland. Iya Aduni dusted both of their heads with white powder.

  “Ashe!” Aduni said.

  “Ashe!” repeated the audience.

  On the left side were drummers and dancers, and across from them were the village children. Ijeoma’s mother and sister were led into the circle by men dressed for war. They sat across from Ijeoma and Black Caesar.

  “You have displayed nobility to our people,” said Nana Asantewaa. “From this day forward you will be appointed my representatives. This Enstoolment will grant you entry into our places in the here, now and ever-after.”

  Nana Asantewaa stretched out her hand to Black Caesar. He nodded respectfully. “You, Black Caesar are truly the warrior of our distant tribe. The story of your life is divine prophecy.” She turned her head toward Coconut sitting next to the drummers. “And your cook Coconut is skilled with a knife in all of its uses.” Coconut offered a wide smile back and nodded his head.

  “Sister Ijeoma, you possess fearless leadership. Recent events in your life were no accident.”

  Everyone cheered and the drummers played louder. The dancers danced a circle around Ijeoma and Black Caesar. And the men dressed in battle garb, lifted them in the air.

  They were carried to the shore, followed by a parade of villagers, to the capacious slave-ship that Ijeoma thought would be her tomb, but later became the place she would become a leader.

  Iya Aduni threw dust on the ship and turned to the spectators. “Ashe!”

  “Ashe!” the crowd repeated.

  Nana Asantewaa stood between the crowd and the ship. She turned to face the ship. “Let this vessel be used to carry our warriors to this war in the Caribbean. Let this ship’s cannons blow holes in all ships that stand in its way. Let this ship’s hull protect our warriors from all who seek to destroy it.”

  Ijeoma stepped forward and stood next to Nana Asantewaa.

  “Ijeoma what name to you give this ship?” Nana Mother asked.

  “It will be called The Black Star. Night without stars strike fear in the hearts of those whom we fight. So I will use this ship to do the same.”

  “Who here will assist our new sister in her efforts to make war at sea?”

  Kwame stepped forward. “I will.”

  “And what is it that you will make your worth?” Nana Asantewaa walked in front of the strong, young man.

  “I will protect her from harm at the cost of my life.”

  Iya Aduni flicked powder over his face.

  “Ashe!” Iya Aduni said.

  “Ashe!” repeated the audience.

  “Are there others who will aid?”

  Adams and William stepped forward.

  “You have both displayed your commitment. I expect you to help make Ijeoma’s efforts come to fruition. Use what you have learned to take The Black Star to the heart of our enemies, who use race as their battle lines.”

  “Who else?” she said.

  Out stepped twenty-five other men and women. They were a mix of villagers and people who fought for freedom with Ijeoma. They were all anointed with powder by Iya Aduni.

  After being sprinkled with powder, Ijeoma’s enstooled crew all shouted: “Ashe!” over and over.

  The
y danced and cheered throughout the night.

  ####

  Ijeoma stood on the main-deck of her ship and waved as Kwame led the crew in the raising of the anchor. Nana Asantewaa, Ijeoma’s mother and Aneesa looked on from the shore. The dungeon now flew a flag with a black star on it, identical to the flag on the ship.

  “Everything Irie!” Coconut cried from further out to sea on the deck of Black Caesar’s ship.

  “It’s all good my brother!” Ijeoma yelled back.

  As the ship floated into the ocean Kwame joined her on the main-deck.

  “We are in the hands of Yemoja, and she will protect us now,” Kwame said.

  “I’m just glad she will not be protecting the traders,” Ijeoma said.

  William stood next to Adams, peering over his shoulder.

  “You do not need to be so close to me,” Adams retorted. “I think I know how to get back to the Caribbean.”

  “Who said we were going to the Caribbean?” William said. “Have you ever heard of Sarah Baartman?”

  THE BANDIT KING AND THE ISLAND OF TEARS

  S.A. Cosby

  “Up top, Lothar, now!”

  A ragged voice screamed down through the hatch. Lothar hopped up off his bunk and quickly climbed the ladder to the deck of the Lancer. The Lancer was a cargo ship bound for the Colonies.

  Lothar could hear the moans and screams of the ship’s cargo as he climbed the ladder. Once upon a time he had been cargo on another ship. But his talent with language had gotten him off the plantation and onto a slave ship as a translator. He could hear a few words of any language and in a day or a day and a half he would be fluent in said language. The owner of the plantation who had sold him to Captain March used to trot him out at dinner parties and parade him around the table speaking French, German, Italian, Portuguese, but never languages from his home. He was forbidden to speak Twi, Igbo, Amharic or any of the other languages he knew.

  He was only allowed to saunter around the table in a little frock coat and powdered wig, saying humorous little limericks in multiple languages like a trained pet.

  Lothar reached the deck and took a deep breath. The scent of the open sea was different from the scent of the ocean from the safety of the beach. Lothar could smell blood and salt in the air. The cloying odor of decay mixed with a wild freshness that came from the white caps as the ship sliced through the waves. But nothing could stave off the stench coming from the cargo hold. Lothar remembered those scents all too well. At seventeen, he could still recall the smell of death and despair that saturated the lower decks of the slave ship that had ripped him from everything he knew and deposited him on an island a world away. Lothar saw the First Mate, Archibald, direct the crew as they manipulated the sails and the rigging. Archibald was as cruel as any overseer and as ugly as a boar. A wide stump of a man with bread loaves for forearms. The only difference between Archibald and an overseer was that Archibald was cruel to everyone, not just the slaves in the cargo hold.

  “Up here, Lothar!” Captain March barked.

  Lothar climbed up to the platform where the Captain stood. The helmsman steered the ship’s wheel, whistling. He stopped whistling long enough to spit on Lothar as he passed him. Carnahan was his name and Lothar avoided him as much as he could, for he seemed to take delight in torturing, abusing and raping anyone with black skin; man, woman, or child.

  “Look port side. You see that ship?” the Captain asked Lothar. Lothar nodded. He didn’t speak unless he was given permission. He had made the mistake of responding to a question his first day on the ship and Archibald had smacked him in the face with the leather sap he always carried. Lothar could see a ship about one hundred yards away. It was a long teak schooner. Huge plumes of stark white smoke billowed from the ship like a cloud had descended from the heavens and enveloped the craft.

  “You are gonna go over with Archie, LaGrains and Simmons. If you come across any person or persons you will translate if they don’t speak the King’s English. Let them know we are taking them to Virginia and turning them into the Crown for a salvage. They are not flying any flag from any nation, so, in my book, they are fair game. Understand me boy?” Captain March said.

  Lothar nodded his head and headed toward the dinghy. Anytime off the ship was time well spent.

  Lothar gripped the oars tightly as he rowed over to the smoking ship. The ship did not seem to be engulfed in flames but smoke poured from it like spring melt coming down from the mountains.

  Archibald yelled from his seat in the bow of the dinghy. “Ahoy! Prepare to be boarded!”

  “If ye all ain’t dead from the scurvy,” he murmured.

  Simmons prepared to toss a rope with a metal hook on the end onto the railing that ran around the top of the deck. Archibald put a hand on his shoulder; the other man stayed his throw.

  “Look it there. Them be pots of clay burning,” he said as he pointed at the bow of the ship.

  Lothar craned his head to the right and saw two clay pots hanging from a yard arm that extended from the bow of the ship. The smoke rose from those orange pots.

  “Lothar, turn the boat full starboard! We are heading back to the Lancer!” Archibald said.

  Lothar did as he was told. The waves lapped at the hull of the dinghy as he struggled to manipulate one oar while steadying the other one.

  Once they were back on the Lancer, Captain March came down off the bridge to question his First Mate.

  “What happened Mr. Archibald?” he said. “If that ship is empty, she is prime for a salvage! You didn’t even inspect the cargo!”

  Lothar stood on the deck feeling the fire running up and down his arms from rowing against the open sea.

  Archibald stepped closer to the Captain and spoke in low conspiratorial tones. “Sir, the ship isn’t on fire. There be pots that are smoking.”

  Lothar was no longer listening. He stared at the shirtless, dark-skinned man who had just climbed over the port side of the Lancer. The man was dripping wet. Rivulets of water ran along the lean muscles of his abdomen. He put a long, dark finger to his lips.

  Then the shirtless man drew a cutlass from the weathered scabbard on his side. Suddenly, dozens more dark-skinned fellows climbed over the side of the ship. Interspersed with the dark-skinned men were some fellows of indeterminate ethnicity. They sported skin the color of fresh honey and long, lank locks saturated with sea water. Lothar felt his belly twist and turn like a bear caught in a trap.

  “Pirates!” a voice cried.

  Lothar looked toward the smoking ship. It was no longer without a flag. It now sported the full black flag that was discussed in hush tones by ship captains up and down the coast and throughout the Caribbean. The all black flag belonged to the Black Angel, and she was captained by Jabari Masterless. But he was better know on the high seas by his nom de plume: The Bandit King.

  The ship turned toward the Lancer and then closed the distance between them at an alarming rate.

  Lothar watched as the Black Angel pulled alongside the Lancer.

  Like a magic trick, cannons appeared on the deck of the Black Angel. The bow of the Lancer exploded in a maelstrom of blood and body parts as the first volley of cannon balls tore across the deck.

  A shrill chorus of screams cut through the air. Lothar looked up and saw a dozen men swinging from the masts of the Black Angel. They fell, like rain, joining their comrades on board the Lancer.

  Archibald reached for the flintlock he kept in a ragged holster on his left hip.

  A pearl handled dagger flew through the air and pierced Archibald’s throat.

  Bright red blood like a river made of scarlet erupted from his mouth. The stout man went to his knees as his jaw worked furiously. He died on his knees with his chest covered in blood.

  Lothar slipped behind a barrel full of salted sardines as death stalked the deck of the Lancer.

  The thirty-three members of the Lancers crew, most of them poor drunken deckhands who had gotten themselves in debt gambling in the
ports, were overrun fairly quickly.

  Lothar didn’t have much experience in battle but to his young eyes this was not so much a battle as an execution. The men of the Black Angel slit throats and blew holes in heads with an efficiency that spoke to years of practice.

  After the smoke cleared and the moans of the dying sailors drowned out the moans of the slaves in the cargo hold, Lothar witnessed two men from the Black Angel hold Captain March up by his arms.

  The captain looked much worse for wear than any of the Black Angel’s crew. His mouth bled and his eye was swollen shut. His hat had been knocked off his head and the sun beamed down on his bald pate.

  The pirates killed or subdued every other member of the Lancer’s crew, save for Lothar.

  Whistling came from the stern of the ship. It rose and lowered in pitch and strength as the whistler made their way toward the bow of the ship.

  Lothar, on hands and knees, peered around the weathered barrel. The whistler appeared, walking over bodies as he emerged from the cloud of gun smoke that hung over the deck.

  Captain March looked up at the man. His white face grew paler.

  The man stood in front of the captain. He was a giant, nearly seven and a half feet tall by Lothar’s estimation. Black, twisted braids cascaded down his back and flowed over the long black coat he wore. Gold buttons ran up and down the front of the coat. An enormous sword rested loosely on his hip in a wooden scabbard. A gold lion’s head served as pommel on the huge sword. He wore four flintlocks in four leather holsters and carried a blunderbuss on one of his massive shoulders. The man’s braids were held back by a bright red scarf that was tied around his great shaggy head. His face was clean shaven and as smooth and black as a chunk of obsidian. He was shirtless and his expansive chest was dotted with scraggly scars and a strange pattern of what Lothar thought might have been ink, as if someone had drawn on the giant’s chest with a quill . Suddenly, the man turned and pointed at Lothar.