Birth of a Dark Nation

by Rashid Darden

  "Excuse me?" I asked, catching up to Victor.

  "What, you think I don't have needs?"

  "You don't even like dudes…this century."

  "It ain't no fun if the homies can't have none."

  In a rage, I pushed Victor with all of my might. He flew from the jogging path, over the grass, and into Rock Creek.

  Emerging from the water, he smiled.

  "After centuries, you still can't take a joke?" he asked.

  "Gotcha!" I said, taking off in a blur down the road.

  Five miles later, we were in a clearing somewhere in Montgomery County. Justin had slowed to a jog and found a picnic area where he could rest.

  "I'm thirsty," he announced.

  "The creek is right there," Victor said.

  "I ain't drinking that old dirty creek water," Justin said.

  "First of all, the water in Rock Creek isn't all that dirty," Victor argued. "And second of all, you drank the blood of a crackhead."

  "Good point," Justin admitted. He walked over to the creek, knelt down, cupped his hands, and drank from it. He paused and appeared to gaze at his reflection for a few moments. He returned, refreshed.

  "You okay?" I asked.

  "Yeah. I just…I thought I saw something in the water."

  "A person?" I asked.

  He nodded.

  "Was it a Djinn?" he asked. I shook my head.

  "Oshun watches over the waters."

  "What's Oshun?"

  "'Who,'" Victor corrected. "She's a spirit."

  "A ghost?" Justin asked.

  "Closer to a goddess," I said.

  "Jesus," Justin said, sitting in the grass and stretching in the heat. "Vampires, Djinn, goddesses walking around…this shit is crazy."

  "And you killed somebody!" Victor added happily.

  "Thanks for reminding me," Justin deadpanned.

  "Our religion, our faith… It's old," I explained. "It's multilayered. It's full of history. At the end of the day, we believe in one god. Our god has many names to many people, but we usually call the creator Olódùmarè. From him came many other spirits that rule us. What we believe is what many West Africans believe. We brought these traditions with us just like Haitians and Dominicans and Brazilians. It's not that different. It's just that we…we brought our own flavor."

  "When can I go back to work?" he asked.

  "Whenever you want. You look healthy."

  "I'll go tomorrow."

  "But you will still work out every day."

  "Okay," he said. He leaned back into the grass and stretched out his arms and legs until he looked like a starfish in the grass. He closed his eyes.

  "How did you guys come to leave Dominica and get to America?" he asked.

  Victor walked over to Justin and beckoned me to join him. He lay down in the grass opposite Justin, placing his head next to him. I flanked the other side of Justin and let the top of my head graze the top of his.

  The sky above was one of those hazy shades of blue that were common in the inner city, nothing at all like the clean royal blue skies of Dominica. I closed my eyes and helped Victor take Justin back to the island.

  "When are we?" I heard Justin's voice ask, as I recalled my life in our encampment. We were packing up our belongings from our village, which had grown in area and sophistication, but not in population.

  "It's 1804. About 75 years after Dominique got taken from us," I said.

  "Shit, that's a long time," Justin said.

  "I know. A long time to get over it, which Victor and I did. Ariori, on the other hand, not so much. He spoke little for the first few years. But life goes on."

  ~

  When we arrived on Dominica, the French were in control. Then came the British. On our corner of the island, it really didn't matter who was in charge. If they were white, they were not trustworthy, so we did not interact with them.

  We observed that the whites owned African slaves—what we were meant to be had we not overcome our captors and started our own life. Although we hated the institution of slavery, we still did not interfere. There was much we had to learn about the ways of the white people. They were evil. They were deceptive. And even the good ones—like Dominique—would be somehow eliminated by them.

  Years passed. We lived. We created. We harvested. Year after year, our community grew closer and closer. We established good relationships with our native neighbors. And yes, we intermingled with them. As time went by, our men and their women established relationships. They never resulted in children, of course, so we often became the second husbands after they became widows. These were genuine relationships between men and women who loved each other, but they all eventually faded away. We just didn't die.

  As the island grew, and more Europeans and their slaves came, it became more and more challenging to protect our corner of the island, but we did it. We knew how to create our own weapons, and when we could, we stole weapons from the white men. Every few years, a different expedition would come "discover" us again and try to invade. Making meals of them was fun. With every failed conquest came new information about their so-called "New World." We learned much about the new country called the United States during that time, and how black people were building it up, literally and figuratively.

  The white men only confessed these things to us under duress. But at night, their slaves would sneak off to worship in the ways of their people, which were also the ways of our people. By the bonfire, on the beach, we discovered our enslaved cousins from other African lands and spoke to them in French, in our own mother tongue, and after a while, English, the eventual prevailing language of the island.

  We worshipped. The names may have been different, but they were our spirits, our Orishas.

  At first, we did not interfere with their lives. The white presence on the island was growing and we knew that influencing the enslaved Africans to revolt would be dangerous for all of us. But by 1804, we knew this was a mistake. Rumblings of a revolt in Haiti had excited us and much talk was transpiring about how to control Dominica and expel the whites once and for all.

  We talked to the slaves regularly. They gave us information. Facts. Rumors. Speculation. Haiti was changing. Free blacks were moving to a place called Orleans.

  Our people were on the move. We had a chance for new lives, new opportunities beyond the forest. After 75 years, we were restless.

  I came upon Babarinde on the beach one evening as a trail of ships sailed by, departing from the island for parts unknown. I sat next to him on the sand. He looked at me, then back at the ships.

  "What's on your mind?" I asked.

  "Leaving," he answered. I nodded.

  "They say there are opportunities in Orleans. Space. Commerce. Everything."

  "Free blacks, like us. I don't enjoy living hidden. I really don't."

  "I know."

  "I want to see more."

  "So do I. But we're different."

  "We can figure it out. We weren't banished from our homeland to live in hiding. Maybe, just maybe, all of this happened for a higher reason."

  "And what reason would that be?" I asked.

  "I don't know, exactly. We are to be seeds in the wind, not immobile rocks in the dirt."

  And with that, the decision had been made, more or less. The majority of us were restless enough to make the move once more.

  Over the next couple of months, we amassed supplies, sneaking into the camps of the white people on the other side of the island with the assistance of our enslaved brethren. We knew the journey would be long and rough, but if we could make it across the Atlantic in the belly of a slave ship, we could certainly traverse the Caribbean Sea on the deck of a galleon.

  Babarinde met little resistance from us. We viewed the adventure as a welcome diversion from the mundane nature of our existence to that point. Seventy-five years was far too long to wait. It was time to go.

  In the end, only three stayed on Dominica: Ogundadegbe, Orimolade, and Efunbolade. They
were the only three still married to native women and they were content to stay with their families. There were no hard feelings, for we knew each Razadi had to follow his heart.

  The plan to leave the island was simple: take one of the fishing vessels, load up, and sail off in the night. We were better armed than we had ever been before, after stealing dozens of guns and boxes of bullets over the years from various camps and farms. Our aim was perfect and our reflexes were sharp.

  We also learned how to be excellent swimmers over the years. The dozen of us on the advance team were swimming in the night water like twelve brown tadpoles. We scaled the side of the vessel silently, not so much as a splash hitting the surface of the water as we emerged.

  I held a blade in between my teeth and a pistol at my side, ready to use either at a moment's notice. We happened upon a white British man at the helm. He was unarmed.

  He opened his mouth to scream and Babarinde raised his voice to a loud whisper.

  "Stop," he ordered. The portly, gray-haired man froze. We all paused and looked at one another, uncertain of the man's paralysis.

  "We are taking control of this vessel," Babarinde said. The man slowly nodded.

  "How many are aboard?" Babarinde asked.

  "Five," he said.

  "Where?"

  "Four are below, asleep."

  Babarinde nodded toward Eşusanya and me. We went below and tied up the sleeping men so quickly that they didn't know what happened by the time they woke up. I found the ship's maps and brought them to Babarinde on the way back up to the deck.

  "What do we do with the men? Dinner?" Eşusanya hoped aloud.

  "No…" Babarinde said, musing on his newfound hypnotic power.

  "Mama Abeo used to tell us that one day, we would evolve past the need to use our hands. Brothers, it would appear as though that day has come."

  ~

  "And that's how we left Dominica," I said, breaking the memory chain with Justin and Victor.

  "Just like that?" he asked. Victor got up and walked to the picnic shelter.

  "Yup. The men on the ship were easily subdued once we hypnotized them all. Didn't have to kill them. And they tasted good, too."

  "Wow," Justin said.

  "It was a simple, uneventful voyage. We landed in Orleans and used our cunning and our will to establish ourselves a nice plantation. We grew a lot of things that we had on the island and back at home. We even branched into textiles. Yes, we were farmers and fashion mavens, even back then."

  Justin laughed.

  "But the best part? Free black people. Not everyone was free, but we could walk around among white people and not be afraid that they would put a bullet in us. We had the law on our side. We had the power of hypnosis on our side. And of course, we knew that we could overcome bullets, too. With time and patience."

  "Let's go back home," Victor said. He zoomed off.

  Justin turned to me.

  "Did you have a wife?"

  I shook my head vigorously.

  "Never had the desire," I said. "I guess I always knew something greater was out there for me. Someone."

  "Maybe there is," Justin said. "If you can catch him!"

  He zipped away from me. I laughed and chased him back home.

  The Uprising

  "Welcome back, Justin!"

  Cissy ran to me as soon as I got in the door and hugged me tightly.

  "It's so good to see you!" she exclaimed.

  The entire staff—including the interns—were in the office to welcome me back to the job. I was overwhelmed.

  I put my briefcase down on the freshly carpeted floor and looked around.

  "It all looks different," I said quietly. Steve nodded vigorously.

  "Well, before you got sick, you told us to make the place our own. To do what we needed to do to make this look like a real office. Well…new carpet, new fixtures, fluorescent lights…we got you, boss!"

  "And we can afford it," Cissy added.

  "Wow," I said. The whole office had a new glow about it that it had never had before.

  My director of technology, Quinn Turner, tapped me on the shoulder to get my attention. I had forgotten how handsome this dude was with his curly brown hair, chiseled face, and blue eyes.

  "Let me show you your office. And the computer room," he said.

  "I'd like that," I said. "We're still having our staff meeting at 9:15, guys. Status reports from everyone."

  "The boss is back!" Steve exclaimed. Everyone laughed. I smiled.

  Quinn took me upstairs and carried my briefcase for me.

  "I can't believe how much got done," I mused.

  "Well, Justin, it's been six weeks," he replied.

  "Wow…I guess that is a long time, huh? Time just got away from me. I'm glad to be back, though."

  Quinn opened the door at the top of the stairs. When Ernie got arrested and the Foundation took over, I opted to keep my old office in the attic rather than move to Ernie's old space. I liked the solitude and I could concentrate better. Quinn's office was just outside of mine, and I could tell that he spared no expense in getting us set up with state of the art machinery. Magdalene was rolling in dough, and I felt no need to be stingy. To be the best, we needed to have the best, from the front lines of the work with our clients all the way to the man who would run our information technology.

  "That's a lot of monitors," I said.

  "It's exactly to the Foundation's specifications," he said.

  "The Foundation?" I repeated.

  "Yes, a few weeks after you got sick, I was given instructions on how to set everything up. I was told it was the Foundation standard. I thought you were aware?"

  "Oh, well, sure," I lied. "You know me, as long as it works."

  Quinn smiled and opened the door to my office. It, too, had been given fresh carpeting. It was a funky, burnt orange color that was soft and thick beneath my hard-soled shoes. They had gotten rid of my old desk and replaced it with a black, extra-large desk fit for an executive. It curved outward, making a built-in conference table for small meetings. They had given me file cabinets to match. Setting off the whole room was a large Syracuse banner against the far wall.

  "We didn't want to bother you while you were recuperating, so we took some risks with the orange. We figured if it had to do with Syracuse, you'd like it."

  "It's perfect," I said. Quinn smiled.

  "Thanks, Quinn. I'll be down in time for the meeting."

  "Welcome back," he said.

  I had a seat in my band new executive office chair and gave it a spin. I giggled.

  I looked down at my slacks. For the first time—probably ever—they were loose around my thighs when I sat. I noticed that morning that I had to pull my belt tighter than I normally did, but seeing just how loose they were, I realized it was time to go shopping.

  I played around with the settings on my chair and tilted the seat back. The leather was fresh and smelled divine. I placed my hands behind my head and closed my eyes.

  My mind drifted off for a few seconds. Before me stood a tall, honey-complexioned woman in a gray dress, with her hair wrapped in a white turban. Her high cheekbones suggested a joviality that her twisted mouth and fiery eyes betrayed.

  She walked toward me, slowly, hands behind her back, then she stopped. She produced the blade she was hiding and came for me.

  I opened my eyes, startled—scared, actually—from the dream so vivid that it felt like a memory.

  It was already 9:15. I hadn't even turned on my computer yet. I walked downstairs to see the entire staff waiting for me in the conference room, which they had also redesigned. Rather than the plain old conference room with a table straight from the 80s, we now had a sleek and sophisticated marble-topped table, state of the art audio/visual equipment, and framed posters of our various success stories from over the years: clients who beat the odds, photos from homeless walkathons, and even a senior staff photo from our open house.

  I smiled, sat at the head of th
e table, and spoke:

  "Let's get started."

  As my staff members gave presentations covering the six weeks I'd been out, I found it incredibly hard to concentrate on them. As Cissy spoke, the woman from my dream materialized—knife in hand—and stood menacingly behind her.

  I lowered my head and rubbed my eyes, foolishly hoping that the apparition would disappear. Instead, four more figures appeared behind my staff, each dressed in shabby clothing from an era gone by, each with a weapon: a hoe, a machete, a knife, a hammer. The shine of perspiration gave their faces and arms a glow.

  I ignored them and allowed the staff to continue. They were oblivious to the visions I was having. As they concluded, I thanked them all for holding down the fort during my illness. I left the conference room in a rush and headed up the stairs.

  Steve followed me, cornering me in the copy room on the second floor. All five apparitions appeared behind him, crowding us in the room.

  "Justin, did you come back too soon?" Steve asked.

  I shook my head.

  "It was time," I said. "Been down way too long. Gotta come support my team."

  "Yo, man…you lost hella weight."

  "I look bad?" I asked, eyeballing the tall, dark man hovering behind Steve with the machete.

  "No, actually. I gotta say you look really good. Healthy. Like, did you have the surgery or something?"

  "Surgery? Like weight loss surgery?" I laughed.

  "Well, did you?" Steve demanded. I laughed harder.

  "Naw, man. Just a really bad case of the flu that it took a long time to bounce back from. And I hit the weight room when I could. You know how it is."

  "I guess. Just…you know…if you need more time, just let me know. We can hold it down."

  "Thanks Steve, but I don't need more time off. Wouldn't want to take away time you could be spending with your boo Chiyoko," I said, taking his hand into mine and pulling him into a hug. The visions I was seeing dissipated as quickly as they had appeared.

  "I'll be fine," I reiterated. "I just gotta get re-acclimated. Speaking of which, I'm sure I have a ton of emails to catch up on."

  "Aight player, go handle that," Steve said. I slid past him and went back into my office, closing the door behind me.