Praise Song for the Butterflies

by Bernice L. McFadden

  * * *

  Back outside, back in the salt-tinged air, hands still tightly clasped, they marched solemnly along the cobblestoned alleyway toward the Door of No Return.

  The solid double wooden doors stood at least ten feet tall. The height and width of them was imposing to young Abeo, but that is not what caused her body to quake as it did. What struck fear into her young heart was the history that lay beyond the wooden panels and brass hardware. You see, Morris had revived history and little Abeo was finding it hard to distinguish between the now and what had been. Morris reached for the door handle and Abeo’s breath caught in her throat. She ordered her eyes to close, but they refused, and so she braced herself for the vision of a ship bobbing on the ocean, its deck teeming with shackled human cargo.

  Ismae, sensing the girl’s trepidation, lifted her into her arms, whispering, “It’s okay, Abeo, don’t be afraid.”

  Morris pushed the doors open and they walked out into the bright sun. Strewn across the topaz-colored Atlantic were nearly two dozen fishing boats, their masts wrapped in colorful cloth. On the shore were just as many children, happily kicking about seashells and soccer balls. Abeo breathed a sigh of relief.

  Didi, Serafine, and Wasik stood before the doors with their heads tilted back on their necks. Ismae followed their eyes to the wooden sign that hung above the doorway.

  Ismae pulled Abeo tighter to her chest. “Can you read what that says, baby?”

  “Door. Of. No. Return,” Abeo replied.

  9

  The days that followed the visit to Elmina Castle were solemn ones. The weather turned foul—storm clouds blotted out the sun and rain fell for three straight days.

  Didi’s and Serafine’s moods mirrored the weather. They spent those damp days on the back veranda sipping beer, counting raindrops, and smoking cigarettes. When Abeo tried to engage them in a game of checkers or suggested they put on music and dance, Serafine sent her away with a quiet word and a quick wave of her hand.

  Bored one afternoon, Abeo wandered into the room that Serafine and Didi shared and amused herself by sifting through their belongings. She discovered an American nickel lodged behind the tongue of one of Serafine’s sneakers. From the zipper pocket of Didi’s cosmetics bag Abeo fished out four square blue packets with the word Trojan stamped across the front.

  Perfume bottles, bobby pins, lotions, and various pieces of jewelry were scattered across the top of the dresser. Abeo examined each item. She slipped the red bangles on her wrists and held the dangling gold earrings up to her earlobes. She placed rings on each of her ten fingers, stood in front of the mirror, raised her hands to her face, and wiggled her fingers until she giggled.

  One ring was especially beautiful. It had a wide silver band and an oval-shaped, powder-blue stone that was marbled with fine white lines. It reminded her of the heaven she’d seen in a book that showed Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam.

  Abeo slipped the ring into her pocket.

  * * *

  Days later at the airport, Didi and Serafine hugged Abeo and her parents goodbye.

  For some reason, Abeo felt sadder than she had in the past when Serafine’s time with them had come to a close.

  “Don’t do this to me, Abeo,” Serafine said as the crying Abeo clung to her. “Don’t make me weep in public.” Serafine peeled her off. “Next summer will be here before you know it.”

  “Can’t you come for Christmas, Auntie?”

  “I tell you this: if I win the lottery I will come for Christmas, okay?”

  “Okay,” Abeo sniffed.

  * * *

  Every night Abeo slipped the stolen ring onto her finger and prayed for Serafine to win the lottery, even though she had no idea what a lottery was.

  10

  Wasik looked around and swore that he could hear his life collapsing. Every day it changed—some days it sounded like a falling tree, other times an avalanche of rocks. On that particular day, however, it boomed, cracked, and shuddered like a twister bearing down on him. Wasik nearly jumped out of his skin with fright. He was sure the sky had fallen. He crept to the window and peeked out—the sky was still firmly in place, so he was convinced his mind was coming apart.

  A day later a water pipe broke in the house, the roof began to leak, and the alternator on the Mercedes sputtered and died. And to make matters worse, the home occupied by the man who was conducting the investigation of Wasik burned to the ground and turned everything into cinder: the gentleman’s clothes, his furniture, his family photos, and the file on Wasik Kata. The investigation would have to restart from scratch. The newspapers had a field day. One journalist asked a simple question: In this age of photocopy machines, why? The story made the front page.

  Wasik was devastated. He developed a tic above his right eye and his afternoon drinking now began just before noon. On top of everything else, Agwe fell sick.

  The doctor said, “Don’t worry, it’s just a cold,” and prescribed antibiotics. But the cold turned into pneumonia and Agwe was soon hospitalized.

  Grandmother stared at Wasik, the question on her face clear as crystal: How much more before you believe?

  * * *

  One night, Wasik went to Abeo’s room, knocked on the door, and pushed it open before she could respond. He walked in to find her seated on the bed, dressed in her nightgown, a book open on her lap, the stolen ring hidden beneath her pillow.

  “Hello, Papa,” she smiled.

  “Hello, Abeo.” Wasik pulled the door closed behind him. “What are you reading?”

  “Little Red Riding Hood.”

  “Again?” Wasik laughed.

  “I like it,” Abeo grinned.

  Wasik turned his eyes to the poster on the wall. “Michael Jackson,” he said. “I was a Michael Jackson fan once, but that was when he was a little boy and was singing with his brothers. Now he’s a solo artist with a silver glove.” He laughed again and then did something completely out of character: he raised himself up onto his toes, rapidly shook one hand, and screeched, “Beat it, just beat it!”

  Abeo covered her mouth and giggled. “Papa! You look silly!”

  “I suppose I do.” The humor in his smile faded. “I-I wish that I could . . . I mean I wish that he was coming to Ukemby to perform. I would take you for your birthday.”

  Abeo folded her hands on top of the book, her smile widened.

  Wasik licked his lips and glanced nervously around the room. “Well, since I can’t deliver Michael Jackson, tell me what you would like for your birthday.”

  Abeo shot Wasik a quizzical look. It was an odd request; her birthday was months away. She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know, Papa.”

  “Oh?” Wasik seemed surprised. “Well, I guess you can think about it and let me know.”

  Abeo fiddled with pages of her book. “Okay.”

  Wasik ran his hands through his hair. “You know, Abeo, your mother and I love you very much. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you love us?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “We would do anything for you, you know that, right?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “And would you do anything for us?”

  The question made Abeo feel uncomfortable. “Yes,” she mumbled.

  He offered her a weak smile. “Good, good. It’s late, let’s get you tucked in.”

  11

  The pressures continued to mount.

  The car was in the repair shop collecting dust, but Wasik couldn’t spare the money to get it out. Without a car, Ismae had to take the tro-tro to the market and anyplace else she needed or wanted to go. He did manage to get the water pipe repaired—a plumber friend owed him a favor—and Wasik had done his best on the roof with hammer, nails, and a slab of wood, but the water still found a way in; so now the ceiling in their bedroom looked like a piss-stained mattress.

  Wasik waited for things to get better. One week passed, then two, three, and four. His probl
ems followed him into the next month and the month after that. He borrowed more money from his brother.

  Grandmother said, “Your family is suffering. You go to that church and pray to that god, but what does he do for you? Nothing!”

  Wasik balled his fists in anger. His mother was right, but Ismae had made it quite clear that she didn’t agree.

  Grandmother was well aware of Ismae’s opposition. She straightened her back, cleared her throat, and spoke to her son through clenched teeth: “You are the man of this house, the husband, the head of this family, the decision maker. Don’t worry about her. She is the wife, the mother of your children. It is her place to walk behind you, not ahead of you and not beside you.”

  That night the rain came down in torrents and Wasik lay wide awake in bed listening to the plink-plink-plink of the water dripping into the metal bucket Ismae had placed beneath the leak.

  Plink-plink-plink.

  He turned over and pulled the pillow over his head, but the sound permeated the material.

  Plink-plink-plink.

  Wasik tossed the pillow to the floor and glared at Ismae’s sleeping face. How could he have married such a defiant woman?

  Plink-plink-plink.

  He was the man. He was the man. He was the man of this house!

  Plink-plink-plink.

  What he says goes!

  Plink-plink-plink.

  The sound was driving him mad. He got up and went into the living room. It followed him there. He went into the kitchen and there it was . . . plink-plink-plink . . .

  He pressed his fingers into his ears and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer: “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .”

  PLINK. PLINK. PLINK.

  Finally, Wasik flung his hands up to the heavens and bellowed: “I WILL put other gods before You because You have left me no choice!”

  Plink.

  Wasik tiptoed into Abeo’s room and shook her awake.

  “Papa?” Abeo yawned, rubbing her eyes.

  “Abeo, get up, we have to go,” he whispered.

  “Go where? Where is Mama?”

  “Stop asking questions and do as I say.” The sternness in his voice snapped Abeo fully awake. Wasik reached into the closet, pulled out a dress, and threw it at her. “Put this on. Hurry.”

  He’d called a neighbor, made up a story about an emergency, and asked to borrow their Toyota. He practically shoved Abeo into the backseat. The owner had dogs that he carted around like children, so the car was filled with hair that tickled her nose and immediately brought on a wave of sneezes.

  Either Wasik didn’t notice or didn’t care, because he didn’t even say, God bless you, Abeo. He just released the hand brake, shifted the gear into neutral, and coasted the car silently down the driveway and onto the street.

  “But Papa, it’s so late. Where are we going?”

  Wasik clenched his jaw, placed the car in drive, hit the lights, and stepped on the accelerator.

  Abeo got on her knees and stared out the back window. The last person she saw was Grandmother standing in the doorway, her arms long and stiff at her sides, her face blank.

  A siren went off in Abeo’s head and her eyes filled with tears. “Where are we going?” she blubbered. “Where’s Mama?”

  “Just be quiet,” Wasik ordered thinly. “Just sit there and be quiet.”

  * * *

  Nearly two hours passed before Wasik pulled the car onto a lonely dirt road, stopped, jumped out, and disappeared into the bush without a word. A terrified Abeo curled herself into a ball and watched the night for monsters.

  Wasik soon returned, accompanied by a bent old man who glanced briefly at Abeo before pointing in the direction they’d come. Wasik thanked him, climbed back into the car, turned the vehicle around, and sped off.

  Horrible thoughts streaked through Abeo’s mind. Had she done something wrong and this was some type of punishment? Yet she dared not ask, because although the man driving the car looked like her father, she believed him to be an impostor.

  The road slowly transformed into a corridor of rocks and ditches that jostled the Toyota angrily on its shocks. The black night was receding into a gray morning when Abeo spied women walking along the road balancing baskets and large bowls atop their heads. Some had babies bound to their backs with cloth. An old woman using a fallen tree limb as a staff raised an arthritic hand in greeting just as a goat ran out into the road. Wasik swerved wildly, successfully avoiding the goat, but not the four-foot-tall termite mound.

  “Are you okay?” he asked the whimpering Abeo.

  After taking a moment to check the Toyota for damages, he eased the car back onto the road, driving cautiously for the next ten or so miles before stopping in front of a large mud hut in the middle of a valley lush with vegetation.

  A woman stepped from the hut and eyed Wasik expectantly. When she spotted Abeo trembling in the backseat, a faint smile surfaced on her lips.

  “Stay here,” Wasik instructed.

  Outside of the car, beneath the brightening sky, Wasik and the woman exchanged some words before he went into the hut. The woman adjusted her head wrap, sauntered over to the vehicle, peered in at Abeo, and tapped the window the way one would the glass of an aquarium.

  Wasik reappeared, opened the trunk, and pulled out a sack packed with pots, cooking utensils, and three bottles of schnapps. He handed the sack to the woman, who thanked him before setting it on the ground.

  Wasik rounded the car and opened the back door. “Get out, Abeo,” he ordered without looking at her.

  Abeo shook her head and scurried to the far side of the seat.

  Wasik sucked his teeth in frustration, reached into the car, caught Abeo by the collar of her dress, and yanked her savagely from the vehicle.

  “Please, Papa, please!” Abeo begged as he shoved her into the bracing arms of the woman.

  Wasik never once met her confused and terrified gaze, nor did he say goodbye, he just climbed into the Toyota and pulled away.

  “Papa, Papa!” she shouted, but Wasik kept driving.

  Abeo screamed until the woman slapped her across the mouth. “Stop your crying and fussing. You should be honored to be here, to become trokosi, to become the wife of the gods.”

  It was 1985; Abeo was nine years, seven months, and three days old.

  12

  When Ismae opened her eyes, the room was bathed in bright morning light. The clock on the nightstand read 8:45. Ismae couldn’t remember the last time she had slept past six.

  Her eyes moved to the crib and when she saw that Agwe wasn’t there, she panicked. She leaped from the bed, rushed to the closed bedroom door, yanked it open, and nearly ran smack into Grandmother, who was standing there with Agwe planted on her hip. She’d reached for the knob just as the door opened and her hand remained suspended in midair as she and Ismae stared at each other in surprise.

  “Oh, you’re up?” Grandmother said.

  Agwe stretched his arms out to Ismae.

  “He was hungry and wet,” Grandmother continued as she passed Agwe to his mother. “You didn’t hear him crying, so I took care of it.”

  “Where’s Wasik?” Ismae asked, carefully examining Agwe.

  Grandmother was smug; she shrugged her shoulders, turned, and walked away.

  Ismae followed. “Where’s Abeo?”

  “Where else would she be but at school?”

  * * *

  Two o’clock came and went and Wasik still hadn’t called or returned home. Ismae stood on the front veranda scanning the faces of the schoolchildren who filed past her house. She caught sight of Abeo’s friend Poppy walking by, laughing with a group of girls. “Poppy, Poppy!” she called, waving her over. “Where is Abeo?”

  Poppy gave Ismae a strange look. “I thought she was home sick.”

  “Sick?”

  “She didn’t come to school today, so I thought she was sick.”

  Ismae’s stomach lurched.

  Back in the house, Ismae stormed into
the kitchen where she found Grandmother seated at the table sipping hot tea. When Grandmother looked up, Ismae saw the truth in her eyes. Ismae slapped the cup from her hand, sending it hurtling to the floor, where it shattered.

  Grandmother raised her arms protectively over her face.

  Ismae screamed, “Bitch!”

  “It is for the best, you will see,” the old woman stammered.

  * * *

  It was dark when Wasik finally came home. Grandmother greeted him at the front door, took him by the hand, and guided him into the dining room.

  “Does she know?” he whispered.

  Grandmother set a plate of pounded cassava and oxtail stew down before him. “Yes.”

  Wasik pushed the plate away. His stomach was in knots. “I can’t eat.”

  “But you must.”

  Wasik’s shoulders slumped with grief. “What have I done?”

  Grandmother patted his back. “You have done the right thing, the honorable thing, for your family.”

  Wasik pushed himself up from the table. “I have to go and talk to her. I have to explain . . .”

  Grandmother tugged at his wrist. “Sit, eat.” Wasik shrugged her off. “Wait, I have to tell you . . .”

  Wasik walked away from her words. When he reached the bedroom, he took a deep breath before pushing the door open. The bed was neatly made, the curtains drawn, his slippers waited alone at the edge of the carpet. The top of the dresser was empty save for his bottle of cologne and a hairbrush. Scrawled across the mirror in Ismae’s crimson lipstick were the words: I hate you!

  She was gone.

  His mother’s voice sounded behind him: “Don’t worry, she will be back.”

  * * *

  It had taken all the strength Ismae had to keep from curling her fingers around Grandmother’s throat. Instead, she had called her names and damned both her and Wasik to hell.

  Through a deluge of blinding tears, Ismae packed a few belongings into two suitcases and taken a taxi to the middle-class neighborhood of Braka, where her cousin Thema lived with her husband Joseph and daughter Ebony.