Will Do Magic for Small Change

by Andrea Hairston

  “Can you walk?” Kehinde asked. I traced a finger across her cracked lips. She was desolate, a dry riverbed. “Let’s walk.” Kehinde yanked me over sleeping bodies out into a salty sea breeze.

  We stood under a field of dim stars. I sucked fresh air greedily. We walked twenty minutes at a fast pace and halted on an empty beach. The dull roar of waves pounded my skull. Sand and grit scrubbed my ankles. I was light-limbed and heavy-headed.

  Kehinde pulled me on toward the sea. “Are you really my Taiwo?”

  I tried to say, “Who else?” but garbled the words. My tongue tasted of bile and blood. A stab of pain in my side made me stumble. The wound from the armored bush was still tender. I should have healed myself before talking into the spaces between things. “You think I’m a masquerade and not myself?”

  “You appear to have returned.” Anxiety wafted from her pores.

  I tripped and almost fell. Kehinde steadied me and retrieved a gourd of warm liquid from behind a dazzling white rock. I guzzled the contents. My raw esophagus burned. The undulating horizon settled and vision cleared. I spied books, medicine bags, and a comb in the sand, but no skulls, weapons, or ammunition. We were naked indeed, at the mercy of any who held our deaths in their minds. I scanned the beach, fearful of ambush. Lapping waves became warrior feet. Wind in the palm leaves was a soldier’s labored exhalation. Before panic claimed me, Kehinde touched my cheeks, shoulder, and belly with calloused fingers, tentative at first, ending with a pinch. I groaned. She poured libation from a small gourd into the waves and spoke:

  Eshu!

  Rule breaker

  First and last born

  Guardian at the gate

  Who speaks every tongue

  Master of life and death

  Whose breasts never run dry

  Eshu!

  Who knows our thoughts, our hearts

  Wise orisha

  Who rhymes our reason

  Eshu!

  I am grateful that you have returned Taiwo to me.

  She flicked a horsetail whip and narrowed her eyes. “I never broke our oath.”

  I gripped her wrist. “Go on.”

  “My brother, he was Omotaiyelolu, the first to taste the world, the twin who excels. The balance was thrown off when Taiwo died, by my hand. You came and returned the world to balance, didn’t you?” She blew sour breath in my face. “Didn’t you?”

  “I am not your brother.”

  “I know.” She hurled my hand against my belly. I lost several breaths. “You’re nothing like him.” She lied. To wound me? The sack of brown cloth hung stupidly on her muscled physique. More hair twisted free of deteriorating braids. Black storm clouds covered stars and a sliver moon. A light on a distant boat bobbed in the waves. Dizzy, I wanted to throw up, but I was as empty as the space between galaxies.

  “What brings us to the cove —” I blinked away nausea — “where sharks fed on Yoruba flesh and Oshun spared you?”

  “You were right about that deadly bush. After being wounded gravely, speaking the tongue of your ancestors took your strength. You collapsed into my arms. Mercenaries were about to attack us. I had to carry you. You were heavy as death. I couldn’t get far with such a burden. Stumbling up to a termite tower, hope deserted me. You were barely breathing, an errant heartbeat. Our story almost ended there.”

  I paced around her brooding silence. What was worse than the tales of betrayal, rape, and murder she’d already told me? “You see me, hear me. I am with you again.”

  “Yes.” She rested her full weight against me, trusting my control of gravity. I staggered, but didn’t fall. As I held her in the sphere of my being, her breath turned sweet. The wet heat from her skin soothed me. The rhythm of her blood was delicious. With a swipe of my tongue, I tasted joy in a rogue tear trickling down her cheek. I laughed softly.

  She pulled away. “What’s funny?”

  “Joy.” I pulled her close again.

  She resisted. “There were others. They laughed at me too.”

  “Others?”

  “In you.” She tapped the space between my breasts. “Alien strangers rode your spirit, and I was afraid you’d never come back to me.” She dug in the sand with her foot. The blade of her cutlass gleamed in a shaft of moonlight.

  I uncovered the hilt with my toe. “To speak our oath, I risked all.” She shivered as my warm breath evaporated sweat on her neck. “Wanderers are restless, always seeking new adventures, new experiences. Why come back to what you’ve already tasted once?” Wanderers rarely lasted long enough in one place to have a full life. “You and I swore to be one spirit. You can tell me anything.”

  She slipped away from me, back into her story. “At that termite tower, your other spirits awoke and warred with one another — cursing, shouting, and drooling blood. They clouded your eyes and stole your tongue. They spoke nonsense in languages I had never heard. They moved your limbs, enjoyed your heartbeat, stole your breath.”

  I shuddered. “What else?”

  “They held the Lebel rifle to my head. No matter how hard they rode you, no matter what curse, threat, or horror they spit from your lips — I refused to abandon you.”

  “Did they harm you?” I swallowed slowly. “Did I?”

  She shook her head and hunched her shoulders — yes and no.

  “Tell me.” I brushed grit from her hair and plucked the comb from the sand.

  She touched wayward locks. “I haven’t had a moment —”

  “I will make you beautiful again.” I forced a smile. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I didn’t feed these lost spirits or welcome them in your body. I told them to go away and send you back to me. I called on Oshun, Shango, and Eshu Elegba. I danced a war dance, smashing through madness, taking your invaders’ heads with my cutlass. Eshu accepted this sacrifice. Your face became a mask of calm. The Lebel rifle was on your back again. Your fingers caressed my palm with a crossroads sign. Like a person lost in dreams, you wandered elsewhere, but Eshu rode your body, protecting you against the others, keeping the way open for your return.”

  I murmured a praise poem:

  Eshu!

  Full breasts

  Rule breaker

  Penis road maker

  Many-headed change

  I dug the wooden comb through tight curls, massaging her scalp with the rounded tips. She sighed and sat in the sand. I slipped behind her onto the cool surface of the white rock. Squeezing her shoulders between my thighs, I gathered wayward hair and braided it against her head. “Did the French capture us?” I asked. She shook her head. “Béhanzin’s spies?”

  “Would we be chatting on this beach if ahosi warriors had caught us?”

  I stared at the blinking light of the distant boat. “Is that our ship?” She nodded. “Are we slaves now? You traded our freedom for our lives?” She tried to pull away, but I clenched her shoulders and braided a second row.

  If this journey is not about patience, I don’t know why else I wandered here.

  CHRONICLES 7: Dahomey, West Africa, 1893 —

  Pretty Knots

  I plaited her entire head in a swirling galaxy pattern before she spoke more.

  “French mercenaries followed my clumsy tracks to the termite tower. I heard their loud approach. I shook you, hard enough to snap your head from your neck and shouted, Run! I cannot carry you any further, and if we stand still, we die. Don’t let enemies from within defeat us. Fly! Your eyes were dark clouds. The invaders tried to cackle through your lips, but, Eshu be praised, your body obeyed me. You raced away at the speed of dreams. I followed. My heart wanted to burst. There was blood on my breath, a ringing in my bones. Your swiftness saved us. Lazy French soldiers turned from our path and chased Béhanzin’s spies. We watched from a hillside as they charged into an ambush. Don’t rejoice a swift battle, I said. The victors will come for us. We ran on. You flung the Lebel rifle into a lagoon. I threw away most of our things too, for speed. Going at a dream pace, our muscles lasted
until Ouidah.

  “Filthy and exhausted, we wandered the streets of the city. The invading spirits sang in foreign tongues and argued with shadows. I waited every day for you to return. One afternoon in the market as you entertained an eager crowd, I spied a muscular man with scars above his heart — Yao, the warrior captain who raided my village as a young man. Yao mistook you for my brother, a rebel slave come back from the dead. It’s not true, you are who you are, but Yao recognized me for true, a traitor, an oath-breaker. He had pulled me from an ocean death and given me to Abla for warrior training. Yao’s head still belonged to Béhanzin. He would have died to bring us down. Without my rifle, I was no match for him. Spectators surged around us, squealing at your madness, cheering. Yao couldn’t reach us with his knife. The French must have confiscated his rifle. He screamed, I will kill you both. People in the crowd, thinking Yao a thief, wrestled him down. The market women don’t abide thieves. I rejoiced. Avoiding their justice would take time. I got you to flee, softly, a shadow feeding the dark, and we escaped.”

  A distant splash startled me. Reaching for the cutlass, I wrenched my torso and winced.

  “Vigilance is a good habit, but fear can’t be our lives. We were lucky that day. Yao was alone, without a rifle. It was easy to lose him. Your aje — power spirit — put us in constant danger. Despite this, Eshu wouldn’t let us leave Ouidah and meet destiny elsewhere.” Kehinde gestured at my wound. “That was an angry mound growing worse. You were covered in bitter sweat. Your body obeyed simple commands, but I couldn’t heal you. That evening after Yao’s ambush, your breath was shallow; your joints failed every second step. We were close to starving. I had nothing left to barter with.” She clutched my calf with sandy hands. “Hunger tore you apart. Even with Eshu riding you, the aje flapped your limbs in the wrong direction.”

  My achy muscles remembered this.

  “With the last of our gold, I sought a Babalawo, a Yoruba man living free from his wisdom. I’d met this father of mysteries when I was first a captive in Ouidah. An honorable man, even if he drove a hard bargain, he’d never betray us to Yao. I’d forgotten the way to his compound. When I spoke this plan, you rallied and in a few hours wandered to his door. Who denies a miracle? The Babalawo saw Eshu in you and agreed to perform Ifa divination. He tossed the palm nuts, marked lines in the dust. You knocked over the divining tray as he was about to offer Ifa verses. Eshu, I declared, embarrassed. He nodded and spoke Iwori Meji.”

  “I don’t know those verses.” In the north Kehinde schooled me in the Ifa wisdom of the Yoruba. Perhaps she’d taught me Iwori Meji. My memories were so muddled.

  Kehinde recited:

  Ifa says this is a person who wants to go out of town or on a journey.

  The person should sacrifice so her eyes do not see evil where she is going.

  Ifa says this is a person whose relatives cause her trouble.

  They won’t let her find peace anywhere, but if she sacrifices —

  She will find peace of heart and will overcome all her enemies.

  “I sacrificed and asked about a French healer. The Babalawo warned me, the Frenchman knows how to lance a wound, yet can’t see for looking. Too greedy. Take his medicine. Ignore the rest.” She touched the scar at her throat from the Fon slave collar. “We went to the Frenchman, Dr. Pierre, and his price was high.”

  “Very high?”

  She shrugged. “Dr. Pierre declared that as sure as water falls down a cliff, you’d die from the infection if it were left untended.”

  “You gave the Babalawo the last of our gold. How could you pay —”

  “I paid his fee. There was no alternative. Dr. Pierre said, on est dans le coma. He cooled you in a bath, cleaned the wound, made you drink bitter tea. He said no ghosts haunted you. Is that true? Did the bush send tiny creatures to scatter your spirit?”

  “There are in me always others waiting for an opening. As you once said, anyone can become someone else. Only Eshu knows tomorrow.”

  “You wind your words into a pretty knot.” She scratched her neck. “Don’t lie.”

  “I’ve never lied to you. Wanderers don’t know all the lost selves who roam the crossroads, waiting for a chance to take over.”

  Her hand hovered over my wound. “Can we choose who to be?”

  “Perhaps.” I slipped down beside her and clutched the cold metal of the cutlass. The blade cut my palm and I dripped blood in the sand. “I sacrifice to our truth.”

  Kehinde clasped my bloody hand. “I understand why you don’t trust sleep.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t underestimate me.”

  “Forgive me. I’m an ignorant Wanderer.”

  “In sleep, you’re vulnerable to the others who would steal your tongue, feet, and heart. You have many spirits, many bodies — like Eshu.” She smiled. “Much ashe — power to make things be.”

  “I fought the others.”

  “Instead of fighting, you could sacrifice and go elsewhere for another life?”

  “Yes. I might never be Taiwo again.”

  “Eshu guides every transition.” She brushed her cheek against my knuckles. “When Yao and his squad raided our village, my brother and I were dreaming. We slept in an iroko tree — his idea. I dreamt of being a warrior woman. Warrior feet woke my brother. He sounded the alarm. I threw a masquerade over his head and mine. They caught us and dragged us through the village.” She paused. “We didn’t see what had happened, only bodies burning. My father’s head dripped blood on Yao’s spike; my sisters screamed; my mother’s waist beads were scattered.”

  “What did your brother dream?” My wound throbbed. I winced.

  “Taiwo became the Babalawo of his dreams, and I became the warrior woman.” She sighed. “After Dr. Pierre wrestled you from le coma, I swore we’d make a long journey; we’d find new stories, peaceful sleep. I didn’t know how, but Ifa isn’t cruel. Eshu laughs at our sorrow, for sorrow fades when we turn the corner into a new life.”

  “The orisha show us a path. We must take it.”

  “Exactly, you couldn’t come back to yourself until we were on our way. So after I dispatched the Frenchman —”

  “You killed Dr. Pierre?”

  “He violated me many times. He lusted after you as well.”

  “When I was sick and helpless?” My stomach rolled. “Why?”

  “It gave him pleasure.” She balled her fists. “Dr. Pierre’s medicines dried up bitter sweat and made the angry swelling subside. Yet invaders still whispered with your tongue. What cure is this? I asked. He sneered at me, Je ne suis pas le sorcier de tribu. I’m no witch doctor. Taiwo is in God’s hands. I realized, searching for Somso in this war, I might lose you to Yao’s blade. Fon spies could mistake you for me or my brother. Who knows if Somso still lives? Abandoning a dead woman to the ancestors would not dishonor my brother. I decided to journey far and leave enemies behind as Ifa said. The night before our departure, Dr. Pierre came to my bed, demanding more than our bargain, saying he deserved me once more and you as a bonus. He’d charged other women a similar price for saving their children’s lives. Many returned for regular treatments.” Kehinde sighed. “I sent him away. I’m not other women.”

  “You are their champion.”

  “While you healed, I was Dr. Pierre’s assistant.” Kehinde fought tears. “He turned no sick person away: Yoruba, Fon, English, Brazilian, Fula, Portuguese, Igbo, French, Ewe, rebel, slave, soldier, or royal prince. He shared French doctor secrets with any who listened. He taught everyone who asked to read. Books and knowledge were his greatest treasures, and he gave them away. I traveled the world in his library, and we talked of noble lands, ancient and in the future. He had me teach him Ifa wisdom. We wrote down many verses. At his funeral, only a few women spat on the grave. Most sang his praises. The mothers of the market suspect a jealous husband or an angry lover, but I’m their enemy.”

  “How could someone so good turn around on himself?”

  “That questi
on torments me,” Kehinde said and recited:

  Eshu slept in a house — But the house was too small for him

  Eshu slept in the open — But the open was too small for him

  Eshu slept in a nut — At last he could stretch himself!

  “Now you wind words into a pretty knot,” I said.

  “You would have spared Dr. Pierre, even though, changing your bandages that last night, he fondled your breasts, spread your legs, and started to mount you. I’d warned him. You weren’t part of our bargain.” Her heart was a hammer. “He spoke sweetly, Don’t be jealous, chérie, I have more than enough love for you both. He thrust himself into your helpless form. Love? A person without honor is a dead person. How can he know love?” She spoke softly. “Still, killing him wasn’t as easy as taking other heads.”

  “Ifa chose Iwori Meji for us both.”

  “Who argues with a cure? You’ve come back to yourself.”

  “Have I?” Wanderer memories were blurry fragments.

  “I’m your stillpoint. I will know you from beginning to end. That is Wanderer wisdom you spoke to me. Believe in who you say you are.”

  Exhausted from her long vigil watching over me, she curled within my arms and fell deep asleep.

  CHRONICLES 8: Dahomey, West Africa, 1893 —

  New Life

  A high-pitched bell sounded on the European boat. Birds passed over the ragged coast, cawing and slapping the air as if their roost had been threatened by predators. Kehinde shivered awake in the first strong breeze of the night. We mingled hot breath. My tongue lapped her salty skin. Desire burned through me, a surprise attack. Despite the past selves I’d forgotten, I still recalled that passion posed grave dangers. Too late. Love ambushes even the vigilant. Our limbs twisted and tangled until we made a braid of our bodies. Heart, breath, and bowels matched rhythms. Nerves fired a storm of static across our skin. Kehinde’s sweat soured suddenly and thigh muscles tensed. Rough tones filled her throat and light dimmed in her eyes. Uninitiated in romance, I faltered. What was I to her?

  “We shall wander.” She spoke softly. “The French do not want women warriors.”