Will Do Magic for Small Change

by Andrea Hairston

  “Is this who you fight for now?” I spoke Yoruba and pushed her cutlass aside. “You renounced your king for them?”

  “I fight for one hundred francs. For the days of freedom the money will buy.”

  “Why rehearse what you want to leave behind?”

  “Tell me what is wrong. What pains you still?”

  Trembling and suddenly dizzy, I turned away.

  “Is it Abla?” Kehinde’s weapons clattered against the deck. She stepped closer. Waves of her heat lapped over me. “We swore an oath to each other.”

  “You don’t understand.” I should have talked about Abla. “I’ve forgotten so much.”

  “Nothing can be forgotten,” Kehinde said. “It can only be hidden.”

  I stomped away from her and bumped into a sailor who wouldn’t let me pass.

  “What are you doing?” Bob grimaced. Bright starlight hurt his eyes.

  “Why are you here?” I said. “It’s afternoon.”

  “Liam said I had to see her. Told me she’s the real thing, not one of Luigi’s con games. An honest to god Amazon.” He grabbed my arm. “They think we’re savages.”

  “We? You’re not one of us. You don’t make sense.”

  “Why perform this shameless display?” Somehow our warrior moves hurt him.

  “I don’t wish to fight for this or any audience,” I whispered.

  Bob was the friend who wandered dark, sleepless nights and disappeared at dawn. A familiar shadow, a welcome scent on the wind, I thought of him more as a creature of my mind than as a being in his own reality. Bob in full daylight was a revelation. He had blue/green eyes, like the Jesus orisha, and wasn’t as pale as the other sailors who worked in daylight up on deck. His skin was the color of the beach near Ouidah. Pepper red hair curled close against his scalp. Splotches of darker pigment were splattered across his cheeks and arms, perhaps his whole body. He was a handsome man, appealing in so many ways. Later I would learn he shunned not light, but hostile eyes, curious about his spots. I touched a curved moon shape on his forearm and steadied myself. Men who looked like him had waged war on Dahomey with Colonel Alfred-Amedée Dodds. Perhaps Bob was a Senegalese fighting man and enemy of Dahomey. How could an enemy be a friend?

  “Is Senegal your home?” I asked.

  “No!” He was insulted. “I’m not African. America is my home. Chicago.” He nodded at Kehinde as if we shared a secret about her. “The sailors want to wrestle her to the ground.” Tears spilled across his splotchy cheeks. He caught my hand before I touched his face, and when Captain Luigi burst through a cabin door, Bob held my hand between us where Luigi couldn’t see.

  “Why are you so ashamed of us?” I asked. Bob dropped my hand.

  Kehinde stood on guard, weapons ready.

  “I don’t need any more warrior lessons!” I disappeared into the bowels of the ship, escaping them both.

  The warren of tight corridors below deck was hot and close. The engineer cursed his ornery boilers and didn’t notice me lurking about. Trimmers lugged coal into the engine room from the bunkers. Soot- and grease-covered stokers heaved coal into the wide-mouthed furnaces. The fire required constant feeding. Many more dark men sweated in the fire’s glow than roamed the dawn working the upper decks. When I grabbed a shovel, they made a space in their routine without comment. Above us, Kehinde stomped the last of her warrior moves. I wanted to run to her and beg for the past we’d left behind, instead I tossed heavy loads of coal until trembling muscles gave out at the end of the shift. The stokers thanked me with a bottle of rum. Kehinde was asleep when I returned to our narrow berths. I poured the alcohol into the sea to spite her or taunt Abla — I’m not sure which.

  CHRONICLES 15: Atlantic Ocean, 1893 —

  The Color of Love

  And so it was. Each day, rather than tell Kehinde about Abla’s head or the aje twinges that plagued me, I antagonized her. We fought over Bob, over everything, even the color of water. I insisted the ocean’s blue depended on starlight caught by the sky. Kehinde said the algae, fish, and runoff determined the color.

  Pointing at streaks of green and brown cutting across azure blue waves, I said, “At night these variations are swallowed in black.”

  “Nothing has color at night.” Kehinde stormed away.

  “You don’t want to admit your error.” I yelled at her back. “Water is colorless. Let it run through your fingers. What color do you see but your own?”

  She halted. “Exactly! Blue sky will not turn a muddy river clear.”

  What did this matter? I wanted to ask her why Abla haunted me or why Bob from Chicago fascinated me, but instead I said, “You love ignorance.”

  “You warp your thoughts into knots.” She jogged along the railing. Sailors jumped out of her way. “You’re too much of a coward to tell me the truth.”

  “Who lied us onto this boat? What great journey is this? We float in the middle of nowhere! You might as well have left my body in the market at Ouidah or plunged a cutlass through my heart. Swift death is better than such a mangled life.”

  She tripped at my cruelty and limped away. Her broken stride almost undid me. What if Brother-Taiwo haunted her as Abla haunted me? The wound at my side throbbed. Love was a poison drip burning my vital organs.

  Melinga rescued us. She ate and slept and shat. That was the rhythm of my hours. Somso always wept as the child nursed. The greedy mouth and fingers tugging at her nipples, fat feet kicking her ribs with joy, did this call Husband-Taiwo to mind? Leaving home for a blank future with a helpless daughter of Africa weighed on her spirit. Somso was content to pass Melinga to me. In full daylight, while Kehinde entertained bored sailors and mercenaries with death blows, I transformed into a sea-going creature, a gentle side to my aje. Melinga was untroubled by my fearsome countenance. Somso offered meager protest as I dove with the child into frothy waves. Nobody expected to see an aje with a baby in its talons. We were mist-phantoms playing tricks on their eyes.

  Curious creatures, smaller than the behemoths of the night, gamboled behind our ship. Screw propellers churned up bewildered fish from the depths. These air-breathing beasts enjoyed an easy feast followed by exploration and play. They clothed us in spirals of bubbles and sang high pitched odes. Melinga cooed harmony to their clicks and whistles. We leapt high in the air together. After wondrous frolicking, Melinga’s ravenous weeping signaled the end of our jaunts. She was hungry most of the time, so I never swam far from Somso. Melinga’s hunger kept me close to human.

  “Ora na-azu nwa,” Somso said these Igbo wise words again and again as Melinga nursed. “A community raises the child. What people do I have?” She wept.

  “My niece drinks too many of your tears.” Kehinde couldn’t abide crying. “The Fon stole me away from everyone. Are Taiwo and I not your people? Be grateful.”

  “Is your husband dead?” Somso said.

  “No. My brother, my twin died in my arms. I have no husband.”

  “You chose a demon companion. I didn’t. Don’t lecture me.”

  “You chose Abla who would have murdered us.”

  “What choice with a cutlass at my head and a knife at my belly?”

  “You said there is always a choice. No one forgets the taste of loyalty.”

  Somso brooded. She would spend the day finding a proper retort. I was glad for their spats. Except for fighting Kehinde, Somso was listless. She ate little, and her milk was the fat of her body, melting away. A pain settled around her lungs. After a few spoken words, a dry cough would consume her. Blood coated her tongue. She too feared for her daughter, who must drink tainted milk and breathe spoiled breath.

  “You’re so full of life, demon,” Somso said between spasms. “Why can’t you heal me?”

  I searched for invading creatures, a magnetic imbalance, the wrong smell in her urine, but found no sign of what plagued her.

  “She doesn’t get better,” Kehinde remarked one chill evening. The north wind had routed travelers and sailors who took re
fuge in warm bunks. We had the sky and water to ourselves. The home star lay half under the sea and sprayed fiery streaks across the horizon. At last I experienced a dusk worthy of the dawns I had witnessed.

  “How can I heal Somso,” I complained, “if she won’t tell me what is wrong?”

  “You are the healer.” Kehinde sighed. “She is my brother’s wife.”

  “That makes her swallow hurt and nurse despair?”

  “Yes. A diviner doesn’t rudely ask what grave problem a person wishes to solve. Who shares torment with a stranger? The diviner consults Odu Ifa and speaks the verses. Using the insights of the ancestors a wise Babalawo clears confusion and offers people their own solution.”

  “Yes, Ifa says, Initiate yourself again by using your wisdom and intelligence.”

  “What troubles you, Taiwo?”

  “Nothing,” I lied, ashamed of my fears and infirmities. “What troubles you?”

  Kehinde pointed at a fat moon, low and orange on the horizon. Its reflection bounced in black water. “Does the moon, and the sun also, act differently in the sky here?” Red light streaked a purple storm cloud. Evening stars glittered underneath. “Does everything change as we steam north? Will the stars be different too?”

  “The night, full of sparkling crystal beads and a carved ivory orb, is still a crown for the sea.”

  Kehinde touched my cheek. “The sea is a queen,” she said. “Mère d’eau, Yemoja, a generous orisha whose name is really yeye emo eja, the mother whose children are like fishes. Yemoja changes her gown and headdress for the cold north.”

  I kissed Kehinde’s fingers, enjoying the poetry of her mouth, of her sweat. She didn’t resist. I took her other hand and twirled her. She spun several times before leaning her back against my heart. We laced fingers across her stomach. I pressed my nose and lips against swirls of hair that trailed from the nape of her neck down to her back. Magnetic spikes rippled from nerves just under her skin and were echoed in my energy field. The smell of her skin in salty sea air made my mouth water. Licking a bit of her onto my tongue, the blood pressure in the backs of my knees, fingertips, and groin spiked. Kehinde’s sweet taste had changed. I was hungry to know why, but couldn’t think what questions to ask. Holding her close I was dizzy and happy, flushed with the heat of desire. She was still my Kehinde, and I couldn’t remember why we fought.

  The star slid completely below the sea. Clouds fifty miles high, invisible by day, caught rays on their fluffy bellies and glowed bluish white. Kehinde rubbed her buttocks against my pubis bones. I traced patterns on her belly, grazing her breasts. Her nipples were hard and erect, like Somso’s after nursing. We lingered in this embrace, slow dancing to the music on our breath. This was not a warrior’s dance of death, but I whispered, “My head belongs to you.”

  Bright falling stars landed in the sea near the ship, burning and hissing in cold water. Abla did not dare show her murdered face, and I wondered if love was also mojo against night terrors.

  “Take care,” Kehinde said. “I don’t know how to love.”

  Contact Improvisation

  Chronicles 15 stopped at a meteor shower, like an old Hollywood cutaway to a roaring fire or billowing curtains. The Wanderer’s words were a story storm taking over Cinnamon’s mouth. Hard nipples and pubis bones made her want to melt into the posh leather seat.

  Hunched over the brakes, Sekou sighed. Frau Beckenbauer looks like zombies are about to attack. He stroked a bear claw necklace that Aidan had given him. Was that under her bed too? Cinnamon had to quit being a chicken-shit and look through Sekou’s secret stash.

  “Verdammt, Vati wird uns umbringen.” Mrs. Beckenbauer tapped her frosted window.

  “What’d she say about Vati?” Cinnamon asked.

  “My dad’s going to kill us.” Klaus still looked sick and pale.

  A safety pin gave out, and Cinnamon’s mojo bag, eagle feather, and mosaic bead burst through her shirt. “Mist!” She fumbled to put herself back together.

  Marie pointed. “What is all that?”

  “Mojo from my grandparents.” Cinnamon got it hidden away. “Nine power things in the bag. Nine is a hoodoo number.”

  Marie slugged Klaus. “Is that cool or what?” Klaus shrugged.

  A plow blocked the road. Mrs. Williams turned down a snowy side street going thirteen MPH as Walk On By blared from the speakers.

  “Talking’s a cure. Singing’s hoodoo too.” Cinnamon surreptitiously nodded at Klaus’s trembling lips. Sweaty wisps of hair curled in his eyes.

  “I love this song.” Marie sang along with Dionne Warwick.

  “They were singing these songs before we were born. Isn’t that wild?” Cinnamon stroked a strand out of his face. She did this when Sekou hid in his dreads. Klaus’s silver blond hair was too flimsy for any real shielding. He jerked away as she brushed his forehead. Guys were black holes for attention sometimes.

  “Close your eyes,” Cinnamon said. “Trust me. Do it.”

  After a second he squeezed his eyes shut and let her pet him, long strokes, fingertips pressing into his scalp. Marie sang greatest hits with Mary Wells, The Temptations, and Patti Labelle. She was all over the Staple Singers with I know a place, ain’t nobody crying, ain’t nobody worried…

  I’ll Take You There broke Klaus open. He whispered. “Vati won’t stop.”

  Sekou leaned in close and whispered too, Maybe he can’t stop, Bro.

  “I’m not sure what he’s shooting. Junk he cooked up? He’s a biomedical chemist. Whatever, it’s bad, and after overtime in the lab, he gets ugly. It’s awful. I, uhm, wow, you know, I hate him sometimes.”

  Naw, you don’t hate him. Sekou was gentle. You just want to.

  “Tonight, he’ll be crazy angry when we get home. He’ll yell shitty things in English. Muti wants me to translate. I say it’s too hard, but she’s not stupid.”

  How can you tell her? Sekou put a hand on Klaus’s shoulder.

  Icky images of Vati stormed Cinnamon. Cock sucking whore, you don’t fucking fool me. I know where your mouth’s been. Cinnamon threw up shields. Sekou blazed a bit brighter, helping out.

  Marie dropped out of R&B land and shook Klaus’s knee. “What?”

  “Out of a mosquito he is making an elephant.” Klaus’s Euro-chic accent was getting thick. “Vati takes all out on Muti.”

  Cinnamon noted a bruise on Mrs. B’s cheek, not totally hidden by hair or makeup. One eye was puffy. That fight happened tonight, before the audition. Vati wails on them in the garage; Cinnamon had seen him do it. She touched Klaus’s stomach, wishing she could pull pain and throw it to the wind like Miz Redwood. Klaus’s eyes popped open. He stared down at her fingers and sighed.

  “Muti does nothing bad, nothing against him, nothing at all. I wish I were with someone else, she yelled tonight. And Vati…” Klaus’s hands flopped around. “Vati is insisting she has some other guy. She, she…”

  “Don’t be embarrassed about your parents being sexual animals,” Marie said.

  “I’m not,” Klaus said, but he was. “I’m not.”

  It’s cool, Bro. Sekou punched his shoulder. Nobody wants to think about their folks boning other people.

  “Vati flips out thinking Muti likes boning some other guy. Nobody’d blame her. Vati is a total psycho nutcase. Where is this other guy? WHO is he? Muti’s English sucks, and nobody does German. Nobody likes German. We’re Nazis, you know, Jew killers.”

  “Nazis offed gypsies and homosexuals too,” Marie said.

  Whoa. Sekou beamed a weapons grade sneer at her. That’s not very helpful.

  Klaus’s shoulders seized up. “Yes, those people also.”

  “Stop that.” Cinnamon shook this new tension out of him.

  It’s a theme. Japan raped Nanking. Zulus took out the San and Khoi people. White Americans did their best to eradicate Indians. Black Buffalo Soldiers were their scouts!

  “OK. We get the theme,” Cinnamon said.

  “I hate people calling up the wors
t examples and claiming that’s human nature.” Marie was fuming. So why’d she go on about Nazis?

  “Sekou’s talking history, not nature, OK?” Cinnamon swept her hand over Sekou’s ghost lips. “He hates people with amnesia infirmity.” She turned to Klaus. “So your mom’s not the most popular girl in town, but somebody still might like her, even if —”

  “Vati tracks her every move, following her without telling her he’s there.”

  He spies on her! Sekou scrutinized Mrs. B. No way!

  “He shows up in the grocery store, at the doctor’s office. He could have been at the Playhouse tonight, lurking on a landing.”

  Marie froze. “Does he look like you only —”

  “He needs help.” Cinnamon cut Marie off before she said she’d seen Vati.

  Klaus nodded. “He scares away anybody speaking German. She’s in a German lit class at Pitt. Vati told me nobody talks to her except the professor lady. He sounded proud. Other than Pitt, she’s home, being a good Hausfrau.”

  “I bet Vati doesn’t know everything about her,” Marie said. “Maybe you neither.”

  “Vati should split,” Cinnamon said. “Why doesn’t Muti ditch him?”