by Anita Kopacz
“Yes, but—”
“Say no more, my child. Our prayers have been answered.”
“Asé!” the crowd responds.
“I am not who you are looking for.”
“We all saw what happened to you,” the elder interjects powerfully as the crowd agrees. “The master whipped your unconscious body to a bloody pulp as an example of what he would do to us if we rose up. For all we knew, you was dead.” She adds, “Your little friend out there saved your life.”
I look toward the flap covering the cave and notice Tillie’s blue eyes flashing through a crack in the curtain. Seeing Tillie’s unrepentant boldness, I smile to myself, then nod to the elder.
“We prayed for you. Have you come to answer our prayers?”
I hesitate. Each person in this cave has placed their faith in my hands, and the weight of the burden is overwhelming. I am not the One.
“Ma’am, there must be some mistake.”
“No,” she declares simply.
I want to run, to get away from these people and their desperation, their expectations, their demands. I want to get away from these humans, be back in the ocean, swimming free.
“You are the One.” I hear Obatala’s voice whisper in my ear.
I search the cave to see where he is, but it’s clearly my imagination. There are seven candles flickering in the middle of the cave, and three pregnant women with their eyes closed sitting with their backs to the candles. The children have formed a circle facing the pregnant women, and the other adults have formed a circle around the children. They are all sitting except for the elder, whom I hear them refer to as Godmother.
“Welcome, Yemaya,” she says.
At the sound of her voice, the three pregnant women rise and walk toward me. The circles yield to the women as they pass. They surround me and lead me to the middle of the group. They motion for me to sit.
A wave of emotion travels from my head down through my body. My skin ripples as I feel tiny bumps rise all over it.
Godmother begins to chant in an unfamiliar tongue. Her voice fills the entire space, leaving no room for wandering thoughts. Every person in the cave stands at attention. I attempt to stand up, too, but one of the pregnant women gently settles me back in my spot. The crowd sings back to Godmother. As she calls out, they respond in kind.
Suddenly they turn toward me, singing, “Yemaya, Yemaya, Yemaya.”
As they chant, my eyes roll to the back of my head, and I begin to rock back and forth. My senses become hazy as my sight blurs, and sounds become distant, meaningless mumbles. The intoxicating scent of seawater surrounds me, and I taste something sweet and succulent. Watermelon?
That’s when I lose consciousness.
9
RECOUNT
Silken sheets caress my skin as I turn in bed. What happened?
Tillie sits at the desk, avidly writing in her journal. She tucks a lock of blond hair behind her ear. She is in the same clothes she wore last night, the hem of her dress stained with dirt. I adjust my head on the pillow.
“You’re up!” she cries as I stir. “Oh my dear God in heaven!”
“Was it that bad?”
“Bad? It was brilliant!”
“I thought you were not allowed in.”
“What do you expect? There was only a wee curtain separating me from all of the action. Do you want me to read the details of the night to you?”
I settle in, knowing that her inquiry was a rhetorical question. She is going to read me the details—whether I want to hear them or not.
I have no recollection of the night beyond the initial song. Tillie begins to flip through pages. “Ah, here we are. Are you ready?”
“I think so,” I say as I pull the sheets up to my chin. “Yes.”
Tillie clears her throat and licks her pointer finger. “ ‘The Rebirth of Yemaya,’ ” she proudly proclaims. “I’ll skip to when you started to rock back and forth.”
“Yes, that is the last thing I remember.”
Tillie begins reading from her journal. I am stunned to learn the many happenings of the night. There was a complete ceremony and, to top it off, I apparently went around telling everyone about their future. How did this all happen?
“Why don’t I remember a thing? I just can’t see how all of this could happen without me knowing!”
“I do not know how or why.” Tillie shakes her head in disbelief. “But you became the Goddess that they spoke of.”
“But if I became her, where was I? And who is she?”
“These are questions I cannot answer,” Tillie says as she closes her notebook. “But you can ask Godmother tonight. She has asked us to join them for the final prayer of celebration. It will be by the river.”
My first instinct is to say no.
“What are you thinking?” Tillie asks.
“I need to find Obatala.”
“I know, I know, we must find your true love, but we have to go tonight. All of your questions will be answered. Your magic powers will come back to you in full, and we’ll be more prepared to find him. I just know it!” Tillie proclaims.
“I’ll go, but this time I want you with me.”
“Of course! Once they saw how you, I mean She, acknowledged me, I was allowed to enter. I will be a part of the ceremony tonight.”
Tillie turns back around and continues to write. I settle back against the down pillows, allowing my mind to wander. Suddenly, a flat image of three horizontal scars springs into my vision. His neck and then his back materialize before me, growing more solid, more real by the second. As I reach out to trace the familiar raised scars with my fingertips, he begins to walk away, eluding my touch.
“Are you all right?” Tillie interrupts.
The vision shatters into a million pieces, and it feels as if my heart follows suit. I slowly lower my outstretched hand.
“Why don’t you rest,” Tillie suggests. “I’ll go to my room to write.”
She smiles gently at me before she locks the door behind her.
This time, I understand that I am not her prisoner. She has locked me in to keep me safe. Nonetheless, I feel instantly desolate.
Silence.
Emptiness.
Loneliness.
The quiet leaves me victim to the voices in my head.
I am alone. I will never find Obatala. No one understands me. No one even knows who I really am. Everything is a struggle.
As I wallow in my self-pity, the hours seem to drag on. Eventually, the sinking sun touches the clouds with hues of fuchsia and lavender. I gaze listlessly at the silhouette of a large oak tree that stands starkly against the vivid backdrop. That tree looks so strong.
I am stirred by the succulent aromas of cornbread, chicken, sweet yams, and collard greens that drift through the open window, pleasantly encircling me. Tonight, I know that the rich aromas are wafting over from the slave quarters. The contrast between my feelings of desolation and the joyful anticipation of the Africans who await my presence is painful for me. How can I possibly be the source of celebration when I feel so utterly lost?
I can no longer stand their expectation that I am here to deliver them. They are cooking the most extravagant meal that they can, with the little food they have. Deliver them where, and to what? Do they think I can set them free? Do they think I have that power? I am proof that their prayers have been answered, but what can I really do for them? I jump off the bed and hastily shut the window.
What if I am the one they are praying for? I am unlike anyone I have encountered thus far. Could I actually be the Yemaya they worship? The possibility baffles me. Laughter ripples from my lips as I ponder myself as a Goddess.
I open the window back up. The sun has begun to set. Hanging branches of a willow tree sway in the warm breeze. The southern heat has seeped into the month of October. I close my eyes and I am transported back through time as I see my sacred medicine animal leading me to Obatala. He is sitting on the sands of our homeland, holding a
bundle of blue-and-white flowers. The panther sits by his side. I swim in the waters a fair distance from the shore. Mother and Father float up behind me and lead me closer to Obatala. My beautiful tail morphs into human legs and I stand in the shallow waters with my parents by my side.
My father holds out the seventh shell, the one I never received, and motions for me to join Obatala. I slowly walk up to my love, halfway waiting for my dream state to disappear before I reach him, but it doesn’t. I sit between him and the mighty beast, as he hands me the bushel of flowers.
“You are the One, Yemaya. They are already remembering who they really are. Just keep going. I will see you soon.”
I reach out to embrace him and I slam my wrist on the windowsill in the guest room, snatching me out of my vision.
The door opens, and Tillie ushers Margaret into the room. Tillie has a basket of delicate blue-and-white wildflowers, which she sets on the bed. I say nothing of my vision, but seeing the blooms serves as a significant affirmation for me. Margaret stays by the door with her head bowed. Had I not witnessed her alter ego in the cave, I would not think it possible for this quiet lady to be so grand and proud.
“I am here to give you instructions for tonight,” she says, just above a whisper.
I notice that she carries a white garment in her hands.
She holds up the plain-cut gown with large sleeves and says, “This is for you to wear.” The dress hangs to my ankles, with enough material to flutter in the breeze. The neckline is embroidered with tiny blue flowers.
I take the dress into my arms and cradle it. “It is beautiful.”
Tillie nods in agreement and says, “Now, that is fine craftsmanship! None of my dresses have ever been embroidered like that.”
Margaret smiles thinly at Tillie and says, “A man will meet you both outside of your window in one hour. He will take you to the site.” She then averts her eyes in deference once again. “Thank you, Yemaya. I knew it was you.”
She bows and scurries out of the room. Tillie immediately locks the door behind her.
“You seem to be in brighter spirits,” Tillie says, as she walks up to me.
“Yes, I feel much better. Thank you.”
“Do you need help?” Tillie asks as I hold up the dress.
I take off my heavy garments and she slips the dress over my head. Tillie sits me in front of the mirror and wrangles my wild thatch of hair into a bun. She adorns my mane with the blue-and-white wildflowers she brought with her in the basket.
She places the final blossom on my head and says, “You look like a Goddess.”
My own beauty catches me off guard.
Seeing the stunned look on my face, Tillie asks tentatively, with a tinge of insecurity, “Do you like it?”
“I love it.” I turn to hug her.
“Mind yourself. You might wrinkle the gown.”
The grandfather clock chimes and Tillie asks, “Are you ready?”
“Yes. Do you have your journal?”
“Dearie me! Thank you for reminding me. Wait here.”
She runs out the door and sprints to her room.
I turn toward the mirror again to admire the work we have accomplished. Never have I seen myself in this light. I turn my head from side to side, taking in each angle. As I twirl around, I notice a small blue flower embroidered on the bottom hem at the back of the dress. I pull it up to get a better look.
The door bursts open and Tillie runs in, locking it behind her.
“Hurry,” she whispers breathlessly. “Auntie Soph is looking for me.”
Tillie dashes to the window. She holds out her hand to assist me down. We carefully gather the dress to keep from soiling the pristine white cloth. I jump to the ground and hold the hem in my hands.
“Watch out!” Tillie throws her journal out the window and follows closely behind. “We cannot stay here!” She grabs my hand and leads me into a nearby patch of trees. “It will be dark soon, and my aunt will assume I went to bed.”
Tillie leans against a tree as she catches her breath.
“How are you going to write in your journal?”
“I borrowed my uncle’s penner.” She pulls out a small red leather container and flips open the rectangular contraption to reveal a miniature silver plume and ink container. “He would kill me if he knew I had it.” She smiles as she closes it and slips it into a pocket. She holds the journal close to her chest and keeps a lookout.
We freeze as we hear a stick snap behind us. I can feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
“Yemaya?” a man’s voice whispers.
We both release a long breath. “Yes,” I say with a sense of relief.
The man emerges from the brush. I do not remember his face from last night. He is handsome and fit, with hair wild and free.
Tillie smiles as he approaches our hideout. “I remember you,” she says. “What are you doing down south?”
“Yes.” He smiles tightly. “We met last summer. Her parents are my colleagues,” he says to me.
“Well, we mustn’t keep them waiting,” Tillie says.
The man lowers his gaze, saying, “Follow me.”
The aroma from the feast seems to penetrate and overwhelm the natural smells of the forest. I hear a river babbling and gurgling in the distance. I hold my dress above my knees to avoid the mud from the recent rain. My naked feet are covered in the forest sludge.
Tillie notices the mud and gasps. “Yemaya! Where are your boots?”
Before I can reassure her that it’s better for me to be barefoot, the man says, “We are almost there.”
Tillie stops and turns toward me. She tucks an escaped tuft of hair back into my bun, then says, “You look beautiful.”
I smile, remembering my reflection.
“Are you ready?” Tillie asks.
As ready as I’ll ever be.
I realize that the man is patiently waiting for us.
“I’m sorry,” I say as we walk toward him.
“If I may be so bold, you are a sight to behold.”
I think I blush. “Thank you.”
“This way, please.” He ushers us toward the festivities.
As we approach the perimeter of the clearing, just past the slave quarters, the man begins a loud series of hand claps. Tillie and I stand behind him as he claps out several rhythms. Eventually, two drums join in with him and the crowd begins to chant, “Yemaya! Yemaya!”
“Follow me,” he says as he moves toward the river.
I drop the hem of the dress and allow it to float in the warm breeze. Whispers and soft hums mix with the sound of the river to create a symphony of calming melodies. Everyone seems to carry either a bouquet or a garland of white flowers. Then I see Obatala, dressed in white. I rub my eyes, and the vision clears. Another man stands in his place, smiling and holding a bouquet of seven white roses.
Godmother is in the middle of the circle. She motions for the drums to cease with a flick of her right hand.
“Yemaya!” she bellows. “Your presence has renewed our faith and made us understand that no one can rob us of our roots.”
The crowd cheers. I turn toward Tillie, and she is applauding along with everyone else. Slowly, I raise my hand to speak. Several people in the crowd murmur, “Shhh, she speaks.”
I clear my throat. “Even though we’ve only known each other for a short time, I have come to feel like we are family. And it is I who want to thank you. You have allowed me to see who I am.” I look at each person standing before me. When my eyes meet Tillie’s, we both tear up.
The crowd breaks out in whoops of appreciation again, some of them articulating their happiness with yelps and guttural utterings in their throats that erupt in ways that are uniquely and anciently African. The men begin to drum again. Godmother takes my arm and walks me toward the river. Tillie follows close behind, diligently writing with her uncle’s penner.
“Go ahead, child,” Godmother says as she motions for me to walk into the water. “
I cannot follow you in. This must be your journey. Walk seven steps and turn around.”
I look at Tillie. She nods and smiles confidently.
I take a deep breath and step into the gurgling river. My body drinks in the fresh water and is awakened by its primordial flow. As I take the next step, my feet are washed clean, and the bottom of the dress clings to my ankles. The third step brings the water to my knees. I am tempted to dive in and swim away. I bring my feet together with the fourth step, and I can feel all of my strength return to my body. My fifth step is small, because, with my soles and toes, I am feeling my way along the rocky riverbed. I go deeper with the next step, and the water rises to just below my waist. I turn around with my final step and face the crowd before me.
Someone has given Tillie a string of white flowers. She wraps them around her arm as she documents my every movement in her notebook.
The three pregnant women from the night before are at the forefront of the gathering. One woman is holding a string of flowers composed of mixed blue-and-white blossoms, another has a small watermelon, and the final one has a handful of pennies and a small wooden cup full of a dark liquid.
The rhythm of the drums changes, cueing the women to enter the river. The woman with the garland wades carefully toward me and hangs the string of blossoms around my neck. She says, “With these flowers, I honor the power of the ocean inside of you.” The second woman approaches, and with great solemnity she places the watermelon in my hands and says, “With this watermelon, I acknowledge the infinite gifts that you provide.” She then urges me to place the watermelon underwater at my feet. I put it where she indicates and attempt to hold it in place with my foot, but it pops up and begins to float downstream. We laugh as we watch it dance in and out of the waves. The third pregnant woman approaches and begins to chant in a language I do not understand, and then drops seven pennies at my feet. Circling around me, she pours out the liquid from the cup and says, “With these seven copper pieces I ask for your love and protection to guide our people until time’s end, and may this molasses surround you with the sweet things in life.”
I begin to feel dizzy once more. My eyes roll back, but I fight to stay conscious. I observe as the adults pass their flowers to the children, who then place them in the stream. Various people holding flower necklaces hand them to the pregnant women, who adorn me with a multitude of blossoms. The current seems to have come to a standstill, and the stream now looks like a field of wild white-and-blue flowers. The blossoms begin to flow toward me, as if guided by a magnetic force.