Dancing at Midnight
She waited in the hushed night silence of her house. An obstacle at her door lest someone sneak in while she dozed. Satou was sleepy and there were long periods of time when she lost consciousness. But, when she remembered the tears and cries of her friend, shivers went up and down her spine. This should not have been, because all the students at her new school envied her. She had travelled to Paris and New York with her family. She had actually lived in America and seen Him—M.J.—Michael Jackson, on stage!
She had posters of Him and His Sister. Janet was all over her room. She’d seen lots of great stars in New York. But her little circle of friends here only cared about Michael, Janet and maybe Latoya. In fact, last week, at her friend’s coming out party, she was so moved by her tears and the pathetic way she walked and sat stiff in her seat of honour, that Satou threw her favourite (well almost) poster of Him in the heap of gifts.
The eyes of her friend were filled with incredible pain. A deep sadness seemed to haunt her and an aura of dejection hung about her. Later, Satou was allowed to see her in the company of her friend’s aunt. They had developed a secret language so they were able to set up a secret meeting. After much cunning and with great courage, Satou crept up to the window of Oumou’s room. Her head slowly rose to get a better view. Safe, no one inside with her.
Satou rapped on the window three times and then slowly lifted it. She raised it enough to slide over the ledge and into the small bedroom. Oumou lay listless and sad on the bed. All around her were cards and other gifts celebrating her fourteenth birthday. She took no interest in them. There was a huge basket of bon-bons from a very prestigious store in France. Satou knew it well because she used to take the metro there from her father’s flat for special treats. At the moment they offered little comfort to Oumou. In fact, all these displays of congratulations and so on only made the moment more tragic.
Satou sat quietly on the bed. She took Oumou’s hand in hers and watched the huge tears fall down her lovely dark cheeks. Satou had always envied her dark copper skin and “Fulani” braids. Now her hair was done up in a ceremonial way, showing she’d “had her bath”. They spoke slowly, quietly. Satou knew she could only stay a short while because someone might come in and there would be a tremendous price to pay for breaking the taboo. She, an unclean girl visiting a newly bathed girl.
Back in her own room, Satou was racked with uncontrollable shivers because she was actually a year and a half older than Oumou. Like her friend, she too had lived almost all her life outside of Home. Coming back when her father had his annual leaves, returning had always been something she looked forward to. She and her mother shopped for months in preparation for the gift giving that was ritualistic, mandatory. All her relatives would come to see them. Children in the yard, grown-ups in the parlour. The veranda would be overflowing with shoes. But now, a hard rock of dread sat in the bottom of her stomach, immobilizing her.
Oumou had tried to describe her ordeal. The shock of a knife and then the space between it and pain. But each time she got the words to unroll themselves, the spool around which they were threaded fell off. Got lost and rolled around, caught up in small bits and pieces of details that seemed at the moment, irrelevant.
Oumou’s parents had agreed not to have her bathed. For almost four years they’d not been back. Oumou’s aunt and sister to her mother’s mother, had argued that it was required. There had been a great fight. Her parents, she thought, had won. Then on a day when her parents went to Ouagadougou for a conference, her cousin came to take her to spend the three days with her. At first Oumou was happy to get away from her aunt because she was afraid of her.
They travelled by car to the house. It had been a long time since she’d been up-country. The air was moist and signalled the rainy season. When they arrived, her cousin’s mother came out to greet her. There were several other girls around her age there as well. Shortly after she’d fallen asleep that night, someone came into the room where she and her cousin slept. It was dark so she couldn’t see the face clearly. The face said simply, “It is time.”
That was it. All that was said. Oumou’s cousin got up quietly but she cried out. Fought the hands pulling her. She was held tightly and marched out back to the yard. There the other girls were huddled together. Cloths wrapped around them. Teeth chattering in the night-chilled air. Then slowly as she heard the singing, she understood. They were all going to the river to be bathed.
Oumou really couldn’t say more because she was still in shock. But when she was returned to her aunt’s house the night before her parents got back, her elder aunt came to sit with her. She sat reciting the Holy Words. She told her she, Oumou was a good clean woman. Most of all she, her aunt had done her duty to their clan and her God. That the house of S— would not be disgraced by having an unclean girl entering womanhood. Then she recited the names of all the women of her line. Oumou said her aunt took off her amber and silver necklace and put it around her neck. Kissed her on both cheeks and called her sister. Her aunt promised she, herself would keep her clean and all would be well. When she was married into a fine family, her parents would thank her.
Well, that is not what happened. Her father called the police and they went to her cousin’s house to arrest her, his wife’s aunt, and the driver of the car. After much negotiating, the charges were dropped. Oumou’s parents booked a flight on the next plane back to Paris. Oumou said she would never come back to Africa again. Never! She tried to cry but for now her body was heaving without tears. Her water had dried.
Satou had promised to try to sneak back if she could to see her. Leaving, as she came, by the window, she had raced back to her house. It was the fear of a similar thing happening that made her say she’d never go up-country with anyone other than her parents. But then she had no cousins up-country. However, she did have an elderly aunt who wanted her cleansed. Satou’s parents were friends with Oumou’s and knew they were afraid as well. Satou’s mother stayed very close to her.
Satou could only sit and feel the anger rise up in her. Anger and fear had come to spoil her vacation. That her friend Oumou was hurting and she could not help her made her sadder. Lost in her thoughts of Oumou’s red-raw stitches and the oozing mess that was once her vagina etched indelibly in her mind she suddenly felt the presence of someone standing in the doorway. “Come, Missy, it’s time.” Oh, God! Satou panicked, jumped to her feet. “No!” Her scream pierced the house. Her mother came running. Soon she was wrapped in her mother’s arms, safe.
Satou’s mother continued to rock her. The bewildered servant stood by quietly. She asked them again to the table. “Madame, Missy, it is time. Supper is on the table.” She turned and left the room. Silence followed her.
At dinner the conversation was light. Then just as she began to relax, there was a knock on the door. Satou froze. Her father went to answer. She held her mother’s eyes. Her mother smiled but her back was straight and eyes alert. Then her mother’s shoulders softened. Her father’s laughter eased the tension that gripped them. When he came back his belly laugh entered the room first. He and his cousin, who was his best friend, came back in holding hands. Oh, she had forgotten this. In Europe and New York, one never saw men holding hands. Only if they were lovers, and then the men were timid.
“Good evening, my little wife.” He always called her that. Satou loved it. His wife was her favourite aunt. Although he is her father’s cousin, in the African tradition they are brothers. That is how it is here. Her father calls him cousin/brother. So he is her uncle and his wife is her aunt.
“Good evening, Uncle,” Satou answered and held her cheek for his kiss. He smelled nice and his shirt made crick-crick sounds as he bent over her. Uncle sat and joined them for coffee and a dish of fruit. It was nice to listen to her parents and uncle as they talked and ate. Satou watched their faces and thought of funny words to add to the end of each sentence. She made one so funny she almost laughed out loud.
“So, Satou.”
Uncle turned to her. “How does that sound to you?”
She was so involved in her game she hadn’t heard him speak. “What, Uncle?”
He smiled. “A party. We’re going to have a party at our house.” Her first thought was to say “great”. But then, when she thought about Oumou in bed, she felt sad and guilty. Somehow the prospect of fun seemed out of place.
Uncle must have read her thoughts. He took her hands. “I know how you feel but it is for her, Oumou. We are going to dance her all night. Dance all her pain and sadness away.” That sounded great. “I would like that very much. But, will Oumou be able to move?” “Well that does not matter so much. We will dance all around her. We shall dance her.”
Later that night she lay awake remembering Oumou’s face. Satou thought of the aunt and how and she cried when Oumou’s mother abused her. The aunt said it was her duty to their tradition. She said she’d carried out the law their customs demanded. She said she had fulfilled her obligation to her God and her people. The aunt had no idea of the laws other than clan. She never realized how close she came to being imprisoned for what she’d done. Ahh Africa, as Mama says, Satou sighed.
In spite of the party and all the attempts to make them happy, she knew that she’d never forget the look on Oumou’s face. When she said she’d never come back to Africa, Satou heard the pain and sadness. She prayed that at the party, when they danced her, Oumou would smile again. That she, Satou, would help her smile again. Oh, she thought lying back, hearing the night noises and breathing the scented cool air, I love dancing.
Margo Jefferson
Born and raised in Chicago, Illinois, she is a Pulitzer Prize-winning cultural critic, journalist and essayist. Her essays have appeared in many journals and anthologies, including the New York Times Book Review, New York Magazine, the Washington Post, O, Oprah Magazine, Vogue, The Believer, Guernica, The Best American Essays of 2015, The Inevitable: Contemporary Writers Confront Death, Best African-American Essays 2010, The Mrs. Dalloway Reader, and The Jazz Cadence of American Culture. Her first book was On Michael Jackson (2006) and she is also the author of the memoir Negroland (2015), which won the National Book Critics Circle Award for Nonfiction, The Bridge Prize, The Heartland Prize, and was shortlisted for the Baillie Gifford Prize. She lives in New York and teaches in the Writing Program at Columbia University.
My Monster
Supple, wily monster of mine.
You wait for one of those mornings when I wake up thinking ill of myself in a fretful, petty way. I’ve been in too many discussions about the pros and cons of Botox and facelifts. A young woman at the gym told me how terrific I looked, then added I wouldn’t think you were more than—and threw out a number higher than I would have wished.
I go to the kitchen. I can’t find the mug I want. I go to the bathroom. The container that holds my sterilized cotton balls is stuck. I’m furious: what did Carmen do, when she came to clean yesterday—did she break the mug and not tell me? How did she close the container so tightly I may have to take a screwdriver to it? And I’m seized by a thought:
If I were a white slave mistress this is the moment I’d call her into my presence, rail, slap her, throw an object—maybe the container—at her and warn her she’d be whipped if it happened again.
Maybe if I were a high-handed white woman in New York City, I’d chastise her sharply the next time she came here. If I were angry enough, maybe I’d fire her.
Maybe if I were a high-handed woman of color—black, brown or beige—I would do the same thing. And decide to hire a white cleaning woman so I could feel less guilty about my tone.
I get the container open with no screwdriver and no damage to my nails. It had probably tightened when Carmen polished it. I find the mug, which I’d left in the dishwasher, on the shelf where it belongs, with the other mugs.
If I’d called Carmen and spoken sharply to her, would I apologize now? On the phone or in person? If I apologized, would she stay on? I know she needs the work. So how would we proceed? Would we perform our old cordialities or adapt slightly—she more distant or more anxiously obliging, I more distant or more strenuously gracious.
Monster says, we’re done with that. Let’s move on. Today you’re going to feel blocked and impeded, a coward in work and love; resenting duty; suspecting pleasure. It’s time to blame your parents, and to do so properly you must be artful and nuanced. You must be literary.
You send me to a quote from the wise and balanced Willa Cather.
“Always in every family there is this double life . . . secret and passionate and intense . . . Always in her mind, each member is escaping, running away, trying to break the net which circumstance and her own affections have woven around her . . .”
I try my own more lethal variations.
“Daddy dearest I hate you, I’m through.” Allusions to Sylvia Plath are overused, says Monster.
“My dead mother gets between me and life.” Romaine Brooks, says Monster. Not bad, but too general.
My parents enthralled me. My mother’s ubiquitous charm, my father’s artful dignity —they enthralled me.
Monster says: Your mother didn’t love you enough to want you less than perfect.
Monster says: You father didn’t love you enough to prefer your company to his depression.
Monster says: You’ve worked hard, you’ve left your mark. Maybe it’s time to die. You’re past the prime you wasted so much of. Why don’t you join your parents? Imagine their faces as you walk towards them. They’ll cry out oh Margo, we’re so happy to see you.
Then I realize that if any of this were possible—this Sunday School fantasy of an afterlife— they would be furious. My mother would cry: How dare you waste your talents and achievements like this? All our work. My father would look at me in silence, unutterably disappointed by this failure of honor and character. And they would join arms, turn their backs and walk slowly away. Holding their heads high.
Barbara Jenkins
Born in Trinidad, where she still lives, she began writing in 2008 and her debut publication, Sic Transit Wagon and Other Stories (2013), was awarded the Guyana Prize for Literature. Her stories have won the Commonwealth Short Story Prize Caribbean Region in 2010 and 2011; the Wasafiri New Writing Prize; the Canute Brodhurst Prize for short fiction, the Caribbean Writer; the Small Axe short story competition, 2011; and the Romance Category, My African Diaspora Short Story Contest. In 2013 she was named winner of the inaugural Hollick Arvon Caribbean Writers Prize. Her first novel, De Rightest Place, was published in 2018.
A Perfect Stranger
We were not always like this. I mean us, we two. Like this—this one, past the best-before age of three-score and ten; and the other, crystallised dust in a jar, lying in a teak box on the dressing table.
Close your eyes to the sagging skin, the drooping frame, the sparse, man-cut, greying hair and see beneath the girl of twenty-one that you first laid eyes on one Easter weekend, half a century ago, in a granite building atop the hill of a mid-Wales seaside town. And I will see you too, risen from under your blanket of crisp rose petals, faded photographs, curling, grief-filled cards, the yellowing, passionate, desperate notes, written too late.
The first time I saw your face, the world I knew before fell away. I closed my eyes to capture your image, to hold it behind my eyelids, to gaze at it inside my head. I never wanted to lose sight of you ever again.
You remember where we were that day? It was at the men’s hall of residence, where, over the four-week Easter break, third-year students, like you, putting in the extra slog before finals, stayed locked into their little cliques of focused swots, away from the aimless overseas students, like me, with nowhere to go in their vacation time, with little to do but drift around the only welcoming space, an open hall of residence, to carry on moaning in an unending circuit of longing about back home in Uganda, back home in Nepal, back home in Trinidad.
Back home in Trinidad was the conversation between the two men and me as we limed
in the room of the one who was in his final year—he was later to marry a Welsh girl and stay on; the other was a second-year student, bound for a life of success as a diplomat. When the good-natured teasing about how awkwardly I was coping with the strangeness around me took on what I felt was a somewhat more judgemental tone, I flung a pillow at one; he retaliated, I flung it back, harder this time, and it quickly became a pillow fight which I was losing. I left the room with a hurt head and even more hurt feelings.
You know something? Many years later, when you were long gone, I was with our son at a post office in Port of Spain and who should come in but the by then retired diplomat who, when introductions were made, said to my son, “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be here.” At which our son gave me a surprised “what have you been keeping from me” look and the diplomat, seeing his expression, laughed and said, “Don’t worry, you’re the image of your father. What I meant was, your mother, a friend and I had a fight when we were students and, after she ran away from us, your mother met your father.”
I stumbled to the bathroom—communal baths and showers—closed the door to a bath cubicle, sat on the edge of a bathtub and cried. At first the tears were about the fight, about the unfairness—two ganged up against one—then about being away from anyone who belonged to me—no letter from home for a few weeks, then about the disappointment of no daffodils fluttering and dancing beside Windermere where I had just been on a fortnight’s geology field trip, and about not being able to go up Scafell with the climbers, and that disappointment merged into feeling wretched about my lack of foresight in failing to book a room for when I returned—it was the Easter weekend and the office of the only hall available was closed for business, so there I was, the unofficial and clandestine guest of those two fellow-Trinidadians with whom I had been stupid enough to pick a fight. Not genteel tears rolling silently along damp cheeks, I was sobbing uninhibitedly—loud and hard, full of rage and self-pity.
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