New Daughters of Africa

by Margaret Busby

  She takes off her housedress and selects a church dress from her closet and puts it on.

  We glimpse a bruise on her shoulder. She changes her shoes then selects a hat and puts it on top of the suitcase which she closes. She smooths the bedcover and tweaks a doily into place.

  ETHEL: Must call Ruby and ask her to come sort out all dis after mi gone. See who want what and give di rest to one a dem charity shop. (laughs) All dese years mi putting so many tings away for safe-keeping . . . (shakes her head) Still, s’m’ody will find use fi dem . . .

  She picks up the suitcase and hat and carries them out of the room and down the stairs. She stops at the bottom of the stairs, takes a deep breath to make herself stronger, then enters the living room, lifting the suitcase over an obstacle as she does. There is a large old couch with antimacassars, an armchair by the window; photos line the mantelpiece. There is a painting of a tropical scene on the wall, faded silk poinsettias in a vase.

  Ethel straightens the cushions on the sofa, then puts the suitcase on it and opens it. She crosses to the fireplace and takes up several of the photos as if to pack them, then sees the one that is on top and stops to look at it. It is Ethel as a young woman in Jamaica, shading her eyes from the sun. She stops to touch the face in the picture: smiles.

  ETHEL: So hungry for the sunlight, is like it a go mad mi . . . Who is dat girl? When was I dis young girl?

  She lays that photo in the suitcase and looks at another. Her wedding day. Outside an English town hall. She young, pretty, happy; Donville standing straight, allowing himself a small smile, pride radiating from him. She puts it into the suitcase too then notices that her hands are shaking. She looks at them, almost puzzled, observing herself.

  ETHEL: Donville shake like a leaf dat night, our wedding night. Him never know dat I know and I would never tell him. Shaking like him heart going jump outa him chest every time him ease himself over to my side a dat old bed . . .

  She clasps her hands together to stop them shaking. Her face is closed, almost blank. She throws a quick glance, immediately regretted, towards the door of the room. Squares her shoulders and crosses back to the fireplace to pick up another couple of photographs. She finds one that she has stuck behind another in the frame and pulls it out. She crosses to the old armchair and sits in it, staring at the picture, then out through the net curtain to the street. The photo falls from her fingers and we see it is a picture of a young man, big afro and bell bottoms, giving a black power salute. He is angry, defiant.

  ETHEL: Yu have pickney and you love dem cyan done. Yu watch dem grow and you try guide dem . . . maybe what was di right ting for me, living with mi granny in Portland, was not di right ting fi a black boy growing up hard . . . Do what is right and keep you counsel, dat is what my granny always used to say, but what relevance dat have to my son? How dat help him when dem chase him to beat him, how dat can cool di anger when him see injustice round him every living day? Di anger used to talk in him, dem days. And dat everlasting rasta music every day . . . all day . . . Wonder if mi did have a daughter, tings woulda turn out different? Some say dat a girl child woulda do better . . . A dis said same chair Donville was sitting in when him see Ronald coming to di door. Trouble, Ethel, him say to me, Trouble in wi son face.

  She gets up slowly and goes to put the photos in the suitcase.

  ETHEL: Trouble, yes. Every last penny weh wi save to go back to Jamaica it take to fight dat charge in court. GBH and the old wretch weh accuse him sure dat dem going to convict a black man? Not my son, not Ronald. Mi and Donville mek up wi mind dat dat was one black man not going to die in no prison under no mysterious circumstances. The lawyer smile and lick di plate clean. Donville have to take on guard work a di building site when dem was building dat new supermarket to finish pay him. But Ronald never go to jail. Him walk free from dat court and das when my boy turn the corner and start make life for himself. Never look back from dat. Donville tell him, you see: living well is di best revenge. Nutting hurt a racist more dan to see a black man prosper . . .

  She takes up photos of her son, now a middle-aged man, with his wife and children. Individual photos of her grandchildren, a drawing one of them has done with the words “For my gran, from Janet” written across the bottom. She puts them in the suitcase too.

  ETHEL: No point worrying dem just yet. Better to call Ronald when mi reach there . . . when mi reach there.

  She goes back to sit in the armchair, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply.

  ETHEL: Bay rum. Donville always used to use it when him come in out a di rain. Just to smell it remind mi a when mi used to reach home after my shift a night time and see di two a dem—Ronald sitting pon di chair arm—di two a dem concentrating pon di boy’s homework like nutting could be more important . . . Bay rum. Even after yu dead and buried, mi still smell yu, see yu, feel di breeze at mi side every day dat you gone . . . Ruby tell mi dat she spread yu ashes in a yam field in Christiana, just like you ask, so you suppose to be at rest now . . .

  Tears begin to roll down from under her closed eyelids and she sits quiet, bowed, for a minute. Then she digs a handkerchief out from under her bra strap and wipes her eyes. There is a dried bloodstain on the handkerchief. She goes back to the mantelpiece and takes from pride of place a large, silver double frame in which there are two photos of Donville: as a police constable in Jamaica, chest forward and smiling, and in his British Rail cleaner’s uniform, looking dour.

  ETHEL: Poor mi husband. Just come off di boat and step up big and bright to di police station, tell dem dat him want work as a policeman. Jesus had more hope of saving Satan’s soul dan Donville have to get dat job . . . Di way dem look at you, di way dem talk to you . . . is like when you step on glass: cut you so deep, so quick . . . Sometimes it never heal. Sometimes it just never heal . . .

  She takes up a flat case from behind where the photos were. She opens it. Finds it is empty. Closes it, opens it again and sees it is empty. Her face changes completely and is contorted in blind anger. The case falls from her hands because they are shaking, claw like, so violently. She turns and looks directly at the corner to which she has only glanced before. She strides across and below eye level, rummages about, muttering darkly to herself as she does so. We realize that the room is not untidy so much as damaged.

  ETHEL: Di one ting I have to ’memba him by . . . di one nice ting dat him get for all the years and yu fink yu have di right to it . . . You know how long mi watch mi husband suffer, you know how long him no laugh, him no talk, him just work, and work, and work . . . Not a blast, yu hear mi . . . you no have no right to dis!

  She hauls a gold watch into frame, wiping it clean with her handkerchief before restoring it to its case. The act of doing so calms her. She closes the suitcase with the photos, puts on her hat and goes to sit by the window in Donville’s armchair. She is holding the watch in its case to her breast as she sits, very upright, her suitcase at her heels. As the camera pulls away from the fragile, old lady sitting at the window, the room is revealed as torn up, as if in a terrible struggle. The blue lights of an approaching police car begin to show through the window as we finally pull far enough out to reveal the body of a young thief, lying across the entrance to the living room.

  Stella Dadzie

  Born in London to an English mother and Ghanaian father, she is an educationalist, activist, writer and historian. She is best known for her involvement in the UK’s Black Women’s Movement, being a founding member of the Organisation of Women of African and Asian Descent (OWAAD) and co-authoring The Heart of the Race: Black Women’s Lives in Britain with Suzanne Scafe and Beverley Bryan, which won the 1985 Martin Luther King Award for Literature. The book was reissued (with a new foreword by Lola Okolosie) in 2018. She has written widely on curriculum development and good practice with black adult learners, and the development of anti-racist strategies with schools, colleges and youth services.

  Do You Remember?

  Do you remember

  my sis
ter

  those dark November nights

  when we listened to the world

  and sought to right its sorrows

  with our clenched fists?

  Do you remember

  those languid summer days

  when we raised our placards high

  and sang sweet songs of freedom

  so sure that history

  was on our side?

  The world’s cruel burdens

  weigh heavy still

  and time may have tempered

  our youthful dreams

  yet we have come at last to know

  a deeper truth

  For it is people

  not ideals

  that are transient

  and freedom’s spirit lives

  imprisoned in the shy smile

  of a hungry child

  and in a fierce, enduring love

  that conquers fear

  December 1992

  Roots

  I am an ancient oak

  Twisted, gnarled, permanent

  indifferent to the passage

  of time

  I am amber and gold

  russet and sage

  bone-white

  blood-red

  moss-green

  I am rain-blanched and sun-bleached

  and where once I was scorched

  by lightning

  I am an angry charcoal black

  with keloid scars

  Solid and thick-girthed

  my thighs resist

  the fury of the elements

  yet remain vulnerable

  to the footfalls

  of passing strangers

  they twist and turn

  charting new paths

  into the rich, dark earth that nurtures me

  they burrow deep

  seeking life’s sustenance

  and other treasures

  My skin is rough and weather-beaten

  rain-lashed

  wind-smoothed

  with many unexplored places

  secret nooks

  colonised by teeming armies

  whole cities that strive

  beneath a protective bark

  hidden crannies

  where shy, itinerant seeds

  once took root

  and burst forth in a celebration

  of reckless beauty

  dark, barren places

  where I was once torn

  limb from limb

  and nothing more can grow

  When I was a sapling

  exploding with energy

  and purpose

  I chose to make my home

  by the river

  where her calm, impassive face

  could mirror my growth

  her music a soft, sighing lullaby

  soothing me

  as I sleep

  When the sun parches the earth

  sapping my strength

  she revives me with cool water

  from her own abundant store

  her gentle waves

  caressing

  my aching feet

  Her gift is an orchestra

  with many players

  drums and violins

  a choir of joyful singers

  rousing me from my slumber

  as they herald the dawn

  of each new day

  Time is my armoury now

  scudding clouds keep their watch

  as the changing seasons

  present new horizons

  healing wounds

  renewing old paths

  Tomorrow I shall be here still,

  wiser and sturdier than before

  I have withstood the fury of thunder

  the rage of forest fires

  I know

  my life-force

  will prevail

  And if by chance

  an ax should fell me

  should I succumb

  to the vengeance of the hurricane

  or the slow, creeping stealth

  of nature’s wrath

  I shall sink gratefully into the earth

  that has sustained me

  returning my gifts

  so that others

  may grow to touch

  the sky

  Anni Domingo

  Growing up in Sierra Leone, she attended school in Freetown, and went on to further education in the UK, where she first trained as an actor and a teacher of speech and drama, obtaining a BA in Drama and English. Later she obtained First-Class BA degrees in Literature and Humanities and an MA in Creative Writing, and was awarded an honorary doctorate in 2018. She has worked extensively in theatre, radio, TV and film, both acting and directing, as well as teaching English, Drama and Creative Writing. Her company, Shakespeare Link, takes workshops to schools and colleges and she has written workbooks on Shakespeare. She has also written poetry and short stories. Her poem “The Cutting” is published in the text of Bullet Hole, a recent play about female genital mutilation in which she played the lead role. She was joint winner of the 2018 First Drafts competition with an extract from Breaking the Maafa Chain, her debut novel.

  From Breaking the Maafa Chain

  Fatmata

  Prologue

  December 1846

  Stripped of everything but our black skins, our ritual scars, our beings, we were tied together in rows and jammed into another djudju pit, packed in so close no one could move. We lay on our sides, rough wooden boards hard against our bare skins, rubbing our shoulders raw, chained to the living and to the dead.

  I knew then what fear smelt like. It was the smell of grown men, groaning, sweating, and stinking. Fear was women crying, wailing, and calling on the ancestors to save them and their children before they were lost to mamiwata.

  The noise in the cramped space swirled around, hitting the wooden sides of the swaying ship, drumming thoughts and fears into my mind. I heard chains rattle and whips crack as the sails flapped, boards creaked, and ropes stretched. I heard the howls of those beside me, those above me and those below me. I heard the call of the Ochoema, the bird of parting. It held me tight before fading into the darkness.

  Through tears, I saw everything that had been. There in the back of my eyes, way back, were the spiritless bodies of my mother Isatu, my father Dauda, Maluuma, mother of my mother, Lansana, my father’s first son, all gone to the land of our ancestors, without due honour. My heart ached for Salimatu, my sister, my mother’s child, captured too and sold, to Arabs? to the white devils?

  Deep inside of me I heard drums beating, talking, calling, and shouting out my name, Fatmata. I listened as my words, my thoughts, my life, were beaten into my bones, into my smell, into my flesh, for all times and tried to push away the pain, from the raw mark of slavery burned into my left shoulder.

  Oduadua, god of all women, help me. I must remember, I will remember, I do remember. Hear me, Fatmata, for this is my story.

  Salimatu

  Chapter I

  July 1850

  At the water’s edge, Salimatu could not move. The wet sand held her tight, refusing to let her go. The white devil picked her up and she stiffened in his arms. His smell was strong. It filled her nose robbing her of the sweet smell of the pawpaw and palm trees that lined the edge of the land. Salimatu shut her eyes, not wanting to see the mark she had left in the sand, not wanting to see it washed away as if she had never been there. She made no sound as the white devil, Captain Forbes, walked her into the ocean. She neither squealed with delight nor cried out, as fear, like a huge bird, swooped down and clutched at her inside. She had learnt to be silent.

  They had been together now for a full moon cycle and she was no longer frightened of him. But the ocean terrified her. Fatmata had told her, a long time ago, that mamiwater, the goddess of water, lived in the big river and was ready to swallow those who disturbed her sleep. And here was the river in front of her, waiting for her.

  “Do not be scared,”
the Captain said, sitting her down on the plank seat, in the middle of the canoe. It rocked and the rowers, big and strong, their bodies shining with sweat, steadied it with their oars, before pulling away.

  “You’re safe,” said Captain Forbes. “These Kroomen know how to get their canoes over huge waves even better than my sailors.”

  He had said it, safe, the first time she had met him. She had not understood his words then. She had not wanted to go with the white devil, afraid that she was going to be his sacrifice instead of King Gezo’s. Fatmata had warned her that people like him, people who looked skinless were djuju, so she shrank from his touch, from his smell. He had smiled, picked her up and carried her away from the “watering of the ancestors” ceremony. She had trembled and pissed all over him. Her white garment steamed and dried and smelt in the sun but he did not put her down. He took her to the missionaries, Reverend and Mrs Vidal.

  “But what are you going to do with her?” asked Reverend Vidal.

  “Take her to England with me.”

  “Is that wise, old man?” Reverend Vidal asked.

  “I’m sure we can find a place for her in the Mission school,” said Mrs Vidal. “If she is bright she could help teach others in time.”

  “King Gezo has given her as a gift to Queen Victoria. ‘From the King of the blacks to the Queen of the whites,’ that’s what he said. It is not for me therefore to decide her future. I will take her with me and hand her over to the Admiralty. May I leave her with you until The Bonetta sails in a few weeks?”

  “Those markings on her face are tribal, you know,” said Rev. Vidal. “It means she is the daughter of a chief. There could be trouble.”

  “I’ll come for her as soon as we are ready to sail.”

  “What’s her name?” asked Mrs Vidal.

  “I don’t know,” said Captain Forbes. “But if I’m taking her to London she had better have an English one. What about Sarah? That was my mother’s name.”

  “Sarah. In Hebrew it means Princess.” said the Reverend, nodding.

  “Sarah, it is then,” said the Captain. “Sarah Forbes and Bonetta, after the ship.”

  That was a moon cycle ago. Now, sitting in the canoe, Salimatu stared hard at the shore fading into the distance. The sun on the white sand hurt her eyes, filling them with tears she refused to shed. Once on the big ship that would take her to England, the tears would flow, for how could she then find her way back to Talaremba? She reached for the side of the canoe and tried to stand.