New Daughters of Africa

by Margaret Busby

  hurricane that reined in our poor

  island and had everyone drowning.

  After the hurricane,

  came the crazed lines for food . . .

  for any kind of fuel;

  came the tell tail spoors

  of rats and roaches tracking rubbish;

  dank despair

  threading desperation through the dark.

  At night my grandmother floated

  in and out of light, nightmare-laden, sleep,

  waiting for the chain rattle

  of locked door;

  for the bark signaling predators

  had come for what little she had left.

  She prayed for enough strength and grace,

  to give the strangers what they came to take.

  After the hurricane,

  she said sometimes it felt

  like man eat man survival,

  every woman for herself.

  Who had time, air, breath, breadth enough,

  to free dive deep and long enough,

  to understand

  then these heads heaped,

  backs breaking,

  carrying stolen mud crusted sofas, sinks,

  spirits,

  through debris to homes

  miraculously still standing?

  To understand then the tragic

  improvised or organised

  bacchanal trashing of schools and stores?

  Who could explain anything then?

  Understand or explain anything now!

  When she was able,

  my grandmother told me

  about after the hurricane.

  Months later I flew home

  and stood stone still

  in the ruin of her home,

  alone.

  I thought fear, faith,

  had been uncovered,

  illuminated, as I watched

  a mass of untethered particles

  air-floating in the beam of

  my head

  lamp, from floor all the way above

  my head

  to the star spored heavens.

  Survival Tips

  When they start to shout at us

  after saying come talk, trust us

  this is a safe space,

  tell us this is for our own damn

  good little girls

  little boys

  but our guts

  tell us this feels

  bad

  kicks and warns us

  they are trying to ram

  shame or guilt into our mouths

  trying to hurt us

  or Stockholm-syndrome smiles,

  sparkles in eyes, confuse and dazzle us

  Think—

  we have been here before

  Think—

  they are not our star gods,

  Think—

  they are not

  our father

  or mother

  Think—

  even if,

  we are no longer children,

  Think fast;

  should we prise fingers from throat

  of our opinion

  run run run

  or fight

  this time

  or

  be still—

  decide

  to do

  nothing

  because

  we trust

  even though we don’t know we know . . .

  Andrea Stuart

  A Barbadian-British historian and writer, she was raised in the Caribbean and the US and now lives in the UK. She is the author of three non-fiction books. Showgirls (published in 1996) was adapted into a two-part documentary for the Discovery Channel in 1998 and has since inspired a theatrical show, a contemporary dance piece and a number of burlesque performances. The Rose of Martinique: A Biography of Napoleon’s Josephine (2003) was translated into several languages and won the Enid McLeod Literary Prize in 2004. Sugar in the Blood: A Family’s Story of Slavery and Empire (2012) was shortlisted for the 2013 OCM Bocas Prize for Caribbean Literature in the non-fiction category and for the Spear’s Book Award and was the Boston Globe’s non-fiction book of 2013.

  A Calabash Memory

  It is 2015, and I am on board a British Airways Flight to Jamaica, the island where I was born. I haven’t been back there since I was fifteen, three decades ago, and I am excited and anxious all at the same time. I have avoided this trip back to my birth country because I did not want to awaken the grief I felt when I left the island, in my teens, so many years ago. None the less, I settle into my seat and notice immediately that the atmosphere on the flight is like a cocktail party, people wandering around chatting, drinks in hand. It is typical of the vivacity of the island I was stolen from.

  The young guy sitting next to me is a Jamaican locksmith, with a bright gold-capped incisor tooth. He lives in Hackney and is returning to Jamaica to visit his mother, who lives there. He is hitting on me, and I am amused and a little bit grateful; middle-aged black women don’t get much traffic in London. We start talking about England, our adopted country, and then he says, his gold incisor glistening under the plane lights:

  “Tell me the truth, you ever felt really at home in England?”

  There is a long pause. I can do nothing but shake my head. And I realize that after almost thirty years of living in England I still don’t feel I belong there. The recognition is as if a knife has been twisted in my gut.

  Nine hours later, we deplane into the heat and torpor of Norman Manley Airport. It is the late afternoon and the queues in passport control are hot and close. But when I get to the front of the line, the official, a dark-skinned man with a twinkle in his eyes asks me whether I am there on business or pleasure.

  “I’m, a writer”, I reply, “I’m here for Calabash.”

  There is a pause, he doesn’t know what this is. I explain it is one of the Caribbean’s coolest literary festivals, taking place every other year. The book fair is run by Justine Henzell, an untiring cultural player on the island, whose father produced the iconic Jamaican film The Harder They Come.

  “Have you read Fifty Shades of Grey?” the customs man, asks, roaring with laughter. “Now that is a good book!”

  And instantly, I am reminded, once again of the irrepressible spirit that Jamaicans bring to every encounter.

  After a brief wait, I and two other writers, a Scottish poet and an African novelist, are bundled into our car. Our driver is one of those beautiful Jamaican men, young, and dreadlocked, who are magnets for the female sex tourists flocking to the island to enjoy the other commodity—sex—that Jamaica has to offer. These renta-dreads, or “rastitutes”, supplement their living by keeping company with women, often older, in exchange for their hard-earned cash.

  Our chauffeur drives in JA style: that is as if he was training for Le Mans. Meanwhile the reggae music is so loud that the frame of the car is shuddering to the bassline. The artist we are listening to is Chronixx, the latest super-talented heir to earlier reggae superstars such as Bob Marley, who lamented so hauntingly the island’s history of slavery and captivity. I am reminded again that music is the back-beat of this island, inescapable, and so strong that it pulses in your blood.

  Our route from Norman Manley Airport goes along the Palisadoes, a sand spit parallel to Kingston Harbour, where Port Royal, the notorious sixteenth-century city, once perched. The town was once described as “the most wicked city in the world”, until a mammoth earthquake sunk it beneath the sea. To this day some Jamaicans believe that the bells of the drowned city can still be heard reverberating beneath the waves.

  As our driver speeds along, we talk about the state of Jamaica; specifically, about crime. He is both depressed and elated about the island’s situation, genuinely regretful about what has happened to the island, whose currency has been devalued, and is riven by political unrest. But he is also proud of the islanders’ spirit of derring-do that its populace always demonstrates in difficult times. He tells
me that in Jamaica there are five women to every male, many men having been lost to emigration, imprisonment or death. Indeed, at the General Penitentiary, that we now drive past, and the other prison in Kingston, known as Tamarind Farm, men languish, four or five to a cell. So lawless is the island, he explains, that many local government spokesmen lobby to restore hanging.

  Three or so hours later, we arrive at Jake’s Hotel in Treasure Beach, where Calabash is to be held. It is in the parish of St Elizabeth, a part of the island that is not on the common travel path for tourists visiting Jamaica, who prefer the West Coast, and places like Ocho Rios, with their all-inclusives and private beaches. Instead St Elizabeth, as a parish, is somewhat rocky and neglected—and away from the majority of the island’s tourists—but it has its own particular charms. Not least its sense of genuine privacy, intimacy, and calm.

  The sun is setting, and I am sitting under a sea-grape tree, with its red velvet leaves and sprays of small green fruit, which will soon ripen to purple. It is evening now and I am at the bar, talking to one of the bartenders. He is one of the many casual employees who work the “tourist season” but then migrate overseas, particularly to the US, to do casual work such as serving at fast-food places, or as carpenters, or builders.

  My new friend points out to sea and the moon-illuminated waters that fringe the coastline.

  “See over yonder?” He points at a couple of boats. “That is the British Coast Guard,” he says. “It has been seconded here to help with policing the waters. They have three separate craft there playing cat and mouse with smugglers, who have been shipping ganja to Costa Rica and coming back with guns.”

  I laugh out loud: “So it’s like the pirates of old?”

  “Yeah, man, it is just like the pirates old. When Port Royal was still the wickedest city in the world.”

  Then he tells me the story of the latest frauds that are afflicting ordinary Jamaicans: “One of them is acquiring people’s card numbers by using spy machinery. The result of this is that boys of thirteen or fourteen years own two-storey homes, an arsenal of guns, and drive Jaguars.”

  We fall silent. I sense that he is worried that I may be put off by this lawlessness that he has recounted and reassures me that I am safe.

  “Don’t worry though,” he says, “there is only one road in and out of St Elizabeth. And, anyway, most Jamaicans don’t even know where Jake’s or Treasure Beach is, or that it even exists.”

  A couple of days later, the literary festival begins. The seats are set out in a huge white tent, on the fringe of the sea. The venue could not be more alluring. And the writers who attend are genuinely varied and first-class. Salman Rushdie storms the stage, accompanied by the music of U2. Then there is Zadie Smith reading from her latest book. And the wonderful Colum McCann, reading samples of his own novels. The writing cast is truly international, some from the Slavic world, the Indian sub-continent, Europe, and Africa.

  When it is my turn to read, I am so overcome by the stellar company, and my own nerves, it takes me a while to get into my stride. But I get a homegirl’s welcome anyway and a memory that I will never forget. And it strikes me that so many people have written about Jamaica, many from what I call the “imperial perspective”—Englishmen who parachute down into the island, do some cursory research, and make their own convenient conclusions; and then fly out again, to tell their simplistic version of the island.

  But none of these outsiders gives a real sense of what this island is truly like, with its extraordinary physical beauty, its hills and blue crested waters, its extraordinary green lushness, and its populace who never seem to lose their vibrancy. In truth, Jamaica is like a grand soap opera; everything here is more intense, its scenarios more dramatic, the conflicts that it generates more lethal. So it is no wonder, then, that traveller and native alike fall in love with this island, as I do, once again.

  Jean Thévenet

  Born and raised in Kenya, and Sorbonne-educated, she now writes from Paris, France, a place she and her family call “home away from home”. Alongside tea, the well-written and well-spoken word, she relishes moments that ooze a good story. She is a connoisseur of stylistics, literature and language which she studied and now teaches with passion in collège.

  Sisters at Mariage Frères

  Prelude:

  Indigo watches Zawadi, who almost forgot her little red number, walk away. Both women saw the number at about the same time at the flea market. Zawadi says that she is classic: she wears blacks and whites. But that has changed now. Black skin goes with just about any colour. Black don’t crack.

  Prima volta/For the first time:

  Indigo first met Zawadi on email. Zawadi’s emails are not superfluous sprawlers. When writing, three things matter, Indigo can imagine Zawadi saying: word count, word count, word count. Each word counts. Simplicity and clarity of thought. Now she will be meeting Zawadi in person. Little sister meets big sister. Respect and courtesy.

  Both women are genuinely looking forward to meeting each other. That is clear from their email exchanges.

  Gare du Nord train station. Eurostar arrivals. Indigo is late; French late, not African late. She apologises all the same. Respect and courtesy. But it is the love at first sight that takes her aback. Zawadi feels very familiar. How unsettling. Indigo will later think that Zawadi doesn’t sip life, she drinks in life; she not only seizes the moment but lives it to the fullest. Zawadi is so comfortable in her skin, so sure of her worth. How refreshing to be in the company of a sister who is not apologetic about occupying her rightful place on this good earth.

  Travellers can once again leave their luggage in lockers at the train station. This hasn’t been so for many years since 9/11. At the luggage locker, Zawadi riffles through her suitcase and produces a colourful cotton bag with pull strings. She takes out jewellery done by Jasper. Indigo gets to choose what she would like. Without hesitation she picks out a pair of fine carnelian dangly earrings. Zawadi is least surprised. She knew in her knower that these would be the earrings that Indigo would select. Shiver down Indigo’s spine. Just before Zawadi puts back the cotton bag into her suitcase, she shows Indigo a beautiful Namibian bracelet that would perfectly match her new earrings. This bracelet goes well with the earrings, she tells Indigo, but you are not having it, she says, as she slips it back into the cotton bag. Indigo is so tickled. She knows precious when she sees it. It’s been barely ten minutes since they laid eyes on each other and already Zawadi is precious. More precious than fine gold. Precious is what you keep for ever and beyond a day.

  Counterpoint:

  Zawadi likes flea markets and is looking for Mariage Frères tea, she wrote in one of her emails. Does Indigo know the tea? Of course she does. Mariage Frères not only sell teas but also have a salon de thé, a tea salon, a restaurant, a tea museum and a tea-tasting locale. With hindsight, it seems fitting to be having a tea-fest, what with the Queen’s Jubilee on today. Mariage Frères cheekily surfs on the “British Empire” colonial aspect blended with present-day Parisian refinement and prestige. The clientele is urbane, cultivated but not snooty.

  Zawadi and now Mariage Frères have Indigo thinking of Macomère. Macomère is Indigo’s baby girl’s godmother. She is Indigo’s second self, her confidante, the one who has all the dirt on Indigo and the one who has earned the right to stroll through Indigo’s heart, mind, spirit, and soul. Macomère will later write Indigo: “No surprise the instant bonding [with Zawadi]—I did all the hard work, remember, getting to know you both?” It feels fitting that Indigo is doing this “tea ceremony” with Zawadi. It is as if Macomère were here.

  A piacere/At your pleasure:

  At the Mariage Frères tea shop. Indigo helps Zawadi to look for a specific tea. A black tea with vanilla. Could it be Thé de Lune, a refined, mild, perfumed, vanilla-flavoured afternoon black tea with peppery overtones? They pick a sample tin, open it, and smell it. Zawadi shakes her head, no that’s not it. Black Orchid? A smooth, silky black tea with vanilla and c
aramel notes? The same picking, opening, and smelling ritual. Noo, that’s not it, but Zawadi rather likes it and will buy it. Indigo doesn’t say so but the name of the tea appeals to her. Sooo Omar Sharif, soo Arabian Nights. A Mariage Frères employee in a white linen suit, probably made in a former British colony in the Far East, is sought out. He, a new employee, is not too familiar with all the Mariage Frères teas, but he does find the tea that Zawadi seeks: Vanille des îles, a classic afternoon black tea blended with Bourbon vanilla. Yes, the scent confirms it.

  Mariage Frères use a sleek and unique packaging for their teas. Prepackaged teas can be bought in striking round ebony-black canisters presented in gift boxes just as eye-catching. Loose tea goes into bags of the same colour. Black is class. Black don’t crack.

  Macomère’s wedding gift from Indigo was teas from Mariage Freres: Eros, an afternoon black tea with a fruity and flowery bouquet and Wedding Imperial, a malty golden Assam with notes of caramel and chocolate. For the aphrodisiac factor, she also gave the marrying couple several assorted bars of extra dark European chocolate which the house help mistook for literature: she lined them up alongside books on the bookshelf. A delicious yet telling error: Macomère (like Zawadi) is a story-teller.

  Andante grazioso/At a graceful steady pace:

  Zawadi wonders if Mariage Frères carry black ginger tea. They do. Instead of tasting it, she will order it at the salon de thé. Both women stand in line and wait to be seated. As they wait, they study the menu. A colonial menu. They do not have long to wait. The head waiter proposes two seatings, the women choose a corner table. Zawadi sits facing the entrance so that she can appreciate the pastries on their glass shelves. She also has a gorgeous view of a stereotypically colonial poster while Indigo is granted a Marco Polo poster.

  The two women study the brunch menu. It looks too filling. They, then, consider the lunch menu. Zawadi thinks she would like to have red meat: veal rib roast served with a brown gravy and Japanese green tea sauce accompanied by Brittany artichokes and raisins. Zawadi has her eyes set on the desserts even though she knows she is not being reasonable. Indigo is not decided. She is eyeing the duck breast with a sweet and sour sauce, cooked in The Path of Time (a flowery green sweet ginger tea) and served with curried French beans. Or will it be braised chicken cooked in Lan na Thai, a green tea from Thailand, and served with baby leek, baby onions, grilled almonds and lemon grass vinaigrette? Everything on the menu looks good.