by CP Patrick
Table of Contents
Dedication
Introduction
PART I: LIFE
1: in the beginning
2: the immortal
3: white faces, black faces
4: aboard the saint philippe
5: the pacotilleur
6: still may
7: heads on poles
8: Marsh v. Marsh
9: the other immortal
10: in time
11: atmo
PART II: Death(AND WHAT LIES BETWEEN)
12: split in two
13: peace
14: everyone else is gone
15: i showed myself
16: lost and found
17: strange
18: hate
19: el isleno
20: City of roses
21: i am not crazy
22: fight
23: not divided
24: black bird
25: Write It Down
26: questions
27: Box of truth
28: my name is barbury
29: sorry
30: in the end
a note from the author
Acknowledgements
About the Author
DEDICATION
For my Mother—the perfect chrysalis.
INTRODUCTION
It is undisputed the trans–Atlantic slave trade was a catastrophic moment in history for the continent of Africa, causing social and economic hardship that has endured for generations. The Portuguese first entered Africa in the mid–15th century in search of gold. Shortly thereafter, they began the exploitation of a more readily available source of wealth—slave labor. European empires quickly followed, and by the end of the 19th century, an estimated 11 – 20 million Africans were forced into lives of servitude.1 There are many repercussions directly linked to the trans–Atlantic slave trade, including the destruction of sacred land boundaries and familial ties, as well as the systemic racism people of the African diaspora presently experience throughout the world.
Traditional folklore within the African American community, particularly in the South, often centers on the belief that the spirits of slaves are not at rest. That the harm done to their African ancestors was so unfathomable, their souls still haunt the places of their transgressions. In Slave Ghost Stories2, author Nancy Rhyne shares the narratives of former slaves that were collected during the Great Depression as part of the Federal Writer’s Project.
Ms. Rhyne notes, “One of the more interesting questions on the list was ‘Do you believe in spirits?’ That question resulted in dozens of stories of hags, hants [sic], ghosts, and other frightful luminaries.”3 Many of the interviewees spoke at length with regards to restless slave spirits—they still walk the land rattling their chains, their ghostly faces seen and voices heard as they are forever bound in their misery. And some even seek retribution for their stolen lives.
If one does not believe in spiritual warfare or other forms of supernatural conflict, it is easy to dismiss the narratives surrounding the hauntings of slaves as nonsense. After all, enslavement, while currently considered barbaric in the Western world, was common and acceptable at the time. The most logical conclusion is the Africans who were impacted by the trans–Atlantic slave trade have died, their bodies buried in the earth and the bones of those who perished during the Middle Passage scattered beneath the sea.
But if one believes—or at a minimum has a bit of curiosity—regarding the connection between mind, body, and spirit, specifically as it relates to traumatic experiences, the theory of spiritual retribution is difficult to ignore. It is interesting to note the consistencies surrounding the narratives of particular hauntings that have endured for generations. One such example is the haunting at Igbo Landing in the Georgia Sea Islands (also commonly referenced as Ibo and/or Ebo). The facts are well documented.
In May 1803, approximately 75 women and men from the Igbo tribe were brought from West Africa to Savannah, Georgia to be auctioned off as slaves.4 Chained one to the other, they came into port and were led toward the dock. But instead of walking onto the bank into a life of slavery, they all turned and followed their chief into the depths of Dunbar Creek.5
Since the Igbo Landing incident, tales of hauntings of the drowned Igbos persevered, their souls disturbing the waters by the clanging of chains and the cries of men. Locals often quote the writings of H.A. Sieber who collected accounts of the drowning as told by the survivors’ descendants.6 So persistent and recounted were the hauntings that on September 2, 2002, almost 100 people “from as far as Nigeria visited the creek to designate the area as holy ground and to give the freed slaves peace.”7 Said one such participant in the two-day ceremony, “They were souls forced here to die without a proper burial. It’s a step toward creating rest for us and our ancestors.”8
Hauntings are by no means unique to the African American community. Many societies where systemic trauma occurred often account for similar stories. Is spiritual retribution possible? Could the souls of those who died at the hands of violence haunt the earth? The spirits of African slaves serve as no better case study for the “what if.”
There is lengthy evidence regarding the lasting implications of slavery on people of African ancestry. Connections have been made between well-known topics such as socioeconomic challenges within the African American community and strained race relations, to lesser known areas of study such as health. For example, Harvard Professor Roland G. Fryer explored the notion that slavery may be a causal connection to African Americans having a genetic predisposition to hypertension.
While conducting research on the trans–Atlantic slave trade, Professor Fryer made a shocking discovery—a period illustration portrayed a slave trader licking the face of a prospective slave. The drawing became the focus of Professor Fryer’s research on the prevalence of hypertension in the African American community.
The ocean voyage from Africa to America was so gruesome that as many as 15 percent of the Africans died en route, mainly from illnesses that led to dehydration. A person with a higher capacity for salt retention might also retain more water and thus increase his chance of surviving. So it may have been that a slave trader would try to select, with a lick to the cheek, the “saltier” Africans. Whether selected by the slavers or by nature, the Africans who did manage to survive the voyage—and who then formed the gene pool of modern African-Americans—may have been disproportionately marked by hypertension.9
The aforementioned research areas are valid topics of study, as they are substantiated with historical evidence. But the theory of spiritual retribution is, after all, just a theory. It is a mystical approach to a tangible event, which is why it is perhaps best to fictionalize the notion of spiritual warfare. The Truth About Awiti is a tale of historical fantasy—a chronicle of fact, fiction, and the supernatural intertwined to explore the “what if.”
The reader will discover the repeated theme of tropical storms and hurricanes. Are these massive storms the embodiment of restless slaves and their descendants? Hurricanes begin formation off the West Coast of Africa, the very shores where slave raiders sent Africans to their unfortunate fates of servitude and death. Building strength as they pass over the waters of the Middle Passage, the storms send their fury mainly to the South, the very states notorious for their treatment of African Americans both pre– and post–antebellum. Are such occurrences merely happenstance? Perhaps, it’s something more…
CP Patrick
1 Trans-Atlantic Slave Database.
2 Nancy Rhyne, Slave Ghost Stories: Tales of Hags, Hants, Ghosts and Diamondback Rattlers (South Carolina: Sandlapper Publishing, 2002), pp. vi – ix.
3 Rhyne, Slave Ghost Stories, pp. vii –
viii.
4 Marquetta L. Goodwine, The Legacy of Ibo Landing: Gullah Roots of African American Culture (Georgia: Clarity Press, 2011).
5 Goodwine, The Legacy of Ibo Landing.
6 “Slave legend draws people for two-day remembrance in coastal Georgia,” last modified March 5, 2015, http://www.ssiheritagecoalition.org/articles-about-ssaahc.html.
7 “Slave legend”.
8 “Slave legend”.
9 Stephan J. Dubner, “Toward a Unified Theory of Black America,” New York Times. March 20, 2005.
“There was a time when you were not a slave, remember that. You walked alone, full of laughter, you bathed bare-bellied. You say you have lost all recollection of it, remember… You say there are no words to describe this time, you say it does not exist. But remember. Make an effort to remember. Or, failing that, invent.”
PART I
LIFE
1
in the beginning
They say I was born too early. That I came into the world before my time. Father counted the days and watched as his wife’s belly became heavy with child. Every movement within her womb a reason to give thanks to the gods. Mother’s demanding cravings for odd foods and comforts were cause for celebration. And her dutiful husband gave his wife whatever she wished.
She craved ugali, sukumawiki, and boiled fish mixed with the hottest peppers. Their bed was often too hard or soft for her liking, but these things amused her husband. Father spent his nights rubbing the taut dark skin of Mother’s plump belly as he told stories to me, his first heir.
The pregnancy progressed uneventfully until the day I decided I was ready. That even though it was before my time, I would be born. There was an understanding this was something children should not do. For when children come into the world bringing trouble, they are bound to have a lifetime of such.
There was much concern, as I had not been in Mother’s womb for enough days. Her belly was small, round enough to show she was with child. She knew she needed to be much larger before the pains came.
Father had kept track of my growth by marking short, straight lines in neat rows on the birthing wall. When I decided I was ready, Father ran to count his markings. There was nothing he could do but watch, wait, and pray.
And he did pray. Along with Ahenda, the midwife, Father prayed and recounted each dark stroke. There were not enough lines. It was too soon.
They say a storm raged the night I was born. That my birth made the rain fall hard and fierce like the strongest of our warriors beating a thousand drums. Large wet tears pounded our village, flooded the vegetable gardens, and turned the rich soil to thick, dark mud. The ancestors were not pleased with me.
Lightening flashed in long, white streaks, and thunder resounded as though the neighboring mountains were crumbling. Mother grasped her belly and pleaded while I, ever persistent, decided it was time. She tried not to push as I continued to make my entrance into the world. Her legs locked and knees bent in defiance. But I was coming—with or without her assistance.
Ahenda squatted between Mother’s legs and waited. Her wrinkled, dark birthing hands open and cupped as if she were scooping water from the river. Lines and creases crossed about the elder’s palms. Brown pathways. A fleshy map of unknown destinations. She knew what to do, for this was not her first time delivering a child who decided to come too soon. Familiar with the disobedient ones, Ahenda was stoic. A white cloth draped over her right arm. She was ready to wrap me up lest I be born disfigured or deceased.
Mother’s cries could be heard above the drumming rain and echoing thunder. She was unprepared for the discomfort, the uncertainty of childbirth. Her dark skin was covered with sweat as was the bed where she lay. The cloths soiled and tangled in just as much confusion.
The pain of me coming forth from Mother’s womb was unlike anything she had ever experienced. She screamed as though I were trying to kill her. Of course, I was not intent on hurting Mother. I was, quite simply, ready.
And so I came into the world too soon. An ill-timed brown baby with a halo of wispy, black hair adorning my tiny head. Dark, slick curls swirled about and made me look like most newborn children—beautiful, yet disheveled and bewildered.
The air was still as Father, Mother, and Ahenda waited to see if each breath was my last. My lower body lay cradled in the palm of Father’s hand, while his long, thin fingers supported my head and neck. I slept while they decided what should be done with me.
“We shall name her Awiti Akoth.”
Father decided on Akoth during my birth, for I was born as the rains fell. It was more difficult to choose Awiti. More painful to say the name aloud.
Ahenda comforted Mother as they nodded in agreement. Still weakened from my early arrival, Mother counted my toes, touching each one. Then, with gentle hands, she lifted the swaddling. Seeing my fingers, she counted them as well, kissing each one as she tallied. Mother put one of her fingers in my palm and marveled at her daughter’s hand grasping her own.
Awiti. A child to be thrown away. One born after misfortune. It was a common name for a girl child born too soon. They did not expect me to survive.
Had Father and Mother not been through such a terrible ordeal before my birth, they perhaps would have done just that—thrown me away. Taken me to the edge of our village, said a prayer, and left me to my fate. I would have simply been another life trying to come into the world before its time. A child sure to bring trouble.
But after what Father and Mother endured, I was something they needed. My birth, albeit too soon, gave them hope. Their daughter Awiti was a new life to hold onto and believe in.
Their destiny was altered before I was born. Strange men with brown skin and straight dark hair speaking in foreign tongues attacked their first village. Father and Mother were taken against their will along with many others. Those who were not abducted were killed and their first village destroyed.
The strange men put yokes of wood around their prisoners’ necks and led them through the land. It was a sorrowful journey to an unknown place where death was imminent and certain. For who would capture them in such an inhumane way only to treat them fairly once they reached their destination?
Father and Mother were fortunate. After many days in bondage, along with a few others from their first village, they managed to escape their captors. They ran until the strange men were far behind them. After wandering through unfamiliar lands, they came to a village that welcomed them. The village, which they fondly called “second village,” became home, and their lives started anew. But many others from their first village were not so fortunate. They were never seen again.
During captivity, Mother was separated from Father, for the strange men thought it necessary to isolate the men, women, and children. I was born with Mother’s small dark eyes, brown skin, and the same slick black hair as their captors. It was clear what happened during their time apart.
Father knew without a doubt his wife would never desire to lie with another man. Their love was unyielding, perfect. Childhood friends who grew to understand and conquer life together. Devotion was the foundation of their union. He was certain I came into Mother’s belly through force and great suffering.
But there was to be no shame for Mother. No questioning of her loyalty or virtue as his wife. Father blamed himself for being unable to protect her. He was thankful his wife forgave him for failing as her warrior and guardian. It only made him love her more. He loved her for surviving.
I was a byproduct of the pain the strange men inflicted upon his wife. Evidence she was raped by their captors. And yet, just as these facts did not stop Father from loving Mother, they did not preclude Father from adoring me.
In fact, they say it was Father’s love that nourished my premature body to health. For seventy-two days he held me close, unable to stop looking at his firstborn daughter with eyes like her Mother. Soon I was healthy and strong as if I had come into the world as planned. Soon, I was just another girl in my village.
> A few other children were born after me. My sister, Amondi, with clouds of tight, black curls I enjoyed braiding. Her dark skin was like Mother’s flesh. Deep and rich in its blackness. Amondi was the child born with a smile none of her siblings could rival.
There were my brothers Jaramogi, the playful one, and Owino and Onyango, who looked identical to Father. No matter, for everyone knew I was Father’s first love. And Mother’s too, for she often held me close and told me how blessed I was to be her firstborn.
I was Awiti. A reflection of what Father and Mother survived. And I was also a survivor. For I lived even though I was born too soon.
“You are special,” Father would tell me.
“To come to the world through such misfortune. To be born before your time. You were such a small, weak child, we were afraid you would break. At one time you were lighter than a bird’s feather. Yet now you are tall and more beautiful than the flowers that cover the fields. You are stronger than a deep-rooted tree by the edge of the river. Yes, you are special, my Awiti.”
My childhood was as childhood should be. Simple. One of wonder and exploration of the world around me. There were no worries for necessities. And I had innocent prayers for things I wanted and hoped for. Whenever I was hurt, I ran to Father, for the touches from his hands were powerful. He stroked the ache, and if necessary, wrapped my wounds. All the while comforting and scolding, scolding and comforting. My pain disappeared, and soon I would be back at play.
Whether Father possessed magic or I was a child who healed with ease, I will never know. But I like to believe it was enchantment. For in my early years, I believed Father was the man who controlled the sun.
It was the favorite part of the day for his children. The sun remained high and warm in the sky, drifting in and out of the white clouds and blue heavens until Father was ready to put it to rest. We watched the sun throughout the day. The way our shadows fell on the land determined our responsibilities. As we tended to our final tasks, we looked forward to the moment Father called for us to gather around him.
