The Truth About Awiti

by CP Patrick

  Flying Eagle loved Awiti for who she was. And she loved him the same. Finally, the Ishak knew Awiti’s spirit had found peace. But it did not last.

  “The White man has come again,” our Chief warned.

  The Ishak were tired of running, and so our Chief decided this time we would defend the land and fight. We believe man has responsibility, not power. And the Ishak had a responsibility to Mother Earth and our children.

  We fought the White man many times at Galveston Bay. They returned with more men and a deeper determination to settle the land. Many of the Ishak died. To save those of us who remained, our Chief decided to let the White man destroy the land. For once all the trees had been cut, all the water polluted, all the animals gone, only then would the White man understand he could not eat money.

  Awiti did not want to leave the land.

  “I will not leave, Teche. This is our home.”

  I am certain she was reminded of fleeing her village. Of never seeing her family and those she loved again. None could convince her to come with us to the reservation.

  And Flying Eagle would not leave her side. Others also stayed to fight while the rest of us went to the White man’s reservation. There we discovered yet another form of suffering the White man can bring.

  Twenty-two of the Ishak survived. They were forced to join us on the White man’s reservation. They told us the stories of battles won. And of course, because they were on the reservation with the rest of us, they had lost the greatest battle.

  “And what of Flying Eagle?” I asked. “And Awiti?”

  “Flying Eagle has passed on, Teche. He has passed into the afterlife to be with our Ancestors.”

  I was told Flying Eagle died on the land fighting alongside Awiti. They said when his body fell upon the ground, Awiti’s scream filled the air. The sorrow in her cry had caused the Ishak to weep.

  I knew Flying Eagle’s death would reopen her wounds. The pain would reawaken the angry spirit that had found peace. And Awiti would once again be lost.

  The Ishak said Awiti promised revenge for Flying Eagle’s death. For the damage the White man did to Mother Earth. When I heard of this, my eyes closed, and I wept. I cried for the Ishak, for Awiti, and for the wrath she would one day bring.

  So I am not surprised to hear of this destruction in Galveston Bay. We have heard the storm killed eight thousand or more. The city flooded, and many lives were destroyed. Those of us who know the power of love and the persistence of a restless spirit know this great storm is the work of Awiti. And we know there will be many more.

  17

  strange

  Black River, Jamaica (1912)

  I always been strange. Not strange in a good way neither, where folks drawn to me or find me interesting. More like strange in the way I feel.

  No matter where I go or what I do, I feel strange. Like somebody right behind me, watching every move I make. I’ve looked plenty times, hoping to catch what’s making me strange. But nothing’s there.

  I got a chance to look in a mirror one time. That’s how come I know I don’t look strange, just feel strange. My skin real black. But I had known that already ’cause I see some parts of me every day. What shocked me was everything black.

  Black eyes. Black skin. Black hair. Black. And real pretty. Folks say the slaves with real black skin still pure. Say we special. So I guess I’m special. And strange.

  Don’t know much about my past, and even less about my future. All I know is I’m a slave with no kinfolk to claim me. Nobody I can point to and say, “We family.” Like I just showed up one day.

  Future seem as plain. Gon’ work in these cane fields till I die. Used to hate the work, but now I find it peaceful. Something about doing the harvesting calms me.

  Sometimes I imagine my life before I came here. Maybe I come from a life like the overseer. With a family, a big house surrounded by trees. No cane for me to cut through. Ha! That’s a dream for sure.

  I can tell folks feel bad for me. They feel sorry I’m different. It’s no way for me to hide the strange. It’s wrapped all around me.

  Most of these slaves got kin. They get together at the end of the day and feel a part of something. Not me though. I’m not part of nothing.

  I got one sometime friend. Slave girl named Gaye. She real nice. Got green eyes and long brown hair in two braids down her back. She can see the strange on me, but she don’t seem to mind.

  One time, Gaye tried to make me a part of her something. Didn’t go so good. Her people said it’s something called a “duppy” following me. So I had to leave Gaye’s place and go be with my strange all by myself.

  Storm hit soon after Gaye’s folks made me leave. It was a real bad storm, with lots of wind and rain. Gaye’s folks tell everybody it’s my fault. Got something to do with my strange.

  Lots of folks mad at me now. Wasn’t my fault though. Not like I asked the storm to come. Whole thing added to my strange.

  After the storm, whenever I saw Gaye in the fields, she didn’t speak. Even when I tried to wave to her in secret. Day after day, she passed right by me. Seem like a long time, and soon, I gave up.

  I got lost chopping cane. Found peace being alone with my strange. Every now and again, I’d catch Gaye looking at me. Staring at me with them sad green eyes. Until yesterday.

  Was swinging my machete, making the cane fall, and here come Gaye. Came right up on me and said, “Come with me quick! Now!”

  I dropped everything and went running, following after Gaye. We was hidden amongst the tall stalks of cane in no time.

  “Sorry my folks won’t let me talk to you,” Gaye said. “I feel real bad about it, ’cause I likes you.”

  This made me smile. Gaye still liked me, strange and all.

  “Feel bad you all you got,” she continued.

  “Me too,” I wanted to say. “Except I’m not alone, remember? Got my strange with me everywhere I go. And that duppy your folks was talking about.”

  But I don’t say nothing. Just keep listening.

  “I asked my folks,” Gaye whispered. “Asked them why folks leave you alone the way they do.”

  Can’t believe Gaye did all that asking for me. Guess she my friend after all.

  “You know what my folks say?”

  Of course I don’t know. Can’t do nothing but shake my head from side to side.

  “They say you come here on a slave ship, one with lots of trouble.”

  The sad green eyes look to see if I’m making a connection. I don’t know what Gaye talking about.

  “Well, my folks say only two folks left know what happened on that ship. One is the duppy who follow you, and…” Gaye paused.

  “And who?” My voice much louder than I intended it to be.

  “Hush now,” Gaye scolded me, her green eyes looking fearful. “You gon’ get us caught!”

  What she meant was, I was gon’ get her caught.

  “Sorry. So, who else?” I ask, my voice much softer.

  “Well,” Gaye was still hesitant. “They say Old Miss Simi know ’cause she was on it.”

  Gaye sat still, letting this fact sink in.

  Old Miss Simi’s blind. She so scary even the overseer let her alone. She sit and suck on sugar cane all day. And at night nobody know what she do. She real black like me. Her true name is Simisola. But somewhere along the way folks started calling her Simi, and it stuck. No matter what folks call her. She don’t answer most times.

  No way I’m talking to Old Miss Simi. She got something worse than strange wrapped around her. I start to object, but Gaye don’t give me a chance to speak.

  “Thought you’d want to know,” Gaye said. “Take care of yourself now.”

  Then she run off.

  I can’t stop thinking about Old Miss Simi. Keep wondering what she know. Maybe she knew my kin. Or maybe she know why strange follow me around like we friends.

  Next time I see Old Miss Simi, she looking crazy like always. Chewing on sugar cane with her rotted t
eeth, looking nowhere and everywhere all at once. I can’t bring myself to do it. Last thing I need in my life is more strange and crazy.

  “She gon’ come ’round, Uzo,” Old Miss Simi said, her blue-gray eyes staring at me. “Wait and give her time.”

  “My name Andrea, ma’am,” I say, trying my best to be respectful.

  “Know your name, child. I wasn’t talking to you.”

  Old Miss Simi standing there, and I feel like now’s my chance. If I don’t do it now, I might never get up the nerve.

  “Miss Simi?” I make certain to leave out Old. “Do you know what happened to my mama?” I ask. “Do you know why I don’t got no kin?”

  Old Miss Simi start smiling. Not necessarily at me, ’cause she looking around. Finally, she says, “Sometimes what folks fear the most exactly what come to pass. Focusing so hard on what they don’t want, what they afraid gon’ happen. That’s exactly what they get.”

  “What now?” I ask.

  I’m not trying to sass, but she ain’t making no sense. Old Miss Simi crazy for sure.

  “I hear you, and I ain’t crazy,” she said, looking at me straight in the eyes like she can see me. “I’m saying the thing your mama didn’t want was exactly what she got.”

  “And what’s that?” I ask.

  “Losing you.”

  Old Miss Simi look past me. Right over my shoulder. I turn to see if someone is behind me, but no one there.

  “I’m gon’ tell her, Uzo.”

  Don’t know who Old Miss Simi talking to. Strange starts to feel heavy, like it’s sitting on me.

  “Listen, child,” Old Miss Simi began. “Your mama wasn’t much older than you when they stole us. Took us aboard the Zong. Ship was big, but not big enough to hold us all. You wasn’t taking up much room, though. You was in your mama’s belly. And your mama’s only concern was you.

  “She talk to you all the time. All of us come to love you. We pray for you. You moving all around in her belly, running out of space. You ready to get out.

  “‘Stay in my belly now,’ she’d say.

  “And I believe you tried. But it was time. When the pains came, your mama start to panic. Any mama would have acted like she did. Folks was dying all around us.

  “There was no food. No water. Seem like the White men finally figured out it was too many slaves on the Zong. And well, your mama, fearing she would lose you, panicked more. Brought more pains, and then, here you come.

  “Come rushing out from between her legs. She didn’t make a sound, ’cause she didn’t want the White men to know you was born. And you didn’t make a sound neither. Like you knew you needed to be quiet.

  “Your mama was real weak. She trying to hold on for you. Then one of them White men took his knife and cut the cord that made the two of you one. Your mama died. Just like that.

  “They threw her body in the water, but she stayed. Whole bunch of the dead stayed on the Zong. All us stayed together till we reach this land.

  “Some still walk the cane fields from time to time. And your mama? Well, she never left. Never left your side. She right there with you day and night.

  “So you got a mama who love you. Make sure no harm come to you.

  “She here right now,” Old Miss Simi said. “Can you feel her love, Andrea?”

  The strange is all over me now. Pressing down on me, squeezing me tight. Like a big rock sitting on my chest.

  “You feel that?” Old Miss Simi asks again.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I can hardly breathe. The strange about to kill me.

  “All that love made the storm come. Don’t like the way folks treat you.”

  I’m trying to make sense of it all, but the strange on me so heavy, I can’t think. Can’t move.

  “Let her go now,” Old Miss Simi said. “Don’t love on her so hard. It’s too much! Look at her ’bout to fall over from all your love!”

  Old Miss Simi start laughing. The strange keeps pressing on me. I can’t hold it up, so I fall to my knees.

  “C’mon now,” Old Miss Simi whispered. “We all love her. Turn her loose, Abioye. Mojisola, you too. Awiti, let her go now. Let her mama have some time wit’ her. Go on, Uzo, take hold uh ya’ baby girl.”

  The strange turns me loose, the weight lifts off my chest. I still feel the strange, but it ain’t as heavy. Just there. Warm.

  “Got one question ’fore I leave ya’,” Miss Simi says to me. “Why you call ya’ mama strange?” she asks. “Her name Uzoamaka, Uzo for short. Go on and love your baby, Uzo.”

  18

  hate

  Okeechobee, FL (1928)

  White folks see Florida as a sunny place. Beautiful beaches and perfect weather. Well, for Black folk? For us Negroes? We never seen it that way. It was hell on Earth. A place most of us wanted to escape.

  We heard things were better up North. Many Negroes tried to get there. Problem was you had to pass through more of the South to get to the North.

  We lived in fear every day, wondering if a lynch mob was coming for us. If a White girl who wanted attention claimed we whistled or looked her way. It wasn’t safe to be a Negro in Florida. But it especially wasn’t safe to be a Negro man.

  All my life I lived real careful. I said “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am.” “Yes sir” and “no sir.” I was home before it got dark. Stayed on the right side of the tracks. I let White men, women, and children call me “boy” even though I was a man. It wasn’t enough.

  Seems like we saw or heard about a killing or a lynching every day. Somebody was always losing a husband, father, brother, son, or friend. Wasn’t just men. Negro women was lynched just the same. Sometimes, folks we knew disappeared. If they didn’t tell someone they were leaving town and didn’t return within three days’ time, well, it was best to start mourning like they already dead.

  It was my turn come September 23, 1919. I took a known shortcut. Dixie Road was a direct route to the Negro side of town. It was mostly used by Negroes, a quick way home from work. I heard a vehicle coming down the road and turned to see a red pick-up truck coming my way. I stepped into the grass so it could pass. Instead, it slowed and stopped right beside me.

  I knew I was in a bad situation—two White men in the front with the driver, and three in the rear. I could tell they were looking for trouble. And they had found it. I was walking on Dixie Road alone. No one else around except the seven of us.

  They hopped out the truck, and I kept walking. Everything in me wanted to run, but I couldn’t. If I started to run, that would mean I had done something wrong. They would justify their actions by saying, “Well, he started running…”

  “Stop walking, nigger,” one of the men said. “I know you see us.”

  So I stopped walking. Kept my head low, my eyes low. No eye contact if I wanted to survive.

  “That’s a nice shirt you got there, boy,” another man said. “You stole it.”

  “No, sir. It’s mine.”

  Even though he was younger than I, smaller, I knew to call him “sir.”

  “It ain’t yours, nigger, ’cause I want it!”

  His breath reeked of liquor.

  He grabbed at my shirt as his friends laughed. Buttons flew off and landed in the dirt. The short man held up my ripped shirt for his friends to see.

  It was my favorite shirt. Blue plaid. Tina purchased it for me when I first started to court her. It was a birthday present. The shirt was special. But none of that mattered now.

  “Told you we’d find us a dumb nigger out here walking. Looks like we gon’ have us some fun, boys!”

  The air was static. Even the birds were quiet. Everything stood still waiting to see what the White men planned to do to me.

  It started with a push. Then they shoved me back and forth between them, spitting and kicking. Their fists rained down on me in a bitter fury. I tried to protect myself as they beat me like I’d wronged them.

  Of course, I hadn’t. Never seen them before. The only thing I had done
wrong was be a Negro man walking alone on a shortcut road through town.

  Those White men beat me near death. I heard my bones crack. Felt loose teeth as they rattled around in my mouth. Pain ripped through my body. But they were not done with me yet.

  “Tie him up, John,” the smallest of them shouted. “Tie that nigger up!”

  I lay on the dirt road balled up from the pain. My right eye was swollen shut. But with my left eye, I saw the man called John walk over to the back of the pickup truck. He pulled out a long, thick rope and a can of gasoline. That was when I knew my life would end.

  John tied a noose in the rope. There were lots of tall trees along the dirt road, and they selected the closest one. They put the noose around my neck and hoisted me up. I dangled above the ground. My feet scraped the dirt, enough so the noose tightened but did not hang me. They laughed as my feet shuffled trying to get a foothold.

  “Look at that nigger dance!”

  John tossed gasoline all over me while the others hopped around dancing a jig.

  One of them sang, “We gon’ roast a nigger” over and over in a childlike taunting tune as the gasoline burned my opened wounds.

  I’m not sure which one lit the match, but they all watched me go up in flames. Like lighting a bonfire. They were unaffected as they burned me alive. Once I caught fire, they pulled the rope. My feet kicked in the air. Skin was scorching hot. I knew this was it. I was dying.

  I smelled my flesh burning. Felt the noose tighten around my neck. Watched the White men dance around my burning body.

  In quick snapshots I saw my life. My mother’s face. How would she feel when she saw my burned body? When she learned her only son had been lynched? How sad would Tina be when she learned I was wearing the blue plaid shirt on the day I died?

  I recalled little things too: laughing with friends, Tina’s long legs, the beauty of a setting sun. I recalled being born. Running as a child. The first time I lay with a woman. They were fast memories. And then, my body died.

  I looked down on the White men hitting my body with sticks. I felt nothing. Smoke rose in a fury above the tree as my body swayed in the wind.