The Truth About Awiti

by CP Patrick

  “We got to get moving, woman,” he yelled. “Ain’t got the time nor the space for you to be taking all that mess!”

  Daddy hardly ever talked like that to Mama. And he sure made her some type of mad. She went slamming and throwing things around, packing up her things in a rush. Now we’re all crammed into Daddy’s Chevy riding to Uncle Mike’s house in silence.

  I know it’s wrong to wish you had a different daddy, but sometimes I can’t help it. I wish Uncle Mike was my daddy. He’s the best, so smart and fun. He’s the first one in our whole family to go to college. And not just regular college neither. He went all the way and earned himself a PhD. He works at Howard University, which is where I want to go to college one day.

  No matter how busy he is, seems like Uncle Mike always has time for me. He makes sure to take me one week every summer, just the two of us. And we always do something exciting. Last summer, he took me to Annapolis in Maryland and showed me the place where the real Kunta Kinte came on a slave ship to America.

  Everywhere we go always has some educational value, a piece of history. Uncle Mike is serious about Black people and their education. He calls himself one of the talented tenth.

  “It’s my life’s purpose to enhance the Negro race, to make certain that the world is a different place for the future. I want to make sure the future is different for you, Greg.”

  We had this conversation two summers before, on my twelfth birthday. We were walking near the Anacostia River when he sat me down and had a serious talk with me.

  “I like spending time with you, Greg,” Uncle Mike said. We were eating ice cream in our favorite park. That day had been perfect.

  “I know, Uncle Mike. Me too.” He had no way of knowing how much.

  “I invest in you not because you are my nephew, but because you’re a young boy who will one day be a man.”

  Uncle Mike always reminded me of that. I wouldn’t always be a boy. One day, I’d grow up and I’d be a man. And when I became a man, I’d have a chance to change the world.

  “Yes, Uncle Mike. I know that. I sure do appreciate it.”

  “A great man once said, ‘It is easier to build strong children than it is to repair broken men,’” Uncle Mike said wisely.

  I think it was a nice way of saying, “I know your daddy ain’t ’bout much, so I’m going to help you.”

  “You know, Greg, only one in ten Black men are poised to become leaders of the Negro race. And that Black man, the one of the ten? Well, he is an exceptional man. He is among the best. And the best must guide the worst of our people. The Negro race will only be saved by exceptional men. Will you be one of those men, Greg?”

  There was nothing I wanted more. I wanted to be like Uncle Mike.

  “Absolutely, Uncle Mike. I will be an exceptional man. I promise.”

  That night he gave me his copy of The Negro Problem to read. It was a bit mature for my age, but it lit a fire in me. I had a desire to be more than another little Negro boy from Mississippi. I read and reread every page, especially the passages Uncle Mike had underlined. It made me proud he felt I was worthy of reading it.

  When we finally turn on the street leading to Uncle Mike’s house, I can’t wait to get inside. Telly is fast asleep, snoring, and Mama and Daddy still aren’t speaking to each other. I feel like jumping out of the car as soon as we turn into the driveway.

  We pull up to the large, red brick house with green grass and flowers planted in the front garden. All the houses on Uncle Mike’s street look nice like that. And the houses are big too. Nothing like our little house in Mississippi. As Mama always says, “Negroes sure know how to live the further you go North.”

  Uncle Mike and Aunt Kay are standing outside waiting for us to arrive. They make for a most attractive couple. Their kids are sure going to be lucky one day. I know they will make fine parents. And I start wishing Uncle Mike was my daddy again.

  “Hey there, Greg,” Aunt Kay says. She looks genuinely happy to see us.

  Aunt Kay is beyond pretty. She looks like one of those women on the cover of Mama’s magazines. She has light brown skin and long, light brown hair. And the nicest green eyes. Uncle Mike met her in college. That’s another reason I want to go to college. I want to find me a wife like Aunt Kay.

  A couple of their neighbors are out, other wealthy Negro families who live in Southeast Washington. The community sits high on a hill, and from almost every angle, you can look down and see all of Washington, even the Capitol. During the summer, Aunt Kay loves to sit outside on their back porch and watch the sunset.

  All the men start talking about the hurricane that’s getting ready to hit the South, so Mama, Telly, Aunt Kay, and I head inside. The two ladies share a look, a stare between wives they think kids don’t notice. It’s a look that says,

  “He makes me so mad, but I love him.”

  Mama and Daddy often fight in silence, but they always make up by the next morning.

  I go to put my things in the room where I know I’ll be sleeping. I call it my room, not out loud, of course. But it is nice to pretend it’s my room. Nothing like my room in Mississippi. I throw my bags on the bed and go to my favorite room in the house: Uncle Mike’s office.

  His office is filled with lots of things—memorabilia from his college pledging days (I’ve promised him I will be an Alpha man one day), maps, his teaching notes, and books. Uncle Mike has a lot of books.

  Each wall in his office contains a built-in bookcase filled with bound copies of texts that explain the history of the Negro race. I love spending time in Uncle Mike’s office looking at all the books and the framed drawings and portraits of Negro leaders.

  I walk around to admire a new drawing that’s on the wall. It’s a portrait of Negro man, standing bare-chested with his fists raised in a boxing stance. And he looks to be paired up to fight a White boxer. Several other men are gathered with them in the ring while dozens of White faces look on, preparing to watch the fight. I lean in closer to read the small writing underneath the drawing.

  “Like my new piece, Greg?”

  Uncle Mike steps up behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders.

  “I acquired it a few weeks ago. It’s not the original, unfortunately, but it’s a fine copy. It’s something, isn’t it?”

  “Who is that Negro man, Uncle Mike?” I ask.

  “The man that’s set to fight that White man? Well, that there is the famous Thomas Molineaux. The Moor, he was often called. He was once a slave, right up the way, from Virginia.”

  I’ve never heard of him, but that doesn’t surprise me. Uncle Mike always has information on Black folks I’ve never heard of.

  “There’s a story behind him. Want to hear about it?” Uncle Mike asks.

  We sit down on the couch in his office. Of course I want to hear about it. He knows that.

  “Tom Molineaux was once a slave. His master, seeing how large and strong Tom and his brother were, forced them into boxing—pugilism, it was called back then. Tom and his brother were forced to fight other slaves to entertain their masters and earn money for them. Tom’s father was a fighter too, but among the three men, Tom was the best.

  “So Tom went around from plantation to plantation, from state to state, forced to fight for his master, and he won every fight. He earned his master large sums of money, and believe it or not, one day, his master granted him his freedom. Tom knew there was not much for him in the South, so he took his earnings and moved to England to become a professional boxer.

  “England had more tolerance for Negroes than the United States, but racism still existed. They did not want to see one of their White prized fighters beaten by a Negro.

  “So when Tom set out to fight one of the White boxers, and it looked like Tom was going to win the fight, the crowd intervened. They caused Tom to lose the fight. His career was never the same thereafter, and he died, penniless and starving while still a young man.”

  “That’s a horrible story.”

  “
Well, the story doesn’t end there,” Uncle Mike continues.

  “You see, lots of Negro slaves were forced to fight each other, for entertainment and sport. Tom was lucky to receive some of his fight proceeds. That was rare. Bill Richmond, Hannibal Straw, John Finnley. They were some of the more famous Negro slave fighters.

  “But think of all the hundreds of thousands of Negro slaves who were mediocre boxers, forced to fight their own brothers. What do you think happened when they died? Do you think they died peaceful?”

  “Well no, of course not. How could they?” I respond. “They didn’t live peaceful lives, so how could they die peaceful?”

  “Exactly, Greg. Exactly.”

  Uncle Mike gets up from the couch and walks over to the portrait of Tom Molineaux.

  “There’s a saying among the old folks, about the spirits of slaves like Tom and all the others who died at the hands of slavery. That their spirits are not peaceful. That they will never be at peace.”

  Uncle Mike walks back to the couch and crouches down in front of me.

  “They say their spirits are embodied in the winds of hurricanes, storms that form off the coast of West Africa, travel the route of slave ships through the Middle Passage, and exact their wrath on the South. Where Negro slaves suffered the most.”

  He’s looking at me in the face, and I start to feel cold, tiny bumps forming on my skin.

  “Do you believe that, Greg?”

  I think about it a bit. “Yes, Uncle Mike, I believe that.”

  “Do you believe Hurricane Camille could embody the restless spirits of slaves? That they’ve banded together, their anger at slavery and the plight of the Black man stirring in its epicenter? The eye of the storm?”

  “I guess it could be those slaves, Uncle Mike. I guess they’re still fighting.”

  23

  not divided

  Mobile, Alabama (1979)

  Looking at these storm clouds brings back fond memories for me. She hasn’t forgotten about me. Even after all these years.

  “Hey, Mama.”

  My dear, sweet daughter. My only child. Lord knows any other child would have put me in an old folks’ home. But not my Elizabeth. Not my Lizzy.

  She and her husband Paul took me in. Even though I know it isn’t true, Lizzy says I live with them as family, not as a burden.

  “Paul is almost done packing up the truck. Then he’s gonna board up all of the windows, and then we’ll be on our way, okay?”

  Lizzy speaks to me gently, like I used to speak to her when she was young, telling her something important. I love her. Still though, she’s interrupting my memories.

  Whenever I feel the winds of the hurricanes or the tornadoes rush through this state, I know Awiti is returning to me. That’s my time.

  I wish Lizzy would go away, leave me to my thoughts. I stare out the window, making eye contact with nothing. That’s what old folks do when we want to be left alone.

  Lizzy walks over and kisses me on the cheek before walking out of the room. She’s the one thing I did right in this world. Aside from that, my marriage to John wasn’t worth nothing.

  Well, that’s not entirely true. He did buy me Awiti for my eighteenth birthday. Best birthday of my life.

  Awiti and I were more like sisters. Partners in crime, that’s what we were. Sure, I treated her like she was hired help when folks were around, bossing her about. But when it was the two of us together, when no one else was around, Awiti and I were the best of friends.

  She was beautiful and wild, something different in my predictable life. Awiti saved me from those years I was forced to be a Southern belle.

  John was wealthy, which is why Mama made me marry him. Life was hard in the South once slavery was abolished. The Yankee troops destroyed plantations, ruined the crops and livelihood. There were some businessmen, like John, who escaped the war unscathed. They managed to remain wealthy and successful despite what was happening all around them.

  And they were the kind of men who had their pick of the most beautiful young girls in the South. Fathers and mothers married away their young daughters to whichever man had the best bank account, the most prominent name.

  It wasn’t that John wasn’t a nice man. He was plenty nice. And even though he was twenty-two years my senior, he was still rather handsome. He had gorgeous, sandy-brown curls, which thankfully, Lizzy inherited. His eyes reminded me of the blue waters of the Coosa River. And he never treated me poorly, unlike some of the other unfortunate girls who were married off.

  It was just I wasn’t quite ready to be married. I was only sixteen when Mama came and told me she had found me a most eligible suitor.

  “His name is John Buchanan,” Mama said as she laced up my corset. “He is quite handsome, but more importantly, he is extremely wealthy.”

  The word “wealthy” rolled off her tongue with a Southern aristocracy, dripping with desperation.

  We had at one time been wealthy, and now we were poor, a word Mama did not like to say often. Of course, no one knew how poor we were. But our surname had surely lost its value.

  “This is our chance to return to the life we had before the war. If John falls in love with you, your marriage will help us reclaim our place in high society,” she said to me.

  “Our place” meant the future of our family was riding on me. It was a heavy burden for a teenage girl, and a task at which I could not fail.

  “Yes, Mama,” I responded.

  She turned me around so we could see my reflection in the mirror. I was quite beautiful.

  My dark hair hung in perfect spirals, and my skin was like fine china, clear and unblemished. In those days, I had the figure that caused men to turn to watch me pass and trip over themselves if they weren’t careful. Mama admired her greatest work.

  “Now, he may try to touch on you, because as you know, not all Southern men are gentlemen,” Mama warned me.

  I had heard the stories of young girls who were tainted, ineligible to be top contenders because some Southern gentleman had forced himself upon them.

  “You are to let him down gently, like a lady. Do not slap away his hand or kick violently. You are to be demure, yet firm. If he wants you, he’s going to have to marry you.”

  Her voice was matter-of-fact as she pulled at my dress. I imagined my Grandma Ann having the same conversation with her as a young girl. I prayed it was not a speech I would have to repeat to my own daughter one day.

  John met me that night and courted me for several weeks thereafter before asking for my hand in marriage. I was pleased for my family, not so much for myself.

  It was a grand wedding, attended by anybody who was anybody. Mama beamed and floated on my wedding day. Her life’s purpose had been fulfilled.

  I began to live a life many Southern women could only dream of, yet still, I was unhappy. But that all changed the day John came home with Awiti.

  “Happy Birthday, darling,” John said to me, smiling.

  He pushed the Colored girl in front of him, grinning with excitement.

  I was his young wife, and he wanted to make me happy. What better way than to gift me with my own Colored girl, even more impressive since slavery was abolished.

  She was to brush my hair, clean my garments, hold an umbrella while I walked to protect my porcelain skin from the Alabama sun. This gift of a domestic servant was intended to please me. John knew nothing about pleasing a woman.

  All the while, John was jovial as he introduced my present, Awiti. I could not stop staring at her. She was beyond lovely, tall, and stately. Her skin reminded me of toffee candies, and I was tempted to reach out and stroke her, to see if she was sticky.

  Her hair was dark and fell over her shoulders, and she looked at me with shy, dark eyes. She seemed not much older than I, both of us trapped in lives that were predestined for us. It was so unfortunate, unfair that we had no say in the matter.

  The next morning, when John left for business, Awiti and I stared at each other. I had never
had a servant, although I knew how to treat one, as Mama had often treated me as such. Still, I had nothing for Awiti to do, and so I sat on my bed while she stood by the door waiting for my orders.

  Then, I smiled at her, and she returned my smile. And that was the beginning of our friendship.

  Awiti was the perfect guise. No one ever suspected her of being anything other than my servant. But during John’s long absences for business, we helped each other survive as we learned to navigate the world of young adulthood. Always sharing secrets and making mischief. Until that one fateful day.

  We found ourselves in the middle of the cotton fields. Of course, there were no slaves to pick cotton—field hands and machinery did the work that was once the responsibility of Awiti’s people.

  The puffs of white surrounded us like soft clouds. Long blades of grass were a thick green flooring beneath our bare feet. We chased each other around, laughing and hiding, enjoying the youth that had been stolen from us.

  On the farmost corner of John’s property was a lake. It served no purpose other than for admiration, something to look over when the sun set. Still, it was nice to dip one’s feet into the cool waters on a warm summer’s day.

  “Let’s go for a swim, Kate,” Awiti said.

  She looked at the water longingly. Awiti loved to swim.

  “Oh, I cannot. I have no swimsuit,” I responded. Then I reminded Awiti pointedly, “We have no swimsuits.”

  “No matter. We don’t need them.”

  Awiti looked at me and smiled as she began to undress. We had seen each other naked before, plenty of times, but there was something different about this day.

  I found myself excited, longing for something I couldn’t explain as Awiti stood there naked before me. Her skin seemed to glow in the Alabama sunshine, and the tingling between my legs intensified.

  “Well, come on now,” Awiti said, beckoning me.

  She stepped into the lake, and I watched her body disappear beneath the water, inch by inch, as she went in deeper. And I began to undress.

  We were both in the water, up to our necks, our faces only inches apart. I had never been with a woman before that day. Hell, the only person I had ever been with my whole life was John.