His Last Wife

by Grace Octavia

  “I didn’t do anything,” Kerry said, confused, but also impressed with the honorable display. She looked over at Val in the car beside her and shrugged.

  While the compound was near the coast, a few miles from the port city of Nuevo Mariel, the terrain was hilly and rocky, making the outright paltry land purchase of three million dollars for 100 acres possible. At the third checkpoint, two huge and dramatic boulders that sat so closely together they looked like they might have been connected at one point, marked the final entrance.

  Word had already spread throughout the population of people who’d found their way to the compound for various reasons, so there was a small, but growing group of men and women still sporting their modest day work clothes and carrying baskets of food from the gardens and bags of antiquated tools used in the fields and such, gathering behind the entrance to get a look at the visitors. From the backseat of the car, they all looked old or dated. Not age-wise, but more like they’d been transported from some other time period. No one was wearing sunglasses or sunscreen. No one held a cell phone or iPad.

  “What is this?” Val thought aloud as the guard explained to the driver that Kerry and Val would need to get out of the car and walk at that point.

  Yuxnier turned to them for instruction.

  “Wait for us,” Kerry said, looking at the crowd and wondering the same things as Val. “Wait out here.”

  Yuxnier agreed with a nod and one of the women from the crowd broke off and rushed over anxiously to open Kerry’s door before a guard or Yuxnier could even get to it.

  She was a little older than Kerry. Had two simple plaits with a raw part down the middle in her natural hair. While her face was dusted with dirt from working in the garden, her skin was supple and clear.

  Like the guard at the other checkpoint, she genuflected deeply, bowing her neck in exultation as she welcomed Kerry.

  This time, though, Kerry was less moved and more embarrassed by the unprompted acknowledgment. She grabbed the woman’s shoulder and tried to lift her up, letting on that the action was unnecessary.

  “It’s okay! It’s fine,” she found herself saying to the woman. “It’s fine. It’s fine.”

  Val’s door had been opened in a similar fashion—with women seeking to greet her and thank her for coming to join them at the Fihankra. One wiped her brow. Another offered to carry her bag.

  “Baba Seti—do you know where he is?” Kerry asked someone once she and Val were out of the car and being led by hands through the thickening crowd. “I’m looking for Baba Seti.”

  Val looked around at the land that seemed to stretch out for miles and farther than she could see. In sight were crisscrossing crops, small barns, wooden houses, and storehouses. One structure was a schoolhouse. Children stood on the steps in their simple sheath uniforms, young boys indistinguishable from girls. A woman, maybe their teacher, was standing in the middle of the group supporting a baby on her hip in a mud-cloth sling. All eyes were on Kerry and Val.

  “Follow me! I can take you to him!” A woman in a beautiful, deep purple African gele that almost looked like a wedding headdress appeared in the middle of the crowd. She was regal, brown, and striking, clearly of different ranking than those around her.

  She turned before Kerry and Val could agree and every direction she took led to a pathway that was quickly cleared by the eager onlookers.

  Up ahead was an elegant-looking limestone building, newly built and seven stories high. Pillars with African masks carved into each bust encircled the gigantic wooden front doors that couldn’t be opened by one or two humans alone. A few yards from the entrance was a limestone obelisk with scarabs and words neither Kerry nor Val could read etched into its base.

  Something else Val and Kerry simply couldn’t discern was who all of these people were. Of varying shades and shapes, they all seemed to look familiar, but still so foreign, so far from them. The two could hear people speaking in many languages; some sounded like they were straight out of Atlanta or Brooklyn, others sounded West Indian, some Middle Eastern.

  Trading quizzical stares with Kerry as they traveled behind the graceful woman in the gele, Val thought of Ernest and how mad she was that she’d made him stay at the hotel with Tyrian. There was no way she’d ever be able to describe what she was seeing to him or anyone else and even if she could or tried, no one would believe her.

  Once they’d reached the doors of the limestone building, people in the crowd started cheering and singing, some crying out, “Revolution!” Others simply called Kerry’s name. A woman with a baby in her arms, propped the little yellow ball with wild black hair up so she could see Kerry and waved her tiny hand toward them. It was the woman, not the baby, who gave Kerry pause, though. There was this look in her eyes. Something hopeful that shot through to a free part of Kerry’s heart. It was an immediate connection to something the woman needed or wanted or thought she could get from Kerry, something Kerry didn’t even know if she had, but in that moment, if she did, she would’ve given it right to her.

  The woman in the purple head wrap was called, stopped at the wooden doors, and beckoned for Val and Kerry to enter before her. How she walked, her poise and humble gestures transferred directly to women, who seemed to hold their heads up, poke their chests out, and extend their hands from the wrists elegantly when they entered the building.

  The woman turned and nodded to the enthusiastic crowd, signaling that they were to remain outside, before the wooden doors closed on some mechanical spring.

  The noise of their chanting and singing was quickly dimmed, but not gone. There were a few other people in the lobby. They looked and stared, but no one approached them.

  “I am called Nzingha here,” the woman said, smiling with bright and perfect teeth. Her voice was soft and calming, but she was clearly American and had a hint of the Midwest in her voice. “I’m so happy you’ve come to join us here at the Fihankra. This is our sacred building.” She directed their eyes to the carefully designed interior lobby that was akin to something someone might find in a cathedral or mosque. “It’s a religious building. Just somewhere that we gather and share our ideas.”

  “We who?” Val asked.

  “Us. The people of the Fihankra.”

  Nzingha’s answer was quite definitive, but it still didn’t get to what Val was really asking. She was thinking the response would do better at explaining what this was, what the people were doing living on this compound on the coast of Cuba. The Fihankra Center in Atlanta looked more like a community center, but this was an actual community. A real place where people clearly lived. How’d they all get there? Why? Val’s questions were in such number she didn’t know how to formulate even one.

  “I’m here to see Jamison Taylor,” Kerry said. “I’m his ex-wife.” She pointed to Val and said awkwardly, “This is his wife.”

  Val smiled at Nzingha.

  “I know who you are. I know who both of you are. And I know why you’ve come, Sister Kerry. I know what you are seeking,” Nzingha answered mystically.

  “Yeah, but do you know where he is?” Val countered abrasively and with a hand on her now poked-out hip.

  Kerry rolled her eyes and snatched Val’s hand from her hip. “Do you know if he’s here? If Jamison is here?”

  Nzingha nodded and said soothingly, “He is with us, my sister. Yes. He is.”

  Those words were like a winning lottery ticket placed into Kerry’s hand. They eliminated her consuming consternation. Made her forget the purpose of this part in the mission altogether. She felt like she’d lost step and was maybe floating.

  “Can you take us to him?” Kerry asked.

  “It is not for me to do. But I am here to lead you to Brother Krishna,” Nzingha said.

  “Why does she keep talking like this?” Val whispered to Kerry. “And who the hell is Brother Krishna?”

  Nzingha, so sweet, humble, elegant, and spiritual, had a past too and she’d heard what Val had said and in that past, she was the kind of wo
man who wouldn’t’ve let that slide. Not in the present, either.

  “I can hear you,” she said, with a slick smile toward Val. “And we do not curse Brother Krishna’s name. He is our leader.”

  Val stepped back, befuddled.

  “Leader?” Kerry said. “What about Baba Seti? Where is he?”

  “Oh,” Nzingha laughed. “He is not our leader. He was simply honored to bring you here to us. Brother Krishna will help you. Brother Krishna will lead the way.”

  Nzingha turned and gestured for Kerry and Val to follow her.

  Val held Kerry back until Nzingha was a few feet ahead and said, “See what I mean—why is she talking like that?” Val asked jokingly, but with a hint of true criticism. “Homegirl is obviously from the Chi. What’s up with the airs?”

  “Leave her alone,” Kerry whispered.

  “And what the hell is this place? Do you see this?” Val asked. “Who are those people?”

  “I think we’re about to find out and stop asking so many questions. You heard her—Jamison is here, so that’s all I care about right now. If I can get to him, then we can get out of here,” Kerry said lowly, but Nzingha could hear every word in their exchange.

  Brother Krishna’s office in the building looked less like an office and more like some kind of apartment or lounge. The interior was an eclectic mix of bachelor swank mixed with Afrocentric furnishings—the standard masks and statues. Nothing in the room matched anything outside of it. Nzingha led Kerry and Val inside where three teenage girls were waiting to greet them.

  They nearly attacked Val and Kerry with hugs and little tokens meant to pamper them and show respect. They presented them with flower necklaces that looked like Hawaiian leis and fresh fruit.

  Nzingha quickly instructed the girls to give the women space and when she snapped her fingers they ran out of the room, giggling.

  “Please have a seat,” Nzingha instructed. “Brother Krishna will enter.”

  Val frowning and Kerry nodding, the two sat on the long leather couch set atop a calfskin rug. Immediately, the French door at the opposite side of where they’d entered opened, and out walked a brown man in an immaculate white muslin tunic and matching slacks. Unlike the other men outside, he had little scruff or work on his face. His nails were manicured. Beard neatly trimmed. He was handsome. In another place and definitely another outfit, he would have been considered fine. Nzingha’s near-giddy response to his presence made this clear.

  Val looked from him to her and then at Kerry.

  “Greetings, my sister,” Brother Krishna said, bowing like all the others. He walked into the room and came to sit on the couch beside Kerry and Val. Nzingha sat beside him in a move that said in all contexts that she was making claim to him—or at least trying to.

  “Hi,” Kerry said.

  Val just looked and took him in. The physique in the shirt. The smile. It was to look at a man who was supposed to be so dignified, but who also happened to be handsome without thinking more of the latter than the former. With a name like “Brother Krishna,” Val was expecting another Baba Seti with the 1970s throwback kufi and dashiki.

  “It is a wonderful day when sisters like yourself join us here at the Fihankra,” Brother Krishna said. “I am happy you have come to do the good work. Had we been expecting you, we would’ve prepared a proper feast and had more of a welcoming tribute. But, no worries. The sistren are steady preparing your feast now.”

  “I apologize for coming unannounced and it’s really not necessary to do all that,” Kerry said. “We were just looking for Baba Seti. He invited us here.”

  “Yes. He is a good man,” Brother Krishna said fondly.

  “Do you know where he is?” Kerry asked.

  “That’s not all,” Val cut in before Brother Krishna could answer. “We’re here looking for my—” She stopped herself and looked at Kerry. “We’re looking for her husband.”

  “Jamison Taylor,” Kerry said. “Baba Seti said he was here. I want to see him.”

  “All in time, my sistren. All in time.”

  “What does that mean?” Val pushed, clearly out of step with the respect Nzingha and Kerry were showing Brother Krishna.

  “It means that now is not the time. We are preparing,” Krishna said. “This place, here, we don’t operate on the clock that moves with wants. We work with needs. And right now we need to prepare for a uniting.”

  “What exactly is this place?” Val asked.

  “We are the light where there is darkness. A refuge for those seeking change and wanting to be free from tyranny, for ultimate rule. Those who want to live in justice and security. Where education and food and health care and love is available to all, and all equally.”

  “That’s how all of these people got here?” Val followed up.

  “Yes. Our community reaches far and wide,” he said, adding to what Baba Seti had claimed. “Some settlements more advanced than the others, but all growing from generous members and their contributions.”

  Val remembered the money from Jamison’s will and insurance policy. Suddenly, every dollar spent on every item in the room registered in her brain.

  “Here in Cuba, we are a self-sustaining facility. We eat what we grow, we provide our own security, medical attention, build our own homes, teach our own children,” Brother Krishna added, standing. “Our community all work only for the community to thrive. No more. No less.”

  “How long have you been here?” Kerry asked.

  “The voice has been here as long as time. We have been here a little over a decade.”

  As Brother Krishna spoke, one of the teenage girls walked into the room and whispered something into Nzingha’s ear. Nzingha nodded and the girl quickly left the room again. When she opened the door, outside, Kerry and Val could hear the chanting getting louder.

  Brother Krishna looked at Nzingha, who rose and nodded to him, saying, “It is time.”

  “Wonderful,” Brother Krishna said, walking toward a window of sliding French doors that faced the front of the building. He turned to Kerry and Val. “Ladies, won’t you join me in addressing the people,” he said.

  Nzingha rushed to the window and opened the doors, before waving for Kerry and Val, still seated, to come over.

  Kerry and Val looked at her and Brother Krishna and then each other hesitantly.

  “Please, sistren. It’s really just our evening greeting. We all gather here to give thanks,” Nzingha said. “So many people have gathered today just to see you. It would be good for them to know you are here in support.”

  “Gathered to see us?” Val said.

  Remembering the look in the woman’s eyes holding the baby downstairs, Kerry rose and began to walk toward the window where loud cheers that neared pandemonium could he heard.

  Val saw Kerry almost in a trance and reached for her, but she kept walking.

  Brother Krishna nodded and stepped out onto the small Juliet with Kerry, holding her hand.

  The sun was setting, and so the heat that had nearly made breathing impossible earlier was now gone in a light breeze.

  When the crowd, which stretched impossibly far, almost to the end of the compound walls and included many more people than what Kerry had seen outside, saw her, they began to cheer, “Torkwase! Torkwase! Torkwase! Torkwase!”

  Kerry looked at Nzingha, who said, “It’s what they’ve named you. It means queen.”

  “Brothers, sisters,” Brother Krishna spoke. “You are here to witness the arrival of our torkwase!”

  The crowd went wild with cheering. Toward the back Kerry saw men holding cameras who were recording and taking pictures.

  Brother Krishna went on, “She has come to us to show her support for our revolution. For our community. She is here to let us and the world know that her heart is with the Fihankra. Just like the great Oba.”

  When he said this, the crowd’s chanting changed to “Oba! Oba! Oba!” Drums played in the background. Sisters who resembled Auset and her crew at the jai
l danced before the brothers playing the drums.

  Nzingha whispered in Kerry’s ear, “That is the name given to Brother Jamison. It means king.”

  Kerry saw the woman with the baby in the crowd. She waved and this time Kerry waved back. It was almost magical, rather extraordinary to just be there and feel their energy all coming toward her. Brother Krishna was still speaking, but Kerry was busy waving and feeling rather inebriated by the wine of being so exalted.

  “. . . And she is here to let you all know she has seen Jamison, she has visited with him, and all is well. They are strong. They are ready to unite and help us prepare for our next phase,” Kerry heard when she checked back in to listen again to Brother Krishna.

  She turned to him. “What?” she asked.

  Nzingha whispered in her ear, “Just nod. We will explain.” “No—I—” Kerry started to say, but Brother Krishna cut her off.

  “Sister Torkwase will now simply say good night to you. I hope you all understand. She has had a long journey to be here with us.”

  Brother Krishna turned to Kerry as the crowd began to cheer her given name again. Somehow those distinctive Yoruba syllables put together in a word that was used to identify her, drove Kerry to some purpose that was not her own.

  As soon as Kerry looked like she was about to speak, the crowd went fully silent. Even the children did not use one word.

  “Greetings all,” she said, with her voice suddenly mirroring the dated and rather regal tone Nzingha and Brother Krishna used.

  Val was behind her cursing and questioning her tone.