by Koboah, A D
Jupiter never spoke to me or even looked me in the eye again after that day. Whenever I saw him he would drop his gaze and nod politely but he never stayed in my presence for long. Of all the things I had to endure during the years that followed, having Jupiter never look me in the eye was no doubt the worst. I never forgot his kindness that day, but I knew that seeing me soiled had changed his view of me in a fundamental way, and even though it was painful for me to accept, I understood it and so kept my distance from him. He was sold a few years later and although I missed his presence on the plantation, it was a relief not to have him avert his gaze or find a reason to get away from me whenever our paths crossed.
The wounds I sustained that day healed, but the mental scars never left me alone.
Neither did Master Henry.
He found every opportunity to accost me again and again. Three years passed and his weekly visits only stopped when my breasts and stomach began to grow. I hadn’t known why I was sometimes sick in the morning and why my appetite had increased, until Mary, who was the closest thing that I had to a mother, explained that I would soon have a child of my own.
The child came on a devilishly cold winter night under the fury of a raging storm, the worst that anyone could remember ever being unleashed on Mississippi. I screamed out in pain as a contraction rippled through my stomach with almost as much force as the wind and rain lashing against my tiny cabin. It was a Sunday so my mind was still crowded with the sermon I had heard at church during the day, the story of Noah and the Great Flood taking on greater meaning in my panic-stricken mind. It felt like the end of days for me, and as hour after hour passed, the pain and the storm began to take on biblical proportions until I was sure that morning would never come.
Mary was equally anxious. She had come to my cabin thinking that this was another false labour, the third one that week. But it soon became clear, not only that this was the real thing, but that there was something seriously wrong. She was about to leave to go and get help when Mama Akosua, knowing somehow that she was needed, entered the cabin. Mama Akosua had been sold when I was about three, so I only recognised her because of the scars on her face. I had been screaming at the time as another contraction ripped through me and yet in the midst of the pain, the panic and sense of doom left me the moment I laid eyes on her. When she came closer, I stifled another cry when I saw the look of black thunder on her face.
“I will kill him,” she had spat and I guessed that she was talking about Master Henry. “I will cut out his heart with my bare hands. I will kill him.”
Her face hadn’t lost that rage even as she set to work, ordering Mary to boil water or get more rags. It was an extremely difficult birth, complicated by the fact that my womb had only dilated a few centimetres. If Mama Akosua hadn’t been there with her herbal medicines to help me fully dilate, both I and the child she delivered a few hours later would be dead.
When I first heard the baby scream, a sound not unlike the squeal of a pig being slaughtered, I immediately turned my head away, repulsed by this thing that would always remind me of that day in the woods and the years of torment that followed.
For a few moments there was only the sound of the rain lashing the cabin and the awful sound of the baby’s screams. Then at last Mary spoke, the relief and excitement in her voice unable to completely mask the clenching sorrow I could hear flitting around her words.
“You a mama now, Luna. You got you a baby girl.” Her voice wavered on the word “girl”.
“Take it away,” I heard myself say.
“Hush now, Luna. You—” Mary began but I didn’t let her finish.
“Take it away! I don’t care what you does with it. Just take it away!”
I secretly hoped that she would kill that thing and for a moment I thought Mama Akosua had heard my thoughts because she was glaring at me. As frightened as I was by her expression, I kept my eyes on her and pleaded silently with her to take the baby away. The cold fury left her after a few moments and I knew then that she would do as I asked.
I never saw the child again and I don’t know what became of it. It was often on the tip of my tongue to ask Mama Akosua and I’m sure she expected to hear the question every time I saw her. But I couldn’t bring myself to ask because I still hated that thing and I didn’t want to know whether it lived or had died.
I was whipped when they discovered the baby was gone, the first time Master Henry ever took a whip to me. I accepted each stroke of the lash with dead eyes and barely a murmur, feeling far removed from the shocking pain and the warm rivers of blood running from the open wounds on my back and down my legs to lie in a glistening red pool on the ground. The weeks that followed were a pain-tinged blur in which I repeatedly begged death to wrap its tender arms around me. During those weeks I walked a tightrope between life and death, but two faces kept drawing me back toward the barb-tipped snare of life: Mary’s during the day, and Mama Akosua’s at night. She was there every night forcing me to drink some foul-tasting mixture or rubbing something into the open wounds on my back. I would often wake from a restless sleep to hear her singing to me softly in her native tongue. I didn’t understand the words but there was so much sorrow in her voice that it was hard for me to turn my back on life and slip into the arms of death. The anger I had seen the night I gave birth was slowly smoothed down by exhaustion but it was still there as, night after night, she made the long walk from the Marshall plantation to nurse me back to health. I also recall the frequent but fleeting spectre of Master Henry’s tall, stooping figure as he stood in the doorway of my cabin blotting out the sunlight. If it had been any other slave, they would have paid with their life. But Master Henry wanted me too much to ever consider killing me and he fretted that he had perhaps been too hasty in taking the whip to me so soon after I had given birth. But I recovered and nothing was the same after that.
I told everyone that I couldn’t remember what had happened during the birth. I told them that I went to sleep alone and the next thing I remembered was waking up in the morning to the sight of blood everywhere and the knowledge that I had somehow delivered the baby during the night but had no idea what had happened to it.
Nobody believed my story, especially since I kept referring to the child as “it” and didn’t bother to hide my hatred and revulsion every time she was mentioned. From that moment on, the other slaves began to keep their distance from me, probably believing that I had killed the child with my bare hands. I can’t say that I cared either way what they believed as I knew that if I hadn’t been given another option, that is exactly what I would have done rather than let Master Henry have her.
Only Mary knew the truth and she couldn’t tell anyone because if Master Henry ever found out that she was involved in any way, he wouldn’t have hesitated to kill her. So she kept quiet, even though I saw how painful it was for her to hear what was said about me and not be able to defend me with the truth. She also refused to let me push her away. No matter what I said or did, she kept finding ways past the wall I erected until I eventually stopped trying to shut her out. And I believe that even if she hadn’t known what had really happened that night, she would never have forsaken me, because Mary was loyal and the closest thing that I had to a mother.
The visits from Master Henry continued for years until he suffered a stroke. Then they became less frequent until another stroke put an end to them altogether. I was left alone for a year until Master John, Master Henry’s son from a previous marriage, came to take over the daily running of the plantation. That’s when the nightmare began all over again.
Chapter Two
Mama Akosua’s voice brought me back to the present.
“Forgive me.”
“Forgive you?” I asked harshly, forgetting that I was frightened of the woman seated before me. “You ain’t the cause of my troubles.”
She opened her mouth as if to speak and her bottom lip quivered for a fraction of a second before she looked down at the table. I saw weariness i
n her face that frightened me more than her usual fierce gaze and this in turn infuriated me.
“Don’t you feel sorry for me, now!” I hissed. “I’s lucky compared to most niggers.”
I laughed harshly, not only at the absurdity of the statement, but at the bitter knowledge that what I had said was true. I was luckier than most that I worked in the house and didn’t have to suffer the back-breaking work in the fields. I was lucky that the flesh on my back had been shredded by the whip on only one occasion and not countless times like so many others. Yes, I was lucky compared to most but it didn’t mean that my life wasn’t one of fear and degradation. Those midnight visits, one pregnancy, and now three trips to Mama Akosua for herbs to kill my unborn children, had taken its toll. Yes, I was fortunate that Master Henry and his son wanted to keep me in the house so that their greedy eyes and filthy thoughts could follow me around and that their desires meant they didn’t treat me as harshly as some of the other slaves, but at times I wished I wasn’t so fortunate.
“Here,” I said and laid the bundle of apples wrapped in cloth on the table.
When her eyes fell on the bundle, some of the weariness left her and a small smile passed briefly across her lips.
“Ah, apples.” She nodded once to show her appreciation.
The slaves that came to see Mama Akosua paid her with whatever they had. Sometimes it was information, other times money or food. I knew she didn’t expect me to bring anything but I always brought her apples from the apple tree behind an abandoned chapel on the plantation that no one else seemed to know about. That tree yielded the sweetest apples and whenever one of our slaves was sent on an errand to the Marshall plantation, I always asked them to take some to her. It was a small thing but I liked to see that little smile, as though she were glimpsing some forgotten pleasure, even though it was always gone as quickly as it was now when she peered past me toward the door of the cabin.
“Hey! What are you doing there?” she said sharply.
I turned to see a small brown face peering around the open door. The little boy stepped out from behind the door with a sheepish smile on his face. He was dressed in an oversized white shirt and torn brown trousers that were too short for him.
“They says your daughter’s here, Mama, and I wants to see her.” He moved forward quickly to stand by my chair. “She sure is pretty,” he said when he saw me fully in the light of the lamp.
“Go away, Ebe!” Mama Akosua replied with a glare that looked as if it could shake the very foundation of her Master’s mansion and bring it crumbling to the ground.
But Ebe didn’t seem to even notice and smiled at her before he returned his gaze to mine. I found myself smiling back at him. He was a beautiful little boy who had wide innocent eyes, long eyelashes, an impish smile, and dimples.
“She sure looks like you, Mama,” he said, still beaming at me. “But she don’t look as mean or as old. Why you so old looking. And why it be so dark in here all the time?”
He looked around the cabin, his brow creasing as he pondered the answer to his question.
I held my breath, wondering how he could dare say such a thing in her presence. He seemed like such a sweet little boy but he clearly didn’t have much growing between his ears for him to speak to Mama Akosua like that. He also didn’t seem to have a healthy sense of fear for he was still standing there grinning.
“I am going to count to ten—no, five,” Mama Akosua said. “If you are still here by the time I finish, I will turn you into that dog of Massa’s. The one that looks like you.”
Her face was deadly serious and although I knew she couldn’t possibly have the power to turn him into anything, her tone made me apprehensive and I tried to catch the boy’s eye so that I could try and signal to him to do as she said.
“I’s gonna go if you let me has one of them apples.”
“No.”
“But you don’t likes apples.”
She didn’t like apples?
I turned to her but her attention was still on the fearless little boy.
“Ebenezer!” She slammed her hand down on the table. “If you don’t...”
At last he seemed to gain a healthy sense of fear for he looked alarmed for the first time since entering the cabin. Then he turned and fled. A few seconds later we heard the sound of his laughter, a deep throaty sound that sounded too big for such a small child, fading away as he ran off and I realised he hadn’t been afraid at all.
“Foolish boy,” Mama Akosua said looking as if she too were trying to hold back a smile. “Forever trying to test my patience. Hm. It amazes me that the children can still be happy, even here.”
“You don’t likes apples?”
“No,” she said, calmly meeting my reproachful gaze without any hint of an apology.
“Why pretend to likes them when you don’t? You know the trouble I goes to to get them for you?” I exploded.
It seemed some of Ebenezer’s empty-headedness had rubbed off on me, for I hadn’t even tried to check my tone. I felt stupid and embarrassed by the small measure of pride I had felt only moments ago at bringing these to her and it was infuriating to see another small smile touch her lips.
“I do not pretend. I cherish anything my daughter brings me. And yes, I do know the trouble you take. Trouble that had you fall from that apple tree not so long ago and land with your pretty behind exposed to the sky. Yes, my dear. I know the trouble you go to.”
I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. That fall she was talking about had happened nearly a year ago. I remembered being hot and flustered as I hurried down the apple tree, missed my footing, and fell. I also remember that there had been no one else around.
“How—?”
“I know many things. Some things I hear about from others. Some, like knowledge of herbs and healing, I learn from my mother. Some things come to me in dreams. That one had me laughing in my sleep.”
I felt the corners of my mouth twitch and I began to laugh. The fall had been funny when I looked back on it. Mama Akosua was laughing too now, a soft rustling sound, and a very rare sight for me.
“You laugh now but you did not find it funny then, did you?” she asked.
“No. But you ain’t seen it in no dream. Somebody seen me and done told you.”
“You have given yourself to the white man’s God so you do not believe in my powers, the powers of our ancestors. But it is there. It is within you as well. It binds us together and it is how I know things you do not wish me to know.”
She sighed and lowered her eyes, the smile completely gone. “Yes, my dear. I know many things. As I know that after this time, you can take these herbs no more.”
It seemed the brief moment of light-heartedness was over.
“What you mean?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
It felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.
She met my gaze again. “The herbs should only be used once, twice at the most. This is the third time. I cannot give it to you a fourth.”
I felt my shoulders straighten and my eyes turn to slits.
“You can, and you will.”
“I may be willing to help you kill the babies that have been made through force. But I will not do it if it means I kill you too.”
I made to say more but she reached over and put her hand on mine. I wasn’t exactly comfortable with this unexpected show of affection, but I didn’t pull away.
“My child, motherhood does not have to be the curse you see it as. I was a mother for only three years before I was sold away from you. But I would not give away those years for anything on this Earth. Not even my freedom.”
“I ain’t gonna give them a child of mine. I ain’t bringing a child of mine into this...this...”
She leaned back in the chair, removing her hand from mine. It seemed as if my words had shamed her because she looked down at the table and the weariness I saw, not only on her face but her whole body, frightened me for a moment. The ri
sing panic I could feel fluttering around in my chest at the thought that I wouldn’t have the option to remove the thing growing inside me in the future made my breath come out in harsh gasps.
We didn’t speak for a few moments whilst I rubbed away the moisture from my eyes and managed to calm myself down.
There was no point in carrying on this conversation now. When the time came again she would either help me or I would find some other way.
“What you gonna do with them apples if you ain’t eating them?” I said when I could trust myself to speak.
“I will walk with them. Everywhere I go, I will carry them with me.”
I allowed myself a smile. “You gonna carry this big old sack around with you till them apples turn bad?”
“Yes, until I am forced to throw them away. Even then I find it hard to do it.”
Her words had an unexpected effect on me. One of intense sorrow. I had never associated the word “mother” with this woman because she had been taken away when I was so young. There were other women on the plantation that fit the word better in my head. I had never even considered the fact that the word “daughter” would always be me to her regardless of whether she was far or near. And it never even occurred to me that she thought of me often and maybe even missed me.
I looked down at the apples with a bittersweet smile, picked one up and placed it in her hand.
“Here. Let the boy have the rest.”
I let my hand rest there, our fingers wrapped around the apple between our palms. “Next time Massa sends somebody on over here, I’s gonna send you something. I’s gonna send something different each time till I finds out what you do like.”
She smiled again and nodded.
I let go of the apple and stood up. “I gots to get back.”
I hadn’t meant to stay here so long. It was sure to be dark long before I got back to the plantation.
Mama Akosua stood up as well, doing a good job of concealing the pain the movement caused her, but not completely. It was there in the tightening of the muscles around her mouth.
