Buffalo Soldier

by Maurice Broaddus

  “Relatively?” Desmond asked with a wry smile.

  “I was being polite.” She returned his smile. “A man with a young boy out camping on the sovereign border of the First Nations. From the looks of your clothes, you spent some time near Tejas. So, either you enjoy camping in areas hotly contested by Albion, or you seek to hide.”

  “Perhaps I simply like the sound of armaments at night. I find the shelling rather soothing.”

  Kajika pursed her lips. “A man with secrets.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “I’ve no interest in exhuming a man’s secrets, as long as those secrets pose no threat to my people. Do you pose a threat to us?”

  “I’m . . . not sure.” Trust had to begin somewhere. The Maroon loved their jijifo, what they called their “evasive maneuvers,” which amounted to lies within agendas meant to confuse outsiders. With Kajika, there was a directness, a certain transparency, which proved no less difficult to navigate. Desmond gestured for a glass of water.

  “Intriguing. That’s a dangerously honest answer.” Kajika slid a glass over to him.

  “I wanted to repay your hospitality with the truth. As long as it doesn’t endanger us.” Desmond took the glass, relieved to have something to do with his hands.

  “Fair enough,” Kajika said. “Your country knows something about fighting off the Albion forces.”

  “Cudjoe, Nanny, Accompong, and the other military Maroon leaders fought and expelled the Albion forces from Jamaica nearly two centuries ago. Though we weren’t Maroon, my family lived near a city called Nanny Town, which had been completely leveled during an Albion raid. The Maroon left the ruins standing as a solemn reminder of our fate should we ever lower our guard. People say that the duppies of those who died in the battle still haunted the ruins.”

  “Duppies?” She arched an eyebrow.

  “You’d call them ghosts. Spirits.”

  “We all live with the ghosts of our past. And we have had our own ‘Nannys.’ The Seminoles learned much from our experience in Florida. Slaves often escaped one or two at a time. With its thick bush and dangerous reptiles, the land protected them. Seminoles became used to admitting those who were different. With us as their home base, the ex-slaves would sneak into Georgia or Alabama to fetch their families.”

  “I can’t imagine that Albion turned a blind eye to this.” Desmond adjusted himself into a new position as Lij climbed back onto the bed with him.

  “Albion feared friendship between the African and native peoples. The Giant to the North would never accept an independent, armed, free black community. The very idea of our friendship, a safe haven, threatened to destroy their slaveholding ways. Nor did they want native communities on their borders who harbored blacks. They feared sabotage, revolt, subversion, or any form of haven for runaways. So they tried to drive wedge between the peoples. They went so far as to promote slavery among the native peoples. When that didn’t work as well as they expected, Albion ‘Patriots’ amassed forces in order to prepare to annex Florida. Business interests and government officials made plans to carve up Florida like it was a dessert. They deployed troops prepared to burn down villages.”

  “The ‘Giant to the North’ would never let you be.” The story had a familiar ring to Desmond. To this day, Albion harassed Jamaican sovereign territory with air incursions.

  “It’s like a young child who wants everything it sees for its own,” Desmond said. “They kept citizens and Parliament in the dark for their own good. Created a situation so fraught that the Seminoles saw no choice but to attack the Giant to the North first. That began the series of conflicts. Regent Van Buren passed their ‘Indian Removal Act.’ They fixed it in their minds to herd us. They wanted to move us to the Oklahoma and Arkansas territories. We knew it would only be a matter of time before they would want to settle there too. Wildcat and John Horse thought about going to Mexico, but Lalawethika of the Shawnee, brother of Tecumseh, had a different vision. He preached that Albion came from the sea, Spawn of the Great Serpent. Children of the Evil Spirit. He knew that Albion dreamt boldly, but their Western Design would take time.”

  Kajika paused, considering the best way to continue.

  “Lalawethika, too, had a plan: leading the Tecumseh Confederacy and forming a large multi-tribal community. He wanted us to withdraw, not to Oklahoma or Arkansas on Albion’s terms, but travel further west and north. It gave us time to fortify, be away from their diseases. Though it took a while to convince the Plains Nations, the Shawnees and Delawares, eventually the tribes moved. As far as Albion was concerned, one day we were blocking their migration across the land, the next day we were gone. We established the First Nations territory. Albion’s expansion crept slowly westward, with all due caution as they were afraid that they would encounter us and be harried along the way. By the time they reached our border, we were entrenched and fortified. They decided that it was wiser to grant us independence and sovereignty than war.

  “The Seminoles, those whom Albion calls ‘Black Indians,’ were more immune to the diseases brought in by those of Albion, so we tend to live on the borders of the First Nations as a buffer zone. Sometimes, we serve as ambassadors.”

  “Is that what you are? An ambassador?”

  “It’s as good a word as any. We were always seen as experts on Albion, on their brand of diplomacy, their armaments, and their motives. We understand their strengths and weaknesses, their language and defenses.” Kajika was cautious and smart. Not revealing the extent of her diplomatic business with him and leaving no clear understanding of the extent of her power or duties.

  “But the wolf is at your door again.”

  “Indeed,” Kajika replied. “Destiny is upon us and the wolf is as voracious as ever for resources to plunder. Makes me question any who wish to come here.”

  “For they might be the eyes of the wolf.”

  “They might. The wolf does so love its innocent disguises.” Kajika cast a long, unwavering glance toward Lij.

  The boy pretended not to see her.

  Kajika turned back to Desmond. “So I ask again, are you officially asking for asylum?”

  “I . . . don’t know. We haven’t made up our minds whether we want to stay or simply have safe passage until we reach Canada.”

  “Let me know when you make up your mind. A formal request would put me in quite a bind during these delicate times. And I hate making too many decisions of state before breakfast.”

  * * *

  For the first few days, Inteus stationed two guards at the door of Desmond’s chickee, a small house with thick earthen walls and a grass-thatched roof. Lij enjoyed the open layout because it gave him room to run. From the porch, Desmond observed the people who walked by. Acclimatizing to its customs and particular brand of bustle, he’d gotten a sense of Wewoka. Without the lens of a fever-induced vision, it proved to be a dense, vertical city of narrow, terraced streets with expansive walkways. Largely devoid of motor traffic, any point could be reached by foot in fifteen minutes. Pictures painted on the sidewalks provided a colorful trail. With a central street lined with shops bustling with commerce, the noise and smell were different from what he was used to. Wewoka had none of the overworked smokestacks from innumerable factories; much of the city was made up by parks. The air had a hint of ozone to it.

  A collection of buildings sprouted at the heart of the city. Gleaming green and metallic spires in the distance, the sun reflected from their solar panels. A mushroom-like structure drew in sewer water from its “roots” and funneled it to its dome. Solar energy evaporated the water, which was then collected and released throughout the streets, watering the surrounding green spaces. Photovoltaic panels lined solar drop towers. Titanium dioxide reacted with ultraviolet rays and smog, filtering and dissipating them. They had developed similar technology in Jamaica. Vertical gardens and vegetation covered the steep towers of housing units and work offices. The exterior vertical gardens filtered the rain, which was reused with liquid wa
stes for farming needs. A deep calm reverberated through the city, quiet preserved like a commodity.

  Desmond wanted to investigate Wewoka more, visit its shops, dine at its eateries, explore its trains, but Inteus forbade him. While Kajika pondered their case, he was on virtual house arrest. So, each morning, he rose and climbed to the roof of his chickee under the early morning rays to perform the forms. The gentle martial movements didn’t tug at his stitches as much as he feared.

  A mechanical eagle circled in ever-widening loops before disappearing behind a wall of low-lying clouds.

  “What do you call those?” Inteus asked, indicating Desmond’s actions.

  “You have a disturbing habit of sneaking up on me.” Desmond continued with his movements.

  “A strange name for them.” Inteus kept out of reach.

  “We call them the forms. The Maroon teach bangaran from one generation to the next. When I was being taught, my instructor told me to think of them this way: just as we tell our stories over and over to preserve and pass them along, the forms are like a dance meant to reinforce and transmit the techniques. I remember the first time I saw someone full-on in a fight. I thought to myself, ‘Me neva wan fe romp with dem boy deh, suh! Jus like dat, dem break wan man foot.’” Desmond smiled at the memory.

  Inteus studied him for a few minutes with a scrupulous eye on his technique. “Kajika is ready to see you.”

  “You two seem . . . close.” Desmond wound down his routine.

  “Only fitting, with her being my wife.”

  “I can imagine such an arrangement complicates matters of state.”

  “She has her duty; I have mine. At home, our duty is to one another. It’s not so different, I imagine, between you and the boy.” Inteus nodded toward the chickee.

  Lij watched from the entryway.

  “As I said, duties of the heart sometimes complicate duties to the state.”

  * * *

  Inteus led Desmond and Lij’s escort group through the streets of Wewoka. Women strode along the cobbled sidewalks in their patchwork skirts displaying bands of alternating colors. Strings of beads wrapped around and around their necks until they were completely covered. Men wore foksikpayahkis, simple-cut, smock-like shirts which went down to their knees, black applique work sewn onto their front plackets. Some wore vests or felt hats rather than turbans, a bit of appropriation of Albion fashion.

  The group passed a maze of buildings arranged like stacked puzzle boxes, until they reached a low-slung building with heavy wooden doors. Inteus escorted Desmond and Lij to a large office. Gaslit fixtures lined the wall, incongruous to the décor of the room. A glass-fronted grandfather clock contained a rotating cylinder winding gears, almost like a concession meant to make Albion visitors feel more comfortable. Bookshelves and a desk with two chairs in front of it dominated the room. The shelves lined one wall of the room from ceiling to floor, filled with books and artifacts. Biographies and histories nearly monopolized the topics, though books on religion and philosophy occupied their fair share of shelf space.

  “Do you like books?” Kajika asked.

  Lij all but froze. Only the slightest movement of his head in her direction acknowledged her at all.

  “As you can see, I like books a lot.” She gestured toward the shelves.

  “I like to read,” Lij said.

  “A boy your age who loves to read. What kind of books do you like?”

  “All kinds. James Baldwin. Toni Morrison. James Joyce. Shakespeare.”

  “Those”—Kajika glanced toward Desmond—“are awfully adult books.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “There’s no need to apologize. It’s just . . .”

  Lij turned away. He no longer met her eyes, no matter how she attempted to put herself in his line of vision. Lij busied himself with a cornhusk doll and a stone carving of a buffalo taken from one of the shelves. He tapped the buffalo then held it to his ear to listen.

  One of his men moved to take Lij to a different room. Desmond tensed. Inteus waved the man off and gestured for them to leave. Then he took a position near the door.

  Kajika padded back to her desk, circling it with extra accommodation given to her belly. Neat and orderly, with the only personal object on it a framed photograph of a much younger Kajika and Inteus. Relieved to be off her feet, she sighed as she sank into her chair.

  “Who are you, Mr. Desmond Coke?” Kajika opened one of her desk drawers. She popped a chocolate ball in her mouth, but didn’t offer one, and slid the drawer shut.

  “I’d guess you already have an answer.”

  “By now you’re quite acquainted with Inteus, our chief of security.”

  “Your husband.”

  “Indeed. Well, he’s quite good at what he does. Resourceful, too. I’ve learned not to ask too many questions about how he gathers his information. Especially so quickly. He spins quite a tale about you.”

  “I’m not at all that interesting,” Desmond said.

  “Perhaps it’s just rumor, then. He’s heard that a member of a Jamaican dissident group, the Order of the Niyabingi, became an aide to a prominent family. Later reports indicate that he disappeared with a young boy. The boy was considered of great importance to Jamaica’s ruling class. Many interests, both within and without Jamaica, pursue them to this day.”

  “It’s complicated. In Jamaica we have a saying: ‘Trust no shadow after dark.’ These days, our world is full of shadows.”

  “Again I ask, who are you, Desmond Coke? More shadows we don’t need.”

  “I am Jamaican by birth, Rastafarian by faith, and Niyabingi by mission. We organized to fight imperialism wherever we found it. Even if it meant our own mad leaders. Some consider the Niyabingi terrorists, though the irony is that most of the Niyabingi consider me a traitor for abandoning my mission.”

  “For the boy?”

  “As you say. And many intend to capture us, him, for their own purposes. Borders mean nothing to some people.”

  “You are a far-blown leaf from a forest a good way away. Though long removed from your roots, you are still part of the tree.”

  “I feel like I’ve been on the run ever since I left Garlands. From the time of my father’s death, the Niyabingi claimed and trained me for their secret missions. I still live for the mission; it just now includes a young boy in tow.”

  “One thing I’ve surmised is that whoever is after you won’t forget you.”

  “With the life I chose, wherever you lie your head, you go to sleep with the fear of waking up with a knife to your throat. I don’t want that life for Lij. It’s like dying. Every day. I’d hoped that in Albion, things would be different.”

  “Albion loves the breadth of its shadow too much. Their people love or at least indulge the rule of their kings,” Kajika said.

  “Or queens,” Desmond said.

  Kajika smiled at this. “Or regents. Or senators. No matter how benevolent the ruler, the military drives the empire. Armaments feed the beast. And soldiers who train for war need a war for purpose.”

  “It’s all the same. Be it the Obeahists wresting for the control of the spirit of our people. Or the Kabbalists working out the Tree of Life and the mysteries of the Divine Throne, all of which amounts to a cabal of Albion’s business interests draped in mystical nonsense. Or simply governments with their rulers. And soldiers.”

  “Our warriors are for defense,” Kajika said.

  “A beast is a beast,” Desmond insisted.

  “Not so. Some beasts have their teeth pulled. They prosper by building and innovating rather than destroying and conquering. And warriors can choose to live by a code of peace.”

  “A beast by any other name . . .” Desmond wondered if he pushed her too much. Debating the philosophy of rules and empires indulged time he didn’t have to spare. He grew frustrated, not seeing the point of all of this talk. He couldn’t help feeling as if he were failing a test he didn’t understand the rules of. Almost as if she tried to paint
a picture for him or, rather, figure out a picture of him.

  Kajika pushed away from her desk and got up. She paced back and forth a few steps. “Let me try it this way. It’s about priority. Soldiers are necessary when faced with an enemy who wishes to bully or overrun their neighbor. Sometimes violence, as a last resort, is the only language a mad dog understands. Is it so different in Jamaica?”

  “We let others keep their dictators, kings, and political games. We content ourselves with ambitious fools who love gamesmanship and arguments, vying for power and respect. As long as our people prosper and are safe and . . .”

  “. . . the trains run on time?” Kajika arched one of her eyebrows in that annoying way of making him feel like he’d walked into a rhetorical trap.

  “Something like that. We’re content in our isolation to argue amongst ourselves.”

  “And when the argument comes to your door?”

  “Then a beast is a beast is a beast,” Desmond conceded.

  “See? We’re more alike than you may think.”

  “Excuse me, Kajika, but I don’t see where any of this is getting us.”

  “I just want you to see what you’re stepping into before you commit. And I want a better understanding of what we’re getting. We’re proud of our history, even the blemishes. The Assembly of First Nations won the Three-Day War, which Albion dubbed a breakdown of diplomacy—‘a tragic misunderstanding’—where they had their asses handed to them, in other words. Yet here they were, on the verge of another one.”

  “The border skirmishes?”

  “Skirmishes? Thwarted incursions is more like it. With one hand they try to negotiate very publicly for limited mineral rights. All the while, they spy on us, violate our borders, and continue to test us.”

  “The trade negotiations are pretext?”

  “Perhaps. Which is why we have heightened security. You come at either the worst or most convenient of times. I need to understand any threat you bring to my people. You could be the diplomatic equivalent of a flaming bag of shit left on our porch. Hear me now: I don’t want to stomp out shit. Not in these shoes.”