Praise Song for the Butterflies

by Bernice L. McFadden

  38

  A few weeks into Abeo’s stay, Serafine introduced her to her friends. They were a motley crew of middle-aged women who drove shiny cars and wore fake hair that they constantly stroked, smoothed, and twirled.

  “So this is Abeo?” each one exclaimed when Serafine made the introduction. They spoke loudly to Abeo, as if she was hard of hearing.

  “Nice to meet you!”

  “Do you like America?!”

  “Oooh, I love that accent of yours. So international!”

  In the living room they gorged themselves on cocktail franks, cheese puffs, and crudités, and tried not to stare at Abeo as if she was an exhibit, even though Serafine treated her like she was.

  “My Wele is so bad,” Serafine sang in a high-pitched voice. “I hardly remember any of it,” she lied. “But Abeo can speak it perfectly. Go ahead, Abeo, say . . .”

  Later, as the women prepared to leave, one of them caught Abeo by the arm. “You must get this all the time, but my goodness if you don’t look like that model Alek Wek. You’re not as dark as she is—thank gaaawd—but you do favor her.”

  “Who?” Abeo chirped.

  39

  Abeo spent her days in the house, wondering out at the winter wasteland. The January sun, she quickly discovered, was much like Serafine. Abeo could see it, but it provided little warmth. She learned about America by watching television and reading magazines Serafine left around the house. Books were scarce, and the few that she did stumble across were corny romance novels that bored her to sleep.

  Other than that, Abeo migrated through the house, examining the paintings that hung on the walls and ceramic knickknacks perched on the floating wooden shelves. Mostly, though, she listened to the radio while she wrote letters to Taylor and the friends she’d made at Eden.

  How are the girls? Have any more of them been reunited with their families? I will send money as soon as I find work. I’m so grateful to you. Serafine said that she will enroll me in school in September. How are Allen, Fannie, and the others doing?

  Taylor wrote back:

  I miss you, Abeo, and I love you. Some of the girls have found happy homes. Allen has returned to the States for a while. Fannie has opened a jewelry shop in town and some of the girls work there with her. Don’t worry about sending money, your health and happiness are all that I require.

  When Ottley dropped in during the day, she scurried to the bathroom and locked herself in until he was gone.

  Abeo had taken on the task of cooking dinner, because she missed the food of her homeland and if Serafine had her way, the two would dine on Chinese takeout six nights a week, with pizza on the seventh.

  One Saturday afternoon, Serafine and Abeo took the train to Manhattan. Abeo walked with her head tilted toward the sky. The height of the buildings frightened and enthralled her. They strolled down Fifth Avenue, up Park Avenue, and perused the expensive shops on Madison. Serafine bought Abeo a wallet that cost $125.

  They ate lunch at a fancy restaurant where the waiter pulled the chair out for Abeo and draped a linen napkin over her lap. Serafine ordered Abeo a glass of champagne. The bubbles tickled her nose and she was giddy before her salad arrived.

  Later, on the train ride home, they sat across from a mother and daughter who seemed to ooze with love for one another. As Serafine watched them, something welled up in her and she grabbed hold of Abeo’s hand and squeezed. “Did you have fun?”

  Abeo was thankful for her touch; there was very little physical contact between them. She squeezed back. “Today was the best day.”

  40

  One night Serafine was awakened by the hollow thump of a plastic pail being set down in the tub. A rush of water followed.

  She did not know why it was that Abeo chose to bathe herself in that manner—and she did not ask. Instead she’d said, “You don’t have to bathe like a peasant here, Abeo. You can take a shower or even a bath if you want.” She’d hoped that the humor in her voice had been clear, but the hurt in Abeo’s eyes informed her that it hadn’t been, and Serafine never brought it up again. Now, she climbed from her bed, donned her silk robe, and traveled silently down the carpeted hallway toward the study. She didn’t knock and was immediately sorry that she hadn’t.

  Abeo sat naked on the edge of the bed with her scarred back facing the door. Serafine gasped, and when the surprised Abeo swung around, she saw that her daughter’s breasts were blemished as well.

  Truth be told, she had believed that trokosi was akin to indentured servitude and not at all like the slavery that black Americans wailed on and on about. But now she knew that it was indeed the same—the evidence was stamped all across Abeo’s body like footprints in sod.

  “W-what did they do to you?” Serafine stammered.

  “Nothing. It’s fine, it’s nothing,” Abeo mumbled, slipping her gown over her head.

  Serafine walked to her, gently pulled the gown from her hands, and used her eyes to scour every inch of her. There were marks everywhere—behind her thighs, on the tops of her feet, on her arms, across her shoulders.

  And then Serafine saw the stretch marks across Abeo’s belly. They were so faint she’d almost missed them. She looked into her daughter’s face. Her voice quaked when she asked, “Do you have a child?”

  Abeo lowered her eyes. “I did, but he died.”

  “What?”

  “His name was Pra, and he drowned in the river behind the shrine,” she whispered.

  Serafine blinked. “What?” she echoed like a parrot. “I-I didn’t—why didn’t you ever say?”

  Abeo shrugged her shoulders. “You never ask about my life in the shrine.”

  41

  The knowing was hard for Serafine; the guilt was even worse. She began to overcompensate for her lies, for her abandonment, buying Abeo more than she needed or wanted—a blouse from Saks, shoes from Bergdorf, a coat from Barneys, scarves from Bloomingdale’s. Serafine took her to a high-end salon and had them relax Abeo’s tightly coiled hair. She bought her expensive makeup that Abeo would never wear, and perfume that Abeo didn’t like but didn’t have the heart to tell her.

  Serafine thought the gifts would assuage her guilt, but instead it sowed resentment within her. She couldn’t pinpoint the time or the place when the bitterness took hold, when Abeo became an intrusion in her life instead of the gift returned to her that she truly was. But it was there, living inside of her, alive and pumping just like her heart.

  As a result, Serafine’s drinking escalated to the point that Abeo didn’t know which Serafine she would be dealing with on any given day. If she was lucky, it was the soupy-eyed, lovey-dovey Serafine. If she was unlucky, it was the Serafine who side-eyed and criticized and then later slunk into her room full of apologies.

  The final straw came one weekend when Serafine took Abeo to the mall. She handed her daughter a wad of money, saying, “I’m going to get a mani-pedi. Let’s meet back here at two p.m.,” and then hurried off to her noon appointment.

  Abeo stuffed the money into her pocket and set off in the opposite direction.

  She returned to the appointed meeting place ten minutes early. When thirty minutes had lapsed and Serafine still wasn’t there, Abeo went looking for her at the nail salon. She wasn’t there either.

  Two hours later Serafine appeared, visibly intoxicated.

  Abeo couldn’t hide her annoyance; it shined like a spotlight on her face.

  Serafine saw that look and exploded: “Don’t you dare look at me that way! You think you’re the only one who’s had a hard life? I’ve had a hard fucking life too!”

  Abeo cowered beneath Serafine’s verbal onslaught.

  “I know you blame me for what happened to you, but how was I supposed to know that Wasik would do something like that? Huh?”

  Shoppers slowed and stared. Abeo wished herself invisible.

  “I brought you here so we could start from scratch, a clean slate, but you don’t want that, you want me to feel guilty—and I do. I have for ye
ars. Does that make you happy?”

  * * *

  Back at the house, after Serafine had had a nap and two cups of coffee, she came to Abeo swimming with apologies, explanations, and consolations. In the end (as always), Abeo forgave Serafine’s waywardness, accepted her good night kiss, and retired to the study.

  The next day when Serafine woke, Abeo was gone.

  42

  Abeo had sat in the dark study, mind whirling. She’d wanted to cry, but she had no tears left, so she balled her fists and used them to club her knees. She wanted to break something and looked around the room for the perfect object to throw. In the end, she removed a picture of Serafine from its gilded frame and tore it to pieces.

  She was no longer a child, she was a woman, and with that came strength and power. Taylor had told her and the other girls that they were in control of their destinies—no one else but them. She said that all God wanted was to be loved and for His children to love themselves. She said God had put them on this earth to be happy.

  Taylor’s words rang in Abeo’s head until her anger was replaced with determination. It was time for her to take the reins of her life and set off into the world.

  She left the house, Serafine’s drunken snores pushing at her back. The streets were empty, save for the stray cats whose eyes turned to gemstones beneath the streetlamps. Following the brightest star in the sky, Abeo headed north toward the train station.

  She was certain she saw Ottley’s cream BMW cruising toward her. His license plate was unmistakable: O MAN1. And she was sure he saw her, because the car slowed and then sped off.

  The subway platform was empty. Menacing sounds ricocheted out of the tunnel’s dark throat, setting Abeo’s imagination on fire.

  When the train finally arrived, she stepped hesitantly into the car.

  All she had were the clothes on her back, the photo album, and seventy-two dollars tucked into the folds of the Hermès wallet Serafine had given her. She rode the train to the end of the line and back again, then repeated this. The names of the stations meant nothing to her.

  A derelict stepped on at 14th Street. He was tall and wide, a matted carpet of gray and black hair covered his head and face. He carried a number of large black plastic bags that clanked loudly with bottles and cans. He took a seat directly across from her and began talking and laughing aloud to himself. Abeo wanted to move to another seat but was too afraid to do so. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out an orange. Abeo watched as he used his filthy fingernails to peel away the bright skin. Her empty stomach grumbled. She caught herself licking her lips as she watched the man sink his jagged teeth into a wedge of the fruit. He swiped at the droplets that settled on his beard, then freed a second wedge and plunged it into his mouth.

  When the train pulled into 59th Street, he rose and gathered his belongings. The doors slid open and for the first time he looked directly at Abeo, who was staring fearfully up at him. Before stepping out onto the platform, he reached into his pocket, pulled out another orange, and gingerly placed it down on the seat beside her. The doors closed, and when the train entered the darkness of the tunnel, Abeo retrieved the orange, peeled it, and quickly gobbled it down.

  During the time Abeo sat alone and scared on the train, she had time to ponder her existence in the world, and realized with great awe that she was in fact living a parallel life. A descendant of generations of Ukembans sold into slavery and then, eons later, she, a born American of African descent, had returned to the continent only to suffer the same fate.

  The epiphany raised goosebumps on Abeo’s arms.

  The lights in the subway car blinked, dimmed, and went black. For three very long minutes, the train hurtled through the tunneled passages in darkness as pitch-black as the Ukemban night sky.

  Hours later, the car filled with morning commuters. A woman squeezed between Abeo and a young man with a red bow tie. She wriggled her wide hips until Abeo was squashed against the metal arm of the seat.

  To distract herself, she opened the photo album on her lap and gazed longingly at the pictures. It took awhile before she realized she was being watched. At first she glanced around, but no one was looking in her direction. Yet when she looked up a second time, her eyes collided with those of a man with graying temples. He smiled and then looked down at the album. His eyes floated back to her face. He seemed to be studying her features. Abeo turned away. Her heart racing, she searched for an escape, but the subway car was crammed to capacity. There was nowhere to run.

  “Abeo? Abeo Kata?”

  Her name. Her full name was spilling out of this stranger’s mouth. Surely she was hallucinating.

  She closed the album. How did he know her name? She wished him away, but then he spoke again, this time in Wele: “I’m sorry, you look like someone I used to know.”

  Abeo’s head snapped up. “You are from Ukemby?”

  “Yes!” He grinned, relieved. “I knew it! You are all grown up now! Are you living here in New York? Are Ismae and Wasik here too?”

  It was Chipo Hama, her old neighbor who Serafine had claimed had a crush on her.

  And suddenly, Abeo was weeping.

  * * *

  They exited the train at 34th Street, where Chipo guided her to a graffiti-covered bench.

  “I was being nosy,” said Chipo, unbuttoning the top of his trench coat. “I was looking down at the pictures in your album, and I thought, My goodness, those pictures look like they were taken in Ukemby. But,” he laughed and waved his hand, “many African countries look the same. Then I saw Wasik in our younger days,” he laughed again, “and I realized that you were little Abeo all grown up.”

  Abeo sighed and wiped the remaining tears from her eyes.

  “So, Abeo, what’s the matter?”

  The story poured out of her. When she was done, Chipo’s face was twisted and limp.

  “You will come home with me. My wife will be glad to have you.” Then he leaned in and whispered, “She will understand, her sister was trokosi too.”

  Chipo walked to a pay phone next to the turnstiles and called his wife Femi. They had a brief conversation and then he set the phone down, fished out another coin from his pocket, deposited it into the slot, pressed more numbers, and spoke to a man in his office. With a third coin in his hand, he turned and looked at Abeo. “What is Serafine’s number?”

  She thought about it for a moment and then retrieved her wallet from her coat pocket, pulled out the card that read, In Case of Emergency, and handed it to him.

  * * *

  “Hello?”

  “Serafine? Is that Serafine, Ismae’s sister?”

  There was silence for several seconds. “Uhm. Yes?”

  “This is Chipo Hama. You remember me? I remember you. I used to live on Funyan Street, house number 214. This is Serafine, yes?”

  There was a long pause. A train pulled noisily into the station, and amid the stampede of commuters, Chipo heard Serafine say: “Yes. What? Why—”

  “Good. I am calling to tell you that Abeo is with me.”

  “Abeo is with you? But how? Uhm, where? I will come and get her.”

  Chipo covered the mouthpiece with his hand and turned to Abeo. “She wants to come for you.”

  Her face twisted with alarm. “No, no, please.”

  Chipo raised his hand and nodded. “Serafine,” he spoke into the phone, “Abeo will call you when she is ready. I just wanted you to know that she is in safe hands.”

  “What? Now you listen to me—”

  Chipo hung up.

  43

  Emerging from the 125th Street train station was like walking into a different world. Harlem’s bustling streets were a stark contrast to the quiet, cloistered neighborhood where Serafine lived.

  The Harlem air was filled with music, that and the babble of black and brown immigrant tongues from all corners of the world.

  They strode past liquor stores, chicken shacks, pizza parlors, and African braiding shops, past merchandise spil
ling out of storefronts shielded by dozens upon dozens of colorful cotton housedresses flapping in the wind like flags.

  On one block, Abeo followed Chipo through a sheath of white smoke rising from an oil drum–turned–barbecue barrel and came out on the other side smelling of jerk pork.

  * * *

  Chipo and his family lived in a gray brick building that towered fifteen stories into the sky. The elevator was a black box with a red door that groaned and bucked like a stubborn old mule. The pair stood silently watching the numbers above the door light up with each floor they ascended.

  On the eleventh floor, they exited into a wide, bright hallway and started across the blue-and-white hexagon-tiled floor. Abeo noted the numbers on the apartment doors and the sounds that pulsed behind them.

  Behind the door of 11A a baby cried for its mother. Behind 11C, the melodic beat of steel drums echoed from a stereo. In 11E, two lovers argued about a woman named Dionne.

  The hallway was ripe with the aromatic scents of fried fish, stewed meat, and baked bread.

  “This one,” Chipo said, pointing to a brown door. Below the peephole was a gold decal that read, 11G. Suddenly, the door flung open and there stood his wife Femi. She was short, with soft, wide curves and glittering mocha-colored eyes. Femi rushed past Chipo and threw her meaty arms around Abeo’s neck.

  “Abeo!” she cried. “Welcome!”

  The apartment was small—a box cut up into three rooms with a bathroom the size of a closet. Potted plants covered the windowsills; African violets seemed to be the favorite, the fragile purple petals trembled when Abeo entered the room.

  Femi took her by the hand and led her to the couch. “You don’t have to say anything. You are welcome here for as long as you like. We are your family now and forever.”

  Abeo exploded in tears. Femi took her into her arms and rocked her like a baby.

  Their two daughters called Abeo sister and cleaned out a dresser drawer for the things she would eventually have. The older girl, Kissa, gave Abeo her bed and took the couch. The younger girl, Jelani, said, “You look to be my size. Here is my closet, you can wear whatever you like.”