Will Do Magic for Small Change

by Andrea Hairston

  “Where’d she get that from?” Clarence sneered.

  “Cinnamon’s a bright child, making up her own mind,” Opal replied.

  Becca’s boyfriend gave Opal a cup of tea. Becca stuck out her jaw, put her hands on her hips, and kept Holy Rollers and Atheists at bay. Cinnamon opened the book. A breeze from the window flipped pages to just past the first drawing.

  CHRONICLES 2: Dahomey, West Africa, 1892 —

  Spirit Guides

  I wandered into a new body, into a new life at the end of a war.

  The Kingdom of Dahomey fell to the Republic of France in 1892 when French Legionnaires defeated King Béhanzin’s army just outside of Abomey, Dahomey’s capital city. The French were led by Colonel Alfred-Amedée Dodds, a Senegalese fighting man whose mercenary army included African enemies of Dahomey. The fighting was brutal, and losses were great on both sides. King Béhanzin’s ahosi, his warrior women wives, displayed exceptional valor, frequently leading the charge. All combatants acquitted themselves well, but the French possessed the deciding technology: Lebel rifles with high-velocity projectiles, quick-firing machine guns, and twenty-inch fixed bayonets. Dahomean valor was no match for these advantages.

  Kehinde and I lived running and hiding for months, in search of Somso — a person of great importance. Somso was the last word spoken by the man Kehinde mourned. I understood so little at first, but whenever Kehinde was agitated or uncertain, whenever her heart raced at the gurgle of a stream or the cackle of insects, as if these were enemies about to attack, I made her tell stories. Slowly human words and gestures made sense. And I must confess, this intoxicating world possessed me. Much is missing from what I wrote earlier: the whir of ten thousand red bats swarming overhead at twilight; the taste of burnt earth, burnt flesh on the air; the musty tang of our exhaustion. Monkeys teased us from fat iroko trees, spitting and defecating. Fragrant lilies filled our mouths with oily pollen. Stinging insects drank our blood and left fever and diarrhea behind. Flying tapestries of butterflies would cloak my still body until the clattering of Kehinde’s rations, weapons, and keepsakes set them to flight.

  Near the coast, Dahomey’s climate was drier than in the rainy jungles inland. Farmers were blessed (cursed?) with cool sea breezes, rich soil, and great flat expanses. There were no hills or natural defenses. Much of the population lived and died as slaves or soldiers, laboring for local lords and distant captains of industry. (Kehinde had been stolen from her people in Yorubaland to fight for Dahomey.) Royal plantations had replaced crops of maize, millet, bananas, sugarcane, potatoes, and melons with palm oil to sell. Many people went hungry as the war raged. Plantation slaves revolted. Villages were burned and looted; small pox devastated young and old. The turmoil challenged me. I had to become supple, always ready to improvise.

  King Béhanzin staged his last stand against the French in the sacred city of Kana. From distant treetops, Kehinde and I watched as ahosi warriors were sliced to shreds or riddled with bullets. Spirit houses and sacred shrines to the orisha — ancestors, forces of nature, cosmic deities — were demolished. Béhanzin escaped with ahosi warriors to Atcheribé, thirty miles north of Abomey. French Legionnaires scoured the countryside eliminating Béhanzin’s allies. The king eluded capture while seeking ahosi survivors and new recruits. He hoped to rebuild his army and fight the French again. Kehinde stayed one step ahead of the French and Béhanzin’s forces. The ahosi considered her a traitor — because of the man whose misery she cut short in the watery cave. Mourning him fueled her search for Somso. I longed to understand her grief. Kehinde had stories for everyone and everything except the dead man.

  One hot afternoon, right after the fall of Kana, we sat in the high, cool branches of an iroko tree and watched as, half a mile away, French Legionnaires plunged twenty-inch bayonets into the dummy bedrolls we’d left behind to trick them. They set fire to brush, hoping to smoke us out. Instead, the wind carried the flames back to them. Many soldiers sizzled and screamed in death.

  “Let them all kill each other,” she hissed. “Let them kill those they love most.”

  That night we ran from a barrage of bullets flashing in the dark and doubled back behind our path. Silent as a shadow, Kehinde ambushed a rebel slave who’d harassed us for days. To him, Kehinde was still Béhanzin’s woman, enemy of the slaves. The acid of revenge fueled his blood lust. He was young, not yet grown to the fullness of his bones: hair just sprouting at his genitals, testosterone reeking in his sweat. As she strangled him, I ached for the lovers who would never know his touch, for the mysteries he would never glimpse, for his song unsung. How could Kehinde not feel this agony? Dying, the man fired off several rapid rounds. His body toppled over, and Kehinde caught the long, heavy Lebel rifle he’d gotten from the French.

  “They recruit rebel slaves with promises of freedom and sacks of bullets.” She tossed his rifle to me. “I prefer Winchester, yet, see the damage this Lebel does?” She stuck her fist in a palm tree’s mortal wound. “The French massacre so many at once, zack, zack, yet say we ahosi warriors are savage killers.” She listened to the darkness. “Hurry, civilization comes this way to tame us.”

  We dashed through a grumbling stream to throw pursuers off our trail. Dense foliage along the water blanketed the stars. Creatures roared and squealed. Some monster thing jumped into the water and displaced the flow with a guttural bark. Kehinde growled and churned the stream like a massive beast. We passed without attack. A water warrior, beloved by the river goddess, Oshun, and the ocean deity, Yemoja, Kehinde rode the rough torrent easily. I was just her acolyte. The unruly current stole my hard-earned balance. I stumbled countless times, and she held me up. When both feet got jammed between rocks, I went under. A hot-blooded, clear-eyed predator leapt from the bushes onto Kehinde’s rapidly drawn cutlass. The mortally wounded creature clawed her belly before relinquishing its last breath. Kehinde ripped the blade through its mouth and rested her trembling arm on my back. We gulped air. The smell of gun powder, urine, and rum rode the fog toward us. After long days on the run, exhaustion claimed even her muscles.

  “Enemies snap at our heels,” she said. “We need rest.” Abandoning me would have improved her chances of survival. Instead, she carried me to a cave obscured by vines and a sister stream pouring down a scruffy hill. We dropped underwater and crawled up slippery rocks into the dark. Hidden behind a veil of mist and roots, we watched Béhanzin’s scouts. They searched the banks with lanterns, hunting for signs of clumsy feet stomping onto land. I smelled blood on their cutlasses and frustration on their skin. As an orange moon peeked between black trees, they faded into darkness. These scouts feared the French as much as they lusted after our blood.

  “In the north few would hunt us, but before leaving this coast land, I must find Somso and her son perhaps, a baby,” Kehinde said. “Do you understand?”

  I nodded, eager to please. Kehinde spoke her mother tongue, Yoruba, a language mostly lost to me now: Ajeje owo kan o gbe’ru d’ori, ohun a ba jo wo gigun ni gun. Or: It is impossible to place a heavy load on your head with one hand; whatever we consider together is bound to be successful. Optimists. Beware their simpleminded truth.

  Kehinde lit a fire. Deep in the cave, a river snake coiled around the statue of a big bellied, big-breasted water deity, Oshun or Yemoja, and slept. Instead of cutting off the snake’s head, Kehinde danced, chanted, and made offerings of cinnamon, rum, and fish to the mother of waters. She turned our hideaway into a spirit house. For Ogun, father of iron and war, she cut patterns in the muddy ground; for Eshu Elegba of the crossroads, she molded a clay figure with cowry-shell eyes. She thrust a red feather in its crown, laid a knife at its feet, and whispered praise songs.

  “When my brother and I were young, we ran away and spent the night in a cave like this.” She sank down beside me (at the edge of tears?). “This time with you is a triumph. Lost memories return, of before I was ahosi warrior, before the Fon of Dahomey stole me and made me kill for them.” She touched my head. “S
hall I tell you?”

  I craved stories more than food. She had never offered a tale from her former life. Thrilled, I nodded.

  “I’m Yoruba from near Abeokuta, a city in a distant land. The Fon and Yoruba are ancient enemies, yet we share Ifa wisdom and orisha deities. My village was small, beautiful, and full of aggravating elders who kept secrets. My brother and I wanted to know everything, like you.” She smiled at the memory. “It was the day when a masquerade — do you know this, a dancing full body mask — would sweep through the village, chasing children, threatening to poison and eat us. It was an aje masquerade, a dangerous, powerful grandmother with large wooden breasts, a wise green face, and two blue and yellow snakes for hair. The English say aje is witch; they don’t understand powerful women. The aje uses her powers for the good of the community if we don’t displease her. My brother and I went to spy on dance preparations. As they muttered secret words to call down the aje, my brother was too excited. He stumbled through a bush and fell in the dancer’s path. The aje tripped over him and screamed curses. The helmet mask tumbled and cracked. Dance masters, market women, and elders cursed too — blights, infertility, pox!

  “We ran away as fast as we could, ashamed for endangering the community. We ran until it was dark and cold and we were lost. Hungry creatures howled, and terror choked me. I’m not afraid, my brother said, so you’re not afraid either. My fear faded with his words. Oshun guided me. I found a cave hidden by water and started a fire. We slept in each other’s arms. In the morning, a snake curled at our warm feet. I said to my brother, I’m not afraid to return to our village, so you aren’t either. They won’t be angry, only happy to see us. His fear melted. In daylight, the way home was clear. Father was too happy to scold. Mother couldn’t remember to be angry. She cooked fish and yams for her youngest blessings.” Kehinde swallowed a sweet taste of before. “My brother and I share a spirit, in life and death. We make a path for each other.” She grew silent, pulled away from her smile, away from me and back into mourning. I curled around her like a snake, and she managed a fitful sleep.

  Chicken Fun for All

  Clanging metal startled Cinnamon. Outside, the homeless man danced with his shopping cart. One leg was shorter than the other. His gait was off, as he stumbled, leapt, and shook his behind. Cinnamon grimaced and turned away. She traced the Wanderer’s drawing. Her fingertips grazed charcoal? pastel? paint? caught in the rough surface of the parchment. It was like touching old Africa. For the first time since she found Sekou sprawled on the basement stairs last Sunday, she smiled.

  Words like indefatigable, array, momentum, and cadence made her feel good. She’d look these up and also Armageddon — to be sure. Sekou was a dictionary hound, stealing tomes from bookstores and libraries. Nobody believed he’d do that, even when they saw him lugging a fifty pound Oxford English Dictionary out a side door. Looking up words with Sekou was an adventure. Opal better not toss his dictionary collection.

  An alien writing his Earth escapades in Africa to Sekou was amazing! Maybe the Wanderer was a she, if its form was like the warrior woman’s. Either way, he/she wouldn’t have trusted a faggot loser with Mission Impossible secrets. Cinnamon jumped up. She could prove how incredible Sekou was.

  “Africans sold my ancestors to get rich.” Clarence roared like a lion.

  Opal leaned against the coffin, clutching Aunt Becca, crying inside, ’cause nobody wants to see that.

  “They still got slavery over there.” Clarence was on a roll. “Why call yourself Jigga Juba or Sekou? I am not African.”

  “Shush. Nobody’s saying you are.” His third wife shoved coleslaw at him.

  Becca ushered Opal out for a cigarette.

  “It’s good to know we got some history,” Becca’s boyfriend said.

  “Nothing wrong with made in America,” Clarence replied. “Africans still got their history, and they’re a hot mess, going downhill fast.”

  “Time is up!” Mr. Johnson said, an edge to his hospitality smile.

  Cinnamon looked at her watch. “We still have five minutes!”

  A loud creak followed by screeches worthy of horror movie hinges made folks jump. Mr. Johnson freaked as the heavy emergency doors nobody ever used swung wide. Instead of Count Blacula or a no-name zombie extra, a tall old woman wearing red silk pants under a quilted jacket stepped through ground fog. Elegant and regal, like an African queen, she strode into the parlor. Multicolored emergency lights pulsed in the street behind her. She paused to adjust an orange satin turban on a majestic crown of white hair. Mr. Johnson raced over and fussed with latches and bolts. The woman stroked an eagle feather dangling from her waist between two white seashells. Her breath whistled through clenched teeth. The whole funeral parlor stopped gossip, complaints, and chat to stare.

  A sturdy old fellow who could pass for white loped up the stairs and stood breath-close to the woman. He had a straight back, strong features, and must have been a handsome young blade back in the day. His bright patchwork coat came to just below the knees, surely a coat for celebrations, costume dramas, or Halloween, not a memorial service. He had smoky green eyes. Her eyes were bright and clear. She blinked sorrow at the coffin. Her man sighed sorrow and pulled a mane of thick white hair back into a long ponytail. Every gesture was dancer-elegant, accentuated by the gentle music of silver bangles, velvet pouches, and glass-bead necklaces.

  Another old lady, who could have passed for the first woman’s twin, appeared behind them. She sported a beaded Native American blouse and full green pants under a maroon brocade coat. She leaned against her companions. These old folks were magnificent and strange and more colorful than the flower fortress around the casket. Cinnamon wondered if they’d come in the wrong door and death had caught them off guard.

  “This is always locked.” Mr. Johnson couldn’t get the door shut. “How’d you get in?”

  Mourners at the food table cut their eyes at the late arrivals as Clarence shouted, “Show people, making an entrance, when it’s almost over.” He glowered at Cinnamon.

  It had been over two years since she’d seen them, long enough for her to forget how anybody looked, but not — “Miz Redwood! Granddaddy Aidan! Great Aunt Iris! You came! Before they kicked us out too.” A story-storm lie come true.

  “Of course we come for the service.” Miz Redwood opened long arms.

  Crying but also smiling, Cinnamon ran into her grandmother who didn’t fall or lose her turban when she banged into her. Miz Redwood squeezed Cinnamon to a sweet-smelling bosom then passed her on to Granddaddy Aidan.

  “We was sitting up in ice and snow, missing you, letting life slip by.” He hugged her tight, scratching her face with his rough cheek. Finally he let Aunt Iris get a hold of her.

  “They can talk me in to anything.” Iris kissed Cinnamon. She was soft and spicy. Papery skin was covered with light brown splotches where darker color had faded.

  Redwood laughed. “Baby sister, you the one had us out there wrassling with sleet and hitchhiking like old hippies and hobos to get here fast.”

  “Train engine broke down. What’re you going to do?” Iris pushed Cinnamon arm’s length from them. She stroked Cinnamon’s strong jaw, squinted at long legs and thunder thighs, and brushed down frizzy braids.

  “Growing faster than a weed tree.” Redwood nodded approval.

  “She’s making a run for you.” Aidan winked and squeezed Cinnamon’s nose. She took comfort in their backcountry Georgia drawls. “How you doing, honeybunch?” Aidan leaned close. Cinnamon shook her head and sputtered awhile. The elders nodded, as if she were telling a good long story.

  “How’s your mama?” Redwood scanned the room.

  “Opal blame herself, but,” Iris sighed, “Sekou took every mean thing happening in this world to his heart.” Sekou had written to Iris all the time, and she had written back. He could write her anything — even about boyfriends dumping him.

  “Is it God punishing us for being bad people?” Cinnamon asked.

>   “No,” Iris declared without even thinking.

  “That isn’t why bad things be happening, like to Daddy and Sekou too?”

  Aidan took Cinnamon’s hand and squeezed. Redwood stroked her head. “Who told you that plague on bad people nonsense?” she asked.

  Cousin Carol spoke up. “You know Cinnamon has a lively imagination — twisting innocent words into a fabulous tale.”

  “What innocent words?” Redwood glared, storm mad.

  Electricity snapped up people’s backs and flashed in their eyes. Icy fog surged through the window. Cold damp snaked around folks’ shins, assaulting ankles. They squirmed and broke out in funky sweat. A good person shouldn’t take pleasure in misery, but…

  “Hold your horses.” Uncle Dicky staggered forward. We’re all civilized here and this is…this is…a…a…whatcha…a…Christian funeral.” Actually, his slurred words sounded more like chicken fun for all. He extended a cup of coffee and booze to Aidan, whose lips curled at the first whiff. Aidan batted the offering away. Dicky kept repeating chicken fun for all. He was too drunk to see how much trouble he was in.

  “You’re making a fool of yourself, Richard. Sit down and shut up.” Clarence shoved him into a chair. “Look…” He gawked at the elders, wordless. Even facing a hostile judge and jury, Clarence always had something to say. His third wife clutched his arm, alarmed.

  “We were talking against drugs, against abomination, the sins, not the sinner.” Cousin Carol managed to speak while edging away from the emergency exit.

  “Unnatural sinners bring God’s wrath down on themselves,” Cinnamon quoted Carol. “Running ’round with faggots and losers put your daddy in a coma and Sekou in a casket. God is punishing the wicked. No wonder he OD’ed.”

  Redwood and Aidan took a deep breath. Iris muttered in some other language.

  “You ought to be ashamed, talking ’bout anybody’s god like that.” Redwood’s voice could fill a big auditorium.