to speak the toubabu’s language
. I could only imagine their reaction. They would throw things at me and howl in laughter and talk about it for two moons straight.
Tell me again about the man and his bird
.
The medicine man never tried to touch me when the bird was watching. First, he made me slip the cloth over its cage. There are men whose eyes burn with the intention to hurt, but this toubab had weak, blue, watering irises—even when the bird could not see us. Whenever he put his hand on my shoulder or back, I gave a sharp shove and an angry shout. He would recoil like a kicked dog and begin to read from a book that he kept in the room. He read out loud. It sounded as if he was saying the same words, over and over again. Oddly, in those moments, he would give me whatever I asked for. Food. Water. Another arm’s length of cloth from the wooden trunk in his cabin. Or one of his mysterious metal discs with a man’s head sculpted into one side.
THE TOUBABU BROUGHT THE HOMELANDER men up from their hold in small groups every day. I would see them emerge from the darkness, stumbling, wincing in the blazing sunlight and covering their eyes with the crook of their arms. Confined in their little compartment on deck, the men were given water and food, and sometimes allowed to wash themselves. I saw one older man tumble over face-forward as he attempted to wash himself. He could not get up. His ribs were showing and he looked utterly spent. A homelander woman—also older, and also weak—was tending to him, caressing his forehead and tipping a calabash of water to his lips. Four toubabu pushed her aside and seized him by his knees and armpits. He sagged in their arms, and barely had the strength to resist. The woman screamed and pleaded and tried to loosen the toubabu’sfingers. They bumped past her, lugged him to the side of the ship and threw him over.
In the next days, the woman’s sadness was so great that nobody wanted to stand near her on the deck, or crouch beside her at the food bucket. From Sanu, I heard that one day the woman would not come up on the deck any longer. After two more days, she was no longer moving. She was carried out and thrown into the deep, the same as her man. Nobody fought or pleaded for her. And nobody wanted to speak of her, when she was gone. I asked Fanta if she thought the woman had died, at least, before they took her out of the hold.
“Shh,” she said, and turned away.
AS THE DAYS WENT BY, I saw that the more the women were free to move about, the more they risked. Fanta told me that I was a fool to go with the medicine man. She said she would rather sleep by the shit buckets in the hold than in the bed of a toubab. She usually stayed in the hold, and because she was so big with child, the toubabu let her do so. But I didn’t have much choice, and many of the other women were made to spend nights, or parts of nights, with the toubabu leaders. The medicine man took a woman into his bed every few nights. He had three or four favourites, and made me stay in the bed even when he had a woman. I would push myself up against the wall and plug my ears and hum loudly and try to ignore the heaving and vibrations. I knew that almost as soon as his body quit shuddering, he would fall into a short sleep. The woman would get out of bed as gingerly as she could, and rustle around the medicine man’s room, sometimes pulling an object out of a storage box and slipping it inside her wrap. The toubab would wake with a start, get up, give the woman some food or water or coloured cloth and send her out.
In his room at night, the women never looked at me or met my eyes. I understood that I was not to speak to them. I would never tell that the homelander women stole whatever they could from the boxes brought daily in and out of the medicine man’s cabin. I saw iron files disappear inside cloth wraps. I saw one woman take an orange with his consent, wait for him to turn his back, pick a nail off the
. I could only imagine their reaction. They would throw things at me and howl in laughter and talk about it for two moons straight.
Tell me again about the man and his bird
.
The medicine man never tried to touch me when the bird was watching. First, he made me slip the cloth over its cage. There are men whose eyes burn with the intention to hurt, but this toubab had weak, blue, watering irises—even when the bird could not see us. Whenever he put his hand on my shoulder or back, I gave a sharp shove and an angry shout. He would recoil like a kicked dog and begin to read from a book that he kept in the room. He read out loud. It sounded as if he was saying the same words, over and over again. Oddly, in those moments, he would give me whatever I asked for. Food. Water. Another arm’s length of cloth from the wooden trunk in his cabin. Or one of his mysterious metal discs with a man’s head sculpted into one side.
THE TOUBABU BROUGHT THE HOMELANDER men up from their hold in small groups every day. I would see them emerge from the darkness, stumbling, wincing in the blazing sunlight and covering their eyes with the crook of their arms. Confined in their little compartment on deck, the men were given water and food, and sometimes allowed to wash themselves. I saw one older man tumble over face-forward as he attempted to wash himself. He could not get up. His ribs were showing and he looked utterly spent. A homelander woman—also older, and also weak—was tending to him, caressing his forehead and tipping a calabash of water to his lips. Four toubabu pushed her aside and seized him by his knees and armpits. He sagged in their arms, and barely had the strength to resist. The woman screamed and pleaded and tried to loosen the toubabu’sfingers. They bumped past her, lugged him to the side of the ship and threw him over.
In the next days, the woman’s sadness was so great that nobody wanted to stand near her on the deck, or crouch beside her at the food bucket. From Sanu, I heard that one day the woman would not come up on the deck any longer. After two more days, she was no longer moving. She was carried out and thrown into the deep, the same as her man. Nobody fought or pleaded for her. And nobody wanted to speak of her, when she was gone. I asked Fanta if she thought the woman had died, at least, before they took her out of the hold.
“Shh,” she said, and turned away.
AS THE DAYS WENT BY, I saw that the more the women were free to move about, the more they risked. Fanta told me that I was a fool to go with the medicine man. She said she would rather sleep by the shit buckets in the hold than in the bed of a toubab. She usually stayed in the hold, and because she was so big with child, the toubabu let her do so. But I didn’t have much choice, and many of the other women were made to spend nights, or parts of nights, with the toubabu leaders. The medicine man took a woman into his bed every few nights. He had three or four favourites, and made me stay in the bed even when he had a woman. I would push myself up against the wall and plug my ears and hum loudly and try to ignore the heaving and vibrations. I knew that almost as soon as his body quit shuddering, he would fall into a short sleep. The woman would get out of bed as gingerly as she could, and rustle around the medicine man’s room, sometimes pulling an object out of a storage box and slipping it inside her wrap. The toubab would wake with a start, get up, give the woman some food or water or coloured cloth and send her out.
In his room at night, the women never looked at me or met my eyes. I understood that I was not to speak to them. I would never tell that the homelander women stole whatever they could from the boxes brought daily in and out of the medicine man’s cabin. I saw iron files disappear inside cloth wraps. I saw one woman take an orange with his consent, wait for him to turn his back, pick a nail off the
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