Chapter 26
ZINZI
The Mule Trail, Cockpit Country
How can a girl dream while riding in a saddle on a mule’s back? Or maybe it’s not a dream, but a memory that invades my thoughts as we get closer to Accompong. The more vivid it becomes, the more I recognize Momma Jayden and the day I discovered one of my mother’s secrets.
The clouds hang low over Cockpit Country.
While my mother and I till the soil in the heat of an August dawn, the sky suddenly bursts open, drenching us in a summer downpour.
She mutters a curse, grabs my hand, and pulls me close, balancing a bushel of corn on her head as if it were a silk scarf.
Despite wading through puddles of mud and fallen branches with her protruding belly—she was with child, or children, carrying twin boys, as we later learned—she moves effortlessly.
We arrive home to the thatched-roof cottage where I was born, only to find a guest waiting at the doorstep: a gray-haired elderly woman sits on a three-legged wooden stool, blocking our way.
The rain pours down in buckets, soaking us to the skin, but my mother does not shove the old woman aside or pull her indoors to escape the rain quickly. No, instead, she growls at the woman.
“What do you want, Momma Jayden? Why are you here? I don’t let anyone into my hut when my husband isn’t home.”
“I want some of your blessed herbs,” Momma Jayden states firmly, refusing to step aside. Gripping my mother’s skirt, I glance up at the woman. The twinkle in the elderly lady’s eyes calms me, assuring me that I have nothing to fear from her.
“Please,” Momma Jayden pleads. “I need some of your salves, herbs, or precious oils. I’m injured and need healing.”
“You hush now,” my mother replies, looking around warily. “Why do you bring up such things in public where anyone might hear? What’s wrong with you?”
“Then let me inside your home,” Momma Jayden insists.
My mother releases a frustrated sigh, followed by a flick of her hand, signaling that the old woman must hurry through the entrance.
Once inside, Momma Jayden wipes her face, removes her cover-up, and shakes the water from her dress.
I gasp at the sight of the ugly scars and burns covering her arms and legs.
My mother doesn’t seem surprised. She tells Momma Jayden to sit on the stool by the door.
Then she goes to the box in the corner that I’m not allowed to touch.
When she opens it, a mix of gardenias and some very unpleasant odors fills the hut.
“Thank you. I need a potion to ward off the misfortune that plagues me,” Momma Jayden says, her voice heavy with tears.
“Can you do this for me? I have never spoken of what I know. I will never speak of what I know.”
My mother sucks her teeth. “I will pray for you when the moon is bright and full.” She pulls out a small basket from behind a larger one and opens the lid. “Until then, take this.” She hands Momma Jayden a cloth pouch, which the woman takes and clutches to her chest.
“And now, listen to me,” my mother begins. “Don’t come back here. Trust the herbs. They will take care of your troubles.”
That was the day I learned about my mother’s mastery over herbs and plants, and that she can harness the knowledge of the sacred silk cotton tree, the dwelling place of spirits, African ancestors, and the enslaved dead.
Some villagers say she can also communicate with the duppies, the spirits of the departed.
But these are secrets that can never be spoken.
For in Jamaica, it is a crime to be an Obeah woman—and that is what my mother is: Obeah.
Accompong, Maroon Village, Cockpit Country
Standing on the final precipice outside Accompong, the village looks the same as when I last saw it.
Numerous gardens of yams, plantains, bananas, various fruits and vegetables, along with small sugarcane fields, separate the scattered wooden houses topped with thatched roofs made of bamboo and palm leaves.
The sacred silk-cotton tree stands in the center of town, the keeper of memories and centuries of history.
African culture and heritage breathe through its roots, limbs, and leaves.
This is what my mother preaches—sacred trees, duppies or ghosts, and Obeah.
She isn’t alone in these beliefs. The entire community shares them.
I’m the outsider. My beliefs are grounded in practicality rather than myths, ancestors, or superstition.
“Is this it?” A voice breaks into my musings.
“Yes, Miss Dunham. This is Accompong. Colonel Rowe’s yard is at the foot of the village. You can see it at the bottom of the hill.”
“His yard?” Katherine frowns.
“His property,” I explain. “His houses and the surrounding land.”
“It’s very large.”
“There’s a separate dwelling for the women in your party and another for the men. Later, they’ll find a place for the married couple. I don’t believe the Hartfields were initially included in the letter the colonel received from Melville Herskovits.”
“No, they weren’t,” she answers, perched on her mule, looking out over the land, her gaze shifting from the hills to the lowlands to the huts. “How’d you learn so much about me and this expedition?”
“My mother’s place is next to the colonel’s yard.” I point to the thatched-roof hut where I grew up.
“Oh, they’re neighbors.”
“In some communities, that would be the correct definition. In Accompong, and for Colonel Simon Rowe the elder, the entire village is his neighbor, and proximity to the leader’s yard doesn’t give anyone special status.”
“That seems odd.”
“That’s the tip of the iceberg.” I chuckle. If she only knew what Accompong has in store for her, it might even shake some of the confidence she shows.
We continue our descent. Our line of mules, with their side-to-side gait, shuffles down the hillside with sure-footedness.
It takes another twenty minutes before one of the colonel’s lieutenants meets us and introduces himself.
Lieutenant Clerk is a new face to me. He was probably just a boy when I left.
The young man leads us and the load bearers to a corral, where we dismount from our mules.
I suggest that the group gather their luggage or knapsacks holding the personal items they’ll need for the night.
“Why does this feel like a military base?” Katherine asks as we gather the bags we will carry to Captain Rowe’s main house. “What war are the Maroon people fighting?” she asks with humor in her voice, an inappropriate tone to my ears.
“You do know the history of Accompong and the Maroon people in the Cockpit?”
“Of course I do.” She pauses. “They were enslaved people who rebelled and fought for and won their freedom in the 1760s and have lived in the Cockpit since then, as free people.”
“Yes, that’s it in a nutshell,” I say.
As we walk to the main house, which is a bit far from the corral, I feel like Katherine’s summary was too simplistic. She sounded as if she were reading from a book. “You’ll find that there’s more to the legacy, now that you’re in Accompong.”
“Like what? Tell me, please.”
Vivian Jean trots up to my other side. “I’d like to hear it, too.”
I have the attention of these ladies, which I am not sure I want, but there is so much history of the Maroon people not written by white men.
“During the rebellion of 1760 under Tacky, a Koromantee chief, the Maroons aided the English. By 1795, the Maroons of Trelawney Town rebelled.”
Katherine grunts. “Koromantee, and Trelawney Town?”
“Trelawney Town no longer exists. Neither does Scotts Hall, Charleston, or Moore Town. Over time, the Maroon numbers dwindled. One hundred years after the first rebellion, sixty Maroon families resided between Accompong and the other communities. Now, Accompong is the last Maroon community.” I stop, gesturing to Katherine and Vivian Jean that we should slow down, as the others are lagging behind.
“Over the years, the Maroon people have had to fight over and over to keep their freedom. A military mindset has been a part of the Maroon culture since it began.”
I think about Byron’s father now. He intends to wage another kind of war against the Maroon people: taxing the villagers of Accompong for making rum. “There will always be battles to fight, wars to win, and freedom to defend.”
“Who are the Koromantee?” asks Vivian Jean.
I am not ready to give her the whole definition of the word, “You’ll learn more about them as you get to know the Maroon people.”
We arrive at the colonel’s main house. An impressive man, although short in stature and not much of a talker, he welcomes us with an assertive presence, skipping lengthy greetings and unnecessary smiles.
He swiftly establishes his authority, which does not include directly interacting with village visitors.
I sense Katherine’s disappointment. She expected open arms and welcoming hugs and kisses upon her arrival in the village.
She’ll find that gaining the trust of the Maroons won’t be without its obstacles, even with Melville Herskovits’s endorsement in her favor.
The colonel’s oldest daughter, Iris, serves as the hostess.
After introductions, she ushers the group to a long table at the side of the house, where a meal is set.
I can smell the heat of the peppers. Even at Edna’s Diner, the menu didn’t offer as many peppers as I see floating in the savory stew made with pimento, coconut oil, and many different peppers.
A side bowl of rice won’t shield the tongue as much as the Americans will require.
I warn Katherine Dunham’s team in a whisper, “Careful. The stew is made with African seasonings. It’s very spicy.”
“Will they think we’re rude if we don’t eat it?” Vivian Jean asks.
“We don’t want to get off to a bad start here,” Katherine adds quietly. Then she raises her voice. “This looks delicious, Colonel, Iris. Thank you so much.”
Ten minutes later, after Katherine insists that everyone eat up, she, Vivian Jean, Tully, and the two youngsters, Robbie and Othella, are wiping tears from their eyes, snot from their noses, and coughing up half a lung.
They are not suffering alone—even I’m sweating.
After dinner, the group regains its energy.
Their enthusiasm for being in Accompong can’t be suppressed, even though they should be exhausted after a long day of travel.
Iris claps her hands to gather everyone’s attention and announces, “The living quarters won’t be ready until tomorrow night.
” She forces a smile. “You can rest anywhere in the yard that you find comfortable.”
Disappointment hangs in the air, evident from the groans and sighs.
The women from the Dunham party seem particularly uneasy.
They long for a restful night’s sleep. I feel the same.
Meanwhile, Iris is quick to act. She seizes one of Katherine’s bags and strides into the house but stumbles, causing the bag to burst open.
With an excited gasp, Iris removes a large, square object from Katherine’s suitcase. “Is this one of those phonographs?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Do you have any records?”
Katherine seems hesitant. “I would really like to listen to some of your music, Iris.”
“We’ve heard about portable phonographs, but I’ve never come across one.” She sets the device down on a nearby stool. “What type is it?”
Katherine looks distressed. “It’s the RCA Victor Special Model K.”
“Do you have any records?”
“I have a few,” she grumbles, not pleased by what is happening.
Mr. Hartfield doesn’t pick up on Katherine’s signals and helps Iris open the portable phonograph.
“Let’s put on some music so they can listen,” Othella says with a glance at Iris and the others. “Where are the records?” She digs around in a sleeve-like slit in the lid and removes a few records.
“I’ll crank it up.” Mr. Hartfield glances at his wife, who nods in agreement.
“It’s battery operated,” Katherine says solemnly.
Between Iris and Othella, they take possession of the records and the phonograph.
The next hour, we listen and dance to Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, Benny Goodman, and Billie Holiday.
For a few minutes, it’s like we are at one of the nightclubs on Harbour Street or the lounge at the Myrtle Bank Hotel.
Sitting next to me, Katherine has a weary expression on her face. “And I repeat, I was hoping for African native music and some dance rituals. Instead, it’s a Saturday night on State Street in Chicago.”
“I bet you’ve never been to the Savoy Ballroom,” Othella chimes in, snapping her fingers and shifting her torso in her seat to Louis Armstrong.
Katherine shrugs. “I’ve been to the Savoy many times.”
Tully raises a record and waves it in the air. “Look what I found.” He puts it on.
Cab Calloway’s distinctive voice bounces through the night as “Minnie the Moocher” plays.
When the call-and-response chorus begins, everyone sings, “Hi-de-hi-de-hi-de-ho,” including me.
Othella dances the Lindy Hop, gracefully moving into the two-step with hips swaying and body spinning.
She tries to coerce Robbie Barnes into joining her, but he declines shyly.
Then Katherine takes Vivian Jean’s hand and leads her into an open spot near the whirling Othella.
In moments, the entire Dunham party, including Tully, is dancing and attempting to teach Iris and Lieutenant Clerk how to shimmy their hips.
The only two abstaining from the festivities are Colonel Rowe and me.
He doesn’t look pleased with what he’s witnessing.
Though, how could I tell? His expression is the same as when we arrived.
With all the revelry, I seize the moment to slip away. I’m sure my mother has heard the music and the commotion and wonders what is happening in Simon Rowe’s yard. Or she has guessed I have arrived and is patiently waiting for me to come home.