Chapter 28
ZINZI
Accompong, Maroon Village, Cockpit Country, Day One
The hour is late. A strong breeze sweeps through the Cockpit, rolling over the hills and into the valleys and caverns.
My nerves tingle. It’s been a long while since I’ve been home.
But this visit is my mother’s doing, not my decision.
She asked me to bring the Americans to Accompong, to leave the labor movement for a few days, just for her.
I wonder if she even knows them—the Dunham expedition.
I stroll up the short pathway to my mother’s hut and am surprised. She is outside, snapping peas while sitting on the same three-legged stool Momma Jayden sat on those many years ago.
“I thought you’d be cleaning up after dinner in a house full of family. Are the twins inside?”
“Mi wondering when you were gonna come this way.” Her voice is the usual mix of gravel and honey. “Mi been watching you since you came up to the colonel’s house with all those people.”
“Good evening, Momma Hazel.” I use her full motherly name. It’s been so long since she’s heard my voice. I owe her the respect. I kiss her on the cheek. She looks different. She looks old. I know she’s been ill, but most Maroons are ageless.
“It’s about time you came home. You haven’t bothered to visit your momma in ages.” She looks past me. “Who are those people who were with you in the colonel’s yard?”
“The Americans from Chicago. You sent me a note, Momma. Or Raymond sent it to me. You asked me for a favor.”
“Don’t quibble. Mi know about the note, and mi know the colonel has told the village about Katherine Dunham and the dances she wants to learn.”
“Oh, by the way, I should tell you that Vivian Jean Hartfield was very insistent that her maid—her name is Maxi Green—is a relative of ours,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“I told Mrs. Hartfield I’ve never heard of her.
And I didn’t go into any detail about Father’s side of the family because I don’t know enough about them. ”
My mother grunts, which is about all the reaction I am getting from her on the subject. With her gaze fixed on the houses next door, she’s more interested in what’s happening in the colonel’s yard.
“The Dunham party will spend the night in the colonel’s main house. Their living quarters aren’t ready but will be tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s right, the colonel is hosting them,” she says. “Besides, you haven’t seen me in over a year. We should spend time together, just the two of us.” She closes one eye and stares at me with the other, and I can’t determine if it’s a wink, a twitch, or a wince.
“You look thin. And what have you done to your hair, curled on your head like some girl who doesn’t know the Cockpit—a girl who belongs in Kingston, dressed in floral dresses and store-bought shoes?”
“Momma, please. Can we discuss my hair and shoes later?” I glance at my hiking boots. “I’m here for only a day or two. And I don’t wish to have any disagreements with you.”
“A few days?” She drops the peas in the basket. “I told Raymond what to write, but it wasn’t my idea.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “A duppy told me to bring you back home. Mi never would have asked on my own.”
“Please don’t start with that. You know it’s forbidden even to say that word in Accompong.”
“Mi just telling you what happened.” She pats her knee. “And why you think mi whisper.” She raises a brow. “Come down here so mi can see you up close.”
I kneel in front of her. She takes hold of my face with both hands. “Tell me about your life in Kingston. Why you’ve stayed away from Accompong for so long? Mi know about you and the labor union movement. Are you in love with Allan Coombs? Or does someone else have your heart?”
Now, that is a question I will never discuss with my mother. “I spend my time with the labor movement and working at the Constant Spring Hotel. You already know this.”
“You and Mr. Coombs, peas in a pod? There is nothing more between the two of you but this union work?”
“That is correct, Momma. Can we stop talking about this now? I’m tired.”
Sleeping at my mother’s house may be the hardest part of being home.
I forgot how she can be. Even when she’s unwell, she insists on having things her way.
She wakes up before the sun rises, banging pots and pans as she prepares the morning meal, yelling for the chickens to gather in the coop or for the goat to get ready for milking.
But I am not alone, it appears. The colonel’s house has the same lack of regard for sleeping in after a long journey, and shortly after I am forced out of my bed, Katherine and Vivian Jean stand at the front entrance to my mother’s hut.
They look absolutely desperate.
“Is there something you need?”
My mother peeks around a corner, tying a scarf around her head. “Mind your manners, Zinzi. Tell those girls to come on in.”
“You heard her.” I step aside and gesture for them to enter.
“Call me Momma Hazel.”
They walk in, looking around, comparing the colonel’s yard to this one, I imagine.
My mother’s house is spacious but has only two rooms, and a cloth partition conceals the sleeping area in the corner of the largest room.
Katherine and Vivian Jean are polite, but their eyes widen.
The colonel’s yard offers many more amenities: carved furniture, wooden planks instead of beaten earth for the flooring, and no woven grass mats scattered about like here.
The colonel’s walls have art pieces, beaded belts and headbands, machetes and hunting tools, and above a main rafter, as a sign of legacy, hangs an honored weapon from long ago—a powder horn.
Apart from four machetes and some gourds, I would never call them art. The only wall ornaments are garden tools and more machetes.
“Mi just made breakfast. Sit. Sit,” my mother orders.
Katherine and Vivian Jean obey, but I can appreciate the flash of concern in their eyes.
“Don’t worry, breakfast won’t be anywhere as spicy as last night’s stew.”
We take our seats. There isn’t a proper dining table inside, but there is more seating outside near the firepit my mother uses for cooking. I help my mother fill some bowls with sweet potatoes, taro, saltfish, and johnnycakes.
“Thank you so much. It feels so much less hectic here,” Vivian Jean says.
“You asked my Zinzi about Maxi Green?”
Vivian Jean looks away shyly. “She’s Jamaican and from Accompong, but she left many years ago.”
“Zinzi told me you thought your maid, Maxi, was related to us.”
“I’m sorry. I did think that, but Zinzi set me straight.”
“Zinzi thinks she knows everything,” Momma says, “but she doesn’t know everything about her father’s side.”
I lean forward on my stool. “I know enough.”
Momma hisses. “You don’t know this story.” She hobbles around, picking up bowls. “Maxi was exiled for betraying our community’s morals.”
Vivian Jean half-chuckles. “I would have never thought her capable of such a thing. …” She seems about to continue but stops. “What did she do?”
Seated nearby, Katherine takes Vivian Jean’s hand. “It’s okay. Whatever happened is long past.”
“That’s all you need to know,” Zinzi’s mother interjects. “The rest is a family matter.”
“You can’t just leave it like that, Momma Hazel. We’re too curious about what happened.”
My mother scowls. “Okay, since I’m sick, I wouldn’t want the story to end with me.”
“Momma,” I groan. Sometimes, she can be dramatic.
“Let me tell it,” she begins, “She was loose and kept heading to the beach to meet sailor boys. And you remember when Momma Jayden came here that last time?”
“Yes, I do,” I reply.
“Well, it was to help that girl Maxi, her niece, get off the island.”
“Why would she need herbs to get off the island?” I ask.
“Don’t brush aside the power of herbs and potions,” my mother says sharply.
“She slept with a man she met on the beach, bringing disgrace to her family. Worse, she never showed remorse. Banishment was the only option. Momma Jayden wanted to protect her, to cleanse her spirit, and ensure safe passage for her voyage.”
I had to ask the question. It has been on my mind for years. “Then why didn’t I ever see Momma Jayden again?”
“She went with her to America. She was her talisman.”
“Maxi never mentioned her.” A sad expression grows on Vivian Jean’s face.
“She died shortly after they arrived in New York City,” my mother says, having taken the bowls and using a pitcher of water to rinse them over a large bin.
Katherine clears her throat, drawing attention to the awkwardness of the moment. “We will move into our quarters later today, and this afternoon, Iris will be taking us to a ritual at the silk cotton tree.”
“Katherine is very excited about this ritual, which we may be able to participate in, but I was wondering,” Vivian Jean says, staring at her hands.
“Can you tell me about the Obeah women or men in the village? I’d love to speak with them.
Of course, I understand the practice of Obeah is very private.
But I need to—want to know more about the silk cotton tree.
Maxi said that the silk cotton tree is a powerful gateway. ”
My mother scratches her nose but I’m not interested in hearing her or these women get lost in the superstition of Obeah. “My mother is tired and needs her rest. We can talk about the sacred silk cotton tree, the myths and Obeah some other time.”
“I would love to hear more, especially about the silk cotton tree.” Vivian Jean’s voice is high-pitched and her anxiety shows in every movement.
“It’s all superstition,” I say.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Zinzi.”
My mother’s harsh tone embarrasses me. “Then, please explain what I’m missing?”
She exhales sharply. “All right, then. I’ll say this about the tree: It is a portal between this world and the next, but it’s not for just anyone who visits Accompong. It is a place where our ancestors are present and can help guide us, the Maroons, on our journey in this world and the next.
“Why is the silk cotton tree so important to you? What do you seek from it?” my mother asks Vivian Jean.
“Maxi told me about its power. I’ve read books and articles by Melville Herskovits and others on the beliefs surrounding it and its importance to generations of Maroon people.”
“That does not answer mi question.”
“Momma, please.”
Vivian Jean sighs. “My interest in the tree is just part of what intrigues me about Accompong and ancient African dance. The rituals and the spirituality of the people are the focus of my work here.”
“Yes. But I think you want more than that, eh? You want to meet the ghost of our ancestors that guard the portal.”
Vivian Jean’s chuckle sounds hollow. “Yes, the duppies.”
“Shush, girl!” my mother’s voice suddenly booms, startling everyone in the house. “Zinzi, you didn’t tell these folks nothin’, did ya?”
The Dunham party looks at my mother and me with wide-eyed bewilderment.
“Sorry, Momma.” I signal for the group to lean forward. “It’s forbidden to say that word in Accompong. Never use it in front of any of the villagers. Or anyone in the Cockpit.”
Vivian Jean frowns. “We know that Obeah is illegal.”
My mother rolls her eyes and hisses. “You keep that word to yourself, as well, girlie.”
“Don’t worry, Momma. These Americans aren’t here to chase superstition or talk to ghosts.”
“Oomph. We’ll see.”
The following day, everyone’s living quarters are ready. Othella and Katherine have one of the colonel’s huts, while Vivian Jean and Tully are in another. Meanwhile, my mother somehow becomes involved in where Robbie will stay, and now he’s nearby, living in the home of my oldest brother, Raymond.
“Mi surprised you came home.” She sits on the stool, weaving a mat. “You’ve been so busy helping strangers, you forgot about your mother.”
“Momma, I’m helping Jamaican workers. That’s what the union is doing.”
“You’re lost. You can’t navigate the hills,” she warns, shaking her finger at me. “Your connection with the ancestors has faded. You won’t survive without it, Zinzi.”
“Momma, please. I don’t want to upset you, but the ancestors are not concerned with me.”
“And why do you think that? Are you afraid to admit mi right? You no longer practice our rituals, you no longer share our beliefs, but you are just as much a Maroon as me or any of your brothers and sisters. Mi don’t understand how you can turn your back on your culture, your heritage.”
“I haven’t turned my back on Jamaica. I just don’t believe in magic or superstition.”
“Jamaica belongs to the British, not the Maroon people. We belong to no one else.” My mother forces herself to her feet. “You’re not happy in Kingston. I can see it in your eyes. You think I’m old. Have you looked in a mirror? The circles under your eyes are as rugged as the Cockpit.”
“Thanks, Momma. Your kind words are helpful.” I can’t help but feel as if I’ve been slapped in the face. She’d never do such a thing, but her words are just as hurtful. I dash out of the hut, just needing to get away—not only from her words but also from the truth behind them.