Chapter 33
OTHELLA
Accompong, Maroon Village, Cockpit Country, Week Five
Most of my days are spent either writing dance notations for Katherine or digging in the dirt with Robbie while being eaten alive by various bugs—both large and small—and surrounded by leafy plants, dirt, and heat. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that every day is a test.
I feel utterly exhausted all day, every day. I swear, some days I lose track of time.
If I were back in Chicago, I’d be in bed all day, sipping gin and tonics—and staying up all night, doing the things I promised to stop doing.
But Accompong is not Chicago.
Everyone is at Momma Hazel’s hut tonight. She invited us over for dinner. Vivian Jean, Tully, Katherine, Robbie, Raymond, her eldest son, and her two youngest boys, Elise and Sammy, the twins, and me—we are all here. Zinzi is the only one missing.
She left two days ago, and her brothers are very concerned.
Her sick mother doesn’t seem worried. She mutters about knowing where Zinzi has gone and keeps saying not to worry about her.
“My daughter is grown and can care for herself,” Momma Hazel says.
“After all, she lives in Kingston. City girls know how to stay out of harm’s way. ”
I couldn’t agree with her more, but I keep that thought to myself. In fact, I’m starting to like Momma Hazel. She keeps giving me things to stop my bug bites from itching, and she’s awfully feisty—I like that in old people.
Despite being sick, she loves to give orders.
She orchestrates meals like Miss Lucille dished out Bible verses—with severity and precision—and she doesn’t cook much either; she barely lifts a finger around a pot or a pan.
She directs, which she does from her throne: a three-legged stool in the middle of the room.
The hut lacks a stove, so meals are cooked outdoors over a cookfire.
There is no dining room or dinner table, just places to plant your behind and hold a plate in your lap.
This evening’s feast includes goat, callaloo, yams, dasheen, and sweet potato.
The flavors overwhelmed me after the first night—I don’t trust most of the meals.
Zinzi did give me some pointers on how to recognize the peppers that would cause me the most discomfort.
I really miss my Italian beef.
With a plate in hand, I find a spot near Robbie, as usual at mealtime, and begin picking at my food while listening to the others’ conversations.
Katherine is upset with Colonel Rowe. “He refuses to discuss the Koromantee war dances with me. It is one of the main reasons I included Jamaica in my schedule,” she explains.
I look at Robbie, confused. “The Koromantee includes many aspects, such as the Maroon language, rituals, and dance.”
Momma Hazel grunts. “Come by tomorrow, Katherine. I’ll introduce you to Miss Mary and Teddy. But here’s what you need to know about the Koromantee. It’s a British word for slave, slaves from West Africa, various regions, also known as Akin, mostly from Ghana, who rebelled, but they were enslaved.”
“I thought that was the Maroon people,” Tully says.
“The Maroons were formerly enslaved and won their freedom, and signed a treaty with the British.” Momma Hazel waves her hand. “Mary and Teddy will explain more when you meet them.”
Katherine’s eyes light up. “That sounds lovely. Thank you.”
Tully raises his hand. “Us too,” he says, waving at Momma Hazel. “Vivian Jean and I are facing the same issue.” He sounds lighthearted, but his eyes plead for help.
Vivian Jean doesn’t join him in his petition. She has changed a lot since her father gave her a ride to Maggotty, not nearly as talkative as before. Something terrible must’ve happened that day between her and her daddy.
I chew on a piece of goat meat, trying to swallow without choking.
Then Zinzi’s mother laughs, a sound I haven’t heard before.
But when I look up, I understand why there’s a big smile on her face.
It’s not so much because Zinzi has surprised us by returning; I wager it’s the look on her brothers’ faces that has tickled Momma Hazel.
The man at Zinzi’s side has caused their faces to turn gray and their mouths to drop open.
I smile, too, because like them, it’s been some time since I set eyes on a white man.
“Hi, everybody. This is Byron. Byron Tynesdale.” Zinzi’s brothers, Raymond, Elise, and Sammy can’t seem to keep their mouths shut. Now, they are so slack-jawed that I recall my mother chastising me, saying, Close your mouth before you catch flies.
Then I think about it for a second and realize why they are experiencing a second shock—it’s the man’s last name.
“Oh, right,” I say, recalling my chat with Robbie. “That’s the name of a sugar plantation that makes rum.”
“This is her friend from Kingston,” says Momma Hazel. “He came by mi house a few days ago.”
“Oh, so that’s where you’ve been, Zinzi,” I say. “Spending time with your friend?”
Robbie clears his throat, signaling me to stay quiet, I guess. I shrug and pick up a piece of sweet potato to nibble on. “With two more mouths to feed, there won’t be any seconds,” he whispers seriously. He loves the food, unlike me—and must fear he’ll lose out on a second helping.
I smile at him while watching Zinzi’s friend, Byron Tynesdale. He reminds me of Chicago—nightclubs, whiskey, and cigarette smoke.
The conversation after the shock lessens becomes jovial, easy, and I think maybe this Byron isn’t so much Chicago as everywhere else in the world.
He’s been to so many places, listening to him go on and on, and watching the light in Zinzi’s eyes; well, I haven’t seen this side of her. I like it. They suit each other.
After dinner, we take a walk around Accompong. “Does anyone smoke?” Byron asks.
My hand goes up. “I do, but I’ve run out,” I reply. “Do you have an extra pack you could share?”
He reaches into his knapsack and pulls out a carton. “Here you go.”
“The whole carton?”
“I’ve got plenty at home.”
Zinzi’s eyebrows knit together as she gives him a nod of appreciation. “He’s a generous guy.”
“Thank you. Thank you.” I haven’t smoked a cigarette in so long that I nearly weep.
When Robbie walks me to the yard I share with Katherine, I smoke three cigarettes in quick succession. “I’ll see you in the morning at dawn,” he says. “Tomorrow, we’ll be hunting for dung beetles and flower beetles.”
I wince. “Do they bite?”
Robbie smiles. “No, they don’t bite.”
He gives me a kiss on the cheek, something he does every evening after dinner since we arrived in Accompong.
Tonight, I kiss him back. “Until tomorrow, Robbie.”