Eulalie wore a broad-brimmed straw hat; Ellie favoured a headtie. In their pauses, Eulalie would fan with her hat; Ellie would remove the headtie to wipe down the back of her neck and her forehead. She would skilfully retie it into a pattern determined by her mood in the parlance of headties perfected by her ancestors forever ago. Bakkra could never suss out the many non-verbal ways nearga found to communicate between the cane stalks.
The men cutting and packing cane alongside them would find reasons of their own to pause when the sisters did, thankful that though they had to break their backs in the brutal Antigua heat, they had something pretty to look at. The only other woman at this particular cane-packing station was Toothless Rose, who ran the cook shop. Rose had exactly two teeth and talked and cackled the whole time she cooked and served, causing the men to joke that one day they’d be fishing one of her two remaining teeth out of their red bean soup.
By contrast, Eulalie and Ellie were uneroded by hard living. They looked like they belonged in a dress shop or a bank; if only they were lighter than the brown of coconut husk. They could probably get work cutting cloth in one of the Syrian shops or doing laundry for the Portuguese, but they both rolled their eyes at such suggestions.
“And give up all this sunshine,” Ellie, the bolder of the two, would respond, always with a laugh that sounded like a crowing cock; it was a scandalous laugh. Ellie was don-care-ah-damn. The men wondered sometimes if her older-by-one-year sister wasn’t there doing man-work at this stop along the loco line to keep Ellie out of trouble. If so, Eulalie did it without complaining, and it wasn’t unusual to hear the sisters laughing over some joke or harmonising something benna-ish while they worked.
Sweet to listen to and sweet to look at.
Today, they wore matching pink dresses that fell about mid-thigh, allowing for glances, some furtive, some boldfaced, at calves that seemed both firm and soft, making many a man tempted to touch if only to prove which. They didn’t dare. Ellie had a temper and Eulalie, too, when she ready; neither would hesitate to fire she foot in smadee backside if provoked. Both worked barefoot. Eulalie said she preferred to save her shoes for Sunday morning mass, and Ellie quipped that her “Sunday shoes” also got a workout at the jook joint.
She soaked and oiled her feet every night to keep them soft. Soft but tough. Neither sister was slowed by her feet nor feminineness as they stacked cane alongside the other packers. The little hill of cut cane would diminish as the sisters worked and the sun rose, and when the sun was almost directly overhead they would retire to the shade of the nearby tamarind tree, sucking on its bittersweets if in season, as the loco pulled off down the track.
Sometimes bakkra, all dem so was called bakkra, would come by. On horseback, though, the overseer station was close enough to walk. “Lub Lord dem position over smadee,” Ellie would grumble. Everyone knew to get back to work when they saw him coming in his long white jacket and broad-brimmed hat. Ellie would push it, though, taking her own sweet time. “Ah nuh God almighty,” she would say.
“The cane isn’t going to pack itself,” he said this day, and Ellie choopsed and said, “Slavery done long time.” And he turned red. “What you say?” Work stopped. The men who worked alongside the sisters liked to think they would jump in but knew there was no shame in hol’ing your side. Bakkra wasn’t above making the horse rear up and trample them, leaving the body for the rest to deal with, or wielding the whip coiled at his hip. Slavery might done long time, but bakkra still ride high on horseback, and Black man and woman was still barefoot in the cane-field.
Ellie knew that, too, and when Eulalie gave her a look she dropped her eyes and said, “Nutten, sah.”
But as he rode away, taking the win, she cut her eyes at him as she sopped her face, which was hot. When she retied it, the front was flat, but the stiff ends were pointed upwards on either side of her head like the horns of a bull.
Black Gregory
Ineta an’ me does meet up at night, the only time nearga free, under a black Gregory midway between Jonas and Sea View Farm estates.
The black Gregory, wha dem call whitewood and now tun mek national tree, was near the centre of the island, in an area now called Clarks Hill, near a village the people would come to call All Saints, because St Peter, St Paul, St Mary, St John, St George—five of the island six parish—meet up there. The obeah people mark it as a big criss-cross road, and the Christian folk say ah the holiest of holy grounds.
Where we meet was nothing but bush and date palm. The palm plentiful there because of Dr Freeman, who Freeman village, nearby, name for. He did plant the palm an’ dem there, south ah de village. He did bring camel fu work de plantation and he plant the palm fu dem nyam. But the camel an’ dem never take to Antigua. Too damp, so dem say, if you can imagine that of this dry-dry place. Dem dead off and the date tree add up and multiply.
Life funny.
Plenty date tree still dere, more than anywhere on the island, though some kind of fever now taking them and the land now clear down to build big house, not like the likkle wattle and daub from before.
Me yah whole time.
Under the black Gregory below the curve near the first street light, since well before street light ever invent. Long before anyone ever dream of cutting through this bush, but sometime after Freeman’s folly. Me watch the land graze down and surveyor come in fu mark um up. Watch house grow laka well-tended pear…sorry, avocado. Ka dem smadee yah, dem ascending; is not a village this, is a residential area. Me nah mind. Me like fu see smadee wha look laka me rise up…after everyt’ing. Seen dem build dem dream; seen some of them lose um too. But nothing nah wrong with dreaming still.
Is dreaming used to bring me and Ineta here up under the black Gregory, wha grow like shrub wid plenty plenty limb and leaf. Laka all whitewood, e base thick thick and e sit high on the ground laka anthill. But before e get any height, e stem an’ dem branch off from each other, from the root. Me and Ineta whitewood have five ah dem shoots, the two thickest veering off from each other like bad teeth, leaving enough space for two young lovers to cosy up in, and shelter and kiss and dream that dem too ah smadee, though bakkra might hab odda ideas.
We didn do no sexing. Ineta was ah decent gyal. Me mean min fu marry she if me coulda ever get permission from fu-she bakkra an’ fu-me. But me neva ask she ka me nah-in ha nutten fu offer she, not yet. But she gi me purpose. And so it was mi greatest delight fuh meet she there and mek sweet talk under arwe black Gregory, which was wide laka umbrella. The ground might rough and bumpy, and full ah all kinda critter that waan tickle or bite you, but de tree spread out an’ gi um plenty shelter, even when e rain.
One night when Ineta finally say yes to more than a kiss, one adventurous biting ant crawl all the way up the inside of mi leg, and that min be one real battle of wills. When the little tyrant reach close-close to m’ manhood, it had me ah wink up an’ ah rub meself. Laka man wid no broughtupsy. And me couldn’t even confess why to Ineta, who den think mi blood was too hot fu she. She take back she yes and tek off and me min so bex me root out every ant me could find and crush them with one of the rock pile up round the tree, the same hill of stone arwe min ah sit under as we lean up ’gainst the tree. All now, though, the memory of that bite still come like phantom pain that have me rubbing the area before me could catch myself.
When Ineta nah come back fu days, at first me did think she still vex, and me get bex because fu vex over subben laka dat is stretching vexation. After all, ah nah me ah de injured party?
It tek me a while fu realise that maybe is not dat Ineta nar come, ah dat she cyaarn come. When the thought hit me, me min in the cane-field with a hoe in mi hand. Cold sweat ha me ah tremble in the afternoon heat. An’ me tan up tiff tiff ’til bakkra flick he whip pon de groun’ near me laka me a john bull an’ he waan me fu dance. Night couldn’t come faas enough.
Ineta belong to Jonas Estate and me nah in ha no pass; not like me coulda jus’ beg off and go mek sure she okay. Bakkra yeye pan me, so me hoe an’ hoe whole day but me miin na min pan de work. Me couldn’t stop t’ink wha coulda mek Ineta stop come meet me if ah nah vexness?
Could be whole heap ah t’ings.
Could be she still vex, yes, but, no, she too sweet fu hold grudge so long.
Could be she find ’nother man; she pretty and bold enough. But, no, she nah ha nah meanness innah she an’ wouldn’ lef me jus’ so.
Could be she tek sick, though me couldn’t t’ink ah nuh sickness that could keep she a way, except if bakkra lock she up in one ah dem dungeon and rat piss pan she an’ gi she leptospirosis.
Yeah. Could be lookout spy she an’ think she dey run way and dem tun she back raw then stash she in a dungeon fu ratta nyam she up; or wussura still….
Could be she get sell off.
All kinda worst case scenario ah haunt me laka jumbie, itching at me laka dem damn biting ants. But ah dat last thought that put fire under me foot. It take me likkle an’ no time fu reach Jonas Estate from Sea View Farm. Bout the same time it usually tek both ah we fu walk to arwe tree when we did meet there, lingering as long as we could before leaving in time to walk back to arwe quarters before cock crow. But me nah innah t’ink bout any o’ dat as me ignore the main carriage route and cut through footpath well worn by bare nearga foot, cane on all side ah me making me all but invisible. Moving so faas de stalk an’ dem ’cratch up mi skin.
The lookout spot me still and me did ha fu convince he me nah min up to nuh mischief. “Jus’ ah look fu mi cousin Ineta.”
Lookout, laka driver an’ horseman an dem wid special skill laka cooper an’ potter, wha plentiful pan Sea View Farm plantation, ha privilege an’ some ah dem lub show off pon dem own people. Jonas was a rough estate but mi never hear Ineta say nutten bad ’bout de lookout an’ dem.
An’ dis one ha some sadness in he voice when he say, “Ineta sell off.”
Mi heart crack like when dem does pound big stone fu make gravel for the road, just pieces falling off with each blow; ka it feel laka smadee ah bang me wid wan bullbud.
“Sell off, sell off where?” me ask when me find mi voice. And he look pon me with pitifulness me couldn’t miss even in the dark, because who is me fu put dem kinda question to anybody. Wha me go do?
“Cyaarn say for sure,” he say. “Could be Buckley, could be Bolan, de cart go south, but you know how e go, dem coulda well circle roun’ and tek she east to Betty’s Hope, north to Weatherhills. Dem na tell arwe nutten.”
Me na know nothing bout dem place he ah talk bout, barely been anywhere in all mi 19 years. Me know Jonas because ah dat time me help Ma Elvie tek she donkey cart of clay pottery dere fu sell. She son Pilgrim who does help she was confined again with bakkra threatening fu hobble he if he na leave he cane alone. Pilgrim min ha wan sweet tooth. But massa did ha wan sweet spot for Ma Elvie. So he lock he up, again, instead of whipping or hobbling he. While Pilgrim lock up, massa assign me fu tek the donkey cart and go wid she. Furtherest me ever go all dem time dey.
Ah den me see Ineta fu the first time. She go pond go draw water fu de animal an dem. She was a hale woman and shapely. She dip an’ lif de clay jug, settle um pon she head, and walk up de path back straight, hip ah swish, an’ batty jus’ ah roll. Ma Elvie ha fu nudge me, me min so transfix. Me get she set up den go go chase dung dis vision while Ma Elvie do she business. Me put story to Ineta an’ she na choops an’ cut eye, so me figure she na mind. When she meet me under the black Gregory, like me did beg she, me know she didn’t mind. And is so we start.
Me fantasize sometimes how fu get she to Sea View Farm or me to Jonas, though me know plenty couple ha fu mek out wid long distance ka bakkra nah le go slave easy.
Dem lub dem money. Dem will even tek money fu slave buy dem freedom if dem done mek all de money dem cyan an’ de price nar cost dem nothing.
Ineta plenty young and she strong.
If she sell off, the price min well good.
“She coulda in Barbuda all now so for all we know,” de lookout still ah talk, but me feel like me cyaarn hear he, ka inside me head get loud loud, like hurricane wind ah blow in dey.
Me feel me mek one sound like one wounded animal the way he cut heself off and just stare pan me wid long face, that make me feel like likkle boy wah hurt he self, likkle laka when me min in de small gyang wid de ole woman an’ dem ah pull weed. Not likkle but small. Small laka pickney up under skirt.
Ineta gone.
Ineta gone.
Ineta gone.
And me na know wha fu do wid me self.
So me jus’ tun wey an’ lef he dey widout so much as a thank you.
Me pause on the way back, by the tree. Me tell me self, just in case.
Me hol’ a leaf and caress um and cry to m’self right there under de ole black Gregory.
Me nah know how me mek it back ah Sea View Farm before sunup, barely, and work mi rows all day before taking off again nex’ night, but the places de lookout di’ name might as well be on the moon.
Fu most slave, de plantation we born and dead pan was the whole world. Sunday market was as much opportunity to socialise with smadee from other estate as there was, an’ dem time dere bakkra was passing law to outlaw Sunday market. Some ’llow it here and there to calm t’ings and is dem places me frequent as me search fu mi missing Ineta. Me ask after she but never hear a whisper. Me start wander further. Which way to Buckley, which way to Bolans, which way to Betty’s Hope, how fu get to Barbuda?
Smadee try discourage me and dem dat tek pity was just as lost as me; blind leading de blind. Me get lost plenty. When me didn’t make it back on time, bakkra do what bakkra do and lace up mi back.
Still me nah stop wandering; like me did haunted, ’til dem take one ah me toe an’ dem. Not the big toe, dem didn’t want me off balance, just hobbled enough that me couldn’t run. Me could still hoe, plant, and haul. Me could still walk. It tek me longer to get there but me start going back to de black Gregory because wasn’t nowhere else to go, and she might be there.
Me know, me soun’ like me tun foolie pickney who cyaarn accept reality. But all when mi dead me cyaarn rest. Me plant m’self right yah so-so, hoping that Ineta jumbie will find me and we can kiss one more time and hol’ hand go home where we people come from.
So come me still here under the whitewood, the same whitewood, which ah wan kind of comfort when so much else change.
E na easy, especially wid everyone and everything me ever know gone long long time. Except me an’ ole Gregory. Me does pluck leaf n’ run me han’ over um like me did that night the lookout tell me Ineta sell off, de night me cry laka pickney. Me does run me finger over de leaf smooth waxiness… but even sensation ah memory walking ’way from me.
Some days everything cloudy like when sky overcast and rain looking to fall but don’t, and the cloudiness hanging there whole time. Dem days, me t’ink me finally getting ready to disappear but other days t’ings clear clear and memory sharp sharp and is like me cyan even see Ineta face, kissing distance from mi own. Me nah really know wha fu mek ah all dem fluctuation. West Indian weather funny.
An’ de people same way. Ineta love nothing more than to laugh. She say is da mek she take notice ah me first time, how me did think me hab lyrics an’ ting, an’ me didn’t mind; me woulda pappyshow meself fu she ah million times. Me love de sound ah she laugh, de fact dat me could mek she laugh just by being in mi skin. Me wish me could hear she laugh again. It was like music. An’ me nah hear music so sweet since she gone. If me t’ink bout it, it vex me but mostly it make me sad. Sadness ah the worst feeling for endure dis waiting though. Wha fu do wid sadness but siddung inna um, wid yuh chin in yuh han’ like yuh lost yuh mother? Joy does feel fleeting but sadness have ah all the time all the time all the time all the time feeling ’bout it. E does mek me waan shake meself laka mangee dog and shout mek smadee see me and come chat to me. But even when me make a spectacle of myself me invisible to most people.
More people through here now. Clarks Hill. All e curve an’ dem have street light. They not on all the time, only when heavy foot smadee walk under them or one of them motorised carriages that so popular now go whizzing by.
Me yah so long me lose all sense of time, cyan mark it only by how t’ings change ’round me, how when me wander east or south, just in case, no cane there no more, not even a couple stalks. Like them decide fu bun down all the cane-field an’ dem fu good, and me cyaarn say me blame dem; plenty time over mi cursed long life me waan bu’n dem cane-fields meself for the way dem suck up nearga life and chop off arwe dream laka wan limb.
But dream nah dead easy, ka though Ineta never come back, me ha fu believe she still looking for me because she wouldn’t leave me jus’ so. Me can’t countenance the possibility that she find smadee else fu love over dere pan Barbuda or wherever and build a life with dem, make pickney and in time gran’pickney. Wid dem. Wid dem an’ not me.
Don’ get me wrong, me want it fu she, me do; but me did want um for the two ah we first and in all dem years me na able fu let go ah dat.
When smadee say slavery done long time, me t’ink how me slave all mi life, an’ til yah under ol’ black Gregory; slavery not so long gone that slave jumbie nah still bout de place, whether smadee waan see we or not.
Light drive out shadow and all de light nowadays—car light, street light—make we harder fu see but arwe still yah. Me still yah. An’ if me still dey bout, me know cyaarn me one, though arwe nah keep company wid one anodda. Me cyaarn speak for the rest of them but, as for me, me soul still ah cry long water.
Day and night.
Jumbie not vampire; arwe nah sleep, sun nah bu’n we. But only some cyan see we. Like maybe dem can catch arwe shadow out of the corner o’ dem eye but dem dismiss it as illusion.
Me does see the way dem look back an’ look wey. Maybe tell demself, when dem pass the whitewood and spy me under e shadow high day, ah just wan labourer taking a likkle ease-up. An’ dem not all de way wrong, if dem thought go dat wey dey.
But me na t’ink dem t’ink ’bout me at all.
Under the whitewood, where only speckles of light reach me, dem eyes never really settle pan me, even when dem ah seek shelter right nex’ to me, from drizzle rain.
Children now an’ again will see jumbie; the likkle likkle ones too likkle fu know any better does even wave sometimes before dem adult pull them on. Some can see. Some does hear. Me tell one wan time that me ah wait fu smadee.
He wasn’t like the other children. He was older, wearing school uniform with long pant, but more of a loner, who in he wandering come up on the whitewood tree. Me tell he me come from Sea View Farm estate and me waiting for Ineta from Jonas estate, an’ he tell me no estate not there no more, an’ me tell he me know that, me nah foolie, but ah so we call them back then, wasn’t really no village back then, you belong to an estate or you don’t belong. And if you nah belong, dog better than you; well, if you were slave, dog better than you anyway. But he get a look like he understand.
Me tell he, “Mi name Nankeen,” and he laugh and say, “Like the cloth?” Me tell he bakkra name all de pickney born back then and dem carry bakkra last name too. He ask me mi last name and is so me realise, “Me na memba,” dat me memory flickering again like the street light when the bulb waan change. When dat happen me does tek it to mean me been here too long.
And maybe Ineta, wonder if she died Ineta Jonas, nar come again.
He, the boy, Lisa, na girl name dat?, decide he waan help me. He was an industrious boy who like book an’ t’ing and he go archives all the time trying to find me but slave hard to find in de document white man leave behind, unless them do something spectacular like King Court and try blow up de governor.
Me na min do nothing spectacular at all in mi life, especially after Ineta gone.
He say he could probably still find me with time but me tell he no worry ’bout me, look for Ineta.
He say he did find a Ineta Codrington in the records for Barbuda but who’s to say; he only take note of it because me mention to he how the slave cart coulda taken a round and round route to the largest sugar plantation on the island. We agree it probably wasn’t her since that Ineta was probably born Codrington.
It was unusual for grown slave to have dem name change.
Me na min do nothing spectacular at all in mi life, especially after Ineta gone.
Still me ask, what happen to she, this Ineta Codrington.
She wasn’t in the registry when Emancipation come, he say.
And me feel bad for that, that Ineta mebbe never taste freedom. Me m’self was already too old when it come to pick up the search for fu me Ineta, especially widout me missing toe, so me continue fu pass me time here under black Gregory figuring if she was goin’ go looking for she-people, like plenty smadee did when Emancipation come, is right yah so she would come an’ look for me.
Maybe me shoulda try harder. Me na know.
Me na know plenty of nothing. Like where the boy gone, maybe he grown now, hard to keep track of time. Maybe he gone or maybe is me that gone. Me na know.
Only thing me know is this. Me love Ineta an’…an’…an’….
Comes a time of year, not every year, mind, but some, when Ineta an’ me black Gregory hab flowers fu so, flowers like rain in June when weather jus’ off the coast looking to blow through or blow by, the season of mango blossom and gynep blossom an’ everything flowering. The birds does keep up a racket dem time dey as dem nyam dem belly full. An’ the flowers is the prettiest thing. Not pretty like Ineta, not even pretty fu so but when they all laid out on the grass like that, what a pretty pictcha. Was a year like that when the flowers plentiful, falling with every wind blow only for the tree to make more, so much more the ground round the tree tun fancy carpet that does sof’ sof’, sof’ enough fu sleep pan. An me dream me see Ineta, ah kneel dung over me wid she pretty self, she voice sof’ like breeze when she say, “Come, Gregory, is time,” an’ me answer, groggy, “Me name ah nah Gregory,” an’ she smile at me like me foolie an’ me t’ink, cah me yah so long, long long time, maybe ah dat me name in truute but me na memba.