Breaking the Maafa Chain (eBook)

SALIMATU

CHAPTER I

Then shall they call upon me, but I will not answer
Proverbs 1:27

August 1850

By the time the HMS Bonetta arrived in England, Salimatu was disappearing, and she was becoming Sarah. After more than four weeks at sea, Sarah had learned much, especially how to push back Salimatu, the slave girl she had once been. It was her Sarah self, not Salimatu, who could read simple words, and count out simple sums using the abacus. It was Sarah who loved the song of the beads as she slid them from side to side, adding and taking away. And Sarah too, who did not sing the Odudua song anymore, even as still, somehow, thoughts of her beloved Fatmata were always with her.

The dockside at Gravesend was very different from the one they had left behind at Abomey. Although Papa Forbes told her to stay below, Sarah came up on deck drawn by unfamiliar sounds and smells. She buttoned up her coat and pulled on her gloves. Even so she felt cold in the September dawn. She shivered and coughed harshly, holding her chest where it hurt her.

It was Salimatu’s cough and Sarah wanted it gone. Papa Forbes had said it would go when they reached England. She was afraid she would cough until she spat out blood like Peg-leg Jed, the cook on Bonetta. He used to spit into a bucket in the kitchen or a piece of dirty rag all spotted with dark dried blood. She did not like blood. Sarah deeply breathed in the damp, smoky air and Salimatu coughed in response.

As the sun tried to push through the early morning fog, Sarah saw other shadowy ships, big and small, tied to the docks, hardly moving in the mist, as if drifted in from another world. Although the noisy dock was dirty, smelly and frightening, she stayed and watched the people laughing at the dockside; the Bonetta’s sailors, running up and down the gang plank, pushing, and pulling the goods bound for enormous warehouses, moving them swiftly from ship to shore. After so long at sea they had no time to sing to her about Sally Brown. No time to say goodbye. They were eager to walk on ground that did not move, get to their homes and families. Those with no homes could not wait to get to the bars, Lieutenant Heard had said.

Now they had reached England, Sarah wished she knew where she was going. More ildly, she wondered, would Fatmata be there to meet her? ‘No,’ Salimatu, her other self, whispered. ‘We’ll have to go find her.’

Sarah shook her head, as if to shake free of Salimatu who she wished would disappear. She was tired of always having to fight with herself, always having to push her Salimatu-self down, into the depths of her being. She had to keep telling herself, I am no longer Salimatu with her old thoughts and fears—I am now Sarah with new fears. But keeping Salimatu at bay did not always work, for suddenly she would be there whispering or sometimes screaming in her ear.

Forlorn, she returned to the centre deck, sat down with the enormous sack and wooden crates, and waited for Captain Forbes to come to get her. Everyone had gone, except for Amos, the ship’s bosun, who was staying on to guard the ship. He did not like women or girls on the ship. He said they brought bad luck. He glanced over at her sitting like a proper lady, her feet encased in soft grey leather shoes and, sneering, cleared his throat and spat. It landed with a splat close to her feet but did not touch her. All the same when Captain Forbes appeared, she ran close to his side, her eyes cast downwards in avoidance of the dreaded Amos and his filthy mouth.

As Sarah and the Captain descended the boat to the dockside Sarah, overwhelmed by the newness of everything, inched closer to Captain Forbes placing her head against his arm, her eyes barely open.

‘Look up Sarah,’ he said, clearly feeling sorry for her as she cut a figure of misery as they made their way.

His voice emboldened her and opening her eyes to the throng, she felt a sudden sense of calm, even a thrill of excitement, but when she saw the enormous horses, thick hair covering their eyes and puffs of grey air shooting from their noses, as they stood harnessed to the carriage, Sarah froze. Although it was almost five harvest seasons ago, she remembered how, after Santigie sold her to the Moors, she had been thrown on a large horse and taken her away from Fatmata, away from all she had known until then.

She whimpered, pointed at the snorting horses. ‘No, no.’

‘Don’t be frightened. They won’t hurt you,’ said Captain Forbes, lifting her into the carriage.

She trembled and he wrapped a blanket around her legs. ‘You’re cold. You’ll get used to our weather soon,’ he said comfortingly.

Yes, she was cold, freezing, but that was not the only reason why she was trembling.

‘Where are we going now, Papa Forbes? To see the Queen?’ she said at last.

‘No, no, dear child,’ laughed the Captain, ‘the Queen meets very few of her subjects. We’re off to the train station and then home.’

Not to see the Queen? Hadn’t he told her she was to be a special gift to the Queen? How can I be gift to the Queen if she won’t even see me? Sarah thought. Her eyes stung from unshed tears. If she did not belong to the Queen after all then what was to become of her?

She clung to the long leather carriage strap that tethered her to her seat and peered out. There was so much to see. The carriage swayed and the sound of horses hooves clip-clopped noisily over the cobble stone. Buildings towered above them. Could they shake in the winds, like trees, then fall and crush them, she wondered. She had never seen so many people, all hurrying by, flashing past her eyes. The carriages criss-crossing so close they made her gasp again and again. She was sure they would crash into each other.

Arriving at the station, she clasped the Captain’s hand, even more frightened by the size of the station hall, the strong and strange smells of people, the smoke, the noise. When the train arrived, snaking into the station screeching and bellowing, belching, smut and showers of steam into the air, she screamed and hid behind the Captain.

‘Djuju, djudu,’ Salimatu and Sarah cried as one.

‘No. This is the train,’ said Captain Forbes, evenly, noticing the curious glances of the people nearby, as Sarah’s cries filled the air. Turning her around, he said, ‘Stop it Sarah, stop it, right now.’

‘No, djuju come get us,’ cried Sarah in Yoruba, forgetting her newly acquired English.

‘What is she saying Mama?’ asked a smartly dressed little boy, tugging at his mother’s red coat.

‘Shh, Ernest,’ she said, a long vertical finger firmly dissecting thin, pinched lips. ‘She’s a foreigner, she doesn’t speak English.’

At this Captain Forbes scooped up a still wailing Sarah and walked hurriedly down the platform to the first-class compartment where he quickly boarded. He sat her down and shut the door.

‘Stop crying, please,’ he said, handing her his handkerchief. ‘There are no devils here. And do try to speak English all the time.’

Sarah did not reply. Instead as the train moved off, she heard Salimatu whisper, ‘ayee, we are inside the belly of the djuju.’

First the platform and people, but then the houses, trees, even clouds disappeared in a blur as the train sped away, shaking, and screeching its new song, djuju, djuju, djuju, djuju.

Sarah’s whole body shook. ‘Papa Forbes, Papa,’ she whimpered, ‘don’t let the djuju take me to the ancestors.’

‘No one is going to take you away from me, Sarah,’ he said, putting his arm around her, ‘you are quite safe.’

That word again. Safe. Her heart calmed.

She had not understood any of his words the first time he’d said them.

‘You’re safe now,’ the Captain had said, as he lifted her chin up and touched the marks on her face.

But was she?

Fatmata had told her that people like him, people who were skinless, were djuju, so she shrank from his touch, from his smell, but he had smiled and picked her up. As he carried her away from the ‘watering of the ancestors’ ceremony she trembled and, afraid the white devil was taking her to be his sacrifice, pissed all over him. Her white garment steamed and dried and smelled acrid in the sun, but he did not put her down. He took her to the missionaries.

‘But what are you going to do with her?’ asked Mrs Vidal.

‘Take her to England with me.’

‘Is that wise, old man?’ Reverend Vidal asked. ‘She’s a slave.’

‘I’m sure we can find a place for her in the Mission school,’ interrupted Mrs Vidal. ‘If she is bright, she could help teach others in time.’

‘King Gezo has given her as a gift to Queen Victoria. He said to tell her that it was, “from the King of the Blacks to the Queen of the Whites.”’

‘The cheek of the man,’ said the Reverend.

‘It is not for me to decide her future. I will take her with me and hand her over to the Admiralty. But I will need to leave her with you until The Bonetta sails in a couple of weeks.’

‘Do not worry, Captain,’ said Reverend Vidal, ‘we’ll take care of her.’

‘I’d better get sewing then....