Gombo

Tunde coughed, skin slick with sweat. He fussed when Ife dressed him and didn’t laugh when she tickled his sides.

“He has fever,” Ife said, marching outside where Auntie gathered yams.

Auntie dropped her basket, following Ife to the pallet. She touched a palm to the boy’s forehead. “Aye. Fever.”

Ife’s eyes welled. Auntie held a hand to the child's chest. “Do not worry, Ife mi. Come.” Then the old woman hobbled through the hut flap.

Ife brushed her fingers across his face, her legs anchored to the floor. But Auntie’s trailing footsteps moved away from the Narrows. “Follow. I will show you!” The old woman called out.

Under the canopy, leaves rustled beneath the sharp whistle of a grackle. Auntie scanned the forest floor, then grunted, bending to a patch of low greens. “Mint. Shall calm him.”

Auntie shoved the sticky leaves into Ife’s hands. They stained her palms with a smooth, musky sap. Auntie filled her apron with the remainder, fanned her face, and sat on a mangrove root.

“Find the gombo tree. It peels red. Bring the bark.”

Ife rubbed her fingers together, the sap tingling against her skin. She jammed the leaves into her pocket and tilted her head.

“Ife, go!”

Ife bolted into the bush. Sunlight flashed through the shade. Her chest burned, her legs throbbed, yet she ran. Everywhere, grey and brown bark surrounded her—none of it peeling, none of it red.

Far from the forest’s edge, she’d lost sight of Auntie. Alone with the wind and the ear-piercing call of a grackle, she stopped.

Her panting turned into long, relaxed breaths. She closed her eyes, letting sunlight warm her face.

“Go, Ife mi. You are strong.”

Ife’s eyes snapped open. She spun, but the forest stood empty.

A tangled tree dominated a small clearing—its shucked skin blistering from the ground to its leafy crowns. A fuzzy moss crawled up the tree. The coppery, red underside shone under its peeling bark. Ife dug her fingernails into a seam, prying until the wood gave way. She ripped the bark into chunks, stuffed them into her pockets, and shoved back through the brush.

Tunde still lay curled on the pallet. Her son sweated through his burlap smock and pressed his knees to his chest, shivering—the same knot Omotola twisted into just before she passed.

“Make the tea, Ife mi.” Auntie shoved a heavy maul into her hands.

Ife sat cross-legged, slamming the ironwood down, pulverizing the leaves into wet mash.

“Ife, the bark! The bark!” Auntie jabbed a finger at the bowl.

Ife emptied her pockets, throwing the raw gombo bark into the pulp. Auntie added another handful of fresh mint, the sharp, earthy scent filling the hut. “This will make him strong,” Auntie said.

Her shoulder burned with every strike of the maul. The iron head gnawed the leaves into a green stain. Auntie stepped out, leaving Ife to beat the mixture until the bark dust and mint turned to a thick, brown paste. When Auntie returned with the boiling water, she took the bowl and nodded.

“Good. Ife mi. Good."

Auntie dumped the paste into the clay pot and stirred.

“Wake the boy," she said, whisking the tea.

Ife pushed up from the dirt floor, her legs stiff. Leaning over the pallet, she whispered, “Tunde mi. Tunde.”

She flipped him from his side. His eyes fluttered open with a blank stare.

“Mama made tea.” Ife wiped the sweat from his brow.

He winced. Ife’s neck muscles tightened. Auntie handed her the pot and tossed the maul to the floor with a dull thud.

“Up, Tunde. Up.”

The straw beneath his pallet rustled as he sat.

“Drink mama’s tea.” Auntie knelt beside him, crunching down on the pallet straw.

When Ife brought the pot to his lips, Tunde cringed and jerked away.

“Drink, Tunde mi,” Ife said.

“The tea will make you strong,” Auntie added.

Tunde rolled his eyes before burying his face back into the straw.

“Oh,” Auntie chuckled. “I’ve seen that look before.”

“Tunde, now.” Ife rolled him onto his back and pressed the pot to his lips. “Slow,” she said. “Tunde mi, slow.”

He slurped, side-eying Ife as she held the pot. As the tea dripped down his chin, the steam hit Ife’s face—the same smell that clung to Omotola before she died.

<--- VII Tunde

IX Evil --->