Chapter 2 - Yams

“Mama, why do they kill the man?” Ife asked.

Omotola hummed over the breeze. A word hadn't heard been spoken since the previous day. Cane leaves rustled in the wind.

“Mama, why?” 

Her mother tossed a heap of stalk in the mule wagon then said, “The man ran away and the English killed him, Ife mi.”

Ife climbed upon the mule’s back, hung upside down from the animal’s neck and said, “Why mama? Why kill the man for no thing?” Ife gazed at her upside down world hanging from the mule’s neck—the sky on the ground and the ground in the sky. 

But her mother went back to working and said, “Get down from there or Eban will bring the whip.”

Ife slithered on the mule who swished its tail and chuffed to the little girl hugging its neck.

“Eban will bring no the whip, mama. He is our uncle,” Ife said, watching the mixed African-Carib between her and the bay.

Omotola stopped humming her tune and snatched Ife by the nape of her neck. She scolded her with a wagging finger, “Eban is not our uncle. He is a bad man. He is worse than English. If Eban sees you on the ass, he will beat you with the whip. Now come, Ife mi. Pick up the grass.” 

She glared away when her mama lowered her finger. Then she crossed her arms. The wagon wheel squeaked past Ife. Her mother resumed humming.

Ife dawdled behind, retrieving straggled pieces of cane while sidestepping her feet around the splintered stalk.

“Mama, why do the English kill the man?” Ife asked again. Her mother stood up, sighed and heaved some sticks into the wagon bed, “Because that is the way, Ife mi. We are born and then we work and then we move on. Now Ife mi, do not ask again.”

Ife touched her sore neck—Omotola had pinched her scruff like a feral she-cat. The machetes thwacked a rhythmic beat in the cicada-song of heat, harvesting the crop. Grass blades and leaves floated to the ground beneath their chants. Her mother pulled a piece of aloe leaf from her breeches and skinned it with her knife.

“Ife mi, here.”

Ife rubbed the sap in her hands then spread across her arms and face. Her mother did the same. Their skin gleamed from the sap. Ife rubbed some on her lips. Cringing at the bitter nectar, she spat. Then Omotola and Ife gathered stalk until the bell rang. They supped rainwater, fallen the day before.

Amber sparkled the sea at dusk. Omotola stoked the fire outside their hut. The old woman they called Auntie cooked yams in a clay pot. Ife dug in the soil, pulling the roots with care. She brought a yam to her mother, still covered in dirt. “Ife mi, ‘tis a dirty yam from a dirty child.”

Ife shrugged and smiled at her mama—unaware of the splotchy dirt on her face and smock. She brushed clumps of soot off the yam and, Hhooo, blew on it. Then Ife presented her polished yam to her mother again with a grin. But Omotola did not take the yam right away and said, “Do you believe a child could bring such a nice yam, Auntie?”

Ife giggled and held the yam outward, swaying her hips side-to-side.

“I remember you washed her bottom in the sea,” Auntie grinned. 

“Aye, 'twas just yesterday,” Omotola said.

Ife, still giggling, shoved the yam to her mother, “Mama, stop.”

The sinking sun cast shadows on the grasslands when two men stopped by carrying a string of fish.

“Nice yams,” one of the men said with a raised brow. So Omotola said, “Nice fish,” and handed them three large yams.

The man unhooked two mackerel then passed them to Omotola. They gave each other pleasant nods and the men went on their way. Ife's mouth watered for the shimmering fish. Its briny scent roused her hunger.

“Child, tonight we feast!” Auntie declared.

“Ife mi, go for the lemon,” Omotola said and Ife scurried to the grove near the big palm tree. She fetched the lemon and ran back to her mother and Auntie. 

Indigo painted the sky when Ife returned to the fire. The yams boiled in a rosemary broth. Auntie cleaned the fish. Ife puckered her face when she sliced off the head. Her mother, stirring the yams, shot Ife a smirk over the crackling flame. Auntie plopped out the innards of the cut-open fish belly. Ife's eyes bulged.

Then Auntie said, “Give me your hand.”

But Ife shook her head, her braids rubbed against her shoulders.  

“Go on child. Give Auntie your hands,” Omotola winked. 

Ife held out her hands and squeezed her eyes shut. Warm sludgy ooze filled her palms. She peeked down with one eye then gasped and turned away. Omotola and Auntie laughed at Ife, wrinkling her nose.

“Go put that in the dirt for the maize,” Auntie said. 

Ife carried the innards to the garden and smooshed it into the soil. Then she wiped the grime from her hands in the grass. The cricket chirped and the coquí whistled. Ife fought sleep, captivated by her mother and Auntie's fireside stories. But her heavy eyes and the warm fire prevailed so Ife fell fast asleep—sprawled out in the dirt limp as a sack of yams. 

© 2026 All Rights Reserved. ThePiratess.com.