Chapter 3 - Machete

Ife liked her machete—the iron blade shredded a path through the canerows. She harvested as much as any adult—woman or man. As Ife thwacked by the rest of the workers, Omotola shouted, “Ife mi, you work much. You will be sick.”

She scoffed. Sweat poured down her cheek. She swung wildly, switching hands when they ached. When Ife turned back, Omotola shook her head and hummed a work tune. Ife swayed her knife. Leaves glided around her. Mangled greens stuck in her braids. The end of the row lay just ahead and beyond the clearing—waves hissed along the beach.

But behind Ife a commotion—Omotola and the other choppers gasped at the ground. A man lay between the crops. Eban rode over and yelled, “What now? Get choppin’!”

And so the workers did. But Ife, still bushels ahead of the others, glared up at Eban. The Carib popped his whip at the fallen captive and the workers flinched. They hacked their cane rows, pretending to ignore the whip snaps. Eban snarled at the ground, “Up! Now! Get up!”

Then he cracked his whip again, lashing the man still passed out on the earth. But the man didn’t move and Eban climbed off his pony mumbling, “Bloody hell. Devil take this.”

Then he waved at the mule cart to stop behind him. The cutters resumed—a line of swinging blades inched toward Ife. Eban knelt and put his ear to the fallen worker's chest. He tapped on the man’s cheek then cursed in mutters. Grabbing the perished man's ankles, Eban bent his knees to his chest. But he discarded the worker's limp feet. Then Eban dusted off his trousers, removed his hat and fanned his face.

The other workers avoided the Carib's eyes, refusing to look over their shoulders. But Ife glared past them as Eban retrieved the rope from his saddle. He tied a knot around the dead man’s ankles. While tying, he looked at Ife—right in her eyes. He howled at her, “Go back to work.” Then he yanked the knot tight.

But she stared him down and gripped her machete. Eban drew his whip from his belt, marching past the flinging leaves and weeds and dirt. Ife’s body thumped– -her fingers throbbed against the blade handle. Eban strode right up to her and backhanded her across the face. She hit the dirt, dropping her machete. With his hands on his hips, he looked down at her. She touched her cheek and tasted the coppery retch spewing from her gum and spat. Red foam hit the soil. Ife wiped her mouth and scowled up at him.

Omotola dropped her knife and ran over, “No Eban, please. She is sick from the sun.”

Her mama knelt down to her and held her shoulders.

“Your brat must work,” Eban told Omotola.

“Aye, Eban. Please. She is not well. We will work, Eban. Please,” Omotola helped Ife up. Eban went back to his pony, turning back to glare at Ife. And she curled her lip at him. He mounted his saddle and dragged the man behind him. Heads turned to catch the final glimpse of the limp man bumping along, ankles bound and arms spreading upwards like a flimsy wishbone. A hopeless dirt path carved in his wake all the way from the cane fields to the base of the green mountain where the other captives were buried. Ife scowled at the sight and spat again.

Omotola smooshed Ife’s cheeks together, “What is it, Ife mi? You must work. Eban will beat you.”

She jerked her face away from her mother’s grip.

“Ife mi, go for the water. Then come back and work.”

When the midday bell rang, she ate biscuit and fish. A young boy delivered pails of water from the creek a thousand paces away. Omotola taught Ife how to sharpen her knife on the big rock between the quarters and the grassland. Workers generations before them used the same rock to sharpen their tools. Her mother rubbed the edge of her blade against it and told her, “You work much, Ife mi. This will make the knife strong.”

Omotola dragged the blade edge along the rock once more and turned the machete over and sharpened the other side.

“Now try, Ife mi. Make the knife strong. It will cut the cane so you do not work much.”

Ife pointed her machete across the bay and said, “Why not we go to that place? Why not we swim there?”

Omotola faced the island across the bay and said, “Oh, Ife mi. There is the same. You can swim there and more English are there.”

Ife lowered her blade and said, “I want to go there. Tonight. I swim there.”

"Hhhhhuuuuu. Child, you know not what you say. If you swim there the English will bring back you here. I know child, it is hard now. But this is not all there is Ife mi.”

Ife pursed her lips and cocked her head.

“Now come, make the knife strong.”

Omotola winked at her. Ife rolled her eyes and sharpened her machete.

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