Machete

Not a word had been spoken since they left the beach the day before. Cane leaves rustled in the wind.

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

Omotola hummed over the breeze.

“Mama, why?”

Her mother tossed a heap of stalks into the mule wagon. “The man ran, Ife mi. And the English, they do not let a man run.”

Ife climbed onto the mule’s back, leaning over until she hung upside down from the animal’s neck. Her world flipped—-clouds on the ground, dirt in the sky. “Why, mama? Why kill the man for nothing?”

Her mother did not look up from the row. “Get down from there before Eban brings the whip.”

Ife slid down the mule’s shoulder. The beast swished its tail, chuffing a warm breath against her braids. “Eban will bring no whip, mama. He is our uncle.” She pointed toward the shore where the Carib overseer stood in front of the bay.

Omotola stopped her tune. She caught Ife by the scruff of her neck, her fingers pinching tight. “Eban is not your uncle,” she scolded, her wagging finger nearly touching Ife’s nose. “He is a bad man. Worse than the English. If Eban see you on the ass, he will cut your skin. Now come, Ife mi. Pick up the cane.”

When her mother let go, Ife turned her face away, crossing her arms as the wagon squeaked past. Omotola resumed her humming. Ife dawdled behind, retrieving straggled pieces of cane while sidestepping the splintered stalks.

“Mama, why do the English kill the man?” Ife asked once more.

Her mother stood straight, exhaling a long sigh as she heaved another bundle into the wagon bed. “Because that is the way, Ife mi. We are born, we work, and then we move on. Do not ask me again.”

Ife rubbed her neck where her mother’s grip had left a sting. All across the field, the steady thwack of machetes kept a rhythmic beat against the cicada-song of the midday heat. Chants rose from the rows as the crop fell. Omotola pulled a thick aloe leaf from her waistband and split the skin with her knife.

“Ife mi. Here.”

Ife took the sap, rubbing it over her palms before spreading it across her arms and face. Her mother did the same, oiling their skin with a thin shimmer. Ife tasted a bit on her lip, cringed at the bitter nectar, and spat. They gathered stalks until the bell finally rang, then supped sweet rainwater collected from the day before.

At dusk, an amber light sparkled across the sea. Omotola stoked a small cooking fire outside their hut while the old woman they called Auntie boiled yams in a clay pot. Ife dug in the small garden patch nearby, pulling the roots with care. She brought a yam to her mother, its skin caked in dark earth.

“Ife mi, ’tis a dirty yam from a dirty child,” Omotola said.

Ife shrugged and grinned, unaware of the soot smeared across her cheeks and smock. She brushed the largest clumps of dirt away and blew a sharp Hhoo across the skin, presenting the polished root to her mother again.

Omotola hid a smile, looking over her shoulder. “Do you believe a child could bring such a nice yam, Auntie?”

Ife giggled, swaying her hips side.

“I remember when you washed her bottom in the sea,” Auntie chuckled from the fire.

“Aye, ’twas just yesterday,” Omotola agreed.

Ife shoved the yam into her mother’s hands. “Mama, stop.”

The sinking sun cast long shadows over the canerows when two fishermen stopped by their hut, a string of fresh catch dangling from their hands.

“Nice yams,” one of the men said, raising an eyebrow at the pot.

“Nice fish.” Omotola handed them three of their largest roots.

The man unhooked two fat mackerel and passed them to Omotola. They exchanged quiet nods, and the men hobbled down the track. Ife’s mouth watered at the briny scent of the silver fish clutched in her mother's hands.

“Child, tonight we feast!” Auntie fetched a knife, taking the fish from Omotola. “Ife mi, go for the lemon.”

She scurried to the grove near the big palm tree, plucked a yellow fruit, and sprinted back to the fire. By the time she returned, yams bubbled in a broth while Auntie sliced open the fish. Ife puckered her face as the knife took the mackerel’s head. Her mother shot her a smirk across the crackling flames.

Auntie scooped the dark innards from the belly. Ife’s eyes bulged.

“Give me your hand,” Auntie said.

Ife shook her head, her braids slapping her shoulders.

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

Ife extended her arms and squeezed her eyes shut. A warm, sludgy ooze filled her palms. She peeked with one eye, gasped, and twisted her face away. The two women laughed, their voices carrying into the dark.

“Go put that in the dirt,” Auntie told her, wiping the brine on her tattered apron. “For the maize.”

Ife carried the slime to their garden patch, pressing it deep into the soil before wiping her grime-stained fingers on the grass. The cricket chirped and the coquí whistled. Ife fought sleep, captivated by the low murmur of her mother and Auntie’s fireside stories. But her heavy eyelids and the warmth of the fire prevailed.

The cane fell and rose with the seasons. Ife’s burlap smock that once dragged the dirt grew tight, frayed, and vanished, replaced by the heavy wraps of a young woman. The iron blade in her hand shredded a path through the stalks as swift as any man.

Ife surged ahead of the line and Omotola shouted, “Ife mi, you work much. You will be sick.”

“Pfft.” Sweat poured down Ife’s cheek swinging wildly, switching hands when they ached. Behind her, Omotola hummed a work tune. Through a haze of flying leaves and green that tangled in her braids, Ife’s machete glided.

Gasps broke the chopping rhythm behind her. A man lay face-down between the stalks. Eban’s horse trotted over, his voice cutting through the heat. “What now? Get choppin’!” Their blades swung again. But Ife stood still, bushels ahead of the line, glaring at the Carib. 

Eban brought the leather down across the fallen man’s backside. The workers flinched, hacking faster to ignore the snaps. “Up! Now! Get up!” Eban cracked the bullwhip again, tearing the man’s smock. The body didn’t move. Eban climbed down from his saddle, muttering, “Bloody hell. Devil take this.” 

He signaled the mule cart to halt. Eban knelt, dropping an ear to the man's chest, then slapped his cold cheek. He let out a low curse, grabbed the dead man's ankles, and pushed them against his chest as if to revive him. The limp feet fell back into the dirt. He stood, dusted his trousers, and fanned his face with his hat. 

The workers avoided his eyes, refusing to look over their shoulders. But Ife glared past them watching Eban retrieve 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, squeezing her machete handle tight. Eban marched past the flinging leaves and weeds and dirt, closing the distance between them. Ife’s body thumped—her fingers throbbed against the blade handle. He backhanded her across the face. The blow knocked Ife to the earth, boomeranging her machete into the cane. Eban stood over her, hands resting near his belt. A coppery spew wet her tongue and she spat. Red foam hit the soil. Ife wiped her mouth, snarling.

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.”

“Aye, Eban. Please. She is not well. We will work, Eban. Please,” Omotola hauled Ife up.

Latching his eyes on Ife, Eban strutted back to his saddle. Ife kept a curled lip. He mounted his beast and dragged the man behind him. Heads turned to catch the final glimpse of the limp man bumping along, ankles bound and arms trailing like a split wishbone. A dirt path carved in his wake all the way from the cane fields to the base of the green mountain where the shallow graves loomed. Ife 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.”

The bell rang. A young boy delivered pails of water from the creek near the mill. Over a hard biscuit and dried fish, Omotola took Ife’s blade to the grinding stone—a massive slab worn smooth by generations of hands. The raspy grind of metal on stone behind their hut resonated through the Narrows.

“You work angry, Ife mi." Her mother ran the blade edge down the rock. “But spare your arm, for the cane does not care for your anger.” 

After she scraped a final pass along the scarred stone, Omotola nudged her machete handle toward Ife and said, "Now come. A weak knife can make for blood."

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

Omotola peered over the water at the thick tree line rising from the sea. “There is the same. You can swim there and more English are there.”

“I want to go there. Tonight. I swim there.”

Omotola let out a long hiss. “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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