Timber

Jamari brought Ife a mango each day. But not just any mango, he fetched the plumpest from the tree nearest the English house. They ate together, wiping grit and stray leaves off each other’s skin.

A thin scar slanted across her foot and she wiggled her toes constantly at night, feeling the nub like a mouth sore she couldn’t stop rubbing with her tongue.

In the dark of the hut, Omotola let out a dry cough.

“What is it?” Ife asked.

Her mother flinched, holding her chest. “I know not, Ife mi. I sleep but little in the night.”

Ife glanced through the dim light, but she couldn’t see Omotola’s face, leaning forward and facing the ground.

“’Twas nothing to be done,” Auntie whispered from her pallet. “Sometime the baby just will not breathe.”

“Bless them,” Omotola said, her voice dropping into another ragged breath.

“Aye, ‘tis horrid,” Auntie said. “That poor girl cried all night holding her baby. The Whistler man too.”

“The Englishman cried?” Ife asked.

“Oh yes, child. They cried their eyes out. Not Eban. He waved his hat on himself. The man is a dog.”

In the candlelight, Ife scraped the dirt from her finger nails and filed them with a stone.

A quiet clapping came from outside the thatch. Omotola snored. Ife slipped her head through the flap where Jamari stood in the shadows.

She tiptoed, favoring her good heel. Jamari caught her by the hand and pulled her deep into the lemon grove.

Her palm sweated against his. Sand cooled her feet. A lump beat inside her throat when Jamari smiled.

He let go of her hand and vanished into the mangroves. The limbs rustled and cracked in the dark. Ife held her breath, the cool air sharp against her damp neck. He dragged a fresh timber out from the roots and across the sand—the trunk of a cut palm tree, its leafy crown hacked away. Jamari grunted, pushing the timber into the surf.

Ife crossed her arms, her pulse hammering against her ribs as she watched him struggle.

“Ife, tutaenda huko,” he said, his voice a low whisper above the waves But his step had a spring in it.

Ife side-eyed him, the whites of her eyes catching the moonlight. Jamari stepped close; the heat off his chest cut the sea breeze. He put his hands around her waist, his fingers pressing into the fabric of her breeches. “Tutaenda huko.”

Ife held Jamari’s face. “What do you speak? Tell me.”

Jamari dropped his hands to her hips, his thumbs tracing her hipbone. He pointed to his chest. “Jamari.” He touched her lips. “Ife.” Then he turned his head, pointing out toward the darkness of the bay. “Tutaenda huko.”

She scowled. Jamari kicked the sand and pointed at the log. Ife shook her head. Jamari grabbed Ife’s hand and led her to the surf, rolling the log with his feet.

Ife stayed at the shore’s edge while Jamari floated the log. Water soaked it a darker shade of bark. Foam surged over her feet, disintegrating the sand beneath her heels. A dark swell crashed into his knees. The tide buried her scarred nub in the wet silt. He whistled, a low, sweet sound, waving.

Ife darted into the surf, leaping the small breakers until she crashed against him in the deeper water.

“Stay,” she breathed.

Jamari kissed her forehead. Her body prickled.

“Ife,” he said, smiling as he turned. His feet splashed kicking, floating off with both hands clutched to the log.

His outline faded into the dark water. Ife, her body heavy and stiff, anchored in the surf. Across the bay, the shadow of the other island wrapped around him.

“Ife!” his voice drifted back one last time.

She balled her fists and struck the water with ragged gasps. The surf surged against her thighs, pushing her back toward the dry sand. She grabbed a stone from the shoreline, hurled it into the black void of the bay, and searched for the splash she couldn't hear.

The black ocean shimmered blue the next day, but her eyes never left the water. A shape rose on the horizon—a sudden dark spot that stopped her breath. But wings flapped and took flight from the bay.

High in the canerow, the heat suffocated her. She ripped through the sharp leaves, hacking aside anything that brushed her face. From the farther rows, a low humming drifted through the stalks. Ife spat into the dirt.

A shadow blocked the light at the end of the row. Eban stepped into the narrow path, his boots crushing the dry husks.

“No one will want you now,” he muttered. “That boy made you a wench.”

She held his eyes, her face as cold and stiff as the iron blade. Eban stepped back before slipping through the cane to a nearby row, cracking the leather against the stalks. “Enough!” he barked at the humming workers. “Pick up that knife!”

Ife watched him vanish into the green, the silence inside her—dead calm.

<--- IV Jamari

VI Flux --->