Flux

Morning light cut through the open flap. Omotola swayed, her legs buckling until Ife caught her. She wiped the night sweat from her mother, hoisted her arm around her neck, and hauled her out into the sun.

Ife stayed close by the mule wagon. Her mother drenched the chopped stalks with sweat, her hands shaking as she reached for the cane.

"Mama, why are you sick?"

“I have the flux, Ife mi.” Omotola touched Ife’s shoulder.“But do not be afraid.”

She drew slow breaths and groaned when she bent over. Ife picked up extra stalks, watching her mother wince in pain as they plodded forward.

The musk of a horse flared her nostrils. Eban spit a piece of straw from his lips. “Work more, woman. You are slow today.”

Omotola didn't rise, her fingers still clawing at the dirt. “I am sick.”

Ife didn't blink, locking her gaze on the old Carib’s throat.

“Ife, you must cut. Always you must cut. Where is the knife?” Eban uncurled the bullwhip from his saddle horn, the leather tip dangled in the dirt like a serpent.

Ife stepped to the mule cart while staring him down. Her hand found the machete handle. The blade rested flat against her thigh, waiting for the whip so she could lunge forward, drag him out of his stirrups, and open him up.

The horse chuffed, its hooves shifting. “Cut . . . now,” Eban said.

Ife sucked her teeth. At her feet, Omotola panted, stooped to the dirt. “Go, Ife mi. Do not worry for your mama.”

Eban gathered his reins, backing his pony into the clearing. He snapped the leather, his head cocked toward the uncut rows, and galloped away. Ife watched the dust rise.

They survived the heat stalk by stalk, and at dusk, Ife carried her mother back to the hut.

She awoke. Omotola’s pallet lay empty. Ife crept out into the dark grassland. Cane leaves whispered; a light rain sprinkled her braids. She rushed to Auntie’s hut and shook the old woman awake. “Mama is gone. For much time she is gone.”

Auntie rubbed her eyes. “We will find your mama. Come now, child.”

The old woman lit a torch from the smoldering firepit. Not a crease of doubt showed in her wrinkled face.

They plunged into the mangroves. Night birds exploded from the canopy at their footsteps, and boas slithered deeper into the roots. Through the dark, crickets and coquis shrieked against the coastal breeze.

When they reached the lemon grove, the big palm loomed, its crown towering over her. Ife pointed out to the water. “Auntie—there! Mama is there!”

She sprinted, kicking up sand and surf. The outline of her mother lay limp in the wet sand.

“Mama, wake up!” Ife dragged Omotola away from the shallows, her smock soaked from the rising tide. Ife knelt. Auntie hobbled up behind her, casting the amber glow over the sand. Omotola’s chest rose and fell in shallow, strained rattles.

Sweat poured from Omotola’s face, gleaming amber under the torch and white beneath the moon. Ife choked back a sob and wiped away the brine.

Auntie knelt, pressing her palms flat against Omotola’s chest before whispering in her ear.

As Ife held the torch, sweat formed on her temples, hot and stinging against the salt spray.

The old woman leaned back up, locked her elbows, and drove her palms into Omotola’s chest.

“Omotola breathes slow, Ife mi," Auntie said. "But your mother will breathe good soon.” She paused. Beneath the sound of the breaking waves, Omotola sipped air through her nose.

“Wake her, Auntie. Wake mama.” Ife’s face twisted with pain.

Auntie snatched the torch back from Ife’s hand. “Push on her chest, Ife mi, Push!”

Ife pressed her palms into Omotola. The rattle from her mother’s throat shot tremors through her arms.

Auntie grabbed Ife’s hands, locking one over the other on Omotola’s breastbone. "Harder," Auntie urged. "Push now, Ife!"

Ife panted. Her vision blurred from torch smoke and tears. Helpless gurgles drowned out the hissing sea. Matching the frantic beat of her own pulse, she drove her weight down onto the bone until—Omotola choked on phlegm, violently gasped, and air flooded her chest.

“Let her breathe,” Auntie said.

Ife hesitated but kept her hands pressed against Omotola’s chest. Her mother let out another dry, hacking cough.

“Breathe, child, breathe.” Auntie stared down, her voice hard as iron.

Omotola’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. Her vacant stare locked onto the glare of Auntie’s torch.

“Your child breathe for you, Omotola.”

Her mother turned to her with a raspy voice. “Ife mi, you are a powerful woman.”

Ife collapsed forward, wrapping her arms around her mother’s neck and pressing her cheek against the cold skin. Her braids spilled across Omotola’s face, catching in the wet sand.

“Do not worry, Ife mi. Omotola is still here.” Her mother’s wet hand patted her shoulder.

Ife sniffled.

“But I am weak, child, so you must help mama home.”

Ife curled her arm around Omotola and hauled her up, her mother grunting under the weight. Auntie hurled the torch into the surf, stepped to Omotola’s other side, and caught her around the waist. Staggering together, they shuffled back toward the hut.

They dropped her onto her pallet, leaving the hut flap open.

“Fever she has,” Auntie said, slapping soaked rags onto Omotola’s forehead. “Take away her shifts. I will wash the fever.”

Ife stripped her mother down. Omotola's skin radiated heat, shivering with goosebumps. Once the breeches were off, her bare body curled and quivered.

“Take this.” Auntie handed over a coarse strip of burlap, then vanished through the flap with the wet clothes.

Ife tucked the rough weave around her mother—shaking with chills but warm to the touch.

Her knees hit the dust and she bawled. On all fours, she drove the meat of her fist into the ground, pounding the floor until her palm bruised. In the faint twilight leaking through the flap, dirt sprayed into her mouth. She spat, drool trailing down her chin, choking until she was entirely out of breath.

A sudden, wet heave slashed through the cricket chirp. Omotola vomited. Spew streamed down her face onto the burlap blanket.

Ife scrambled up from the dirt as Auntie rushed through the flap, carrying a steaming clay pot of mint tea. The sharp vapor cut through the stench of bile.

Omotola cringed as they sat her up to drink, her chest and face sopping wet. Auntie pressed fresh rags to her forehead, forcing the lip of the pot to her mouth, while Ife wiped her mother’s face.

“Your mama needs rest, Ife mi.” Auntie said, easing Omotola back onto the pallet. She grabbed the clay pot and ducked back through the flap into the night.

Ife flung the soiled blanket onto the floor. Omotola smiled up at her daughter, wiping a rag across her face. A coqui whistled in the distance.

“Oh, Ife mi.” Her mother’s whispery rasp made her tremble. She touched Ife’s face. “You are a strong woman now. Do not be afraid, Ife mi.”

Her eyes welled. She crawled into her mother’s pallet and put her face in her bosom. Holding onto her, Omotola patted her hollow back steadily.

“Oh, child. Do not do that.”

She wiped away Ife’s tears, cradling her. “Promise me you will be strong, Ife mi. Hmm?”

Ife wiped her eyes and snuffled. She nodded.

“Say you promise.”

“I promise, mama.”

Ife fell asleep holding on to her mother.

Omotola never awoke.

In the still silence of the night, Ife rose from her mother’s pallet. Finding her whetstone in the darkness, and grinding it, until the morning grackles whined, she sharpened her machete.

<--- V Timber

VII Tunde --->