Jamari

Manure and ash caked Ife’s forearms. She clawed the dirt, tearing furrows into the earth beside Omotola. The sweat stung. Ife blinked against it, smearing soot across her eyelids with a muddy knuckle. She shoved the cane tops into the trenches end-to-end and patted wet earth over the soil. When she stood, a dull ache gripped her spine.

Oars stirred. Ife turned, watching a longboat grind into the sand down on the beach. Replacements came ashore. Whistler pried open the first man’s jaws, inspected his teeth, and slammed his chin shut. He circled the line, stooping to haul up their heels one by one, checking soles like a blacksmith shoeing a mule. He groped their arms, his fist thudding against a hollow chest. Then Whistler pointed toward the Narrows and the line of men stumbled from the beach, churning the sand until they vanished into the thicket of cane.

When the heat finally broke over the fields, Ife smoothed aloe over her face, walked to the shore, and swam out past the foam.

She faced the beach, treading water with ease. Men cast nets for mackerel in the shallows and further up the sand, a child with wet hair chased a receding wave, but something else caught her eye. Through the glare, two arms waved at her from the surf. Ife raised her own hands, mimicking the young man’s double greeting.

He waded out and dove through a breaking crest. When his head resurfaced, he spat a mouthful of brine and called out, “Habari, habari!”

She wiped the salt from her eyes and grinned. The sun beamed off his shoulders as he floated closer.

“Jina lako ni nani?”

Ife squinted, shaking her head.

The young man spoke slower, “Mimi Jamari . . . Wewe ni nani?”

She touched her collarbone. “Ife.”

He repeated, “Ife.”

She raised an eyebrow and splashed him.

“Jamari,” he said.

She pointed toward the beach. “I go ashore now.”

Jamari leaned in, but she splashed him in the face again, then dove under, gliding through the water toward the shore with her braids flowing behind her.

The next morning, Ife found Jamari at the edge of the rows, dragging a whetstone down his blade and thumbing the sharp edge. She dropped beside him, sweeping her stone over her curved iron in the same rasp and blowing away the dust. Jamari offered a tight nod; she returned a wink, turning back to the stalks as dry grass scattered in the wind.

Muscles strained against the relentless rhythm of the row. A warm trickle slipped between her legs. She needed to wipe, but stopping meant the lash. Jamari lowered his blade to dab his brow. Eban’s whip cracked, the leather hissing past his ear. The young man flinched, muttering behind clenched teeth.

Shadows rose between the stalks. Ife shifted down her row until her shoulder brushed Jamari’s. He paused, grazing a finger across the flat of her machete to offer half a mango.

“Nitamuua,” he whispered.

Ife took the fruit and chewed fast, hitching up her breeches.

When she slid closer to him, Jamari leaned in, his voice rising above the rasp of the cane. Before the words left his mouth, Ife lunged, clamping her hand around his wrist.

His pulse hammered hard under her palm. She locked her gaze on his, her fingers biting into his skin to shut him up. Over his shoulder, Auntie and Omotola stared from the back of the mule cart. Their low laughter cut through the heat.

Ife jerked her hand away, her skin turning cold. Jamari didn't look down; he grinned. She stared straight ahead, blood pounding in her ears as she drove her machete back into the roots.

Machetes sheared. The children and older women trailed behind with the mule wagon. Sweat slicked Ife’s handle. Rubbing a wet palm against her breeches to keep her grip, she swapped hands. Then her blade struck a hardened knot.

Ife’s face slammed against the dirt. She bit her lip hard. A dizzying cloud blurred her vision. Her body curled and went cold. The sharp pain in her foot shot a dull throb up her leg. Choking back a scream, with her forehead pressed into the ground, she coughed dust. Her machete handle swayed; the knife embedded in the trench.

Jamari dropped his blade, hauled her up by the arms, and carried her out of the row. Omotola marched toward them but Eban barked across the field, “Keep there! Work!”

Hooves thundered directly behind them. Jamari’s every stride tore through her. She clung to his neck, his chest hammering against her ear.

Eban’s horse crowded Jamari.

“Stop at once!” Eban shouted down from the saddle.

Jamari didn't look up. His feet kicked up the dirt, sprinting, blind to the horse at his side.

“Damn you, boy! Stop, I say!”

The leather hissed and caught Jamari square across the shoulder, slicing a clean red line into his skin. He struck the ground hard, spilling Ife from his arms as they tumbled.

“What the devil is this!” Eban yanked the reins, his horse reared back with a snort. In the dirt, Jamari brushed a hand to his bleeding back, huffing ragged breaths. Ife clutched her leg, her voice cracked, “Eban . . . my foot.”

He lifted the brim of his hat and squinted down from the saddle. Ife's foot was split open—a deep, yawning cut, the skin mangled and weeping red where her smallest toe had been sheared away.

“Aye,” Eban grunted. “I see . . . hmph.”

He coiled his whip, “Bind the wound,” he said. “Work on the morrow.”

Ife nodded.

Then he turned to Jamari and pointed his finger right at him, “You! Fall to work.” Eban pointed at the canerows, cocked his thumb upward and fired, “Chop . . . chop.”

Jamari glared at Eban as he rose, his red staining the grass. Then he pulled Ife up. Through the dust, their hands locked, she winked.

“Away!” Eban shouted, “Now for god sake!”

Ife limped to the beach alone, walking on her heel. She dragged her foot into the surf and dropped herself in the water. Saltwater bit the bone. She sneered at the oozing hole where her toe had been.

Footsteps shuffled in the sand. Omotola and Auntie splashed into the foam to hoist her up. Omotola grabbed her waist, then froze. A dark stream of blood bloomed from Ife’s wet breeches, separate from the red weeping at her foot.

Ife slouched. But Omotola stretched a smile. “You are woman now.”

Omotola embraced her, but her words drifted away, lost under the thrum of Ife’s throbbing foot.

She slumped her chin on her mother’s shoulder before Omotola shouted, “Oh Auntie, you will never believe my child . . .”

The pain pulsed, a gnawing throb against the nub. She choked, swallowing tears. Before she could scream, Auntie burst into the surf and wrapped both arms around her. “Oh child, your mama told me . . . here child. Oh what a blessed day, Oh!”

Ife put a flat hand to the old woman’s back and pulled at the breeches clung to her thigh.

Auntie gifted her a piece of cotton linen and told her to wash it every day. She took it trembling, drawing a deep breath.

“It will follow the moon,” Omotola said, walking Ife out of the surf, limping.

The mackerel hissed near the fire. Ife dabbed her eyes with her new linen.

“We must burn the foot,” Auntie bent to the cooked mackerel in the fire.

“For what we burn mi foot?” Ife jerked her chin back, staring at the old woman.

“If we do not, the rot may take you.”

Omotola nodded. Ife crossed her leg and unwrapped the cloth. The firelight caught the stump. The hole where the toe had been seeped dark blood. Ife leaned back and swung her leg toward Auntie, planting her heel into the old woman’s lap. Her braids fell behind her shoulders.

“She is brave, mi Ife,” Omotola said.

Auntie laid the machete blade in the flames. Ife kept her heel jammed into the old woman’s lap and gripped the cloth in her sweaty palm. The steel in the fire blackened. Omotola stepped between them, “We see you with the boy in the field, Ife mi. Maybe that is why the knife slipped.”

Auntie let out a sharp laugh. Ife scowled.

“And what a handsome chest he has,” Omotola said while Auntie turned the machete handle. “But his tongue is of the other side.”

Ife raised her brow. “He took the whip.”

“Aye, he shall not leave you in the dirt. Just do not fill your head with air,” Auntie pulled the sizzling knife out of the flames, its tip—solid fire.

“Hold her leg.”

Omotola stooped to her knees, gripping Ife’s leg with both hands. Smoke rose from the machete. Auntie grabbed Ife’s ankle and pressed the ember hot blade on her open wound. Ife flexed, cocked her head back and grunted.

With her leg pinned down, she squeezed her eyes tight. Panting fast and shallow, her nose filled with the stench of her own roasting skin. The glowing metal seared into her open flesh, sealing it with a sharp, biting hiss.

Auntie wiped her hands on her frayed skirt and picked up her basket. “I must go to the English house.”

“For what you go there?” Ife rasped.

“The English girl. Tonight for her baby comes.” Auntie waddled away into the darkness.

Ife jammed the new linen in her pocket. The fire logs popped over a steady trill of crickets.

“‘Tis a strong moon, Ife mi,” Omotola said. “For it has made you woman now and new life for the English girl.”

Ife stared forward, stoking the fire with a stick.

“I see the new boy follows you, Ife mi.” Omotola's voice trailed, breaking into a low smile.

Ife glared at her mother.

“And the boy gives you mango.”

Ife fought the smirk cracking on her face. “Mama, stop.” She poked the fire.

“Oh child, you are woman now. Men follow and bring food. They bring beads.”

“Did men bring you beads?”

“Phew,” Omotola sighed. “No child. I come to the island not long after I become woman. There was not a bead for Omotola. They took me from Dahomey. My mama and papa pass in the war there.”

Ife threw her stick in the fire, surging sparks into the night.

“Who was my papa?”

“I do not know what they call him. The English they . . . they make us lay together. We lay together thrice before he got the fever. He was strong but the fever ’twas more. But he gave me Ife. My Ife.”

Omotola fanned her face. “Oh, the fire is strong tonight.”

Ife thumbed the new linen in her pocket, the coqui whistled a sharp whine from the grass. “Did you fear, Mama?”

“No child,” Omotola shook her head. “But the pain is much.” She grinned, staring into the embers. “Ife mi, strong even in my womb.”

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