Timber

Jamari brought Ife the plumpest mango from the tree nearest the English house. The sweet nectar lingered over the smell of damp cane. 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 squinted through the dim, but Omotola blurred in the shadows, 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. But not Eban. The man is a dog.”

On her pallet, Ife scraped the dirt from her fingernails and filed them with a stone.

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

She tiptoed, favoring her good foot. 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 as she watched him struggle.

“Ife, tutaenda huko,” he said, his voice a low whisper over the waves. Jamari stepped close to her. The heat off his chest warmed 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, raising a finger toward the blackened bay. “Tutaenda huko.”

She scowled and shook her head. Jamari led her to the surf, rolling the log with his feet.

Ife stayed at the shore’s edge while Jamari floated the timber. Water soaked into the bark, darkening its shade. Foam surged over her feet, tearing the sand from beneath her heels. A 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 over the small breakers until she crashed against him in the deeper water.

“Stay,” she breathed.

Jamari kissed her forehead. “Ife.” He turned, kicking off, hands locked 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 lashed the water. 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 stuttered 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 choked her. She ripped through the sharp leaves, hacking at anything that brushed her face. The workers hummed along. From the farther rows, their low chant drifted through the stalks. Ife spat into the dirt.

A shadow killed 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.”

Ife held his gaze, her face as cold and stiff as the iron blade in her hand. Eban stepped back, 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 numbed her. Dead calm.

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