On Shipboard

When the wild weeping and wailing;
the stubborn struggling and dragging
had completely subdued our battered bodies
and pitilessly crushed our broken hearts;
when our shoulders no longer seared 
from the merciless glowing brands; 
when we could see not a single shred
of the lush coasts of our beloved Africa;
when there was no further need
to lash to the tall sail poles 
those who were determined
to throw themselves into the sea;
When we had reached the dark, deep waters, 
--all body-chains were loosened
and many men were forced
to put their shattered strength
to pushing forward the creaking boat 

   --Then, we women,
huddled, whimpering in the blackness, 
tossed against each other
by that plunging prison,
let the bitter tears dry
in salty river beds
on our feverish cheeks,
and, examining each other
in our mutual helpless misery,
--we talked together.

There were many tales,
strange and familiar,
exchanged softly
on that timeless voyage
of sickness, sorrow and stench.
There were as many different languages 
as we were beings on that straining hulk. 
But we dug out the core
in the Twi, the Fon, the Ewe;
the Wolof, the Efik, the Temne;
the Mossi, the Jukun, the Mende;
We filled in the gaps with signs
as we talked together.
"Speak first, oh royal mother of Dahomey."

She closed her sunken eyes in pain, 
and shaking her noble head 
hoarsely whispered in shame:

"My last claim to royalty
died in the village of Abomey.
I was the fourth and most favored wife, 
and my stalwart son
(the one most bent on suicide)
was trained by his warrior father
to ascend the ancient throne.
Last year, my husband died 
of a sudden unknown illness
which not even the wisest healer
could combat or conquer.
And when the burial and funereal rites
the first and richest wife 
won the ears of the priests
and the sanctions of the diviners 
for the one of her sons
who is a most active devotee
to the wily god Legba.
And when the burial and funereal rites
had all been fittingly concluded
my son and I, with our faithful court
were cast out of our majestic portals.
From coffle to coffle,
from one slatee to another,
we have dragged our royal purple
through the murky slime and mire 
with the shackles and chains
of infamous bondage."

Then, we who listened
cried aloud to the spirits
of those who had once raised 
this mother and her son
to peaks over common men 
to restore them
to their rightful stations.

"Why is that man
enveloped in greater despair 
than all others?"

"He cannot be comforted
for he was stolen away 
from his ancestral home
before he could give
his revered father
his final burial rites.
What will become of the old one's soul
as he writhes in partial burial?"

"Surely the gods
will be appeased 
and receive his soul.
They know the white devils 
have destroyed
the son's good intentions.”

"Are you not the teacher 
of the rituals to the Ashanti
of the Coast of Gold?"

Ay, I was the one
who introduced the youth
to the intricate ways
of pleasing the gods
through utter possession.
And, there, bending over the oars
are five of my students
with those whose relaxed fingers
brought forth from the drums 
the soft muted notes
accompanied and augmented 
by the calabash rattles.
It was then the consecrated ones
were filled with the spirits, 
were possessed by the gods."

As he chanted,
we saw again
the dense, swaying circle
of the singing, humming chorus,-- 
and heard again
the firm solemn measure
of the cupped handclapping. 
Before our smarting eyes
diffidently danced the green initiates, 
shy and self-conscious;
boldly capered the experienced members 
in swift, agile runs;
in clever, tumbling rolls;
in dizzy, twisting spins;
in high leaping jumps.

On our ears fell again
the talking in tongues
by the high priest
of new and powerful cures; 
of things to come;
of ways to master magic; 
of desires of the gods 
who visit the miserable earth.
Drums, rattles, hands 
tore at our entrails.
Our heads sank
to our bruised chests. 
Our bodies drowned
in crowded memories.

Then upspoke a woman who bore 
the scar of the Yoruba.
Her words painted the open market 
which we knew so well . . .
She immersed us in the riotous color
of yellow plantains; ripe sugar cane; 
Cassava roots; fragrant seasonings;
golden maize; onions and shrimps;
dried gourds; beans and pawpaws.
She poured over us the incessant chatter 
of the women who gossip;
of the women who harangue;
to bring low
the mighty copalwood;
the majestic greenheart;
the stately camwood
and to please
the coy young girls
who sat preparing them food
and slipping them winsome glances;
the quiet hours spent
in dreaming and weaving
mats for the house;
raffia for the baskets;
wool for the cloths.
... A thousand small things
daily done, scarcely noticed 
when we were with our families
in our villages and tribal kingdoms 
now rushed in a tumult
to our lips 
to be shared
in despair
as we talked together. 
the infectious laughter
of the women who joke; 
of the women who tease;
the pretended anger
of the women who barter;
of the women who argue.

An innocent joy,
like that of planting
in Dahomey and Nigeria;
in Guinea and Gambia;
in Angola and Calabar;
in Lagos and Madagascar.
No matter where we had lived
we knew the joys of planting. 
We felt the sleek seeds
racing across our palms, 
sliding between our fingers 
as we scooped a handful
to drop with loving care one by one
into the shallow cradle
dug out by the smooth heel.
We remembered the cooling touch of dirt 
streaming between our sweating toes
as we lightly pushed
a cover over the sleeping seeds.

Such simple tasks, then unappreciated, 
but so unbearably precious now.
Such simple pleasures
swallowed by the evil air of slavery.