I’ll croak instead of talk.
“And later, the Fon built their capital city of Abomey, and inside the city, they made the great fortress of Simboji Palace. Kings ruled from Simboji with their advisers beside them, and fierce war women—my Amazon foremothers—guarded each gate. And even those strong black women had slaves.”
I know Grandmother Jones has become a statue beside me. Granite or marble. Cold and unmoving. Ihope she will let me finish. Her hand twitches, as if to inch toward mine. Words leave my mouth faster, and faster.
“Other African tribes built their empires. Oyo and Egba, and others. All traded in slaves. Black people, using each other for currency. Riches. Power. To gain what white men had to offer. Steel. Guns. Weapons. Better ways to kill each other. Better ways to live white men’s lives. Or die too soon to enjoy them.”
Crazy Sardine nods, and it gives me a spurt of energy.
“Only once in Dahomey did a king try to stop the slave trade. King Agaja was his name. He closed the slave ports. Some think he did it to gain control of the trade, but I think he disagreed with it. And I think he disagreed with letting other countries, other people, tell us what’s right and wrong for us.”
A few more fans stop moving. I blink fast to keep my eyes from watering.
“Agaja couldn’t live forever, and his foolish son opened the slave ports again. And so, while this country fought its Civil War, Dahomey sold hundreds of slaves to the traders, and the foolish new king took even more for himself. This my grandmother Ruba Cleo taught me. Not so I would think less of Africa. Not so I would turn my back on my heritage. So I would remember what happened. Embrace it. And understand.”
“Understand what, Sister?” Crazy Sardine’s voice floats over the stunned faces like a welcome breeze.
“Understand how we almost saved ourselves, and how we tore ourselves apart. Understand that we first have to be loyal to each other, and stand together against those who would use us and kill us, and tell us what’s right and what’s wrong. Wherever we are, we have to live with the values of others, but keep our own. We need to live black lives even in a white world. With our own history. Our own traditions. Our own worth. We have to remember what came before guns and steel. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours . I’m Ruba Jones, daughter of Circe Cleo and James Howard Jones, and I remember.”
“Amen,” someone says.
My heart nearly stops.
That someone … it was Grandmother Jones. The very woman who has been telling me to let go of my past.
Her face looks tense and serious, but she is smiling. A real smile. For me.
My hands start shaking.
I realize Crazy Sardine is on his feet. Everyone is standing, and beginning to sing. Grandmother Jones stands, too, and she measures me with her gaze. Opens her arms—and glass explodes into the sanctuary.
Songs turn to screams.
Rocks thrown through the stained-glass windowsgouge the wall beside me.
People duck. Dodge. Drop to the floor. Clay, Gisele—I can’t see them. My hand smacks my waist where my knife would be, if I were in Haiti.
Grandmother Jones pulls me down in front of her, between the first two pews. Pastor Bickman and the visiting men press against a wall and edge toward the door beside the altar. I can see them from under the pew, between the wooden braces.
Hoots and shouts rise outside.
“Y’all listen up in there,” growls a voice I’ve heard once before. On a beach. Talking to his son.
“Listen up and listen nice. No interrupting.”
Frye.
Leroy Frye.
Chapter Seven
Sunday, 10 August 1969: Night
Pastor Bickman stands between us and the broken windows, his back to the sanctuary and his Bible in his hand, as if to shield us all. He shouts through the gaping holes in windows when he speaks. “We have no quarrel with you. Leave us in peace.”
Through one of the broken windows, dead center in the jagged hole that once had been
“And later, the Fon built their capital city of Abomey, and inside the city, they made the great fortress of Simboji Palace. Kings ruled from Simboji with their advisers beside them, and fierce war women—my Amazon foremothers—guarded each gate. And even those strong black women had slaves.”
I know Grandmother Jones has become a statue beside me. Granite or marble. Cold and unmoving. Ihope she will let me finish. Her hand twitches, as if to inch toward mine. Words leave my mouth faster, and faster.
“Other African tribes built their empires. Oyo and Egba, and others. All traded in slaves. Black people, using each other for currency. Riches. Power. To gain what white men had to offer. Steel. Guns. Weapons. Better ways to kill each other. Better ways to live white men’s lives. Or die too soon to enjoy them.”
Crazy Sardine nods, and it gives me a spurt of energy.
“Only once in Dahomey did a king try to stop the slave trade. King Agaja was his name. He closed the slave ports. Some think he did it to gain control of the trade, but I think he disagreed with it. And I think he disagreed with letting other countries, other people, tell us what’s right and wrong for us.”
A few more fans stop moving. I blink fast to keep my eyes from watering.
“Agaja couldn’t live forever, and his foolish son opened the slave ports again. And so, while this country fought its Civil War, Dahomey sold hundreds of slaves to the traders, and the foolish new king took even more for himself. This my grandmother Ruba Cleo taught me. Not so I would think less of Africa. Not so I would turn my back on my heritage. So I would remember what happened. Embrace it. And understand.”
“Understand what, Sister?” Crazy Sardine’s voice floats over the stunned faces like a welcome breeze.
“Understand how we almost saved ourselves, and how we tore ourselves apart. Understand that we first have to be loyal to each other, and stand together against those who would use us and kill us, and tell us what’s right and what’s wrong. Wherever we are, we have to live with the values of others, but keep our own. We need to live black lives even in a white world. With our own history. Our own traditions. Our own worth. We have to remember what came before guns and steel. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours . I’m Ruba Jones, daughter of Circe Cleo and James Howard Jones, and I remember.”
“Amen,” someone says.
My heart nearly stops.
That someone … it was Grandmother Jones. The very woman who has been telling me to let go of my past.
Her face looks tense and serious, but she is smiling. A real smile. For me.
My hands start shaking.
I realize Crazy Sardine is on his feet. Everyone is standing, and beginning to sing. Grandmother Jones stands, too, and she measures me with her gaze. Opens her arms—and glass explodes into the sanctuary.
Songs turn to screams.
Rocks thrown through the stained-glass windowsgouge the wall beside me.
People duck. Dodge. Drop to the floor. Clay, Gisele—I can’t see them. My hand smacks my waist where my knife would be, if I were in Haiti.
Grandmother Jones pulls me down in front of her, between the first two pews. Pastor Bickman and the visiting men press against a wall and edge toward the door beside the altar. I can see them from under the pew, between the wooden braces.
Hoots and shouts rise outside.
“Y’all listen up in there,” growls a voice I’ve heard once before. On a beach. Talking to his son.
“Listen up and listen nice. No interrupting.”
Frye.
Leroy Frye.
Chapter Seven
Sunday, 10 August 1969: Night
Pastor Bickman stands between us and the broken windows, his back to the sanctuary and his Bible in his hand, as if to shield us all. He shouts through the gaping holes in windows when he speaks. “We have no quarrel with you. Leave us in peace.”
Through one of the broken windows, dead center in the jagged hole that once had been
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