Read Online The Spirit Keeper by K. B. Laugheed - Free Book Online
Authors: K. B. Laugheed
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many more washings they would endure.
But then a young woman Tomi identified as her daughter offered me an armload of new clothing—a soft doeskin shift, two loincloths, a pair of buckskin leggings, and e’en some thick-soled Indian shoes. I accepted these gratefully, but as I began to don the shift, Tomi delicately pointed out that when a person is given a gift, it is customary to give a reciprocal gift in return.
I was stunned for a moment, embarrassed once again, but I really didn’t know what to do. “I have nothing to give but my old clothes,” I told Tomi. When she translated this to her daughter, the girl eagerly began snatching my damp things from the bushes. I wanted to protest, but held my tongue. No matter how hard it was to say good-bye to the style of clothing I had worn all my life, I knew it was for the best. Those things were poorly suited to the journey ahead, and Tomi’s daughter seemed delighted to have them. I only hoped she would not feel cheated once she got a good look at the thin cloth.
Amongst the belongings I had packed in preparation for running away from home were a brush and comb. I sat in the sun on the riverbank, working the knots out of my wet hair, as a crowd of girls and women gathered ’round, for my fame had drawn in every female who could think of an excuse to come gawk at me. All were dazzled by my cascading curls, and each wanted to take a turn brushing my hair. Oh, how they chattered and clucked, the way I’ve seen chickens chattering o’er a newly hatched chick! The younger girls giggled endlessly at the way they could pull a curl out straight and watch it bounce right back into a curl when they let go.
The kindness and camaraderie I felt with those women was unlike anything I had e’er experienced. In my youth my hair had more oft been a source of pain than pride, as my brothers and sisters relentlessly pulled it or mocked me about how unkempt it was. When I was very young my hair made me look always like a ragamuffin, for my mother was too busy to tend to anything as trivial as the combing of my rat’s nest and when she did make the effort, she was usually very short of both time and temper.
One of my earliest memories is that of having my mother scream at me to keep still as she yanked a comb through my matted curls. Tho’ I could not have been more than three, she scolded me for failing to care for my hair myself. Every time the pain of her pulling grew so sharp that I squirmed, she jerked the comb to tear a handful of hair right out of my scalp. I can still see those wads of bright red hair rolling on the floor and I can still feel the intense humiliation of the torture as it went on and on. Thus I learnt early on to view my hair as a source of shame and suffering, which is why I wore it tied in a tight bun, modestly covered with a daycap.
How different things were in the warm sunshine on that riverbank, surrounded by mostly naked women whose touch was so gentle, whose admiration was so apparent.
E’en after the ladies had all taken a turn playing with my curls, the bulk of my hair was still wet, and I hesitated to tie it in a knot for fear it would remain damp for days. At the same time, I was reluctant to leave my hair loose, because that was, to me, tantamount to walking ’round half-naked. But when I remembered the women I was with not only left their hair loose but were, in fact, half-naked—well, I decided that if they could do it, I could. I walked to the village with my entourage of new friends, lifting my face to the sky, enjoying the cool breeze that pulled the warm sunshine into my curls.
But as soon as we began encountering other people, all immediately stopt whate’er they were doing to stand and stare at me. Conversations dissolved in mid-sentence, children froze in mid-skip, faces appeared in doorways, drawn by the sudden silence. I hesitated, suddenly as self-conscious as when the women first saw me naked.
Then I saw Syawa.
He and Hector
But then a young woman Tomi identified as her daughter offered me an armload of new clothing—a soft doeskin shift, two loincloths, a pair of buckskin leggings, and e’en some thick-soled Indian shoes. I accepted these gratefully, but as I began to don the shift, Tomi delicately pointed out that when a person is given a gift, it is customary to give a reciprocal gift in return.
I was stunned for a moment, embarrassed once again, but I really didn’t know what to do. “I have nothing to give but my old clothes,” I told Tomi. When she translated this to her daughter, the girl eagerly began snatching my damp things from the bushes. I wanted to protest, but held my tongue. No matter how hard it was to say good-bye to the style of clothing I had worn all my life, I knew it was for the best. Those things were poorly suited to the journey ahead, and Tomi’s daughter seemed delighted to have them. I only hoped she would not feel cheated once she got a good look at the thin cloth.
Amongst the belongings I had packed in preparation for running away from home were a brush and comb. I sat in the sun on the riverbank, working the knots out of my wet hair, as a crowd of girls and women gathered ’round, for my fame had drawn in every female who could think of an excuse to come gawk at me. All were dazzled by my cascading curls, and each wanted to take a turn brushing my hair. Oh, how they chattered and clucked, the way I’ve seen chickens chattering o’er a newly hatched chick! The younger girls giggled endlessly at the way they could pull a curl out straight and watch it bounce right back into a curl when they let go.
The kindness and camaraderie I felt with those women was unlike anything I had e’er experienced. In my youth my hair had more oft been a source of pain than pride, as my brothers and sisters relentlessly pulled it or mocked me about how unkempt it was. When I was very young my hair made me look always like a ragamuffin, for my mother was too busy to tend to anything as trivial as the combing of my rat’s nest and when she did make the effort, she was usually very short of both time and temper.
One of my earliest memories is that of having my mother scream at me to keep still as she yanked a comb through my matted curls. Tho’ I could not have been more than three, she scolded me for failing to care for my hair myself. Every time the pain of her pulling grew so sharp that I squirmed, she jerked the comb to tear a handful of hair right out of my scalp. I can still see those wads of bright red hair rolling on the floor and I can still feel the intense humiliation of the torture as it went on and on. Thus I learnt early on to view my hair as a source of shame and suffering, which is why I wore it tied in a tight bun, modestly covered with a daycap.
How different things were in the warm sunshine on that riverbank, surrounded by mostly naked women whose touch was so gentle, whose admiration was so apparent.
E’en after the ladies had all taken a turn playing with my curls, the bulk of my hair was still wet, and I hesitated to tie it in a knot for fear it would remain damp for days. At the same time, I was reluctant to leave my hair loose, because that was, to me, tantamount to walking ’round half-naked. But when I remembered the women I was with not only left their hair loose but were, in fact, half-naked—well, I decided that if they could do it, I could. I walked to the village with my entourage of new friends, lifting my face to the sky, enjoying the cool breeze that pulled the warm sunshine into my curls.
But as soon as we began encountering other people, all immediately stopt whate’er they were doing to stand and stare at me. Conversations dissolved in mid-sentence, children froze in mid-skip, faces appeared in doorways, drawn by the sudden silence. I hesitated, suddenly as self-conscious as when the women first saw me naked.
Then I saw Syawa.
He and Hector
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