Shackles Across Time

By Odie Hawkins

Shackles Across Time traces the history of a curse, of a spiritual fatwa, in a sense, on an African slave traders family in West Africa, and the subsequent effect of that curse on the family, over the course of three centuries.

Modern technology helps the descendants to realize that something is not cool with their spiritual DNA, but they must use olfashioned means to cope with the problem.

They engage the services of a well-known writer (a case of serendipity, he has written about their family in his book about the Trans Atlantic Slave Trade). The mediator is called an okyeame.

The okyeame meets with the descendants of the man who pronounced the curse and unfortunately, must undergo the spiritual cleansing necessary for him to be taken seriously.

His life is changed by his ordeal. It is also instrumental in having the curse lifted from the African slave traders descendants.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 19, 2008
• ISBN: 9781468568080

Odie Hawkins

Odie Hawkins was a member of the Watts Writer’s workshop that spawned the Watts Prophets, a collection of spoken-word artists, considered the forebears of modern hip-hop.He is the co-author of the novel “Lady Bliss,” and the author of “The Snake, Mr. Bonobo Bliss, and Shackles Across Time. 2011 he was a panelist at the Modern Language Assoc. at the Hilton, LA Live. Additional information may be found on Facebook page, his website:www.odiehawkins.com., his blog, and/or just Google his name.

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive, Suite 200

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2008 Odie Hawkins. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 5/30/2008

ISBN: 978-1-4343-7540-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-6808-0 (eBook)

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

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Epilogue

Many thank yous to LeRoy C. Preminger for his excellent advice and super editing skills,

to Merilene M. Murphy for her joy and fire, and

Shout outs to the inimitable

Charles P. Howard III,

a capital wizard.

The mistakes are all mine and I am guilty.

1

M orning, Bob. How many awready?

Gotta busy day. Started … out late. Only five this mornin’…

I don’t … see how you… do it. I can.. barely do… two….

Well, you know… the old saying… the more you … do… the more you… can do…

Yeahhh, I’ve heard that.

See ya later.

Robert Quinn (of Quinn Products, Inc.) jogged past the older man as though he were a 440 man running a half mile.

Chicago’s near Northside Lakefront, from the grainy little beach in front of the Drake Hotel and back.

Nothin’ to it, a baby could do it. He studied the buildings on his left as he jogged away from the Drake Hotel, Oak Street Beach, along the real Outer Drive. Beautiful way to start any day.

Pushing it just a bit, he felt a familiar rush. The good vibe feeling of feeling good as he paced himself for the home lap. Homebound, he nodded and waved at a collection of familiar strangers whom he shared his 7 a.m. run with.

The two gay guys who looked like weightlifters, the 82 year old grandmother, the trio of African-American family members who always seemed to be laughing about something, Mr. and Mrs. Chin, the White woman in front of him that he had secretly nicknamed Ms. Blackboody.

He eased up beside her with a few powerful strides.

Hi, Sally. How’s it goin’?

He was never quite prepared to deal with the seductive look she flipped in his direction. How could a woman running on the lakefront, with no make-up, dressed in a pair of black leotards and a t-shirt, give anybody a seductive look?

But she could, and she did. And it simply boiled down to the fact that she was a very sexy White woman.

O, hi, Bobby. Funny I was just thinking of you.

He matched her, stride for stride for a few hundred yards. She wasn’t even breathing hard.

You say you were thinking about me?

Uhhhuh. I was just wondering if you were out here this morning? They exchanged smiles. You think I’d let you run out here by yourself?

Once again she gave him her seductive look.

Sally Bergmann, I’m Swedish on both sides, but we don’t brag about it. That’s typically Swedish, I think.

He could only recall two conversations they had had when they weren’t running. The conversations, one while he was strolling off a Saturday night hangover, and the other when he gave her a lift home with an armful of groceries, were heavily laced with suggestive expressions, her urge to let him know that she would be willing if he wanted to.

I just love this time of day, don’t you?

Yeahh. It’s my favorite time.

Mornin’, Bob!

Howzit goin’, George?

Can’t kick! Hah hah hah.

Jogging through the tree shaded streets of Rogers Park now, the familiar fraternity of joggers exchanged greetings, smiles.

They reached the corner and jogged in place, waiting for the light to change before going in different directions.

Well, guess this is where we part.

Coming out tomorrow?

If hell don’t freeze over and the crick don’t rise.

Hah hah. You say the funniest things. See ya tomorrow.

Bye.

He turned to admire Sally Bergmann’s behind. Yeah, lady has a lot of backfield there, no doubt about it. Once again he thought about what an affair would be like.

We would be hot as stolen pistols for a few months and then I would be just as sad as any other brother who had left a sister to fool around with a White girl.

Never known a brother who left a sister to fool around with a White girl who felt good about himself, or her, afterwards.

8:15 a.m. Dinah should be finishing her yoga by now. He smiled as he slowed his jog to a dog trot.

Wonder what Dinah would say about me running with Sally Bergmann? Probably nothing. She knows me too well. She knows I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize what we’ve built up over the past 25 years.

Robert, she’d never say Bob, I think the one thing I find terribly hard to forgive is the man who has a woman who goes through hell and high water with him, and then leaves her for some fluffhead who fills out a skirt better. If you did that to me, I’d put a curse on you.

I know she wouldn’t do anything that stupid. Well, I don’t think she would.

But then again, I bet she would too. The smile widened into a full fledged grin. Who in the hell could fill out a skirt better than Dinah Ellis-Quinn?

Ten more blocks, a breeze stirring off the Lake, Springtime in Chicago. Robert Quinn, the President and CEO of Quinn Products, Inc., gave himself permission to gather wool as he revved up for the last laps of his morning jog.

Dinah is putting a beautiful little breakfast together, heavy on the fruit and bran.

The older a man gets, the more fiber he needs.

Is that all an older man needs?

Do you want to be late to the office the third time this week?

Kofi wouldn’t be up yet. But you couldn’t expect a jazz musician who played his last set at 2 a.m. to be up at 8 a.m. I don’t see how he does it.

The music is what carries me, Dad. It’s a high by itself. I think that’s what makes it so hard for me to understand why so many of the ol’ timers, people like Bird, Miles, Bud Powell, Chet Baker, ‘Trane, Monk, all those fantastic musicians, why did they feel compelled to use dope?

I think that’s a question each one of them would answer in a different way. But I’d be willing to go out on a limb and make a blanket statement; I’m sure racism had a lot to do with it. I mean, think about what you would feel like, knowing you were the cream of the cream and being treated like a trained seal every night, and having the society we live in think of you as a ‘talented nigger’ only.

Kofi Quinn, professional jazz pianist and, at 22 years old, considered a peg in the Art Tatum-Oscar Peterson-Monk mold.

Kwame is on his way to class now. I hope he doesn’t try to read and drive at the same time. That last fender bender was totally unnecessary.

Dad, what can I say? I’ll be more careful in the future.

Hey, man, it’s your car. You can mow the sidewalks with it, if that’s what you want to do.

Yeahh, I know what you’re sayin’. My problem was the sociology exam. I was focusing….

Hah hah hah, don’t try to bullshit me, son. You were reading. You’re always reading.

Kwame Quinn, 21 years old, a budding sociologist-genius at the University of Chicago.

Kwame, tell me, why sociology?

There’s a helluva need for African-American perspectives in sociology. Sociology is one of the most racist disciplines in academia; well, anthropology, history and psychology are definitely close seconds. In any case, we are needed, to keep them honest. I want to be a part of the movement to place our social picture in a clearer focus.

Dinah Ellis-Quinn, an Alpha sorority sister, chairwoman of four philanthropic organizations, community activist, housewife (I love my home), African art collector (let’s face it, African/African-American art is more than masks on the wall), entrepreneur, super mom, wife, lover.

He slowly eased into a walk a few doors from his palatial home. Damn, I’m good. Look at me, 50 good-lookin’ years old, money in the bank, productive, things going on in my life, a beautiful future.

He made a quick study of their four bedroom, three story home. Looks like one of those hip ol’ fashioned deals they have up in Evanston or Winnetka.

The wide, deep front lawn was neatly trimmed and bordered with his favorite roses, the ivory paint job on the brick and wood sunporch bright and gleaming.

He strolled up the circular driveway and detoured into the acreage behind the house. Uhh oooh….

The roses that bordered the back walk had been uprooted. He stood in place, his hands on his hips, for a pregnant minute, a film of perspiration on his face, more the result of frustration and anger than from exercising.

Bella. I wonder what the hell made her do it? He looked up slowly to a second floor bedroom window.

The face glaring down at him was demonic, strangely contorted.

Bella, if you weren’t my schizophrenic daughter, I’d come upstairs and stick my foot in your….

He waved casually to the face in the window and went into the house.

Well, here he is. I thought you had run away with that White girl or something.

Dinah peeked over the top of her Ben Franklins with a humorous glint in her eyes. Robert Quinn laughed and gave her a quick peck on the lips.

What White girl?

You know the one. The one with all that butter on her buns, who makes it her bidness to run as close to you as possible… every morning.

Who, how, where?

Your son, the sociologist, checked you all out a couple mornings on his way to class.

Damn, you can’t do nothin’ ‘round here….

Go on ‘n’ take your shower. I have some fresh pineapple for you.

Good. Be right back….

He started up the hallway to their bedroom and paused.

Dinah, you see the roses out back?

Once again, she looked over the top of her glasses, but the humorous glint was gone.

Yes, I saw them. I think we need to talk to her about that, and a few other things as well.

He nodded dumbly. Bella. Bella. Bella. Such a pain in the ass, such a burden. He stripped his sweaty running gear off and stepped into the shower, took a moment to adjust the temperature of the water and stood for a few meditative moments under the hard sprinkle.

Beautiful baby. Let’s call her Bella. Bright, sensitive, full of good humor, the baby of the family at 18.

That’s it, Mr. Quinn, no more pushin’ me out of shape.

It was almost ideal for a few years, two groovy parents, a couple slightly older, supportive brothers, a warm, caring family circle.

He began to soap his body. What happened? Was it the day he found Bella huddled in the closet of her room?

Bella, what’re you doing, sweetheart? We’re gettin’ ready to go to the beach.

How old was she? Eleven, 12 years old, the year she insisted on wearing her winter coat all year long?

Dinah thought it was because of her budding breasts. Girls can be terribly self-conscious about themselves at certain stages. I had a thing about my hands for a long time.

The boys didn’t agree. They had hemmed and hawed before Kwame, the forthright sociologist, was appointed the spokesman for the two of them.

Mom, Dad, we don’t think it’s about growin’ up, or any of that. Something is terribly wrong with our sister, up here.

It took another year for them to completely agree with their sons. He recalled the hell of that year, toweling himself dry.

Dad, I wish you’d talk to Bella about comin’ into my room and messin’ with my papers and stuff.

Mom, look, we’ve got to do something about Bella. She’s making life miserable for all of us. She lies about everything, you can’t leave anything around because she’s apt to throw it away, she’s sloppy and nasty. The girl leaves her sanitary napkins in the toilet stool.

Luckily she didn’t flush them down the way she did last time.

Dad, I want to talk to you.

What’s up, Kofi?

Well, I’m 21 now and I think it’s time for me to be on my own.

I don’t have a problem with that. It’s like I told you and Kwame a couple years ago, living is expensive, rent and all that madness. The only advantage we’re offering you by living at home is savings.

I know, I know, and we both love you guys for that, but… .

Yeahh, I know. Bella.

Don’t you think it’s time you had her checked out?

XXX

Oh, so you think I’m crazy, huh?

No, baby, nobody’s saying you’re crazy. The doctors just simply want to run a few tests, that’s all.

You can’t fool me. You all think I’m crazy. The doctors? Well, I’m not crazy! I’m not! OK!? OK?!

The tests and the doctors said the same thing, give or take a few hundred obscure words, more or less.

Doctor, give it to us in straight terms . What’s wrong with our daughter?

"Straight, you want it? I’ll give it to you straight. Bella is suffering from schizophrenia. I tend to say schizophrenic demons because that’s what it’s like for her, demonic.

She is paranoid-schizophrenic, on the cusp of depressive tendencies and she’s apt to get worse as time goes on. There are medications that we can use to… uhh… perhaps stabilize her condition."

They sat in shock for a few moments. How could someone in our family be mentally unbalanced? Kwame, the pragmatist, broke through the silence.

What causes this and how can it be cured?

"Good questions, both of them. We have some solid theories but nothing absolutely concrete. We’re fairly certain that genetics play a role in the development of this disease.

Understand me well. I’m using disease in the ol’ fashioned sense of the word — dis-ease. As for a cure…. Well, that’s problematic at this point in medicine. We have medications that will help her deal with the monsters she’s facing, but I have to be completely honest with you. We have no cure."

They included Bella in the family conference about how they were going to cope with her/their problem.

It’s the Africentric way. Isn’t that the way you raised us?

Yeah, like the patient should be in on whatever is happenin’.

So, I guess this means you two bums are not going to run off and leave your crazy sister, huh?

Aww, c’mon, Bella, get real. This is not the first time this family has faced up to a crisis. ‘Member when Mom lost her pearl and jade earrings?

Kofi, Kwame, beautiful brothers, succeeded in making Bella laugh about herself a few times.

Robert, your wheat bran is getting cold.

Coming, baby, coming!

I said, your wheat bran is getting cold, not me.

He smiled, pulling on a pair of ivory linen trousers. This woman is too much. After 25 years of marriage, she can still play the delicious flirt and make me like it.

They had conferences with Bella — it’s the Africentric way — and they had conferences behind her back.

Awright, Kofi, spit it out. What’s buggin’ you?

Dad, Mom, Kwame, I don’t want to see my sister in an institution, but what can we do to help her? Each of us has a life to live. We can’t continue to ignore the fact that she’s forcing us to live our lives according to her schedule. And her schedule is warped. We can’t fool ourselves about that.

I gotta go with my brother on this one. I mean, like, what if these voices Bella hears all the time should tell her to kill all of us in our sleep one night?

It was definitely some tricky shit. He settled on the white-on-white V-necked sweatshirt and Moroccan sandals to start his day in.

Robert Quinn of Quinn Products, Inc., an Africentrically inclined operation, which meant no Euro-pin striped suits, checkered ties or linear minds and, besides, he wasn’t going to any meeting with any of your normal go-to-the-office types.

Hmmm…. I can really see what that runnin’ White woman sees in you. You are fine, baby. I mean fine.

He pulled his wife to him and squeezed hard. It was love, lust, trust, and outrageously good feelings between them. He held her up against himself for a few moments, enjoying her woman-feel, luxuriating in the idea of such a gorgeously beautiful African-American woman — inside and out — belonging to him.

She’s mine…. He’s mine….

What is this, a sexout or something?! Huh? What is this?! What is this?! What the fuck is this?! What the fuck are you people doin’? Fuckin’?!

Bella’s appearance in the kitchen was like a jagged shaft of unwelcomed lightening. She seemed to enjoy watching them pull away from each other to cope with the disturbance.

Bella, don’t you have classes today?

Yes, I do. I don’t have to be there ‘til 10:30 a.m. Our first period teacher is out sick. She got raped!

They were floored by her ephemeral attitudes. One minute she seemed to be hostile, the next minute she was warm and loving. Dinah solemnly announced, It’s got to be a giant case of PMS. I think the doctors are looking at the wrong end.

Bella sneered — What about men? You have men who go through the same trip. And who is to say that men don’t have their own versions of PMS?

Dinah prepared an extra bowl of pineapple and wheat bran.

C’mon, let’s have breakfast on the terrace, you know, the way they do it in the fashion house beautiful cuisine magazines.

She enjoyed sending their lifestyle up. We ain’t no blackened booshies up in here. And doing everything she felt would make her family feel groovier and more solid.

Bella helped her bring out the trays of fruit, bran, orange juice, and sat at the breakfast table with a distant look on her face. It was becoming warm already, but the foggy night had left pearls of dew on the grass.

Ummm, baby, this shit is tasty.

Scratch out the nasty word and we would almost have a commercial.

I’ll think about it.

The three of them munched on their bran flakes for a few moments, lost in their private worlds. Dinah leaned back in her director’s chair and took a deep breath.

Bella, she asked gently, why did you tear the rose bushes up?

I didn’t do it, Mom. I saw them this morning and I asked myself — wonder who did that?

Robert Quinn stared up at a drifting cloud. Dinah Quinn bit her bottom lip and focused on not crying.

Are you sure you didn’t do it? Are you sure you didn’t pull up the roses?

Why would I want to do a thing like that? Bella asked, her face wreathed with innocence.

Robert and Dinah Quinn exchanged knowing looks. This was going to be one of their days with Bella. He polished off his cereal and fruit with a few angry spoonfuls.

Well, ladies, as they used to say — thank God for the cook, for all I ate and the rest I took.

Bella thought his remark was hysterically funny and laughed outrageously for a few minutes. Once again, the Quinns exchanged looks. What in the world are we going to do with this girl?

XXX

2

"I rma, we can discuss this when I