Backroads to 'Bethlehem': Odysseys of the Maroon Warrior, in the Shadows of the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade

By William Smither

It is 1693, during the waning days of a militaristic, fugitive slave village in northeastern Brazil and the widening landscape of Maroon Wars in Jamaica. There exists a patchwork of shared morality and beliefs among the myriad mix of West African tribes and the indigenous peoples of Latin America and the Caribbean.

 

In Colonial Brazil, the beliefs of various Taino Indian and West African blend, influenced by nearby Jesuit Orders such as the St. Raphael Mission. This contributes to the Maroon culture’s interpretations of burial customs and visitations of “shadow people” or spiritual presences. Later, in Jamaica, as with ancient West African and Ashanti cultures, the silk cotton tree plays an important role in the village of Akrafena and the Casa Cadiz Plantation. From the Nine Night ceremony and beliefs in survival after death to roaming spirits of the dead, the tree—also called the Spirit Tree, God Tree, and Devil Tree—emits evil spells as well as spiritual inspiration for prevailing forces that drive the various Maroon characters and conflict.

 

Inspired by actual events, this novel offers a portrait of sustained and conscionable slave rebellion in Colonial Brazil and Jamaica at the cultural crossroads of myth and reality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Feb 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781458221605

William Smither

William “Duke” Smither, is a U.S. Navy Veteran (Vietnam Era, Cuban Blockade, Cuban Missile Crisis), native of Frankfort, KY, resident of Richmond, VA and retired Sr. Investigator (Corporate Security) for Dominion Energy. As a freshman at Virginia Commonwealth University (VCU), majoring in Journalism, he was a sports reporter for VCU’s newspaper and sports & feature writer for the Richmond Afro-American Newspaper. With the help of his devoted wife, Sharon, in raising three kids, working rotating shifts, and attending evening college, he later graduated with a B.S. Degree in Organizational Management from St. Paul’s College (Lawrenceville, VA), returning to VCU for postgraduate studies in Criminal Justice Administration. Independent studies in African and African-American History led to “Backstreet Djeli’s Blog,” the history-related journal he created at www.backstreetdjeli.com, and duties as contributing writer for “Blackpast.Org,” the web-based reference center for African-American History, at www.blackpast.org. In retirement, this active grandfather of six became heavily involved in faith-based community theater productions as an actor, playwright and director for plays within the scope of Afrocentric perspectives and socio-political commentary, as well as the passionate storytelling monologues he often calls the “…’Missing Pages’ from our classroom history books, within the unique stories, legacies and contributions of our ancestors.”

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Copyright © 2018 William Duke Smither.

Author photo by Lifetouch, Inc.

Maps by Ed Davis.

Silk Cotton Tree from ThinkStock.com

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except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture quotations are from the ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English

Standard Version®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry

of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Abbott Press

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-2161-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-2160-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018900968

Abbott Press rev. date: 06/20/2022

DEDICATION

In Honor Of:

My Wife, Sharon,

My Sons, Kenyatta and Douglass,

My Daughter, Tanya,

My Grandchildren,

Family, Friends- and All My ‘Cousins’- And, their faith in me...

With Profound Awe and Respect

For the Journey of Our Ancestors,

On Whose Shoulders We All Stand…

Thanks Be to God, Our Divine Creator.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1     The Road To Recife

Chapter 2     Spirits Of The Ndongo

Chapter 3     Return To Palmares

Chapter 4     Porto Calvo Rendezvous

Chapter 5     The Ballad Of ‘Troy Preto’

Chapter 6     The Battle At ‘Black Troy’

Chapter 7     The Ghost Of Paraiba River

Chapter 8     Voices From ‘Bethlehem’

Chapter 9     Troubled Waters, Peaceful Horizons

Chapter 10   Ripples… In The Wake Of Port Royal

Chapter 11   The Path To St. Raphael

Chapter 12   The Anointing Of Juju

Chapter 13   Escape To Xaymaca

Chapter 14   Trampling Through Paradise

Chapter 15   Destination Akrafena

Chapter 16   Pedigreed ‘Dogs Of War’

Chapter 17   Beyond Myths… Notions Of Reality

Chapter 18   Henrietta’s Revenge

Chapter 19   Obeah Blessings Or Black Magic?

Chapter 20   The Last Day Of Nine-Nights

Epilogue

Historical Notes - BRAZIL

Historical Notes - JAMAICA

Author’s Note

About The Author

CHAPTER ONE

THE ROAD TO RECIFE

Until the lion tells his side of the story, the tale of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.

--Igbo/ Nigerian Proverb

D uring the dwindling days of December, in 1693, at the Quilombo dos Palmares , a military camp of Maroon resistance fighters in Northeast Brazil, the sleuthing Okafor family- Labaan and Ziraili, his pretend wife- were finalizing plans for another recon probing mission into the City of Recife, capital of the state of Pernambuco.

The southern hemispheric trade winds, ushering in fewer vessels from the West African Kongo Kingdom, lacked its usual pronouncement of slave ship arrivals- the pungent stench of ‘human cargo’- long before you could see them. The sweet-smelling zing of approaching rains and plunging coastal temperatures, behind the puffy whiffs of darkening storm clouds gathering on the horizon, spawned new notions of a brewing war. A powerful armada of fully-rigged, Portuguese Man O’ Wars- frigates, caravels and carrack ships- sailed in the wake of the unfolding drama.

But, this time, its cargo was mostly seasoned terços infantry troops armed with matchlock muskets and rows of special-order muzzle-loading cannons, lashed down for the storm, but ready for battle. In the mammoth backwash of decades of failed search-and-destroy missions, they were heading straight for the bowels of the interior’s Serra da Barriga hills where Portuguese forces were planning another, long-overdue attack.

Image1ColonialNEBrazil7.jpg

Northeast Brazil, circa 1693 (w/ image insert of Maroon huts). Selected areas also shown, include (A) the Pernambuco Region: (1) City of Recife, (2) Porto Rico (a.k.a., Porto de Galinhas), and (3) City of Palmares; (B) the Alagoas Region: (1) Porto Calvo, (2) the fictional St. Raphael Jesuit Mission, (3) Quilombo dos Palmares (Uniao dos Palmares, circa 1605 – 1694, including Royal Fort and several satellite, militaristic villages), and (4) City of Maceio; (C) the Bahia Region: (1) City of Sao Salvador, and (D) Inset of South America also shown at bottom right. (Images Credit: Courtesy of Ed Davis, Illustrator. Used with permission. 2017.)

Already a beehive of seething rage and anger from past incursions, it’s where thousands of armed mostly African freedom fighters, the colonists called runaway slaves, roamed free and unconquerable within nearly 100 years of episodic narratives, hushed in the silence of Eurocentric denialism- but, hounded like wild boar by Dutch and Portuguese forces and fortune-hunters. The way the Maroons saw it, the settlers, their snobbish soldiers and slave hunting patrols, just couldn’t leave well-enough alone; thus, the Maroons were well-prepared for the settler’s assault.

The heavily armed Maroon village, a mocombo, itself a complex, self-governing blend of Bantu and West African cultures, was comfortably nestled between two mountains in the Alagoas/ Pernambuco backcountry, concealed within the rocky mountain region’s lush forests and patchy shrublands. Its citizenry was a mixed-bag of about 1,500 of the nearly 30,000 mostly African inhabitants. The village formed part of a quilombo, 8-10 similarly constructed mocombos strategically dotting the rugged mountain area, like wind-dispersed dandelion seeds.

Many hailed from great West African empires, including the Ancient Kongo Kingdom and Kingdom of Ndongo, as well as other tribes in Ghana, Benin, Mali, Gambia, Guinea, Senegal and Sierra Leon. Others, a potpourri of indigenous tribes in Brazil, emerging over time from regions contiguous to Pernambuco, the rugged Bahia and tropical grasslands of Sergipe. It was a motley but purposive mix of resistance fighters- a mishmash stew of not only Maroons seasoned in the art of guerilla warfare, but a smattering of white vagabonds, military deserters, criminals and derelicts- all escaping from society or the law. Many had never been enslaved.

The spoken language, too, was a patchwork of broken Tupi–Guarani, West African Yoruba, Afro-Brazilian, Spanish- and Portuguese-Creole with an overall upbeat, charming, yet obscure sound. According to previous invading armies, the dialects some called gibberish often defied the ability to distinguish between good intentions or impending doom. The Maroons were feisty fighters. And, over time, the myriad of languages, cryptic slang and guerilla combat skills devised some of the worst nightmares that Portuguese fighters often faced in the mountains, far away from the comfortable surroundings of the colonial settlements and captaincies they protected.

The challenging jungle landscapes often reminded Labaan of the matrix of human existence that his own people faced against the roving bands of vicious, societies of African mercenaries, from the Kongo and Ndongo Kingdoms. Perhaps the most fierce, fearless and frightfully cruel sect among them were several former Nugunza warriors of various Imbangala (Jaga) groups. The Imbangala were a militaristic alliance of warriors, Labaan’s ancestors. Some were simply marauding bands of opportunists, bent on plundering villages for women and gold, or slaves to sell. Some were notoriously cannibalistic. Some, like Labaan’s village, fought against the Portuguese invaders. And, yes, some even fought for the Portuguese. Yet, in Brazil, the skill sets of the Kongo Kingdom, the Ndongo Kingdom and the Imbangala were often united against their common, European colonial enemy.

Labaan’s childhood was mixed-cultural, Ndongo and Imbangala. He was born in the Ndongo Kingdom at a time when the ritualistic Imbangala laws (Quixillas) called for babies born inside their war camps to be killed. Women were not allowed to give birth, although essentially sexual servants, themselves. Instead, to restock the community’s trainable warrior lot, the Imbangala routinely captured teenagers in raids and skirmishes, forcing them into their armies via conscription. They were ruthless, yet humanly fraught with fears and frailties, as well as character and courage. In a sense, perhaps, they were the absolutely necessary, the sine qua non, and indisputable essence of passionate warriorhood, no matter what shifting alliances they hailed from, nor the curses or comforts of an earthly human existence. Imbangala children trained daily in the art of war and wore a special collar until they killed their first man in combat, which gave them full membership.

In Labaan’s case, within the scope of Quixilla law, his mother was allowed to leave the community to give birth. However, she could return, provided that she had given up her parental rights so Labaan could undergo the Imbangala’s vigorous initiation process. Otherwise, he was doomed at birth, or soon afterwards.

It was the brutal legacy of surviving child soldiers, chock-full of psychological and emotional abuse, seething rage and patterned violence of a bypassed youth in a perpetual, unwinnable war against the soul. Over time, the pain often subsides; but, its deep-seated wound never fully heals. At times, the pain comes back, oozing to the surface when the crusty scab is picked once more, by habit or mistake. Sometimes, like the pressure properties of stress, it’s just sitting there, simmering, like an old-timey pressure cooker with a faulty regulator and ferocious pressure, all swelled up inside, before it finally blows a gasket, or violently explodes.

It was this kind of mental scarring which Labaan was struggling to explain to Ziraili, before their mission to Recife- at least, the parts of his own life story he remembered or understood. He painfully recalled, "The Portuguese had called the Imbangala savages, but eagerly used us as hired guerillas, when convenient to carry out their evil biddings. Whether against the African or their own sickly selves… family, friend or foe didn’t matter. Greed and the results from greed, like profit and power, mattered most. Sometimes, just plain old chaos was the goal."

Imbangala were good at anything wicked or immoral, even selling captives in raids, and wars, to be used as slaves, like on the sugar cane plantations in the Madeira Islands and islands of Sao Tome and Principe, off the West African coast and, later, in Haiti, Cuba, Jamaica and Brazil. First, the Portuguese, then the Dutch, the Spaniards, and others that followed, like dancing with the Devil, himself- then, with a ‘last dance’ reserved for the Portuguese. Trading first, in sugarcane, then the gold, and other unspiritual things that followed. It was the mystic journey of heathens, body and soul, long before any spiritual searches within, no matter the womb from whence it came. No room for feelings or opinions, just obedience to the bonds of wickedness.

According to Labaan, it was the so-called ‘Christian heathens’ that troubled him the most. The holy ones among them used to say that the journey of some stranger, a man called Jesus, his undisputed love and noble service for others, furnished the footsteps that earthly beings should follow- to learn, to live, and to love by. Yet, within their own teachings of the Spirit Gods, some holy ones were pagan, too. As an adult, it was a difficult pill for Labaan to swallow, as he began his nagging search for peace and understanding from within. It’s when Ziraili became more than just a friend. She was the first-ever and only person he could trust and confide in, which scared him the most for a long time.

He could never reveal as much to any mortal, as he was now revealing to her. "Ya… Imbangala, too. And, me as well… all pagans, before the fair winds changed my course. Imbangala initiations, alone, were horrible. Sometimes, they were forced to eat parts of the people they killed or perform certain flesh-eating rituals, if those they conquered were worthy enough. At other times, we were forced to drink great amounts of intoxicating spirits, like your palm wines... sometimes, even the blood of our enemy, if they fought well enough! Imbangala also used torture and human sacrifice in certain ceremonies, like slaughtering goats or humans for the ancient gods, before the sickly pale-looking Europeans began tricking some of our leaders into believing their Christianity had stronger powers."

Sometimes, Labaan’s stories frightened Ziraili so much that it made her bladder weak. Yet, she always listened. In a strange way, no matter how gruesome, it was fascinating. Please, tell me more, more… she often heard the voice inside her head begging- words her mouth wouldn’t dare repeat- partly from being so mindful of wanting to run and pee, and partly because she feared, but was still excited by, the mysteriously compelling unknown which always came next.

At times like this, she’d simply tighten her pelvic muscles a bit, to keep from passing gas, and fix a corny smile across her face. Then, when her stomach and buttock muscles seemed to cooperate and relax, she’d manage to squeeze out a polite little fart and apologize. With a smug little smile, she’d keep on listening, as long as Labaan felt the need to share his riveting stories.

Labaan, always a keen observer of the eyes of a warrior in battle- but pathetically stumped by the eyes of a woman- was always baffled by Ziraili’s ciphered expressions. They usually told him nothing. They read each other like that, never bothering to share the dank, dark and deep reaches of their minds. They simply pretended it was nothing, a fleeting thought at best, and kept on talking- like bosom buddy couples, teetering on the edges of intimacy. Sometimes, he’d smile back, faking an understanding, further stoking the fires of ignorance, while nailing more barriers to a crucial sharing of the heart.

Once again, in his usual fogginess about her provoking Mona Lisa smile, he pretended to understand her smirks, and pressed on, I no longer had to wear my collar, when I was just ten years old. That’s when I made my first kill… enemy ‘Jaga’ were raiding our camp, looking for food and women, while I was looking for my mother, who lived in the base camp but differently than I… and disappeared in the ruckus….

Seemingly in a daze, he painfully recalled every detail, When I found her, this tall black monster, a skinny man-dog, who laid down his war club, was assaulting my mother inside her home. She laid stripped naked and weak, and already dying from some sickness we never knew… she could no longer even talk because of it, and was having a hard time seeing and hearing… though he couldn’t have known. She probably couldn’t understand whatever he was demanding… sex, perhaps? While beating and beating, slapping and cursing… sounds I still hear, at times… especially, the cursing, which…

He paused and, almost teary-eyed, he slowly retrieved more images from inside his head, I walked in on all this cursing… heard one more slap… Labaan’s voice trailed off. …I stood there at first, frozen, like in a dream… but, the slapping quickly woke me up. Shocked… and scared! Yes… but cunning like a tiger, when I realized what this gangly fool had done… standing over my mother, like some proud black jackal dog, ‘bout to pack off his prey… puzzled, leering… trying to decide how… not even knowing I was close behind him!

Raising the volume of his voice as he continued, Before he could turn around, I had snatched his wooden battle club… pouncing… just like my katas taught, I started with his head… heard it crack! But, on the ground, when slowly forcing his head around… I was jabbing his already-puffy eyes and long, scrawny neck… in his throat… his eyes bulged in shock, as I crushed the left eye, like minced crab meat, with the smaller end of his own war club…

Picking up the pace, measuring each phrase, almost shouting and animated at times, he blurted out, He screamed, like a woman in child birth: cursing whomever was listening… I was enjoying his shrilly noise… girly sounds… but, he was grabbing blindly for my eyes, while pawing at his own… then, reaching wildly for the air, way above my head…while I moved, like my katas taught… from the time I was four… like a tiger… working that war club all over, even down to his manhood… where his private parts were supposed to be… like I was taught… before I saw death in his eyes, before he was even dead. The fool laid there, like a whimpering puppy dog… his elbows, all busted up… snot, blood and creamy white stuff oozing from his ugly purple-black face… and bloodied gums where his raggedy teeth used to be….

Suddenly, almost in disgust, he slowed the tempo and described what he remembered most, "But all of that… that whole frightful look… all disappeared… when I saw my mother’s face… with peace… not like death at all, but like the flattering warmth of a rising summer sun… like a God, I imagined. She was gone. My mind told me so. And, it never takes me back there… without punctuating what I saw… just the essence of her beautiful face… like some God, it must have been… That’s when I first began to wonder about this Oneness of God, our Creator.

When I was only 10!

"It was the last I saw of her, my mother. But, I wasn’t worried… not because she was dead… our trainers often told us that, like tigers, Imbangla warriors were trained to leave our mothers, barely a year out of the womb… ‘The Village’ was our mother! The Jeli used to say... But, back then… it was that day I was thinking about… that God-awful ugly day when I was only 10."

That’s when I finally understood. ‘The Village’ was our mother…

Ziraili had never heard Labaan recall so much before. Sensing much more would follow, she merely nodded here and there, stroking his shoulder for encouragement, while he proceeded deeper into his thoughts.

And, I was only worried, because it was the first time I had ever been scared! That’s what frightened me, most, he said, slowing his pace again. "But, worry never numbed me since... Revenge was instant… not sweet, but sourly sweet, like raw honey and lemon sap. But, they still wouldn’t let me do the last ritual- and carve out his manhood- for his own mouth, even though I tried to go back and do it myself. ‘Village’ say… I need not worry. ‘Ogun’ did it for me. ‘Ogun’... My God of War and Weapons, and spirit of all things fair in battle."

That’s why I honor Ogun still, today…

Labaan told Ziraili that he never needed to consume human flesh, though she never truly believed him. ‘Ogun’ did that for him, too, he told her. The killing alone fulfilled his membership requirements and his collar was removed, with great ceremony. They called him a ‘man’ back then… a man-child, some used to say.

It’s what I remember most, from being only 10!

"When I was 15, many Imbangala were slaughtered and captured by other Jaga ‘wolf packs’, from a region east of the Kingdom of the Kongo. They caught us sleeping during the day, after several weeks of skirmishes and raids, ourselves. We, fought well… fought proud… But, bloodied and broken, we were still sold to the Portuguese- as slaves! Sold by people that looked like cousins! A slave? Never! Perhaps, t’was so for others… Fate? Perhaps.

But, a slave I’ll never be! My mind is always free!

"My mind is fresh on everything that happened…. But the killing day that finally made me a ‘man’ is blurry, at best, except for the way the sun seemed to rise... I even remember all of the faces that looked like cousins, each and every one; and the strange, pale-looking white ghosts they sold us to... and, them pens they kept us in, like wild hogs and dogs, until our bodies healed."

Yet, our souls stood still, trapped between this hell and somebody’s heaven…

I never forget what people look like- especially, the ones that healed, and the ones that marched us there- when we were put on stinking ships… ships that smelled like death, even after they salt-water cleansed them and sanitized the lower decks and ‘human cargo’ holds!

It was still the smell of death… a stench I knew too well, after meeting death at 10.

"Death, I understood…

"He was always hanging around me, like a friend you saw too much… But, the death I saw from the ways of the pale white ghosts… was no friend… made no sense at all. You see, the ones of us that didn’t heal were slaughtered like wild hogs… and, the earth swallowed them up- in large round holes, stacked like forest Pau-Brazil-wood logs, on top of one another. They wouldn’t even let us bury them, ‘because they knew we’d break free… and, slaughter them, instead…

But, it didn’t matter. My suspended, drifting soul painfully understood the sourly-sweet taste of delayed revenge- the reward we promised ourselves- if Ogun would only allow the pleasure of our covenant with him before we fought the final battle, wherever death might show its undeniable face. None of the ones who didn’t heal ever had a proper burial… None!

The fading voice was now an echo inside his bowing head. None… not even one… not even one… not one…, it said.

But, why has Ogun forsaken us, the ones that healed? Why… Why are we, the chosen warriors… why are we now the slave?

Ziraili, amazed, was still listening. Repugnant stuff, but fascinating.

"Then, before six months had passed, after I was 16, we arrived in Recife, on a smelly slave ship, named Hagfish, mixed with Igbo, Ndongo, Wolof, Yoruba, Fulani, Ashanti, Fante and many, many more… bodies weak, some minds still strong… on the splintered, woody deck below… shacked two by two, tightly packed, like stinking herring, past-ready for the market, and death hanging in the air… the constant smells of filthy urine, dung, blood and vomit hovered like pregnant storm clouds ready to burst… above those hellish cargo holds, below the clouds, the tribal howls, screams and clatter, and delicate pitter-patter of African princesses- our sisters… baptized in wretched woe!

"Our wives and mothers, too… in some cases- even grandmothers- escaping or resisting the evil which chased behind them… forever burned into your memory, the muffled sounds of vicious rapes, on creaking planks above your head, by sickly pale and feebly frail white ghosts, only strengthened our prayers to Ogun and our promise for revenge, as we voyaged into a black Hell, darker than even Satan could imagine… on a blacker-than-the-blackest journey where many died, some by suicide, some as sacrifice to Agwé, the green-eyed, Voodoo Spirit God of the Sea… others more brutal, in savage rebellion, like when death is near, until the belching of tiny deck-cannon roar- all the way from Hell- but, a faster road to the Spirit Gods, for some. For others, still the slowest road to Hell.

"Then, with feet on solid ground, again, but chained from neck to ankles like cows and wild animals, some continued on to Rio with slaves from Mozambique, to work on sugarcane plantations like Santa Iria, Santa Monica and Santa Rosa. But, I was chained to the group that stayed in Pernambuco, and herded like cattle, to work at Santa Rita, before many of us escaped to the hillsides. Later, after soldiers and paulistas forced our retreat from our first war camp, Oshun, the Spirit Goddess of Love, brought you into my life…. But, looking further back, it was that journey into Hell- NOT the day my mother died- when I became a man- not a ‘man-child’ but a man…"

Imagine. Me… at 16!

Ziraili wanted to stop him with a couple of questions she had, but decided against it, as she listened to his story, in gripping detail.

"Armed with a mirror of the evil Imbangala often dished out, I told Ogun I finally understood the toilsome idea of justice in war, against justice in peace. But, through earnest prayer and answers from Ogun, I learned that if good-faith bargaining for restoring peace fails, evil is sometimes rewarded with evil, to protect the innocence of the meek within their search for peace and understanding- and, the oneness with their own Spirit Gods, whomever they may be. But, he who strikes first must answer for the moral dilemmas that will surely follow. War is war and peace is peace and both have costs and benefits… but, in the end, it’s the ‘why’ of war which must be accounted for, within the etchings on the souls of those who strike first.

"Thus, I became a man when I learned to look at the inner cost to one’s soul, not external like the loss of one’s cows or cowry shells. Besides, true justice is at the tip of the spears of the Spirit Gods. It’s their nature, not ours. We mortals need to pray that on our backroads to the grave, we’re correct, within the eyes of the Spirit Gods, whomever they may be."

Ziraili, as when often listening to Labaan’s story, said nothing, not just enchanted or entertained- but, gripped in awe! His stories were authentic, sobering and uncomplicated- straight and to the point. She always remembered much, especially the pondering she finally understood, or thought she understood… even appreciated. When this happened, she always managed to eek out a rather blatant, barefaced grin; but, this time, she was also exhausted.

Even now, her facial expressions still baffles poor Labaan. Even now, he thought:

Oh, Ogun… if choosing between decoding the face of this here woman,

Against the eyes of a battle-hardened and worthy enemy from Hell,

Closing in for the kill… I gotta say, give me mortal combat, every time,

Surely, it’s got to be much easier. This woman’s eyes are impossible!

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The Okafor’s macombos, the main ‘fort,’ the Royal Fort, Macaco, was headed by Francisco Nzumbi, about 38 years of age, also rumored with lineal kinship to the fierce Imbangala, similar to the unit in the Lower Kongo that Labaan hailed from, but one of royalty. Although he personally knew and respected the Okafor’s, he made it clear that they should never publicly meet on business.

Even in secret, he mostly communicated through his personal emissary on war matters. This was through Caesar, said to be Imbangala- from a different, more morally deficient sect, east of the Kingdom of Kongo. Caesar would relay coded information to the Okafor’s and, on special occasions- like when Francisco sometimes needed to feel better about information coming to him from other sources- when he’d summon Labaan or visit him, unannounced.

On those rare occasions, it most always had to do with Caesar… yes, Caesar- his ambassador of war- being from a different Imbangala group, like the cousins that Labaan recalls- the ones that helped put Labaan in chains, before they all escaped the grips of colonial slavery in the Americas.

Olhos (eyes) was all Francisco needed to say to Caesar, when he was sending Labaan information to read; ouvidoa (ears) he’d say, when he was relaying sensitive information, verbally through Caesar, and olhos e ouvidos (eyes and ears) when both, Labaan’s presence was needed, immediately, or a heads up that Francisco would soon visit him, even unannounced- whichever came first.

Labaan, about 30 years of age, and Ziraili, some three years older, though highly trusted by Francisco to honcho covert spy operations in the past, like the one he needed now, were never fully comfortable with Caesar and the feeling was mutual. There are times, when I just want to wring his damn neck and cut him out of our communications link, altogether, or simply not deal with his pompous behind, for the sake of Paco’s safety, he once explained to Ziraili.

He knew the link was valuable and felt that Francisco not only felt the same, he knew their diligent reports, Labaan’s as well as Caesar’s, were valuable, too. They always provided meticulous detail, consistent with Francisco’s secret dispatches from his vast network of double agents whom, every now and then, triggered significant rise for concern. But, Labaan was the one he’d turn to first, whenever he needed to flesh out conflicting information, or simply feel better about information he already had.

Paco, the nickname Labaan and Ziraili dubbed Francisco, a somewhat second tier of security, between them only, was what the couple privately called him, long before others declared him Zumbi, King of Quilombo dos Palmares, in 1678. That’s when Zumbi replaced his uncle, Ganga-Zumba, the original king of the militaristic Maroons, who reportedly died a suspicious death, after accepting a controversial peace treaty, between the Maroons and the Portuguese Governor of Pernambuco.

Labaan, as well as Francisco, never trusted the Portuguese, either. It was rumored that Francisco had trust issues with his uncle, too, leaving Labaan with an even greater feeling about the bond between himself and Paco.

Ganga-Zumba, was the loosely translated Portuguese term, meaning Great Lord, possibly from a Kingdom of Kongo phrase, meaning an individual responsible for the spiritual defense of a nation. Ganga-Zumba was the brother of Sabina, Francisco’s mother, both rumored to be in the royal lineage of the Kingdom of the Kongo, before captured in war against the Portuguese army, shipped off to Brazil, and eventually enslaved, before Labaan, at Santa Rita, the sugarcane plantation, then controlled by the Dutch, before escaping to the mountains.

In 1693, 15 years after Ganga-Zumba’s death, and nine years after Labaan and Ziraili met, they were still using the nickname they gave Francisco, while complying with his wishes to validate various new observations on the Portuguese military buildup, trickling in from his far-flung, checkerboard of spies. Paco’s deep-rooted distrust of the Portuguese stemmed from years of patterned broken promises and failed assaults within their efforts to snuff out the mostly black macombos of Palmares. Just a few years earlier, between 1680 and 1686, the Portuguese had launched six expeditions to conquer Palmares, but miserably failed in each attempt. Yet, once again, Francisco was in need of the Okafor’s services.

Preparing for the new spying mission, Caesar relayed Francisco’s concerns to Labaan, with Ziraili listening, "Ouvidoa"… Going from after sun-up to just before sundown, allowing for proper rest and time to find food in the wild… Recife is normally a four-day, overnight trip from the Royal Fort. "But, scouts say paulista patrols, Dom Pedro’s (Portugal’s King Peter II’s) hired goon squads, have been combing the area, hunting for runaways. You should probably use the backroads through the wild bush, mountains and river banks. It’s longer, but can sometimes be about the same or even shorter with the many dugout-canoes your people have hidden along the way. Catching ox-cart rides with farmers along the way helps, too. Not the popular way, but even paulistas won’t risk the tactical disadvantages the backroads present for the Portuguese’ gaudy armies, or their goon squad units. Bury your weapons just before you enter Recife… Oh yea, take young Yakubu and Rachida along, again, for cover. Colonials won’t be looking for good looking ‘families’, slave or free, ‘hiding’ in such plain view. Why? Because they be idiots with fat egos! And, wear shoes or sandals. Not wearing either is a giveaway that they might be looking at a runaway slave, not free people. You don’t need the extra troubles. Plus, make sure you dress in the manner of colonials."

Immediately, Labaan wondered to himself: Why is this fool relaying such specifics? He, as well as Paco knows of our previous successful forays into Pernambuco! We’re not stupid! Why the detail? Is this coming from this fool or from Paco? But, either way, not a problem. I always know how to validate any suspicions. Paco knows this, too. If this is coming from this fool, with any kind of evil intent… His time on this earth is short, for certain… I will make sure of that…

Francisco also wanted their pretend teenagers, Yakubu and Rachida, to tag along for the new mission. Both were cafusos (offspring of African and Indians), about 15 and 13, respectively, and orphaned from a Bahia Tapuia Indian village destroyed by Dutch troops, before the Portuguese adventurers and mercenaries regained control in Pernambuco. In recent months, although from another macombos, they joined the Okafor’s as son and daughter apprentice-observers, further extending the reach of intelligence-gathering opportunities for the family. In the process, the four sleuths had developed a special bond with each other, as well as unique relationships with nearby mixed-race coastal settlements, mostly male Portuguese and Dutch colonizers, with African, Afro-Brazilian and Indians, slave and free.

Paco once said, what Ganga-Zumba long observed and reminded him, "… within the colonial settlements, shortages of white women increased the likelihood of strong-willed but morally weak white men sexually exploiting Brazil’s African and Indian women, slave and free, with no ramifications, legal or moral, for rape. Yet, from what Jewish and Dutch travelers in the Americas have observed, the oddity of color in one’s skin didn’t seem to mean the same, racially, like those of the profound nature, in the colonies of their North American neighbors. Many kosher relationships existed between white colonials and brown or black women in Brazil, slave and free… like from cooking, washing and general household chores, to concubine and caretaker duties… but not whoring."

Slavery in Pernambuco or Brazil may have had a little softer social side than in North America, but slavery was slavery, just the same and just as shameful.

Among non-whites, the sting of racism was still a functional reality, especially when high-minded, exaggerated feelings of superiority caused some white colonials to simply skip the awkward ‘birds and the bees’ talk with their teenage sons, steering them to sexual pleasing ‘apprenticeships’ with slave women, instead. It was only part of the long list of atrocities that Ziraili, and thousands like her, had escaped from. At various macombos social gatherings and, when possible, even within ho hum daily work routines, such cruelty and related opportunities for revenge were among the many issues routinely discussed, over warm, soul-comforting feijoada (black beans and rice with pig parts, beef and onions) and chorizo (smoked pork sausage), chased with soothing fragrances and concoctions of home-brewed cachaça (Brazilian Rum).

After Caesar had completed his official duties and departed, Labaan teased, winking and grinning, Ziraili, do you think your other menfolk will save us some of that cachaça you made, for when we return? Recife is a long way away and I know your rule about keeping our minds clear. So, I realize the cachaça will have to wait until we get back... uh, but we shouldn’t have to suffer from the lack of a little feijoada and some funning, too.

Hush... go way, fool… with all the work we gonna do, that’s all you got on yo’ mind? I declare… don’t worry, for sure you’ll will be waiting on the feijoada, because we’re only packing chorizo, corn and coconut meat. Look, you silly African, since you so crazy ready to have some fun, already, you can chase down some of them wild pigs in the forest to eat, or whatever else you can do with them, on the way. Ziraili sounded a little too serious to Labaan, and the smirky smile on her face, as usual, meant nothing.

Whoa… What else you declare woman? You be the boss only when I say so, Labaan joked, reaching for Ziraili’s silky jet-black hair, spilling over her right breast, gently down her back, all the way to the slightly plump but firm waistline… where his eyes halted. Yet, it was her smooth, dark olive complexion, stemming from her African and Amerindian ancestry which was more often the target of Labaan’s somewhat bawdy teasing. And, your cinnamon chocolate jungle skin just makes me croon for the moon— even at noon!

Silly African! How can someone sing for the moon at noonday? Now, go way fool…, pulling away from Labaan’s grasp, while he stood there, looking foolish with his famous blank stare.

Ziraili was sometimes hurt by Labaan’s ribbing, but always took the high road, choosing to mask her true feeling, due to her role and round-the-clock responsibilities caring for others in the ‘family’.

Actually, of all of the husbands I’ve been blessed with, I love the way my Labaan makes me feel the most… always have. Seems there’s never a good time to let him know... I mean really let him know. Except for the forest, we have no real privacy.

Things are not like Tupi customs I once knew, not that raw, not that wild... Yet, Juci, my peoples’ Moon Goddess Queen of Love must know this sun-kissed, African half-breed’s bronzed-tinged skin and short, kinky-soft curly hair, sometimes makes my heart quiver like a bow string. And, he smells so sweet, like honeyed Acai berries and coconut oil, when he’s hugging on me.

Ooh la… takes my breath away! That way he talks… with those light brown-honey eyes! I see those mongrel Portuguese whores going around patting their hearts and wiggling their tiny behinds when he’s talking business to their menfolk. Must be that fake sexy lingua he be using. Whew! Truth be told... gets to me, too!

You crazy, go way fool, Ziraili added, pretending to focus on the task at hand. Go way, now, before the kids…. Pausing, surprised at Rachida and Yakubu entering the hut, but relieved, never wanting to be caught in any awkward cuddling.

Wow, y’all at it again? We ain’t stupid. Rachida laughed, interrupting the banter.

As if on cue, Yakubu chimed in, Quick, Rachida, hide the knives and find the axe, before Zira finally makes good on her promises! Remember what Zira promised when she pressed that hunting knife against Labaan’s throat, reaching for that axe on the floor at the same time, the last time he joked about her mother’s skin color?

"Remember? How could I forget?