Little Slave Girl

By Janet lilethia Harvey

My mother is gone. I start screaming. I run to the porch and look down the path to the road.   Where, I can see the back of her head. Mama is gone. 

I screamed and screamed, but she did not come back. She kept on walking until she disappeared into the shrubs. Someone grabbed me from behind, before I tossed myself down the steps to ran after her. The arms were strong. My fight was useless; I was put into the room, where I cried, where I tried to make sense of it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janet lilethia Harvey
• Release date: Dec 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215668610

Janet lilethia Harvey

Janet. L. Harvey lives in Thornhill, Ontario, Canada. She has had numerous poems published in a variety of Canadian and US magazines and international anthologies, including: Wisdom of ages, Sterling Silver, Feminine Magazine, Word Dance, Stella Showcase Journal, Spirit of Humanity (Artist for a Better World), Night Whispers, Exit99,Gotta love them (Old Mountain Press), Borderless Skies (CCLA), and Cross Culture (Black Mail Press). Janet is Poetry Canada’s Global Contest Winner. Canada’s 150 birthday award winner with poem Dare to Dream. Books by Janet Lilethia Harvey Angels Don’t Cry Tears of an Immigrant Reflection of Passion Forever Love Hello Heaven

Book preview

To Zion and Morgan;

Dream bigger than the best you can

and never give up your day dream Always try one more time .

Prologue

Mama,

Mama,

Mama, I screamed as loud as I could.

I screamed as if my life depended on it because it did, but my mother gripped her bags and kept on walking. She did not turn around. She walked down the path between the bushes that led from the house onto the main road.

She did not even raise a hand to acknowledge she heard or say she will be back before I know it. Mama just kept on walking until she was entirely out of sight.

It felt like death. An indescribably deep pain dug into me- it sliced through my heart straight to my soul. I could not figure it out.

Why? Why was this happening? Why mama would leave me did not make any sense. I pleaded for her not to go, but it made no difference. I wished that somehow she would have changed her mind, scrapped her plans, and taken me home. It did not happen that way. She betrayed me –she left.

During the cold and lonely nights that followed, I cradled the dark emptiness inside me the best I could. It’s a terrible feeling; it was as if I had been parachuted out of a helicopter into an unknown country where nobody spoke my language. How could I ever be the same again after being this traumatized?

I was waking up in a strange bed, in an unfamiliar room, and seeing people. I had never seen it before in my life. This was a nightmare, I tried, but I could not seem to shake off the fact that this was no dream.

One

I was in a deep sleep when I was shaken awake, by a firm hand on my shoulder. Wake up, Mama whispered. It would help if you get ready now, don’t forget. We are going on a little trip. We will catch the train this morning.

Hmm, I moaned

Train, what train? was my first thought; I don’t think I would have forgotten this. (Mama telling me about going on the train). I would have been so excited and not slept at all. I have never been on a train before. Every day I watched the train from the verandah as it snakes its way into the distance. Brother Clive said it came from Montego Bay, going to Kingston, and at night, I would watch it go back to Montego  Bay again, full of passengers. Some even ride on top of the train. I see the light inside the windows, it moves very fast like lightning. I love the Chaka, Chaka, Chaka, as it jolts, squeaks, and blows its horn. In no time, it weaved by. I watched until I could see only a speck worming its way through the cane field of the Appleton estate.

That is where grandpa worked since he was a boy of 19 years old. He worked as a  cane cutter, he chops down the cane, then the tractor loads it into trucks, which transports it to the factory. Where it is washed and crushed to subtract the juices; the juice is then processed to make sugar, rum, and molasses.

Wake up, she said again, so soft as not to wake anyone else up. It was pretty early in the morning. I pulled the curtain aside and looked through the window; it was jet-black outside. I’m hanging my feet off the edge of the bed as I rub my eyes, trying to get the sleep out of them. Mama is busy doing this and that. One minute, she is in the living room, then the kitchen, then the bedroom again. I glance around at the sleeping body of my brothers and sister in the bed. I feel special as I am the only one going with mama on the train.

Mama suddenly appeared. Put this on, she said and handed me a new pair of soft white socks with lace above the ankle. Mama clunks a pair of black shoes on the floor beside the bed. It is my shoes. I guess she bought them before because I’ve never seen them before. As I was fumbling with the socks, she patted my head and said, let me comb your hair, She began to untwist the braids with the tip of the comb. She pulls the comb through my long hair as I cradle my head in both hands. My scalp is tender. I winced. Fortunately for me, my father is Indian, and my grandmother is of English descent. I’ve inherited soft easy-to-manage hair. I guess I got that from my dad’s side of the family. My dad’s mother’s sister Aunt Bell has long black flowing hair down to her waist.

I cannot say what grandma Ruth’s hair looks like, as she had always worn some head cover whenever I saw her, which is not very often. Grandmother Agatha’s mother died while she was very young; it does not take much to tell; she is the descendant of those English plantation owners that captured the island in the 1800s, long before I was even born. And maybe long before she was born as well. The Spaniards were the first to invade the island in the 1700s, then the English came, and for some reason, England owned Jamaica until its independence in the nineteen sixties.

Mama separated my hair the way she always did, and I would not say I liked it. Three sections in the front, one on top of my head, two at the back, and I wish she would clasp my hair in one, with an elastic, then decorate it with a ribbon. That is what I always wanted but never got. Grandmother does my hair beautifully, just the way I like it. She separates hair into two halves from ear to ear. She clasps the hair on top in one magical swoop, leaving the back hanging, and then curls small sections one by one. Until I had a bunch of ringlets at the back of my head, I did not stop playing with them.

Where are we going? I ask, but mama is hurrying. She does not answer. I stood up and let her dress me. My mother and I always seem to be going somewhere. When we were all dressed and done, she picked up the bags, threw them over her shoulder, and we left through the back door. I followed like a little sheep. We walked over the rocky path until we got to the road, where the pavement was smooth. We had to pass Mrs Martin’s house, and there is something about that woman. I cannot stand her. She gives me the creeps. My grandmother does not like her either. She would cook food and bring little containers for my grandfather. Once I saw grandmother tossing it to the animals. The dogs and the chickens eat at it. We got to the Catholic school before mama spoke. We got up early so we could be first in line to get on the train, she said.

Ok, I said, walking against the foggy morning—no one in sight, only the two of us. We must be pretty early, mama, I said. I was looking straight ahead and