Sunset on the Horizon: A Jamaican Maroon Woman's Story

By Horlene Hanlan

Cubah, a woman who lives in London, attends a loved one's funeral in Kingston, Jamaica. She meets a Freedom Fighter who takes her on a journey that introduces her, to her own Sankofa through ancestors - The Windward Maroons of Jamaica. Quao, at the time was the democratic leader. He was Cudjoe's, the leader of ( the Leeward Maroons' counterpart. The protagonist meets Nanny, the mystical high priestess and leader of 'Nanny Town'. She learns about the details of the 1738 and 1739 treaties signed between both set of maroons and the British Crown. The story has a number of themes, love, hate, war, peace and so much more. It takes a close look at convicts, at first, sent as indentured labourers from England, Scotland and Wales who later became greedy, debauched settlers on the island. It examines the role of the Redcoats, House of Commons and the crown, growth and dependence upon the system of slavery to boost trade and wars against other European countries. Closely demonstrating that cities such as London, Bristol, Liverpool and Manchester needed the system of slavery to be prolonged or they would never have expanded economically. The tale delves deeply into the reasons Maroons 'had to' sign such treaties with colonial powers. This text takes its time to examine the social history of the people 'who came' together; to form a 'New World' on the island of Jamaica. it explores how decisions made in the 1700s still impact Jamaica and its people, home and abroad - today. The characters and events in this story take a journey - one that represents, TIME PAST, TIME PRESENT AND TIME FUTURE.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781446733639

Book preview

Prologue

O

mniscient, Gods of the present and Gods of the past, observed all things of no specific place, space or time.  They did not belong or unbelong. Instead, they basked in the glory of one source

-- Mother Nature. 

Birds tweeted tunefully whilst perched in trees near the peak of Long Mountain Range. They were a couple miles to the east of Jamaica's white sandy sea front. Two females stood in silhouette, their attention drawn to the valley where there was the hustle and bustle of a workforce that toiled on the Vineyard Estate.  The women heard the burble of the local river.  Its chorus, a symbol of hope and renewal, over boulders, down tributaries, it ducked and dove. Its journey spanning a labyrinthine of Time Past and Time Present -- catapulting itself into Time Future. 

The labourers, aware that their lives had little meaning to those in powerful places; did not stop dreaming about equal opportunities or the day they would hear the toll of Freedom's bell.  The day they would de-shackle -- mentally and physically.  The workers knew colonisers thought of them as 'fair game' but, they were not deterred from their goal.  After all, Mother Nature stimulated their ability to dream.  So, they continued to caress ideas of escape. They dreamt of the day they would be allowed to be. 

Gods of the mountains, rivers, skies, and seas, joined, becoming one ethereal force. On the Vineyard plantation, the beat of every heart was a chorus of talking drums that rose to a steady rhythm above exhausted hard-working body.

Da Dum!

Da Dum!

Da Dum!

From the earth's core Dondo Drums thudded and walloped a narrative that rose above rows of sugar cane. They caressed the sky and its burnt orange orb. On the hillside, similar sentiments were uttered by the long-memoried woman who stood speaking to her companion.  The drums pounded the Prologue. Each thud, an exposition of characters, and setting.  Thumping and thundering past an Introduction, meandering through the body, the Dondo Drums explicated about people and lands --White Man’s Grave -- the Gold Coast and New Babylon.  The goatskins described the coming together of two different people - Africans, and Europeans.  Their language translated into sound-pictures that twisted and turned along the Plot.

Diaspora children bore crimson-coloured stains of truthful volcanic sounds, that splattered the earth when they descended.  West African Speaking Drums pounded details of the silver-locked hair, straight nosed, archaic beauty's long-memoried tale -- marinated in love and marriage, as well as peace and war. 

The Dondo Drums smashed and crashed an eternal truth.  Telling the story of a naive people, trafficked from the Motherland.  Of unceremonious separation, from grandparents, parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, and worst of all, their offspring. The people on the plantation knew their bondage was the beginning of the end -- of eco systems, animal welfare, peace, and social conscience. They dreamt of remembrance while coming to terms with separation from their homeland. It, they knew would leave a lasting impact on the world. So, the men and women vowed first to their individual self, Patience. 

We time soon come. 

Until then, the enshackled men and women dreamt.  They worked and dreamt, dreamt, and worked. Forever clasping memories of their homeland which they pasted upon their hearts,

-- One day.  A mellifluous-voiced prologue bounced of leaves on trees far up the Long Mountain. Travelling east along Jamaica's forests, before reaching its Nyabinghi drumbeat's electrifying Epilogue.  Europe and Africa, the beginnings of a union, the 'New World' -- the procreation of a 'new tribe'; -- the near decimation of the Taino-Arawaks. The Dondo Drums gave credence to all untold testimonies.

Jah! Jah Mek Yah!

Jamaica!

As if it was time to be, the Dondo Drumbeat, the symbol of truth for African youth throughout the diaspora, like heartbeats, that neared the end of life's journey, danced a new dance with the Caribbean. 

See?  They wombed, and ebbed; folded and unfolded; lapped and unlapped; clapped and unclapped; splashed and crashed fulfilling their destiny -- slowing for an intriguing Conclusion of the story.

The softly spoken woman wanted young people to know, their lives did matter. Mother Nature's earth, fire and water would without doubt, set them free.  She wanted them to know, that their broken hearts would heal and most important of all, she wanted them to know that Mother Earth rules all peoples and all lives.  The waves of sound bowed before the real Queen -- Mother Earth, reverently. Breaking shackles, and chains, they aid -- History they would set all free.  gentle waves rocked and rippled themselves away from the 'Land of Wood and Water'. Leaving behind an elder woman speaking to a younger recounting the story of Africa's forgotten, Africa's stolen, Africa's abused, Africa's accused.  A people, scattered across the diasporic globe.  Serenaded by the rippling waves, the river headed toward a most glorious, most informative,

Sunset on the Horizon...

Introduction

C

louds formed in the misty sky above Waurika Hills.

Asinwah was a beautiful woman, the narrator asserted.

An Asante ready to reclaim her freedom.

She and other field hands sang work songs that cradled their fourteen-hour daily toil.  Singing was the plaster that soothed their wounded existences."

Really?  Cubah asked.

Labourers sung ballads which were manacled elegies about their dehumanised lifestyles.  A pained people. Whose ballads masked emotional turmoil -- a phoenix rises every five hundred years, you know, The archaic woman said wisely. 

So too, did the sorrowful lyrics that rose with their voices above the sugar can and their heads.

Cubah's companion turned to look in her eyes then continued.

The labourers were heard from east to west, from St Dorothy to St David.  Their songs, an inspiration to every man, woman, and child, to all who lived in the hardship of such a strict and unfair regime, you know.

Wow!

Yes.  Singing while working uplifted them all.  The elder woman said.

St David?  Cubah asked.

Yes.  That’s known as the parish of St Thomas now.

I did not know that.  Intrigued by the speaker, Cubah enquired further.

St Dorothy? 

Jamaica has been mapped differently since the 1700s Cubah.  St Dorothy was located to the north of St David. The elder explained.

Oh!  I thought Jamaica always had fourteen parishes.

No. It had more in those days.

I did not know that at all. Cubah said then shifted her body to stick a leg under her buttocks, making herself more comfortable.

M

any things have changed since those days my dear.  The food eaten, the number of parishes.  Even the social makeup of the people who live on the island." 

Hmmm... How interesting.  Cubah stated.

Yes.  For instance, our folk songs.

What about them? 

The younger woman's eyes widened with interest.

"Well,' the older female looked thoughtful.  She licked her shapely, full lips before continuing.

The songs you sang as a little girl are actually those sung by your foreparents. When life was tough, they created ballads and used them as work songs get through the adversities they faced.

What? Cubah was surprised.

You mean they used singing to appease the suffering on the estates? The young woman enquired.

Yes, our fore parents sung historic ballads on the plantation.  Those songs are our people's oral history.  Our truth. 

Silvery, white as snow locks, dangled, down the elder woman's shoulders. Her dark brown, even-toned skin, shone in the sun of Jamaica's eventide. The straight-nosed woman nodded her reinforcing her point.

Our fore parents sung requiems when they toiled.  She continued. 

"Wow!’ Cubah’s mind ran with the information. Then, she hesitated before pointing in the direction of the orderly landscape below where they stood.

On JBC, our only television channel in the 1970s, Maas Ranny and Miss Lou hosted a Saturday morning show called 'Ring Ding'.

JBC? Enquired the elder.

Yes, the Jamaica Broadcasting Corporation.

Interesting..

Their focus? Cubah continued to enlighten her ancestor

Teach the island's nineteen seventies' children about their heritage and culture.

Very well done by Maas Ranny and Miss Lou they had foresight and hindsight.  Folk songs were about past times. They were scrolls; passed from generation to generation; in a way, they preserved our heritage.  The woman confirmed. Her younger female reflected on the information shared.  She cast her mind to a favourite folk song learnt as a child.  Cubah hummed its chorus. 

I know that one. The woman said.  Unsmiling, she continued her to sing the lyrics to the song ending the ballad with laughter and hugs.

T

he enslaved sang about the ‘institution’ of slavery". 

"Often describing the impact of displacement.  Those songs explained living conditions and the evils they endured.

The woman, sporting long, silver, thin locks said. said. 

Do you think our people were put through the hardships for the economic advancement of Europe?

Of course, they were.  It does not make sense otherwise.  Unfair I know, but it's our truth. Our people endured insufferable subjugation. The slender woman extended her hands in front of her.

I feel sick, Cubah said.

Don’t be. We survived.  The storyteller pointed out. Her bracelets jingled when she raised her arm to use a use rag to wipe away perspiration from her brow.

But why?  The younger of the two women enquired. "What did we do to deserve such cruelty?" 

"I think it was all about securing economic power.  It was not about what we did or looked like initially but, about Europeans making money to fund the same wars. That's why it is important to understand what happened. and why? The elder paused for a moment.

I think you are right.  My generation needs to understand, get our head around the facts; the detail why, when, how, what happened to your generation. 

We agree on that point.  Feuds between European nations meant the local people in places like England were impoverished.  Most of those populations were starving. So, when they stumbled upon our people and found us to be strong and hardworking, the Indians and Europeans they had labouring on fields before us, were lazy and weak.  They were costing them. So, they enslaved us for free labour.  They found a solution to their financial problems.

Really?

Yes.  Places Liverpool and Bristol, in England were mere insignificant fishing towns before the commencement of the triangular trade.

Tell me more. Cubah implored.

Well, it is the slave trade that built Manchester, Glasgow, Liverpool, Birmingham and Bristol.  Did you know that?

No.

When merchants realised they could exchange goods for enslaved Africans, they became greedy.

Greedy?  Cubah stood looking down at the workers on the fields below.  Hoes clanged and machetes slapped against, then chopped, stems of sugar cane.  She swung her body around to stare at the woman who stood in the shade.

Africans were exchanged for goods.  This created new industries, in England and other European countries.  Things like, the manufacture of cotton, the curing of fish and other meats, iron, brass, and other manufactured goods were sent directly here and sections of colonised Africa.  The shipping industry developed so much that thousands of mariners, previously unemployed found work at sea.

Wow!

Yes, enslaving Africans allowed for the development of the industrial revolution which allowed for the manufacture of goods not produced before the system of slavery.

Like what?

Cotton which was sent to clothe people on plantations.  The woman pointed to the estate in the valley. Just like them. 

Then said thoughtfully. 

Salt fish -cured-fish was sent to Africa and the Caribbean region.  The funny thing is, Europeans, till this day, don't eat cured fish. 

She informed her single audience.

Plantation owners supported the request of merchants who put in place a monopoly on the trade of those foods. They all forced Africans both here and on the continent to eat salted fish.

You are lying to me. Cubah looked querulous.

No, my dear, I am not.  Our people did not eat salt-fish before the merchants in the 1700s insisted we do so.  In fact, it was those merchants in Liverpool and Bristol who lobbied ministers of parliament in London to make sure commodities produced in England had one steady market and no competition.  That is how so much money was made."

Wow. I did not know that was how capitalism began.  Cubah commented.

We were beaten and maimed if we ate anything other than provided by the planters.

What?

Yes. There is so much for you to learn. The softly toned woman said.

I did not know this at all. Cubah shook her head.

So, you are telling me that the new world was all about the development of capitalism and slavery?

The velvet voiced woman's hair shone in the sun when she nodded an affirmative.

Oh God! Cubah exclaimed, unconsciously she wiped her forehead. 

"Yes.  Horrible I know. The wars depleted European purses. The African natural resources put together with free labour, enabled European countries to finance their continuous wars'

Basically, our people were used to replete European coffers?

When they came across our gold and diamond in Africa, they just could not resist.

The elder woman shook her head.  Her thin, long locks tumbled around her shoulders.

We were used to prop up a backward, immoral west.  You see, it's sad to say, we were in the right place at the wrong time.  The elder woman stated.

Awful… Cubah lowered her head, gulping back tears.

The enslaved people sang songs that mocked perpetrators of oppression.  We might have been beaten but yes -- we survived. 

I suppose you are right. We did survive.  Cubah repeated.

What a sad set of affairs.  A tear trickled down Cubah's cheek when she heard,

Yes. 

The velvet voiced woman eased forward with an index finger, she wiped away Cubah's tears. 

In front of fires that crackled and popped, The matriarch continued,

"The fireside was a hub for plotting of rebellions, even though, some compound residents did so in the quiet of their cabins. In that privacy, husbands and wives remembered not to forget.

Plotting and planning how to burst free from the chains of enslavement, they courted whispered desire.  In these quiet spaces, hope was kept alive. The sojourning moments, enveloped by night, allowed them to hold on to their memoried motherland.

O

utside the aeronautic vehicle, the music inside and the sunshine converged into a celestial moment when the white, yellow and orange aircraft commenced its descent  from among cotton looking clouds.  With a stunning hummingbird, embedded on its body, the 'Love Bird', slowly turned in the air, then passed over luscious green of the Blue Mountains.  Having left 'Modern Babylon' behind, the aeroplane headed toward the final leg of its eight-hour journey -- the ‘Old’ Palisadoes. 

The captain's voice crackled over the intercom, barely audible, he welcomed natives, and foreigners alike to the island. Soon after, the aircraft skimmed along the Norman Washington Manley Airport's runway, then it taxied to a halt.  Grateful passengers applauded the pilot and his crew for landing them and the aircraft safely. 

In the distance, Long Mountain stood robust, fecund, and inviting. It towered behind the waving gallery.  Cubah stared through the port-hole sized window at men in khaki uniforms, unloading baggage from the plane's undercarriage.  She turned her eyes away from the tarmac's activity and again glanced at the waving gallery.

Where are you?  She wondered. 

Soon enough, it was time to gather her belongings and head toward the plane's open doors. The returnee stepped onto the metallic steps. She turned her face to face the sky, allowing the ninety-eight-degree heat, to saturate her being.  At the same time, the sun’s source took her breath away. 

I forgot how this felt. She said to herself.

In those moments every fibre in her body was rejuvenated. While descending the wrought iron steps, chuckled.

Oooh! I am back in paradise!  Cubah's body tingled in newness. She felt her whole being awaken.  Smiling, Cubah began the long walk to the 'Arrival Lounge'.

"Thank God almighty!

Jamaica, I am back!

Home Sweet Home!

Thank God almighty!

Home Sweet Home!"

A

fter the matriarch's funeral, Cubah decided to spend the next few days on the island with her beloved family and very close friends.  She missed her grandmother and could not believe she was no longer on this earth with her.  The day after the funeral she stood at the back of her grandmother's house musing at the back door.  From there she perused the garden which was full of so many memories.  She chuckled, remembering Neilly and her 'Granma' feeding yams to the fowls and placing water in paint tins. From the door she perused the garden.  She stepped pass the coal stove.  It marinated numerous memories of her grandmother.  She then decided to stroll across the backyard. 

The ackee tree was impressive so she stood beneath it. Then a soft breeze rushed pass. Cubah had an uneasy feeling.  A feeling of de ja vu. Leaves stirred then spiralled. She watched them, then, something changed.  She felt a tingle run the length of her spine. Goose bumps stood on her arms.  Overcome by a strangely enchanting feeling, she moved from a state of painfulness to hopefulness.

I want to be buried here where my heroic ancestors lay to rest, enriching this, my beloved island.  Our Land of Wood and Water.  She stooped to pick up some soil.  Sifting it through her fingers, Cubah watched the dirt fall to the ground.

Xaymaca is such a beautiful name.  She mused. Interesting choice made by the native Americans whose home this island was before the arrival of the Spanish. 

Xaymaca. Cubah whispered.

Jamaica. She stared at the tree then at the blue sky.

So much wrong has been done.  Cubah reflected on the Taino people.   

It is so sad, to know they endured such evil when the Spanish Conquistadores arrived here in May 1494. They totally decimated the Taino people's lifestyle and cultures." She thought.

Jah mek yah!

"For sure, Jah really mek, an’ bless, yah. 

We sweet island Jamaica…"  Cubah spun around.

What was that?  She wondered.

There it was again.  The word was repeated. This time it was whispered. In a whisper that echoed the voice in her mind.

Cubah frowned and looked around the garden.  Was it a response? "Maybe one of the children was playing behind the garage.  She started making her way to see.

Jamaica.  There it was again. 

It must be my imagination.  She reassured herself.

Jamaica. The returnee swivelled her body around there was no one else in the garden.

Jamaica.

She thought someone teased her. 

Did I hear ‘Jamaica’ or was it my own name they called?  Her eyes darted from the ackee to the coconut, to an East Indian mangoe tree.

Is my imagination. She decided. 

Then a breeze blew pass. There it is again. 

Thinking her mother called.

Cubah. 

The gentlewoman, glanced at the red framed door that led inside but Mishreney was nowhere to be seen.

Cubah. 

She felt movement around her but did not see anything.

The voice was clear.

A stronger gust of wind passed by her cheeks again.

Cubah!

It definitely is a voice. Her eyes darted around, inspecting the back yard.  They rested on the Otaheite apple tree. There was no-one standing there. 

Am I going mad? She asked herself

Cubah.

Hmm… someone is calling me, Twisting her body around again, she asserted that no one ese was in the back garden.

Cubah?

Above where she stood, nightingales sung lullabies.

Cubah.  It was a tender summon. 

Cubah come.

She stood for at least ten minutes waiting to hear her name called.  She could only hair the children in the distance and the birds in the trees.  Cubah decided to go to her old haunt. the Black Mango Tree.  She plucked three from a stem.

Hmmmm... I can’t wait to bite into this. 

She strolled to the ackee tree where she decided to sit cross legged with a pile of mangoes on her lap, she ate a bellyful.  Once satiated with a bellyful of the nectar tasting fruit.  She lay supine, there she put her head back and stared at the sky in a meditative state.

Cubah closed her eyes glad to submit to Mother Nature and all its wonders.  That was when she heard it again.

Cubah...  a rustle of fallen leaves made her slowly open her eyes.

A little spooked Cubah thought to get up from the ground but when she tried to move, she could not.

Cubah… 

Desperately, she tried to raise herself, but her hands would not support the action.

Cubah…  There was a sudden swirl of leaves near her head.

Is that footsteps? Distinct were the feminine steps. They moved closer. The leaves scattered then swirled again behind her head..  The young woman's heart palpitated.  A vein pulsated in her forehead.

Cubah, 

Oh! Please help me! Cubah had an eerie feeling. She wanted to scream but when her mouth shaped in an 'o' no words exited her mouth.

Sweating profusely, she asked. Gran'ma? Is that you?

The fear rose inside her being, it threatened to derail her.  When she spoke, her voice refused to comply.

Suddenly there was flurry of a flock of birds  who made their way from the top of ackee tree.

Reuben!  Her lips moved but, there was utterance of sound.

Mummy! Mummy! Mummy!  Cubah's mother did not surface from the house on a mission to rescue her.

Reuben! 

Exasperated, Cubah tried to raise her body from the ground, but her efforts were futile. Petrified, she wanted to be saved from whatever force had transfixed her to the ground and rendered her speechless.  Oooh, I feel like I am going to combust. She thought. While fear slithered down her spine. 

Oh, Lord, please don’t let me die here…all alone.  The young woman, riddled with panic, attempted to rise once again. Her body remained in a state of paralysis.

Don’t be afraid. The imperative voice guided.  I have something to show you.  It continued.

I won’t harm you. A silhouette of a woman was clear.  Behind her head, the sun shone making it difficult for the prostrate woman to see fully her features.  However, one thing was very clear and that was, an inexplicable glow around her.  She focussed her eyes to see if she could see whose features were above her.  Then, she saw....

the woman looked a lot like one of her aunts.  She stooped while speaking, and slender hand to the woman who still lay on the ground. 

Come Cubah. The mellifluous voice spoke again.

It was the same voice she had heard earlier.

Who is dis woman? She listened carefully.

The stranger had an oval shaped face, a long straight nose, a high forehead, reddish-brown hair, slanted eyes, and very thin, heart-shaped lips.  She also noted that the softly spoken woman wore a necklace of what looked like strung, aged, teeth that chimed when she moved. She wore an anklet that did the same too.  The stranger revealed two dimples, one on each cheek when she smiled at the prostrate Cubah, who still lie beneath the ackee tree.  Something strange happened in that moment.

Cubah had a feeling that she had met the woman before. 

Come, 

in the garden the woman then touched the startled returnee's arm. The paralysis disappeared from Cubah's body.  Cubah managed to raise her body to a stooping position.  Tentatively she took a hold of the velvet voiced woman’s hand. -- Their eyes met.  Please do not be afraid. The stranger whispered.

The seemingly ageless female encouraged Cubah to walk beside her.  As if in a trance, the latter followed leaving behind the ackee tree with its numerous pods. They strolled pass coconut, cherry and numerous mango trees, a large foul coup where chickens flapped their wings and green and ground lizards scurried around the area of the standpipe.  They both stood facing the back fence that divided the two properties, Antsal's house from the house that faced north on to Mountain View Avenue.  The stranger smiled with a flip of her hand behind her back she urged the younger, to follow her.

Both stepped through a wired fence into the neighbour’s back yard. The women walked pass a clothesline, concrete twin tubs and a back porch painted pink.  Cubah stepped cautiously she looked left then right but could not see the neighbours' ferocious mongrel dogs. She was grateful they did not rush toward them. Keeping a watchful eye, she exited behind her new companion onto the horn blowing, pedestrian greeting avenue. They waited patiently until it was safe to cross the forty mile per hour road.  Cubah 's heart hurt when they walked pass the place her grandmother lost her life a few weeks before.  Then pass the house of the village idiot. A woman renown for her desperate bid to hold on to a man who told her he was in love with a previous girlfriend.  a girl who everyone thought of as the local laughingstock. Though he informed her that he had feelings for another woman, to force him to marry her, the woman fell pregnant.  Only to find the man was disgusted with her actions so ran into the other arms.  Marrying her the day the village idiot gave birth with his son two summers before.  Cubah glanced to see if she saw the little oy running around in the garden when she heard a squeal.

The women walked away from the rejected woman's house making their way up Waurika Hills.  Cubah turned her head and glanced over her right shoulder, she saw the red shingled top of Antsal’s house.  The elder woman once again, beckoned her to follow. In searing heat, they strolled to the base of a hill. The velvet voiced woman said, 

Look! She pointed. Look behind you. 

Cubah turned around to see a magnificent landscape. Instead of roads and modern houses, she was faced with a sea of dancing sugar cane stems.  In the distance, she could even see a rider on horseback.  With backs bent, some labourers chopped cane stalks while others bundled them together. Along a nother row of cane a slim light brown skinned woman walked toward some workers.  It was clear she carried with her a wood barrel of water, for she handed one labourer a ladle from which he sipped.

Further along the wider paths, donkeys waited in front of wagons. They would be filled then lugged a mile or so away to the mill. Cubah had momentarily lost all sense of direction. 

Where is Antsal's house? She asked the stranger, who by that point was several steps ahead of her.  It dawned on her that the location at which she stared, was where Vineyard Town was supposed to be.  Her hometown had totally disappeared.  They ascended the hill until, eventually arrived at its apex. 

The stranger said. Come with me. 

Cubah followed behind as the older woman headed for a tree with yellow leaves, shaped like an umbrella.  The Poii tree is our protection for the moment. The stranger said to the woman beside her fanning herself in the shade. 

Then the softly spoken woman began her tale of truth...

Waters Womb‘d  & Ebb’d

W

anting not to wake her housemates Asinwah got out of bed, washed and then dressed herself.  Moving quietly around the cabin, she wrapped her wet hair in Adinkra cloth. When her baby stirred Asinwah gingerly sat on the edge of a coir bed.  She picked up the infant and snuggled her face against the infant's sweet odour. The baby pursed her lips in the direction of Asinwah's engorged breasts. The scent of milk woke her instinctively. After the tiny tot suckled ravenously and was full, the young mother patted her back and the room reverberated with a burp.  Asinwah bit on a chuckle when she lay her infant on the bed again. She turned to collect a few Asante.  She watched her daughter gurgle and kick her legs in the air.  Asinwah wanted to blow air bubbles on the tot’s belly but thought better of doing that.  For a moment the young mother listened to the rhythmic breathing of other occupants in the cabin. Quietly she changed the baby's muslin nappy.  Asinwah reached for and, from back to front, criss-crossed, another piece of material, then proceeded to knot it. The kente, printed with symbols and colours, characteristics that represented her homeland. Black - African people, Green - Forests of the Ashanti Kingdom, Yellow - Gold, and Blue - Clear skies. 

Asinwah picked up, then placed her baby in the kente sling which sagged with her sweetheart's weight.  She felt her baby's legs kick her rear when they swung free. 

Before exiting the cabin, the teenager took one last look around.  Wanting to forget what she endured in the room, Asinwah shuddered.  As if cut, a sharp pain ran across her tummy. With empathy, Asinwah glanced at her sleeping roommates, two on a coir bed, and another, lying as cosy as one could get, on a heap of coir, on the floor to the far side.  Tiptoeing out of the space, the Asante shut the cabin door behind her and stepped into a, before dawn, cacophonic serenade, of night creatures. The young mother made a quick check -- that the baby could breathe comfortably in the sling. Satisfied that all was well with the infant strapped to her back, Asinwah took a deep breath. She, for the first time, noted her whole being was swathed in revitalising air.  There was no reason to look over her shoulder, so, Asinwah descended the back steps of the stilted, wooden structure.

Thank the Gods!  The time has come!

The relieved.  seventeen-year-old, vowed to never set foot in that cabin again. 

I am on my way for this I give praises to my ancestors.  I know they will guide us.  Asinwah declared. 

As if celebrating that which she considered to be, her most important of trysts, nocturnal insects, animals, and birds made a joyful noise. No human stirred that before dawn morning but, Asinwah understood her fate was in the clasp of Master Time.  Daybreak could not catch her in the vicinity.  Asinwah hurried to the rendezvous whilst praying that her baby girl would sleep through the journey and that all would be well... 

I

t was the sixteenth of June 1690 when  shrouded by foliage in one of the orange groves on the Vineyard Estate, Asinwah made her way while listening to birds stir that early morning. 

Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! 

Aves' dawn-songs calmed her soul. known to locals as the 'Old Woman Bird', Lizard-cuckoo birds, fluttered their wings when Asinwah's footsteps approached avenue of trees. The teenager reached her hand behind her back to adjust the swing, ensuring the baby was in an upright position. 

Look at dese birds, they are free.  Free! Free! She thought in her native, Twi. 

Above, a feathered creature bore holes in her back with its eyes.  Asinwah let her mind compare the cacophony of birds to the quiet of the barracks when she made her way pass. She strolled for some miles before thinking.

The men and women won't wake until the morning bugle blasts at daybreak. I have enough time to get as far as is possible before ready themselves and notice that I am gone. She thought.

Recognising that her plantation kin, got ready not just for, hard work, but murder, chains, sore hands, broken limbs, rape, repeated heartache, and much abuse. Recalling eight months prior, when free, she was in attendance of one of many village meetings, chaired by elder women. The Asante elders explained how Asante people achieve dreams. 

Envision your desires before you attempt to achieve them. The wise women instructed. Asinwah remembered lessons when elder women encouraged her peers to focus.  Not on the accomplishment of dreams.

Work through YOUR plan of action.  They insisted.

For a month, Asinwah planned.  In her mind, her dream had be realised.  She deliberated the pros and cons of what she intended to do.  Even though some nights she broke into cold sweats when she heard screaming women. Rumours had it that foreign doctors paid Mr McGregor money to take African women to laboratories.  Temporary cabins were set up to the far side of the plantation.  Women were experimented upon there without anaesthetic. Foreign medics from places like France, Germany and even England were determined to prove Africans felt no pain; therefore, were not human. According to those doctors they were less than animals. As a result of this barbarity, insurrection showered the air.

The night before her departure, men and women sat around the fireside. . Asinwah attended the weekly cook-out, noting the mood was fiery. She listened to their voices grow in dissent.  The atmosphere was the eye of a storm; the calm before the wretchedness of the hurricane. She knew something was going to go down, so decided it better she act quickly.

Nobody knows what’s in my heart.  Adeyeke's wife walked to and turned a corner.  Before her was a long stretch of cabins. At the end of the row, she saw a cabin with a partially opened window. Holding her breath, she tiptoed pass Margaret and Driver's residence.  When she remembered the kindness shown to her by the matriarch and her husband Asinwah's eyes welled.

I will never forget you.  She whispered. Thank you for all you did for me. 

T

he runaway did want to say farewell but thought better of it.  She knew there would be terrible consequences if the elders were suspected of helping her.

'Mama Margaret and Driver, wed as teens and were popular among the estate's residents. They, for many years supported new arrivals to the Vineyard. when she first arrived Margaret boiled lumps of chocolate, for chocolate drinks. She would hug her, wipe away her tear-filled eyes, listened, and guided her through of her pregnancy. The mother of the compound offered finger-licking comfort food for broken hearts -- salt fish flitters and fried yams and such like.  She took that time to teach youngsters how to survive the harshness of plantation life.

So, every morning Mama Margaret rose early to cook extra food for anyone who did not have food t break their fast. So quite a few would meet on her verandah before together, in groups they walked to the sugar fields to labour for free.  at sixty-six, a quiet woman, Mama Margaret, was the embodiment of continuum -- of Asante life. 

On the Vineyard, Mama Margaret witnessed much dislocation, displacement, and emotional harm.  She, in her own way, did her best to ease the suffering of others. even Mr McGregor, the owner of the Vineyard Estate, deferred to Mama Margaret for advice on issues of dispute between some compound men, women, or groups of labourers.  Reputed to be a good listener and a voice of good reason, she sometimes was the final arbiter in many of these disputes. The men saw her as they did women in west Africa of stature of similitude. 'Queen Mother' as she was sometimes called, was, like the Queen of Sheba, beautiful.  Her smooth, dark, ebony coloured skin, full blushing lips, and small, flat, nose, contrasted with her snow-white hair Though of a slender build, Margaret was strong both mentally and physically. Mr McGregor would often send servants from the Great House to fetch her, so she settles a dispute. On the estate, her duties 'Queen Mother' made the social welfare of residents on the Estate her responsibility.  An empathetic woman. Who knew the best ways to support those who suffered from depression, the sick and elderly. 

Mother Margaret encouraged the emotionally broken to garden herbs with her and the children. At times, she offered advice about plants, differentiating the poisonous from health-giving ones. She shared her wisdoms on dosages of salves made from roots and other parts of plants. Constantly, she encouraged the residents to eat natural foods for sustenance. 

With her baby strapped to her back, Asinwah frowned, when like a video, other memories recalled events that occurred on the planation.  A disturbance one afternoon unfolded -- Driver, Margaret’s husband was taken from the fields without warning, and never seen or heard from again.  The reason behind the callous act, bespoke the owner’s hasty ways.

A

slave driver, Redman behaved inappropriately toward a young woman. Driver was offended by the way Redman behaved that afternoon.  So, he called out Redman's disrespectful behaviour. A verbal altercation ensued between the two men.  Then using a cutlass, Redman accosted Driver. The latter was seriously injured.  Bleeding profusely, Driver was taken to the infirmary. When the other labourers heard about the incident, the whole plantation became a hot-bed of contention. 

In support of Driver, labourers downed their tools and marched away from all six fields.  Some workers were so angry that they set a field alight. Within minutes, it was razed to the ground.  Other buildings were damaged too, the boiling house and distillery. The latter was stacked with eighty-five kegs of rum, bound for the Kings’ Town wharves. 

When Mr McGregor discovered that all the rum produced was destroyed, he hit the roof. Both he and Henry Maskell took a tour of the damaged fields while men out the fires.  When Mr McGregor saw the money invested in his plantation go up in smoke, he was livid. On the war path, Mr McGregor was baying for blood.  Instead of reaping capital for the financial quarter, I am going to be in debt! Holding his head he could cry, instead he screeched. 

Bollocks! Those imbeciles will not get away with this!

He repeated shaking his head.

They are not going to get away with this!

"They think they can eat my food and stay here? Living this cushy life on my plantations?

"Henry looked dumbfounded.  Not sure what to say.

Well, we will see about that. Mr McGregor continued to rant. I will deal with every single one of them that DID THIS!

It was inconceivable that the enslaved labourers should get away with damaging his finances.

Those bloody culprits are going to suffer! McGregor exclaimed.

Punished! PUNISH-- ED!!!  The planter shrieked in an almost Shakespearean manner.

Punished, I say.

Come let's go inside.

Henry Maskel then urged him to follow him.

Inside where?  Mr McGregor queried. Exasperation laced his tone."

The servants are setting you and the wife, up, in the other house to the rear.  Henry consoled his employer.

We will get the Irish carpenters over as soon as possible. They will have the Great House back to normal in no time, looking luxurious as it did yesterday.  Mark my words.  He encouraged.

"You, the misses and children will be back to normal