Barracoon (3 page)

The Africans were kept at Dabney's Place for eleven days: being only allowed to talk “in whispers” and being constantly moved from place to place.

At the end of the eleventh day clothes were brought to them and they were put aboard the steamer
Commodore
and carried to The Bend in Clark County, where the Alabama and the Tombigbee rivers meet and where Burns Meaher had a plantation.

There they were lodged each night under a wagon shed, and driven each morning before daybreak back into the swamp, where they remained until dark.
²⁶

“Meaher sent word secretly to those disposed to buy. They were piloted to the place of concealment by Jim Dennison. The Africans were placed in two long rows,”
men in one row, women in the other. Some couples were bought and taken to Selma.
²⁷
The remainder were divided up among the Meahers and Foster, Captain Jim Meaher took thirty-two (sixteen couples); Captain Burns Meaher took ten Africans; Foster received ten; and Captain Tim Meaher took eight.
²⁸
Finally, after a period of adjustment, the slaves were put to work. Before a year had passed, the war of Secession broke out. With the danger from interference from the Federal Government removed, all the Africans not sold to Selma were brought to the Meaher plantations at Magazine Point.

Nevertheless, the Meahers were tried in the federal courts 1860–61 and fined heavily for bringing in the Africans.
²⁹

The village that these Africans built after freedom came, they called “African Town.” The town is now called Plateau, Alabama. The new name was bestowed upon it by the Mobile and Birmingham Railroad (now a part of the Southern Railroad System) built through [the town]. But still its dominant tone is African.

With these things already known to me, I once more sought the ancient house of the man called Cudjo. This singular man who says of himself, “
Edem etie ukum edem etie upar
”: The tree of two woods, literally, two trees that have grown together. One part
ukum
(mahogany) and one part
upar
(ebony). He means to say, “Partly a free man, partly free.” The only man on earth who has in his heart the memory of his African home; the horrors of a slave raid; the barracoon; the Lenten tones of slavery; and who has sixty-seven years of freedom in a foreign land behind him.

How does one sleep with such memories beneath the pillow? How does a pagan live with a Christian God? How has the Nigerian “heathen” borne up under the process of civilization?

I was sent to ask.

I
t was summer when I went to talk with Cudjo so his door was standing wide open. But I knew he was somewhere about the house before I entered the yard, because I had found the gate unlocked. When Cudjo goes down into his back-field or away from home he locks his gate with an ingenious wooden peg of African invention.

I hailed him by his African name as I walked up the steps to his porch, and he looked up into my face as I stood in the door in surprise. He was eating his breakfast from a round enameled pan with his hands, in the fashion of his fatherland.

The surprise of seeing me halted his hand between pan and face. Then tears of joy welled up.

“Oh Lor', I know it
you
call my name. Nobody don't callee me my name from cross de water but you. You always callee me Kossula, jus' lak I in de Affica soil!”

I noted that another man sat eating with him and
I wondered why. So I said, “I see you have company, Kossula.”

“Yeah, I got to have somebody stay wid me. I been sick in de bed de five month. I needa somebody hand me some water. So I take dis man and he sleep here and take keer Cudjo. But I gittee well now.”

In spite of the recent illness and the fact that his well had fallen in, I found Cudjo Lewis full of gleaming, good will. His garden was planted. There was deep shade under his China-berry tree and all was well.

He wanted to know a few things about New York and when I had answered him, he sat silently smoking. Finally, I told him I had come to talk with him. He removed his pipe from his mouth and smiled.

“I doan keer,” he said, “I lakee have comp'ny come see me.” Then the smile faded into a wretched weeping mask. “I so lonely. My wife she left me since de 1908. Cudjo all by hisself.”

After a minute or two he remembered me and said contritely, “Excuse me. You didn't do nothin' to me. Cudjo feel so lonely, he can't help he cry sometime. Whut you want wid me?”

“First, I want to ask you how you feel today?”

Another muted silence. Then he said, “I thank God I on prayin' groun' and in a Bible country.”

“But didn't you have a God back in Africa?” I asked him.

His head dropped between his hands and the tears sprung fresh. Seeing the anguish in his face, I regretted that I had come to worry this captive in a strange land. He read my face and said, “Excusee me I cry. I can't help
it when I hear de name call. Oh, Lor'. I no see Afficky soil no mo'!”

Another long silence. Then, “How come you astee me ain' we had no God back dere in Afficky?”

“Because you said ‘thank God you were on praying ground and in a Bible country.'”

“Yeah, in Afficky we always know dere was a God; he name Alahua, but po' Affickans we cain readee de Bible, so we doan know God got a Son. We ain' ignant—we jes doan know. Nobody doan tell us 'bout Adam eatee de apple, we didn't know de seven seals was sealee 'gainst us. Our parents doan tell us dat. Dey didn't tell us 'bout de first days. No, dass a right. We jes doan know. So dat whut you come astee me?”

I temporized. “Well, yes. I wanted to ask that, but I want to ask you many things. I want to know who you are and how you came to be a slave; and to what part of Africa do you belong, and how you fared as a slave, and how you have managed as a free man?”

Again his head was bowed for a time. When he lifted his wet face again he murmured, “Thankee Jesus! Somebody come ast about Cudjo! I want tellee somebody who I is, so maybe dey go in de Afficky soil some day and callee my name and somebody dere say, ‘Yeah, I know Kossula.' I want you everywhere you go to tell everybody whut Cudjo say, and how come I in Americky soil since de 1859 and never see my people no mo'. I can't talkee plain, you unnerstand me, but I calls it word by word for you so it won't be too crooked for you.

“My name, is not Cudjo Lewis. It Kossula. When I
gittee in Americky soil, Mr. Jim Meaher he try callee my name, but it too long, you unnerstand me, so I say, ‘Well, I yo' property?' He say, ‘Yeah.' Den I say, ‘You callee me Cudjo. Dat do.' But in Afficky soil my mama she name me Kossula.
¹

“My people, you unnerstand me, dey ain' got no ivory by de door. When it ivory from de elephant stand by de door, den dat a king, a ruler, you unnerstand me. My father neither his father don't rule nobody. De ole folks dat live two hund'ed year befo' I born don't tell me de father (remote ancestor) rule nobody.

“My people in Afficky, you unnerstand me, dey not rich. Dass de truth, now. I not goin' tellee you my folks dey rich and come from high blood. Den when you go in de Afficky soil an' astee de people, dey say, ‘Why Kossula over dere in Americky soil tellee de folks he rich?' I tellee you lak it tis. Now, dass right, ain' it?

“My father's father, you unnerstand me, he a officer of de king. He don't live in de compound wid us. Wherever de king go, he go, you unnerstand me. De king give him plenty land, and got plenty cows and goats and sheep. Now, dass right. Maybe after while he be a little chief, I doan know. But he die when I a lil boy. Whut he gointer be later on, dat doan reachee me.

“My grandpa, he a great man. I tellee you how he go.”

I was afraid that Cudjo might go off on a tangent, so I cut in with, “But Kossula, I want to hear about
you
and how
you
lived in Africa.”

He gave me a look full of scornful pity and asked, “Where is de house where de mouse is de leader? In de
Affica soil I cain tellee you 'bout de son before I tellee you 'bout de father; and derefore, you unnerstand me, I cain talk about de man who is father (
et te
) till I tellee you bout de man who he father to him, (
et, te, te
, grandfather) now, dass right ain' it?

“My grandpa, you unnerstand me, he got de great big compound. He got plenty wives and chillun. His house, it is in de center de compound. In Affica soil de house of de husband it always in de center and de houses of de wives, dein in a circle round de house dey husband live in.

“He don't think hisself to marry wid so many women. No. In de Affica soil it de wife dat go findee him another wife.

“S'pose I in de Affica soil. Cudjo he been married for seven year for example. His wife say, ‘Cudjo, I am growin' old. I tired. I will bring you another wife.'

“Before she speakee dat, she got de girl who he doan know in her mind. She a girl she think very nice. Maybe her husband never see her. Well, she go out in de market place, maybe in de public square. She see disa girl and astee de girl, ‘You know Cudjo?' De girl tellee her, ‘I have heard of him.' De wife say, ‘Cudjo is good. He is kind. I like you to be his wife.' De girl say, ‘Come with me to my papa and mama.'

“Dey go, you unnerstand me, to de girl's parents together. Dey astee her questions and she answeree for her husband. She astee dem questions too and if both sides satisfy wid one 'nother de girl's parents say, ‘We give our daughter into yo' care. She ain' ours no mo'. You be good to her.'

“De wife she come back to Cudjo and makee de
'rangements. Cudjo got to pay de father for de girl. If she be a rich girl dat been in de fat-house long time, you unnerstand me, he got to pay two of everything for her. Two cow, two sheep, two goat, chickens, yam, maybe gold. De rich man, keepee his daughter in de fat-house long time. Sometime two year. She gittee de dinner in dere eight times a day and dey don't leavee her git in and out de bed by herself. De one whut keep de fat-house he lift dem in and out, so dey don't lose de fat.

“De man not so rich, he cain keep his girl dere long so she not so fat. So po' man don't send his daughter.

“Derefore, you unnerstand me, de man pay different price for different girl. If she de daughter of a po' family, or she been married before or somethin', he don't pay much for her.

“When de new wife come first to her husband compound she live in de house wid de old wife. She teach her what to do and how to take keer de husband. When she learn all dat, den she have a house by herself.

“When dey gittee ready to buildee de new house, de man takee de machete and chop de palm tree to mark de place where de house goin' be build. Den he throw down a cow and have plenty palm wine. Den all de people come and eatee de meat and drink de wine and stomp de place smooth and buildee de house.

“My grandpa, he buildee wife house many time.

“Some men in de Affica soil don't gittee no wife 'cause dey cain buy none. Dey ain' got nothing to give so a wife kin come to dem. Some got too many. When you hungry it is painful but when de belly too full it painful too.

“All de wives make food (
udia
) for de husband. All de men dey likee de fufu. He eatee de big calabash full to de top wid fufu, den my grandpa he lay down to sleep.

“De young wives (before they are old enough to take up the actual duties of wifehood) help put de husband to sleep. One makee wind for him wid de fan. Another one rub de head. Maybe one clean de hands and somebody look after de toe-nails. Den he sleepee and snore.

“Somebody stand guard before de door so nobody make noise and wakee him. Sometime de son of a slave in de compound makee too much noise. De man what stand guard ketchee him and takee him to my grandpa. He sit up and lookee at de boy so. Den he astee him, ‘Whoever tellee you dat de mouse kin walk 'cross de roof of de mighty? Where is dat Portugee man? I swap you for tobacco! In de olden days, I walk on yo' skin!' (That is, I would kill you and make shoes from your hide.) ‘I drink water from yo' skull.' (I would have killed you and used your head for a drinking cup.)

“My grandpa say dat, but he don't never astee de chief to sellee nobody to de Portugee. Some chief dey gittee mad when de slave talkee so sassy and don't do work lakee dey tell 'em. Den dey sell him to de Portugee. De chief throw orange under de table. Den he call the slave boy he goin' sell and say to de boy, ‘Pick me de orange under de table.' De boy stoop under de table. De chief got a man standin dere. Maybe two. When de boy go under the table to gittee de orange, de chief say, ‘Ketchee de bushman!' De men grabee de boy and sellee him.

“De chief he ain' always glad. One day de wife die. She
still in de old wife's house and ain' never been no wife to the chief yet. She too young. Why she die, Cudjo doan know.

“When dey come to tell de chief his young wife dead, he go look. He slap his hand on his wrist. Den he scream in his fist and cry. He say, ‘Yea! yea! yea! my wife dead. All my goods wasted. I pay big price for her. I fatten her and now she dead and I never sleep wid her once. Yea! yea! I lose so much! She dead and still a virgin! Yea! yea, tu yea! I have a great loss.'”

Cudjo looked out over his patch of pole-beans towards the house of his daughter-in-law. I waited for him to resume, but he just sat there not seeing me. I waited but not a sound. Presently he turned to the man sitting inside the house and said, “go fetchee me some cool water.”

The man took the pail and went down the path between the rows of pole-beans to the well in the daughter-in-law's yard. He returned and Kossula gulped down a healthy cup-full from a home-made tin cup.

Then he sat and smoked his pipe in silence. Finally he seemed to discover that I was still there. Then he said brusquely, “Go leave me 'lone. Cudjo tired. Come back tomorrow. Doan come in de mornin' 'cause den I be in de garden. Come when it hot, den Cudjo sit in de house.”

So I left Cudjo sitting in his door with his bare feet exposed to the cloud of mosquitoes that swarmed in the shade of the inside of his house.