dead.
Libète walks up to the gate of Boukman’s residence, a tall complex of peach-colored walls lined with the shards of broken bottles cemented in place. Painted figures blanket the exterior, Catholic saints assimilated into the Voudou pantheon, each representing one of the many lwa. The hair on Libète’s neck stands on edge at the sight of Ezili and her child.
She summons the courage to rap upon the great iron gate and is first met by silence. She pounds upon the door again. Still no response. She turns to Jak, who crouches fifteen feet away behind a motorcycle parked on a side road. She frowns.
A thought occurs, the universal
mot-de-passe
the world over.
—
M’ vin achte
! she yells. I come to buy!
Almost instantly, a small square in the door slides open filled by a single intimidating eyeball. By its looks, it belongs to a woman.
— What do you want? the Eye intones. Libète steps back involuntarily.
— I…I wish to purchase a cure for my mother’s gout. She sends me in her place because she can’t walk herself.
— Who’s your mother? The Eye narrows to a slit.
Libète hesitates. You don’t know her. She lives in Cité Boston, and has never come to see the boko before. She keeps a booth in the market and is desperate for medicine.
— Show me your money, the Eye makes a demand.
— I’ll do no such thing, Libète retorts. I am a customer, even though a small one, and you will show respect to me or I’ll go elsewhere.
— Oh? To whom?
— To the boko in La Plaine. I’d rather see Boukman but will settle for less if his—what are you? His daughter? Wife?
Domestik
?—continues to be so rude.
The Eye disappears for a moment, possibly conferring with its twin.
— Move back. Get out of the way.
The gate shudders and overcomes its inertia, screeching as it slides along its unoiled track.
The Eye, it turns out, belongs to a young woman. Libète walks through the now-open wall into the compound, chin held high with feigned indignity. The woman scowls, moving to close the gate.
— Wait! I brought my brother, Libète added, signaling with her head. He’s the one hiding behind the bike.
**
The two children sat upon the cool concrete floor, leaning against a pink-spackled wall as they waited for Boukman to finish his prior appointment. Each child explored their surroundings, bouncing their eyes from one curiosity to the next.
The space was used as a peristyle, a meeting area for Voudou ceremonies. In front of them and in the middle of the space stood a thick wooden shaft, the
poto mitan,
bracing the vaulted ceiling with the help of lesser pillars running the perimeter of the concrete. Colorful triangular flags were strung along wires above the floor, and even more carefully painted murals of saint-lwas occupied the walls of the house attached to the assembly area.
Music streamed from a radio inside the house, and the children could hear the lyrical lilt and sway of casual chatting from within as well. Libète tapped the floor with her index finger and thumb in rhythm with the song’s beat as she watched the gatekeeper seated in a folding chair in the far corner of the compound. The Eye occasionally looked up from her work washing dishes in a plastic basin, watching Libète and Jak suspiciously. Libète made it a point to stare her down whenever this happened.
Jak fidgeted as he watched fourteen roosters occupying the yard next to the concrete, each chained to the ground, each a prisoner. Boukman had a reputation as a top cock-fighter in the area and this was his personal army. Many of the birds showed the scars of past battles, boasting patches of missing feathers and festering wounds.
One particular bird caught Jak’s eye. It was a glorious creature with beautiful hazel feathering, regal even, seemingly spared the ring. Small piles of feed had been left for each of the birds. Libète noticed where Jak’s attention lay.
— Even birds raised for death eat better than you, she said
Libète walks up to the gate of Boukman’s residence, a tall complex of peach-colored walls lined with the shards of broken bottles cemented in place. Painted figures blanket the exterior, Catholic saints assimilated into the Voudou pantheon, each representing one of the many lwa. The hair on Libète’s neck stands on edge at the sight of Ezili and her child.
She summons the courage to rap upon the great iron gate and is first met by silence. She pounds upon the door again. Still no response. She turns to Jak, who crouches fifteen feet away behind a motorcycle parked on a side road. She frowns.
A thought occurs, the universal
mot-de-passe
the world over.
—
M’ vin achte
! she yells. I come to buy!
Almost instantly, a small square in the door slides open filled by a single intimidating eyeball. By its looks, it belongs to a woman.
— What do you want? the Eye intones. Libète steps back involuntarily.
— I…I wish to purchase a cure for my mother’s gout. She sends me in her place because she can’t walk herself.
— Who’s your mother? The Eye narrows to a slit.
Libète hesitates. You don’t know her. She lives in Cité Boston, and has never come to see the boko before. She keeps a booth in the market and is desperate for medicine.
— Show me your money, the Eye makes a demand.
— I’ll do no such thing, Libète retorts. I am a customer, even though a small one, and you will show respect to me or I’ll go elsewhere.
— Oh? To whom?
— To the boko in La Plaine. I’d rather see Boukman but will settle for less if his—what are you? His daughter? Wife?
Domestik
?—continues to be so rude.
The Eye disappears for a moment, possibly conferring with its twin.
— Move back. Get out of the way.
The gate shudders and overcomes its inertia, screeching as it slides along its unoiled track.
The Eye, it turns out, belongs to a young woman. Libète walks through the now-open wall into the compound, chin held high with feigned indignity. The woman scowls, moving to close the gate.
— Wait! I brought my brother, Libète added, signaling with her head. He’s the one hiding behind the bike.
**
The two children sat upon the cool concrete floor, leaning against a pink-spackled wall as they waited for Boukman to finish his prior appointment. Each child explored their surroundings, bouncing their eyes from one curiosity to the next.
The space was used as a peristyle, a meeting area for Voudou ceremonies. In front of them and in the middle of the space stood a thick wooden shaft, the
poto mitan,
bracing the vaulted ceiling with the help of lesser pillars running the perimeter of the concrete. Colorful triangular flags were strung along wires above the floor, and even more carefully painted murals of saint-lwas occupied the walls of the house attached to the assembly area.
Music streamed from a radio inside the house, and the children could hear the lyrical lilt and sway of casual chatting from within as well. Libète tapped the floor with her index finger and thumb in rhythm with the song’s beat as she watched the gatekeeper seated in a folding chair in the far corner of the compound. The Eye occasionally looked up from her work washing dishes in a plastic basin, watching Libète and Jak suspiciously. Libète made it a point to stare her down whenever this happened.
Jak fidgeted as he watched fourteen roosters occupying the yard next to the concrete, each chained to the ground, each a prisoner. Boukman had a reputation as a top cock-fighter in the area and this was his personal army. Many of the birds showed the scars of past battles, boasting patches of missing feathers and festering wounds.
One particular bird caught Jak’s eye. It was a glorious creature with beautiful hazel feathering, regal even, seemingly spared the ring. Small piles of feed had been left for each of the birds. Libète noticed where Jak’s attention lay.
— Even birds raised for death eat better than you, she said
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