A Statue at the Gate, short story, Althea Romeo Mark

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 A Statue at the Gate

 

Mercedes Riley had lived in Wayatelo, West Africa for five years. She had always dreamt of living in West Africa, the home of her Caribbean ancestors, and was elated when her husband, Vincent Riley had been posted to his first foreign appointment. The United Nations Development Programme had assigned him to the College of Agriculture at the University of Wayatelo

            After one year in Wayatelo, Mercedes had learned to have the fortitude and patience of Job…standing one hour or more in line at the bank had ceased to send her to the precipice of madness. Going a whole day without electricity and water no longer gave her migraines. Driving in traffic, which sometimes seemed to follow no rules, had stopped giving her heartburn.  She had learned to fit in quite well.

           

            In Miami, where they last lived, Mercedes had been too busy with teaching, and the day-to-day running of her home, to get involved in social activities. Wayatelo being a small country, one’s social position made a person easily recognizable and acceptable to the ruling class. As a black woman, for the first time, she felt a sense of power. She felt confident.  Mercedes did not have to work, and with the assistance of a nanny, and a houseboy, she had a certain amount of freedom that she had not enjoyed before. She had her second child, Kweisi in Wayatelo and was proud of her African-born son.

            On a Saturday afternoon, during the dry season, Mercedes had a meeting at 3:00 pm. The International Women’s Club was planning its annual cultural extravaganza.  She had joined a few women from the Caribbean to showcase the islands’ culture.  Mercedes's eldest child, Francia, was taking part along with her, and they were going to be fitted in their carnival costumes. Mercedes had already bundled eight-year-old Francia into her beige Honda Accord.  Her nurse, Miatta, who had tied Kwesi securely onto her body with her wrapper was trying to quiet him down by dancing around the front yard.  

He had wanted to go along and was screeching loudly. Mercedes patted his head, kissed his wet cheeks, then slid behind the wheel of her car.

            “Never mind, honey,” said Mercedes puckering her lips, “ mommy will take you for a ride later.”

             As Kweisi shrieked, Mercedes started up the engine and reversed the car out of the gate.  Outside the gate, she parked and got out.  As she pulled the iron gate to close it, she noticed a small, wooden statue leaning against the white-washed wall.  It was the most hideous statue she had ever seen.  It stopped her in her tracks.

        “What on earth….?,” muttered Mercedes. Fear took hold of her. She had seen ceremonial masks in museums and knew that their exaggerated appearances were part of their appeal, but this one outside her gate had a frightening personal significance.  Her dark, slender hands became cold as she stood rooted in a small patch of dry grass. Its huge bulging eyes stared at her and its thick exaggerated lips, which took up half the space on its face,  mocked her.  A round, swollen stomach, hung over its barely observable feet.

        Francia, unaware of the presence of the statue, watched her mother, who stood rigidly, her three-inch heels sinking slowly into the brown grass, and light sandy dirt.

            “Mommy,” she called out, “what’s wrong?”

            Mercedes’ brief spell was broken by Francia’s voice.

            “Francia, look at this thing leaning against the wall,” said Mercedes in a subdued voice.

            Francia leaned out of the car window. “What Mom?”

            Mercedes stepped aside, allowing her daughter to get a full view of the wooden statue.

            “Wow! Look at that. It’s ugly, isn’t it? Francia burst out laughing.

            “Hush up,” said Mercedes, annoyed.  “There isn’t anything funny about this.  It is a statue used in rituals and I’d like to know who put it there and why.”

            Francia, feeling hurt, drew back inside the car and was silent.

            Miatta, the nurse, seeing the car at a standstill, walked over to the gate to see what was going on.  Baby Kweisi had stopped crying as he saw his mother was still around and began playing pony on Miatta’s back.

            “Take it easy, Kwesi,” said Miatta, rubbing him on his back to keep him quiet. “Something wrong, Ma?”  She walked up to Mercedes.

            “I don’t know,” said Mercedes. “Come here. Look at that,” she said pointing at the statue. Do you know anything about this?”

            No, Ma,” said Miatta, putting her hand over her mouth and gasping loudly.

            “What kind of statue is it,” asked Mercedes, her body trembling slightly.

            “Is sometin’ we use for rites”,  sometin’ for fetish,”  good tings, bad tings,” said Miatta, looking confounded.

            “Why would someone put it outside my gate,” asked Mercedes.

            “Ah donno, Ma,” said Miatta. “You have to ask around and find out.”

            “Okay,” said Mercedes, “I’ll find out.” “Miatta, go into the house with Kweisi and stay there, do you hear me?” She had regretted giving Gbanyon, the houseboy, the afternoon off as he would have been able to help her.

            “Yeah, Ma,” said Miatta, as she walked rapidly towards the garage door.

            “Mommy will see you later, Kweisi,” said Mercedes waving at her son.  She closed the gate with her eyes on the statue and drove off rapidly, leaving a cloud of dust behind.  The neighbors, walking along the roadside cursed her loudly as dust, stirred up by her car, encircled them.

 

             As Mercedes drove, her knees shook uncontrollably.  Her mind was occupied by the strange event. Is someone trying to harm me? she wondered. I am an educated person and I am not supposed to believe in these things. But I have heard so many strange stories about obeah, witchcraft, and evil people who walk the world between the living and the dead. All related to her siblings by her father.

            Last week they found a dragon in the neighborhood. The medicine man who was summoned said Mr. Kpoto, who lived in the house where the dragon was found, was a wizard and blamed him for the deaths of several children in the area.  Mercedes had gone to see the dragon out of curiosity…a piece of cloth wrapped with assorted threads and beads and other strange fetishes.  The people told her that the object turned into a dragon at night and sucked its victim's blood.  She had laughed inwardly at the time and wondered how the local people could be so backward. The neighbors had given Mr. Kpoto, the local Bossa chief, a good thrashing.  Everyone took turns beating him on his head and back with their fists.  

A woman, whose child had died the week before, had whipped him with an iron cord until she had no strength left. Mr. Kpoto was then taken away to jail. Mercedes had wanted to intervene but did not want to get on the wrong side of her neighbors who followed strict traditional laws. The more these thoughts filled her head, the more she became concerned.

            Witchcraft was not new to her. She had been mesmerized by these stories, told by her parents and grandparents since a child.  There were people who sacrificed their loved ones for riches and women went to voodoo men for medicine to ensure their husbands’ faithfulness.

        

           “Why am I thinking about this?” Mercedes said aloud. “I am getting myself worked up.”

            “What are you saying Mommy,” asked Francia.

            Mercedes had forgotten that Francia was in the car. She looked ahead. “Oh my God!” she said loudly.”

            “What happened, Mommy? ”asked Francia, shaking her mother’s shoulder.

            “Nothing, honey,” replied Mercedes, “I have long passed our destination.”   She pulled over to the side of the road and waited until traffic was clear and made a U-turn, her wheels screeching.

            Drivers passing by stared at her.  She looked straight ahead and stepped on the gas. She reached the International Women’s Club in ten minutes and parked the car outside the gate as the parking space inside the compound was filled.

         Inside the building, she passed by several people but did not pay them any attention.

“Mercedes,” a voice shouted.

        She turned around. There was her friend, Daphne, one of the participants in the Caribbean pageant.  She walked over to Daphne and greeted her with a kiss on each cheek.

            “Girl, you are really out of it today, Daphne whispered.

            Mercedes did not answer. She looked at her friend but appeared to be lost in her own thoughts.

            “What has Riley done to you?” Daphne asked in jest. “I hope he hasn’t been stepping out on you?”

            “No! No! It’s not anything like that,” Mercedes replied. Her voice sounded tired. “I’m not feeling well. I’m going to leave Francia here for the fitting. I’ll go home and come back. Is that ok with you Francia,” she asked looking down at her lanky daughter.

            Yes, Mom,” Francia replied, eager to go and play with the other children.

            “Okay, then, Daphne, I’ll see you later.

            “Be sure to rest yourself well,” Daphne, shouted at Mercedes as she walked rapidly down a corridor. Mercedes got a quick glimpse of her sunken cheeks as she rushed by a mirror on the wall on her way to the door. “Lord, this chronic malaria, killing me. Hope I will soon get my appetite back.”

            Outside the building, she remembered her reason for rushing back home. Her heart raced. She was afraid for herself and her family.  The more she thought about someone harming them, the faster she drove along the highway. She was driving sixty miles an hour in a forty-mile zone.

           After what seemed like a long twenty-minute drive, Mercedes finally turned the corner onto the dusty road that led to her home.  She stopped in front of the gate.  The statue was still there gaping at her with its bulging, sinister smile.  She turned off the engine and stepped out of the car.  Her heart thumped rapidly as she walked past the statue.  

            She struggled to open the latch securing their gate. She never had difficulty opening it before.  As she finally unlatched it, she heard a thud. The statue had fallen forward in front of her feet.

            “Oh God,” she cried out, then she noticed a bird flying away from the statue.  She ran into the house.

            “Miatta, “ she called, as she entered the kitchen.

            Miatta, alarmed at the urgent sound of her voice, ran to the kitchen.

            “Is Kweisi, o.k.?” Miatta queried.  She was panting.

            “Yes”, said Miatta puzzled. “Ah been playin' wit him in de bedroom. Was wrong?”

            “He doesn’t have fever, a cough or diarrhea? No Malaria?”

            “De bebe fine, Ma. He sleepin’

You okay? Miatta stared at Mercedes. “Wa you sweatin’ so much. You na’ lookin’ well, oh.”

            “I am literally worried sick,” said Mercedes. “But you won’t understand.

            “Ma, go lie down,” insisted Miatta.

            “I won’t lie down until I find out who put the statue in front of my gate,” replied Mercedes, irritated.

            “Oh that,” said Miatta, laughing.

            “It is not a laughing matter,” said Mercedes, pacing the kitchen floor.

            “Ma, no worry,” said Miatta, still laughing. “It was Chuku, that boy from the university who come to visi’ Mr. Riley sometimes.”

            “Chuku?!” shouted Mercedes.    “Chuku is here?”  She pulled up a chair from the kitchen table and dropped onto it.

              “Yes, I am here,” said Chuku, taking up the door frame as he walked into the kitchen. His tall, brown frame swayed, as he walked toward Mercedes.

            “I beg you, Chuku, pleaded Mercedes, please explain why you left that statue at the gate.”

            “Oh that,” said Chuku, pulling out a chair from the kitchen table and laughing as he sat down. I was walking down the road leading to your house and two dogs came rushing at me. The statue was lying on the road, so I picked it up to toss it at them.  Anyway, they had a change of mind. I kept it in my hand.  When I came by earlier and knocked, nobody answered, so I rested the statue at the gate.  That’s all. I went to visit my friend, Flomo, who lives behind your house.

            Mercedes was too ashamed of herself to explain to Chuku the crazy ideas that had taken hold of her mind.

            “You know something Chuku,” said Mercedes, I think I have lived in Wayatelo too long.  I am beginning to think like you all.  I am going to book a long holiday in Miami.”

            “Really, Mrs. Riley,” asked Chuku,  I am to take that as a compliment or not?”

            “Take it whichever way you like,” replied Mercedes, rising from her chair. “I am going to pick up my daughter and start the rest of the day right.”

            Mercedes walked out of the house.  Outside the gate, she picked up the statue and took a good look at it.  It did not look so ominous anymore.  Gathering all her strength, she tossed it into the nearby bush. She entered her car feeling light as a feather.  Driving slowly down the road, she greeted everyone cheerfully.

 “I am going to book a flight to Miami tomorrow,” she said quietly to herself

© Althea Romeo Mark

Born in Antigua, West Indies, Althea Romeo-Mark is an educator and writer who grew up in St. Thomas, US Virgin Islands. She has lived and taught in St. Thomas, Virgin Islands, USA, Liberia (1976-1990), London, England (1990-1991), and Switzerland since 1991. Althea Romeo Mark is the author of two full-length poetry collections, The Nakedness of New, If Only the Dust Would Settle, (English-German), three chapbooks, Beyond Dreams: The Ritual Dancer (chapbook), Two Faces, Two Phases (chapbook), and Palaver (chapbook) and a poetry collaboration, Shu-Shu Moko Jumbi: The Silent Dancing Spirit. This anthology includes poems by Althea Romeo-Mark and prose and poetry from participants in a Black Writers’ workshop conducted at Kent State University.

Some recent publications include: Short Story,” Easter Sunday,” published The Sunday Observer, Jamaica, 24.04 2022, www.jamaicaobserver.com, previously published in The Caribbean Writer, 1996, Kariba Fortella:Karibishe Novella, Norway, 2021,  Poems, “She,” and “ Scalded Dreams” published in Shakti: The Feminine Principle, Energy & Lifeforce, an international anthology of poetry, KKPC Publishing, India, 2022; Short story “Wimmelskafts’ Hill,” published in Bookends, The Daily Observer, Jamaica, 30.01.22, www.jamaicaobserver.com; Three poems, “Dopo Di Te..” ( After you..), “Un Pinguini Si Congeda,” (A Pinguin Takes Its Leave,” and “L’Ultima Traversata,”(The Final Crossing) published in Antologia di Poesia, Contemporanea Internazionale, Universalia, Trento, Italy, 2021;Three poems, “Carrying the Spirit of a Siafu,” “Nyam,” and “The Endless Tugging,” published in Letters from the Self to the World, Abrazos, DoveTales 10^th Anniversary anthology, A Writing for Peace Publication, 2021