Charleston

Afaa M. Weaver

In a fountain at the harbour, children wash themselves in water spraying in the heat. They count themselves dark and light. The aircraft carrier sits in the moist nothing of salt water, tons of tons weighing in the soft splash. We count our wishes, to be free, to be at ease, to be in abundance. Above us spirits whirl in a thunderhead.

On steps across from the slave mart, I peel an orange for the slow rip of its flesh in my thumb, the sweet dotting of my nose with its juice. I suck the threads of it, gaze at the wooden doors now closed, at the empty space inside with iron hooks. I can see the white folks' heads checking available cash in front of naked Africans chained, bereaved, and listening to a cruelty yet to be born. I can smell the congregation of odours, humans fresh from slave ships or working in fields, and humans fresh from beds of fine linen, sleeping with fingers in Bibles and prayers.

This is not a petty thing because we have a rental car with an air conditioner, a tape player, and various cushions. We have come far to do this, to gaze out from the banks of this plantation river to the rice fields, to walk in Charleston. I keep the heat from threatening my life, and I wonder if I could have survived slavery to be old, if being old is all there is to live to be. I walk around the slave quarters and hear African languages speaking in magnolias.