hello world
well, this will be a long post
was telling a promising student in the tradition about the prologue of
the river where the blood was born
went online to check spelling of sandra jackson opaku's name and
there it was - the prologue, online
its the best part of this book
the text itself is long and tedious
she should have tried to do some innovative narrative licks
rather than just straightout chronologically telling the tale of so many generations
its good writing, just too much of it
432 pages of too much, for ADD readers like me
the book bogs down
but the prologue, the prologue is some fine storytelling
and i love the way it riffs off anansi
there is a % of corn here, hard to avoid when you going for the mythic
i will testify on this because thats so much of my struggle - avoiding the corn
she doesnt aspire to the mythically based literary work of morrison, calvino, marquez or wideman
her work is ultimately conventional but its a beautiful attempt at afrospiritually based literature
almost all the folk in my brooklyn workshop are working on
afrospiritually based work, we didnt plan it like that, it just
happened, we looked up one day and noticed that everybody
working the spirits in their texts - kinda interesting that we all
just kind of gravitated to each other
i printed my novel out today, i had done so many structural
changes that i no longer knew what it looked like
and it looks good, just a skim reading and its reading good
385 pages but ima lose some of that in the cleanup
i see this as a 300 page novel, give or take
its reading good now
but i know when i dig in for that last redpen of whole novel
the holes will become glaring and i will question my talent -
but thats just the way it is - doubt and anxiety are boon literary companions
but today i feel like a good writer with a good novel
like i just might know what im doing after all
was thinking just today how writing a novel is an act of supreme faith
you putting in years of psychologically brutal work on something the industry is likely to
reject as not commercial enough (or any otherwise good enuf)
something that may if actually published sink into obscurity like all your other works
and here i am sweating day after day and year after year trying to make it
so good it cannot be denied
if it was conventional narration i could at least judge whether its good or not
but because its so unconventional i can only hope its good
and that im not just spinning my literary wheels like ellisons juneteenth
i can only hope its not the final and irrefutable evidence that i just dont
have another novel in me - just been fooling myself and you too
i remember my friends used to call my 1st novel the phantom - took 13 years
and they would be like 'so arthur how is the phantom coming'
year after year i had to put up with that -smile and laugh along w/them
another good loving blues only took 7, but this one is 15 and counting
i dont understand people who abandon novels
i got this friend, she desperately wants to be a novelist
but the industry turned her down a couple of times and she dropped her novel
and now shes all bitter about life and feeling unfulfilled
i tell students all the time, in my 32 years of workshopping ive met maybe 2000, 3000
would be writers and only maybe about 100 of them made the cut and became writers
most of them abandoned the effort at some point because they couldnt get over some
psychological roadblock that kept them from doing what they had to do to manifest
the road to literary success is littered with psychological roadblocks
you want to be a writer you just cant take a no
you got to be thick skinned and hard headed and obsessive about it
totally and absolutely commited to this no matter what life throws at you
been reading this book 13 ways of looking at the novel by jane smiley
thought it was going to be skimmer fluff but it turns out to be very useful
there is one great chapter about the tensions between the writers life and his or her
literary persona that was very evocative for a writer whose primary focus is
playing w/literary realities
one thing she said was that the most fundamental determinant of who
is successful at being a novelist is the implacable determination to be one
i dont understand dropping a major project
i been working on this novel 15 years and part of that was when i realized
i wasnt ready for it - so i did another good loving blues to experiment w/my weaknesses
(characterwork) and scheduled rest for when i was capable of handling it (my 3rd novel rather than my 2nd)
and after 15 years of on and off with last 7 being serious crunch
its only just now reading like a novel
part of that was me accepting and getting used to the unconventional narration
i kept trying to force this novel to be conventional and it just wouldnt work until i
let it be what it wanted to be - then spent about 2 years learning how to handle its narrative style
learning how to make it do tricks
spent 4 years working on a section (slaverytime) that was originally 2 pages
i will do whatever it takes to make this a good novel - something that will do both me
and my literary line proud
and if it took another 15 i would give my novel whatever it takes
and i will work it and work it until it works
i just refuse to let this novel beat me
i just refuse
rickydoc flowers
mackmaster
enjoy the read
all praises to anansi
and jackson-opaku
----------------------------------------
THE RIVER WHERE THE BLOOD IS BORN
by Sandra
Jackson-Opoku
Prologue: Love at Waterfall
Even now in the hereafter, I still savor the taste of something sweet. I offer no excuse for myself. In mortal life the elders warned that if I habitually raided hives, I would come to know bee sting. That if I wallowed so much in sweetness, I would find it difficult to endure in times of want.
But you know the proverb.
Too much advice is no advice. My discipline was lax and I overindulged,
mouth relaxing open to the nectar of wildflowers, the sap of sun-ripened
fruits. I enjoyed the tang of my husband's honey long after I had become
an elder myself.
It is said that only when
a woman passes childbearing, does she come into her full power. Her menses,
no longer spent monthly, returns to nourish its host. Her womb closes
onto itself like a cowrie shell, a shrine no man is meant to enter. But
I was my husband's only wife. How could I deny him conjugal bliss in his
old age? How could I deny myself?
And here I stand, Gatekeeper
of the Great Beyond. There are no men in this village, there have never
been. It is a thing we never thought to question. We are spirit workers,
women who have transcended life's earthly pleasures.
But at times I find myself
seized by longings I thought lost in the body I left behind. The memory
of hard hands at the curve of my back. The surrender of self to the sweetness
of flesh. There is a very thin line between wish and prayer; taboos may
be broken in spirit, as well as the flesh. It is on account of such indiscretion
that we may all be punished.
The moment which would disrupt
our way of life and forever trouble the surface of our tranquil waters
happens as I take my sunset constitutional. Those times when work has
ended and a woman wants a moment to be alone with her own needs. And love
always tastes sweetest at twilight.
May I draw you a map? My path
to perdition leads downhill toward the first cataract which feeds the
River Where Blood Is Born. It twists like a snake through the forest,
descending to meet the water at its own level. We come upon a spot just
beyond the warm-water inlet where cocoons await their blossoming into
birth, near the bridge these unborn daughters eventually cross over into
life.
It is as in the inexorable
course of lovemaking. Where river rushes toward land's end, it has no
recourse. It must rebecome, must leave the earth and meet the air. Must
hang suspended, fracturing the waning light. And float, rather than fall.
The cascade murmurs like the
musical moan from deep within a man's chest. Each drop drifts earthward
to collect itself into a shimmering pool of joy, before gathering momentum
to float onward.
Our meeting at the bottom
of the waterfall has happened so often, it has become ritual. I call him,
and he becomes. His body, flint black and shiny, emerges from the rock
face beneath the tumbling waters. He moves toward me and I am ready.
His breath is the wind that
lifts my wrapper and I pirouette, shameless as a young girl in mating
dance. My skirts billow above my waist like sails. With no amoasi to stay
my comfort, I settle my seminakedness into a curve of stone worn smooth
by water, warmed by sun. I open my legs and wait, prepared for the familiar
rush of sensation; the kiss of setting sun upon my face; the surge, the
wet murmur of falling waters.
"Come to me, my love," I whisper
in anticipation.
But the answer I receive is
harsh and unexpected, a dash of frigid water down the back. My lover's
coos vanish, his image retreats into the stone cliff. I hear instead the
voice of my ancient enemy, rising behind me from the protected inlet of
our nursery. There is a man in our midst, someone other than the phantom
lover I conjure in my moments of weakness. Uncertain whether I have been
seen, I yank down my skirts and rise to search him out, following the
sound of his voice.
"Eh-heh. When spider webs
unite, can they not bind a lion? Such a net I will weave from this sacred
silk, nothing I capture can escape."
I open the door to admit a
man, and this one slips in? I leave the gateway unguarded and this is
what enters? Do you see him? Can you hear him? Will you imagine the gall
of this spider of a man? Singing his own praises. Misquoting proverbs
in his mischief making. He thinks his misdeeds go unnoticed.
It is not his own web that
Ananse works. He poaches from our sacred river, playing fast and loose
with our very futures. See him there, crouched beneath the joists of the
bridge, hidden like the unwelcome visitor he is. Testing the weave of
each bobbing cocoon, the unformed bud of each delicate daughter. Reaching
into waters and fishing out unlived lives, wet as raw silk. Laughing his
lisping laugh and unwinding. Waving his spindly limbs and reeling. Tossing
about the silken mass like a malevolent cat. And spinning a cobweb of
confusion from the river of our generations.
He has already unraveled silken
threads from nine cocoons, when I reach into the crevice where he has
secreted himself. I watch him squirm and wonder aloud why I shouldn't
simply crush him between the balls of my fingers.
"I beg-o, Mistress Gatekeeper,"
Kwaku Ananse wails. "You would never do me such a badness. No luck can
come to a woman who kills a spider. Nana would never forgive."
"We will see what the Queen
Mother herself has to say about that. I suggest, however, that you ready
your soul to meet your ancestors."
And that, my people, is how
Kwaku Ananse, the spider who is a man, the man who is a spider, came into
possession of this story. There are those of you who may say he came to
it by trickery. I prefer to call it the fine art of negotiation. Even
I can't help but admire a man who can think on his feet.
Yes, Ananse is hauled before
the stool of the Queen Mother of the River Where Blood Is Born, cowering
but crafty. For he, the undisputed master of all stories, had had just
enough time to concoct one of his own.
You must watch carefully or
you will miss the precise moment when the mist gathers itself from water
and rises. Do you know how many aspects can exist in one blueness? Aqua,
azure, indigo. Cobalt, turquoise, sapphire, sky.
I will call your attention
to how subtly the blues cascade, shimmering in her garments as she walks.
And the sound of living waters; is its music like anything you've ever
heard? Of course not. But then you are not within your earthly domain.
You are in the realm of a goddess. What else should be expected?
But do not be deceived by
the Queen Mother of the River Where Blood Is Born. Yes, her songs are
sweet, but often mournful. Because her waters are placid does not mean
they are shallow. Do not be fooled by the softness of her smile, the humor
that murmurs in the melody of her words. For she is one who can be as
temperamental as she is tender.
She has been known to rage,
you know. Her blue waters have been seen frothing white, tumbling toward
ocean. Bubbling over banks. Do not mistake kindness for weakness. Even
Ananse knows better. He quickly unfurls a cobweb of confusion, a dragnet
of flattery.
"Eh, but you are beautiful,
Queen Mother," he exclaims, shielding his bulging eyes from her glory.
"Do you want a poor man to go blind?"
"Well," she murmurs, music
in her laughter. "I had in mind a rather more severe punishment."
"Yes, yes," he hurries to
agree. "Pluck me limb from limb, throw the pieces to the dogs. Roast me
on your open fire, drown me in your deepest waters. I can die happy today,
for I have visited your palace. I have seen with my own eyes the magnificence
of your village. Eh, I cannot wait ..."
And here he begins to contradict
himself ...
"... to run home to my village,
to tell my people what I've seen."
"Foolish little man," the
goddess trills. "You think it is that easy to back away from death? You
think you can bathe in blood waters and ever again be dry?"
"And don't forget," I remind
her. "This man is more than just a trespasser. He has behaved badly. Look
at his handiwork."
I produce the tangled mass
of mischief Ananse has made.
"But what is this?" she asks
in alarm.
"Bits and pieces of unlived
lives, unspoken voices from the daughters of your descent. Like this Ama
Krah, a daughter of Africa destined to wander ..."
I tug one line from the tangle
of silk. The fragment of untold story is revealed, reflected in full upon
the face of the waters ...
They had reached the confluence,
the place where the Black met the Blood. A mother's voice seemed to call
to them upriver, a voice that only Ama heard. A wind seemed to tug them
downriver, a force which only Ama felt. They stood confused in the crotch
of land where rivers meet. Looking first one way, then the other.
What name does one give to
the not knowing, the wondering? Which road to take? Which river to follow?
Which voice to answer? They waited for a sign, and finding none, abandoned
the way of water ...
"A traveler," Ananse interjects.
"There must be one in every family. Imagine the possibilities, Queen Mother.
Word of your name, news of your fame will wander the world alongside her.
And tales like this, of a daughter named Diaspora; can we let such a journey
go unchronicled?"
You may not remember my face.
You may never hear my story. So I have left it here for the time after
I am gone. A sweetwater song in saltwater blues. It whispers in the waves
of this wide, wide river. It has sifted through leagues of sea and settled
into sand. It is in the current that begins in a surge at one shore and
ends in a wave at another. And my voice is just one among many. I am not
the only one here who sings or moans ...
"I beg to differ," I interrupt.
"I know pain when I see it. And these women's wanderings have little in
them of the pleasure trip."
Our Queen Mother's eyes cloud,
a mixture of pride and regret. It is true that our daughters' destiny
rests on the knees of the gods. But even in heaven we respect the power
of mystery. Just how far into tomorrow does one have the right to prospect?
How much of the future can we handle before the fact?
Of course we are curious to
know the people our children will become. But to preview your daughters'
growing pains before they have even had a chance to live them out? To
see such delicate rites tossed about like toys? To witness the unfolding
of your futures at the hands of a man like Kwaku Ananse? It is a predicament,
indeed.
"Ah," she sighs sadly. And
even the sound of her sigh is like gently running water. "It is a bad
guest who takes leave of his host by spitting into the well. Pray tell
me now, before you meet your punishment, friend Ananse. Whatever possessed
you to dip into my sacred waters, to dabble into the lives of my unborn
daughters? Have I ever tampered with, or attempted to reel the weave of
your wives' egg sacs?"
"Queen Mother of the River
Where Blood Is Born, my name is Kwaku Ananse."
"I am well aware of your name,
unfortunate one. It is your story that causes one to wonder."
This was just the opening
he needed. Ananse begins to embellish the very lie he had been spinning.
"I am a weaver, as was my
father and his father before him. I was trained at the village of master
weavers, you must know of it? The place where royal kente cloth is made
from pure silk, the finest in the land. Yes, I do not like to boast ..."
It is not true, of course.
Ananse lives to sing his own praises.
"... but in no time, I was
the greatest of all weavers. Mine were the most brilliant colors, the
finest threads, the most intricate designs. I soon became bored working
ordinary fibers, unraveling and reinventing the weave of imported silks.
And I began to experiment with story. Have you ever seen story cloth,
Queen Mother?"
Like a wave that ripples the
surface of water, her ageless brow creases in wonder.
"A story cloth? No, I must
say that I haven't. It sounds intriguing."
Ananse probes the tangle of
silk and teases out yet another story line.
"First listen to the voice
of a motherless child a long way from home; songs from the life of one
Earlene."
I even had a brief fling with
stardom in the forties and off I went to Europe singing Swing Low, Sweet
Chariot to folks who couldn't understand the words. But it's not about
words when that coming for to carry me home echoes from way deep down.
It's about memory on top of memory, layered like the strata of earth,
like the levels of underground water.
As if this was not enough,
he extracted yet another thread from his ball of mischief.
"And you may be happy to know
that a certain descendant called Darlene will lead a more settled life."
Another tug, another bit of story unfolds.
... The big, comfortable woman
with the kind face and ready ear. A woman forever in the kitchen cooking
while the party's going on. Or at home baby-sitting while others are out
tasting the world's flavors ...
Well, honey, I'm here to tell
you. I was ready to take my life out of mothballs and put it on. Wadn't
no sense of me playing momma to no more grown folks. Putting everybody's
needs ahead of my own. I was tired of sitting in the kitchen nibbling
the chicken backs of life ...
"And so," Ananse continues.
"I collect threads and fragments from the most fascinating, the most colorful
of stories, and work them into a fabric that is the envy of all weavers.
And the garments made from such kente? Why, they are worn by only the
most beautiful of women."
In spite of herself, the Queen
Mother becomes entangled in Ananse's web of deceit, his tissue of lies.
"Indeed, the most beautiful?"
"But, yes. The highest of
royalty, the most magnificent of ancestors, the most eminent of goddesses .."
And here he pauses to let
his point settle.
"The most eminent of goddesses?"
Predictably, the Queen's fury stirs, like wind upon the water. I love
her well enough to know her flaws, one of which is vanity. And why not?
She has earned the right to be prideful. "And why have I not been included
among them? Why have I not been given my own story-cloth robe to wear?"
"But that is why I am here,
oh beautiful Queen Mother! I was planning a surprise gift, fashioned of
silk from cocoons found here in your very own river. This, Queen Mother,
is the material true art is made from; patterns and textures from the
rich imagination of a certain one of your children who will be called
Sara ..."
The river was slim as a blue
ribbon and slow moving, more of a country branch some joker decided to
call Broad. It gurgled like a baby as it meandered along, and Sara heard
voices; invisible mermaids who whispered secrets to her.
... One day the mermaids would
help her build a boat, and she would sail away upon this river. She consulted
a tattered atlas and plotted her escape route. She would go up to the
Shenandoah, down the Potomac, across the Chesapeake Bay, out to the Atlantic
Ocean, down to the Caribbean, and back to her island home ...
"No, I say, and no again,"
the Queen insists. "These are no mere silkmoth larvae you've dared to
handle with your unclean hands; these are the souls of my unborn daughters.
It is not proper to disrupt the fabric of their lives before they've had
a chance to live them. It is their story to make, not yours."
"But this is not my power,
Queen Mother," the wily one protests. "I do not craft their stories. I
only collect them, assembling the raw materials into a garment that befits
the beauty of its wearer. To forecast your daughters' destiny is one thing;
but to drape its vestments about your shoulders! Your future need not
loom in the distance, when there is a loom master anxious to serve you.
Let us reach boldly into tomorrow, grasp its shining threads, and weave
them into a work of wonder. Witness the tale of a woman who will be known
as Big Momma ..."
... I knew that the Klan was
riding the night. Colored folks losing their land and their lives. Simon
Winfield just wanted better for his daughter. And I watched them boarding
that barge. I waved them off. He said he was taking Early to see some
of his people up in Cape Girardeau. She wasn't even two years old yet.
Wasn't even talking good. But she talked that morning. Said Bye-bye, Mama
just as clear. And they took off, upriver. Ain't never seen them again,
neither one of them.
I can see now that the goddess
is caught, trapped in Kwaku Ananse's web of trickery.
"If anyone should have the
right to tell this story, it should be me," I protest, knowing now he
has gained the upper hand. "After all, I am the Gatekeeper. The intermediary
between unborn souls, the world of the living, and the ancestors who watch
over them all. It is I who send our children out across the bridge, onto
their life's journey. And when it ends, I alone greet them here at the
gate, and guide them to their final rest in this selfsame village. Why
not create story cloth from the life of your own descendants, Ananse?
What of Ntikuma, your misbegotten son? You are not of the Queen Mother's
clan. You are not even a woman."
"Ah, but who creates a child?"
Ananse dances around the point. "Is it the mother alone? The world of
the living will not be like this village here, an abode of women. Fathers,
brothers, lovers will enter their stories time and again."
He extracts another thread.
An image emerges from the anguished life of one who will become Cinnamon
...
I don't set out meaning to
break men's hearts. It's like I'm hungry all the time, but I can't seem
to find the right food. So I taste a little bit of everything. It's like
something's out there calling me, and I can't figure out who it is. So
I go looking for the voice in every man I meet ...
And if that foretaste of sadness
leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, it hasn't affected Kwaku Ananse in
the slightest. He turns to the Queen, stretching as wide a grin as his
shrunken little face can muster.
"I have heard of your beauty,
your kindness. I know that in all the universe there is not more loving
a mother to be found. Ah, this is the ultimate challenge of the master
storyteller: to create, from the most delicate materials, a story cloth
of such finery, of such magnificence ..."
"Of such lies," I interject,
sorry that I didn't crush this interloper when first I had the chance.
"I know that I am small and
weak," he counters with affected humility. "Certainly, there have been
men more handsome ..."
"Behold," I breathe. "He stumbles
upon the path of lies, and accidentally blurts out the truth."
"... but there is no greater
griot than I. And you are without poet to sing your praises here in this
palace."
"Queen Mother has her priestess
in the world of the living," I point out, "and her linguist in the hereafter.
We all serve her well."
"Allow me to join ranks with
them. Even though I am not of your clan. Although I may not be a woman.
After all, the great storytellers have been weavers, and all the best
weavers are men. It is not I who have made it so. It is the way it has
always been.
"It has never been among our
people, a woman's work to weave, save perhaps a basket with which to carry
the load of her life. Women are bearers, deliverers. The salt which makes
food taste sweet, the water without which life cannot exist. I am a mere
man, a spider at that. But it is only proper that I, owner of all the
stories on earth, be allowed access to this one. It shall be my finest
work."
The Queen Mother regards him
carefully, shaking her blue-turbaned head. She turns to me and sighs.
"I may come to regret this.
Admittedly, he is a rascal. But as for me, I would like to see the creation
of such a story cloth. I would like to drape this garment about my shoulders.
If he has these skills indeed, let the spider reveal them."
Now, Ananse begins to be cocky
with new-found confidence.
"But you realize that I am
more than a spider, much more than just a man. I am the one who spins
the rainbow, who rides the winds, who can even negotiate the skies on
a line of my own making. I am he who is called upon to knit the birth
caul worn by the seventh son of the seventh son. I am the world's greatest
storyteller because I am the world's greatest watcher, the one overlooked
in corners. You see?" he continues, pleased to have proven his point at
the expense of these unborn souls. "It is not the fly on the wall who
knows the story. Winged but witless, he has no more desire than to find
the nearest lump of sugar to rest upon, the most fragrant pile of excrement
upon which to feast. He is slow, blundering. Destined to end up a smear
on a swat, a morsel in the tangle of my web.
"I am not mighty like the
elephant, nor splendidly maned like the lion. Few are the poets who sing
my praises. But though small, I have never been defeated, even by larger
enemies. History flows from my spinnerets. I was here at the beginning,
and will yet be at the end. Carrying my loom, my calabash of silks and
threads. I alone can reel and work your tangled skein of story, of songs
and daughters."
"It seems, Queen Mother,"
I point out, "that Kwaku Ananse is overly adept at weaving the web of
self-congratulation. He may be too preoccupied singing his own praises
to do justice to yours."
"I see so. You must not forget,
Ananse, that you are merely a teller of this tale, not a player in it.
And you cannot be the sole griot voice of my clan. Tell the story, Kwaku
Ananse, but also teach the art. Animate my daughters with your magic.
In each of my generations, there must be at least one who masters her
own voice, who learns to work the warp and the weft of her own life."
Ananse reaches again into
his bag of tricks.
"But who among them is worthy?
Perhaps a daughter like this one, who will be called Alma ..."
For years the story beads
rested in the corner of my underwear drawer. I'd take them out now and
then, but only because they reminded me of her. But there must be more
to their secrets than memory. Alone in the long hours of Caribbean night
I laid them across my bare, hungry body. They seemed to glisten like they
had a light of their own. Endless, like a river that returns to itself.
And now I desperately seek
the way back to myself, to my source ...
The Queen Mother slowly inclines
her head in assent.
"In each generation," she
reminds him. "At least one."
"And what will be my reward,"
asks the crafty spider, rubbing together all eight of his hairy legs,
"for passing on so valuable a skill?"
"Only if you are successful,
my friend. Only if the story you render is so flawless, is of such exquisite
quality that it is surpassed by none, will I leave you with your own life."
"Eh! Payment enough, oh Great
One," Ananse murmurs smoothly, scrabbling toward the bridge with a tangled
skein of silk balanced atop his head. "I must prepare for the work ahead
of me. I must find the first thread before I start the story, for all
stories must begin at the beginning. There is only one favor I ask. In
this story I shall weave and you shall one day wear, take the lion's share
for yourself. But then if you please, let just the tiniest scrap float
back to me."
And that is how one Kwaku
Ananse came into possession of the materials to weave the story that is
about to unfold. Whether he does justice to the Queen Mother's name remains
to be seen. But let me tell you something, my people.
That spider may have eight
eyes in his head, but he does not see all. Even though I inhabit this
quiet village of women, I have something to say. I have a story to tell
too.
Day after day as I watch the
bridge stretching from this village of death to the world of the living,
as I welcome new ancestors into eternity, as I tend the unborn souls sheltered
in the inlet of these sacred waters, and occasionally slip away ... I
also work. I watch and I work.
Notice this sweetgrass basket
that rests beside me, the plain utilitarian object Ananse says it is woman's
work to weave, a woman's fate to carry? Come closer, have a look inside.
Its subtle simplicity could be easily overlooked.
You see, this basket holds
beads of many sorts and sizes, as delicate as drops of water. Some more
complex and intricate than any spider's design. I collect them as our
daughters enter this village and deposit their waist beads at death's
gate.
If you look closely you can
discern within each bead the hues of blues; this woman's birth, that one's
budding of breasts; the first blood, the sacrament of sex, childbearing,
old age, death. Feel their surfaces, the ridges of happiness and hollows
of heartbreak. Hear in them as they meet each other, the sound of living
waters.
It is true we were captured
in Ananse's web of deceit. Yet we must shoulder our share of blame, for
we know full well this happenstance is rooted in weakness. We are blessed
with divine graces and cursed with human frailties, ours being the twin
sins of vanity and lust.
The Queen Mother fancies gossamer
garments to adorn her beauty. And even a goddess can be swayed by flattery.
I cannot fault her. But for my weakness for love's sweet honey, I would
never know the bite of this one's venom. In order to celebrate one's triumphs,
one must also admit her failings. I trust this lesson will not be lost
on our daughters to be.
Still, the thing that Ananse
has started is now water under the bridge. The spider's web cannot be
unwound, nor the past undone. It is now our future that he weaves, a commission
which carries the Queen Mother's blessing. But which of us knows the story
best?
Perhaps you've heard the fable
about the struggle between the lioness and the hunter. The cat does her
damage with tooth and claw, ripping away the hunter's left hand. He fights
with spear and machete, hacking off the lion's tail. The fight rages on,
yet neither foe can manage to best the other.
In the end the lioness slinks
away to the bush to lick her wounds, the hunter limps back to his village.
He is bloody but triumphant, holding aloft the severed tail with his one
good hand. Word of his exploits resound far and wide, even to the place
where the lioness reclines with her pride, nursing her tailless stump.
"How dare he boast of victory,"
she complains, "when neither of us won the battle?"
"No one will challenge the
hunter," returns a wizened old headwoman, flicking her tail to fan the
flies, "until the lioness learns to tell her own story."
He thinks he has bested the
Gatekeeper, this insect of a man called Kwaku Ananse. Yes, the spider
has his nine sets of yarns to spin. But remember that cats have nine lives,
too. As Ananse dazzles you with his fanciful designs and shimmering threads,
please allow yourself to appreciate the simplicity of my craft. As you
see, I am stringing these beads on a length of lion's tail. If it is a
woman's art, then this is a woman's story.
Use of this excerpt
from The River Where Blood Is Born by Sandra Jackson-Opoku may
be made only for purposes of promoting the book, with no changes, editing
or additions whatsoever, and must be accompanied by the following copyright
notice: copyright ©1997 by Sandra Jackson-Opoku. All Rights Reserved.
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