Calla told me this story was what saved her life. Gave her the strength to endure. A story told to her by her mother who was told by her mother, all the way back to that first man and that first woman. Helped her to understand that the memory sickness come from the stories still sitting in the bloodline. Stuck, can’t move. Become like embers in the ash that rise up into flames when fanned by a new cruelty. Stories that kept her blood filled up with rage. A rage she had to fight against, bottle it up, push it down. Because she knew if she ever let them memories take over, she going lash out, do plenty killing.

When Calla finished speaking, she was all worn out, but not like before, when she was filled up with anger or fear. Her face turned peaceful. She told me the truth of her story and, in the telling of it, I hoped she got rid of some of them memories and they were no longer stuck.

After a little while, I helped Calla up. Held her arm as we went inside her hut. Helped her into bed. Stayed with her. Soothed her brow. Held her hand till I saw her eyes close and she fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. That night, I sat a long time beside old Calla, watching over her, like she always done for me. Come to finally understand that even though she was made a slave, she was stronger, much stronger than Massa ever could be.

Now, whenever I am up on deck scrubbing, looking out cross the water at that Africa coastline, it make me think bout Calla, what a journey she made. See how behind her stand-up-straight back, head held high strength, was always a sore heart. A heart longing for the people, the place, the home she was dragged away from. Now me fated to be taking the same journey, only in the other direction, and like her, leaving everything, everyone I love, behind. A journey I never could imagine, when me that little slave child herding the cows up to pasture.

James Smith notice how quiet I get whenever I come back from being on deck. Think is still the water dread, but I tell him no.

‘Once the world I lived in was slow-moving. Nuttin’ much changed. Now everything move fast, change like the wind. Sometimes it make me mind turn feeble in the face of it. Whatever lie in wait, I don’t know. But I can never go back to who I was before. Is like me eyes open too wide, and I can never look away.’

I think Smith don’t understand what me talking bout, but him wink at me and say, ‘Best not to think too deep. Can drive a man crazy.’

‘Too many mosquitoes,’ I say, nodding.

‘Mosquitoes? What? Dem biting you?’