Introduction

Story Setting - Place: Barbados, British West Indies (Leeward Islands)

Time: late 1700's (Conde's Tituba is Maroon)

The lives of minority men and women have been erased by lack of representation in historical and literary texts. For women this means a double marginalization created by both a racist and phallocentric discourse. Recent years have seen an increasing number of texts that address the exclusion and dehumanization of women in literature and which redress the imbalances that traditional racist and phallocentric texts have created.

Women share a common history of discrimination and need to tell their own herstory, inventing it when necessary. Conde recreates Tituba's life as a gift of revenge that sympathetically counters the unjust historical eclipse of her existence. This re-creation then, breaks the model of colonial discourse by giving voice to a strong minority woman. Women like Tituba are marginalized, not only by their gender, but by hierarchies based on color, class, education, ideology and environment. According to Conde, the story of Tituba is "about the discrimination and ruthlessness against women [as much as] against people of color in general" (Conde 210). While Conde believes that Tituba was forgotten by history because of her race, she believes that it is "more important that she was forgotten because she was a woman" (210).

While the fact that Tituba was forgotten because she was woman may not be the more important issue, the struggle of Samantha that follows, is all the more important because she is a woman. Samantha's life is a metaphor that speaks out against the disempowerment and oppression of women. It represents the many women who have found an inner power as well as a collective strength to fight oppression, cultural dispossession and gendered dislocation.

Like Conde's vision of Tituba, my story of the heroic Samantha is a historically based invention. In order to create continuity, I have used the last paragraphs of Tituba's tale to introduce my own. Samantha's story is a blend of history and imagination that inscribes a collective resistance on a greater herstory. It is symbolically created from the voices of historically marginalized women; a chorus of women who re-write themselves into history.

I am Samantha, the daughter of Delices and Tituba, born on the Willoughby plantation in Bottom Bay. My birth mother was a slave, a black Creole, who passed into the spirit world bringing me into this one. If it were not for Tituba, I too, would have journeyed to meet my mother in the world of the spirits. Tituba gives me strength, she gifts me with dreams of liberty, and she encourages me to fight my oppressors. I have learned to recognize her presence. I see my Tituba, in the twitching of an animal's coat, the crackling of a fire between four stones, the rainbow-hued babbling of the river, and the sound of the wind as it whistles though the great trees on the hills. She is with me often, and when I am lonely or afraid, I call her name and she comes to me.

As a young child, I always questioned the word in which I lived. I did not understand the brutality of the world around me. Although possessed of a fighting spirit from the moment of my birth, I was nevertheless full of wonder at the beauteous works of the Mother. I experienced great delight in the beauty of her creation; the shape of clouds, the drooping blossoms of the ylang-ylang, the taste of a bitter orange and the sweet stalk of sugar cane. It made no sense that I should be subordinate to anyone, especially the becara. The becara were cruel, and was not cruelty a sign of an inferior being? They could not hear the voices of their ancestors, and I knew that this was yet another sign of their stupidity. They did not understand that the dead only die if they die in our hearts. I imagined that this spiritual silence was also brought about by embarrassment on the part of their ancestors, for who would want to communicate with a race that brought such shame to its predecessors? They were in fact, afraid of the dead, and believed that everything in the spirit world was an evil ghost or a devil. They were an abysmally sad people and they forced their unhappiness upon the innocent. Neither did they understand the healing power of the land, and they invaded and destroyed its abundance. They stripped it of its natural beauty and left in its place rows of desolate stalks in which my people labored to exhaustion. I did not understand why I was cruelly imprisoned in my home. But here on my island, the very trees whisper words of rebellion.

Tituba was with me always, teaching me the secrets of the osain and telling me wonderful stories. Many times, when I would nearly despair of my unfortunate place in the world, I would hear the wind giggling through the trees and then hear Tituba's voice whisper, "Crick Crack". She would then tell me a story, that would, for a while at least, journey my mind away from its desire to join my mothers in the world of spirits. My favorite, though I didn't comprehend its meaning until I was older, was that of the monkey who wanted to be the king of animals. My mother would tell me, in her soothing voice, of how the imperious monkey climbed to the top of the silk-cotton tree so that all the animals would bow down in front of him. When the animals had gathered around he began to command them in an important voice, telling them how they must serve him and bring him food. But while he was speaking the branch broke beneath him and he fell to the ground, ass in the dust.

When I was sixteen years old, I was ordered to go to the main house to live. Until that time I had been reasonably happy, living with my father. It was my job to take care of the chickens and the small vegetable garden that provided food for the slaves, so I was generally spared interaction with the overseers, the master, and his horrible wife. I had seen the mistress of the plantation beat a woman, almost to death, and it was said that she found great delight in finding minor or invented indiscretions and imagined disobedience. The husband was afraid to beat me because it was rumored that I had mysterious powers. It was a belief I did not discourage because it seemed to give me a small degree of power over him. Because the masters had no understanding of the ancestral spirit world, it was rumored that I spoke with demons and I laughed to think they thought my gentle mother an evil spirit.

Living in the house of the masters was a horror. I was only allowed to see my father two times a year, and I was forced to sleep on the floor outside of the mistress's door in case she desired anything during the night. If I did not awaken at her slightest whisper, she would quietly open the door and viciously kick me awake. Many times, the tilt of my head, or the defiance in my eyes, would cause her to strip me naked, hang me by my wrists and lay my flesh open with the cow skin. While the husband was afraid to beat me, he did not hesitate to mistreat me in other ways. He had an ugly habit of stripping himself naked and then ordering me to wash him in a tub of water. This was worse than any beating his evil wife could have given me, and when I refused to wash him in intimate places he threatened to punish my father. I was thus forced to do as he wished and to endure his disgusting moans of pleasure. When he was satisfied, he would smile, call me a good girl, and suggestively promise that more was in store. Finally, after what seemed an eternity in hell, I decided that I would escape, no matter what the cost.

The evening that I made my flight to freedom, I slipped a potion into the tea of my mistress, insuring that she would sleep the night through, so that my absence would not be discovered. How I wished that I could have slipped in something more deadly! I would have gladly torn the pulse from her venomous veins. Yet I knew that slaves who killed their masters were hunted constantly and that when captured they were burned alive, only after witnessing the slow cruel deaths of their friends and families. I restrained my hand for the sake of those I loved, and when loud snoring signaled my moment, I slipped out of the house and into the darkening night.

The eventide was heavy with the smell of orchids and held a promise of rain. The goddess smiled I thought, as a rain would erase the traces of my fleeing footsteps. I listened to the wind in the trees, the croaking of the frogs and agua toads, the trill of the night birds. I heard the rustling of the wild animals and thought I glimpsed the bete a man ibe following me. It seemed that the loudest noise in the night was the sound of my own heart hammering against my breast; I was sure that its drumbeat would give me away! I had heard of the Maroons, living in freedom in the Chalkey Mountains, and I vowed that I would go and join them. I whispered Tituba's name and she appeared at my side, matching my stride and giving me strength by her presence.

Filled with sudden doubt, I questioned my mother. Oh mother! I am afraid, the becara will catch me, and they will torture my father. Oh, my poor father! I had wept as I passed by the little cabin where his now frail bones slept on a pile of cane stalks. I had not dared to tell him of my plans to escape for I knew that his gentle tears would have washed away my resolve. I had stood for a long time, praying to Yemaya for his protection before I had slipped into the shadows of the night. Now I was truly alone! And yet, Tituba's strong voice, a voice like the sound of the gwo-ka drum, reassured me. My beautiful mother voice reassured me; "Oh my daughter! You are brave and I am by your side. I will protect your father from the hands of the becara. Your destiny is great, you will be important to your people!" I pondered her words as I fell into a restless sleep, lulled by the soft song of the white doves, safe in the arms of the Obbatala tree. Far away, the monkeys slept in their warm nests.

I traveled through the densest part of the forest, guided by my mother. The wind in the trees murmured freedom and the sweet fruit offered to me by the gentle brown arms of the of the forest was better fare than I enjoyed during the sixteen years I had lived on the plantation. My body gathered strength; walking from sunrise to sunset was easy work compared to the cruel enforced labor and the nearly daily beatings I had endured on the plantation. My scars healed and courage grew. Nine days later, I reached the encampment of the maroons. I was met by a group of women and men and led, blindfolded, into camp. They fed me and bid me to tell my story. I told them of my love and longing for my father and tears filled their eyes. They screamed with laughter when I told them of the extra ingredient that I had added to my mistress's tea. In order to throw the master's house into confusion and enhance my chances of escape, I had included roots that would induce a babbling madness for days. They took me in their arms and amidst cries of "akwaba!" welcomed me as one of their own. The ancient oluo came to the head of the story circle. He bid me to sit before him, and I came forward with my head lowered. "Look up," he shouted! "You are Nanny Sama, and I have been told of your coming! From this day forward you need bow to no one!" I heard a murmur of approval flow like a singing stream through the group. I raised my head and my eyes meet two pools of lava in a wrinkled stone mountain. Gazing into the oluo's fiery eyes, I fell into a peaceful, yet exuberant trance-like state and began to sing in a sonorous voice that I barely recognized as my own.

This is the hour when the trees rattle

with screaming monkeys

this is the hour when the streams rattle

like beads of bone

this is the hour when the loa come

dripping and hungry.

Feed the loa with tears unshed

dance and sing for them

rattle the bones, bang the drums

and feed them with monkey meat.

They brought me to an ajoupa and left me in the care of women whose strength and confidence was greater than any I had ever seen. They greeted me with great joy, gentleness and respect. I was treated like a long lost sister, home again, among my family and friends, and I fell into a deep sleep, feeling safe, protected and happy.

I lived among these proud people for nine months. During this time I was trained during the long days in warfare by the women. At night, I would take long walks with Tituba. She held my hand and whispered the secrets, taught to her, by her Mama Yaya before her. Secrets of the hidden forest and meadow plants; those which could heal or which could bring on a painfully slow or violently quick death. I questioned her, for I knew in her life she had only used her powers to heal. She said to me, "You have the power of Nayama, while I walked on the earth, I resisted in my own way. Yours is a different destiny. In this place, among these people, you must fight for freedom." Suddenly she vanished and my hands flew to my face as I felt a tremendous pressure threatening to push my eyes out of my head. I sank to my knees and heard a rushing noise in the trees above me. I looked up and saw that the tall trees were an inferno and filled with monkeys that screamed as they were consumed by the hungry flames. A burnt head fell at my feet, I shut my eyes against the horror and my own scream mingled with the others in the violent night.

Suddenly all was silent. The pressure behind my eyes eased and I fearfully opened them. At my feet was a ripe coconut. Suddenly thirsty, I picked it up and smashed it against a stone. Its white blood nourished me, and as I drank I felt a strange new strength coursing through my veins. The fear I had felt moments before seemed laughable, like a child's nightmare. When I returned to the camp, I sought the obaa panin and knelt before her. I bowed my head and she gently raised it with a touch of her finger to my chin. Although the fear had vanished, I was troubled by my vision and told the wise woman of what I had seen in the forest. When I had finished she sat silently for a long time and then, in a voice of powerfully rushing water she said, "the time has come."

During the months that I had lived with the Maroons our numbers had swelled to nearly nine hundred. Many escaped slaves had joined us. There were the Yourba and Dahomey women and men, there were members of the Seramica and Ashanti tribes and of many other tribes as well. The leaders Quao and Cudjoe came and brought many of their people with them also. Men and women alike honed their fighting skills, manufactured lances and firelocks and labored in the provision grounds.

Soon after my vision, the night before the great resistance, the great war leaders and the spiritual leaders gathered together. The manbo, houndan and the obaa panin were consulted one last time and all agreed that the time was ripe for a harvest of freedom. The storytellers, women and men alike, also joined the great circle. We told our stories; wrote our histories on the enduring wind, knowing the voices of those who would die in battle would live forever in the hearts and minds of those who returned triumphant. Would live in the hearts, minds and on the lips of those who would return to their homes. Homes that were poor and small but abundant with nature, freedom, love and pride. I whispered my mother's name and Tituba was with us as well. Her voice tickled in our ears, hardened our hearts to fight and nourished us with dreams of liberty. We set off, on the ninth night of the ninth month, under the broken moon, wearing the teeth of slain white soldiers as bracelets on our ankles and wrists. We carried axes, machetes, firebrands and bags of poison for the water and food supplies. I had many knives in my belt and stood with the other leaders, carrying a great wooden sword with a red feather in the handle, the symbol for war. Tituba sang a song to which I gave voice, and it was carried in its turn on the brave lips of the nine hundred women and men who surged in a murmuring tide towards death or freedom.

Come! We come and go

to descend upon the Jiwe

beneath the shrieking stars

among the weeping trees

above the laughing stones

our shadows pass

our histories imprint

across the worried brow

of the Becara.

Come! We come and go

to make magnificent fire

that devours and burns

the greedy monkeys

from our towering trees

from our teeming fields

Come! We come, and go

to split the scull

of the soukougnan

and drink the white blood

of the screaming Jiwe.