Bondju (Part 2: Imiri)
by KAYCE COLEMAN
in Fall 2021
Bakari Akinyele, Children's Story, 2020, 18x50, cotton canvas dyed with indigo
“Push N'guanee, Push!!"
The young one's Ivu pulsed with deep purple light as she bore down for one final push, helping her infant cross into this life and my waiting hands. The exhausted mother leaned back into the chest of Om'lyngo who had helped to support her in the squatting position. N'guanee's elongated oval face shimmered with tears and sweat. I am not a large woman, but the huge obsidian bodies in the birthing room made me seem even smaller in comparison. On earth, I remember my skin being darker than anyone else I had ever seen; but the black of Bondju skin is so brilliant that the ivu that covers them almost levitates. The small hut was alight with the dancing strobing stories of us all, but none was brighter than N’guanee.
"You have done so well!" I congratulated. Her long legs, even protracted in the birthing position, towered over my head as I sat on a stool between them. I hauled my old bones up from the stool and extended up onto my toes kissing N’guanee on each of her closed lids. The skin of them was damp with her sweat and as firm as leather. The baby fussed between us, but I did not relinquish the child.
As is custom, I dipped my hands into the waiting bowl of cool lavender clay and used my thumb to rub a protective line down the baby's torso. The clay immediately began to crust into an ashy gray. I sang the customary welcome song.
“Wimakolokalee… Wimakolokalee…”
Bondju is a small planet about 24 million light years from the planet I was rescued from as a child. It is almost completely covered in expansive and hostile black seas with only one large land mass. This land is populated by the Bondju. The ancestor forests create natural borders that surround each village. When I came to this place, I learned that I was of the Iceesi Clan. This word “Wimakolokalee” is an invitation as well as an evocation. It means come in, come into, come back, and come home all at once.
N'guanee’s onyx colored baby wiggled in my hands as I sang from my heart. The newborn was as large as a small human toddler. I held the liberated young one close to my skin and bounced it on my knees, joining the rhythm of the jumping circle’s celebratory dance, feeling my blood awaken and synchronize with my kin in this realm and beyond. My heart was full.
This is my last good memory. My last act of service to my clan. I have had the privilege of being midwife to eleven generations of Iceesi Clan children. The accomplishment is carved into my right knee cap. My ivu thrums gently there as I remember, but I mourn the fact that when this vessel of mine no longer lives, my stories will vanish into dust. The first time I experienced my ivu expanding, I was a little child. The shock of the energy building in my fingertips, then traveling up my spine, and finally the brief but sharp discomfort of the experience being carved onto my skin was terrifying. But, I came to learn the beauty of it quickly. The Bondju don’t know judgment or shame, because they wear their stories on their skin. Only very small children are “naked.” I am an old old woman now and certainly not naked. But my body is not like the bodies of Bondju, so I must write my stories so they can live on once I have transitioned.
The Immortal Forest
My first conscious memory on Bondju is being placed into Ma Iceesi’s arms. I was terrified. My lungs hurt from trying to breathe the heavy salty air around me. Ma Iceesi placed a large, warm hand on my chest and sang to me what I now know to be the welcoming song in a high trilling voice until my breath and heart beat in unison with the crests and falls of the lullaby. I felt a sudden sharp pain, then vomited violently. I felt ashamed but Ma Iceesi’s dark eyes were steady and reassuring.
“I know youuuu, you are Imiri,” she held me in her huge arms and smiled down at me with her strange and kind eyes. Her deep gravelly voice calmed me as she sang, “Wimakolokalee…Wimakolokalee”. Imiri means “small one”. The name given to me at birth was Sarai, but I have been called nothing but Imiri since coming here.
I did not know it at the time, but Ma Iceesi was 313 moon cycles. The Bondju do not age as the now virtually extinct humans did. Instead, they become more and more tattooed with their histories until they look like walking art. Some who have had a particularly difficult path develop clusters of growths and mutations that sparkle like precious jewels. Ma Iceesi was as smooth as alabaster. I was mesmerized by her sheer size and beauty.
Ma Iceesi mentored me for 50 moon cycles before she transitioned to the forest of ancestors. When I was a child, the Iceesi rescued me and a handful of other people from Earth just before it’s inhabitants destroyed themselves. The Bondju are a people of technology. Not in the destructive ways that humans evolved to be, but in learning to speak the language of the universe: the land and the seas and of our blood and flesh and immortal spirits. The Iceesi in particular are a clan of explorers. They travel among the galaxies sharing our knowledge of the stars and the land. In the rare event that a planet’s inhabitants share enough genetic compatibility, they “seed” it with their DNA. When the Iceesi sensed the impending end of the planet Earth, they returned to salvage what they could of us with the least amount of harm to us and themselves.
It took me many years to think of myself as Bondju. I have always felt the strong bond of kinship with the Iceesi, but the obvious physical differences made me feel as though I did not belong. But, the Bondju do not consider physical “differences” negative. If a child is born with no legs, then it is not a matter of pity. I think they have considered my smallness, and the fragility of my skin and bones as nothing more shocking than being born with no legs or without sight, because they have never treated me as anything other than Bondju.
Ma Iceesi taught me well the stories of the Bondju and the Iceesi people. The Immortal Forest borders our village on three sides. It is composed of crystallized Bondju bodies after their spirits have transitioned. At the time of transition, the body is laid upon an altar for seven days and seven nights until it becomes stiff and begins to bud. Budding is when the ivu on the bottom of the feet begins to push out like budding roots. The body is planted into the earth where it continues to grow and bear fruit and flowers. The ivu does not ever diminish. There are millions of ancestors in the many forests of the island. The greatest honor is to be allowed to visit among the ancestors of another village and the highest offense is to damage or chop down an ancestor.
The first time Ma Icessi walked with me through The Immortal Forest she said to me, “Imiri, here is the history of the people.” She lifted my palm to the bark of a particularly stout tree near the edge of the forest. She explained to me that the Bondju gather all of their nourishment and remedies from the fruit of their ancestral forests. She lifted me onto her shoulders and I observed the many Bondju people working in the forest. They were gathering strong vines, and collecting leaves, berries, nuts, and fruits. But some also were burying things at the roots or just resting on them or talking to them. This last confused me. I asked, “Why are they talking to the trees Ma?”
Ma Iceesi lifted me from her shoulders and sat me down on the ground directly in front of the wide tree trunk.
“This is Uokka. The father of my mother.” I looked up at her in confusion and she chuckled at my ignorance. “I know it looks like a tree, but see here,” she placed my small hand along the patterns of what I had assumed to be carvings in tree bark.
“Ivu?” I asked, gently tracing my fingers along the trails. I felt a sudden rush of adrenaline pulse through me. I opened my eyes wide in alarm and Ma Iceesi tilted her head back, booming with laughter. This is when she explained how the Bondju transition and are preserved. She explained how they provide food, medicine, and shelter but would die if not tended to. By this time the tree was humming with energy and a large seed pod dropped from a high branch and hit me on the head.
“He likes you eh? Uokka was very powerful.” She chuckled, “And he loved pilt pilt seeds.”
She smiled her brilliantly white smile, reaching into her woven satchel to hand me one of the fleshy, savory fruits. She used a long and elegant big toe to dig a small hole near Uokka’s roots. I bit into the pilt pilt and the salty juices spilled down my chin. I leaned forward, spat a mouthful of the long, flat, oval seeds into the small hole, and used my sandaled foot to cover it with the velvety black loan that blanketed the forest floor. This first visit with Uokka was how I learned that the Immortal Forest lives and it feeds us as we feed it.
Today I visited the Immortal Forest. Overwhelmed with nostalgia, I chuckled to myself as I tottered past Uokka to Ma Iceesi. I buried N’Guanne’s placenta at the feet of her great-great-grandmother. I could not wait to tell Ma Iceesi how brave N’Guanee had been delivering her first child.
“Ma you would have been soooo proud!” I mused, patting the earth over my offering then resting my tired and sore back on her sturdy trunk. I am a very old woman now. The Bondju remedies have kept me alive and well for much longer than I would have lived on earth, but there is no cure for time.
Ma Iceesi’s bark is lighter in color than those around it. It is nearly gray and it’s branches bear sweet yellow fruit. She shivered in delight and showered me gently with delicate pink flowers. She loves hearing stories of her children and their children. I smiled to myself and thought, “I wish I could go on in this honorable way.” Ma Iceesi’s leaves rustled in an agitated way.
I could almost hear her.
“Imiri! You insult the Orisha wishing to be anything other than you are.”
Life after Life
I awoke this morning to tender kisses on the crown of my head from Neyeli. I was cradled in her arms like a small child. I left my eyes closed, and she placed her lips on my shoulder. The story of us. The intricate mark always tingles pleasantly at her touch. Neyeli is a gift.
Neyeli comes from the Dujanee people who live nearest our village just on the other side of the steep rock formations at the edge of the Iceesi Immortal Forest. The first time I saw her, I loved her. She was standing at the edge of the water with her face lifted towards the lavender sky. A cool mist hovered about her ankles and the clusters of diamond-like growths that trailed from the nape of her neck to the small of her back threw rainbows of technicolored light onto the black beach beside her. I stood behind her, reading her ivu with tears welling in my eyes.
Neyeli was an orphan like me. Her mother suffered in her mind and walked into the sea holding Neyeli in her arms. Ma Iceesi found the two of them washed up onto the beach nearly drowned but her mother did not wish to fight to live. The Dujanee are a proud people who consider suicide abomination and her father refused to accept Neyeli back. So Ma Iceesi raised Neyeli as if she were her own. Neyeli also suffers in her mind.
Today she asked, “Gerrin and sum tonight?” She has pretended as if my life was not ending soon but it can no longer be ignored. We have found solace in one another all these moons. Ma Iceesi used to say we loved to lick our scars together. We have always found comfort in our differences from the other Bondju. My heart is pained to leave her and to know that she cannot come and visit me and eat my fruit after my time here is done. I hope she reads the things I have written and feels the depth of my love through time and space.
I know she must have been feeling very sentimental this morning. Gerrin and sum is my favorite dish. The stew made from tender, sweet seagrass leaves simmered with pilt pilt seed milk, spicy peppers, root vegetables, and nuts. The stew is spicy and rich and makes me think of Ma Iceesi. Gerrin is what makes it special because they have a sweet and buttery flavor unlike anything else, however it is very difficult to harvest. The water plant only grows on the north side of the island, over a cluster of steep rocks. Neyeli can easily scale them, but the long walk and effort rarely seem worth it. I know she meant it as a special treat for me because we both have seen how faintly my ivu has been glowing when she kisses our commitment mark. The mark used to be a riot of light and heat and electricity when she touched me there, but my essence is fading. I rolled over painstakingly to face her, my bones creaking, until I was looking into her slanted deep purple eyes. They shimmered iridescently with the tears she fought to hold back.
“No gerrin. Let us go see them,” I said to her.
The tears spilled from her left eye before they fell from the right one. I reached up to her oval face, and swiped away her tears. She closed her eyes and nodded solemnly.
“Shall I carry you?” She asked, eyes still closed. I know she meant well. I was ready for my transition but I was not ready to rush into it. Today was the day I was going to see the oracles who lived in Neyeli’s village of origin, Duanjee. The same way that I was blessed with hands made to guide newborns into life, the oracles were blessed with hands made to ease the transitioning into the next life. Death doulas.
I snickered and said, “My body has not failed me yet. I think I better walk while I can.”
By midday, we arrived at Duanjee about 60 miles away from our settlement. We were greeted warmly at the gate by a strapping young Bondju no older than 73. He was at least 10 feet tall with clusters of iridescent golden nodules gathering around his neck and shoulders and wooly locks that swung down to his heels. His dark and handsome face broke into a warm smile as he noticed us approaching. He touched his forehead and extended his hand, palm facing up towards the sky, to each of us in turn. We returned the customary greeting before asking after the doulas.
“They are well and spry!” He jauntily stated before pointing and giving us brief directions.
As we walked away, he announced our entrance on the talking drums, which brought the doulas to the entrance of their hut. Though they are just as old as me they still look like young girls of no older than 16. The doulas are human too. When we were all rescued from the dying planet Earth, the Bondju chanted the welcome song over us to awaken our true selves. The twins had more than just Bondju blood. They were vessels. The Orisha use them as intermediaries between this world and beyond.
“Sister!” they exclaimed in unison, as we approached their hut.
Neyeli hung back. I know she would rather pretend the 25 moon cycles of our perfect union would continue on for another century, but the Orisha have not chosen me for this purpose. I am to be reborn.
“Sit,” the sisters said, still in unison. Unlike the Bonju, they are hazelnut brown with their heads shaved bald. Ivu covers every inch of their skin in identical patterns, the bright pink color of a newborn baby's life blood. I braced my old bones to ease down onto my knees. The sisters swiftly began to roam their hands all over my body as if they were reading Braille. Starting with my first markings, they traced my ivu chronologically, all the way to the catching of N’guanee’s child.
“We are so glad you came,” they said.
Epilogue
Imiri nodded her head in acceptance and heard the shuffling of Neyeli’s feet outside of the hut. Secretly she prayed the death doulas would give her some tonic or elixir as they had done in the past, but this was not sickness. It was the end of Imiri’s time in this form.
Before Imiri’s aged body they placed a basin full of cool water, a basin of earth, a slab of stone with burning tinder atop it, and a sweet smelling stick from a loa tree.
They instructed her to lie down and began to chant over her body in a throaty clicking language unknown to Imiri.
Peace washed over her in waves and she felt the earth shift as Neyeli entered the hut to clutch Imiri’s hand. Neyeli’s eyes streamed heavy tears onto Imiri’s face, and she cried out as a brilliant emerald nodule pushed through the skin on the back of her right hand. Dark blood dripped sluggishly from the wound but she refused to let go of Imiri’s hand. Imiri’s ivu throbbed weakly and rhythmically to the tempo of the chanting. Neyeli kissed her lips, and the last sensation Imiri experienced was the sweet taste of Neyeli’s her tears.
When Imiri’s ivu stopped pulsing, it took her a moment to realize that she no longer felt any pain in her body. She tried to lift her hands to the sobbing Neyeli’s cheek but she felt heavy and tired. She realized that she was no longer breathing. Her heart was no longer beating.
At the moment of realization, a familiar voice graveled and full of mirth enveloped her. It was deep and warm and playful.
It sang, “I know youuuu! Wimakolokalee… Wimakolokalee…” and Imiri’s spirit danced.
Kayce is a 34 year old mother from Dallas, TX. She is a poet, author, and visual artist.