African Town Read online

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, New York

  First published in the United States of America by G. P. Putnam’s Sons,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2022

  Text copyright © 2022 by Irene Latham and Charles Waters

  Illustrations copyright © 2022 by Vivian Shih

  Map illustration copyright © 2022 by Richard Amari

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  G. P. Putnam’s Sons is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  library of congress cataloging-in-publication data

  Names: Latham, Irene, author. | Waters, Charles, 1973– author.

  Title: African Town / Irene Latham & Charles Waters.

  Description: New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, [2022] | Summary: Chronicles the story of the last Africans brought illegally to the United States on the Clotilda in 1860.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021041737 (print) | LCCN 2021041738 (ebook) ISBN 9780593322888 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593322895 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Africatown (Ala.)—History—19th century—Fiction.

  CYAC: Novels in verse. | Blacks—Africa—Fiction. | Africa—Fiction. Clotilda (Ship)—Fiction. | Slave trade—Fiction. | LCGFT: Novels in verse.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.5.L39 Af 2022 (print)

  LCC PZ7.5.L39 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021041737

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021041738

  Ebook ISBN 9780593322895

  Cover images courtesy of Shutterstock.com

  Cover design by Elaine Christina Damasco and Danielle Ceccolini

  Design by Rebecca Aidlin, adapted for ebook by Michelle Quintero

  This is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  pid_prh_6.0_138907609_c0_r1

  For my Alabama friends and neighbors, especially the residents—past and present—of Africatown. Thank you for sharing your stories.

  —I. L.

  For all my ancestors who fought for a better life—especially my late grandparents George E. Waters, Sr., Victoria Nottingham Waters, and William H. Bantom.

  And for my Poetic Forever Friend, Irene, for believing in me.

  —C. W.

  As for me, I will always have hope.

  Psalm 71:14

  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION BY JOYCELYN M. DAVIS

  I. HOME IS WHERE THE STORY IS

  II. DREAMS AND SCHEMES

  III. LIFE INTERRUPTED

  IV. OUIDAH

  V. VOYAGE TO AMERICA

  VI. MOBILE SWAMPLANDS

  VII. ENSLAVED

  VIII. WHEN WAR COMES TO TOWN

  IX. THE TRUTH ABOUT FREEDOM

  X. AFRICAN TOWN

  XI. LIFE IS BUT A DREAM

  AUTHORS’ NOTE

  VOICES

  MORE ABOUT THE CHARACTERS

  AFRICATOWN TODAY

  SELECTED TIME LINE

  GLOSSARY

  POETRY FORMS/STYLES

  LEARN MORE ABOUT THE SHIPMATES, THE CLOTILDA, AND AFRICAN TOWN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  When I was a teenager, my history teacher Mrs. Crocker asked, “Who knows their family history?” I raised my hand, and as my classmates looked at me, I lowered it. Would they make fun of me because my family was from Africa?

  At the time, I wasn’t ready to tell my story. But today I realize how important this story is—not just to me, but to the world.

  My name is Joycelyn M. Davis. I am a direct descendant of Oluale, also known as Charlie Lewis, and Maggie Lewis.

  I live and worship in Africatown. My family roots started in Lewis Quarters, where, collectively, a few of the Clotilda survivors saved their money and bought land from their enslaver. They established Lewis Quarters in 1870, and some of my family members still live there today. I work closely with other families whose ancestors also survived the Clotilda. I am the co-founder and vice president of the Clotilda Descendants Association and organizer of the Spirit of Our Ancestors Festival—a day set aside to honor our ancestors who survived the Middle Passage. It is my dream that this festival will grow and that people around the world will know about these courageous individuals I am proud to call my ancestors.

  With that in mind, I encourage everyone to sit at your elders’ feet and get as much information as possible. Take pictures, start a family tree, and make videos. Embrace your history, no matter how difficult it is. We are—you are—guardians of family history. We owe it to our ancestors to honor them as much as possible.

  Now, when asked about my family history, I tell their story with pride! May their story inspire and enlighten you.

  Thank you,

  Joycelyn M. Davis

  June 2021

  I.

  Home Is Where the Story Is

  African Town, Alabama, 1901

  KOSSOLA

  OUR STORY

  Be still, my children. Listen with your ears

  and your heart. Our story starts with this

  mark on my right cheek, these chipped teeth.

  See? This is how you know I am who I say I am.

  De town where I was born is called Bantè.

  It’s nowhere near here, not in African Town, not

  in Alabama. This town’s way across de ocean,

  on de west coast of Africa in de kingdom

  of Dahomey. My family’s home was a round,

  two-story adobe with a terrace. Surrounded by hills,

  about eight days’ walk to de sea. Someday maybe

  you will see de world de way I have seen it

  in Bantè. Then you will know how de sun

  kisses de earth, melts like honey over de land—

  it’s no wonder I believed all of life would be

  bright and sweet. No wonder it still shocks me

  that de world can be so hard, so dark.

  But that darkness, it brought me here.

  It brought you here. This is our story.

  II.

  Dreams and Schemes

  West Africa and the United States of America, 1859–1860

  KOSSOLA

  MARKET DAY

  My favorite day of de week is market day.

  De market sits right in front of de king’s

  compound, which is located near de center

  of Bantè. Villagers come from miles around,

  passing through de eight gates in de tall

  solid walls that enclose our town on all sides,

  like a fortress. Dey come to buy goats, cows, yams,

  fried wàrà, fùfú, palm roots, and yards of lace. r />
  “Hurry up, ọmọ mi,” my ìyá sings in Yorùbá,

  like I’m still a child. She says I’ll always be her

  precious boy, even though I’m eighteen years

  old now. “Your bàbá and bàbá àgbà

  said you must rope the goats.” I come from

  a family of farmers—not royalty, but rich enough

  to own our own animal herds. On market day,

  all of us older children help out while

  de younger ones race between de stalls

  and bang homemade drums. When there’s a lull,

  I sneak away to find Adérónké̩, who waits for me

  at de trunk of a mahogany tree. “Watch where

  I put my feet,” she says, scrambling higher

  before my eyes can find her first foothold.

  Her laughter rains down on me, soft

  and shimmery. Teasing me, challenging me.

  I grunt with my efforts, and when I slip,

  I try again and again until I make it.

  Together we watch de market from above,

  two bright birds singing our own song

  until de sun drops behind Bantè’s walls

  and de other villagers head for home.

  “A good day,” Bàbá àgbà says. We carry

  only three cases of palm oil and two goats

  back home. When I grab hold of de goats’

  head-ropes, Bàbá àgbà puts a hand

  on my brother Tayo’s shoulder. “Stay close,”

  he says, “or I will sell you to the Portuguese

  for tobacco.” Bàbá àgbà’s eyes sparkle,

  but his fingers hold firm. I throw my shoulders back,

  keep my voice light. “Why would dey want Tayo,

  when dey can have me?” We’ve all heard stories

  about people getting snatched by King Glèlè’s

  soldiers and being sold to traders who carry them

  across de sea. But that doesn’t happen

  in Bantè, with our walls and gates and families

  all looking out for one another. Besides,

  Bàbá àgbà doesn’t even like tobacco.

  Bàbá àgbà’s cheeks lift, and he gives me

  a playful shove. “Those traders don’t want you,

  Kossola. You talk too much.” De goats follow

  as Tayo and I pull ahead of Bàbá àgbà,

  but not too far ahead.

  TIMOTHY

  MASTER OF DISGUISE

  As the sun drops, I turn over the wheel of the Roger B. Taney

  to my first mate so I can dress for dinner. Soon I’ll join

  my guests for drinks, smoking, and chatting. Oh, how

  I love being on the water! Gives a man

  a chance to dream, and to count successes.

  And there have been many since I’ve moved to this state some

  twenty-four years ago. Since then, me and my brothers Jim and Burns

  dominate the shipping routes in Alabama. Our ancestors would

  be dancing with pride.

  As I gallop toward fifty years old, I’ve given my family’s

  name dignity—for my sweet, young wife, Mary, who isn’t

  but half my age, for our future children, and for my brothers, too.

  As I enter the dining room, my guests greet me with respect.

  “Good evening, Captain Meaher,” they say.

  “Evenin’, everyone,” I reply, tipping my hat.

  I may be Irish by nationality, and a Mainer by birth,

  but when necessary, I can transform myself into

  either a Southern swashbuckler or a Southern gentleman,

  depending on what’s needed.

  KOSSOLA

  DREAMING OF ORÒ

  For four years I’ve been training

  to be a soldier, getting ready for my

  initiation into orò, de highest level

  of our Yorùbá religion. “I’m ready now,”

  I tell Bàbá. He shakes his head.

  “Soldier first. You must earn orò.”

  He hands me de spear, shows me again

  how to settle my weight into my thighs,

  reminds me to use my sight. “Keep your

  eyes open, and the spear will follow.”

  I drop into de proper stance, but my mind’s

  stuck on orò. I want to be part of de secret

  society of men right now. I don’t want to wait

  for de elders to say I’m ready. I am ready.

  No one’s more respected than de orò.

  Dey decide which punishment fits which crime.

  De king may have ultimate say,

  but even he listens to de orò. I want to know

  what it’s like to sit in de woods for days

  with fellow orò, deciding de fate of others.

  I want to know that kind of respect and power.

  Even de market shuts down and waits

  for de orò’s return. “Higher,” Bàbá instructs,

  and I lift de spear. If I can’t make de years pass

  any faster, at least I’ve got this time alone

  with Bàbá. Perhaps I can impress him,

  convince him I’m ready. My eyes zero in

  on de target, and I heave my spear.

  TIMOTHY

  THE BET

  The smoky room turns from laughter to seriousness

  faster than a water-wheel when our conversation spins

  to Congress’s refusal to reopen the international slave trade.

  I pound my fist on the table. “How do they expect us

  to make a living? We need slave labor, and we need it cheap.”

  The gentlemen nod their heads, and talk

  swings to the possibility of our state, and others,

  seceding from the Union. “We should secede,” I argue.

  “Handle our own slave trade, set our own prices.

  It’s the only way to turn a profit.”

  Mr. Deacon, a businessman from New York City,

  shakes his head. “Well,” he says, “until that happens,

  the threat of being lynched will disabuse anyone of

  notions about bringing slaves in illegally.”

  I cough his words away. “Deacon,” I say.

  “You put more faith in the government

  than I do. No one’s going to lynch me.”

  Mr. Ayers, another Northeasterner, who specializes

  in the production of pills, pipes up. “You can’t bring Africans

  within sniffing distance of America without being caught.”

  Mr. Matthews, a Louisiana farmer of the highest order,

  shouts, “Of course it can happen. Matter of fact,

  I’ll bet you all a hundred dollars!” Well, that gets my attention.

  “Gentlemen,” I say, my voice ominous as a windless sky.

  “I’ll wager you all a thousand dollars

  that I can smuggle a good number of slaves back

  to Mobile without the authorities knowing about it.”

  The room erupts with shouts and laughter,

  before we all shake hands to seal the bet.

  Hang me? Let the government try.

  A bet is a bet—and I aim to win.

  KOSSOLA

  SCARS

  When de elders take de blade to

  my cheek, I keep my eyes wide open.

  My breath comes in quick huffs, but

  I don’t cry out. It’s an honor to be marked.

  And when, by firelight, dey tell me to open

  my mouth wide, I pretend to be a hippo br />
  as dey chip away at my top and bottom

  front teeth. It takes a while for them

  to finish. When I press my teeth together,

  it makes a circle-shaped opening just big enough

  to poke two fingers through. De marks

  guarantee my place in Bantè and among

  all Yorùbá people. Dey tell de world

  I’m a skilled soldier—able to track, hunt,

  and protect. I can throw spears, shoot arrows,

  and set up camp. I’m not trained

  to be a fighter—only to defend, to survive.

  When de scarification is complete, Bàbá

  looks me straight in de eye, pride lighting

  his face. His expression tells me I’m becoming

  a true Yorùbá man. De marks prove I’m exactly

  where I’m meant to be—on de path to orò.

  TIMOTHY

  MAN WITH A PLAN

  In town even the grocery clerk has heard about the bet.

  “Captain Meaher,” he says. “Why are you doing this?

  Seems like a bad idea.” I press my lips together,

  make myself smile. “Thank you for your concern, sir.”

  His words only offer further fuel for me to succeed

  at this challenge. Besides, slavery is as righteous

  as Sunday morning.

  I’m primed to right this wrong in my own way.

  My business won’t allow me time away to make this journey,

  so first, I must reel in a captain—and the fish I want

  to land is one William Foster. He and I

  have been through some trials at sea together

  that would have broken even the toughest of men. I respect him.

  Also, he’s a decade younger than me, which makes him

  easier to manipulate, if need be. Doesn’t hurt that

  he’s an immigrant, like my father. He aims to rise in

  social status, which makes him eager to please, and even

  more eager to make money. Besides, it’ll give the poor man

  a break from the Alabama pollen.

  “Join me for breakfast,” I say with a grin. Doesn’t take