Sekou and I walked along the reedy shores of the fisherman’s dock a few days later, looking for oysters to collect for lunch. I’d helped with his Isle tour runs after his older brother Ahmad couldn’t make it. The dock was pretty empty, most of the boats out to get their catch. We talked about everything except the elephant in the room, him waiting for me to ask and me hoping he wouldn’t bring Naira up. I wasn’t so lucky.
“Saw you on the pier when we pushed off the other day,” he said. He’d been the one to run them to Charleston on one of his family’s boats. “You should have come. They were saying some crazy shit about a few people disappearing all of a sudden.”
“I had to help Nana make herbal remedies in her cabin,” I said, knowing damn well I’d gone back home to watch YouTube vids and wallow in self-pity.
The smell hit Sekou first. “Something reeks.” He gagged, his face bunched up, and his hand flew to cover his nose. He was thigh-deep in the reeds, behind me and heading toward a newsection of shallow water we hadn’t checked yet. We didn’t need more, our buckets nearly overflowing with oysters.
“Could be something washed up,” Sekou said.
That wasn’t the smell of washed-up marine life. It wasn’t an animal that had gotten too close to the water’s edge and had been caught by a gator. It was a smell of decay that infiltrated every fiber of my being and made my stomach wretch something fierce, bile climbing my throat.
“God, what is that?” he asked, barely able to contain himself.
I didn’t answer, seeing the sandy mound washed up in the reeds of low tide salt water. As I got closer, I waved away the thick swarm of black flies crawling on it as the breeze pushed a waft of stink and rot at me.
I put my hand up to my nose and mouth, not wanting to taste the stench. But it was too late, and the smell quickly coated my insides, sickening me. The rot was at war with me, making my blood race. Yet, there was a trace of familiarity and repulsion. The smell was wrong. It smelled of disease.
“What is it?” Sekou asked quietly from behind me.
I moved closer, hoping my suspicions were wrong. The mound began to take shape as the tide washed over it. Two legs, one booted, one showing a decaying foot caked with sand and dried blood. Torn plastic fisherman’s overalls. I moved closer to see the face, staggering back when recognition hit.
Behind me, Sekou turned and threw up all the breakfast he’d had, and then some.
Nana’s words rushed at me.
… became a disease.
Then the flash of the shadow with its two red dots staring back at me. I remained still, unable to tear my eyes from the old man I’d waved goodbye to not so long ago.
Not in Florida visiting family where I wished to Nyame he had been.
Mr. Gilbert. With his throat ripped out.
On the Isle, there was no murder, no real crime beyond the occasional drunken fight between friends who’d make up the next day after a good shaming by the rest.
There wasn’t an official police force here. With a population of just under four hundred, we were too small; only a quarter of us were actual Kinfolk natives and the rest were transplants who’d relocated to the Isle after getting Nana Ama’s permission.
We were good at sorting out our own issues. We didn’t need anyone on the mainland telling us how to act. That’s what our elders—led by Nana Ama—were for. But private island or not, we were still in the US, and that meant we still followed the mainland laws. We paid taxes and voted, and someone still had to make sure we remained law-abiding citizens. The bi-monthly visits from Sheriff Lyle, Kinfolk formerly of the Golden Isle now living on the mainland, used to be enough. But after finding poor Elder Gilbert… I didn’t know if anything would ever be enough again.
Word had traveled like wildfire on a dry day. “Thank Nyame hedidn’t wash up at Freeman’s Port,” Nana Ama said, standing next to Lyle as he peered down at the body. Her words shocked me.
Nana seemed more worried about the tourists finding out than the dead man lying at her feet. Farther up on the embankment, the crowd of islanders was growing, sounds of cries and disbelief coming from them in waves. I wished I had my earbuds handy. The growing noise was becoming too distracting, even here where I could normally keep the buzz back. I wondered where I’d last left them. Had they dropped in the water’s edge while I was trying to calm Sekou enough from freaking out so we could get help? I was freakishly calm, more concerned with what had happened to Mr. Gilbert than at having seen his wrecked body. Maybe once the adrenaline died, I’d be as bad off as Sekou was.
Nana Ama seemed to remember eyes were on her. She tightened her wrap around her thin shoulders and raised a hand for silence.
“Please, let us give Sheriff Lyle and the authorities time to conduct their case.” She paused when someone from the crowed cried out. “Yes, I know. It is a deeply sad day for all of us. Please make way and we’ll update you.” She called on the Kinfolk specifically. “We will hold a town hall this evening. Prepare yourselves. And to all, please do not let this become fodder for gossip, especially to the tourists. We need their continued revenue, yes? Sheriff and I will keep everyone informed of this tragedy.” Her eyes, clouded with emotion I couldn’t read, swept the group. “Nyame be with you all.”
This time, my grandmother’s words sounded more like an ominous prayer than her normally casual send-off.
Death wasn’t new to me. The old ones died on the Isle when their time came, and whenever it did, it would be Nana Ama andme giving Homegoing rites over the bodies. The dead would be welcomed peacefully in the spirit world of the Asamando, and would remain there until their time came to walk the world again, when the veil between the Asamando and our mortal world of the Asase was lifted. Our Harvest Festival was one of those days, held on Thursday. The day of the week when the veil was always at its thinnest.
“Nana Ama,” I said shakily, stepping away from Sekou, who sat in the warm sand, staring listlessly at the ground, as if he’d never move again. Behind us, the crowd began to slowly trickle away, our fellow Kin starting a slow hymn song in Mr. Gilbert’s honor. Poor Mr. Gilbert. My eyes burned. I wanted to cry, but the hardness in Nana’s voice, mixed with something else I couldn’t read, kept any tears at bay. If I cried, she’d think I was a child. She’d never let me in and let me help her.
She turned slowly to me. “Hmm?”
I went to her. I didn’t want to go toward the body again, not like that, but I went anyway. “That’s not a boating accident,” I whispered. I didn’t know what it was, but boats didn’t just take out the neck and leave everything else.
“Luckily no one else has seen what has become of Elder Gilbert except us.” She held me firmly by both sides of my face, searching my eyes until she was sure I was paying attention. “And no one should. We don’t want to scare anyone unnecessarily.”
