I tied the band of white cowrie beads around the back of my head, adjusting them so they aligned perfectly over my forehead. Rows of multicolored beads wrapped in layers around my waist and hips and covered the beaded belly chain I’d worn since I was little, which wouldn’t come off until I married, if I ever did. The ceremonial beaded belts hung in loose scallops over the underwrap I wore, after I tied them at my lower back.
Draped over my front and rear, two long swaths of thick African print cloth of deep gold with a pattern of black and blue shapes throughout. The gold respresented the gold of Nyame and the fireflies sent as guides. The blue symbolized the blue gems in Nana Ama’s cuffs. Elder Haniah, one of the best seamstresses in all the Low Country, made our traditional clothes using the formulas from the old days and spent most of her days creating the designs for our outfits for whenever we needed them, and for tourists who wanted a piece of the Golden Isle to take back home.
In our culture, ornate displays of jewelry, cloth, andaccessories were a significant part of our lives. The beading, the intricate designs held meaning and played a part in everything we did… every ceremony and blessing, every dance and honoring. We decked ourselves out when celebrating or when at war, when we worked or when at peace, when our lights were released at our Homegoing. I completed my look by pulling a leather cowrie-covered band up each of my legs until they sat right above my calves. I pulled several thin gold bands along my arms until they stretched over my biceps. I was ready to serve as the granddaughter of the Lady of the Golden Isle.
I couldn’t see Nana Ama’s tiny cabin from the house, but I could sense she was close by, getting herself in the right state of mind. We’d left so many things unsaid between us, and I could feel the heaviness of whatever she was keeping from me. I could feel the guilt of what I hadn’t fully told her either. I hated being like this, distracted when our minds were supposed to be clear.
But soon the heavy thoughts and worry evaporated, and I was drawn to the pounding drumbeats, getting louder and louder as I walked the winding pathway between my house and the Gathering Tree with little yellowish-white lights flashing on and off, one second here and another there. Our path was a direct vein from our home to it. It was the only path to that tree, a tree that had been here since the moment the runaways washed ashore. The tree had grown and thrived. It was the heartbeat of Golden Isle, from which we drew our strength and our unity. I could hear its heart, calling steadily to the beats of those drums.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Come. Come. Come.
Singing its siren to me and all the other Kinfolk who lived within our gated community.
The sky was alight with the light of the fires, and when I joined everyone already there, dressed in their own ceremonial uniforms of beads, cloth, bone, and golden bands, I saw Nana Ama already seated at the base of the Gathering Tree. She was perched in her fanned-out, high-backed chair made of ornately carved wood. To her left was James, always at her side, her counsel. To Nana’s right, between her and the seat that I would occupy momentarily, was the golden stool. The stool of Nyame, tall and wide and empty.
No one ever sat in that chair, another of our rules. To do that would be a desecration, an abomination. It was the throne of the king of all gods. It was left for Nyame to come and take his seat to watch the ceremony and be honored as he and all gods and goddesses and spiritual beings he created in the world were supposed to be every day, but especially tonight.
Harvest Festival was the time when the threshold between this world and the one above was thin. The spirits walked among us to survey the land and make sure we were doing right by it.
Sekou was already at his drums, looking serene as if we hadn’t just had it out, and creating the rhythms the dancers would move to in their circles before Nana Ama. Two circles, one inner and one outer. The drummers rimmed the outer, bare-chested or wearing bandeau tops with their own intricate layers of roped beads draped in regal beauty all over their bodies. I weaved in sync through the moving bodies and to my seat on the other side of Nyame’s stool.
The music started to really settle in deep, and my body swayedto it as the two circles of people within the ring of torches started singing and did their own dances, the outer circle and inner. I moved in time with the ones in the outer circle, following along with their intricate foot and hand movements, in sync, as they kicked their feet out left foot, right foot. They moved their hips side to side, clapping with thethump, thumpof the drums, their claps so precise they sounded thunderous in duet with the drums.
The ones in the middle, the nine Diviners made of priests and priestesses, posed with thick, polished black staffs that stood over six feet in the air. The thumping beats grew deeper and slower, and the dancers moved clockwise around them, humming and singing a chorus to the Diviners as they called to the ancestors.
One of the Diviners let out a high-pitched yell that pierced the air, sending off a flutter of wings from the treetops. He lifted his staff above his head and the noise ceased.
“We call to our ancestors. We welcome you to come down. To walk the earth and walk among us. To see what we’ve done and how we honor you. To take what you will and give your blessings upon blessings.” He struck his staff hard to the earth, and with it the bass drum sounded.
Boom!Like thunder.
And the outer circle of dancers clapped, their sound deep and resounding.
Crack!Like lightning.
Their bare feet stomped the earth, the little bells attached to the bands around their ankles chiming in.
“We bless the Golden Isle.”Boom. Crack.
“The Kinfolk of those who fled.”Boom. Crack.
“The people who first lived on this land and had it stolen.”Boom. Crack.
“We bless Nana Ama, our lady and guardian of theSee-kah-kaw-kaw Shoo-paw.”
Golden Isle spoken in a native dialect of the Akans resonated to my core on nights like tonight.
“She is the keeper of the stories. Sankofa.”Boom. Crack.
Nana Ama bowed her head deeply, acknowledging their tribute.
“We bless Addae, descendant of the first, guardian, and future awuraa and keeper of the stories.”Boom. Crack.
Hearing those words, my chest pounded with the beat, bursting with excitement, but also dread.
For what was to come.
