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. 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. "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. Excerpted from African Town by Charles Waters, Irene Latham All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.