behindthegrooves: On this day in music history: September 19, 1989 – “Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation 1814”, the fourth album by Janet Jackson is released. Produced by Jimmy Jam, Terry Lewis, Janet Jackson, Jellybean Johnson and John McClain, it is recorded at Flyte Tyme Studios in…
A/N: This story is one that was given to me, it was gifted to me in a dream made to be shared. It will write itself rather than me writing it. Each part is as easy to redact as me expelling air from my lungs for it came to me whole. This story is an instinct, it is familiar, it is like knowing your way back home. It is filled not with dialogue and incessant action, but rather with the silent desires of the eye that allude to the painfully selfish desires of the soul: unspoken innuendoes, stories untold and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, one is worthy of being loved.
Hurt.
It creeped up into her bones until it struck her being with such ferocity.
The cold was unforgiving.
Harsh, painful and cruel were the winds that carried the snow unto her face and around her body.
It was as though the two had an unspoken agreement, a contract where both wind and snow were the beneficiaries, where both engaged in a dance, a waltz of some sorts.
She was the only one without a partner.
She should have gotten used to it by now.
The force with which the freezing chill of the Jabari highlands managed knock her off her feet, it continued to pain her still.
The cold clawed at her skin as well as the exhaustion she had attempted to ignore for the past few hours.
A climb up and down such treacherous terrain had not been kind to the woman’s already battered body and with the way her legs shook as she struggled to place one foot in front of the other, it was clear that she would not be able to sustain her weight for much longer.
Despite the pain, the woman trekked on, ignoring the fact that her hands felt as though they had been set ablaze. This was not a fire that came from within, but one ignited by the merciless chill in the air.
She paid it no mind however, for there were, of course, much more pressing matters at hand, a life at stake and the impossibility of turning back.
She was too far gone to go back anyways and surrounded with naught but snow and mountains, there was nowhere to hide either.
When the winds picked up and she finally stumbled, falling face first unto the soft yet icy snow, the woman let out a laugh that quickly turned into quiet sobs.
This was a good place as any to take a well-deserved breather: she was in the middle of nowhere, alone, freezing and amongst layer upon layer of snow. There was nothing that could possible go wrong, no hungry wild animal that would try to stake its claim on her or no lack of food to dissuade her because surely hypothermia would claim her first.
She pushed herself unto her back and laid there, eyes turned towards the sky.
Then it hit her.
With the power of one thousand bulls it rushed towards her and pushed her to her feet. The woman’s heart leaped in her chest as she let out a shaky breath, observing her surroundings warily.
She had almost forgotten it.
The reason why she was here all along; the small, innocent, pure reason she would surely continue to move forward. What exactly she was moving towards she knew not, but damned would she be if she didn’t get there.
when it gets cold and all things are robbed of movement – only then does the all-consuming fire become ignited.
The woman was close now. It was in the way the sun had turned its back to her and the way her stars had started to appear that told her it was so. Maybe it was the sheer desperation or rather the raging madness such an arduous journey would be sure to incite that had deluded her into believing she was near.
She needed to be close, she had no other choice but to be close.
The woman continued on, finding some comfort in her new companions. They were the ones that illuminated the path through the dense forest she struggled to weave her way through. They gave her hope, the stars. Their whispers could be heard as the wind blew across her face. Their tales were of an imaginable depth and they reminded the woman that there was a chance he was gazing at them also.
when the fire settles in and burns all in its path- only then does the cold sweep in and turn everything into grey.
She had finally seen the light, not that of the stars but that of fire.
Leaning against the tree bark at the edge of the woodland her heart was full for she had made it.
Only then did the stars disappear to make way for darkness.
Unbeknownst to her the stars peered down at their beloved and shone just a bit brighter where her body now laid, the falling snow making sure to keep her warm.
nothing, nothing, nothing – it grips at you as though it is nothing, but it is everything.
She was on her knees.
Samirah looked up at the Jabari tribe leader with the playful smile on her face.
She was a daring woman that Samirah, a trait that had enable her to be in M’Baku’s good graces. It was also a trait that had soon found itself to be the bane of the latter’s existence.
Her gaze left his as Samirha trailed her hands down from his abdomen to his groin.
“You have ten seconds to rid me of your presence before I dismiss you myself.”
M’Baku’s dry tone stopped Samirah in her tracks. She had been in such a situation more times than she would care to admit these past few weeks and therefore knew that she was best to do as she was told.
Pushing herself off of the floors of the palace hallway she had cornered M’Baku in, Samirah kept her eyes downwards. A sign of submission, yes, but mostly an efficient way to save herself from of the bored look she knew M’Baku was throwing her way.
“When you decide not to act like a common whore, inform Mosí. If the occasion arises, I will summon you then.”
M’Baku breezily marched off, disregarding the mental slap he had just delivered to Samirah.
Tail tucked between her legs, the shamed woman ran off to the rest of the harem, barely holding back tears. They greeted her with open arms for they also knew that the simply sight of them had repulsed M’Baku lately.
Something was coming, that they knew for sure. What or who that was they knew naught, however they were certain that nothing good would come from it.
It was in the air, the feeling that had everyone on their toes. M’Baku was no different. In fact, he felt it more than the others. It was in the whispers of the cold wind, the warnings of his ancestors. M’Baku could feel it in swirling in gut, his agitated state causing his brothers to be on edge.
They were all waiting.
When Mosí came to inform him of the woman lying in a bed of snow, M’Baku refused to believe she was what they had been anxiously waiting for.
And yet.
His heart beat furiously against his chest as he quickly grabbed his furs and followed his war chief out into the heart of the storm that had decided to rage outdoors.
As the cold wrapped itself around his skin, M’Baku could finally breathe. With each step taken, he absorbed the elements, or rather they absorbed him. The wind and snow adored him, their beloved, for he was a sight to behold. A terrifying sight he was indeed: The Mountain Man in all his glory, strutting through snow and wind as though he was a force of nature himself.
A group of his brethren could be seen anxiously shifting around what seemed to be a pile of naught from afar. Before Mosí and M’Baku got near the commotion, the war chief turned towards his leader.
Stopping in his tracks to hear what his brother had to say, M’Baku was surprised when Mosí opened his mouth only to close it.
Sending another look at the group of men that stood a couple paces away, Mosí let out a shaky breath, “do you feel it, brother?”
M’Baku’s frown deepened but he nodded firmly at the man at his side before making his way to the others, leaving a reluctant Mosí to follow in suite.
The woman was lying in a bed of snow- but she was on fire.
“Let us take this inside, brothers!” M’Baku exclaimed over the storm to the nervous pair of men that stood around the seemingly unconscious woman, “the storm will continue to rage for much longer.”
Cocked his head to the side, M’Baku’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as his order did not spark up any action on the part of his brethren.
“Chief, would it really be wise to take the mgeni into our midst? Lest she turns out to be a force to be reckoned with and and object of harm to our tribe”
The question from one of M’Baku’s least favourite warrior caused murmurs to arise amoungst the group.
“What we will do is bring her inside and call a healer.”
M’Baku’s booming voice silenced the murmurs instantly.
“Making sure this woman does not perish before questioning should be our first priority. It has been almost a decade since someone has dared enter our land through the sacred highland mountains. I know not if this woman is incredibly foolish or insanely courageous and I care not if she wishes our downfall, or is servant of Hanuman himself. All I know is that they are telling me to ensure that she is kept alive, by snow and wind, atleast for now.”
As soon as the Jabari leader had finished talking his men leaped into action. They knew that whenever their chief evoked the elements, the were to be quick to listen for he had been spoken to by the ancestors.
Whoever she was and whatever this women had brought with her was inconsequential. Why she was here was the true object of consternation.
and it burns, and it burns, and it burns- until the chill and the wind and the cold- nothing.
A/N: Hi! I hope you enjoyed this part as much as it thrilled me to write it. A comment is always appreciated so if you want to send me questions, constructive criticism or just a heart emoji know that it would warm my heart deeply.
It’s so significant too that this narrative was collected by Zora Neale Hurston, one of the greatest authors and anthropologists of her time. She was shunned by the “gatekeepers” of both of these professions, largely because of her Blackness, her womanhood, and her uncompromising commitment to honoring and showcasing both in her works. She died penniless and alone in a state-run institution in 1960. All of her works had gone out of publication by then. It took more than a decade before she was rediscovered. A young author by the name of Alice Walker had come across her work and was deeply inspired by it. “In 1973, after an exhaustive search, Walker came across Hurston’s unmarked grave in Ft. Pierce, Fla. She purchased a headstone for Hurston’s tomb and had it inscribed “A Genius of the South.“”
It is through Zora Neale Hurston’s pioneering sacrifice, and the acceptance of that inheritance by Alice Walker that we have found this missing piece of our history. Without the courageous and unfailing work of Black women, we wouldn’t have Cudjo Lewis’s story. We are slowly regaining a narrative that’s been hidden from us, one that continues to be lied about. Trust Black women to lead the way.
JackburtonSays 