Dark Matter: A Century of Speculative Fiction from the African Diaspora
There are places human beings know nothing about. Beneath infinity's umbrella, among the flaming gases of the stars are unimaginable beings. Cocooned and comatose, they float silently, awaiting their next assignments. WaLiLa is among them. Her body hums with a bone-drenching sense of peace, as energy pierces her skin and plumps up her body. Particles of power lodge into her being-center, her message-center, and her vision-centers. A piercing light suddenly suffuses her cocoon with a bright glow. Flashing like shooting stars, the layers of her cocoon peel back and burn slowly until disintegrated. An organic tunnel collects its walls around her. The tunnel tilts itself downward, coaxing her body into motion. Soon she is slipping down, down, down through places humans don't know about, and then, into the human realm.
1.
Musicians, practicing an age-old tradition, scatter syncopated rhythms across the night sky. Through rapid hand movements and homemade instruments, they pay homage to fierce and fascinating gods. The music tattoos the sky's surface with patterns of prayer, patterns which transform themselves into welcome mats for beings in realms the musicians have no knowledge of. One such welcome mat beckons to WaLiLa's tunnel. The tunnel dips and glides, then aligns itself with the musicians' tones. Her body plummets, tumbling along the tunnel's path as it shoots through space. Occasionally, she bumps the small of her back, her knees, or her toes against the tunnel's pliant walls.
When the tunnel breaks into the earth's atmosphere, it contracts, jostling WaLiLa into consciousness. She discovers herself crouched in the travel position: arms bound tightly about her, folded legs pressed close against her chest. The tumbling is dizzying, but tolerable. She throws her head back and grimaces as she struggles against the forces of motion to uncurl her body. Fully extended, WaLiLa picks up speed. The tunnel narrows as she flexes and stretches every muscle she possibly can. Instinctively, she pushes her arms against her sides and points her toes to streamline her body.
Within seconds, the tunnel recedes and deposits her into the air. Unaided, WaLiLa tumbles into the Realm of Human Being. When her toes reach the human altitude, they gently brush against a shoulder frosted with sweat. That shoulder smoothly dips down and across, making space for WaLiLa's nude body. She neatly slips into the opening and immediately feels gentle nudges pressing against all sides of her being. A sea of swaying torsos, reverent palms, and open-throated song surrounds her. She has become the nucleus of a pulsating mass of people. The cloaks of closed eyes seal them into their own individual worlds. Their spiritual trance offers WaLiLa protection from detection; no one notices her arrival.
As sweat-soaked skin rubs against her body, WaLiLa is roused into action. She starts to push through the crowd, searching for some place on the edge where she can analyze her surroundings. Then, with the collision of a deeply-scarred palm against the cow-skin mouth of a hand-carved drum, an explosive sound breaks through the crowd. Controlling beats roll forcefully toward the people. Barbs of passion erupt in every ear the music enters. The peaceful trance is shattered.
Every face lifts and faces east. Guinée lies east. Holy Guinée. The drumming becomes feverish. The swaying crowd becomes erratic as the frenetic rhythms burst above their heads. The drumvoices soar within WaLiLa's chest like a command from the elements. They explode in her being-center vibrating her will like sound vibrates vocal cords. Behind her, people begin to surge forward, straining to get closer to the drummers. Her message-center reminds her to stay alert. The crowd in front of her begins to part. A narrow path is cleared and the drums rush through and grab a tight hold of her throat.
WaLiLa advances, following the demand of the drums. A sudden breeze slaps her into sharp thinking. You shall soon be seen, her message-center communicates. She tugs a piece of white muslin from its precarious position on a dancing woman's shoulder. The cloth frees itself easily. She quickly wraps it around her body and secures the makeshift covering with a knot. She turns around, searching for an exit through the crowd, but she finds none. The only path open to her is the one leading to the drummer's realm.
As bodies continue to push her forward, questions burn in her being-center. What land is this beneath my feet? What language is this dancing in my ears? What people are these surrounding my body? Soon she is toeing the barrier around the drummer's circle. An arc of drummers sits before the crowd. They are all of the male sex and completely oblivious to WaLiLa's presence. Rhythm, their hands cry, must maintain the relentless pace of the rhythm. Between the crowd and the drummers is a circular clearing. A woman in white whirls herself in swooping spirals around the clearing's edge.
If WaLiLa weren't positive that the soil beneath her feet was earth's, she would mistake the woman's motions as bodyspeak: her own language. It isn't - she knows this as well as she knows the danger of her mission - but the woman's dancing unfolds into so many familiar movements that her wrists, arms, and calves ache to join in conversation. She has long since trained her sporadic arm flicks into oblivion, but when the woman contracts her chest into an open position and juts out her swinging breasts, WaLiLa feels so welcomed that her neck dips, her arms swoop up, and she loses her body to rhythmic swirling.
Through bodyspeak, WaLiLa begins to gently query the woman about their surroundings. The woman's brain tells her this is simply a dance, a dance she performs at religious ceremonies, or rather a dance that performs her when an orisha gets a powerful hold on her. WaLiLa's message-center registers communication. This is a gathering of information essential to her survival. The woman's response to WaLiLa's inquiries is eloquent and direct. Her motions offer answers so clear, WaLiLa wonders if the woman is conscious of the communicative function of her movements.
WaLiLa discovers she is on an island in the Caribbean sea. Spanish is spoken here and Africa is remembered. There has been bondage and savage killing. Twice, determined youth revolted causing citizens to drink optimism and communism like wine. After celebrating freedom, hardship rooted itself in the island soil. Today despair is as common as clouds. The local diet is resilience. The simple pleasures of work, food, and communion float beyond the reach of the common folk. The people have been losing family members with the passing of the years. Cousins, fathers, and lovers try to escape by walking into the sea, as their tar-toned ancestors had done centuries past.
WaLiLa is so deep into the conversation she barely notices the new pitch the voices have engaged. A different tune is being expressed and the woman's motions change immediately. WaLiLa slows down her conversation. The woman opens her throat, lets out a series of shrieks, and falls to the ground. The drumming lowers to a whisper. The chanting drops to a low rumble. Three people gather around the fallen woman. They clear the charged air around her with palm fronds. An old man stops singing long enough to bark some blessings over the woman's body and shower her with water sprayed from the fountain of his mouth. The three lift her to her feet. The chanting rises powerfully. Once on her feet, the woman opens her eyes. They shine like dark moons beneath the rim of her white head-wrap. When her eyes make direct contact with WaLiLa's, the woman's identity pops into WaLiLa's vision center.
• Elisa Eguitez, 51, 201 pounds, Cuban •
Then her eyes flutter closed. The dark moons are strong, decides WaLiLa. This woman will be my host.