What can I do?
My mother is the only altar I have ever worshiped. Who should I ask to save her? My Tattle App buzzes with an incoming video call. I do not know why I answer, but I do.
“Aunt Wah,” I whine.
“Aunt What, ”My aunt emphasizes the correction. “Have they put an end to her?”
Mom keeps fighting, but – even though I try to be optimistic – she loses. I shudder.
“They did end her? “Aunt Wata demands.” Not yet, “I say. I have never felt fear, but it has me now.
“Look at me,” her voice is harsh. “The steamer doesn’t have the magic to get Coyote and Spider there on time. And John Henry’s hammer is not fast enough.” Her spectral image rises up and out of my phone. “You gwaan help your mother.”
“How?” I’m asking.
“The Oblits bind our tongues to erase us,” she says. “Tell her story so they can not consume her.”
“I do not know her story.”
“Because you’re not listening, honey.” Aunt Wata shakes her head, “You were raised in our light, but you do not see our splendor.” When I keep quiet, she says, “Find something! How can we–black, brown and golden – continue if we remain silent? ”
Am I allowed to invent my own stories, those that are mine? I’ve never thought of that before. But if I can then …
I’ve ironing to open a new story on Tattle. Using a sketch I drew by Mama, I tell my followers about a charming, legendary, wild-haired, badass, black rabbit from the south. The answer is immediate.
11 likes and the sound rumbles back in the store. 8 comments and mom’s laugh bubbles up from under the pile of attackers.
1440 likes, 401 shares, 88 comments. Unwritten corpses smash into the walls. The teen is flying.
While my story goes viral, Mama fights her way up during The Oblits. She spins and shreds the last line of attack. This time the confetti is a party.