Mama Grey Locs

Cowrie shells clicked and clattered while she strode along the street. Her movements were smooth, silky, and mysterious. Like the mist that falls in March, or the frost that rolls in each February. I was first drawn in by those cowrie shell earrings, then transfixed by the shake of her hips, barely visible beneath the white linen of her dress. Her face was aged like a well-grown tree, a maze of wrinkles distracting me from her gaze. Her eyes were remarkably prosaic; they were an enigmatic shape and color which I could never recreate in my mind. The elderly woman was terrifyingly beautiful, and from the way she carried herself, I knew she was aware of it. But it was her locs--a mess of silvery silk that slithered across her dark, brown form--that told me her truth. She was a wicked, divine figure that had traversed dimensions and entered my realm.

She called out to me in a harsh timber but a loving, familiar tone, “Sweetie! Come over here and let me look at you.”
     I was reluctant. There was an unnerving feeling at the back of my mind imploring me to escape while I had the chance. My heartbeat increased to a rapid, endless rhythm. Behind my back was an abandoned Catholic church which had long been converted to a basement for base-heads, and before me was a beautiful, elderly Black woman carrying only a smiling face. The logical choice was clear, and yet every last one of my animal instincts was telling me to take my chances in the church.
     Without fully thinking, I carried one foot from its initial position and placed it a few inches behind myself. This was a mistake. It landed directly on a discarded beer bottle, still jagged at the edges after its initial spill. The shards did not penetrate the shoe, which was fortunate for me. As I breathed a sigh of relief a chill ran down my spine as a crippling thought occurred.
     I was not the one that stopped my foot.
     I averted my attention from my Hello Kitty shoe, and turned back to The Woman, immediately noticing her finger. The long, bony index finger was pointed directly at my foot, which was itself frozen in place above the broken glass. Her face carried a smile, but her eyes had a ferocious, penetrating glare. It was as if she were commanding some invisible force that kept my foot from stepping too hard on the glass.
     “Careful now, sugar, don’t want to hurt yourself. Now get over here and let me see you.”
     A voice appeared from deep within the recesses of my mind. Its tone carried experience far beyond what my 11 years could comprehend, yet not nearly as much as The Woman obviously had. She sounded a bit like my mother, but I knew she wasn’t. The voice which spoke in my head was my own, aged only by one or two decades. My own future self was scolding me for my impudence.
     “Fool,” the voice said, “if you’d gone immediately you could have been safe. But now you’ve made her call for you twice!”
     I wasn’t sure what the voice in my head meant, but I immediately knew that I didn’t want to make The Woman ask for a third time. I walked up to her, all the while seeing a grin spread over her face as she outstretched her arms like a vulture diving in on its prey.
     I stopped when I was one foot away from the woman, who was now squatting to meet me at eye level. Her arms were still outstretched, and she had a wide, expectant smile spread across her face.

I did not embrace her.
     “Little girl, how old are you now?” She asked, still using a tone to suggest familiarity. I told her that I was eleven, and she laughed, “Oh, you can’t be eleven! That would make me an old woman!”
     She cackled at her own joke. It was a jovial, hoarse laugh that caused my eyes to dart reflexively from side to side, looking for signs of danger.
     “Don’t I get a hug?” She said when her laughter finally ceased.
     I was reluctant but leaned in closer with my arms outstretched. I only barely folded them around her body whereas she was pressed against mine. The embrace felt as though it went on for hours, and with each passing second, I felt my grip on reality slip. I couldn’t help but notice how soft and tender her skin was, unlike that of any human I’d ever touched before. The sensation of holding this woman was unnerving, but the sensation of having her holding on to me was even worse. Her skin and flesh were warm and soft, but her bones, which I could clearly feel beneath her skin, were not. Her arms felt like metal bars digging into my back, and her interlocking fingers were the chains sealing the cell door.
     After some time, she finally released me from her grip, but kept a bony finger on my chin, restricting the movement of my neck.

“My, my,” she said, with her oddly wide eyes and smile still plastered on her face, “my girl, you’ve gotten so big! Be sure to say hi to Lovita for me, okay?”
     Lovita was my mother’s name. My brain began to ache as I pondered whether she’d ever once mentioned knowing a woman matching The Woman’s description. There was no way that she was a relative nor could she have been my mother’s friend, and I knew this for certain because I had met them all. The woman knowing my mother’s name only complicated matters.
     I nodded my head as quickly and as hard as I possibly could. The old woman simply laughed, then finally released my chin as she walked away, swaying her hips to the breeze of a nonexistent wind.
     My body was still frozen after she left. Bewilderment and anxiety kept my legs permanently fixed to their position, squarely plastered between the cracks in the sidewalk. I wanted to run home and cry in the protective arms of my parents, but my body wouldn’t allow it. So, I remained still, struggling to come to terms with what had just occurred.

#
     “Oh, you mean Mama G?”

My mother’s voice was faint over the loud toiling of the pot before her. The smell of well-seasoned corn was a welcome, comforting sensation after the ordeal that I had just been through. I had been frantic and on the verge of an adolescent heart attack when I slammed through the door. Yet, for some reason, my mother seemed largely unconcerned.

“Is that her name?” What I asked was less of a question than it was a frantic plea for answers. I knew that it logically had to be her name, but that wasn’t really what I hoped my mother would respond with. I wanted her to, in as much detail as possible, contextualize the harrowing experience that I’d just had.

She only nodded at first, “Mm-hm. I’m honestly surprised you didn’t recognize her, girl. You know Mama G watched you so many times when you were a baby? She got you that blue dress you used to love wearing, too. Mama G is practically family.”

My mind noted how she said that Mama G was practically family, confirming my suspicion that we weren’t related. That wasn’t the only thing that stuck out about what my mom had just said. I knew everyone that my parents left me with when I was younger. It was a short list, as they weren’t very trusting people. Sure, it had been a long time since I’d seen some of my older caregivers, but I would recognize their names at least; never had I ever heard her mention a Mama G. And as for a blue dress, I couldn’t think of what my mom was referring to. Every dress that I ever loved wearing was green, which was my favorite color. I didn’t even own a blue dress.

I couldn’t believe how blasé my mom was being. Why couldn’t she see how upset I was? Why was she attempting to underscore the severity of a strange woman demanding a hug from me as if she knew me? I tried to my best to make her understand, but the words became lost in my head, “But-b-but, bones! Her locs! Who was she?!”

My mom simply chuckled and rolled her eyes, “Oh, so you’re scared of locs now, are you? You were never scared of mine. Careful, they might bite you.” She picked up the end of her long hair and playfully flicked it at me, miming a nest of snakes collectively flailing their bodies out to get me.

“But mom!” My voiced stretched out in a whine, but I didn't care. I wanted to whine. I needed her to acknowledge me and what I was feeling. I needed more than just a dismissive wave of her hand and a playful flick of her hair. I needed my mother.

“Oh, hush now! Dinner’s ready. You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten.”

I knew that wasn’t true, but I also knew that, despite how much I wanted to protest, my mother would hear none of it. I simply hushed up as she recommended and sat at the table waiting to be served.

Naturally, I didn’t see Mama G again after that day. Sure, she was referenced every once in a while, but that was it. A small anecdote featured here and there, on occasion my mom would point to a person walking past and say, “That’s Mama G’s son/grandson/nephew/niece” and once in a blue moon, my grandfather’s confused mind would call out “G” to one of his nurses, thinking it was a younger version of her.
I soon realized that there was no Mama G, not really. Mama G couldn’t exist, she had to be a phantasm of some kind. Perhaps she was a tulpa of concentrated thought surrounding a person that never truly existed, but the frantic assertions of real people created her. It explained why all the stories surrounding her happened before I was born, or when I was too young to remember. It explained why, when my mom pointed out Mama G’s family going by, she always pointed vaguely to a crowd of people, never clearly indicating which one. It would also explain why my grandfather thought every nurse was G, even the really light ones.

Mama G was not real, she was fictitious. She was the collection of the organized, stubborn thoughts of old Black people that felt the need to assert that they did, indeed, know everyone. She was a tulpa wrapped up in every child’s fear of strangers, and every adult’s discomfort in forgetting an old acquaintance. She was not a relative, she was not a friend, she was a spirit of our own imaginations. Ironically, that was the only logical explanation I could think of

#

I first met Mama G when I was 11, and I saw her again one night when I was 19. Between those years, Mama G saw me again, even though I didn’t see her.

I cannot remember for the life of me what it was that I did wrong. Perhaps I’d stolen something from a store, perhaps I skipped school. All that I could say with certainty was that I had violated some type of rule, in much the way that children entering their teen years often do. I knew that I thought I had gotten away with it until I returned home and received a harsh scolding from my mother that told me I had not gotten away free.

In a fit of rage that I would dare defy her, my mother denounced and decried me. I sat there, taking the verbal licks in silence and shame. I knew that what I did was wrong, and I was more than happy to be getting away with just a tongue lashing. But then, my mood changed when she said something that I didn’t expect her to say.

“Do you have any idea how embarrassing it was to have that woman call me up at work and tell me that you were out here acting like you had no home training!”

My thirteen-year-old mind stopped, then looked up at my mother in confusion. I asked her, “What woman, mama? No one saw me.”

“What woman! Mama G of course! She saw the whole thing and she called me up! You know she’s very ashamed and disappointed in you. That woman adores you and you’re going out acting like this!”

Her other words didn’t faze me, because I was still confused. “But mama,” I said, “Mama G isn’t real.”

Upon hearing that, my mother stopped. Her furious scowl shifted as her face took on a more neutral expression. Then, something in her eyes flickered, as if someone had reached inside her body and flipped a switch to turn off her mind. My mother was gone.

The woman who stood before me reached my mother’s hand up and used it to backhand me harder than I knew was possible. The sheer concussive force of the blow knocked me flat on my ass, and removed all ability for me to stand. My entire face swelled up as I fought against the tears that were beginning to form. I was then certain that this couldn’t be my mother, for my mother would never strike my face, especially not with such ferocity.
     “You will never say that again, understand?” Her voice was a serrated, diamond blade that cut into me. It sounded as though she was struggling to hold back an internal rage that was coursing beneath her. She grabbed both of my shoulders and dug her long, slender fingers deep into my flesh, leaving a mark that would last for the rest of the day. Shaking me back and forth, she repeated the question, adding more hysteria to her tone every time she did so. No matter how many times I said “I understand” she would not cease.
     Then, suddenly, she just let go of me. She stood up, walked away and muttered something about needing to lie down.

#

At the age of nineteen, I’d taken to wandering about all parts of the city with my friends. We tiptoed past tourists in the French Quarter, slipped into the cinema on the West Bank, and even strut across the streets of Tremè. We owned the city. Not the tourists. Not the white people that inexplicably appeared everywhere we went. Not brutal cops or the crooked politicians, and damn sure not the Baton Rouge residents coming in to visit people. New Orleans was our town, and to prove it, we’d walk around our town with nothing to do but exist.

On one specific night, I found myself in Tremè alone. My brothers and sisters had all sung and danced and drank until they could hardly hold their own bodies up without giggling. As the sole sober one (well, mostly sober one), it was my task to see that they all returned to their homes safely. I did not fear Tremè, nor did I fear any part of the city, because it was mine. It was 2am in Tremè, and I walked confidently on my way home, swiping Pokèballs on my phone screen every step of the way.

The fog did not immediately draw my attention. It was very common for clouds to become weary of the sky and wish to join the city festivities on our own human level. I walked confidently through each and every minuscule droplet, minding neither the slippery surface forming on my phone or the possibility of frizzles beginning to arise in my hair. Each step I took was confident. But slowly, they became less so. My legs began to falter and hesitate, as though chains were slowly weighing them down. Within my chest, my steady heart rate increased so slowly, that I didn’t realize I was near heart attack levels until it was too late.

I heard a chuckle before me. It was a soft, quiet, expression from a hoarse throat, more of a hardened giggle than a hearty guffaw. A silhouette appeared from the smog, and just as quickly as it had formed, it was replaced by a fully formed human woman.

Because I’d kept every single detail of her alive in my mind’s eye, I was positive that Mama G hadn’t aged a day since I’d last seen her. From her clothes, the wrinkles in her face, and all the way down to the shape and color of her hair, no single part of Mama G’s appearance had changed. Even her amused smile was the same, a fact I noticed as I observed her gaze upon me with the same pedantic amusement that the divine must employ towards us humans.

“Look at you out here! Walking around all late at night, smelling like a liquor store. Now, what would your mama think about all the boys you’ve had grinding on you tonight?”

My mind shattered at her comment. Surely, there was no way that she knew what I’d been doing tonight. She wasn’t at the party. She didn’t know whether I’d drank or not. And even if she did somehow see my many crimes that night, there was no way that she’d tell my mother of all people. Right?

Mama G’s long, grey locks glided through the air as she disapprovingly shook her head, “You’ve had quite a night, girl. Imagine what your mother would say if she saw the pictures on your phone. The ones that you took for that boy, Ty.”

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! You don’t know anything, and you won’t say anything!” I wasn’t aware of the words coming from my mouth. It felt as though I was watching someone else screaming at her. I knew that antagonizing her was a mistake, and I received confirmation of that judgment in the form of a scowl.

“Imma let you have that,” she said as she waved forewarning finger at me. “Imma let you have that outburst cuz I can tell you’re upset. But young lady, I told you too many times to never talk back to me. Or there will be consequences.”

Instantaneously, my jaw seized, slamming shut with a great force that rippled through my mouth, breaking almost every tooth in the process. It wasn’t a conscious decision, not really. It was an automatic response to her saying that I would face consequences. It felt as though I had been commanded to slam my mouth closed and not open it again.

“Good girl,” Mama G said as she walked closer towards me. She placed her bony hands under my chin and raised my head upward.

“What a fine young girl you’re growing into,” she said, “yes, you really are a fine young girl. Soon you’ll be a young woman, ready to be married and having fine young girls of your own. Would you like that, to have a fine young girl of your own?”

I hesitated, but then I very slowly shook my head ‘yes’. I knew it was the answer she wanted, but I didn’t feel bad about giving it since it was still the truth.

“That’s good,” Mama G said, “this is a good head you have, not like some of these other children. No, you may make your childish mistakes, but you’re still rather mature and smart. Just the perfect type for my nephew. Would you like to meet him?”

There was a pause. I wasn’t sure if the question was rhetorical or not. I couldn't tell if the question were a trap or not. Though I hadn’t interacted with her since I was a child, I could still tell that nothing Mama G ever said was precisely what it appeared to be. I tried to think of some witty, clever remark to throw her off my trail, but one sharp look from her eye was all I needed to know that would never work.

“Who is your nephew, ma’am?” I asked.

Again, she chuckled, “Why dear, just take your pick!”

I smiled politely while my eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Don’t you know, girl? Everyone knows Mama G. She’s everyone’s auntie!”

#

My own little girl woke up screaming in the middle of the night. She was at the age where her mind could only create nightmares, so I was more than used to this ordeal. I simply arose from my bed, made the short trek from my room to hers, and leaned over her bed with a wide smile on my face.
     “Now what did you dream about,” I asked her, trying my best to show neither annoyance or concern. If I showed either, she’d only become more upset and convincing her to go back to sleep would become impossible.
     She looked at me with a panicked expression on her face and said she dreamt of the strange lady she met on the street. I simply laughed, because I knew exactly what she was talking about. I was there with her when she met the woman. The two of us had just walked out of the grocery store when I suddenly felt an odd, familiar presence. I turned around and sure enough, there she was: Mama G, an old family friend.
     My daughter, Key, was nervous the entire time I talked to her. That was a bit odd, as she wasn’t typically so reserved around strangers. But I dismissed it. After all, it only made sense that she’d become shy around strangers every once in a while. No matter how confident she usually was, a child is still a child. After we returned home, I tried as best I could to explain to her that there was absolutely, absolutely no reason to be scared around Mama G, but she wouldn’t hear any of it.
     And then, I wake up in the middle of the night only to find that she’s had a nightmare about a woman who’s practically been family since before anyone could remember? It was a bizarre situation. I tried as much as I could to calm her down, tell her that Mama G would never hurt her, and that Mama G has known her since before she was ever born. But Key wouldn’t hear any of it.
     “She really is a nice person,” I pleaded, “after all, she’s the one that introduced me to your father. You literally wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for her.”

Key’s head snapped up while she stared at me with a confused look, “You said Aunt Zaya introduced you to dad.”
     “Yes, that’s ri-” a new thought crept into my head before I had a chance to finish verbalizing my first one. My entire mind shut down as my brain tried to process the thoughts running through it but found itself caught up in a loop.
     “So which is it,” Key asked, “Did Aunt Zaya introduce you or was it Mama G?”

In the back of my mind, I knew the answer. I knew that it really was my friend, Zaya, that introduced me to Yusef. But another, stronger force in my mind was telling me that wasn’t the case. For some reason, a part of me wholeheartedly believed that it was Mama G that introduced me to my husband.
     I looked towards Key again and saw a familiar flicker in her eyes. My daughter stared at me with eyes mixed with confusion, fear, and curiosity. I realized then that I looked upon my mother with those same eyes many times before while having similar conversations about Mama G.
     “Go to bed,” I said, sternly, as I arose from my position and began to walk out of her room.
     “But mama!”
     “I SAID GO TO BED DO NOT TALK BACK TO ME!”
     I slammed the door to Key’s room shut, then immediately sank to the floor in fatigue. I could hear the faint sound of her weeping, confused as to why her mother would snap at her like that when she needed comfort. I wanted to run into the room and hug her, hold her, tell her everything was fine and that I was sorry. But I knew I couldn’t.
     I had just remembered the truth, and the truth was dangerous. That’s why my own mother snapped at me when I brought up Mama G. For a split second, she remembered that whatever the woman was, she wasn’t a regular human. Mama G was dangerous, and damn near everyone to come across her knew it. We didn’t know why she was dangerous, and we damn sure didn’t know how we could protect ourselves and our families from her. So, I did what I assumed billions of parents before myself had done. I simply walked away from my child and hoped for the best.

END.