Woman Overboard

Chapter 5 : Divided (1)

Jaiye

August 22nd, 1820

(6:32 AM)

The dining room, once again, had been split into two factions. Today, however, they were even more easily distinguishable.

Captain Broderick's crew appeared for breakfast at six thirty, already dressed and groomed for the day. Contrariwise, Afiba's crew sat sleepily on their side of the table, blinking at the white men with looks ranging from contempt to incredulousness.

Even Afiba remained in her nightgown and slippers. She glanced at the other crew, looking too tired to say anything to them. Jaiye poured her another mug of coffee.

Alessandra's crew sat themselves down, all seated with immaculate posture and their elbows off the table. Jaiye sighed, holding his head in his hand to finish his toast. He decided not to let their flamboyant manners make him feel inadequate.

Afiba sipped her coffee, glaring at the other crew over the rim of her cup. Jaiye knew she wasn't a morning person. He placed a hand on her back, earning a glare of his own. "Smile," he whispered.

"What?"

"You're glarin' at 'em."

Afiba blinked, a tiny but contented smile settling on her face. "Better?"

"Yup."

Just then, the two empty seats on the edge of the white ring became the only chairs left. Jaiye watched the white man who had just sit down let out a breath of relief, having saved himself from sitting next to The Brookes's crew.

Afiba downed the rest of her coffee, banging her mug down on the table like a shot glass. "You gonna eat that?" she asked, pointing to the other half of Jaiye's toast.

"Help yerself," he shrugged, nudging the plate toward her.

The scrape of a chair being pulled back caught his attention. On either side of the table, two unfortunate white men took their inevitable seats beside Jaiye and Chike, who sat on the edge of their own chain. Jaiye looked away, studying the crumbs on his plate to keep from staring at the men.

They settled themselves down in their chairs, clearing their throats to say a mumbled prayer. "Bless us o Lord," they muttered, "And these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty."

Jaiye listened to the words, frowning. The Brookes's crew always blessed their food together in the mornings, as they had today before the white men arrived. Abigail, one of the most chipper morning people onboard, had lead them in a Hail Mary and an improvised prayer that Jaiye had been too sleepy to follow.

Every minute he spent around the white men presented a new difference between them, a new hurdle to jump in order to reach them. They did not touch each other when they could help it. They walked with their chins out and shoulders up. They spoke differently and acted differently and looked differently and were all around just too different for Jaiye to comprehend.

The men finished their prayer and began eating. The one next to Chike said to the other, "Aye, should be another warm one."

The man next to Jaiye nodded, scowling at his porridge. " 'S always a 'warm one' in August, Brai. What'd ye expect?"

Jaiye looked up, opening his mouth, and, to his own surprise, saying, "There's been some real cold morn's up this Aug'."

Both men stared at him as though his chair itself had just spoken.

"Yes," said the first man, eyeing him suspiciously. "Morning's aren't all the same, Jackson."

Jackson looked from the other man to Jaiye, as if they had both sprouted new heads from between their shoulder blades. He then averted his eyes and began shelling the boiled egg balanced on the rim of his plate, tearing off chips of shell with unnecessary viciousness.

The other man, the one Jackson had called Brai, looked away as well. Jaiye watched him for a moment before turning back to his own breakfast, the weight of disappointment settling quietly over him. For a moment, he had seen their conversation stretching out in front of them like winding train track, already predetermined, set to take them somewhere new and unexplored.

Afiba stuffed the last of his toast in her mouth, her eyelids still droopy with sleep. "I'm goin' back to bed," she muttered, like she did most mornings.

"Aw, don't," he said, but halfheartedly. "Stay. Keep me comp'ny." Jaiye felt the white men's eyes on them. He slung an arm over Afiba's shoulders, as if to shield her from their intruding stares. Afiba, little more wakeful than a sleepwalker, leaned against his chest and closed her eyes, promptly falling asleep.

He sighed, wondering if she got any sleep at all last night. Afiba, Abigail, and Paki had worked deep into the night in the infirmary, bandaging wounds and cleaning infected cuts while the rest of the crew slept. He had helped for about twenty minutes before he grew tired of men telling him not to touch them. "I'm only tryin' to help ye," he told them. No one listened.

Now, these same white men sat around his table in a segregated circle, eating food prepared by his crew, wearing clothes donated to them by his friends. What right did they have to ostracize him, to make his stomach feel like a knot pulled taut without an inch of slack to spare.

He knotted his fingers around Afiba's. She continued to doze, air whistling through her lips in a quiet melody. He sighed, stilling himself to feel the vital rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. They could take their dignity, their space, their time, but, he realized, they could never take their humanity unless they handed it over.