TAMA ISLAND

 TAMA ISLAND

TAMA ISLAND

I have many vivid memories about the late Mama Joe, which are mostly preserved inside the faded pictures, taken by her on Tama Island, more than three decades ago. What I remember most about her, is that she was a skeptic to the core, doubting every news worthy information that emanated from her retro sixties antique ham radio. Forget the colourful rainbows that lit up the sky of Tama Island, all Mama Joe ever witnessed were grey skies, which spelled gloom and doom. As cynical as she was, you would have had to convince the aged crone that water is life, for she would not have believed it, not until she consulted her tarot cards or her effigy dolls, over the same. Consequently, it was inevitable that only her four worn-out raggedy dolls would dictate her every waking move. What’s more, Mama Joe had a murky shrine, dedicated to her four staffed juju dolls, for whom she conferred to about everything in the world.

As a fifteen-year-old, it was my very first moment in the twilight zone, the very day I stepped into Mama Joe's compound on Tama Island, where abnormal things happened so very often. At first, I thought that Mama Joe was somewhat strange, with her gothic demenour, and her love for all things spooky. Nonetheless, the known medium was at the time, a sexagenarian, who was not an ordinary person. As a matter of fact, being normal was not how I would describe Mama Joe's odd personality. Even her dress code gave out witchy vibes, like some sort of a shamanic priestess, one who resembles a witcheress, with an insatiable thirst for the underworld. Contrary to popular belief, Mama Joe was not a blood relative of mine. In truth, she was my uncle Fred’s next door neighbour, a forlorn widow, and an ever-grieving mother, who lost both her husband and her only son to a tragic boating accident, on the hermitic island. Perhaps that was the reason why the dowager was pessimistic about life.

Regrettably, Mama Joe was shunned by almost everyone on Tama Island, due to the fear of her rumoured cold sorcery. However, my uncle Fred did not buy into any gossip tales peddled on by the natives of the remote island. Instead, he dismissed the idle talk at the grapevine about the matriarch, as nothing but an old wives’ tales. Needless to say, I also ignored the rumour mills, on account of my innocence, and made an odd friendship with the famed widow, for the sole reason that I did not have any friend close to my age, to communicate with at the time. Moreover, Mama Joe was also a gifted seamstress, and a skillful weaver, who was known for crafting the most beautiful handbags to come from the tiny island. As a matter of fact, I credit her for teaching me the art of weaving rugs, delicately binding various threads with masterly precision, an artistry I could not master, no matter how hard I tried. Nonetheless, it was Mama Joe’s folk stories about ancient cultures, as well as the legends of old, are what I lived for most. Remarkably, Mama Joe could spin a tale, better than yarn, such that you would think that she existed during those dark ages. “How do you know of these primal cultures?", I asked Mama Joe, bewildered at her accuracy on the facts and figures of the ancient world, of which she brushed off my blatant skepticism, with a loud shrug. "Pfft! My visions and dreams of the ancient world, are as real, as you and I are alive, my dear", she offered proudly, leaving me more confused than ever before.

I was tolerant of Mama Joe's narratives, because they were to me a form of entertainment, in a remote-set island, where everything about the odd woman was more interesting, than the island itself. However, her constant communication with her four doe-eyed bantu dolls, was a cause for concern for me. It was as if the dolls were all in our conversations, where Mama Joe had a built miniature shrine for them in every room, inside her makuti house. “Do you not approve of these coloured sisal skirts I made for you my sisters?", she questioned the lulu dolls in my hearing, one of those awkward moments, while we were bonding over another folklore session. Suddenly, the hairs on my neck stood up, soon as I saw, at the corner of my eye, the khaki-made dolls seemed to have slightly moved. I could not say with certainty that I saw what I saw, but the flight reaction I experienced in that passing moment, was proof of what I thought I saw. "Mama Joe, your sisters moved!", I swiftly spoke, pointing to the stuffed dolls set on a shrine in front of me. At first, Mama Joe did not believe me, until she saw the paralyzed look at my face, and decided to quickly change the subject, in order to deflect from the topic at hand. "It is impossible for dolls to move my dear. Besides, you are tired, and it is getting late. Therefore, you should head home, before your uncle comes looking for you", she dismissed me with such finality, that I began to second-guess myself, and if what I had witnessed was just a figment of my own imagination.

Later that night, I could not help but wonder about Mama Joe and her four mystery dolls. Afterall, I was just an impressionable fifteen-year-old, with a curious mind, and a raw intuition. Moreover, I did not want the tattlers to get wind of Mama Joe’s poppet dolls, and hence find reason to attack her life all the more. Therefore, I kept Mama Joe’s secret to myself, with the hope that her dilly dolls were nothing more than just vintage dolls. The very next day, I was reluctant to visit Mama Joe, for fear of her bizarre dolls, yet I did not want to miss out on her wild goose-chase stories, because what other form of entertainment was there, besides her goofy adventures? As I arrived at her compound, she motioned me to follow her to her farm, which I did. "You are late today, Betty. A big girl like you, should not be given to much sleep, for it is not proper", she scoffed at me, while she hurriedly walked in front of me, while I ran, in order to catch up to her fast pace. “I am sorry Mama Joe, good morning, and I will not be late again", I replied, while out of breath, and ashamed of my lateness. We never spoke again, until we reached the farm. While walking behind her, I keenly watched, as she trotted ahead of me, and it became apparent that her attitude towards me had slightly changed, because of the yester incident with her four creepy dolls.

Nonetheless, I was determined not to let that chilling episode deter me from our budding relationship.  After hours of harvesting plantains from her farmland, we slowly headed back to her house, for another educational session. As usual, I learnt many things in the journey to antiquity, only this time, I was so tired from the day’s work, that I must have dozed off for a moment, only to wake up to a moonlit sky, and Mama Joe's house was as silent as a grave. I woke up with a start, from a short nap, as I struggled to stand up, in order to find Mama Joe, and perhaps apologize for sleeping on the job. As I staggered drowsily from room to room, while trying to find her, I heard voices chatting from a room, at the corner of her makuti house. At first, I did not think much of it, but when I peered into the room, I saw four figures, of four females, sat at the table beside a shrine, next to Mama Joe, speaking in hush tones, so as not to be heard. I saw in the full light of the moon, four silhouettes of feminine figures, alien in nature, like the four esoteric mystics, breaking bread with Mama Joe, while speaking in unison, as if they shared a voice, with four distinct tone variations.

As I approached the door the room, they all turned to look at me, all vivid, as if they were real life Martians. "Come my child, do not be afraid of my sisters", said Mama Joe calmly to me, with a plastered smile on her face, while the female version of the four eerie doll-like extraterrestrial beings stood up in unison, as if to welcome me, with big black oval eyes staring back at me. As you have guessed it, I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, back to my uncle’s house, screaming my lungs off, and scurried under my safari bed. That night, I left Tama Island, never to be seen again. As for Mama Joe, I recently heard that she had joined her ancestors, some years back, and that everything she owned, was buried under her makuti house, including her bantu dolls.