Gwo Godye, Ti Godye, and the Cross in the Lakou
Before there was the lakou and the family within it, there were trees and leaves and earth. The mountain was green and teeming with it's own life; birds and bugs and snakes and mice and all other manner of beasts, big and small, called the shaded groves and towering trees home. The green canopy sheltered the rich, black earth and in return the earth was full of roots and shoots that promised more shade when the elder trees gave their final breath.
Where there was stillness up on the mountain, revolution had begun to rage in plains and the valley. Buildings and fields burned and those who had not yet been considered people fought and then fled. Some fled further west towards the great arm of the island. Some fled east towards larger forests where they would be difficult to pursue. Others fled into the humid canopy of the mountains where colonizers in wool uniforms carrying heavy guns were reticent to go.
These mountains were not strangers to sheltering those with a thirst to live without chains. When the colonizers arrived, those who loved the island first saw what guns and greed did and ran into the jungle and up to the peaks and plateaus where they could not be reached. They watched what happened below, and so did the land that would become the lakou.
At some point, in the midst of change happening at the points of machetes and bayonets, a trajectory below aligned with a trajectory above. A free man of color, the child of a French colonizer and an enslaved African woman, and his partner, an enslaved woman of African descent, knew that it was only a matter of time until their relationship was discovered and both would feel consequences, the severity of which did not need to be made explicit to either of them. They made a plan to meet after the early Caribbean night fell and to flee towards the rainforest-covered mountains. They knew others who had fled, but to where they were unsure so they were to head into night and up the mountain with no map and no sure destination.
And so they did.
Did the land that would become the lakou know that they were coming? Was it waiting for them and taking the deep breaths that forests take when alone? Did it know that it would not just be two but generations of a family that would be birthed there and then stretch out into the world? Or, was it surprised when those two ancestors arrived that night, not so long before the sun rose on what would be a new beginning for both the land that was now the lakou and the two ancestors who dreamed it into existence?
To get to the lakou now is a battle. If you can find a moto with gas and a driver who isn't scared, you can putter up to the top of the mountain slowly and then descend to home on foot. If not, you can climb up the side, over roots and fallen trees and rocks and yards long emptied of their families, until you reach the clearing and the cross and the open sky above. If you're up for the physical exertion, it's three or four hours up the side. If you're not...well, the sun comes up early and sets late.
The family is still there, though not in force as it would have been when Haiti became Haiti and the colonizers were removed by sea or by blood. Family has left the lakou to descend to other, newer family land closer to the town nearby or to the big cities of Haiti and beyond, out into the world that still fears the revolution that birthed the island. When you ask the family in the lakou now about what happened then, the stories flow and meander through a history of a family that has grown hand-in-hand with the land that received their ancestors so well. Stories move, too, when family members show you the important places in the lakou; the remains of the first kay lwa, built up several generations before and then swallowed by the lakou bit-by-bit, the bees in natural hives who are used to determine the health of the family and difficulties to come, and the cross.
The cross is old and weathered and out of the way, yet is in the middle of every path. The rocks are spotted with the spent wax of hundreds of candles lit over the years. The cross doesn't have the answer of what year the family came, but beneath it are those two ancestors who first fled and made a space that they lived out their lives in, followed by generations of descendants whose feet pressed that same earth. Family history is not complete without the stories of the family and of the spirits who live there, and those stories come easily by the cross, with the ancestors sleeping beneath your feet yet listening to every word.
When the ancestors arrived, the lakou was wild. It still is to those used to the more settled areas of Haiti, but then it was a wall of trees and green. The family cut that back little by little, first to create space for a small wooden house with a dirt floor and then to create a place to plant seeds for food and a place to have a fire to cook and space for the babies to roll around and be children.
As the lakou took shape and the family grew, someone heard a voice.
This wasn't shocking or out of place for the family; after all, there were many voices that spoke without the benefit of a mouth. There were the family members who had passed already who came back sometimes in dreams to speak, or sometimes with the mouth of a family member who got the look now and then. Sitting by the cooking fire, someone would go still for a moment and if someone were watching them, they would see the look pass through their eyes. Something would change and then a voice would come. Maybe they would talk about an illness someone had that the medsen fèy was having problems treating or maybe they would ask for a bit of bread and coffee.
Sometimes the voices were bigger and bolder. If the family sang the right songs and someone clapped out the right beat, the air would get heavy and then a cousin or a sibling or a grandmother would yell and lean into the fire, sometimes dragging themselves into the flames while other family members tried to hold them back. They wouldn't burn, of course, and then another voice would speak and the family would know Ogou had come to admonish them or the gad kay la was there to warn against treachery to come in the community. Voices were part of the fabric of life.
This was a new voice, though, and it spoke quietly. Someone heard it while tending the yard and sweeping in front of a particular tree.
This is my tree, the voice said.
Okay, said the sweeper. This is your tree. When they swept or children played, the family would relate to each other that this tree was for the voice who had spoken. Life continued and the tree belonged to the voice.
Not too long after the family had learned that this tree belonged to that particular voice, someone heard the voice again.
Put a cup here for me, the voice said, and the person who heard found themselves looking at a spot between two big roots. Put a cup here for me and make sure it is a big cup. Don't put it where it can get covered up, though, but put it here.
Okay, said the person who heard. We will get you a big cup.
Someone found a big cup; maybe it was already in the lakou and used for boiling leaves to make tea, or maybe someone descended the mountain to the weekly market and found a big enameled cup. The family gathered by the tree and the person who had heard the voice placed it between the roots where it could always be seen. They waited.
After a moment, the air changed and the voice spoke again, this time from an uncle who had sat down heavily on a root.
Thank you, said the voice coming from the uncle and looked down at the hands of its host, taking in the hands that had cleared trees and built gardens. Sometimes, I would like coffee in my cup but I only want it bitter and strong, just like me.
Okay, said the family. When we drink coffee, you will drink coffee, too.
Good, said the voice sitting on the root. But only coffee; I don't want anything else in my cup, because it is my cup.
We understand, the family agreed. Only coffee.
Yes, said the voice, rubbing their hands together. If you need me, you can take my cup and roast the coffee beans in it over the fire before you make the coffee. I'll come and help.
Okay, said the assembled family. But, if we can ask, what should we call you?
The voice looked at his hands and looked at his cup. You can call me Gwo Godye.
The family lived in happy balance. Life could be hard up the mountain, but life was abundant there and they had each other, as well as their ancestors, lwa, and, of course, Gwo Godye. They would call him when there was sickness that was having trouble leaving the lakou, and he would come when the smell of the kafe griye was strong. He would walk into the forest and come back with his hands full of leaves, and would rub the sick with them from head to foot or foot to head, and they would get better.
When there wasn't a lot of food, Gwo Godye would come and then disappear into the woods or down the mountain and return with malanga or potatoes or fish from the ocean and the family would eat. Gwo Godye would watch from his seat under his pyebwa, and he would sip his coffee from his cup before he left his chwal. Thank you, he would say after he drank a few swallows. You remembered me.
The lakou had a lot of space and when a friend arrived at the lakou with his family in tow and asked if they could stay there for awhile after losing their home, the family didn't hesitate. Of course they could, because there was space and because why should anyone struggle when there was a place to shelter?
So, this other family came to stay. The lakou members showed them everything, from where they harvested honey to the kay lwa and the trees where the family tended their spirits. They told the visitors about Gwo Godye and his cup, and the visitors took it all in and nodded their understanding. They didn't serves spirits, but they understood that the lakou was filled with them.
Life continued, until one night when the family and their friends were in their respective houses and almost in bed. There was a shout in the lakou that tore the darkness and te fè kè yo sote/made their hearts jump. The family poured into the yard, save for the sleeping children and babies.
They found the uncle who Gwo Godye favored as his chwal doubled over and rocking back and forth while sobbing. Tonton, a family member said while standing close to him, what's wrong?
The uncle ignored her and his body shook, and it was then the family saw Gwo Godye's cup overturned, between the uncle's feet. My cup, Gwo Godye keened. I told you all that I only wanted coffee in it.
We've only put coffee in it, said the family member. Only coffee, and bitter just like you said. Other family members chimed in, too, and repeated that there had only been coffee and usually on Saturdays, but always coffee or coffee beans.
No, no, no, Gwo Godye insisted, weeping. They didn't respect my cup, he said, and jutted his chin at the house of the family that had come to stay at the bitasyon, who were now all peering into the darkness from their doorway. You let them stay here and they put leaves and water in my cup today. Why didn't you listen?
But we did, cried members of the family. We told them it was your cup and told them not to touch it.
You all let people stay here who don't respect me, Gwo Godye said mournfully, his gaze fixed on his overturned cup. You all wanted them here more than me.
Again the family insisted this was not true, and several of them turned and walked towards the house of the long-staying guests to the bitasyon who had by now slid back into darkness and let redo cover the doorway once again.
You don't want me here.
The granmoun in the lakou knew what was happening, and one fell to her knees. Don't go, she said in the shaky voice of someone who had seen many things come and go.
Gwo Godye shook his head and clutched his arms to himself, still rocking back and forth. I can't stay here anymore.
The family raised their voices all at once, pleading with Gwo Godye and directing explanations to each other. Promises were offered of evicting the guest-family and of a new cup that would be guarded by the family to make sure it always was Gwo Godye's and only held coffee. The spirit sighed, shook his head, and rose to his feet.
I won't come back.
With nothing left to stay, Gwo Godye in the body of the uncle walked past the family and into the deep jungle darkness of the trees. The family stood silently and looked to where he had disappeared and then looked at each other. Someone picked up the cup that was tèt anba and placed it back in the roots of the tree. It had suddenly rusted where the enamel had cracked and flaked off. The family knew why.
The next day came and when the hot sun was high in the sky and sweat beaded on the brows of the family tending the garden, the uncle's son went down the mountain to look for his father. The uncle had not returned and worry spread through the family. Gwo Godye had gone, but where was he going and where was the uncle? The granmoun who had fallen to her aged knees peeled beans and worried to herself, knowing that displeased spirits sometimes did unmentionable things. The children laughed and poked at each other with sticks and had the blessing of not understanding the seriousness of a lwa bitasyon departing the family.
The uncle's son returned just as the sun started to descend and the light began thin. He was alone and had no news of his father. He had gone through the town below asking his father's friends if they had seen him and stopping amongst the vendors of the mache, extracting promises that, if the uncle was seen, they would send someone up the mountain to tell them. So far, no one had seen his father.
Late in the night long after the babies and the granmoun were asleep and the mothers and fathers sat in the corners of their homes speaking by candlelight, there was a crashing in the lakou and they all hurried outside, huddling together for the feeling of safety under the light of a pale moon. Was it one of the cows from the lakou not so far away, having broken its halter and, afraid like all cows when presented with something unfamiliar, running full tilt trying to get home? Or, was it a lougawou intent on tearing through the lakou? Nothing good came in the night this far up the mountain.
The bushes shook and there was a tearing of the lyann mòl that covered the tree claimed by another lwa bitasyon. Suddenly, as if spit out by the mouth of the mountain itself, the uncle was dumped unceremoniously in the dirt, arms askew and shirt torn in several places. His son and wife rushed forward and pulled him to his feet, asking rapid fire questions and calling for a chair for him to sit down in. One of the younger boys came running from behind the tree with a chair on his shoulder, and the uncle sat down heavily with his head in his hands. An almost-empty gallon of kleren was produced and offered to the uncle to brace him, and he took a long swallow before wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.
What happened, asked his wife.
He shook his head, wiped his mouth again, and told the gathered family that he had woken up on the ground beside a kafou while the sun was still up. He didn't recognize the area he was in, so he followed the sun until he found a roadside vendor selling lam and banan and mango and asked where he was.
M te sezi, wi, he said, rubbing his hands over his head. He was almost in Lasous, just over a 5 hour walk from the lakou. He had wanted to take a moto to get him back closer to the lakou to where he could walk up the mountain but when he check his pockets, they were empty. Gwo Godye had taken what little money his chwal had with him, so he walked and he walked and he scaled the mountain in the dark.
Life returned to a rhythm, albeit a bit different than before. The guest-family was unceremoniously removed from the lakou. They had protested, but several of the older men made clear they were no longer welcome and, if they chose not to leave, they would find their belongings, their roof, and even themselves tossed down the mountain like refuse. They went.
Coffee was still made for Gwo Godye, though, in the hopes that he was only angry and could be lured back. The beans were toasted over a fire in a new cup and strong, bitter coffee left under the tree, but the voice and the presence that had sustained them for so long didn't speak again. Kwisa, another lwa bitasyon, visited and would shake his head when the family asked after Gwo Godye. Gone, he would say. Gone, gone, gone.
Months later, after the memory of the night Gwo Godye departed had softened, another voice was heard. One of the young girls was supervising the babies playing under the tree in the waning light and she heard a voice. She stood stock-still and listened, knowing already that when a voice spoke without a mouth, it was important. The voice spoke quietly and told her to fetch the adults, and she tore herself away from the tree and ran for the house.
Mama, mama, mama, she shrieked while almost crashing into her mother, who was pulling the day's laundry from the bushes where it had been drying.
Her mother looked her up and down. What is it, pitit mwen, she asked, casting a critical eye on the girl's dress, dirty from preventing the babies from crawling into the underbrush.
The tree, the little girl said breathlessly. I heard it. It said to bring you and Gran and Ti Lou and Pushon and Junior and everyone. Her mother, remembering the last time a voice spoke near the tree, paled and threw the laundry back onto the bush before turning and heading towards her mother's house.
Soon all the family was assembled at the tree, and they waited again like they had before. The silence was longer this time, and one of the cousins sucked his teeth and insisted that the young girl had told a story to get out of watching the babies. He was elbowed in his ribs and told to fèmen djòl li, because the memory of the voice that had gone was very much alive.
After a time, the cousin who had been insisting the girl was lying jerked and sat down heavily on the ground before rolling down onto his side, eyes closed to the remaining light. The family stared and soon enough he opened his eyes and coughed. His brother went to help his sit up, but he slapped his hands away and pushed himself up to sit, looking at the assembled family with eyes they did not recognize.
What should we bring you, said Gran, seated in chair with a baby in her lap.
The voice in the cousin coughed again and frowned, looking at the ground in front of him. If you bring me something, will it be mine or will you let them disrespect me like they disrespected my brother?
No, Gran said. Whatever we bring you will be yours and your only. They have gone and they won't be back.
The voice nodded slowly and looked at the little girl and then the others one by one before lifting his hand to point at the roots of the tree where Gwo Godye's cup was slowly being overtaken by leaves and rust.
Put my cup there, he said, by my brother's. But, he lifted his finger and then pointed at the assembled family one-by-one. If you put anything in it besides my coffee I won't leave, but all of you will. He folded his arms over his chest and stared at them.
Gran nodded slowly. What should we call you, mon konpè?
The voice looked at the tree, then to the cross in the lakou, and then looked back at them. I am called Ti Godye.
--
More than 150 years later, I am sitting in our lwa room on a hot and humid August night, looking at Ti Godye splayed on the floor.
My husband S had gone to Haiti for almost a month to work in his various bitasyon to do work necessary for our future stability. It was the worst possible timing for the trip; money was tight, kiddo was almost 6 months old and feeling her (baby) oats, I was dealing with the bystander trauma of watching my spiritual community turn inside out in the aftermath of the death of a sibling, Haiti was as chaotic as had become the norm, and it was Hot As Fuck in the city. Me and the kiddo hid in the air conditioning and went for walks when the sun went down, and S called us regularly to get video call baby snuggles and to update me, show me around the various bitasyon, and introduce me to family members who cooed at the baby and were generally shocked that I could speak with them in Kreyòl.
Before he flew back to Boston, S had called me and asked for me to have a few items ready for him at the door so those were prepped when we arrived back from the airport. I say 'we', but it was me with the kiddo in her stroller and a then-unknown spirit in my husband's head, pushing suitcases. As we had gone around the side of our building to use the ramp to enter, I had glanced back at S to make sure he was okay with the multiple suitcases and had the luck to catch the change in his eyes. Not all spirits come with a lot of bluster, particularly when not in ceremony and when they are spirits of the family.
So, we entered our apartment, me with the baby and this spirit pushing suitcases filled with leaves and remedies and everything we usually bring back from Haiti. I pushed the baby out of the way into the kitchen, and gave this spirit the bouji and the water and the siwo, so they could appropriately enter our household.
They made their way to the lwa room and I freed the baby from her stroller and followed, to find this spirit seated on the floor, looking into the lamp I had kept lit the entire time S had been out of the country. He introduced himself and he was not Ti Godye, but another lwa bitasyon who had made the long, long journey from his land up a mountain in rural Haiti to our apartment in Boston.
We talked a long time, about things that had recently happened and things that were going to happen, and he bounced the baby on his knee. She took one look at her papa who was not quite her papa in that moment (or, at least, a different papa) and burst into tears. Babies and young children know things and see things that we cannot. He handed her back to me with a laugh, and told me that this was the first time he had ever left his bitasyon. I asked S later how long he had been with the family, and he counted the generations on his fingers. Longer than memory could remember.
He eventually told me was going to go, but someone else was coming. He said the name and I missed it while the kiddo attempted to crawl over my shoulder. S's body flopped to the floor, eyes closed as if he had gone to sleep.
After a moment, S's body curled onto it's side and turned it's head to look at me with one eye open, arms tucked into his armpits. There was a cough and whomever was coming to visit batted away my offered hand and sat up on their own.
We sat in silence while this spirit examined our lwa room, peering at my table and my husband's table and then twisting around to look at Gede. They turned to look at me, and asked if I knew who they were.
I did not, and I told them so. They told me to put the baby down and let her crawl around, and I did. Then, they held out their hand.
Ti Godye m ye, he said, and offered me one hand and then the other to shake. He asked me if I knew where he was from, and I named the bitasyon that I remembered seeing pictures of, his cup next to Gwo Godye's ruined cup under his tree. I had hoped I had remembered correctly, and I did.
He peppered me with questions, asking why I didn't have anything for him, why I didn't let the baby crawl wherever she wanted, and if I knew how far he had walked to be here. I didn't have anything for him because I didn't know he was coming, and he told me what to prepare for him for when he comes (black coffee and some traditional snacks). I didn't want the baby putting things she shouldn't in her mouth and he told me to let her play because they (the lwa) wouldn't let her get hurt on their domain. I did know he had walked a long time to come here, as the 'road' from the bitasyon to the bigger road was only the width of a moto tire. He had never left his bitasyon before, too.
We talked and talked, and, while eyeing the baby rolling around on the floor, Ti Godye told me how much he didn't like children.
They make too much noise when they play under my tree, he said, and they don't drink coffee. He told me of work S and I needed to do now that S was back, and told me about difficulties that were coming and how to deal with them.
After awhile, the baby yelled a bit and Ti Godye snapped his fingers at me. She's hungry, he said. Give me her bottle.
I gave him the baby's bottle and he snatched her up like granmoun always grab children who are flailing in their own discontent. The lwa who does not like children settled her across his lap and stuck the bottle in her mouth, rocking her back and forth until she fell asleep.
The cross in the lakou, 2024