Candied Sweets, Cornbread, and Black-eyed Peas

A Half Dark story

No one wanted to come out of their houses. Not at first.

They could see my father’s blood soaking the cobblestones. They could see it dripping from the machete in my hand. They didn’t want to come bab pou bab — face-to-face — with Gran Dyab La, the wicked little girl who had just disemboweled her own father.

I wouldn’t either, if I were them.
(Vrèman vre, I’m not really the Great Devil Child. Se pou tout bon wi. If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’. I just swing my machete like her.)

These people knew that. I had lived on Oglesby Avenue next to them for the last three years, since I was eight years old. Since Papa and I followed Manmi here to La Petite de Haïti in Chicago. Since Papa and I no longer called La Petite de Haïti in Miami home.

I had been nothing but kind to them. I had been nothing but polite to them. I had been nothing but respectful to them. My mama raised me right.

But even that didn’t make them come out of their houses.

I could understand if Papa had been out there. Wearing the softening shadows of the fading half dark. Long, sharp, hungry teeth slobbering all over the place.

I could even understand if Papa was still lying in the street. Me standing over him. Guts steaming on the cobblestones. Blood searching for the gutters. But the half dark had lifted. The Sack Man, papa mwen, my wonderful and horrible father — Eater of Children — was gone.

All that was left was me. All that was left was efreyan.

(I saw what I did. I was there when I did it. I’d be afraid of me, too.)

I was scarier than the Shadow Man. Even though he had stalked timoun yo in the half dark on the way home from school.

I was scarier than the Sack Man. Even though he had snatched timoun yo into his gunny sack just steps from their front doors.

I would replace the nightmares of all the timoun yo on this street. Instead of having terrible dreams about the Sack Man or the Shadow Man stalking and eating them, they would have terrible dreams of me. Standing over my father. Tonton Macoute in hand.

They would tell their friends on Yates Avenue about their terrible dreams. And those friends would tell their friends on Bensley. And those friends would tell their friends on Calhoun. And those friends would tell their friends on Hoxie.

And I would become a lougawou. The boogeyman. The monster in the closet hiding behind the clothes. The monster under the bed ready to grab feet and ankles.

I didn’t like that. I had to change that.