The Other Madisons

Alone in the growing darkness, I recalled hearing a report that sea-eroded beads, thought to have been worn by Africans whose dead bodies were thrown off ships en route to the New World, had washed up on the shores of West Africa. I envisioned a path of red beads undulating with the currents on the ocean floor and tracing the Middle Passage from West Africa to America, the path Mandy had followed from Ghana to Virginia. The beads were like the red line on the map that had led Lee and me to the concession stand, and they reminded me of the blood Africans spilled in their homeland, in the sea, and in the New World. Beads were among what little the captives could hold on to when they left behind everything that had filled their lives: music, dances, customs, ceremonies, friends, families, and lovers. The glow and heat of the sun over Africa. The caress of their own soil on their hands and feet. The anticipation of a familiar tomorrow. The sea-worn beads begged to have their stories told.