Kimbella’s Hustle

By Tamyara Brown

Kimbella’s Hustle

The Past Ghost of Love, Magic & Murder

Daddy Wounds

“Daughter, people can either be your magic or nightmare. Whatever you do never let either one of them make you lose your mind.”

Daddy and I sat under the Angel Oak Tree in Charleston, South Carolina. The oldest tree on John’s Island. He prepared a lunch of barbecue chicken, potato salad, greens, and cornbread with strawberries. In the woven picnic basket made by my grandmother named Lulah. She spoke Geechee and no one ever understood one word she said but, “Gal, come dey.”

He handed me the mason jar filled with swamp water and he joked,

“Straight from the swamps with alligator pee.”

“Dadddy eeew….nasty.” I giggled.

“I’m just joshing with you, gal. It is half sweet tea and lemonade.” This particular summer day Mama dropped me off and called me a lickle bitch. My hair was undone, my dress was dirty and the soles of my feet black. My father made me bathe, put on clean clothes, and said not a word. As the water touched my skin I winched from the sting of welts left from the leather belt.

“Mama, don’t love me anymore.”