Written piece
Moringa - The Bahamian Miracle Tree
Gineka Ferguson
Bahamas
About this piece
I grew up learning from my Grandpa about islands. Spending long summers together on the family island of Grand Bahama with him was special, especially my last visit where he showed me his Moringa Tree. He told tales of Lucayans, Slaves and the islanders dream of the miracle tree.
Burnt in fire, the tree wore tired,
Every thread turned ash in lust and desire,
Poor civilization, Poor Lucaya
Lost lives in lies,
And the destruction of the drafted quilt.
Empty trees, and lifeless seas linga,
But the miracle tree withered and still remained, Moringa.
Ships slung oppressive sails,
Soaked with slaves,
And with every drop not making its way.
Shackled silly, and weathered sickly,
Tossed by the whim of the winds.
New threads abruptly gathered,
Splindled by blood, loss, and shatters.
Docked and unloaded in damseled doubles,
A people bound together, too afraid to escape, too afraid of trouble.
Running to the waters of crystal and turquoise blue,
Awaiting death by the Lusca’s (malignant or sadist) spew.
Turmoil and tumult, an era pieced,
Soiled by abuse and raw-edge applique,
Folded fray until rustic decay.
Battered and filled with cotton, picked in agony,
Layered in stitches, lashed and stripped wool.
The piece soaked hibiscus red, an aroma that read,
“Sweet and subtle, remiss of rebuttals,”
Tethered together waiting for a tree,
To become a backing of healing miracle seed.
Braziletto wood for a humble sacrifice,
Clothed in androsia for the island,
Hung as thrifted merchandise
To meet the savior
An incline must be made to mount Alvernia…
A journey of ragged breaths,
Stumbles onto sunken slopes,
With death at the bottom, Bahamians falter,
Reluctant but earnest to meet their master.
Monotonous monologues and the oppressor's voice ripped at the seams,
A torn and mended quilt of the archipelic islander’s dream
Holding on to the hem, heavy with guilt of sin,
Inanition and Emaciation.
A fatigued sprint across the pulsing radial root,
To the miracle tree of leaves that feed the cancerous souls,
Seeds pressed for purifying oil,
Delicate and comforting,
Bundled vibrant leaves, shaking salutations
In anticipation of a weary heart.
The islandas read for a piece, sharp taste the clenched lips felt the stinga
Who knows what it is? Who can point the finga?
Stuck in a commonwealth where diasporic culture lingas?
A generation, a plethora of Bahamian poringa,
That only survives through the bitter-sweet, healing tree of moringa.