Our Mothers, Our Powers, Our Texts: Manifestations of

Coda Continua

As a point around which many cultural realities and spiritual and historical forms and ¤gures originate, swirl, and converge, Àjf stands at the center of the Africana worldview. Like the sixteen long livers, its binding ties are comprehensive and connect life to literature to culture to language across time and space. Even the praisenames of the Mothers enjoy cyclic reconstitution. Àgbàláàgbà Obìrin (Old and Wise One) and Ìyánlá (Great Mother) retain their force in the African American translation “Big Momma.” The elision and encoding that transforms Mother Dear into the more tender and powerful “Mu Deah” is reminiscent of the transition of ìyá mi (my mother) into Ìyàmi (My Mysterious Mother). Elfye, Owner of Birds, loses little meaning in the translation “Old Bird,” a term of affection for an elder woman, especially one’s mother. And compelling examples of continuity are evident in expressions, such as “Old Earth,” used by members of the Five Percent Nation of Islam to refer to their mothers, and the term “Earth” as a reference for young African American women. The African American lexicon easily reaf¤rms the immutable yet furtive force of Ìyá Ayé and Imolg, and ancient cosmic signs continue to signify. Itchy palms, the cycles of the moon, the untimely low of a dog or crow of a rooster, the patterns of clouds, and the screech of owls and low-winging swoops of hawks maintain their spiritual meanings in contemporary Africana communities. Africana mothers still caution their children and loved ones against behaviors that can have debilitating physical and cosmic consequences. And from Bambara country to Ngula Bayou, Louisiana, women continue to plait/plant juju in their hair and around homes for power and protection. The vines of rootwill the circle be unbroken by and by, lord by and by? —african american spiritual Coda Continua work twist, twine, and may even be chopped down, but Àjf, the original “jes grew,” can’t help but spontaneously generate and celestially recreate. Constantly permeating and protecting, Àjf and its complement Qrq have always been on the scene, helping us re-member and reminding us to re-create: They were in Southampton County, Virginia, in 1831. After Nat Turner’s insurrection, which resulted in the deaths of approximately ¤fty-¤ve Euro-American men, women, and children, Turner and his generals were hanged and many African Americans were slaughtered. Euro-Americans made uttering the name Nat Turner a crime for which the penalty was death. The Africana community obliged and did not speak the name of the Prophet. Instead they sang praises to the vindicating Mother and her blood-libating Son: You might be Carroll from Carrollton Arrive here night afor’ Lawd make creation But you can’t keep the World from movering around And not turn her back from the gaining ground.1 Vincent Harding informs us that the last line would be repeated many times. The second, third, and fourth syllables of that line—“not turn her”—are a deftly encoded tribute to man and his divine mission, the repercussions of which, like the earth and the song, reverberate, spark, and inspire. The Euro-American Carroll for whom Carrollton is named, although equating himself with the divine, is a stymied imposter before such a concerted, irreversible revolutionary movement. Àjf, synonymous with World (Ayé), the owner of the Word (Qrq), and the soul of justice (Just Us), is incapable of stasis. It is always “movering” around, hiding meaning behind seemingly innocuous words and exerting itself outright as society, soul, and art dictate, and this revolutionary movement occurs in all Africana expressive arts, especially music. Africana artists have long been chronicling personal and social events and history along with the powers of two-headed doctors and personal use of conjure in their music. Back when rock-and-roll had a richer meaning that heralded its stimulation of the jazziest of jass, elders were lamenting the impotence of their power—“Got my mojo workin / But it just won’t work on you”—and catalyzing force beyond reason: I got a black cat bone I got a mojo tooth I got John de Conqueroo I’m gonna mess with you.2 274 l our mothers, our powers, our texts With spiritual-personal-aesthetic power encoded in their DNA, elders couldn’t help but pass the word and the Work on to the next generations . In the 1980s, Afrika Bambaataa and the Zulu...