Voodoo Queens of New Orleans - Vol. I | ✓

Chapter 1: Gris-gris

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Mama's shop was nestled in the heart of the French quarter in New Orleans, right on the corner of Tulane street and Spelman avenue.

"Dumont House of Voodoo." It was popular—more popular than when I was a kid running around the counters on a slow day. I mentioned this to Mama, how suddenly the newer generation was garnering an appreciation for voodoo.

"It's hoodoo they think they're coming to get," she answered over the phone; I heard her cutting something, but I didn't want to know what it was. "They think I'm a root doctor or a witch. That ain't true; it's always the white folks and the tourists who don't know what they're getting into."

That same phone conversation, I told Mama I'd be coming down for the summer, and she was so happy she couldn't stop screaming about it. I didn't tell her that I had thoughts of dropping out of college or that I had exhausted much of my college fund paying for classes that catered to my ever-changing major—civil engineering, then psychology, then goddam fashion merchandising. Who the hell am I to market clothing when I can't even match my pants to my shirt half of the time?

Anyway, she was happy at the news I was coming down, so I took it as an opportunity to construct my case about me finally taking up the writing field and asking her to help me with it. I went over my entire request the journey down home from Houston.

"I've always wanted to be a writer," I mumbled, situating myself in a cheap motel in Shreveport before I hit the road again the next day. "And along with being a writer, I've always wanted to learn more about voodoo, especially from the most popular Voodoo Queen in New Orleans."

I had intentions on kissing ass, mainly because voodoo was a sensitive topic for Mama; I was never allowed to even bring it up much, even though she often prayed to the Loa around me, sometimes with her fellow priestesses (I was definitely Mambo Nene's favorite little girl in the whole French Quarter. Priestess Qadira didn't care much for me, and Missus Taima—never leave out the 'missus'—forgot my name half of the time). I grew up around voodoo, but never between or in the midst of it. Mama made that an intention, but I was determined to swing it into a fortune on my end, as if the twelve or so half-finished manuscripts on my laptop weren't indication enough of the amount of initiative I possessed.

Early afternoon the next day is when I arrived at Mama's shop, on the eighteenth day of May. I turned off my car and waited a bit inside of it, wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead to look somewhat presentable. But how could anyone look presentable in Louisiana heat? I wish someone would have given me a tip on how because I would have loved to know. My kinky-frizzy hair tied up in a god-forsaken bun and my sweat-stained tank-top would have loved to know. Hell, even my glasses, lopsided from the sweat on my nose would have loved to know, too.

I tapped my fingers against the steering wheel, nervous but excited to see Mama. I hadn't seen her going on three years; I couldn't bear to come back only for her to know how college was going for me. But it was the sixth year for me, meaning that hiding my failures was no longer any use.

"Lisa!"

My head turned to a voice outside my window. Mama was there, smiling widely and pulling on the locked car door like I had no sense to have it locked in the first place. I smiled back at her and opened the door to a strong, oil-and-lavender-scented embrace waiting for me. I could barely breathe in her arms, but I didn't mind—I missed her hugs.

"Sweetheart!" she hummed into my shoulder.

"Hi, Mama!" I laughed. "You're choking me. And crushing my glasses."

She let go, refusing to apologize for her outburst of affection. Her eyes, blue as a clear noon sky, narrowed at my armpits. "Damn, you have the heater on in your car?"