Voodoo Queens of New Orleans - Vol. I | ✓

Chapter 1: Gris-gris

"It's over ninety degrees, Mama. And humid." I couldn't understand how Mama wore a thick kente headwrap with a dark blue jumpsuit and still managed only a light sheen of perspiration on her face. It made me conflicted—I acquired everything from her except her hypnotic eyes and her inability to sweat.

After we spent a few minutes sharing our honeyed words, we finally got to getting my things out of the car. Mama didn't carry much—she had her novitiate, Imani, come get the rest of my luggage. Imani was an old soul who shared my age, with skin such a rich chocolate shade that it made people on the street stare in awe. I even stared in awe at her, long enough for me to bump into a lamp post on the way to the shop door. Mama chuckled, but Imani didn't. Maybe she didn't realize why or for who I almost broke my two front teeth; maybe she thought I was just stupid.

The shop was busy when we walked inside. People strolled past the display cases that were filled with ancient charms and voodoo dolls "from a time back when," asking the associates about voodoo, most likely leading up to how they could get their hands on a love spell or something of that sort. Mama only helped those who were a) serious, and b) worthy of being helped. She had an eye for evil souls begging for a way out or a shortcut through a blessing or a ritual by Legba or Erzulia or another merciful god; her eyes scanned the room at her customers like she was determining which ones were even worthy of her time if they asked for it. Which they would ask—they always did.

"Imani, go on and take Lisa's things up to her room."

Imani nodded to Mama, taking the one laptop bag from her heavily-accessorized grip. "Yes, Madam Dumont."

"I'll be up there in a minute, baby," Mama told me. I just closed-mouth smiled through the hoard of people closing in on her, like she was an angel sent to share a voodoo prophecy; the tourists were basically throwing money in Mama's face without a question based solely on her name and her reputation.

I attempted to make small talk with Imani as we struggled up the staircases (as I struggled since she was clearly in better shape than I was). Imani returned the gesture, but it was apparent that she wasn't confident enough in her English, broken as it was, to engage in much small talk anyway. I ended up finding out that she was born in Haiti, moved to Baton Rouge when she was seven and became Mama's novitiate about three years ago--the last time I came to visit. After that answer, it became quiet between us; the moths were louder than us.

After the second staircase, Imani proceeded to explain to me what room I'd be staying in and exactly where it was in the shop, forgetting that said room of residence was actually my old bedroom; I grew up in that Voodoo shop, confined to the two top floors whenever we got busy days such as that one on the eighteenth day of May. But I just thanked her for guiding me through the narrow creaking hallways and up the steel staircases.

"Madam Dumont has not changed much in this room," she told me.

"She doesn't change much of my stuff," I said. "Every other time I came down, I found my stuffed animals and Beyoncé posters exactly where I had left them."

It was supposed to be funny, what I said. But Imani just smirked uncomfortably and opened my bedroom door. As per expected, nothing was different--the poster-covered walls, dream catchers and charms Mama placed all over the place, and my trusted teddy bear, Edmond, were all left untouched. It was weird seeing it that way. It was like I was just coming home from a normal day at school again.

"Where would you like your belongings placed?" Imani asked me.

"Just by the closet is fine."

Not only did Imani set my things down, but she opened my luggage and attempted to unpack my things. And I mean all of it. I just about died when she sorted out my thongs and found my goddamn vibrator. I screamed; she jumped. Not because of what she found, but because my screaming scared her. Her finding my vibrator or touching my underwear didn't even faze her.