Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [203]
When they pulled up in front of Massa John’s house the next morning, Missy Anne ran out to meet them before Kunta even had the chance to lift Kizzy to the ground. She didn’t even say goodbye, he thought bitterly, hearing behind them the pealings of girlish laughter as he swerved the horses back down the driveway toward the main road.
It was late afternoon and he had been waiting several hours for the massa outside a big house about twenty miles down the road when a slave came out and told him that Massa Waller might have to sit up all night with their sick missy, and for Kunta to come back for him the next day. Morosely, Kunta obeyed, arriving to find that Missy Anne had begged her sickly mother to let Kizzy stay overnight. Deeply relieved when the reply came that their noise had given her a headache, Kunta was soon rolling back homeward again with Kizzy holding on and bouncing beside him on the narrow driver’s seat.
As they rode along, it dawned on Kunta that this was the first time he had been absolutely alone with her since the night he had told her what her name was. He felt a strange and mounting exhilaration as they drove on into the gathering dusk. But he also felt rather foolish. As much thought as he had given to his plans for and his responsibilities to this firstborn, he found himself uncertain how to act. Abruptly he lifted Kizzy up onto his lap. Awkwardly he felt her arms, her legs, her head, as she squirmed and stared at him curiously. He lifted her again, testing how much she weighed. Then, very gravely, he placed the reins within her warm, small palms—and soon Kizzy’s happy laughter seemed the most delightful sound he had ever heard.
“You pretty l’il gal,” he said to her finally. She just looked at him. “You look jes’ like my little brudder Madi.”
She just kept looking at him. “Fa!” he said, pointing to himself. She looked at his finger. Tapping his chest, he repeated, “Fa.” But she had turned her attention back to the horses. Flicking the reins, she squealed, “Giddup!” imitating something else she’d heard him say. She smiled proudly up at him, but he looked so hurt that it faded quickly, and they rode on the rest of the way in silence.
It was weeks later, while they were riding home from a second visit with Missy Anne, that Kizzy leaned over toward Kunta, stuck her chubby little finger against his chest, and with a twinkle in her eye, said, “Fa!”
He was thrilled. “Ee to mu Kizzy leh!” he said, taking her finger and pointing it back at her. “Yo’ name Kizzy.” He paused. “Kizzy!” She began to smile, recognizing her own name. He pointed toward himself. “Kunta Kinte.”
But Kizzy seemed perpelxed. She pointed at him: “Fa!” This time they both smiled wide.
By midsummer Kunta was delighted with how fast Kizzy was learning the words he was teaching her—and how much she seemed to be enjoying their rides together. He began to think there might be hope for her yet. Then one day she happened to repeat a word or two of Mandinka when she was alone with Bell, who later had sent Kizzy over to Aunt Sukey’s for supper and was waiting for Kunta when he got home that night.
“Ain’t you got no sense atall, man?” she shouted. “Don’t you know you better pay me ’tention—git dat chile an’ all us in bad trouble wid dat mess! You better git in yo’ hard head she ain’t no African!” Kunta never had come so close to striking Bell. Not only had she committed the unthinkable offense of raising her voice to her husband, but even worse, she had disowned his blood and his seed. Could not one breathe a word of one’s true heritage without fearing punishment from some toubob? Yet something warned him not to vent the wrath he felt, for any head-on collision with Bell might somehow end his buggy trips with Kizzy. But then he thought she couldn’t do that without telling the massa why, and she would