Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [231]
But after a while, as he continued to shovel snow along with the fiddler, young Noah, and Cato, Kunta found himself gradually feeling increasingly ridiculous that he was even thinking about these African customs and traditions anymore, for not only would they never be observed here, nor respected—indeed, he would also be hooted at if he so much as mentioned them, even to other blacks. And anyway, he couldn’t think of any likely, well-qualified suitor for Kizzy who was of proper marriageable age—between thirty and thirty-five rains—but there he was doing it again! He was going to have to force himself to start thinking along lines of the marrying customs here in the toubob’s country—where girls generally married—“jumpin’ de broom,” it was called—someone who was around their same age.
Immediately then Kunta began thinking about Noah. He had always liked the boy. At fifteen, two years older than Kizzy, Noah seemed to be no less mature, serious, and responsible than he was big and strong. The more Kunta thought about it, the only thing he could find lacking with Noah, in fact, was that he had never seemed to show the slightest personal interest in Kizzy—not to mention that Kizzy herself seemed to act as if Noah didn’t exist. Kunta pondered: Why weren’t they any more interested than that in each other, at the least in being friends? After all, Noah was very much as he himself had been as a young man, and therefore he was highly worthy of Kizzy’s attention, if not her admiration. He wondered: Wasn’t there something he could do to influence them into each other’s paths? But then Kunta sensed that probably would be the best way to insure their never getting together. He decided, as usual, that it was wisest that he mind his own business—and, as he had heard Bell put it, with “de sap startin’ to rise” within the young pair of them who were living right there in the same slave row, he privately would ask if Allah would consider helping nature to take its course.
CHAPTER 82
“You listen here, gal, don’ you never lemme hear ’bout you fannin’ yo’ tail roun’ dat Noah no mo’! I take a hik’ry stick to you in a minute.” Headed home, Kunta stopped in his tracks two or three steps from the door of the cabin and stood listening as Bell went on: “Why, you ain’t even turned sixteen yet! What yo’ pappy think, you carryin’ on like dat?”
He quietly turned and went back down along the path to the privacy of the barn, to consider the implications of what he had heard. “Fannin’ her tail”—around Noah! Bell personally hadn’t seen whatever it was, but someone had told her. No doubt it had been Aunt Sukey or Sister Mandy: Knowing those old biddies, it wouldn’t surprise him if either or both of them had witnessed something completely innocent and made it sound suggestive just to have something to cluck about. But what? From what he’d overheard, Bell probably wouldn’t tell him unless it was repeated and she needed him to put a stop to it. It was a kind of thing he’d never dream of querying Bell about, for that was too much like women’s gossip.
But what if it hadn’t been so innocent? Had Kizzy been flaunting herself before Noah? And if she had, what had he done to encourage it? He had seemed to be a young man of honor, of good character—but you never knew.
Kunta wasn’t sure how to feel or what to think. In any case, as Bell had said, their daughter was only fifteen, which in the customs of the toubob’s land was still too young for her to be thinking about getting married. He realized that he wasn’t feeling very African about it, but somehow he just didn’t feel ready to think about Kizzy walking around with a big belly as he’d seen on so many girls her age,