IDENTIDADES 1 ENGLISH IDENTIDADES 2 ENGLISH | Page 74

black great-grand parents of our Afro-Americanness, which is the same as acknowledging ourselves as universal citizens and inheritors of the
riches of our galaxy and planet.
Of course Nonsi, Oloddumare’s son sets an example, with his blow to the heads of the thieves,
of how the legal process of applying justice would
be. Yet, the marionette must speak that primitive
language. I know of no human logic that would
react by turning the other cheek, turning around
and leaving, or trying to explain with words what
should be a peaceful relationship when defending
itself against injustice.
Whosoever comes to steal water from the well
Nonsi himself dug will suffer justice at Nonsi’s
hands. Just as happened with the hen, monkey and
tiger. But, how did Nonsi find out about the
thieves? The first time he strayed far from his
well, he covered its opening with a bundle of itching powder, even though he, too, was at risk of
suffering its ill effects. Those who set traps are
seldom caught in them, much less Nonsi, the son
of creation, the eight-legged spider. In any event,
the trap’s boomerang of harm draws the guilty—
itching and full of hives.
The second thief he discovered was the tiger, who
he found stuck to an anthropomorphic figure
called ‘guardian,’ with no mouth, ears or nose. I
don’t know anything about that sort of trap. I
don’t know if it is a cork figure. What could possibly emit a substance able to capture and leave
anyone who touches it literally stuck? What substance? What object or sexual objective could it
be, if the guardian was a defenseless, sensual, insinuating female figure?
The hen that spoke so much was an accomplice
and, as such, also received the blow to her head—
not to mention what she should have gotten. She
succumbed to curiosity and the need to possess
something that was not hers—via evil magic. It is

as if she had refused to exact from herself the ability to enact goodness, for the wellbeing of others—or the good of all and, above all, to help the
spider dig the well.
We are told all these stories by a black woman—
whose name I’d like to forget—whose dress was
stamped with a two-toned, Ponceau pattern. Recreating the old fascination of theater within theater, like Scheherazade, she would tell her stories,
or the Pachatantra, or the amadou kumba, or so
many other stories told through orality’s wonderful methods—such as entering the mind of the
storyteller, the griot, the puppeteer.
Live music and Nicaraguan drums from the Caribbean coast. Water sticks. Cuban congos. Maracas. ¡Guamo!
This group of Nicaraguan puppeteers whose
name is that of a hardwood from their country, a
wood they say is as strong as our Cuban
Caguairán tree, impossible to use for furniture, is
simply fascinating. You have to see it. You have
to learn it, and follow it. They visited the Miracle
Corner in an act of love for Cuba, for its past and
future, in an international puppetry event that
ended in the city of bridges, two weeks ago. At
least the old American adage was fulfilled: “Revolutions are carried out eye to eye.” And there are
many more things that life, my life, will not let
me tell because joy cannot be revealed in its entirety, like a domesticated bird in its Güines cage.
So, was our joy excessive? It was too much.