The Smoky Corridor

106

A slow-moving car pulled into the driveway at the front of the school.

A young African American girl—about eight years old with caramel-colored skin, her hair piled up under a bright yellow head scarf, her cheeks freckled with dots of black paint—stepped out. She was carrying a small burlap sack.

“Wait for me here, Auntie,” she said. “I shan’t be long.”

The little girl marched toward the school, quietly singing a snatch of her favorite song.

My grandma see your grandpa sitting by the fire

My grandpa say to your grandma, gonna fix your chicken wire.

Talkin’ ’bout, hey now, hey now. Iko, iko on day.

A sly smile slid across her lips.

“Joc-a-mo-fee-no-ah-nah-nay,” she mumbled. “Joc-a-mo-fee-nah-nay.”

It was a ritual chant used in New Orleans by marchers in Mardi Gras parades, a chant so old the words were no longer clear, but loosely translated, “Jockomo feena nay” meant, “Don’t mess with us.”

This little girl from New Orleans was nobody to mess with.