Duppy

Duppy, noun. A haunting spirit, ghost, or other malevolent spirit out of West Indian folklore.

Banishment

To get him out is to repudiate the idea of him; you have to want him gone. The specter lurking in your heart, hand hovering over your groin, until you can almost feel the heat of him in your marrow. You can be rid of him, if you want it.

First open your pilfered hotel bible to Psalm 23 and search for frankincense and myrrh. Call your grandmother and ask her how to banish a duppy. 

These rituals will not make him abandon you, but they will prove your resilience; he is craven, and you are food.

Place a scotch bonnet pepper under your tongue for as long as you can bear it. Wear white and jump over a fire three times. Cut your language. Bare your teeth. Become the blade he fears to wield. 

Never walk backward into a room and throw salt into the corners of a ruined house. You are a ruined house. Your father crossed the ocean and planted you in this rocky soil. A nation in collapse and you its rotted get. Yet poisoned fruit is sweet to the poisoner.

Ask yourself if you desire freedom over adoration. For he adores you, the king of shadow—he wishes to stroke the short, coarse hairs between your thighs and taste the musk of you. To be truly free is to be alone. 

Pour fresh water into a white enamel basin and leave it out in the sun for a day. Sprinkle the water over everything you love. Breathe in the scent of it. Like fresh air and folk magic. Close your eyes. Imagine the sun. Imagine the light, burning your dark skin darker, so dark you disappear in overexposed photos with your paler lovers.

Give yourself over to the Lord of your mother. Submit to wide-eyed terror and ecstasy. Recall the time you took mushrooms and fell wailing in the sight of a God whose burning eye pierced you through cloud, through tree cover, and could see your naked body writhing beneath your clothes. Deliverance is first abandonment, then discovery; those who are not lost will not be found. 

When you are ready, place a robe over your bare shoulders and marvel at its softness. Step into a pair of boxer briefs that hug you just so and take solace in the divinity of the fit. Make dumplings in the kitchen and knead the dough with your fingers and palm until it forms the shapes that your grandmother’s grandmother knew. He is banished in the present: the moments of focus and clarity when the mind is alive and wanton. Listen for the throb of your own heartbeat. The pulse. The pulse. Roll the flour, press hard, turn him away.

Invitation

To invite him in is to revere the essence of him, a lover who is smoke and shadow. If you desire, he can slip inside you, as deft as a lover’s lie and ominous as the tax man. You can be adjoined to him, if you want it. 

First steep black tea in lemon juice until you achieve the bitterness of your father, and form no right angles with your arms. Sleep naked under soft sheets and feel the way they tempt your soft hairs.

These rituals will not make him love you, but devotion and craving are his food.

Season yourself with a dab of scotch bonnet pepper oil on your neck like perfume. Turn off the lights and expose yourself to the shadows after nightfall, see how they part for him. Part for him. He is the crown and you the veil.

Eat only bitter foods, avoid the sweet, and let your fingers make you pliant before you move on to grosser means. Become a ruined house. Your mother crossed the sea and swaddled you in a cracked and starry flag. A nation of promise and each of them broken. Yet no fruit is disappointing to the hungry. 

Ask yourself if you can bear to be the object of lust. For he lusts after you, the lord of whispers—he wishes to lick the sweat from between your shoulder blades and catalog the sounds you make when you erupt. To be truly adored is to be consumed. 

Cut the tarot deck; draw the Eight of Swords and draw the Eight of Swords again. Turn the deck in your hand and reveal that every card is the Eight of Swords. Breathe in the scent of it. Like brimstone and obeah. Close your eyes. Imagine the garden. Imagine the snake, binding your hands and legs, slipping sliced fruit between your lips.

Give yourself over to the skepticism of your father. Submit to the terror and wide-eyed ecstasy of intimacy. Recall the time you met a priest in a rectory, how he locked the door from the inside with a key, recall the enormous crucifix over his door and the leather harness lying on his bed. Recall the wine he served and how it was so sweet in your mouth. The soul is the thing we name our subjectivity; those who see others are God. 

When you are ready, lift the shirt from your chest and fold it neatly. Slip your briefs down your hips and tuck its corners into itself. Step into the too-hot waters of the bath and exhale what ails you; breathe in what makes you whole. He is found in the interstitials: the moments of quiet when the body is alive and wanton. Listen in the buzzing silence for the knock. The knock. The knock. Turn your head, touch your breast, let him in.

© 2021 Bendi Barrett

About the Author

Bendi Barrett is a speculative fiction writer, game designer, and pretend-adult living in Chicago. He's published two interactive novels: Avatar of the Wolf and Fate of the Storm Gods.  Both are available through Choice of Games. He also writes gay erotic fiction as Benji Bright and runs a Patreon for the thirsty masses. He can be found at Benmakesstuff.com and on twitter as both @bendied and @benji_bright.