Chapter Two

Professor Yusuf never started any speech without first quoting Alexander Dumas. Today he told his students audience that “all generalizations are dangerous, even this one.”

Martin, sitting two rows away from the front seat disagreed, as always. In what had become a reflex action, the whole class turned towards Martin expecting an instant reaction. But this day, he did not interrupt the professor. Rather his mind was on how to implement a ten-day marshal plan he had devised that would cause ripples across African American communities in America.

If ever there was a man nobody knows it was Martin. Even those who called themselves his friends did not understand him. For three consecutive years as a psychology major at Norfolk State University, he had been the most outstanding student. He once described himself as a man of timber and caliber, after an African politician his Nigerian pen pal often wrote about.

His six feet, seven inches height with strong muscles were enough to intimidate his class of twenty-six students. In each step of his, he pounded his feet on the ground as if he wished to feel the earth shaken. At his back everyone called him the earthquake. His palms were so large that he could grab two basketballs in one hand. Anyway, he had not tried it but everyone believed he could easily do it.

Despite his massive built, Martin partook in no sporting activity. The last time he was involved in a competitive sport was as a high school student of Booker T. Washington High School in Norfolk. Then it was javelin that caught his fancy. It was ten years ago but still he had not forgotten how it ended his athletic career. He only needed to close his eyes before he pictured the blood that splashed when the javelin he threw skipped its intended route and landed on the feet of a white kid.

When Martin left high school, he joined a drug gang that ruled Hampton Roads. He had seen more blood shed since then, but the incident still haunted him. He could not yet understand why his javelin missed all the black kids who were among the spectators that afternoon to hit a white kid. Even though in private, he and his pals celebrated the accident, still, he could remember that what he saw was blood.

Martin had got his redemption, as he preferred to call his transformation. He considered himself lucky to be alive. He had paid his dues to his society by way of serving a two year jail sentence. He came out of prison a new man. He did not see himself as just another black man who went into jail and came out a Muslim. He saw himself as the man who was anointed to produce that idea of black America redemption which would supersede those of Elijah Mohammed.

Martin’s motto had always been I think what I want because I am what I think. He never believed in the concept of impossibility. Nothing would make him wink or accept that he couldn’t. “I make my tide, I attract my own cloud,” he usually declared. “Fears see not my ride, hope keeps me proud,” he would add.

The first impression any one who met Martin would notice was that this man had no doubt about tomorrow. That probably, he had the power to make it whatever he wished. Most onlookers would argue that he was a stranger to sorrow. But each time he stood up in the class to present his line of argument, that faint sound of tears could be heard.

And that was exactly what happened yesterday.

Prof had opened the door and walked out to speak to a fellow professor by the passage. As the door closed behind the professor, Martin pulled his chair towards Emeka’s desk.

“Africa man,” he said, “where is your pride?”

Emeka, a usual bout partner was ready, always ready, one could say.

“My pride is in the consciousness of who I am,” Emeka answered casting an aggressive look at Martin.

“And who are you?” asked Martin with a dismissive ting in his voice. He was aware of the class’ attention. To Martin, it was a continuation of an unfinished challenge.

“I am the original man,” said Emeka proudly. For greater emphasis, he slammed his fist on his chest. Gestures like that never failed in exciting his fellow students. As they usually did, students began to gather around Emeka’s corner.

“And so am I?” Martin concurred. His eyes bulged out in hope that Emeka would disagree.

“Good for you,” Emeka said in a mellow tone that showed an unwillingness to engage in that particular debate.

Emeka’s acquiescing was disappointing to the class. Some students sighed while others began to walk back to their desks.

“In this struggle for the soul of black folks, we are the heroes,” taunted Martin. In the past, Martin had argued that just like Joseph sold into slavery saved his Jewish brothers so would African-Americans sold into slavery would be the ones to save Africa.

“Who are the heroes?” asked Emeka, showing an unusual interest in the direction of Martin’s argument. Emeka had thought he won the old argument. He was not going to let it reemerge through the back door.

Martin brought out a Black Panther action hero. He banged it on top of Emeka’s desk and began to rap.

“Black power
Black destiny
Black emancipation
Down with the oppressors.
Joseph has come of age
Joseph will save his brothers
Brothers dying of hunger
Joseph whom they sold into slavery…”

Emeka, ever ready and ever eager to squash Martin’s point tugged his hand into his school bag and brought out Ekumeku action hero. He began to chant:

“I am Ekumeku
Son of the Creator
Worshiper of the true God
Redeemer of my lost brothers
Invoker of the new Renaissance...”

Prof Yusuf opened the door and walked back in. As he reentered, Martin pulled his chair back to his desk. Accidentally, Martin’s chair struck the desk of a female student and he lost his balance and fell. The class laughed. Prof. Yusuf looked up and the class became quiet. Martin picked himself up and returned to his desk.

“Where was I?” Professor Yusuf asked.

“You were discussing relationship between Africans and African-Americans,” answered Emeka, feeling vindicated by providence.

“Yes! If I remember correctly, Martin, you were about to say something before I left,” said Professor, looking at Martin who was still regaining his composure.

“My thing is that … I think along with white folks, you guys from continental Africa should be bared from saying Nigger.” Martin started. “For one, you were accomplices to our enslavement and humiliation of which the word Nigger represents. More so, you, Arab-African.”

Professor Yusuf was Moroccan born, Harvard trained teacher. He attracted Martin’s irk the first time he distinguished his kind of Islam from the one practiced by Martin and other Nation of Islam members. Tall like a desert camel and breaded like Yassar Arafat, Professor Yusuf had a calm disposition especially when dealing with Martin.

“Does it matter that we too are called names?” asked Professor Yusuf.

“Calling you Nigger doesn’t have the same impact on you guys as it does to us,” said Martin, his hand wagging in the air like a rap artist dramatizing a rhyme.

“You bet, it doesn’t,” cut in Emeka, now spoiling for a fight.

“I actually heard that you guys have a derogatory name for us,” continued Martin.

“That is life, you know,” Emeka answered emphatically. “Eventually, you will find out that every group and every subgroup has one name or another for the other group. In a Black country like Nigeria, each ethnic group has a name for one another. It is a fact of life. There is nothing you can do about it. So the only option is to get over it. Move on. You call whites crackers. They call you niggers. That should cancel out. Rather than sit back and complain, you should carry on with your life as if it doesn’t exist.”

“That’s exactly where we part ways,” Martin said to Emeka. “It exists. Not just in words but in actions. It exists in plots daily put in place to keep us down.”

“When there are plans put in place to keep you down, the right response is to marshal out plans to overcome such plots. Grumbling and complaining is just what it is – grumbling and complaining. It must not be confused with counter plan. Grumbling and complaining is no counter plan.”

“Enough from you two,” Professor Yusuf interjected. “Let us hear from other students as well. The issue is how does one’s background influence one’s perception of things? We shall be discussing this in relation to our recommended reading, “Capitalist Nigger” by Chika Onyeani.”

The class was once again quiet. Everyone looked at Martin for leadership. And he did not fail.

“With all due respect, Sir,” Martin continued, “I think the problem with you Africans is that y’all come here with the delusional thinking that life is a quadratic equation. Life is not a quadratic equation. It is not even a linear progression. Life is non-linear permutations with series of constants. I do not expect you to know all these because you neither lived it nor read about it.”

“Did you just say I did not read it?” asked Professor Yusuf, as softly as anyone irritated by the rants of an overzealous subordinate could. Martin had not only been tasking the professor’s intellect, he also challenges his self-control.

“You might have read the White man’s interpretation of things. Trust me, it is different from our reality,” opined Martin. “If 2 x + y = 15, and 3x - 2y = 8. It does not mean that you can deduct what x and y are.”

“Because life is not a quadratic equation, you said?” Professor Yusuf asked sarcastically

“Yes,” Martin answered boldly.

“So what is life?” Emeka jumped in, still poised for a fight. “What is life that no one else seems to get but you and the mob of people who think like you? What is the usefulness of education if educated people are satisfied with doing things the same way they have been doing them for years, thinking in the same box they have been thinking in for years and feeling things in the same manner they have been feeling things for years? Trust me, it wouldn’t bother me if these so-called educated people are not doing these same things and yet, expecting different results.”

“Have you ever considered that the plan has not worked?” Martin asked. “Have you given a thought to the apparent sabotage of the plan? At the end, if we keep fighting, everything works. But we have to keep the faith.”

“At what end? When you and I are dead? You want us to wait. The same way our fathers and mothers waited. The same way their fathers and mothers waited. Rather than use the brain our maker gave us, you want us to sit back and wait. I ain’t waiting.”

“What brain are you talking about? The one that has been bleached, washed and dried? I will be perfectly satisfied in letting the brain think if I am sure the brain is still the original brain.”

“Young man, there is no original brain anywhere in the world,” joined in Professor Yusuf. “None. What you have is brain influenced by many years of human contacts and cultural exchanges. It has been like this for years. You cannot base your premise on a world that does not exist. There is no reason in it, neither is there science.”

“That is exactly what I am thinking. I think you Africans should concentrate in teaching exact science when you come over here. You should all stay away from social science. In social science, you can only teach what you know and you do not know jack about the Black experience.”

The class observed the debate in utmost silence.

“I used to think I was Black too,” Professor Yusuf said.

“You are Arab-African,” replied Martin. “Your experiences are different. Until your people began to terrorize the world, you were more acceptable to white people. And do you think that I do not know how you mistreat black Africans? I follow the news, you know. I am aware of what is happening in Sudan, Nigeria and other countries in Africa. You are worse than them.”

“We shall leave it at that,” stated Professor Yusuf in a desperate effort to redirect the discussion. “Our next discussion would be from Chapter 5 of Chike Onyeani’s Book, Capitalist Nigger. Until then, I want to hear a sample of the topic some of you chose for your mid term discussion essay. Let’s start with you, Emeka.”

“My topic is “Louis Farrakhan: a Necessary Evil: Discuss,” Emeka said.

“No you didn’t,” Martin shouted out, charging like a ram about to attack. “That is bullshit. He cannot write about that.”

“Why?” asked Professor Yusuf.

“Because the only evil there is anywhere in the planet is the white man. In all the continents of the world, they are the evil that prowls,” Martin said.

“You seem so sure of that.”

“Yes, Prof.”

“You are so sure that you think it should not be discussed at all?”

“It is clear to all right thinking minds.”

“Are you saying that Emeka’s mind is not thinking right?”

“I believe that a man who came up with such a topic is not thinking right. In fact, I think it is blasphemous topic.”

“Wow! You used the worst of the B-words. Do you know how many souls have been wasted because of that word?”

“I stand on what I said. Emeka’s topic is unnecessarily provocative and ultimately blasphemous. He should be stopped from writing it.”

“Are you scared of provocation?” said Emeka returning to the fray. “I thought you were in the university to provoke your mind? In my language, University is called “mahadum”. Its literally translation is “knowing it all.” You cannot know it all if you close your mind. You cannot know it all if you are afraid to think. You cannot know it all if you allow yourself to be stuck in the box. You have to let your imagination run wild. That is the only way to surprise the world. The alternative is to remain nothing but the butt of humanity.”

“Wow wow wow. Damn! Damn!! Damn!!!” students in the audience screamed, electrifying the class room.

“That’s enough,” Professor Yusuf interrupted, halting the discussion from crossing that dangerous level that loomed each time Martin and Emeka faced up. “Let’s just agree that Emeka has a right to discuss his chosen topic. When he does so, we can then see his perception and his lines of argument. Then, anyone who cares can take up issues with him. Martin, what is your topic?”

“My topic is: Black Diaspora and the Right to Return,” Martin said.

“Return to where?” asked Emeka.

“Return home,” Martin said.

“Home as in where?”

“The motherland, of course.”

“Africa?”

“Yes, Africa.”

“Just make sure you will be returning with a skill. Africa does not need anymore empty vessels.”

“Great topic, Martin,” said Prof. “See you all tomorrow.”