From Ogonna Okonkwo, already in the spirit.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Chapter Four
The pink Kia pulled up in front of the Laundromat. The occupants were fifteen minutes late. Two customers who were yet unaware of the habitualness of the attendant’s lateness had been waiting. They were murmuring among themselves. They had learnt not to blame the attendant but that woman who drove him to work each morning.
She opened the car door and climbed out. “Silly little woman,” one of the customers uttered inaudibly. She stood a few inches above five feet. The locals referred to her as a Chinese but she was only a Korean. She had the reputation of being tough, the kind of toughness that wasn’t from within. She belonged to those who believed that one had to be tough to survive in a black neighborhood.
The attendant remained in the car while she walked to the door. She greeted the two customers standing by the door, formally. She had no time for little talks. Neither did she have any apology. She had been warned by her husband who managed the whole Sigh Sun chain of businesses never to display softness. Everyone had to wait until she had decoded the alarm system and switched on the open sign. After that had been done, the attendant would then enter and take control. It had been the procedure for the past six months when the black man first took over as the attendant.
Some locals believed the black man was employed to buy off their sentiment and make them feel that the business had the interest of black people at heart. To the Korean management, it appeared to be working. Since the black man took over, reports of theft, attempted robbery and outright vandalism had dropped. In some ways, locals had started feeling at home in the Laundromat, something unimaginable when the attendants were Koreans.
One good example of these changes which the locals truly appreciated was the music they listened to while doing their laundry. They no longer had to contain themselves with whatever music Z104 radio station decided to play. In fact, they hated being hunted by white men in any form, be it on the radio or television. Now the black guy mostly played black music even though he sometimes interrupted the flow with some strange music from some distant lands. Black lands, of course.
While the locals had their idea of the reason why the black man was employed, only the black himself knew why. His journey to Norfolk started in Nigeria. It first took him to Liberia where he dodged bullets in Monrovia. Then he found his way to Mexico. He was in Cancun when the Mexican stock exchange collapsed. He wasn’t one of the traders. He was only looking for a way to the United States.
After two unsuccessful attempts, he finally made it into the United States on July 4th 1995. Once inside the United States, he was to taste freedom. But what he got was this daily attendant job from some Korean on Park Street in Norfolk. He was not ready yet to tell anybody the whole story. Just yesterday, after being pestered by some students of Norfolk State University, he told them what could pass as the first part of this story.
As he waited in the car for the Korean woman to switch on the open sign, he recalled the story exactly the way he told it yesterday. It started with his grandfather and ended with his Dad. It went like this:
***
Only a few elders of his hometown, Nnobi, could remember his real name. Everyone else called him the man who crushed a lion with his feet while carrying an elephant on his head, or Ogbuenyi, for short.
Ogbuenyi was young when he wrestled for Nnobi. His strength and skill earned him fame and fortune. Legend had it that elders of the seven towns of Idemili persuaded Ogbuenyi to retire as a way of saving wrestling. As it was, there were no competent challengers to make wrestling entertaining.
Ogbuenyi made it worst by never addressing a gathering of men in any village without reminding them that they were all women and that no man with a penis lived among them. He knew he was a historical individual and always started his speeches with the phrase, “Once upon a time....”
His words came out like thunder and every step he took quake the ground around him. He fought for his town until there was no town left to fight. It was believed that as long as he lived, none would dare challenge Nnobi.
At the height of his glory, he could marry virtually any woman he wanted. He, however, chose four out of the hundreds that wanted him. Another two he chose from the group of women who packed their things and moved into his house. In all, he married six women and none of them ever complained about his ability to satisfy them. He ate once a day, a mountain of food that would be sufficient to feed a village.
All this was before the white man came to Nnobi. These were the days when all his shrine could boast of were an “Ikenga” (a symbol of his personal god) and the skulls of twenty men he had killed in past wars. One day, a white man carrying a Bible in one hand and a gun in the other entered Nnobi. That same day, Ogbuenyi added another skull to his collection.
The trouble started ten years later, when he decided to drink palm wine at the annual New Yam festival from the skull of the white man who carried a Bible and gun.
Of all Ogbuenyi’s twenty-six living children, only one resembled him. That was the one the Chief Priest had called an “ogbanje” (a spirit child who dies young and comes back to life again and again). Ogbuenyi named him Ozoemena (May it not occur again) because he was still the only male child and Ogbuenyi’s wives were finding it hard to conceive.
The New Yam festival had always been made for people like Ogbuenyi, titled men who were next to the gods in receiving reverence. It had always provided such men an opportunity to bathe in the glory of their accomplishments. But more importantly, it was a perfect chance to introduce their heir apparent to their kinsmen. In the case of Ogbuenyi, his heir was his only son, Ozoemena, whom the gods had made an “ogbanje”.
What none could understand until today was why he had decided to drink palm wine from the skull of the white man he had killed. Some said his eyes had failed him. Others said his non-conforming son who was carrying his goatskin bag intentionally planted the skull in Ogbuenyi’s bag. Of course, neither Ogbuenyi nor Ozoemena was there to disprove any of these theories. All that everyone agreed on was that what followed only confirmed the saying the elders had been repeating all through the ages, “When death wants to kill a little dog, it won’t let it perceive the odor of the feces.”
Once Ogbuenyi had told his kinsmen that an emergency situation surpasses the brave, but that emergency is the test of bravery. Sixty years after, as the men and women of Nnobi prepared to honor him, the debate had changed from why he had drunk palm wine from the white man’s skull that carried the Bible and the gun. Now everyone wanted his or her recollection of Ogbuenyi to be the epitaph engraved on the stone on which his statue now stands.
It was a big day. Bigger than his burial which all the towns of Idemili attended. Nnobi was far from what it was in the days of Ogbuenyi. Colonialism had ended. Those whose fathers died fighting the white men had started returning after years of studies in the white man’s countries. None worried any more about Ozoemena, who had not been seen since the tragic New Yam festival.
So the whole town lined up, waiting patiently for a chance to record what they had seen or heard about Ogbuenyi. Ten different cameras were filming what everyone had to say. In one week of filming, stories of Ogbuenyi’s extra-marital affairs had been uncovered. So were people who claimed to be his illegitimate children.
Yet on the final day of recording, no hint of the whereabouts of Ozoemena had been revealed. Everyone had come to believe that the spirits lured him into the evil forest and let him stray till he starved to death. That was the widely believed story until a black Lexus car pulled up in the town square. The driver climbed down and opened the two black doors. Two men in their seventies climbed out, one black, the other white.
Both men fixed their eyes on the life-size statue of Ogbuenyi. The artist had emphasized his strong muscles and oblong face. His dreadlocks had been made a little thicker. That was the first thing the old black man pointed out to the white man. Instantly a cameraman focused his lens on the two strangers. The project director pointed at the statue and asked the old black man. “Sir, do you know that man?”
Instead of answering straight away, the old black man said, “Once upon a time...”
Instantly, the project director stopped him. With one single motion the director beckoned the remaining camera crew.
“Sir, can you please introduce yourself and your white friend before you start your story.”
There was a silence as everyone waited. There were more gray hairs than black on his head. He talked slowly but loud enough to be heard. If he was from Nnobi, the director thought, he did make a good chief.
“Here is Bob Livingstone Jr., the son of the white man”.
The director who was also playing the role of interviewer cut in.
“Which white man?”
The old black man ignored the interruption, cleared his throat, and continued.
“And I am Ozoemena, the son of Ogbuenyi”.
The silence turned mysterious. Then someone gave the two men chairs to sit down. When they were seated the black man started all over again,
“Once upon a time...”
***
The attendant could still remember why he stopped the tale at that point. Someone that looked like Nikki had opened the door and peeped in. He rushed to the door to check if it was her but it wasn’t. By the time he returned the students had dispersed.
The attendant noticed that it had taken the Korean woman a longer time than was necessary to open the Laundromat. He climbed out of the car and stepped towards the door. Once at the door, one of the customers asked, “Man, what’s ‘appening?”. The attendant replied that he did not know. Getting closer to the entrance door he peeped in. What came out of his mouth was “Oh, God!”
The inside of the Laundromat he left less than twelve hours ago was like a spot where a tornado had landed. Pieces of ceiling boards were all over the floor. The game machines had all been torn apart. The television set was missing from the spot where it was mounted. There were soap powders on the floor which seemed to be intentionally poured. The walls of the Laundromat were defaced. Written on them were expressions like “Bloodsucker!”, “Greedy Motherfuckers!,” “Leave our neighborhood alone.” He looked at the Korean woman, who was at one end of the building talking on the phone, and felt sorry that he was black.
He listened but could not understand what she was saying for she was speaking Korean. There were tears in her eyes and her hands were trembling as she held the phone. There was an attempt to cut open the coin box on washing machines but none was successful. The extent of the damage was so much.
He looked at the shelf where the detergents were all lined up and saw that many boxes were missing. Also gone were bottles of Clorox bleach. The glass showcase where candies were displayed was smashed and every piece of the candies gone. Reese’s, Sunkist, M&M’s, Kit Kat’s, Snickers, 3 Musketeers, Skittles, Tangy Taffy, Zero, Swizzles, Payday’s, blow pops, whatchamacallit’s, Almond Joy’s, Mars bars, Baby Ruth’s, Mr. Goodbar’s, Butterfinger’s, Twix, Starburst, bubble gum, Milky Way’s, just everything. What remained were empty boxes. He looked at the desk where he kept his cassettes and CD’s, they were scattered all over the desk. He tried to pick them up and count but the Korean woman shouted from the other end,
“No touch anythings. The policemen is coming. Fingerprint taken.”
The attendant quickly backed away. He was lucky he had taken his two hundred dollar CD player home last night because he had to do some recording at home. He looked at the clock on the wall, it was close to 8:30AM. The policemen had not yet come. He was sure he would miss “Regis and Kathie Lee Live”. And that would be his first time of missing the TV talk show in four months of viewing.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Friday, November 16, 2007
Chapter Three
Nikki wasn’t there when the spider made its webs. But today, she had decided to trace back the exact steps of the spider.
To her three senior sisters, Nikki was luck to be in a perfect marriage, though none of them could fathom the reason why. For them, to have remained married for the past eleven years to one man was a great accomplishment. Their records were enough proof to sustain the significance of their little sister’s feat.
Kamesha, the most senior married at eighteen. She divorced at twenty-one. At twenty-three, she married again and once more divorced at twenty-six, leaving one kid each for each ex-husband. At twenty-nine, she almost married once again but managed to put it off. But not before she became pregnant for her third child born in her mother’s house. She is now thirty-two and once more talking about marrying this guy who is ten-year younger.
The second girl in the family, Ashley, had a different fate. Right from the time when she was a kid, she had her eyes somewhere above the blue sky. She married a flamboyant man form New York. She was twenty-five years old and he was twenty-six years old. Three years into this marriage, he was killed in a drug related shoot out in Brooklyn. She had not married ever since. She seemed more contented with raising up the daughters she had during the marriage.
Lala, the third girl, never married. She is still twenty-eight but widely believed to be uncut for the marriage institution. Surprisingly, she was the prettiest of the girls. But since she started telling anyone who cared to listen that she was too good for any man, ever since their sixty-two year old mother had joined other in classifying as never married-as if she would never marry.
Nikki had never been enthusiastic about visiting her parents ever since Lala and Kamesha returned to their family house. To Nikki, being the baby of the family only became a relishing experience when the older ones were away.
The last time she was home was on Independence Day. Like every other time, she had to take lectures from everybody about everything. Even Lala and Kamesha usually find one or two things to tell her about marriage. In her parent’s home, she had always been the little baby of the house, not withstanding the fact that she had two kids of her own. An eight year old boy she named Martin and a ten year old daughter she named Mary, after her mother.
No task had proven itself harder for Nikki as taking decisions, especially those decisions that conflict with the position of her husband. She had loved him all through the 12 years they have known each other. But somehow Nikki was feeling that she had to stand her ground for the first time in her married life.
Nikki did not arrive at this decision to put herself first easily. It took the not guilty verdict in the O.J. Simpson trial for her to know that sometimes things could go well beyond human imagination. Early this morning, Malcolm had happily informed her that the Nigerian Airways DC 10 plane had arrived in New York City, living Nikki only ten days to stop this family holiday in Africa. A holiday her instinct had told her would turn her life around.
She stood in front of a six feet mirror looking at herself. Few things had changed since she was twenty. She had not seen wrinkles yet. Her figure still looked attractive. That was in spite of the few pounds she recently added. She knew she wasn’t flattering herself because men, too, tell her how beautiful she was.
First, she combed her long black hair to the right. She looked in the mirror and saw that it didn’t fit. She tried the left. It made her look like someone about to fly. She split the hair into two equal parts-one parts she pushed to the left, the other to the right.
If it were some years ago she did ask Malcolm how she looked. But these days Malcolm had fallen in love with something else. The man she used to know was now in love with Africa. Gradually she was finding herself further apart from Malcolm. What used to be their bedroom had been taken over by African artifacts. That was why she was in the visitor’s room where she now dresses up. Their bedroom had lost the laughter it used to know in the early days of their marriage.
She pulled out a special make-up draw. She stretched her hand and picked the perfume Venus. It has been her special perfume wore only on special occasions. Early in her marriage, one of her problems was finding a place she could hide the perfume so that Malcolm wouldn’t see it. Now Malcolm had become contented with burning candles and rubbing solutions made from African herbs on his body. If not for Mary who seemed to have found out she was a woman, Nikki wouldn’t mind leaving the red bottle on the table.
Nikki had not told anyone the whole truth about her fear of visiting Africa with her husband. She had gone out for her way to talk to a handsome African man. The man only confirmed her fear that in Africa her husband could marry a second wife. She was not sure she was ready to present that fear to her family. But she was ready to do anything to stop the trip, including playing along with her heart about that African man who called himself Emeka.
After all, nothing seemed to remain of her marriage to Malcolm. He missed their marriage anniversary because he had to attend the Million Man March on Washington. Just when she thought he would make it up on Valentine’s Day, that same day he also traveled to Washington to attend a special convention of The Nation of Islam.
These developments devastated Nikki. She had no doubt Malcolm was no longer the man who proposed to her form the pulpit. The man she used to call her own angel Gabriel. Something she could not yet pin point went terribly wrong. The Malcolm she used to know would never forget their marriage anniversary. And when Valentine’s Day comes, he would always be there.
After nine months in her mom’s womb, Nikki had thought she had passed her loneliest hours. But on Valentine’s Day in her lonely room, she was lonely like a corpse in a coffin. The night was longer than she ever felt. From the noise she heard emerging from the room near-by she felt no one wanted to sleep.
She imagined the night drunk in the sweat of lovers who took advantage of God’s suspended law to do the only thing they knew as loving. She tried to count the lips maliciously kissed and found it harder than counting the heaven’s stars. She heard the noisy crickets go dumb at the sound of lovers laughing at pain. She looked out of the window and saw that it was a work free day for ugly moths mesmerized by the smell of effervescence love.
Calmly, she lay on her bed, holding fast to her chilling pillow. With nothing but her inner eyes, she built up his structure in her mind. She gave him eyes like the eagle’s and molded his lips with fresh honey. She unveiled his egg yoke skin and warmed her head on his hairy strong chest. Her hands trembled and her tongue emerged. Out of control went down her waist.
Back to herself, he instantly vanished. Leaving her alone with her pillow, to hug, cuddle, kiss and caress. She looked up to the night sky and saw stars smiling. She wondered whether the mocking smile was at her whose pillow was her Val or at lovers moaning next door. Before she went to bed, she told herself that next year her empty bed would be occupied.
***
It was an old three-bedroom ranch. Sitting on chairs left on the porch were Nikki’s sisters, Kamesha and Ashley. Kamesha was braiding Ashley’s hair. Watching from her rocking chair was their mother, Mary. In her hand was a sweater she had been knitting. In the living room was Nikki fetching juice from the fridge.
“Nikki, girl,” Kamesha called out, “could you please get me a glass of lemonade while you are in the kitchen.”
Her voice was faint for she just recovered from a cold.
“What?” screamed Nikki.
“One glass of lemonade, please,” Kamesha repeated her request.
“And me too,” joined Ashley.
Nikki searched through the fridge and saw no lemonade. It occurred to Nikki that twelve years after she left home, nothing had really changed about what is where in their fridge.
“There ain’t no lemonade in the fridge,” Nikki screamed back. She did not find that unusual either. Assigning chores and following through had always been their mother’s greatest challenges. While Nikki had been resourceful and domestic, Kamesha and Ashley were sloppy and detached from things mundane.
“You will find lemon beside the fruit basket and tin of sugar on the fridge,” Kamesha said.
“Y’all do not expect me to come here and be making lemonade.”
“Excuse me!” Kamesha said, “So you are now too good to make lemonade for your sisters?”
“Whatever!”
“Sister, just make it because of your Mama.”
“Mama didn’t say she needed lemonade.”
“Alright then. Your sisters need some.”
“You girls should do more here than sit around and gossip.”
“We heard you big sister. We can feel you.”
“Thanks for the lemonade, sister,” chipped in Ashley.
Nikki brought out lemon squeezing machine and gathered together some lemon and began to slice on the kitchen table. Outside the porch, Ashley, Kamesha and their mother were having a conversation.
“Y’all seem to forget that Nikki is a grown woman now,” their mother said. “She is no longer the baby of the family.”
“Mama, wait,” Kamesha said. “Does her being married make her better than us?”
“That’s not my point.”
“Because I was married once.”
“Once or twice?” asked Ashley.
“Shut up, Ashley,” scolded Kamesha.
“And what do you call that your marriage to the crazy African guy?”
“Just so you know – it was good while it lasted.”
“What did you get from the relationship other than this fake African accent?”
“Mama, tell Ashley to shut up,” Kamesha appealed, turning to their mother for help. “This is not about me. It is about Nikki.”
“My point is that Nikki has her own family and Lord knows she is doing everything to support her family and make her marriage work,” said Mama. “She doesn’t need any aggravation when she comes here. Being who she is, she might not readily say it but this home is sometimes her final sanctuary where she can find peace.”
“Mama, tell that to Ashley who has never been married and may never be married,” Kamesha said.
“That’s not a nice thing to say about your sister,” Mama said.
“Let her say whatever,” Ashley replied. “For all I care, I rather be unmarried than marry three different men in less than ten years.”
“You know, I wonder sometimes if you are a lesbian,” Kamesha said.
“And I wonder sometimes if you are a whore,” replied Ashley.
“That’s it, you girls,” Mama yelled. “You don’t talk like this in my house.”
“If I am a whore, you are a whore’s sister,” Kamesha continued angrily.
“I say that’s enough.” Mama yelled the more, this time louder. “You don’t talk like this in this house. If you want to talk the ghetto talk, go out in the streets not in my house.”
There was an unsettling quiet after Mama spoke. Kamesha and Ashley understood what she meant when she said this house – her house. The decision to house them whenever they return from yet another adventure with men was one that Mama could revoke.
“Sis, are you guys still going to Africa for vacation?” Kamesha said raising her voice for Nikki to hear her in the kitchen.
“I guess so,” Nikki said.
“You don’t sound excited,” said Ashley.
“I am worried,” Nikki confessed. “I don’t know much about Africa and Malcolm is too excited that it worries me.”
“I want to go to Africa,” Kamesha stated. “If you guys buy me a ticket, I will come along.”
“From what I heard, it is disgusting over there,” suggested Ashley. “Flies, bugs, hunger all over. For me, I am staying put in these United States.
“I want to go where Black people run things,” said Kamesha.
“Guess what?” retorted Ashley. “That’s why it looks as messed up as it is.”
“Y’ all should support your sister,” chided Mama. “It is just a holiday and if she doesn’t like it, she won’t go back.”
“I am afraid Malcolm may not want to come back,” said Nikki.
“Then you bring your behind back with my grandchildren,” Mama said.
“Maybe he already got a wife over there,” Ashley teased. “You know that they marry more than one wife. Ah, my sister will soon share her husband with another woman. What do they call that arrangement? Step-wife? Or is it co-wife?”
“Ashley, stop teasing your sister,” Mama said.
“For all I know, when I save enough money, I will go to Africa and find me a fine husband,” Kamesha said.
“Is that how you plan to get your groove back?”
“Mama, tell Ashley to shut up or I will close that stinking mouth for hers.”
“The truth hurts, they say.”
“Nikki, there is this young African man who works at the Laundromat on Park Street,” Mama recommended. “You can go and talk to him about Africa. He may be able to answer any question you have and help you prepare.”
“Oh, Mama you saw him too,” said Kamesha. “The guy is cute. I have tried to hook up with him but he isn’t feeling me yet.”
Nikki walked out of the kitchen with a saucer full of glasses of drinks. She passed the drinks to each of her sister and sat beside her mother. Down the road, a 10-year-old boy ran towards them. He was fast and seemed threatened. He held on to his chest like someone on the verge of a heart attack. Nikki, Kamesha and Ashley rushed toward him.
“Allen, what’s wrong?” asked Nikki as she caught up with him.
“Nothin,’ Just exercising,” Allen said, breathing fast and gasping for air. “Have you forgotten that I want to be like Mike?
“With these tiny legs of yours?” asked Kamesha, disappointed that she ran out for nothing.
“The young do grow,” said Allen. “But for old Mama like you, it’s over.”
Everyone dived to grab him but Allen dogged and continued to run away from them. Slowly, they walked back to the porch where their Mama sat, unmoved.
To her three senior sisters, Nikki was luck to be in a perfect marriage, though none of them could fathom the reason why. For them, to have remained married for the past eleven years to one man was a great accomplishment. Their records were enough proof to sustain the significance of their little sister’s feat.
Kamesha, the most senior married at eighteen. She divorced at twenty-one. At twenty-three, she married again and once more divorced at twenty-six, leaving one kid each for each ex-husband. At twenty-nine, she almost married once again but managed to put it off. But not before she became pregnant for her third child born in her mother’s house. She is now thirty-two and once more talking about marrying this guy who is ten-year younger.
The second girl in the family, Ashley, had a different fate. Right from the time when she was a kid, she had her eyes somewhere above the blue sky. She married a flamboyant man form New York. She was twenty-five years old and he was twenty-six years old. Three years into this marriage, he was killed in a drug related shoot out in Brooklyn. She had not married ever since. She seemed more contented with raising up the daughters she had during the marriage.
Lala, the third girl, never married. She is still twenty-eight but widely believed to be uncut for the marriage institution. Surprisingly, she was the prettiest of the girls. But since she started telling anyone who cared to listen that she was too good for any man, ever since their sixty-two year old mother had joined other in classifying as never married-as if she would never marry.
Nikki had never been enthusiastic about visiting her parents ever since Lala and Kamesha returned to their family house. To Nikki, being the baby of the family only became a relishing experience when the older ones were away.
The last time she was home was on Independence Day. Like every other time, she had to take lectures from everybody about everything. Even Lala and Kamesha usually find one or two things to tell her about marriage. In her parent’s home, she had always been the little baby of the house, not withstanding the fact that she had two kids of her own. An eight year old boy she named Martin and a ten year old daughter she named Mary, after her mother.
No task had proven itself harder for Nikki as taking decisions, especially those decisions that conflict with the position of her husband. She had loved him all through the 12 years they have known each other. But somehow Nikki was feeling that she had to stand her ground for the first time in her married life.
Nikki did not arrive at this decision to put herself first easily. It took the not guilty verdict in the O.J. Simpson trial for her to know that sometimes things could go well beyond human imagination. Early this morning, Malcolm had happily informed her that the Nigerian Airways DC 10 plane had arrived in New York City, living Nikki only ten days to stop this family holiday in Africa. A holiday her instinct had told her would turn her life around.
She stood in front of a six feet mirror looking at herself. Few things had changed since she was twenty. She had not seen wrinkles yet. Her figure still looked attractive. That was in spite of the few pounds she recently added. She knew she wasn’t flattering herself because men, too, tell her how beautiful she was.
First, she combed her long black hair to the right. She looked in the mirror and saw that it didn’t fit. She tried the left. It made her look like someone about to fly. She split the hair into two equal parts-one parts she pushed to the left, the other to the right.
If it were some years ago she did ask Malcolm how she looked. But these days Malcolm had fallen in love with something else. The man she used to know was now in love with Africa. Gradually she was finding herself further apart from Malcolm. What used to be their bedroom had been taken over by African artifacts. That was why she was in the visitor’s room where she now dresses up. Their bedroom had lost the laughter it used to know in the early days of their marriage.
She pulled out a special make-up draw. She stretched her hand and picked the perfume Venus. It has been her special perfume wore only on special occasions. Early in her marriage, one of her problems was finding a place she could hide the perfume so that Malcolm wouldn’t see it. Now Malcolm had become contented with burning candles and rubbing solutions made from African herbs on his body. If not for Mary who seemed to have found out she was a woman, Nikki wouldn’t mind leaving the red bottle on the table.
Nikki had not told anyone the whole truth about her fear of visiting Africa with her husband. She had gone out for her way to talk to a handsome African man. The man only confirmed her fear that in Africa her husband could marry a second wife. She was not sure she was ready to present that fear to her family. But she was ready to do anything to stop the trip, including playing along with her heart about that African man who called himself Emeka.
After all, nothing seemed to remain of her marriage to Malcolm. He missed their marriage anniversary because he had to attend the Million Man March on Washington. Just when she thought he would make it up on Valentine’s Day, that same day he also traveled to Washington to attend a special convention of The Nation of Islam.
These developments devastated Nikki. She had no doubt Malcolm was no longer the man who proposed to her form the pulpit. The man she used to call her own angel Gabriel. Something she could not yet pin point went terribly wrong. The Malcolm she used to know would never forget their marriage anniversary. And when Valentine’s Day comes, he would always be there.
After nine months in her mom’s womb, Nikki had thought she had passed her loneliest hours. But on Valentine’s Day in her lonely room, she was lonely like a corpse in a coffin. The night was longer than she ever felt. From the noise she heard emerging from the room near-by she felt no one wanted to sleep.
She imagined the night drunk in the sweat of lovers who took advantage of God’s suspended law to do the only thing they knew as loving. She tried to count the lips maliciously kissed and found it harder than counting the heaven’s stars. She heard the noisy crickets go dumb at the sound of lovers laughing at pain. She looked out of the window and saw that it was a work free day for ugly moths mesmerized by the smell of effervescence love.
Calmly, she lay on her bed, holding fast to her chilling pillow. With nothing but her inner eyes, she built up his structure in her mind. She gave him eyes like the eagle’s and molded his lips with fresh honey. She unveiled his egg yoke skin and warmed her head on his hairy strong chest. Her hands trembled and her tongue emerged. Out of control went down her waist.
Back to herself, he instantly vanished. Leaving her alone with her pillow, to hug, cuddle, kiss and caress. She looked up to the night sky and saw stars smiling. She wondered whether the mocking smile was at her whose pillow was her Val or at lovers moaning next door. Before she went to bed, she told herself that next year her empty bed would be occupied.
***
It was an old three-bedroom ranch. Sitting on chairs left on the porch were Nikki’s sisters, Kamesha and Ashley. Kamesha was braiding Ashley’s hair. Watching from her rocking chair was their mother, Mary. In her hand was a sweater she had been knitting. In the living room was Nikki fetching juice from the fridge.
“Nikki, girl,” Kamesha called out, “could you please get me a glass of lemonade while you are in the kitchen.”
Her voice was faint for she just recovered from a cold.
“What?” screamed Nikki.
“One glass of lemonade, please,” Kamesha repeated her request.
“And me too,” joined Ashley.
Nikki searched through the fridge and saw no lemonade. It occurred to Nikki that twelve years after she left home, nothing had really changed about what is where in their fridge.
“There ain’t no lemonade in the fridge,” Nikki screamed back. She did not find that unusual either. Assigning chores and following through had always been their mother’s greatest challenges. While Nikki had been resourceful and domestic, Kamesha and Ashley were sloppy and detached from things mundane.
“You will find lemon beside the fruit basket and tin of sugar on the fridge,” Kamesha said.
“Y’all do not expect me to come here and be making lemonade.”
“Excuse me!” Kamesha said, “So you are now too good to make lemonade for your sisters?”
“Whatever!”
“Sister, just make it because of your Mama.”
“Mama didn’t say she needed lemonade.”
“Alright then. Your sisters need some.”
“You girls should do more here than sit around and gossip.”
“We heard you big sister. We can feel you.”
“Thanks for the lemonade, sister,” chipped in Ashley.
Nikki brought out lemon squeezing machine and gathered together some lemon and began to slice on the kitchen table. Outside the porch, Ashley, Kamesha and their mother were having a conversation.
“Y’all seem to forget that Nikki is a grown woman now,” their mother said. “She is no longer the baby of the family.”
“Mama, wait,” Kamesha said. “Does her being married make her better than us?”
“That’s not my point.”
“Because I was married once.”
“Once or twice?” asked Ashley.
“Shut up, Ashley,” scolded Kamesha.
“And what do you call that your marriage to the crazy African guy?”
“Just so you know – it was good while it lasted.”
“What did you get from the relationship other than this fake African accent?”
“Mama, tell Ashley to shut up,” Kamesha appealed, turning to their mother for help. “This is not about me. It is about Nikki.”
“My point is that Nikki has her own family and Lord knows she is doing everything to support her family and make her marriage work,” said Mama. “She doesn’t need any aggravation when she comes here. Being who she is, she might not readily say it but this home is sometimes her final sanctuary where she can find peace.”
“Mama, tell that to Ashley who has never been married and may never be married,” Kamesha said.
“That’s not a nice thing to say about your sister,” Mama said.
“Let her say whatever,” Ashley replied. “For all I care, I rather be unmarried than marry three different men in less than ten years.”
“You know, I wonder sometimes if you are a lesbian,” Kamesha said.
“And I wonder sometimes if you are a whore,” replied Ashley.
“That’s it, you girls,” Mama yelled. “You don’t talk like this in my house.”
“If I am a whore, you are a whore’s sister,” Kamesha continued angrily.
“I say that’s enough.” Mama yelled the more, this time louder. “You don’t talk like this in this house. If you want to talk the ghetto talk, go out in the streets not in my house.”
There was an unsettling quiet after Mama spoke. Kamesha and Ashley understood what she meant when she said this house – her house. The decision to house them whenever they return from yet another adventure with men was one that Mama could revoke.
“Sis, are you guys still going to Africa for vacation?” Kamesha said raising her voice for Nikki to hear her in the kitchen.
“I guess so,” Nikki said.
“You don’t sound excited,” said Ashley.
“I am worried,” Nikki confessed. “I don’t know much about Africa and Malcolm is too excited that it worries me.”
“I want to go to Africa,” Kamesha stated. “If you guys buy me a ticket, I will come along.”
“From what I heard, it is disgusting over there,” suggested Ashley. “Flies, bugs, hunger all over. For me, I am staying put in these United States.
“I want to go where Black people run things,” said Kamesha.
“Guess what?” retorted Ashley. “That’s why it looks as messed up as it is.”
“Y’ all should support your sister,” chided Mama. “It is just a holiday and if she doesn’t like it, she won’t go back.”
“I am afraid Malcolm may not want to come back,” said Nikki.
“Then you bring your behind back with my grandchildren,” Mama said.
“Maybe he already got a wife over there,” Ashley teased. “You know that they marry more than one wife. Ah, my sister will soon share her husband with another woman. What do they call that arrangement? Step-wife? Or is it co-wife?”
“Ashley, stop teasing your sister,” Mama said.
“For all I know, when I save enough money, I will go to Africa and find me a fine husband,” Kamesha said.
“Is that how you plan to get your groove back?”
“Mama, tell Ashley to shut up or I will close that stinking mouth for hers.”
“The truth hurts, they say.”
“Nikki, there is this young African man who works at the Laundromat on Park Street,” Mama recommended. “You can go and talk to him about Africa. He may be able to answer any question you have and help you prepare.”
“Oh, Mama you saw him too,” said Kamesha. “The guy is cute. I have tried to hook up with him but he isn’t feeling me yet.”
Nikki walked out of the kitchen with a saucer full of glasses of drinks. She passed the drinks to each of her sister and sat beside her mother. Down the road, a 10-year-old boy ran towards them. He was fast and seemed threatened. He held on to his chest like someone on the verge of a heart attack. Nikki, Kamesha and Ashley rushed toward him.
“Allen, what’s wrong?” asked Nikki as she caught up with him.
“Nothin,’ Just exercising,” Allen said, breathing fast and gasping for air. “Have you forgotten that I want to be like Mike?
“With these tiny legs of yours?” asked Kamesha, disappointed that she ran out for nothing.
“The young do grow,” said Allen. “But for old Mama like you, it’s over.”
Everyone dived to grab him but Allen dogged and continued to run away from them. Slowly, they walked back to the porch where their Mama sat, unmoved.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
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.”
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.”
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Friday, November 9, 2007
Chapter One
It was dead of the night, even the spirits had gone to bed. The last of the Norfolk-Virginia Beach bus, Q25 dropped Emeka, a 22-year-old African man at Edwin Drive, the Mount Trashmore bus stop. He flipped a traveling bag onto his shoulder and walked up the mountain, stepping gallantly on each of the 72 steps that led to the peak. As he walked, he began to unbuttoned his thick winter shirt and pulled off his belt. Half way up the mountain, he yanked his bag on smooth green grasses toward the direction of Lake Trashmore. He unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, took it off and dropped it on the grasses facing Kids Cove. He unzipped his bag and brought out a set of African dashiki and a hand made wrapper. He unzipped his pants and removed it. He put on the African dashiki, tied the wrapper and put on the red cap. He stashed, in a haphazard manner the removed clothes into his bag. From the side of the bag, he picked up a walking stick. He stretched it out to its full length and began to walk to the peak of the mountain.
As he walked up, a 22 year-old white girl named Dana came up the mountain behind him. She walked in careful steps almost as if she was floating. Her steps rarely bent the smooth grasses of Mount Trashmore. Round her waist hung a tape recorder with the microphone cord in her hands. Emeka walked further up and at the peak, he symbolically located the direction to the West, by dramatically pointing at different points in the sky full of stars and a full moon. Facing the Atlantic Ocean he began his incantation.
I am a monk for sale. But who will buy me? Of what use will I be? I only know of the garden, how to weed and water. I also know about prayers, how to kneel and mutter, nothing of use on the street of the world. No doubt, I will be on sale for a very long time.
I am the missing sonnet. I was fourteen when the rhyming stopped. Look into my eyes, see the last drop of ink. Though stiffened and discolored, it is yet to dry. I became a free verse, snubbing gravity, just falling freely, getting bruise by the air. Now shapeless like amoebae, hopeless like a dead stream, I face reality for trial. Jungle or just, the justice won’t be sweet.
He raised his hand into the air in a violent gesture. He gazed deep into the night sky as if his favorite childhood toy was hanging there. Then he began to shake in a violent emotion.
Have you looked around this court, hunt by mystic sounds? Have you seen the tracks, the bridges and the lanes all made of different colors? Listen! You will hear the drum, the piano, and the guitar all singing a dirge.
By man’s excesses on nature, designer children head towards the dark ages. By man’s inhumanity to man, computer hearts pray in the name of the dinosaur. Man dreams of partying in Mars while humanity collapses at his feet. Man invokes democracy from the shrine of injustice. Man awaits tomorrow while he runs into the past.
Doom is what remains of the day. Fugitive shall every man be. Heaven knows I won’t be around when the Iroko tree falls. I must have walked away.
All the people I know fight to be themselves. But my own battle is strange for I do not know myself. Every one else wishes to get whatever they want, my own struggle is to know what it is I really want. I turn down good and bad as defined by anyone else. But I am not sure I know the difference between the two.
I disbelieve the bible. I wish there is no God. I can’t make a simple candle. Still, I feel like a super being. No one truly understands me. All they know is my first name – Emeka. I am not what I am. I am not what they want.
At another end of the mountain a 27-year-old woman, Nikki, was walking up to him. Her steps were creepy. She carried a handbag in her left hand and in her right hand was a sharp kitchen knife. Meanwhile, he continued to incantation.
Common things of life I fear - like women, wine, and worry. Empty things of life I adore – like favor, fate and fame. No one should trust my smile. The more I smile, the more I try to cover up my tears. The more I smile, the more I try to wipe away my fear.
I know I won’t go on like this for much longer. I must try and find out whatever it is I am. One thing I know for sure. I am somebody.
Emeka wiped sweat off his forehead. He readjusted his wrapper. This time, in a clam voice that was more subdued, Emeka continued his incantation.
Nikki was much closer now. Dana saw her and her face displayed dark curiousness.
So why do they wish to lock my dream up in a box? Are they afraid of my dreams coming true? Or are they just jealous?
They are contented with the following the weather, paying the psychics to lie to them. But I simply look beyond those clouds. I travel to those lands where the Gods are born. The fare is cheap – just shedding off all the weights of this world. But they are in love with jewelers, guns and authority. They dig into the heart of the earth, thinking that heaven is underneath those soils.
I told them I know where it is. They disbelieve me. I left them alone. So why don’t they leave me and my dreams alone? Let me continue on my fantasy path, when this race is over, they shall count the mileage and see to whom the compass points.
Forget the fact that that for the past twenty-six years I have been looking for a girl - a girl who will discover me - an adventurer with bruised feet and hardened hands – a genius who can make real images of my dream world. I am looking for a big heart, overflowing with love – tender piercing eyes radiating care. I am looking for someone who will cut my bush, till my virgin soil, plant a seed, her seed, my seed, our seed and groom it as it grows. Someone who will till, plant, weed and harvest –someone with whom I will dine with until I die.
I am human. That is why you see tears dropping from my eyes. It is raining and my room is cold. I cannot help but think how good it would have been if I had someone with me - someone to talk to, laugh with; someone to hold.
I have been around this world for long. I have not grown horns on my head. I don’t even look dangerous. I don’t smell poisonous. Still, nobody loves me. I shall be alright. One day this ejected gift will become the most coveted prize. Whenever I think of it, I come to the same conclusion. Nobody comes near enough to understand me. Nobody watches with keen the riddle that my life is. Everyone wants something simple, something fast. Even artificial smile will do. Nothing needs to last.
So I remain lonely in a world full of people. I get buried in sadness while everyone laughs. I used to be hopeful, about dreams coming true. I used to believe that tide comes around and goes around. Now I can only trust the agony in me. It wasn’t like before and it won’t be like this forever, I swear.
I guess nobody has ever begged to be loved as long as I have. Nobody has experienced loneliness without bounds, year in year out. Nobody has ever cried with so much depth. Yet nobody cares.
Everybody dislikes me. And I don’t know why. I smile, just like others. I try to listen when someone talks. Yet nobody loves me. Nobody will be my friend. I think I will kill myself and push these miseries away. But before I do that, I want to let the world know it did me wrong.
Emeka heard footsteps and swiftly turned around. He saw Nikki and froze. He opened his mouth but words failed to come out. Nikki smiled mischievously. She yanked her handbag to the ground and began to dance, erotically. Emeka remained in his frozen posture. Dana was creeping up the mountain towards the duo. As Nikki danced, she moved closer to Emeka. The closer she got, the more relaxed Emeka was. At arm’s length, she stretched her hand and gently touched Emeka’s face. With every touch, wider and wider smile appeared on Emeka’s face. Nikki began to dance away. She motioned Emeka to follow her. Emeka began to walk towards her in gradual and measured steps. Nikki danced towards the spot where her handbag fell. As the duo approached the bag, Dana tried to scream but no word was heard. She tried to run towards Emeka but she was stuck on the same spot. Nikki reached the handbag, grabbed it and flung it around Emeka. She embraced Emeka. Behind Emeka’s back, she put her hand into the bag and brought out the knife. Emeka enjoyed the embrace, with his eyes closed and mind lost in the scent of Nikki’s excited body. From her position, Dana saw the knife and struggled harder to reach Emeka. Nikki quietly took the knife drove it into Emeka’s chest, saying, “You bloody illegal immigrant.”
Emeka screamed. And fell hard on the floor. As blood gushed out of his chest, white ducks surrounded him like vultures, swimming in the pool of his blood.
Inside his room in a depilated house on Virginia Beach Boulevard by Park Avenue in Norfolk, Emeka violently woke up. His body was full of sweat. He seemed confused. He placed his hands on his chest as if to stop his fast beating heart. He looked at the clock. It was 12.00 midnight. He picked up his grandfather’s picture framed by the nightstand. He placed it close to his face and began to mutter inaudible words. His intense mood was interrupted by a phone call. At first, the phone rang and he ignored it. Then, he paused as if to think if he should answer. He crawled to the other end of his bed and took a look at the caller ID. It showed the name Dana Williams. Emeka picked the phone up.
“Hello, Dana,” Emeka said, panting.
“I am sorry if I woke you up” replied Dana, apologetically.
“I would have called you if you didn’t. I just had a terrible nightmare where I was stabbed on Mount Trashmore.”
“Stabbed by whom?”
“One girl.”
“Someone you know?”
“No!. I have never seen her before.”
There was a pause on the line. Dana, in her nightgown shifted to the edge of her bed and reached out to the dress table and picked up her chaplet.
“Are you still there?” Emeka asked after what looked like eternity.
“Yes, I am. I will pray for you,” Dana replied.
“I need more than prayers,” Emeka suggested.
“Will you then let me come along when you go to Mount Trashmore?” asked Dana.
“Women are not allowed to witness such things.”
“Did you tell that to the woman who stabbed you?”
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair? The way you treat me like a piece of toilet paper? An object to be remembered only when you are pressed. You know why I called? I called just to say that I am tired of this. I have been up all night thinking about this – his you and I. You don’t want me. I understand that. I should respect myself and stay away from you.”
“I thought we have talked about this before. I thought we both agreed to be friends – just friends.”
“Well, that’s not enough for me. That’s not enough anymore. And I have run out of patience.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Yes, it is. Especially now that you run up Mount Trashmore to make out with another woman only to have her stab you.”
“It was just a dream.”
“So you were making out with her when she stabbed you?”
“Not really like that.”
“What was it like? What?”
“It was crazy. Just like a dream, you know.”
“You know what, forget you. Just have a night sleep.”
Dana hanged the phone viciously. She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. Emeka picked up the phone, began to dial her number, half way, he changed his mind. Simultaneously, Dana picked the phone and pressed redial. Phone rang in Emeka’s room. He picked it up without looking at the caller ID.
“Hello.”
“Can I ask you just one question?”
“What?”
“Was the woman black or white?”
“What woman?”
“The woman of your dream.”
“Do you mean the woman in my dream or of my dream?”
“Whatever. You know what I mean. Don’t avoid my question.”
“She is white.”
“I knew it. I knew it was because I am black. That’s why you don’t want me. You Africans always come here and leave you sisters and begin to mess around with white women. For a moment, I thought you were different. But apparently not. How do you usually put it? Whatever a snake bears never ceases to be long.”
“Here we go again.”
Dana hung the phone and began to sob. A drop of tears fell of her cheek. She opened her eyes. Lying beside her was Emeka, deep asleep, a piece of paper on which he was writing a poem before he fell asleep rumpled beside the pillow. Dana picked it up, strengthened the paper and looked at the poem. Death on Mouth Trashmore, it said.
Their home was in far away sea
Until someone stole them with baits
Planted in a puppet lake
Beneath a new mountain
Made of trash covered with sand
Deceiving grasses and flowers of doom
No one raised an eyebrow
Not even the newspapers.
Recovered from shock
They tried to swim
Hoping to find a way to their homeland
They tried and tried
From one end to another
Until the resin from buried trash
Filtered into their decorated lake
Their lungs imploded and they died.
Then Virginia Pilot screams:
Death on Mouth Trashmore.
As he walked up, a 22 year-old white girl named Dana came up the mountain behind him. She walked in careful steps almost as if she was floating. Her steps rarely bent the smooth grasses of Mount Trashmore. Round her waist hung a tape recorder with the microphone cord in her hands. Emeka walked further up and at the peak, he symbolically located the direction to the West, by dramatically pointing at different points in the sky full of stars and a full moon. Facing the Atlantic Ocean he began his incantation.
I am a monk for sale. But who will buy me? Of what use will I be? I only know of the garden, how to weed and water. I also know about prayers, how to kneel and mutter, nothing of use on the street of the world. No doubt, I will be on sale for a very long time.
I am the missing sonnet. I was fourteen when the rhyming stopped. Look into my eyes, see the last drop of ink. Though stiffened and discolored, it is yet to dry. I became a free verse, snubbing gravity, just falling freely, getting bruise by the air. Now shapeless like amoebae, hopeless like a dead stream, I face reality for trial. Jungle or just, the justice won’t be sweet.
He raised his hand into the air in a violent gesture. He gazed deep into the night sky as if his favorite childhood toy was hanging there. Then he began to shake in a violent emotion.
Have you looked around this court, hunt by mystic sounds? Have you seen the tracks, the bridges and the lanes all made of different colors? Listen! You will hear the drum, the piano, and the guitar all singing a dirge.
By man’s excesses on nature, designer children head towards the dark ages. By man’s inhumanity to man, computer hearts pray in the name of the dinosaur. Man dreams of partying in Mars while humanity collapses at his feet. Man invokes democracy from the shrine of injustice. Man awaits tomorrow while he runs into the past.
Doom is what remains of the day. Fugitive shall every man be. Heaven knows I won’t be around when the Iroko tree falls. I must have walked away.
All the people I know fight to be themselves. But my own battle is strange for I do not know myself. Every one else wishes to get whatever they want, my own struggle is to know what it is I really want. I turn down good and bad as defined by anyone else. But I am not sure I know the difference between the two.
I disbelieve the bible. I wish there is no God. I can’t make a simple candle. Still, I feel like a super being. No one truly understands me. All they know is my first name – Emeka. I am not what I am. I am not what they want.
At another end of the mountain a 27-year-old woman, Nikki, was walking up to him. Her steps were creepy. She carried a handbag in her left hand and in her right hand was a sharp kitchen knife. Meanwhile, he continued to incantation.
Common things of life I fear - like women, wine, and worry. Empty things of life I adore – like favor, fate and fame. No one should trust my smile. The more I smile, the more I try to cover up my tears. The more I smile, the more I try to wipe away my fear.
I know I won’t go on like this for much longer. I must try and find out whatever it is I am. One thing I know for sure. I am somebody.
Emeka wiped sweat off his forehead. He readjusted his wrapper. This time, in a clam voice that was more subdued, Emeka continued his incantation.
Nikki was much closer now. Dana saw her and her face displayed dark curiousness.
So why do they wish to lock my dream up in a box? Are they afraid of my dreams coming true? Or are they just jealous?
They are contented with the following the weather, paying the psychics to lie to them. But I simply look beyond those clouds. I travel to those lands where the Gods are born. The fare is cheap – just shedding off all the weights of this world. But they are in love with jewelers, guns and authority. They dig into the heart of the earth, thinking that heaven is underneath those soils.
I told them I know where it is. They disbelieve me. I left them alone. So why don’t they leave me and my dreams alone? Let me continue on my fantasy path, when this race is over, they shall count the mileage and see to whom the compass points.
Forget the fact that that for the past twenty-six years I have been looking for a girl - a girl who will discover me - an adventurer with bruised feet and hardened hands – a genius who can make real images of my dream world. I am looking for a big heart, overflowing with love – tender piercing eyes radiating care. I am looking for someone who will cut my bush, till my virgin soil, plant a seed, her seed, my seed, our seed and groom it as it grows. Someone who will till, plant, weed and harvest –someone with whom I will dine with until I die.
I am human. That is why you see tears dropping from my eyes. It is raining and my room is cold. I cannot help but think how good it would have been if I had someone with me - someone to talk to, laugh with; someone to hold.
I have been around this world for long. I have not grown horns on my head. I don’t even look dangerous. I don’t smell poisonous. Still, nobody loves me. I shall be alright. One day this ejected gift will become the most coveted prize. Whenever I think of it, I come to the same conclusion. Nobody comes near enough to understand me. Nobody watches with keen the riddle that my life is. Everyone wants something simple, something fast. Even artificial smile will do. Nothing needs to last.
So I remain lonely in a world full of people. I get buried in sadness while everyone laughs. I used to be hopeful, about dreams coming true. I used to believe that tide comes around and goes around. Now I can only trust the agony in me. It wasn’t like before and it won’t be like this forever, I swear.
I guess nobody has ever begged to be loved as long as I have. Nobody has experienced loneliness without bounds, year in year out. Nobody has ever cried with so much depth. Yet nobody cares.
Everybody dislikes me. And I don’t know why. I smile, just like others. I try to listen when someone talks. Yet nobody loves me. Nobody will be my friend. I think I will kill myself and push these miseries away. But before I do that, I want to let the world know it did me wrong.
Emeka heard footsteps and swiftly turned around. He saw Nikki and froze. He opened his mouth but words failed to come out. Nikki smiled mischievously. She yanked her handbag to the ground and began to dance, erotically. Emeka remained in his frozen posture. Dana was creeping up the mountain towards the duo. As Nikki danced, she moved closer to Emeka. The closer she got, the more relaxed Emeka was. At arm’s length, she stretched her hand and gently touched Emeka’s face. With every touch, wider and wider smile appeared on Emeka’s face. Nikki began to dance away. She motioned Emeka to follow her. Emeka began to walk towards her in gradual and measured steps. Nikki danced towards the spot where her handbag fell. As the duo approached the bag, Dana tried to scream but no word was heard. She tried to run towards Emeka but she was stuck on the same spot. Nikki reached the handbag, grabbed it and flung it around Emeka. She embraced Emeka. Behind Emeka’s back, she put her hand into the bag and brought out the knife. Emeka enjoyed the embrace, with his eyes closed and mind lost in the scent of Nikki’s excited body. From her position, Dana saw the knife and struggled harder to reach Emeka. Nikki quietly took the knife drove it into Emeka’s chest, saying, “You bloody illegal immigrant.”
Emeka screamed. And fell hard on the floor. As blood gushed out of his chest, white ducks surrounded him like vultures, swimming in the pool of his blood.
Inside his room in a depilated house on Virginia Beach Boulevard by Park Avenue in Norfolk, Emeka violently woke up. His body was full of sweat. He seemed confused. He placed his hands on his chest as if to stop his fast beating heart. He looked at the clock. It was 12.00 midnight. He picked up his grandfather’s picture framed by the nightstand. He placed it close to his face and began to mutter inaudible words. His intense mood was interrupted by a phone call. At first, the phone rang and he ignored it. Then, he paused as if to think if he should answer. He crawled to the other end of his bed and took a look at the caller ID. It showed the name Dana Williams. Emeka picked the phone up.
“Hello, Dana,” Emeka said, panting.
“I am sorry if I woke you up” replied Dana, apologetically.
“I would have called you if you didn’t. I just had a terrible nightmare where I was stabbed on Mount Trashmore.”
“Stabbed by whom?”
“One girl.”
“Someone you know?”
“No!. I have never seen her before.”
There was a pause on the line. Dana, in her nightgown shifted to the edge of her bed and reached out to the dress table and picked up her chaplet.
“Are you still there?” Emeka asked after what looked like eternity.
“Yes, I am. I will pray for you,” Dana replied.
“I need more than prayers,” Emeka suggested.
“Will you then let me come along when you go to Mount Trashmore?” asked Dana.
“Women are not allowed to witness such things.”
“Did you tell that to the woman who stabbed you?”
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair? The way you treat me like a piece of toilet paper? An object to be remembered only when you are pressed. You know why I called? I called just to say that I am tired of this. I have been up all night thinking about this – his you and I. You don’t want me. I understand that. I should respect myself and stay away from you.”
“I thought we have talked about this before. I thought we both agreed to be friends – just friends.”
“Well, that’s not enough for me. That’s not enough anymore. And I have run out of patience.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Yes, it is. Especially now that you run up Mount Trashmore to make out with another woman only to have her stab you.”
“It was just a dream.”
“So you were making out with her when she stabbed you?”
“Not really like that.”
“What was it like? What?”
“It was crazy. Just like a dream, you know.”
“You know what, forget you. Just have a night sleep.”
Dana hanged the phone viciously. She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. Emeka picked up the phone, began to dial her number, half way, he changed his mind. Simultaneously, Dana picked the phone and pressed redial. Phone rang in Emeka’s room. He picked it up without looking at the caller ID.
“Hello.”
“Can I ask you just one question?”
“What?”
“Was the woman black or white?”
“What woman?”
“The woman of your dream.”
“Do you mean the woman in my dream or of my dream?”
“Whatever. You know what I mean. Don’t avoid my question.”
“She is white.”
“I knew it. I knew it was because I am black. That’s why you don’t want me. You Africans always come here and leave you sisters and begin to mess around with white women. For a moment, I thought you were different. But apparently not. How do you usually put it? Whatever a snake bears never ceases to be long.”
“Here we go again.”
Dana hung the phone and began to sob. A drop of tears fell of her cheek. She opened her eyes. Lying beside her was Emeka, deep asleep, a piece of paper on which he was writing a poem before he fell asleep rumpled beside the pillow. Dana picked it up, strengthened the paper and looked at the poem. Death on Mouth Trashmore, it said.
Their home was in far away sea
Until someone stole them with baits
Planted in a puppet lake
Beneath a new mountain
Made of trash covered with sand
Deceiving grasses and flowers of doom
No one raised an eyebrow
Not even the newspapers.
Recovered from shock
They tried to swim
Hoping to find a way to their homeland
They tried and tried
From one end to another
Until the resin from buried trash
Filtered into their decorated lake
Their lungs imploded and they died.
Then Virginia Pilot screams:
Death on Mouth Trashmore.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Preface
No matter how exquisite a piece of opera is, tears are all it awakes. Tears traveling along roadside gutters will never make any contact with me. Where I am vulnerable is along the information superhighway. And that was where I met this opera and shed my tears.
I still do not know why I did not log out of my computer and go home that spring of 1998. My decision to read that email which popped up as I was about to leave my office made no sense, considering the fact that I had read altogether 42 emails for the day.
The email forwarded to me from Pan-African News Agency, PANA, came from one Dana Wilson in Norfolk, Virginia. Her mother who listens to National Public Radio, NPR, on the FM frequency asked her to email me through PANA where I once worked. Ms. Wilson’s email said she had a story she was obliged to write but would like me to help her. She did not say what kind of story it was but she volunteered to come to Washington DC the next day to see me.
“Why the urgency,” I asked. The reporter’s instinct in me took over. I sat down and sent her an email asking her to come over to my office the next day. I missed reporting. I missed the excitement of breaking news. I had sent out a reply to her email before I started thinking.
By day, I am a media consultant. By night, I am an aspiring novelist. I claim to be an expert on African affairs. My small office in Washington DC survives from patronage of Capitol Hill lobbyists on behalf of African governments and people interested in the affairs of that ignored continent. I used to work as the Washington Bureau Chief of PANA. I branched out to start my own consulting firm after I broke the biggest campaign funding scandal of 1997. It was the story of how the brutal regime of Nigerian dictator, General Sani Abacha, funneled money to the Democratic Party campaign of 1996 to reelect Bill Clinton gave me modest fame.
One of the first rewards I received after I broke the story was an appearance on Talk of the Nation program of the public radio in D.C. I had since become a recurrent guest. Any time news from Africa becomes the lead story of American news media, I am called upon to give an analysis. I look forward to such appearances even though I do not know anyone who listens to the public radio. My appearances raise my profile and that translates into more money per hour I charge my clients.
In September of 1998, an oil pipeline fire in Nigeria killed over 700 people. It made front page news of all major newspaper in America. Once again, I was called upon to give my own spin. That story was a difficult one because it happened few miles from my home town. But like politicians all over the world, political consultants like me have learned to speak without emotion. That was exactly what I did on the news program. As I left the studio of NPR, I thought it was all over. Little did I know it was just the beginning. The opera singer had been awakened.
A big time political consultant who had appeared on a big time radio or TV show would have returned to his office and await calls, emails and letters from political associates and junkies in reaction to his utterances. I had no illusion as to the usual silence that would follow my appearance. Like I said before, I know nobody who listens to NPR.
On September 29, 1997 at precisely 10 am, Ms. Wilson walked into my office. Six feet tall with a well built body, the 28 year old white girl who teaches at Booker T. Washington High School in Norfolk, Virginia, started her tale and I listened. She came along with pieces of papers on which Emeka had written verses and stories. She printed out emails she had received from Emeka. And she had tapes she made when Emeka was hallucinating, which happened on the 11th of every month.
Her story was not my kind. It was deeper and darker. I asked her why she felt this story should be told and she replied that it was Emeka’s last wish. She had made a promise to the dead to write his story, I found out. I asked her why she chose me to help in writing the story. I traveled to Norfolk, Virginia, week after week looking at the scenes of the events that transpired there in the summer of 1998.
I talked to a lot of people whose names were mentioned in the story surrounding Emeka’s life and death. I spent more time talking to Nikki. In more ways than one, she was the girl who triggered off the whole chain of events that took place. Nikki was forthright in her stories. Like Dana, she was very eager to see that Emeka’s story did not go unwritten.
In the course of my research, I found it so remarkable that an inconspicuous African boy had touched the lives of so many people in the Hampton Roads area of Virginia. People were always helpful anywhere I went in search of his essence, except for Martin. Martin now serving a two-year jail term was uncooperative. For months, he refused to talk to me.
It took such a long time to write this story because the characters involved in it were diverse. The story outgrew Dana who brought it to me, outgrew Nikki who made it possible. It did not take time before I found out that the death on Mount Trashmore was more than just the death of Emeka, but a metaphor for the death of several dreams of several people whose lives came together by virtue of Emeka’s arrival in Norfolk.
Despite the volume of documents I have about Emeka, he remained as exclusive as ever. As part of my effort to unravel the man, I traveled home to Nigeria. I visited his home town of Nnobi, talked to his family. I could not reach his father. He was a political prisoner in a maximum security prison where he was unaware of his son’s escape from Nigeria and his eventual death on Mount Trashmore.
The task of putting together pieces of these stories from different participants was delayed twice. The first was when Martin called to say that he changed his mind and would like to talk to me. This happened at the point when I had finished talking to his friends as an alternative source of his story. The second delay occurred when at the tail end of my research Dana discovered Emeka’s hotmail account password. In each case, a new set of information were unleashed.
Amongst all the places I visited in search of Emeka, the place that moved me so much was Mount Trashmore in Virginia Beach. It was not really a mountain as in Mount Rushmore. The spot used to be a trash dump for years. After a while, the Virginia Beach council covered the trash with sand and made a mountain out of it. The landscape was developed into a park with a fish pond, trees, flowers, volley ball courts etc.
I was told that one day the fish in the pond started to die one after another. Some scientists investigated the cause and found out that the poisonous chemicals from the trash underneath the mountain were leaking into the pond and killing off the fishes. The day after the report came out, the Norfolk based Virginia Pilot newspaper declared on its front page, Death on Mount Trashmore. Two years after, the same newspaper used the same caption for a three paragraph story in their metro section to report the death of Emeka.
Despite the best of my efforts, there were different aspects of Emeka’s story that I could not reach. For instance, how he got to the United States could not be confirmed. There were several versions of the story none of which could be substantiated. What I have done was to put together pieces of stories from several sources to explain what happened in Hampton Roads on the summer of 1998 that led to a death on Mount Trashmore.
This project has had a deep impact in my life from the day I met Dana to the day I finished the final draft of this book. My wife had become pregnant and had a baby boy. I named him Emeka. No one around me understood why. My wife thought I had become obsessed with a dead man. But like Emeka did to everyone who came in contact with him, he had a way of occupying a place in their hearts. He got mine, too.
Because of Emeka, I have learnt that the obituary of every life is worth more than three paragraphs. From pursing Emeka’s story, I have learnt that some people leave this world but in the hearts of those who met them, they leave a desire to see their story preserved.
I do not know what this story will do to you. But for me, it was like a long night at an opera. Sometimes the language eluded me. Sometimes it is the plot. And sometimes too, it is the emotion. Yet, in its tragedy and its joy, I saw the strength of the human spirit. I have never looked at life the same ever since I looked at the story behind the death on Mount Trashmore.
While you wait for the Preface
Above is a recent picture of the man who inspires, Prof. Chinua Achebe. It was taken at the Christopher Okigbo International Conference, where he dazzled participants with an Igbo poem.
If this brought you here, please ignore it... otherwise read and see why you're here
Watch Me Write A Novel
(For Cyprian Ekwensi)
By
Rudolf Ogoo Okonkwo
Unless you knew me when I lived in Virginia in the 1990s, you may never know that I have a bestselling novel.
As far as I know, it was a bestseller, at least, around the Hampton Roads area - Chesapeake, Norfolk, Virginia Beach, Newport News, Hampton and Portsmouth. I believe it made it on Virginia Pilot newspaper’s bestselling list. I don’t know about the New York Times list, just because I did not bother to check. I was satisfied with leading the pack on Hampton Roads.
If you go to Norfolk, for instance, anywhere along Princess Anne Road, Virginia Beach Blvd, Park Avenue, from Norfolk State University to Old Dominion University, pick anyone at random and ask him or her about Death On Mount Trashmore, chances are that you will be told that it is a best selling novel written by one African boy.
They may not remember my name. You do not blame them for that. After all, my name was not written on the cover of the novel. In fact, the novel had no cover. As a matter of fact, it had no pages. It was one story that towered into existence by the good old oral tradition. Its fame spread from one ear to another by word of mouth.
Admitted, there was Chapter One, which was written close to ten years ago. It was those who read it that certified the novel a bestseller.
Year after year, in every New Year resolution, I vowed to finally write Death on Mount Trashmore. At the end of the year, if I made any attempt, it would be mere review of that first chapter.
This year was not different. I reviewed the same first chapter. As if to mark the ten year anniversary, I broke down chapter one into two chapters. I was as satisfied as that titled man who fumed when his wife brought him a plate of soup with one meat in it but felt greatly relived when the poor woman ran into the kitchen, cut the meat into two and returned the same plate of soup with a tender apology.
Like many aspiring novelists, I have a million and one reasons why I have not written my novel. Guess what the primary one is? You guessed right - I have no time. I am too busy doing everything but write my novel. I watched all of Red Sox’s four-game World Series. The other day, I watched my Patriots beat the Colts in the game of the century. In fact, when Fox TV drama, 24, returns, I hope to, again, follow it religiously. But time to write my novel, I do not have.
In the past, I have done creative things to encourage myself. I tried bribing myself. I even offered to give Mukami, my friend and typist then, a ten-dollar fee for every week I did not hand over to her a chapter of the book. Initially, she liked the idea if that would help me write that bestseller. But after two weeks of getting nothing, she could not find the courage to demand the money. By now it would have cost me over $5000.
Mind you, I have read many books and articles about writing the great novel. I specially remember how the lack-of-time excuse has been discredited. Those who seriously wish to be professional writers must create space to write, admonished How-to-Write authors. If you write a thousand words a day, in a year you have a 300,000-word novel, another author said to my surprise. In fact, a woman with four kids had written a novel by just scribbling on pieces of paper while in a train going to work in New York City. When her novel was published and it became a bestseller, she quit her day job and stayed home to write. I know all the inspiring stories. It is just that they have not inspired me.
You many say, na by force? Na everyone go be Chinua Achebe? If it is not written that you would be a novelist, just let it be.
I have thought about crazy stunts like that -like letting it be. In fact, after reading Purple Hibiscus, I said to myself that I should not worry anymore for Chimamanda Adichie is already telling the story of my generation. Those would have been enough reasons for me to drink water and put down my cup je-je, but then, what about Emeka, Nikki, Malcolm, and Dana?
These unfortunate guys have not left the confines of my head since 1997. They still loiter, whispering and screaming. They still perform new acts hoping to impress me and nudge me to write. “When are you going to give birth to us?” they ask. Often, in the middle of the night, while you are cozying up in your bed, I am dealing with these brain-damaged individuals and their theatricals. So you can see that it is not easy for me to pull out. Writing is like Ogboni cult. Once you join fully, it is hard to quit.
No doubt, this novel has run a crazy race away from me. It is time I fire a crazy shot at it.
So here is what I am going to do: November is actually National Novel Writing Month. Over 80,000 people across the globe are currently struggling to write 50,000 words by November 30, 2007. Going by last year’s record, some 20,000 people will complete their novels. I have missed a few days, but I will begin mine today. Like marriage vow made in a large church, in front of friends and family, I will be writing mine in front of you all. You can follow it by visiting http://www.mytrashmore.blogspot.com/.
For those who may want to read, be warned that what I will write may be pure crap. In fact, it will be trash, and maybe more. The first draft is always trash, anyway. But I will be in good company for many of the 20,000 who will complete their novels this November must have written craps you will never see in print. But then again, they must have overcome the fear of the time and work involved in writing a novel. Thereafter, the actual writing, otherwise called rewriting, will begin for those serious about being a novelist. So for this exercise, if you are not ready to read something typed on a keyboard with the monitor switched off, please stay away.
If you are facing similar predicament with your own novel (who doesn’t have a novel in them these days), come join me. Or visit http://www.nanowrimo.org/ where another 80,000 writers are battling with their novels. My deadline will be December 31, 2007 because I am in the middle of other writing projects that are helping to feed Ijeamaka and Ogonna. (Now, that is not an excuse.)
But come December 31, 2007, Death on Mount Trashmore would have been completed in hardcopy for the very first time in over ten years. It will be ready for my planned 2008 return visit to Hampton Roads, the first of such in over five years. And I have been told that having a copy of the novel is the only way I can return to the place I once called home.
Another reason I am doing this is in remembrance of Cyprian Ekwensi who once wrote a novel while in a ship from Lagos to London. He joined our ancestors over the weekend.
************************************************************************************
Rudolf Ogoo Okonkwo is the author of Children of a Retired God.
(For Cyprian Ekwensi)
By
Rudolf Ogoo Okonkwo
Unless you knew me when I lived in Virginia in the 1990s, you may never know that I have a bestselling novel.
As far as I know, it was a bestseller, at least, around the Hampton Roads area - Chesapeake, Norfolk, Virginia Beach, Newport News, Hampton and Portsmouth. I believe it made it on Virginia Pilot newspaper’s bestselling list. I don’t know about the New York Times list, just because I did not bother to check. I was satisfied with leading the pack on Hampton Roads.
If you go to Norfolk, for instance, anywhere along Princess Anne Road, Virginia Beach Blvd, Park Avenue, from Norfolk State University to Old Dominion University, pick anyone at random and ask him or her about Death On Mount Trashmore, chances are that you will be told that it is a best selling novel written by one African boy.
They may not remember my name. You do not blame them for that. After all, my name was not written on the cover of the novel. In fact, the novel had no cover. As a matter of fact, it had no pages. It was one story that towered into existence by the good old oral tradition. Its fame spread from one ear to another by word of mouth.
Admitted, there was Chapter One, which was written close to ten years ago. It was those who read it that certified the novel a bestseller.
Year after year, in every New Year resolution, I vowed to finally write Death on Mount Trashmore. At the end of the year, if I made any attempt, it would be mere review of that first chapter.
This year was not different. I reviewed the same first chapter. As if to mark the ten year anniversary, I broke down chapter one into two chapters. I was as satisfied as that titled man who fumed when his wife brought him a plate of soup with one meat in it but felt greatly relived when the poor woman ran into the kitchen, cut the meat into two and returned the same plate of soup with a tender apology.
Like many aspiring novelists, I have a million and one reasons why I have not written my novel. Guess what the primary one is? You guessed right - I have no time. I am too busy doing everything but write my novel. I watched all of Red Sox’s four-game World Series. The other day, I watched my Patriots beat the Colts in the game of the century. In fact, when Fox TV drama, 24, returns, I hope to, again, follow it religiously. But time to write my novel, I do not have.
In the past, I have done creative things to encourage myself. I tried bribing myself. I even offered to give Mukami, my friend and typist then, a ten-dollar fee for every week I did not hand over to her a chapter of the book. Initially, she liked the idea if that would help me write that bestseller. But after two weeks of getting nothing, she could not find the courage to demand the money. By now it would have cost me over $5000.
Mind you, I have read many books and articles about writing the great novel. I specially remember how the lack-of-time excuse has been discredited. Those who seriously wish to be professional writers must create space to write, admonished How-to-Write authors. If you write a thousand words a day, in a year you have a 300,000-word novel, another author said to my surprise. In fact, a woman with four kids had written a novel by just scribbling on pieces of paper while in a train going to work in New York City. When her novel was published and it became a bestseller, she quit her day job and stayed home to write. I know all the inspiring stories. It is just that they have not inspired me.
You many say, na by force? Na everyone go be Chinua Achebe? If it is not written that you would be a novelist, just let it be.
I have thought about crazy stunts like that -like letting it be. In fact, after reading Purple Hibiscus, I said to myself that I should not worry anymore for Chimamanda Adichie is already telling the story of my generation. Those would have been enough reasons for me to drink water and put down my cup je-je, but then, what about Emeka, Nikki, Malcolm, and Dana?
These unfortunate guys have not left the confines of my head since 1997. They still loiter, whispering and screaming. They still perform new acts hoping to impress me and nudge me to write. “When are you going to give birth to us?” they ask. Often, in the middle of the night, while you are cozying up in your bed, I am dealing with these brain-damaged individuals and their theatricals. So you can see that it is not easy for me to pull out. Writing is like Ogboni cult. Once you join fully, it is hard to quit.
No doubt, this novel has run a crazy race away from me. It is time I fire a crazy shot at it.
So here is what I am going to do: November is actually National Novel Writing Month. Over 80,000 people across the globe are currently struggling to write 50,000 words by November 30, 2007. Going by last year’s record, some 20,000 people will complete their novels. I have missed a few days, but I will begin mine today. Like marriage vow made in a large church, in front of friends and family, I will be writing mine in front of you all. You can follow it by visiting http://www.mytrashmore.blogspot.com/.
For those who may want to read, be warned that what I will write may be pure crap. In fact, it will be trash, and maybe more. The first draft is always trash, anyway. But I will be in good company for many of the 20,000 who will complete their novels this November must have written craps you will never see in print. But then again, they must have overcome the fear of the time and work involved in writing a novel. Thereafter, the actual writing, otherwise called rewriting, will begin for those serious about being a novelist. So for this exercise, if you are not ready to read something typed on a keyboard with the monitor switched off, please stay away.
If you are facing similar predicament with your own novel (who doesn’t have a novel in them these days), come join me. Or visit http://www.nanowrimo.org/ where another 80,000 writers are battling with their novels. My deadline will be December 31, 2007 because I am in the middle of other writing projects that are helping to feed Ijeamaka and Ogonna. (Now, that is not an excuse.)
But come December 31, 2007, Death on Mount Trashmore would have been completed in hardcopy for the very first time in over ten years. It will be ready for my planned 2008 return visit to Hampton Roads, the first of such in over five years. And I have been told that having a copy of the novel is the only way I can return to the place I once called home.
Another reason I am doing this is in remembrance of Cyprian Ekwensi who once wrote a novel while in a ship from Lagos to London. He joined our ancestors over the weekend.
************************************************************************************
Rudolf Ogoo Okonkwo is the author of Children of a Retired God.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Welcome to My Trashmore
Welcome to my Trashmore. In the next two months, I will try to finish my novel, Death on Mount Trashmore, right here.
Every two days, I will post whatever I write for you to read. Please feel free to comment.
I plan to be done by December 31, 2007.
Wish me good luck for this is the last desperate measure I am taking to complete this ten year old bestselling novel.
Lets go.
For those who may be tempted to remind me, I am fully aware that this is not how Chinua Achebe wrote Things Fall Apart, or how Wole Soyinka wrote the Interpreters. I know. I know.
Thank you.
Every two days, I will post whatever I write for you to read. Please feel free to comment.
I plan to be done by December 31, 2007.
Wish me good luck for this is the last desperate measure I am taking to complete this ten year old bestselling novel.
Lets go.
For those who may be tempted to remind me, I am fully aware that this is not how Chinua Achebe wrote Things Fall Apart, or how Wole Soyinka wrote the Interpreters. I know. I know.
Thank you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
