by Maya Angelou
Each person shook my hand and filed out of the house. The grin on my face had become painfully permanent, and I grinned until I watched Kojo bouncing in the Street before his adoring family. They patted him, brushed his clothes, stroked his face, all talking at once. I waited behind the screen until they bade their final good-byes and left him looking like a forlorn puppy against the fence.
“Kojo.” He jumped and turned to me. “Kojo, come this instant.”
The boy walked to the house, trying without immediate success to exchange the intoxicating security of being loved with his usual disguise of the befuddled youth. By the time he reached the door and opened the screen, he was timid, young Kojo, my small boy and servant.
“Kojo, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what, Auntie?”
It would sound silly to reproach the boy for not telling me that he had family and that his family was wealthy. And even more stupid, to blame him for being loved.
I lied. “Why didn’t you tell me that your family was coming?”
“Oh that, Auntie? I knew they would come someday. I just didn’t know when.” He looked at me out of Bailey’s eyes and grinned. “Auntie, after I take these thanks to the kitchen, may I make you some tea? White tea with lots of sugar?”
“Yes, thank you, Kojo.” The visit had been brief but arduous. I had been taken further on my search for Africa and, at least, I had grinned throughout the entire journey.
“Yes, Kojo, I would love some tea with milk, no sugar.” I had a half bottle of gin under my bed. Gin with hot tea was just what I needed.
I lay on my bed drinking for myself and for all the nameless orphans of Africa who had been shunted around the world.
I drank and admitted to a boundless envy of those who remained on the continent, out of fortune or perfidy. Their countries had been exploited and their cultures had been discredited by colonialism. Nonetheless, they could reflect through their priests and chiefs on centuries of continuity. The lowliest could call the name of ancestors who lived centuries earlier. The land upon which they lived had been in their people’s possession beyond remembered time. Despite political bondage and economic exploitation, they had retained an ineradicable innocence.
I doubted if I, or any Black from the diaspora, could really return to Africa. We wore skeletons of old despair like necklaces, heralding our arrival, and we were branded with cynicism. In America we danced, laughed, procreated; we became lawyers, judges, legislators, teachers, doctors, and preachers, but as always, under our glorious costumes we carried the badge of a barbarous history sewn to our dark skins. It had often been said that Black people were childish, but in America we had matured without ever experiencing the true abandon of adolescence. Those actions which appeared to be childish most often were exhibitions of bravado, not unlike humming a jazz tune while walking into a gathering of the Ku Klux Klan.
I drank the gin and ignored the tea.
Ghana was flourishing. The National Council of Ghana Women, which included representatives of all the clans, was beginning to prove that centuries-old tribal mistrust could be erased with intelligence and determination. The Cacao Marketing Board reported huge profits from the country’s major export. Large shining office buildings rose in the cities and the land was filled with happiness.
People stopped in the street and said to passersby, “Oh, but life is sweet, oh, and the air is cool on my skin like fresh water.”
The shared joy was traceable to President Nkrumah, who had encouraged his people to cherish their African personality. His statements were memorized and repeated in the litany of teachers and students: “For too long in our history Africa has spoken through the voice of others. Now what I have called the African Personality in international affairs will have a chance of making its proper impact and will let the world know it through the voices of its sons.” When he declared that West Indians and Black Americans were among Africa’s great gifts to the world, the immigrant community gleamed with gratitude.
For the first time in our lives, or the lives of our remembered families, we were welcomed by a president. We lived under laws constructed by Blacks, and if we violated those laws we were held responsible by Blacks. For the first time, we could not lay any social unhappiness or personal failure at the door of color prejudice.
We shadowed Nkrumah’s every move, and read carefully his speeches, committing the more eloquent passages to memory. We recounted good gossip about him, loving his name, and furiously denied all negative rumors.
Because we were still American individualists, bred in a climate which lauded the independent character in legend and lore, and because we had been so recently owned, we could not be easily possessed again, therefore we tried rather to possess the charismatic leader. His private life belonged to us. When photos of his Egyptian wife appeared in the papers, we scanned her features and form with a scrutiny bordering on the obsessive.
We, the Revolutionist Returnees, danced the High Life at the Lido, throwing our hips from side to side as if we would have no further use for them, or we would sit together over Club beer discussing how we could better serve Ghana, its revolution and President Nkrumah. We lived hard and dizzyingly fast. Time was a clock being wound too tight, and we were furiously trying to be present in each giddy moment.
Then, one day the springs burst and the happy clock stopped running. There was an attempt on the President’s life, and the spirit of Ghana was poisoned by the news. Fortunately, the President was uninjured, but the citizens did not escape. Makola and Bokum markets lost their usual last-day-Mardi Gras air, and the streets were stricken dumb. The African professors, unspeaking, sent messages of befuddlement to each other by their sad eyes and the shaking of their heads. Even the European faculty at Legon spoke in murmurs.
Government officials, always concerned over foreign intervention and interior espionage, were sharpened in their paranoia and began to search for spies in all corners of the country. Representatives of The Young People’s Corps wrote articles, were put on the alert, and those tender faces, filled with anger and suspicion, mirrored the country’s tragedy.
Some newspaper articles suggested that no true Ghanaian could possibly be involved in the scurrilous assault on the President, so obviously the search should concentrate on foreign infiltrators. Nearly all noncitizens fell under some measure of suspicion. The British, former colonial rulers, though still covertly admired, were exempt from accusations because they were considered to be mere representatives of a fading Empire.
After a few days of general inflammatory accusation, the finger of suspicion pointed toward the Soviets. Whispers and rumors suggested that those Communists, with their oblique but decided expansionist aims, had tried to kill the President in order to throw Ghana, the Light of Africa, into chaotic darkness. That swell of conjecture abated quickly. Then, the newspaper brought heady news to me. At last there were denunciations of American capitalism, American imperialism, American intervention and American racism. At last, the average Ghanaian would realize that we, the band of disenchanted Blacks, were not fabricating the tales of oppression and discrimination. Then they, not the politicians or intellectuals, they, the farmers and tradespeople and clerks and bus drivers, would stop asking us, “How could you leave America? Don’t you miss your big cars?” and “Do you live in Hollywood?” Before I could really sit down and enjoy the feast of revenge, the shadow of the pointing finger moved.
A high-ranking pundit said, “America can use its Black citizens to infiltrate Africa and sabotage our struggle because the Negro’s complexion is a perfect disguise. Be wary, Africa, of the Peace Corps Blacks, the AID Blacks, and the Foreign Service Blacks.” He suggested finally, that Africans should approach all American Blacks with caution, “if they must be approached at all.”
We saw ourselves as frail rafts on an ocean of political turbulence. If we were not welcome in Ghana, the most progressively Black nation in Africa, where would we find harbour? Naturally we sought to mi
nimize the impact of that painful advice. A few Revolutionists joined the witch hunt, tearing away, with loud protestations, all historical ties to the newly accused. They hoped to deflect suspicion from themselves and to inch closer to the still unrealized goal of acceptance. Many of us kept silent, heads erect and eyes forward, hoping to become invisible and avoid the flaming tongues. Failing the success of that maneuver, we prayed that the assault would pass soon, leaving no scar and little memory.
As usual, I drove each day from my house in Accra to the university, seven miles away, but the distance became painfully perverse. At times, I felt I would never arrive at my destination. Roadblocks delayed progress. They were manned by suddenly mean faced soldiers, their guns threatening and unusual in a country where policemen were armed only with billy sticks. Further on the same drive, it would seem that my arrival at the University at Legon was too imminent. Before I could collect enough composure to calm my face and steady my hands, I would be on campus, where students dropped their eyes at my approach, and professors pointedly turned their backs.
As the Black American community trembled beneath the weight of unprovable innocence, the investigation progressed in all directions. Suspects were imprisoned, and rumors flew like poison arrows around the country. Some Americans and other foreigners were deported, slowly the barbs ceased, the cacophony of distrust quieted. Life returned. The roll of drums and the sound of laughter could be heard in the streets. None of the Revolutionist Returnees had been directly accused, and we were still grateful to be in the motherland, but we had been made a little different, a little less giddy and a lot less sure.
For two weeks I worked myself into a trembling frenzy at the in-town National Theatre. While Efua directed an English translation of a Chinese play, I had helped to sew costumes and coach the student actors. I pulled and pushed the bleachers in the open air auditorium which had to be rearranged constantly. Rickety sets, made by students with no theatrical background, were ever in need of strengthening. Someone had to synchronize the taped music with the onstage action, and a person was needed in the box office. I chose to try to be all things to all the people at all times. The play’s pomp and pageantry had been a great success. Ghanaians finding a similarity between the ancient Chinese spectacle and their own traditional dramas kept the theatre filled. I was shaky with exhaustion, but I held on to the idea of returning soon to the university, and that steadied me.
On a quiet Monday morning I parked my car at the Institute of African Studies and sat watching the sun light up the green lawns stretching upward to the white shining buildings. The campus was quiet. I was happy to be back in its peaceful atmosphere.
I started walking to the Faculty of Music and Dance and met Bertie Okpoku, the director of dance.
“Hey, Maya, you finally decided to come home?”
We shook hands and ended the gesture with a traditional finger snap which signified best wishes, and walked together exchanging news until I reached my office.
“Oh, yes.” His face became solemn. “One bad thing happened. Sister Grace lost her whole pay packet last week.” He shook his head. “Everybody in the Dance department has been affected. So don’t expect much laughter around here.” Grace Nuamah was the country’s chief traditional dancer, a small, thick set, middle-aged woman who performed a welcoming dance at all state functions and important ceremonies. She was an Ashanti woman, with a ready smile, a soft voice, and a hilarious sense of humor. Grace supported herself, nieces and nephews, and was generous with her friends, so the news of her loss saddened my morning, and when I opened the office door and saw the desk piled a foot high with papers, I was suddenly tired. I sat down to examine the stack and it seemed that each student at Legon needed assistance of some sort, and needed me to furnish it. One student wanted a transfer, another additional financial support, while some simply needed excuses from school to take care of familial responsibilities. Each petition had to be checked against the applicant’s file and the mid-morning sun was beating into my office before I noticed the passage of time.
I thought I would complete one more paper before a break. I lifted a form letter and a small brown manilla envelope caught my eye. It read, “Grace Nuamah.” I opened it to find a roll of Ghanaian pounds stuffed inside. Happy surprise made me give an involuntary shout. I was living close to economic catastrophe, and I knew how precious the salary was for Grace.
She was demonstrating a dance step to her class when I entered the rehearsal hall. The students saw me first, and she, following her distraction, saw me and stopped the class. We walked together out of the door.
She said, “Sister, welcome back from the town. We missed you, oh.” I said, “Sister Grace, Bertie told me about your pay—”
She interrupted, “Into each life some rain must fall.” Africans whose own lore and literature are rich with proverbs also make frequent use of English axioms.
I told her that I had found something highly unusual on my desk and showed her the envelope.
She said, “But Sister, it’s your pay packet.” I said that my salary had been delivered to me in Accra and offered the envelope. There was not a hint of recognition on her face as she took the packet and began to read. “Well, then …” She narrowed her eyes against the bright sunlight. “Oh, Sister! Oh, Sister!” Stretching her arms over her head, she jumped up. “Oh, Sis-ter, Sis-ter. Hey, thank you, oh.”
Students and musicians and workers, hearing her loud shouts, came running. She said in Ashanti, “Sister is blessed. She found my money. Sister is blessed.” The smiles and pats and hugs would have been worth contriving a recovery of Grace’s loss.
She said, “Sister, I will repay you.” I told her that I was repaid, but she insisted. “Sister, I shall repay you.”
Throughout the day, people stopped in my office to shake my hand, rejoicing in Grace’s good fortune.
Two weeks passed and the memory of the incident waned. University life with its steady routine restored my energies and I felt so good I decided to give myself the treat of having a proper lunch. Like all faculty members, I had been assigned to take meals in one of the university’s eight halls, but it was only on the rare occasion that I visited Volta Hall High Table. The dining room was vast and tiered and quiet. Following the British academic arrangement, students sat at Low Table about four feet beneath the long high row where faculty sat facing them. I joined the members at High Table, without speaking, for we knew each other only casually, and there was no love lost or found between us.
Although the African food had been anglicized, it was delicious. A Ghanaian lamb curry, cooked with a minimum of spices, was served and was accompanied with diced papaya, fresh pineapple, tomatoes and mango. I offended the steward by asking for fresh red pepper.
The steward answered with an imitative British accent, “Oh, but Madam, we don’t serve that.” I knew that students brought their own pepper to the dining room and I was also certain that the steward had had his own cache stored in the kitchen.
When I suggested that maybe he could find a little for me, the White professors looked at me and sniffed disapproval. So typical, their faces seemed to say. So crude a palate and coarse a taste, so typical.
I said loudly, but with courtesy, “If you can’t get some for me, I’m sure one of the students would gladly bring pepper to High Table.” The steward frowned and reminded me of many American Negroes in the early fifties, who were enraged whenever they saw a natural hair style in public. They felt betrayed, as if the women wearing the frizzy coiffure were giving away secrets; as if they were letting White folks know that our hair wasn’t naturally straight. I had seen Black people curse each other on New York City subways and had seen women snubbed in streets throughout the United States because they dared to reveal their Negro-ness.
The steward, infuriated, said “I will find pepper. I will bring pepper to you, Madam.”
I ate slowly, relishing every fiery mouthful, ignoring the departure of the faculty. Innate obstinacy made me
order and eat a dessert which I did not want and which the steward did not wish to provide.
Coffee was served in the Senior Common Room, and I took a seat by the window and listened to the conversation in progress.
“It was really a little serio-comedic drama. We had traveled about fifty miles into the interior and at nightfall John stopped and let down the flaps of the Land Rover, so we crawled in the back to go to sleep.”
A woman’s voice cut through the air, “You and the mosquitoes, I don’t doubt.”
“Oh no, we had netting. Anyway, just as we were drowsing, we heard a voice, ‘Ko koko koko ko koko ko.’”
West African houses in the interior are often made of thatch or non-resonant land-crete, so a visitor seeking entrance, unable to rap on a responding door, would politely stand outside and make the sound of knocking, “ko ko ko, ko ko ko.”
The storyteller continued, “John lifted the flap and an African stood there dripping wet, wearing a sarong and waving his hand at us.”
At nightfall, a farmer home from his fields would take the akatado, the shawl of his wife’s dress, and go to the bathhouse. After washing, the man would drape himself in cloth before returning for the evening meal.
“John made me put my slacks back on and we got out of the Rover.”
One of the listeners hugged himself and chortled, “Better you than me.”
The woman continued, “We didn’t see that we had a choice. Anyway, we had thought we were miles from civilization, but we followed the man through a few yards of jungle and there was a village.”
The same woman with the keen voice said, “Personally, wild elephants could not have made me leave that car.”
“Well, the man took us to the chief, and he had someone serve us tea with whiskey in it. Pretty terrible, actually, but we drank it. Then an interpreter arrived and the old man, toothless and quite ragged, looked directly at us as he spoke his dialect.”