by Uwem Akpan
THE BREAKFAST CROWD IN BLUE FIN WAS AS DIVERSE AS usual. But today I counted minorities, something I never did before New Jersey.
Confirming Caro’s fears, Father Kiobel said the youths were mobilizing neighboring villages to “call white America’s bluff.” He said all types of angry ekpo masqueraders were already roaming the place night and day with machetes drawn, that the echoes of their nonstop drumming alone had denied everyone sleep. The priest was ashamed the youths were demanding, in the language of diplomatic row, for him to enact “equal and mutual and reciprocal” banishment of our white parishioners, for peace to reign. The elders were saying the last time the masqueraders were this wild was when they forced the bishops to transfer the pedophile Father McQuinn to Igboland in 1975, arguing the Igbos deserved someone like this for running a war that raped our young boys. To boot, the powerful Awire Womenfolk had also rolled out their womenfolk to emphasize the seriousness of the unrest, these women who once told the Biafran commanders to turn their Igbo nuns into comfort girls instead of raping our women. Today they were threatening to protest stark-naked against America.
The pain of Sunday returned to me when Father Kiobel explained that though he and the village chiefs had informed our crazy Nigerian police of the degenerating security situation, the cops themselves were complaining they, too, were tired of these nasty stories of their American colleagues terrorizing Blacks while they in Nigeria prioritized the protection of white people and institutions like the embassies. He had suspended Holy Communion classes altogether because he could not explain the absence of white kids to their Black, Asian, and Latino friends. He knew the rioters would never differentiate between white Americans and other whites, just as American cops did not differentiate between us and African Americans.
TO DEFUSE THE WORST crisis of his priesthood, Father Kiobel was planning an emergency Nigerian Thanksgiving Mass on our behalf on Sunday, to let everyone know, first, we were alive and well, and second, to give the true account of what had happened in New Jersey. Unlike in America, our Thanksgiving meant dancing up the altar with family and friends, to celebrate special events and having the priest say a blessing. He would highlight the people who stormed the sacristy in our favor, mobbed us after Mass, and received us after our ban. The stories making the rounds did not include these, because Usen and Ofonime had forgotten to mention them in those first frenetic calls as they raced home from the train station. Now, no matter how many times they said good people had supported us, folks felt he, Father Kiobel, had asked them to embellish for the sake of peace. Worse, the youths had sworn they would only back down if the Mass was named “Call White America’s Bluff Thanksgiving Mass.”
When I begged him to compromise, he went on to say he needed images to go with his social media explanations and pleas. He was glad our Bronx folks had sent great selfies of white New Jersey Catholics embracing us. “The pictures are to be enlarged and placed all over the church like holy pictures,” he explained. “Ofonime also sent me a recording of your harassment by the ushers—I’m inviting our parish council to watch it, to help present a strict chronology of events.” Lamenting that Ofonime had edited out Tuesday from this video because he did not want Ikot Ituno-Ekanem to see his new skin, he asked whether I could contribute any photos.
I gambled and sent shots of our Chelsea “bedbug-toast” cheers, for, after all, Alejandra and Brad were lapsed Catholics. Father Kiobel exclaimed these were the best photos of racial harmony and inclusive Church of the lot. He was sure these would excite the children the most, as Christianity had no holy pictures of saints or angels having fun or being mischievous, and would have pride of place in the sanctuary, like the Paschal candle. His chuckle was like lightning in a darkened sky. The fact that they were images of Black, white, and Latino people meant more to him than the New Jersey black and white shots. So, I added the Jeff-and-I selfies; after all, Jeff also had wanted to be at my Chelsea reception. I also sent the Native American cop–mmun-edia selfie.
“This last one is the key to convincing even our cops that their American colleagues aren’t all rotten!” he exclaimed. “I’m making copies of this for the police stations right away, to encourage them to step up security.” I suggested since the Native Americans are minorities like us, he must do better than Father Orrin by properly introducing them and talking up their brave struggles for their lands and resources and respect.
However, I was most consoled to hear that this morning our Ikot Ituno-Ekanem American parishioners were outraged by Father Orrin’s actions. Encouraged by Father Kiobel, they had rallied and put forward two volunteers to give a speech after Communion on Sunday, to denounce him. It was really sobering that some of these white folks then refused evacuation orders from the joint forces of the CIA, Russian GRU, European Union, and Chinese security agencies. Father Kiobel told me we must act fast because this singular act of solidarity was what was actually keeping the lid on this explosive situation.
“BUT I DOUBT you can tell the whole truth about New Jersey!” I demurred.
“Why?” he said.
“How are you going to present the way Father Orrin confused us for the Igbos?”
“I’ll completely skip that.”
“Hell, no. Everything suggests we must tell the whole truth about Biafra!”
“The big crowd on Sunday will come to hear how to tackle racism in America. If they realize our foolish war, in the first place, swam the oceans and forced Tuesday to invite you guys to New Jersey, we’re done. Do we want New Jersey to lead to another civil war?”
“Just tell the truth!”
“Like you, the Bronx insists we must mention Biafra. And Tuesday would rather I talked about Biafra’s rape-as-weapon-of-war all day than utter a word about racism! He even calls me a coward for letting the youths label the coming Thanksgiving Mass ‘Call White America’s Bluff.’ I told him it was insane to think that just because he has become white there’s nothing like racism … Are you saying I should talk about rape big-time in our Holy Communion classes of eight-year-olds? Look, I don’t want to end up quarreling with you also. It’s a pity you’ve decided to attack me on a day like this.”
“Father, let me be even more candid with you: you should just admit you’re Biafran or, well, as Tuesday said, a coward.”
“It’s bullshit to call folks names without even knowing their story.”
“At least you can tell the congregation what you think of Achebe’s book! And if you really call me your friend, why the hell can’t you write the foreword for my anthology? After New Jersey, I’m dead-set against asking Tuesday. And, please, stop idolizing Emily Noah if you can’t face your own childhood. If you spray-bulleted folks during the war, say it. Own it with your chest, as we say back home. Why can’t you return to the villages you terrorized and apologize?”
He was akwuog angry. And he seldom got angry. Since I had never heard him describe anything as bullshit before, I surmised things were really tense back home. I left him alone to do what he could. I felt bad New Jersey had pushed me over the edge.
THE ATMOSPHERE AT WORK was like yesterday’s. Molly’s door was still closed. Fighting resentment, I waved to and maintained eye contact with folks who cared to look at me. I went straight to the restroom to check my clothes for bugs. I did it again and again, for I was restless.
But, in my cubicle, I quickly noticed little white powder traces on the blue-black carpet. Though I stared at them for a while, they did not bother me then, even when more powder spilled out from the eyes of the electrical socket in the wall, like dry tears, as I plugged my laptop cord. “Maybe the powder was there yesterday,” I spoke to myself. “But since my mind had crashed, how was I to notice? Did I even plug in my laptop yesterday?” I went about my business, for if the powder truly bothered me, whom could I ask? With Emily in Europe, who really wanted to see me in their cubicle or office or sacristy?
When I met Molly in the hallway, we said hi and did small talk. She looked exhausted and said she h
ad been working all night to meet deadlines for two of her authors. But the whole conversation was hollow, different, needless. We were like two new arm-amputees who had to suddenly adjust to not shaking hands with each other. Her apologies for the long delay in replying to my texts were off-putting, worse than if she had said nothing. Fear she might have spread Lucci’s superbug nonsense spiked my disappointment.
“How’s Hell’s Kitchen?” she belatedly asked.
“Good, really good,” I said.
“Good, good.”
“Good, good, good.”
I WAS TOO ASHAMED of my bedbug issues to attend the editorial meeting that morning. If Molly was this uncomfortable around me and Emily was on her European vacation, who exactly was going to appreciate my presence there? What if no one really wanted to sit near me? Why should I subject myself to this torture for one hour? I emailed Bob Hamm, the guy who embraced me the day before, asking for his advice; he replied that, given my fears, it was actually best to just email my reports to everyone. “Ekong, you know, after our shameful last meeting,” he said, “I can’t put it past my colleagues to embarrass you. We’re fucked up. I know how much you love my Thumbtack in My Shoe, but protect yourself, my brother.”
I sent in my reports, strongly recommending Thumbtack, and left for Starbucks to read. But, unlike before, I waited for the elevator alone, feeling watched. In the café, I went straight to the restroom. With my little mirror, I studied my clothes carefully to make sure they did not harbor any surprises. Then I took them off completely, including my socks and boxers. I searched the seams and pockets and hems until an impatient customer pounded on the door.
That afternoon, I went to McDonald’s. And while I was standing in line to order, I caught myself counting the minorities in line. Then I saw Jack and another colleague. The next moment, they were gone. I felt bad because I was not even going to greet or sit near them. When I scanned the nearby streets, I saw them scuttling empty-handed toward a Burger King, looking over their shoulders. I did not feel like eating at McDonald’s anymore. I grabbed the food and strolled over to Rockefeller Center. I leaned on the half wall overlooking Prometheus and the empty ice rink and had my lunch. I found solace watching all those foreign flags lapping up the gentle winds. I texted Father Kiobel my apologies for my outburst.
Back at work, I made efforts to engage people again, in case they were reacting to my negative body language. I stopped by their cubicles, as I used to. But they were all too busy and if I leaned too close, their faces screwed up in horror. I put on my earphones to listen to MI Abaga’s “Beef” and lingered by the water fountain. I ended up staring at Matisse’s The Moroccans on the wall. For the first time, I noticed even the minority figures in the painting were all turning their backs to me or looking away or faceless.
When suddenly I was awash in anger as if I were in a flash flood, I decided to take my campaign to Jack’s office, to confront him once and for all. He was making a phone call by the window. A flicker of sourness crossed his face. As he told the caller he needed to go because he had an emergency, I closed the door and slid into a chair.
“Have you heard from Emily?” he said chattily, standing behind his desk, faking a smile.
“No,” I said, crossing my legs.
“She’s really enjoying Bombingham, which I hear you’ll read on your flight home! By the way, your lovely and insightful report on Thumbtack in My Shoe carried the day. And, wow, Emily’s report on Thumbtack, which I’m sure you’ve seen, was exactly like yours! I just never knew about Black people being ashamed to talk about the dysfunction in Black countries for fear of white stereotyping. Oh, this is so, so sad, you know.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about this all afternoon. I really understand. It’s a double whammy for you guys. In the first place, our white colonialism messed up your Black countries by forcing all these different tribes together within artificial nation-states and our greed populated the Caribbean with Black slaves. And now you suffer the fear we’ll turn around to mock and stereotype Black-on-Black violence …”
“Jack, do you have any phobia for crawling things?”
“No.”
“Jack, Jack, please, make yourself comfortable. It’s your office. I really need to talk with you.”
He perched on his seat uncomfortably, arms folded.
“Crawling things, crawling things?” he said. “Two years ago Molly told me she had a very bad phobia of insects. If you have any insect infestations, I’m sure Molly would ask you to stay home till things cleared. Oh my God, Ekong, I think you’re in the wrong office!” He then relaxed and stroked his beard and winked at me.
“Didn’t Molly tell you I’m crawling with bedbugs?” I said.
“No way … oh oh, wait,” he said.
He pushed back his chair, his fingers trembling. For me, Molly’s stock had also rebounded once Jack confirmed she actually had a phobia. And I was more than intrigued to learn our colleagues had kept news of my bugs from the two racists.
Now I watched him closely as he babbled that nobody told him and Angela anything about me anymore. Goose bumps had emerged on his arms like stretch marks; his face had become redder than his beard and he could not look me in the eye, as though I were one giant bug. I was upset he was more afraid of these tiny reclusive insects than all the armed conflicts in our entire developing world. Was he no longer the guy who was fascinated by African “shithole wars over land and oil” and how we could never solve our problems, big or small? I did not want to shout at him like I had at Father Kiobel that morning. I just wished to hell, though, I could eavesdrop into how Jack would narrate this conversation to Chad or Angela.
“JACK—?” I SAID.
“I’m here, I’m here,” he said, relieved I spoke.
“Excellent, excellent, this cold war between us ends today. I mean, after avoiding me in McDonald’s, what are you going to do with my fucking Black presence and Black smell in Andrew & Thompson? As our people say, the bird that flies from the earth to the termite hill is still on the earth.”
“I don’t think I understand this proverb.”
“Then come closer, if you don’t mind my Black smell. We need a heart-to-heart chat about your racism.”
“No, you’re being unfair. I’ve always been open to diversity.”
“Call it what you want … good. First, could you relay my nigger compliments to Chad Twiss for finally raiding Trails of Tuskegee?”
“Hey, wait a sec, Chad is a true believer in diverse voices!” He sat up like he had finally found the opening to counterpunch. “He told me how delighted he was to meet you. I think he would be the perfect agent for your memoir—he’s already intrigued by the war, from his visits to Nigeria. Please, don’t be offended, but the kind of tragedy your family went through would make great reading in any part of the world. And, yes, he can get you a huge advance. Ekong, I think you’re mistaking his outstanding understanding of market forces and agenting for racism. He’s got tons of minority authors!”
“Excellent, excellent … listen, just tell Chad egusi soup does not look like vomit.”
“What?”
“And you, too, should never repeat stuff like this. We’re not vomit eaters.”
“I never insult international dishes. And being against identity politics doesn’t make me a racist!”
“Well, streets have ears. Be very careful where you spew your damn racist phone rants with Chad. You were standing with Angela on Lexington, who laughed like a robot, the same damn morning you both claimed to apologize to me. Then you lied you weren’t attending any reading, to avoid me. You also told Chad I was fucking Molly …?” He grunted and fell back into his seat as his memories caught up with him. He had both hands on his head, his eyes blinking like a Christmas tree.
I stood up and waved in his face to refocus his mind: “Please, put yourself in my position. If someone treated you like this, no, if someone went to all that trouble to hurt you, to belittle your race and competence,
then fake an apology, then spat in your food, how would you feel? Dude, how’s quitting Andrew & Thompson, as you and Angela swore to do in that street phone call, going to cure your racism, oh, anti-identity politics? I don’t care what you think about my friendship with Emily, my sister from another mother. Finally, Jack Cane, soul mate of Chad Twiss, it’s your bounden duty to inform her of that racist phone call and of your plans to confront me man-to-man for lusting after her, ha! You must tell her this before she returns from Europe. Or I shall!”
VISITING OTHERS’ SPACES also did clarify an aspect of the carpet powder mystery.
Only my cubicle and Emily’s, the nearest cubicle to mine, had it. But her dose was like an afterthought.
I refused to be worried, still, and blamed it on the night cleaners. Okay, you’re overthinking things, I countered the voices in my head. If you’re telling me they want to convince me they’re using some powder shit to tell me this is a white space, why does Emily’s have it, too? All right, even if she’s tainted by weeping over Tuskegee, fuck, what do you want me to do? I’m not going to spend my precious time figuring out the perpetrator. And I shall not suspect or condemn everyone. What are these harmless traces of powder compared to New Jersey?
Yet, all day, I was suspicious of being shunned by Angela’s department. Did she meet with her marketing staff without this Black ass? When was the rescheduled meeting that was canceled because of that “personal crisis?” Were they waiting till next week, to shunt me to another department?
Usen texted me at 2:47 p.m. to ask where I was watching the midweek European soccer matches, which had just started. I said I was too busy. He said, well, he was coming into Manhattan on Thursday and invited me to watch a soccer match in a sports bar.
By work’s end, I could not point to one major thing I had accomplished. After picking up a few things from the Food Emporium, I saw Jeff on Forty-Ninth Street and waved to him. He was in high spirits, going off to shave and scrape his flat head. “You fucker, I hope you didn’t steal my chair last night, for your own sake!” he hollered.