Into the Go Slow

by Bridgett M. Davis

  Her mother’s eyes were watery as she returned her gaze to the newspaper. “I’m just glad you’re back home, safe and sound,” she said. “That’s all that matters to me.”

  Angie moved toward her mother, into her soft arms, The Michigan Chronicle falling and landing softly onto the carpet.

  Later, in her room, Angie slipped the green clipping into the mirror over her dresser. Then she sat down and unbraided her hair. It took many hours. The next morning, on a whim, she pulled the “Free Angela” button from the drawer and took it to her car, where she pinned it to her graduation tassels hanging from the rear-view mirror. Next she drove to the main library downtown; this building had always been a favorite of hers and as she rushed up the marble staircase, her footsteps echoed, and the sound made her happy. She went into the cool stacks and pulled out a variety of college and university catalogs. Just as she’d once spread an atlas of Africa before her, she now spread out the various booklets with their alluring photos of attractive students in perpetual autumn settings, and read through them. She had a while to decide—applications weren’t due until January—and so she indulged a host of possibilities: cultural anthropology, film school, twentieth-century American literature, International Studies. Before, her lack of focus, lack of passion for one thing over all else, had been a liability; now it felt like an asset. It signaled openness to her vast array of options.

  With the last bit of money left from her trip, she bought a personal computer, a Leading Edge. The guy at the computer store assured her it was simple to operate, and showed her how to use the word processing program he’d installed. She set it up in her room alongside a new dot matrix printer and while she was a little intimidated by these modern machines, their very presence beckoned with the promise of intellectual pursuit. She kept them plugged in, humming.

  That October, she and her mother were informed that Hazel Park Raceway would be honoring the fifteenth anniversary of Samson Mackenzie’s death with a ceremony. A wing of the track was to be named in his honor, and a blown-up photo of him would be hung in the lobby beside the betting windows. Angie and her mother had to choose the photo, and so on a rainy day, they stood before the dining room table where dozens of black and white photographs spread before them, all taken of her father in the winner’s circle. They were a hodgepodge of pictures, most for small wins, a few for the big ones. Many of the photos included Ella.

  “You choose,” said her mother, obviously overwhelmed.

  Angie favored one photo where Ella, no more than eleven or twelve, stood beside her father, who was glancing at her; Ella’s head was turned toward the horse. The notation on the photo said the horse was named Good and Plenty.

  “This one,” said Angie. “I like how they’re both looking at what they love.”

  Her mother agreed, and they shoved the other photographs back into big manila envelopes.

  Over Christmas holiday, Denise came home, and in the privacy of her Ford Escort’s front seat, Angie told her sister: Ella had witnessed yet another man’s death, was distraught and guilt-ridden when the accident took place. Denise said, “She suffered before she was hit?” and broke into sobs. Angie handed her sister a stream of Kleenex from the car’s glove compartment. Denise kept shaking her head, fresh grief stunning her. She looked up suddenly, terror in her eyes. “Don’t tell Mama!”

  “Never,” said Angie.

  Afterward, they drove to a florist’s shop, purchased a festive holiday arrangement. At the cemetery, they dug their bare hands into the freshly fallen snow, brushing it aside before placing a wreath of poinsettias and ivy atop her grave. They crunched together through the creamy snow back to the car, holding each other’s cold hand all the way.

  At the first hint of spring Angie headed to Belle Isle. Having replaced the ubiquitous Fela tape in her car’s cassette player with Michael Jackson’s new album, she sang along to “The Way You Make Me Feel” and “Man In the Mirror” as she drove along Jefferson Avenue. She parked in front of the Detroit River. She’d decided on a master’s in international studies—her time in Nigeria a plus on her applications—and had received acceptances from four schools: Johns Hopkins, University of California Berkeley, Duke, and Carnegie Mellon. She’d have to make a decision soon.

  Looking out onto the Canadian skyline, she felt a rightness that had for so long eluded her. She still wanted to be part of something big, but now she trusted that whichever path she took, she’d settle into her own way of being black in the world.

  When she thought of Ella now, she thought of her as one of many vital foot soldiers, idealistic young men and women who fanned out to far reaches of the country and yes, the continent, to agitate for change. She admired her with a ferociousness totally lacking in envy; and she understood that to honor her sister was to take advantage of every opportunity Ella and all those other protesting black activists made possible. And of course, to never forget, to wear the marker on her heart.

  As she stood on the river’s edge, Angie’s mind drifted back to a day at the racetrack. A morning where, barely four, she’d hid under the bleachers for so long that she stumbled out to find herself alone, left behind. Right at the onset of her fear, Ella rode up on their pony Bill and in one smooth motion reached down and swooped up Angie, plopping her atop the saddle. Ella gave her the reins, whispering reassurances as she guided Bill toward the stables. Angie felt a trust mixed with joy, certain it would always be this way, that whenever she was afraid or lonely Ella would be there holding out her hand, waiting for Angie to grab on and climb up, so together they could take off.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  In my mind, this book took forever. Had it not been for the support of those who helped me get here, it might’ve taken forever and a day.

  I am grateful to the writer friends who encouraged me in those early years, when this story was a rough idea lusting after more: Lizzy Streitz, Danzy Senna, Roslyn Bernstein, and Amanda Insall assured me I was on to something. Eisa Nefertari Ulen’s joyous affirmation of the work made me take it seriously.

  When along the way I doubted the story’s value, Tonya Hegamin and Samantha Thornhill sang its praises in two-part harmony (yay, Mahogany Mavens!). And when I was lost in a sea of overwritten pages, Tayari Jones appeared bearing gifts of encouragement, brilliant insights, and an outstretched hand to help me find my way.

  Many thanks to the sister-friends who cheered me on through the years as I toiled away at my “Nigeria novel”: Farai, Linda V., Angie D., and especially my BFFs—Diane, Steph, and Karen. Thanks to Audrey Siegel, for careful listening. And a special thank you to Natalie Peart, for both the friendship and the introduction.

  To the members of Tom Jenks’s 2003 NYC writing workshop, thanks for being the first to offer encouraging words long before I knew what I was doing.

  I’m especially grateful to the Thomas J. Watson Foundation, whose travel fellowship allowed me to experience 1980s Nigeria; and for the support given by Baruch College and its Weissman School of Arts and Sciences; research and travel grants provided by PSC-CUNY; and a wondrous ten days at Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, where I was able to write and think without interruption. And I’m lucky to be part of the Buffalo Colony, where this book took shape amid spectacular mountain views. Thanks to 3B, the downtown Brooklyn bed and breakfast, where in a whirlwind, overnight stay I finished the final chapter. Equal thanks to the Brooklyn Ladies’ Text-Based Salon for my first reading from this work, and the confidence boost it gave me.

  Special thanks to my agent Neil Olson, who read multiple drafts with gracious patience; to my editor Amy Scholder, who believed in this book from day one and has never wavered; to Jeanann Pannasch, whose subtle yet brilliant edits left the novel better than she found it; and to the entire Feminist Press staff and community: thanks for the open arms.

  I am deeply grateful to my uncle, horse trainer extraordinaire John Drumwright, for letting his young niece tag along
to the racetrack, and witness firsthand what it looks like to love what you do.

  I will be forever thankful to my family here and gone on, who encouraged me to travel far then sent me letters and telegrams and their love across the ocean the whole time I was away. And a special thank you to the men and women I met and whose hospitality I enjoyed during my stay in Nigeria lo, those many years ago.

  Also, I’m indebted to those African authors whose stories inspired me as a young writer, from Buchi Emecheta to Chinua Achebe to Ama Ata Aidoo to Florence Nwapa to Tsitsi Dangaremba; and those who inspire me today, from Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche to Uzodinma Iweala to Ada Udechukwu to Chris Abani.

  This story is wholly fiction, yet rooted in historical events. A few sources in particular enhanced my understanding of time and place: Fela From West Africa to West Broadway, edited by Trevor Schoonmaker; James T. Campbell’s Middle Passages: African American Journeys to Africa, 1787-2005; Chinua Achebe’s The Trouble with Nigeria and Anthills of the Savannah; Eghosa E. Osaghae’s Crippled Giant: Nigeria Since Independence; Marita Golden’s Migrations of the Heart; George Packer’s 2006 New Yorker essay “The Mega­city,” Ebony Magazine’s May 1977 cover story on FESTAC, and Babawilly’s Dictionary of Pidgin English. Special thanks to Knitting Factory Records for its CD Fela: Live in Detroit 1986, and to creators of the documentary The Black Power Mixtape 1967–1975.

  Special thanks to my mother-in-law, Marguerite Fields, for all the times she bragged about me. And deep maternal gratitude goes to Tyler and Abebitu, who never once complained about the many hours Mom spent writing behind a closed door.

  Most of all, I’m indebted to Rob, whose vigorous love and support still take my breath away. Thank you for the steady voice in my ear, reassuring me throughout the years that the work “takes the time it takes.” That has meant everything to me. And so have you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Bridgett M. Davis's debut novel, Shifting through Neutral, was a finalist for the 2005 Hurston/Wright Legacy Award. Davis is the books editor at Bold As Love Magazine, an online black-culture site, and her work has appeared in the Washington Post, Essence, O, The Oprah Magazine, and TheRoot.com, among other publications.

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