The Gay Icon Classics of the World

by Robert Joseph Greene

  Haakon glanced below to the floor and there, laying all around him, were golden little arrows with heartstrings.

  Haakon, in horror, realized who this angel was and what had happened. Unable to penetrate Haakon’s cold soul to reach his heart, the arrows laid all about him on the floor. He knew now that this angel was really the god Cupid. He looked at Cupid but Cupid was now dead.

  “Oh, my prince, do you see this?” Haakon said while turning to his amorous prince, but he too was dead. The foolish soul didn’t know the prince couldn’t survive long without his heart. Haakon looked all about him. There lay pools of blood, the golden arrows that failed to penetrate his heart, a dead god and a dead prince.

  Gazing at the lifeless corpses, feelings began to pulsate through his veins and his heart beat a sorrowful note. Overcome with remorse, Haakon asked himself, “Is this love?” Haakon will never know.

  Sadly, the truth is that in remorse there exists only the glimmer of love which is called “loss.” However, in this glimmer, Haakon knew that he had lost something wonderful—not from one heart but two.

  The Wrong Voice Far Away – Egypt

  First Published “SBC Magazine,” WINTER EDITION 2001

  It was a journey that I thought would never end. A journey to the homeland of my mother. It was a hot, endless journey along the Nile from the Egyptian city of Asyut by caravan. The caravan would have several overnight rest stops. The sites were uncomfortable, flea infested, and dimly lit and the food was awful. I would lie awake at night wondering why I was there. The journey was to pay respects to my mother’s family, as her father, a man I did not know, had died. I was the only one of my 13 brothers and sisters who was able to go. My mother, a housewife, told me that she was of noble stock from a nomad tribe of what is now known as southeastern Sudan and western Ethiopia.

  She married an Egyptian, my father, who was a merchant at the time. He’s now a statesman, and with such a position comes arrogance. He has adopted Western ways and Western thinking from the British occupiers. It was easier for him to change to the British lifestyle. He was a Christian. He looked down on my mother’s culture and forbade her to tell us anything about it. His insolence overshadowed his heart, for he forbade my mother to attend her own father’s funeral.

  To be honest, I had no interest in going. However, when I last visited my mother, her cries and pleas that her favorite son go overpowered both my reason and disinterest.

  I remember telling Mohammad that I was to go and that it would be one month’s journey. He said nothing. Three weeks before I was to leave, I told him again, and still he said nothing. He wasn’t a man of many words, which annoyed me. He got up from the bed, as he did every evening, and went to the bathroom. He washed himself in preparation for prayer. I remember the dim light blinding me to his figure in the bathroom. It was my bathroom. Quietly, Mohammad washed his face, hands, and feet and came into the bedroom. I was angry at him. I paid the rent. Muslims always brought their own sujada—special prayer rugs (sujada). It always disturbed me him praying like this in my bedroom. As he kneeled facing the same direction – just as he did every night from my room for the last 6 months he’d been with me – I would prop myself up on one arm and watch him from the bed. I studied his beauty. His brown skin that had a sort of reddish hue. Lips so big and black you’d swear they were painted. The contrast was striking on him. His hair in thick black curls. Like me, he was a mix of African colours, cultures, and influences. I want to say that he also looked like me but that would be a lie.

  When he was done praying, he went back to the bathroom and washed himself again. He returned to bed. We had sex. As we were resting, Mohammad reached underneath the bed and presented me with a brown scroll; on it were 25 poems written by Tarafah ibn al-'Abd. It was tied with a single red ribbon, with a flower lodged in the knot of the bow. Mohammad read me poem #6 and poem #10 as I lay there in amazement. It was poem #10 that made me smile. It made us laugh together. The poem was beautiful in some ways, even though it made light fun of desert people. This scroll was a gift. He had never given me anything before - nothing to acknowledge my existence as anything other than a friend. He said that it was for my journey, but I knew it meant more. I was astonished at my realization that for the last six months Mohammad and I made love not just sex. These last 6 months, Mohammad viewed this as his home and me as his partner. I knew that, most of all, this gift meant he would miss me.

  I remembered that last night with Mohammad well as I lay in my flea-infested tent wanting the journey to end. I was at my third campsite. That night seemed so long ago. Mohammad’s voice was soft and sweet as he read me the poems in Arabic. There were 25 poems written out side by side on the leather scroll. It must have cost him what little he had. I fell asleep each night with the scrolls in my arms.

  Mohammad’s voice was but a distant memory as the hot sun beat upon the scarfcovered heads of passengers in an overcrowded cart that followed the dirt road which ran along the Nile. Farm animals trailed alongside their owners, who languished in the cart while the hot rays of the sun beat down upon us.

  When we reached Nimoli (now southern Sudan), I rode with a herder who had an extra camel that would take me to the Kasrashu Clan campsite.

  The Kasrashu Clan was a nomadic tribe that wandered during the Monsoon seasons in search of food and grazing land. These were my mother’s people. They were simple people. Tribal. When I arrived at their campsite, I noticed their resemblance to me was strong. There were 76 clansmen, woman, and children. There were also 42 camels and 22 goats amongst them. For clothing, they wore layers of cloth cloaked in various ways.

  They were friendly until I addressed them in Arabic. I told them that I was the son of Basamat; grandson of Majdi. No one answered. After several awkward seconds, a lone voice introduced himself in Arabic as Mansour. He was the brother to my grandfather. I asked him how it was that he knew Arabic. He replied that one couldn’t barter with the traders in any other language. The Kasrashu Clan spoke only Dinka.

  That night, there was a clan gathering and welcoming meal in my honour. The Kasrashu Clan showed their love for me. They treated me as a distant relative who had found his way home. Gifts, song, food, and drink were presented to me by the elder women of the Clan. I found their loving embraces, visions and smells much like my mother’s. I missed her but felt her presence among them. I felt more at ease during the meal.

  During the festivities, I caught the attention of a young man whose eyes were like black pearls. The young man boldly approached me and told me that he was my cousin Kadaru. I saw a strange resemblance to Mohammad in Kadaru - or was it an illusion?

  His smile and interest revealed much as he led me away for the night, and it was in his tent that I slept. It was customary that the day’s clothing became your evening blankets. Nomadic tribes were always efficient that way. Kadaru turned to embrace me. His smell was foul but my lonesome body welcomed his advances. All the anguish and all the tiredness of the long journey drained in a compassionate sexual encounter that made me almost euphoric. When it was over, Kadaru and I lay side by side. I stroked his shoulder and arm. He whispered in broken Arabic that he loved me. Although I was euphoric and feeling thankful to Kadaru, I knew he didn’t understand the significance of his words. I changed the subject. I asked him how he knew Arabic. He replied that he picked it up from the traders. He admitted that his knowledge of the language was poor but that he wanted to learn more. I didn’t know if that was an invitation to me. As he went to stroke my chest his hand fell on the scroll tucked under my covers. I felt embarrassed. My mind brought up visions of Mohammad. Kadaru opened it. He turned to poem #10 and began to read. His reading was poor. His voice hoarse. His reading broke my euphoric spell. His voice, tone, and inflections hurt me like daggers. It wasn’t Mohammad. It disturbed me. It wasn’t the context of the poem; it was him, this place, its people. It was the wrong voice and I was far away from anything that I felt comfort for or with. I needed Mohammad.

 
I tore the book from his hands while he was reading. The rejection insulted him. Kadaru struck me in anger. I found myself outside his tent with all my belongings being thrown at me. I collected what I could, dressed, and started walking - without a word. I said goodbye to no one. It was nighttime but I was sure that I was heading in the correct direction towards the Nile. I was angry. I didn’t know why, but I hated everything in human existence. I hated Nubia, Egypt and all the people I had encountered until then.

  I sat quiet throughout the entire journey home. I found a river barge and sat among its load, steering at night while the sole boatsman slept. As on the journey there, I slept but little. I didn’t clean or eat. I drank only water. The lack of food made me delirious. My arrival at the port of Asyut was unwelcomed. From the threshold of our doorway, Mohammaded looked up in horror at my disheveled appearance. He hardly recognized me. I told him everything about my horrible journey. Despite my protest, he undressed me, bathed me, and put me to bed after giving me some soup. Mohammad was leaving the room with the filthy clothes from my journey as I told him that I wanted to leave Egypt. He returned with the scroll in his hands - the scroll he had given me. “Where would we go?” he replied. His answer, his soft voice, changed my mood. I realized that Mohammad had just taken care of me from the moment I entered our home, which he had never done before. I just stared in awe. In Arabic I said, “Mohammad, I love you.” With those words, I felt faint. I felt my body collapse from fatigue. I thought myself lucky that I was already lying in bed. Mohammad lay down next to me and untied the ribbon of the scroll and read me a poem. Ironically, it was poem number 10. As he read, my memories of my cousin Kadaru flashed before me. I turned to Mohammad’s vision next to me and his words drifted away as his soft voice put me into a much needed sleep.

  Bantu's Song and the Soiled Loin Cloth: The Ivory Coast, Africa

  First Printed SBC Magazine, Fall 2000

  The Mukasa tribe were known as a fierce hunting tribe throughout all of Africa. Their tall masculine frames towered over almost every man in the eastern coast region. The Mukasa hunters wore finely-woven white loincloths to distinguish them from common men. These white loincloths were the pride of the hunter, for an excellent hunter never soiled his loin cloth even during a hunt. To the Mukasa hunter, a white cloth was the mark of excellence. By the age of 15, all Mukasa sons were put through the rigorous test of manhood. Those who passed were admitted into the training necessary for the Mukasa hunting band, thus bringing honor to the boy’s family. The Mukasa hunting band governed the tribe and supplied every family with food and shelter. Those Mukasa men who weren't hunters were given the task of handymen or, depending on ability, specific functions that met tribal needs. The messengers were often the fastest of all Mukasa men and were considered important, for they carried all communication between the roving Mukasa hunting bands and the village. However, messengers weren't allowed to hunt.

  One particular year, 12 Mukasa boys were to compete for the hunter’s training. One of the boys was named Ofosu. Ofosu was a handsome young lad with fine, clear ebony skin and well-defined features. Ofosu had two other brothers who also entered the competition. They were much stronger and more precise with their tools than Ofosu but he was confident about winning the competition. Although Ofosu and his brothers were strong, they knew that none of the young men competing was stronger or more precise with his spear than Banatu. Banatu came from a fine family of Mukasa hunters and it was expected that any man from this family would be a fine hunter. All the boys won the contest except Ofosu.

  It had upset Ofosu that he wasn’t fierce enough, as his brothers were, to become a muchrespected hunter. Still, he prided himself on the speed race in the competition, for he had surpassed everyone, even Banatu, in the running race. Although Ofosu was not granted hunting status, he was given the honorable title of messenger by the head chieftain. This made the other young men jealous, for Ofosu was immediately allowed to go on hunting trips while the remaining 11 boys were for forced to stay close to the village for training in the Mukasa hunting techniques.

  Soon, Ofosu worked his way up the ranks to head messenger for the long-distance runs. This was because he was able to pace himself with little effort and still have breath to relay whatever message he was to deliver. A special white linen was woven for his runs which made both Ofosu and his family proud. “Your expectations will be no different from your fellow hunters, Ofosu,” said the Head Chieftain. “You are never to soil your linen while running."

  Ofosu had a secret method of keeping pace for long distances and remembering his message. He would simply put the message to song and sing it out loud with every exhale of breath. He did this with ease while he ran. It seemed to pass the time. One day, while Banatu was hunting for jackrabbit in a nearby field close to the village, he heard the sweet sounds of a beautiful voice in the distance growing louder. He knelt low to see who might be delivering such a delightful sound, a sound which seemed to touch his heart in a particular way. As the singing runner passed him, it surprised Banatu to see that it was Ofosu.

  Ofosu arrived at the village unaware that Banatu had heard his singing. He delivered the message of a great catch made by the hunters just south of the village and that a feast of water buffalo would soon grace every house within two days’ time. After delivering the message, Ofosu had a quick rest and drank some water before dutifully turning around and heading back to catch up with the hunting band. Banatu noticed that as Ofosu left the village, there was no song beautiful song coming from him.

  Upon his next messaging trip into the village, Ofosu was stopped within view of the village by Banatu. This stunned Ofosu because it didn’t dawn on him that others might hear his singing, especially the almighty Banatu. Ofosu felt that people might find it foolish. Ofosu looked down in shame and embarrassment.

  Banatu asked him to continue singing. Ofosu thought it a foolish request but sang the message anyway for fear that Banatu might harm him in some way. With all the courage Ofosu could muster, he obliged and looked straight into Banatu's eyes. Ofosu noticed the strange look in Banatu's eyes as he sang. When Ofosu finished singing, Banatu let him pass into the village. Once in the village, Ofosu did his duties and rested. As he returned to the hunting band, Ofosu was stopped once again by Banatu, but rather than request a song, Banatu sang (rather poorly) a tune of love for only Ofosu's ears. Ofosu was moved by such dear sentiment and ran off without a word, leaving Banatu’s heart aching for Ofosu to reply. Banatu thought himself foolish for what he had done and was tormented by these feelings he had for Ofosu. Ofosu returned a third time to the village and on his departure saw Banatu hiding in the brush staring at him. Rather than stopping, Ofosu smiled and kept running, all the while singing the song that Banatu sang to him earlier. Ofosu's singing was far more beautiful than Banatu’s thus making the song ever more appealing to whoever heard it. This filled Banatu's heart with joy.

  As the Mukasa hunting band returned with their prize-winning catch for the village, Ofosu ran ahead, hoping to see Banatu.

  All the while, Ofosu was singing not his usual message for the villagers, but rather Banatu's love song. However, this time he was surprised to be stopped by all the young lads in training from the village. They laughed at his singing and taunted him with unkind words. Banatu was among them but said nothing. They demanded to know who the song was for, but Ofosu did not reply. Ofosu’s silence angered the young men and they ambushed him, dragging him into mud. Banatu watched in horror, yet could have stopped the scuffle, for he was far stronger than the other boys. However, the fear that they might find out the song was for him overpowered his desire to rescue Ofosu. During the scuffle, Ofosu’s loin cloth was soiled. Ofosu managed to get away, but arrived in the village just as the hunters returned. Ofosu couldn’t clean himself in time. The chief demanded how he became dirtied, but Ofosu looked down in shame and didn't reply. Ofosu was immediately brought before the hunting Chieftains and punished for dishonoring both family and community
by soiling his loin cloth. For his punishment, Ofosu was to receive 100 lashes. The tribe all gathered in a circle by the central village area to watch the beatings. Ofosu was brought before them, without his loin cloth, completely naked. Ofosu's shame and humiliation showed upon his face but also on the face of another. The Chief entered the circle’s center with a Pago stick for lashing. Ofosu leaned forward to receive his blows but a cry from the crowd stunned everyone. It was Banatu, caming forward before the chief. Banatu said that Ofosu's soiled loin cloth was because of him but explained no further. He then said that it was he and not Ofosu that should be given the lashes. The Chief was quite surprised by this turn of events, but agreed to Banatu's request. Banatu then softly removed Ofosu from the line of fire and placed him among the crowd. He then removed his loin cloth and wrapped it gently around Ofosu and returned to the center where the chief began reining his blows.

  Banatu didn't flinch once during the beating, all the while singing his love song to Ofosu. The crowd was amazed at this confession of love. Ofosu looked on in confusion. When the hundredth lashing was laid upon Banatu's bloodied bottom, he got up, walked over to Ofosu, and took him by the hand. Together they left the village, never to return.

  This story was passed on to many a generation in the Mukasa tribe, and every time the strong wind blows, the Mukasa people say it's Ofosu running to his mate. If you listen to it closely, you might hear their song of love.

  The Five Bows of Shakespeare's Apprentice – United Kingdom

  Once there lived a young farmhand named Graham. Graham was a fine young man, and though poor, his wealth lay in his creative wit and joyful acts. One could also say that if cultivated, Graham could become quite a dashing character. However, Graham was just Graham the farmhand. He was short and a bit bowlegged which made him wobble as he walked. His head was quite narrow and was covered by great big tufts of bushy black hair straggling down from his crown. Day after day, Graham wore day after day the same ragged burlap pants and an old dirty shirt which was held together in the middle by a pull string.