by Maya Angelou
On the face of it, things looked bad, but I couldn’t escape from a cheeriness which sat in my lap, lounged on my shoulders and spread itself in the palms of my hands. I was, after all, living in Cairo, Egypt, working, paying my own way. My son was well. Then there were David DuBois, Banti, Kebi and Hanifa.
I had the possibility of a brother and three sisters. It could have been much worse.
Banti gave a hilarious party, to which only women were invited. The occasion was a celebration of the birthday of a great Liberian female doctor. Elaborate food and a variety of drinks were served by uniformed attendants. The living room was decorated as if for a supreme Embassy function, and a trio of musicians played familiar melodies.
Wives and secretaries from the African embassies and a sprinkling of Egyptian women and I felt deliciously important. We ate, talked, drank and half the invitees finally danced, moving individually, across Banti’s polished hardwood floor. Each woman observed the steps of her own country. Kebi, with her hands on her hips, slid her feet in tiny patterns, meanwhile raising first one shoulder, then the other, and rotating the shoulders in sensuous undulation. Banti and Mrs. Clelland from the Ghanian Embassy danced High Life, stepping lightly, with knees slightly bent, pushing their backsides a little to the left, a little to the right and directly behind themselves. I combined some Twist with the Swim and received approving laughter and applause from the nondancers who sat on the sidelines.
The party was nearing its end when a young woman took the floor. She wore West African national dress. The long printed skirt and matching blouse hugged a startling body. She had wide shoulders, large erect breasts, billowing hips and the waist of a child. All the dancers backed away and found seats, as the beautiful woman moved to the music. She swiveled and flourished, jostled and vibrated, accompanied by the audience’s encouragement and laughter.
“Swing it, girl. Swing it.”
“Show that thing, child. Show it.”
“Whoo. Whoo.”
She made her face sly, knowing, randy, and her large hips fluttered as if a bird, imprisoned in her pelvis was attempting flight.
The viewers’ delight reminded me of the pleasure older black American women found in other women’s sexiness. Years before when I had been a shake dancer, some ladies used to pat my hips and exclaim, “You’ve got it, baby. Shake it. Now, shake it.” Their elation was pure, sensual and approving. If they were old they looked on female sensuality as an extension of their own, and were reminded of their youth. Younger women recollected the effects of their last love-making or were prompted by womanish sexuality into pleasant anticipation of their next satisfying encounter.
I was tickled that African women and black American women had the custom in common.
When the music and dancing were finished I joined the women who crowded around the dancer, patting, stroking her and laughing.
“I am from Northern Nigeria.” Her voice was soft and she kept her eyes lowered, respecting the age and positions of the older women. “I am an unmarried girl with a good dowry. I’m here to stay with Egyptian friends and study Arabic.”
Her name was Mendinah and she was obviously looking for a husband.
We complimented her on her beauty and welcomed her to Cairo, and I secretly wished her luck.
CHAPTER 18
One week later Vus returned from Addis Ababa. He asked what had happened in his absence. I reported on my work and that David had found another way for me to supplement my salary. I had agreed to write commentary for Radio Egypt, and I would be paid four pounds for a review and an extra pound for each one I narrated.
Guy had earned acceptable grades on recent tests and had generously spent more time at home while Vus was away. I also told Vus about the women’s party and Mendinah. He accepted my news and told me drily of his trip. The once-exotic names no longer titillated me, and Vus had long since stopped trying to enchant me with tales of his perilous exploits. We returned to the sequence of our lives. Work occupied our days, and parsimonious love-making ended some stolid nights.
The news spread in the African diplomatic corps that Mendinah was a slut, a hussy, a whore, a home-breaking harlot. The rumor was hot oil poured into the ears of the African women who had admired her. She had sought appointments with four ambassadors. Three had reported to their wives that the pretty woman offered them her favors in return for money. In weeks she had cut a lascivious swath between members of the diplomatic corps and their wives. Her name became an alarm, forcing my female friends to assemble and close ranks against the dangerous intruder.
She would never be invited to another woman’s home. She would be turned away from every door, and not addressed on the street. The husbands who had fallen for her charms would be dealt with in the privacy of their marriages, but her blatant disrespect of the African wives had to have public penalty.
Two months passed and for the African community Mendinah disappeared, lost her name, had no presence. Then one evening, an Egyptian woman, close acquaintance of the African women, gave a party. Vus and I arrived late. When we entered the first room, the informal lounge, Banti, Kebi and seven ladies already sat on the sofas, their multicolored dresses radiant against dark-brown skin. They greeted Vus, who responded and continued into the salon, where more guests stood talking. I stopped to exchange regards with my friends and the other ladies I had come to know and like.
Our small talk was suddenly pierced by “Good evening, Mrs. Make.” The sound was disquietingly familiar. I looked up and saw Mendinah in the arched doorway leading to a hall passage. She was standing by a record player. I nodded to her and she lifted the machine’s arm, stopping the music. When she turned her fabulous body to face me, I saw again the cunning face, the small hint of cruelty.
“Mrs. Make, Mr. Make has been trying to reach me all day long. He called all over Cairo trying to get my number.” Her words, voice and intent were pitiless and for seconds my heart opposed its natural function.
She poked her voice easily through my entire body. “When he finally reached me, he said he had to talk to me, to see me about something very important.” As she glanced at the seated women, I gritted my teeth and held on to the sternness of my long-dead grandmother.
“I refused to let him come to my apartment.” Her eyes hurriedly returned to fasten on me. “Then he said it had to do with you. That you needed someone to help you at the office. I have been looking for a job, you know.” Again, her eyes rushed to the African women, and quickly back to me.
Nothing happened. No angel came to take me up to a deserved heaven. No one shook my shoulder to awaken me from the immobilizing nightmare. No one moved. I raked through my mind, gathering every shred of skill, art and craftiness and stepped toward her.
“Mendinah?” I kept my voice soft and haughty. She looked up into my face as I approached.
“I am Mendinah, Mrs. Make.” The tone of her response was sassy.
“And were you willing to work for me? At a very high salary? With an allowance for rent and possibly your own car? Were you willing?”
Deceit left her face, and suddenly she became a young girl, who could have been my baby sister. Her defenses were down, she was vulnerable and I thrust at her with all my will.
“Unfortunately the job has been filled, but if it had not, dear Mendinah”—I was still speaking low—“you would never do. You are ignorant and you are a tramp.” I gave her a filthy smile and walked past her into the salon.
Luckily a row of chairs was lined against a near wall. I went directly to a seat. Wind and pride had left my body. My stomach felt empty and my head light. I sat erect from habit and early training. Banti and Kebi rushed in and took seats beside me. Banti took my right hand and Kebi the other.
They both murmured consolation.
“You were wonderful, sister, wonderful.” That was Banti.
“You made me proud of you, Maya.” Kebi squeezed my hand.
“You looked like a queen mother.”
“A prin
cess.”
“Don’t cry. Not now. You have handled it. It is over.”
Banti leaned toward me, forcing me to look in her serious face. “Sister, you will be avenged. Not to worry. You know what old man say in my country?” She had slipped from standard English into the melodic Liberian country accent. “Old man say, ‘If you mess with Jesus Christ, God will make you shit.’ ”
She nodded her head, asserting her own affirmation.
The blasphemy and humor struck me at the same time. I was shocked and tickled. To arrange in the same sentence God, Jesus Christ, righteousness, revenge and the word “shit” was so incongruous I was startled away from the humiliation of Mendinah’s announcement.
Both friends’ faces were solemn with concern, both heads bobbed in agreement with Banti’s old man’s wisdom. At last I nodded, smiled and rose. Vus was standing alone near a distant window.
“Ah, my dear. Nice party, isn’t it?”
“Vus, who is that girl playing records over there?”
He turned and looked straight at Mendinah, whose profile was distinct against the white walls.
Vus shook his head, “I don’t know. No.” Shaking his head, his eyes dark with puzzlement.
“Vus, you know her. Don’t lie. At least don’t lie.”
He twisted toward me, sudden recognition smoothing the planes of his face. “Oh, say, is that that Mendinah you were telling me about?”
I wanted to slap him until he snapped and split open like popcorn.
I walked away. I wasn’t sure what God would do if someone messed with His only Son, nor how I would fare when I dropped the obeisant attitude of an accepting wife and allowed my black American femaleness to emerge.
The silent ride home seemed endless. Vus drove slowly, letting the old rickety car choose its own speed.
When we were at last in the apartment, I checked Guy’s room, and found him asleep. That part of my life was comfortably accounted for. Now all I had to do was face my lover and one-time love, whom I heard dragging furniture around in the living room. I went into our bedroom and stood in the dark, wondering how to begin.
“Maya. Maya, don’t go to bed yet.” I walked out and down the hall. The big man sat composed, and had arranged a chair to face him.
“Sit down here, Maya. I want to talk to you about Mendinah. Mendinah and all the others.”
There was a moment’s relief. At least I didn’t have to start the conversation. That brief easement was pushed away with an abysmal fear. If he insisted that I accept his infidelity, I’d have to leave him. Condoning it would increase the misdeed. I had heard of men who brought other women into their homes, into the beds they shared with their wives. If Vus was planning such flagrancy, I would have to pick up my son and my heels, and get on the road, one more time.
I sat facing him, our knees touching.
“I am a man. An African man. I am neither primitive nor cruel. A nation of interlopers and most whites in the world would deny me on all counts, but let me deal with each of those stated conditions.” It was going to be a long night.
“A man requires a certain amount of sexual gratification. Much more than a woman needs, wants or understands.”
“That’s a lie, Vus. You’re not a woman, how do you know what I need?”
“I do not choose to argue a point which cannot be proved, but which is tacitly agreed upon. I will continue. As an African man, in my society, I have the right to marry more than one woman.”
“But that is not true in my society and you knew that when we met.”
“I met you in the U.S.”—he smiled—“but now we are in Africa.”
Was he implying that geography affected his gonads? I reminded him that he had been unfaithful in New York.
He looked shocked. “You have no evidence of that.” He was almost correct. I had only the lingering scent of perfume, and the unforgotten cosmetics on his clothes.
When I said nothing, he relaxed and leaned back in his chair, spreading his vast thighs. “To an African man, the act of sex is only important as long as it lasts. It is not the factor which holds a family together. It pleases and relieves tension, so that one can get about the business of living.”
I asked with sarcastic sweetness, “And what about African women? Don’t they want pleasure and release?”
He frowned, offended. “Haven’t I always satisfied you? Have I ever left you wanting? I have come home many nights, physically drained, and abstracted with my work, but I have done my duty to you. Deny that if you can.”
The conversation was getting away from me. Onus and guilt were shifting into my lap, where they surely didn’t belong.
“I don’t love you anymore, Vus.” It was the truth, but I used it not for declaration, so much as to startle him and take back a little advantage.
He stayed at ease. “I know that, my dear. I’ve known it for a long time. Nor am I, any longer, in romantic love with you. However, we respect and admire each other. We have the asset of mutual goals: the struggle for freedom, loyalty to Mother Africa.” He paused for a second, then went on in a softer voice. “And Guy’s future as an African man.”
At that second, I hardened my heart. I didn’t believe all the legitimizing drivel Vus concocted about African male infidelity and I would not allow him to teach such nonsense to my son.
“What about Mendinah? Tell me about her. Tell me why you put my name into your mouth, when all you wanted was to get her in bed?”
“I apologize to you for that. Sincerely.” His quick mind served him quickly. “Although I did hear you say you wished there was another black woman in your office.”
There have always been, for me, periods in arguments when my thoughts swirl around in semi-solid circles, leaving no protruding phrase for my mind to grab. I am rendered mute until the eddying jumble slows down and I am able to pick out enough words to form a first sentence. The moment had come. Ideas rushed around like crazed children in a mad tag game. Vus was African and his values were different from mine. Among the people I knew, my family and friends, promiscuity was the ultimate blow in a marriage. It struck down the pillars of trust which held the relationship aloft. It was also physically dangerous. Venereal diseases could easily be the result of indiscreet momentary gratification. It was disloyal and, finally, unfriendly. Nor was it a characteristic solely of African men. From the beginning of human history, all societies had tried to cope with the custom. The Judeo-Christian Bible forbade adultery, for both sexes. Usually, however, women paid the highest price, losing their hair to rough barbers, or their lives to an affronted community that stoned them to death.
In the United States white men, with the implements of slavery and racial oppression, had taken from black men their names, languages, power, wives, daughters, innate senses of self-value, their confidence. Because they had been unable, however, to kill the sexuality, white men began to envy it, extol it, adore and fear it. A number of black men, finding that they had one thing left which was beyond the reach of their enemies’ grasp commenced to identify themselves, to themselves, as sexual masters, possessors of the big dicks, the artful penises, the insatiable lust. White men greedily and enviously agreed. White women, in secret fantasies and rare public displays, yearned over the huge private parts. Some black women agreed that black men had rapacious appetites, and allowed their husbands and lovers the freedom of the fields. Some other women, with knives and guns, boiling water, poison and the divorce courts proved that they did not agree with the common attitude.
“Mendinah. It is said that she is a sexual glutton. Women like that are only good for one, at most two experiences.” He had been talking for some time. I suddenly remembered the drone of his voice. “The men who have spoken about her consider her a pretty but temporary vessel.”
I nodded, assured. I had finally found my words.
“I’m leaving you, Vus. I’m not sure when or where I’m going. But I’m leaving you.”
His face didn’t change from the placid she
et of control when I got up and went to bed.
Banti’s telephone call at my office came unexpectedly. I had gone to her house early the morning following the Mendinah incident and told her of my plans to leave Vus. Her response had been that of a wife who had a faithful husband. “Sister, you have been a giant. Everyone admires your patience. Truly, you have proved yourself.” With my decision made, the burden of tolerance lifted and the approval of my friend, I had gone to work buoyant.
“Sister,” I heard her say on the telephone, “Joe and I want you to come to us, this evening. After dinner. Nine o’clock. Will you?”
I agreed. The day rushed along. Entire paragraphs leaped out of my typewriter, needing little, if any, revision.
Vus didn’t appear for dinner, so Guy and I ate alone. He was reading, so was happy to hear that I had an appointment and he would have the house quiet and to himself.
The heavy door of the Liberian Residency was opened by a servant. I stepped into the foyer and heard a cloud of low voices. Banti hadn’t advised me to dress for a party. But then, the tone wasn’t party-like. I walked past the doorman two paces, and I was at the door of the salon, where a multitude of faces peered at me.
It was a surprise birthday party, months off schedule and lacking the gaiety of a fete.
About twenty people sat in a crescent of chairs. Kebi, Jarra and Banti were together. I hastily examined the familiar faces and felt that I had stumbled, unluckily, into a secret ritual or a dangerous kangaroo court.
No one smiled, not even my friends, and the awkward moment could have lasted forever. Joe Williamson’s high melodic voice preceded his presence.
“Sister Maya. We are waiting for you. Come in. Come in. Abdul will bring you a drink. Come, you are to sit beside Brother Vus.”
My eyes followed the general indication of his right hand. Vus sat, stiff and sober at the center of the row of chairs. I knew that I was befuddled, thrown and totally mystified, so I smiled and obeyed Joe’s directive, finding an empty seat beside my husband. The low thrumming of voices did not stop. I leaned toward Vus and whispered, “What is this? What’s happening?”