by Maya Angelou
I left after nightfall with directions to T. D’s country place, and the feeling that maybe the new friendship would lead me behind the modern face of Ghana and I could get a glimpse of Africa’s ancient tribal soul. That soul was a skittish thing. Each time I had approached it, bearing a basket of questions that plagued me, it withdrew, closed down, disguising itself into sensual pleasantries. It had many distracting guiles.
The musical names of Ghana’s cities were lovely on the tongue and caressing to the ears; Kumasi (Koo mah see), Koforidua (Ko fo rid you ah), Mpraeso (Um prah eh so). Ghanaians boasted that Accra and Sekondi were old towns showing proof of trade with Europeans in the fifteenth century. I loved to imagine a long-dead relative trading in those marketplaces, fishing from that active sea and living in those exotic towns, but the old anguish would not let me remain beguiled.
Unbidden would come the painful reminder—“Not all slaves were stolen, nor were all slave dealers European.” Suppose my great-grandfather was enslaved in that colorful town by his brother. Imagine my great-grandmother traded by her sister in that marketplace.
Were those laughing people who moved in the streets with such equanimity today descendants of slave-trading families? Did that one’s ancestor sell mine or did that grandmother’s grandmother grow fat on the sale of my grandmother’s grandmother?
At first when those baleful thoughts interrupted my pleasant reveries I chased them away, only to learn that they had the resistance of new virus and the vitality to pop into my thoughts, unasked, at odd and often awkward times.
So I had been intrigued watching T. D. and his wife using their tribal differences to demonstrate their love. Getting to know them might lay to rest the ugly suspicion that my ancestors had been weak and gullible and were sold into bondage by a stronger and more clever tribe. The idea was hideous, and if true, I was forced to conclude that my own foreparents probably abstained from the brutish sale of others simply because they couldn’t find tribes more gullible and vulnerable than they. I couldn’t decide what would be the most appalling; to be descended from bullies or to be a descendant of dupes.
The Bafoos’ love could erase the idea that African slavery stemmed mostly from tribal exploitation.
On a midmorning break I went into the Senior Common Room. My entry made no impact on the confident people who continued their conversation, offering their voices to each other as beautiful women offer their hands to homely suitors.
The Englishman was speaking desultorily through a thin nose, “I understand their anger. I do think it is unattractive, but I understand it.”
A Yugoslav woman, too intellectual for cosmetics, argued without passion, “But they have been treated like beasts.”
The Englishman was a little petulant, “That doesn’t give them the right to act bestial.”
A Canadian attempted to bring balance. “While it isn’t a laudable response, it is understandable. The effects of cruel treatment die slowly.”
The Englishman said, “Look here, they’ve been there three hundred years, why the devil are they starting up now?” He raised his voice and ordered, “Another beer, Kojo. Fact, beer all around.”
He was an irritated Ronald Colman in an old movie. I sat in a corner drinking tepid beer, knowing I had walked in on a theatrical set and that I would be wise to either sit quietly or exit stage left.
The Ghanaian steward, old and doddering, understood “all around” did not include me, so he took bottles to the large table and went back to his stool behind the counter.
The Senior Common Room at the Institute of African Studies was reserved for professors, lecturers and some administrators. Although it was filled with ancient furniture and a persevering odor of beer, some employees from other faculties at Legon University preferred it to their own lounges. I supposed its popularity could be credited to the nearby Faculty of Music and Dance. At any moment in the day pretty girls and half-dressed men rushed past its door en route to dance classes. Master drummers gave demonstrations hourly outdoors behind the building. Singers practicing in the high-pitched Ghanaian tones could be heard in the area stereophonically. The lounge itself was stuffy, but the surrounding area was fresh and appealing.
The German professor from another department spoke loudly, “Old Man,” he said, attempting a British accent, “it’s understandable that you’re tired of unrest. Your empires have exhausted you.”
The Englishman answered, “I don’t know about my empire,” he pronounced it “empiah,” “but agitation becomes a bore after a while.”
The Yugoslav woman was ready for a fight. “But not to the agitators.”
The Canadian spoke and the room was no longer a set, nor were the people characters I could laugh at or ignore. He said calmly, “But American Negroes are not the masses. They are only about ten percent of the U.S. population.”
They were talking about Black Americans. I was sure that the recent riot in Harlem which had been front-page news in Ghana had stimulated the discussion. I focused to listen and to find a place to enter.
“More beer, Kojo, please.” The Yugoslav woman’s voice was as neat as her body and clothes were abandoned. “I put it to you that the American Negroes are fed up with the system because Democracy does not work. They feel that they are proof.”
The old long-snout Briton popped up, “Democracy was never created for the lower classes. Everyone knows that. Just like at Ghana.”
As I was gathering a response to singe their ears, a Ghanaian professor of English walked in. He went to the crowded table and said, “Hello, old chums.” Without turning to face the steward, he raised his voice. “Beer all around, Kojo.” He pulled out a chair and sat. “You were saying ‘just look at Ghana.’ What about my country?”
I let my preparation scatter. Here was the proper person who would have the arch counterstatement.
The Englishman was already bored with the conversation, but he forced himself to respond. He said, “Democracy which has never worked anyway, was never intended for the masses. And I gave Ghana as evidence.”
The African accepted his beer, and without a glance at the steward, poured a glass and drank.
“Hum,” he licked his lips. “Delicious. We may not make a great democracy, but no one can complain that we don’t make a good beer. What?”
The Europeans laughed and the African joined in. They had assassinated my people as well as my new country. I looked at the steward, but his face was passive and his eyes focused on the open door.
I raised my voice and said, “Obviously you people think you’ve got all the answers. Well, you should wait until someone who really cares asks you a question. You don’t know a damn thing about Black Americans, and I resent every stupid thing you’ve said.”
It wasn’t going well at all. My brain was not responding properly. I needed to be sharp, cutting, and politely rude in order to reach their hardened ears, and all I had done was blubber.
I said, “You people are idiots, and you dare speak of Ghana. You rejects.” I was surprised to find myself standing and my voice loud and screeching. “You left your old cold ass countries and came here where you’ve never had it so good. Now you’ve got servants and can bathe more than once a month. It’s a pity more of you don’t take advantage of the opportunity. You stinking bastards.”
Rage piloted me to the door. “And don’t say a word to me, I’ll slap the water out of all of you.”
I always knew that fury was my natural enemy. It clotted my blood and clogged my pores. It literally blinded me so that I lost peripheral vision. My mouth tasted of metal, and I couldn’t breathe through my nostrils. My thighs felt weak and there was a prickling sensation in my armpits and my groin. I longed to drop on the path to my office, but I continued ordering my reluctant body forward.
“Professor?” A soft voice turned me around. The steward was there smiling as if I was a child who had acted mischievously.
He asked, “Professor, why you let them disturb your heart?”
/> I stuttered, “They were—” I knew the steward was uneducated, but surely he understood the rude scene that had occurred.
“They were insulting my people. I couldn’t just sit there.”
His smile never changed. “And your people, they my people?”
“Yes, but—I mean American Blacks.”
“They been insulted before?”
“Yes—but …”
“And they still live?”
“Yes, but … they also insulted Ghana, your country.”
“Oh Sister, as for that one, it’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” He was not only uneducated, I thought he was stupid as well.
He said, “This is not their place. In time they will pass. Ghana was here when they came. When they go, Ghana will be here. They are like mice on an elephant’s back. They will pass.”
In that second I was wounded. My mind struck a truth as an elbow can strike a table edge. A poor, uneducated servant in Africa was so secure he could ignore established White rudeness. No Black American I had ever known knew that security. Our tenure in the United States, though long and very hard-earned, was always so shaky, we had developed patience as a defense, but never as aggression.
I needed to know more. I said, “But that African. He is a part of that group.”
“No, Sistah. He is a part of Africa. He just a Beentoo.”
Beentoo was a derisive word used for a person who had studied abroad and returned to Ghana with European airs. The steward continued, “He’s been to the United Kingdom. Been to the United States. In time, that posing will pass. Now he is at home, and home will take him back.”
He reached out his arm and touched my shoulder. “Don’t let them trouble your heart. In a way you are a ‘Beentoo’ too. But your people … they from this place, and if this place claims you or if it does not claim you, here you belong.”
He turned and shuffled back to the lounge.
The steward, Otu, and I were in the kitchen. Since I prepared all the food, he was second cook. He washed and diced vegetables, cleaned the utensils as I finished using them and generally made my job easy.
“Auntie?” It was a name of respect.
“Uncle,” I responded respectfully.
“There is a boy, Kojo, who would like to speak to you.”
“What does he want?”
“Oh, Auntie, should I know?”
Otu didn’t look at me directly and I knew the conversation promised to be as formal as a Japanese tea ceremony.
“Otu, if you do not know, I shall not know. Then I cannot speak to the boy.”
My friendship with Efua, reading Ghanaian short stories and the Fanti I had learned provided me with some insight into the circuitous conversational form.
“Auntie, if I am to say that which I do not know, I will serve neither you, the boy, nor myself.” He stopped talking so abruptly I could almost see the period at the end of his sentence. Obviously, we had to start again.
“Uncle?”
“Auntie?”
“This boy who wants to see me, is a nice boy?”
“Yes, Auntie. His family is good. His father and uncles are from my village.”
“Kojo is his name?”
“Yes, Kojo.”
“And how can I help Kojo, Uncle?”
“Ah Auntie, it is known that you are good.” I had found the right key. “This boy would like to work for you, Auntie.”
For me? There was nothing I needed done, and if there was I had no money to pay anyone to do it.
“Otu, there is no job here. Please tell him.”
“Auntie, he has not asked me for a job. He has asked to speak to you.”
Oh, the tortuous subtlety of language. “There is no point …” Otu turned, and standing stock-still, looked at me.
I was beaten. I said, “Well, tell him to come around, I will speak to him.”
“Yes, Auntie.” Otu seldom smiled, but a quick change on his face told me of his pleasure.
“I will get him.”
“No, Otu, let’s finish dinner. Maybe tomorrow.”
“He is just there, Auntie.” I followed his nodding head and saw a small figure pressed against the screen door.
“Kojo.” Otu’s voice was strong with authority. “Kojo, bra.”
The door opened and a boy of about fourteen stepped timidly into the room. His smile was both deferring and mischievous. He had heard the entire conversation and knew how I had been maneuvered by Otu.
“Kojo, this is Auntie Maya.”
Respectfully, he dropped his eyes, but not before I saw the glint of amusement.
He whispered, “Evening, Auntie.”
“Kojo, I’m sorry, but I have no job for you.”
“Oh.” His head was still bowed.
“Ka. Ka. Ka.” Otu spat out the Fanti word meaning speak.
Kojo lifted his eyes and I noticed his resemblance to my beloved brother. He shared with Bailey a rich, dark brown color, small hands and a perfectly round head.
He said, “Auntie, I can do anything. I can shop, and save you money at Makola Market, and even in Bokum Square.” Those were the two largest markets in Accra, where the intimidating market women haggled customers to desperation, and they did present a challenge to me.
The boy continued, “I hear Ga and Hausa. I can clean, and I am learning to tailor.”
The timidity had been a disguise, he was as lively as young yeast.
“But I shop and I have a dressmaker.”
Otu was quietly putting pans away.
“Auntie, I can be your ‘small boy.’ I can bring you beer and wash your car, and if Wofa Otu will teach me, I can laundry. Auntie, I don’t want money. No salary. Just dash.”
In West Africa, while tips were not compulsory, they were expected and were called dash.
“Otu?”
“Auntie?”
“Can you use a small boy?”
The older man answered as if I had asked a silly question. “Auntie, all children are serviceable. Everyone can use a small boy.”
“Kojo, I will take you.” The boy’s smile made me gasp. His straight white teeth clenched and I saw Bailey’s smile.
“Where will you sleep?”
“Near, Auntie. Near. I have another uncle who has a place for me. But morning, I will be here. All day and evening. Thank you, Auntie. Thank you, Wofa.”
He turned and ran out the screen door, slamming it behind him. I glanced at Otu quickly, hoping to catch a certain knowing look, but his face was expressionless.
Alice and Vicki accepted Kojo and within weeks he seemed a part of the household. He was in the way when I wanted to cook, in the living room dusting furniture which Otu had just polished, sitting in my parked car playing with the steering wheel and smiling, always smiling that Bailey smile.
“Auntie,” Otu was helping me prepare dinner.
“Otu.”
“Auntie, that small boy, Kojo, wants to speak to you.”
“Well? He speaks to me all the time.”
“He thought, Auntie, that he would speak to you after dinner.”
I suppose I should have known that something important was coming, but I did not.
Alice and Vicki were out and I was sitting drinking Nestlé’s coffee in an easy chair when Kojo whispered from the dining room, “Auntie, is it time to talk to you now?”
“Come in, Kojo, don’t hang about out there.”
He stood a few steps from me, his head bowed.
“Kojo, look at me. Don’t pretend shyness. I know you.”
“Auntie.” The sweet smile and soft voice were softening me for whatever was to come.
“Auntie, you see, I am a small boy.” Everyone could see that.
“And I need to go to school.”
Of course. How could I have not noticed that summer was ending and he would have to return to his village?
“Yes, Kojo. Certainly you need an education. When will you be leaving?”
“Well, A
untie, the school I want is here, in Accra, just near to this place.” He waited and my brain laboriously began to work. He wanted me to send him to school and to pay his fees. I had been set up.
“Auntie, I have my school fees and they have accepted me. Only I want to continue to be your small boy.” Again I had misjudged the child. He was not manipulating me. He liked me. I let him know of my relief.
“Well, of course, Kojo, if you are able to do your school work and still be my small boy, you are welcome. I like you too, Kojo.” When he left we were both smiling broadly.
Two weeks later he brought a letter addressed to me. The headmaster asked for my presence to discuss Kojo’s courses. The meeting was so long and detailed I was exhausted when I finally arrived late at the university. Kojo had brought good grades from his village school, but he had not studied certain required subjects. The headmaster explained that the boy would need a great deal of help at home and he was so lucky to have educated Aunties.
Three evenings each week, Alice, Vicki or I sat with Kojo at the dining table conjugating verbs, dividing sums and making maps to scale.
At times an annoying thought would buzz in my head; my son was finally grown up and at college. While packing his clothes for the university, I included my last nights of poring over homework and worrying about grades. I locked into his cases the years of concentrating over childish penmanship and memorizing the capitals of countries and their chief exports. I had been freed. Now, with Kojo’s eagerness the old became new and I was pinched back into those familiar contractions. His young laughter, high-pitched and honest, and his resemblance to Bailey enchanted me away from resistance. I resumed the teaching-mother role automatically and easily, save for the odd uncomfortable moment when I felt trapped in a déjà vu.
The music of the Fanti language was becoming singable to me, and its vocabulary was moving orderly into my brain.
Efua took me to a durbar, a thanksgiving feast in Aburi, about thirty miles from Accra. Thousands of gaily dressed celebrants had gathered, waving, singing and dancing. I stood on the edge of the crowd to watch the exotic parade. Hunters, rifles across their shoulders, marched in rhythm to their own drummers. Soldiers, with faces set in grim determination, paced down the widened roads behind their drummers while young girls screamed approval. Farmers bearing scythes and fishermen carrying nets were welcomed loudly by the throng.