“Then she gotta be at the closest hospital. Take it easy. Did you lock up your house?” I asked her.
“No, I never went in the house. My neighbor, Mrs. King, was sitting right there on my stoop waiting for me. She said the ambulance came and took my grandmother, and that my uncle took the baby!” Her body began trembling. “Mrs. King said that she had offered to hold the baby till I got right back, but my uncle said no and took my daughter. Mrs. King said she didn’t argue with him ’cause she could smell the liquor on him and didn’t want him to start acting crazy like she knew he would. I’m gonna kill him!” Bangs spoke with a forceful tone but not a loud voice, as though she truly meant it.
“He probably went up to the hospital to see about your grandmother. She’s his mother, right? Don’t worry. He’ll bring the baby right back. What’s he gonna do with an infant who needs breast milk?” I said, trying to console her. But she gave me a flat stare. Without any words, she reminded me with her eyes that her uncle was her rapist. Her uncle was a man who never worried about pleasing his mother or protecting his family. In fact, he was the biggest threat to all of them. And except for her trembling, Bangs was finally standing still, face stiff with anger, spilling hot tears.
“He didn’t take the baby to keep her safe. He took her to control me, to make me do whatever he say. That’s what he does. He wouldn’t even go and check on Grandma. That’s how he do,” she said, as though she was 100 percent sure that she was right.
I checked my watch but I really didn’t have to. I knew for certain it was time for me to go get Umma. I peeled a twenty from the pile I had in my pocket and handed it to Bangs. “Take a taxi to the closest hospital. Go and check everything out first, before you panic.”
“Are you coming with me?” she asked, as I knew she would. Her uncle is the baby’s father, I thought to myself about the sickening truth. And even though I felt for Bangs, and hated her uncle and liked her infant daughter and grandmother, I put Umma first, my mother and my purpose.
I left.
Chapter 16
SON, FATHER, GRANDFATHER
Back at our apartment, after Umma was sleeping, I sat down on my bed thinking about my life while holding the new Sony Handycam that Ameer and Chris had bought for me. It was the latest model, an HDR-XR100. Studying the device, the buttons and attachments, I unfolded the user’s manual and glanced it over. Akemi didn’t like cameras too much, I believed. As an artist, her eyes and mind were her camera, and her gifted hands recreated the images that her eyes and mind saw through drawings and paintings.
How do I feel about cameras? I wondered to myself. I had never relied on them and neither had my father or grandfather. The images of my past in the Sudan were bright and colorful and powerfully clear, as though I could step right inside them and begin reliving every scene. But if I had known that there would be so many miles and meters between my father and grandfather and me, separated by continents, would I be happier if I had filmed them and could project them right onto the wall of my bedroom? Would Umma be happier if she could see my father on film when she was sitting all alone in her bedroom? Would Naja be happy if she could see a moving picture of our father instead of having to move her imaginings around in her head, full of the flaws of not really knowing or even having the pleasure of remembering?
A smile stretched across my face naturally when I thought of my Southern Sudanese grandfather. He wouldn’t even give me the option of taking his photo or filming him. He was an expert at refusals. When he said no he meant it, no negotiations or backpedaling. In fact he only had one picture on the wall of his hut. It was of a European missionary man who, Southern Grandfather said, came from Europe “talking that Jesus talk with his eyes on our women and foot on our land and hands all over the place.” The missionary man’s photo was posted right beside a few locks of his blond hair and a rawhide strip with the missionary’s teeth, fingers, and toes and his dried-out “lying tongue” dangling in the middle like a flesh jerky pendant. My grandfather, a respected elder and counsel in his village, husband of six wives and father of nineteen children, my father the youngest one, only wore his necklace featuring the missionary’s demise when he needed to remind ambitious villagers or intrusive outsiders of what he was capable of and how much influence he carried and how fearless he was in the face of the British or of the presumptuous Arabs, or any pushy intruders, for that matter.
My Southern Sudanese grandfather’s voice was so deep, he made the walls rattle and the snakes slide and escape deep into the ground. He never ate refrigerated or frozen foods, drank his milk straight from the udder. He never had ice cream or pizza or any modern food inventions, not because he couldn’t, but strictly because he didn’t want to. He was not a friend to change and believed that change and progress were two completely different words.
Although Umma’s father and father’s father and so on were all born and raised Muslim in the Islamic way of life, my Southern Sudanese grandfather was slightly different. He said that Allah existed from the beginning of time, before Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), and the revelation of the Holy Quran. He said that there was a time when man did not need a prophet to tell him and show him what to do. “That was the time of real men,” Southern Grandfather claimed. Then he would hold his hands up as evidence of his claim, as though his palms contained the story of the beginning of civilization. He would show the back of his hands first and then the front. Both sides of his huge hands were black. Even his palms were black and the lines in his palms even blacker. “I am the original black man, not a photocopy.”
According to Southern Grandfather, man was born in the image of Allah with all that he needed already. “These legs are for walking,” he would say, showing his aged yet powerful legs that held him up to six feet ten inches tall. “The trouble begins when a man stops walking with these legs and begins riding around.” So Southern Grandfather never rode in a car or truck. Even when his closest relatives offered him rides, he refused. And that was the natural way of Southern Grandfather—who never traveled any further than his own legs would carry him—and the difference between him and his nineteenth child, my father. My father was the only child of my grandfather who dared to race way ahead of his own father and accomplish things that his father could never imagine, not because his father was stupid, but simply because he didn’t want to.
My father bowed down to Allah and acknowledged the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him). My father read and recited from the Quran and even led other men to do so. My father moved to Northern Sudan, married Umma, a Northern Sudanese woman not of his region or tribe.
I never repeated my grandfather’s philosophies and criticisms to Umma. I just held them in my mind and weighed them out word for word. Then I followed closely, and with deep feeling and loyalty, the path of my father. It was the easiest thing to do because my father admired Southern Grandfather so incredibly and we visited the south of Sudan so often, every year, every summer for the entire season. It seemed to me that my father and his father were separated only by small talking differences. I saw both of them bow down to the same and only God, Allah.
While everyone everywhere hailed my father up as a great man—young, brilliant, and influential, a well-educated and well-traveled adviser—my grandfather would say with sincere concern and certainty that “each generation has become weaker rather than stronger. It is a son’s job to be better than his father, not more dependent and more useless.”
When I would watch silently and listen closely, I couldn’t imagine how I could possibly ever be a better man than my father or even my grandfather, especially now that I was living in America on this foreign land of foreign ways. I was certain that it was next to impossible. Still, I was doing my best, passionately.
Chapter 17
SERIOUS-MINDED
I began packing my duffel bag for my trip. I needed the space the duffel provided because I was bringing three brand-new pairs of kicks and wanted to leave them in the boxes they came in. Also,
the Timberlands always took up more than enough space, yet I couldn’t see traveling without crispy beef and broccolis. I would rock my Clarks on the plane for comfort, so I didn’t need to pack them. I folded my shirts exact like how they are displayed in the store. I made a separate pile for jeans and slacks and my workout clothes. My suit was hanging in my closet still in the suit bag that I purchased for travel. When I looked down, I saw Akemi’s ostrich-skin stilettos standing up straight as though her pretty feet were still in them. I wrapped them in tissue paper and laid them inside my duffel bag for some reason that I didn’t know yet.
Memories mushroomed to fantasies and fantasies slipped into sleep. I had one last conscious pull at resistance but I gave in, a voice from the distance reminding me that I had to rise up early on this same morning. Thursday would be my last chance to finalize all the Umma Designs deliveries. Despite all the emotion and shock that had gripped my family this week, Umma had managed to complete three more orders. So of course I would handle my business and get it to the customer and collect their final payments.
Thursday, May 8th, 1986
Some hours later I woke up. The Fajr prayer that normally came naturally like sunrise was a problem for me this morning. Even after the shower that shook me into consciousness, I couldn’t concentrate. A thousand different thoughts and dilemmas raced around my head and danced through the words of my prayer and trampled the feeling in it. For some reason, I couldn’t express myself spiritually at the moment. So I stopped speaking the words of the prayer and kept my head to the ground. Very slowly, the chaos of my mind began to settle. The loud thoughts and voices simmered until there was silence. I felt it would be better to be silent and still than to be halfhearted, half-true, half-false. Many minutes passed before I eased up into a straight stance.
“What’s wrong with you?” Naja gave me these words as her morning greeting.
“Nothing, let’s go.”
I walked her to Ms. Marcy’s and onto the bus. “That’s three days this week,” she said, smiling. “That means from now on, you have to walk me to the bus even though Ms. Marcy is here, okay?”
“We’ll see,” I answered.
Her little eyes followed me through each bus window until she reached her seat. She pressed her face against the window and smiled again. I nodded.
I walked Ms. Marcy back to her apartment on the ground floor. Once I heard her turn her locks, I opted to take the stairs up to avoid the morning rush and long wait for the elevator.
* * *
In the gray lighting of the stairwell, I came up on a nigga named Lance. He had been locked up for molesting some little girl in my building a little over a year ago. Some lawmakers somehow must’ve made up a reason to let him out. In the Sudan we would have cut off his hands first and then his head. Now I could see his chest and arms were swolled from the repetition of prison push-ups. He was coming down the stairs feeling like a man and casting a dark shadow that darkened an already dim space. No matter how swolled he got, to me he would remain a mouse, a conqueror of young girls, the lowest form of life. His smirk was smug. If I was sleepy before, now I was fully alert. My clip was empty but my mind was fully loaded. I looked him dead in his eyes to let him know I didn’t need no prison to make my body hard and fists furious. I trained hard and stayed ready. Guns or no guns, I would send him back to meet his maker, easily.
I was going up. He was going down. We passed on the same step with only a centimeter separating our shoulders. As he passed I felt a cold chill in a warm stairwell where there was already very little oxygen and the stench of piss as strong as bleach, as though the pisser had never had even one cup of water in his lifetime. Lance didn’t say shit, not a grunt or a groan. Words were not necessary. Some men never understand words that are being spoken. They only react to actions being done.
After opening all the locks that sealed the door of our apartment, I locked them behind me and went directly to Umma’s room, knocking on her door.
“Nom,” she said. Some of her latest designs were lying across her bed, others draped from hangers on her closet door. The tissue paper and boxes were out. Her incense was nearly finished burning. She was in the process of wrapping the completed and scented items for me to deliver.
“After that, pack your bag for your stay at the apartment we rented from the Ghazzalis. Then pack Naja’s also,” I said solemnly. Her face changed from casual and pleasant to a knowing and willing obedience. Instead of asking me a hundred questions about why she was packing two days before my plane left and before she was originally planning to move to the Ghazzalis, she simply responded, “I will.”
Since it was still very early morning, I called Sudana, hoping to catch her before she left for school.
“Sudana,” I said, recognizing her voice immediately and knowing by now that she liked to be the one who answered their family phone calls.
“Salaam,” she answered.
“I need you to do me a favor” was all I said.
“Anything,” she responded softly.
“Would you watch Naja for me today at four forty-five if I bring her by your house?”
“Surely.”
“I’ll see you then,” I told her.
“I’ll be waiting.” We hung up.
I put three bullets in the clip before I hugged Umma and headed out to work with the Umma Designs delivery items. In the building lobby, I shot by Ms. Marcy’s apartment.
“Ms. Marcy, I’ll pick Naja up from her bus stop this afternoon. So you enjoy your day off.” I handed her the pay for the week plus her money for the upcoming week, since I planned to be away.
“Why so much?” she asked, her face looking genuinely puzzled at the break in our usual routine. “Is something wrong?”
“Everything is good, Ms. Marcy. Please don’t worry. Naja will be visiting some relatives of ours for about a week to ten days.”
“Relatives? Naja didn’t mention none of this to me.”
“She couldn’t have. It’s a surprise,” I told her, placing my finger over my mouth to give Ms. Marcy the impression that she was part of the secret.
“Naja will go to and from school from their home. I’m paying you because my mother loves you and we want you to continue working with our family. Now if I didn’t pay you in advance and Naja just suddenly disappeared, by the time she returned, you would have found another job!” I joked and forced a smile.
“Yeah, right! Who else but your pretty momma is hiring an older lady? And I get to work at home! Not to mention Naja is just so smart and curious and busy. She helps me stay young. And don’t you try to charm me, young man.” She laughed lightly.
“Ms. Marcy, this stuff is heavy. I gotta run. Just relax until I contact you. I’ll give you a heads-up when Naja comes back, okay?”
“Okay, honey,” she said sweetly, her curiosity softening now with a look of trust. I left after hearing her lock on her door clicking shut.
Chapter 18
SENSEI
On point for my private lesson at the dojo, I arrived fifteen minutes early at 12:45 in the afternoon. Sensei unlocked the door and then let it drop before I could actually get inside and face him. Like normal, I went straight to the locker room and got myself prepared. It wasn’t long before I heard Sensei’s office door open back up and him moving around in the next room.
“Konichiwa, Sensei,” I greeted him in Japanese, as I glanced over at the table. Whatever he had over there, rope or knives or kunai or ninja gear, was always a preview of the private lesson of the day. On the table was a tall bottle of alcohol and a dingy white briefcase that was plastered with a large sticker that read FIRST AID. Sensei said, “Konichiwa, gakusei,” which means “Good afternoon, my student.”
“First things first, Sensei. I showed up early for class today to let you know that I won’t be here next week. I know the dojo policy, so I’m prepared to pay up front for the lessons and make them up the following week.”
“Hmm, this would be the first time in
several years that you have made this kind of request. May I ask the reason for your absence?” His face looked stern.
“I just have to take care of something personal. Once it’s completed, I’ll be back fully focused, no problem,” I assured him.
“Something personal?” Sensei said with quiet anger, as though he was having an imbalance in his yin-yang. “What could be more personal than me teaching you the way of ninjutsu?” he asked quietly, yet pronouncing each syllable of each word with an extra emphasis to make himself clear.
Instead of responding, I watched him as he shifted from standing in a straight up-and-down position to having his legs spread in a more open stance as though he was about to leap. Then he moved both of his hands and held them behind him.
“Is there someone else teaching you how to defend your life? Perhaps there is another master elsewhere teaching you how to eliminate your enemies?”
I didn’t have a response. I struck my stance and prepared for battle although I was unclear what went wrong and certain it couldn’t be some sudden shit just because I unexpectedly rescheduled a few classes.
“Your silence is not welcomed today. Today your silence is offensive to me.” He made a swift move, bringing his right hand forward. As I monitored his right hand moving slowly in front of him, he quickly used his left hand and threw his kunai at me. Instinctively I leaned to my right, causing his blade to miss me completely. I felt and heard it slicing the air. It didn’t crash to the floor, so I was certain that it lodged on the corkboards that Sensei had mounted on the walls. But I never turned to look behind me. I dropped down to the floor instead and kicked the table over to shield myself in case Sensei had more knives. It is the way of the ninja to make his weapons invisible to his opponent, so I knew that it didn’t matter that I did not see Sensei’s kunai.
“Stand up,” Sensei said, peering down on me sheltered behind the table.
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