by Odie Hawkins
“About what?” Bop felt dumb, his tongue thick. He was reminded of the fact that he hadn’t spoken to anybody in a few days. And now he was talking to this ultra-fine African sister with her hair permed, a pair of tight jeans on, dark as a piece of coal.
“About the film.”
“Ohh, the movie, it was all right.”
He couldn’t tell from her expression whether she believed what he was saying. He decided to expand his remarks. “Well, what I mean is, I think.… Well, actually, I think this is just about the first German flick I ever saw.”
Bop suddenly felt disoriented, backed up on himself. Wait a fuckin’ minute. What the hell am I doin’, standing here trying to talk about a fuckin’ German movie in the middle of Africa?
“You’re an American, aren’t you?”
He stared way past her question. That was the first time in his life anyone had ever asked him that question.
“Uhh, yeah, I guess you could say that.”
They straggled out behind the stragglers.
“Don’t you go to foreign films in America?”
“Some people do, I guess.”
They wound up standing in the graveled parking lot of the Institut. Beautiful sister, hot-eyed, stacked, African. They stood in place, waiting for something else to be said.
After an awkward thirty seconds Elena Boateng put out her hand for a good-bye handshake.
“Well, it was nice talking to you.”
He slipped into his homeboy slump, his hands plunged into his pockets, as he watched her walk toward a late model Volkswagen. “Uhh, hey, what’s your name?”
“Elena, Elena Boateng.”
“Mine is Clyde, Clyde Johnson.”
“Nice to meet you, Clyde.”
She was opening the door of her car, escaping.
“Hey, Elena, I wanna talk some more with you about the movie. Anyplace we could go for a cold brew?”
“A cold brew?”
“A cold beer, you know?”
“Yes, I know a place.”
He looked around, trying to be cool. The Golden Orchid. Wowwww.… What would the Bricks say if they could see me now? The Golden Orchid, one of the big, swank hotels in town, their table out near the swimming pool.
Elena Boateng kicked all of his stereotyped notions about African women in the ass. She didn’t have a basket on her head, she didn’t have a baby on her back, and she was not reluctant to express her opinions.
He had only two problems with her; her off-center Ghanaian accent threw him a bit and the fact that she was square as a brick. A real one.
A well educated sister, he could tell that from her rap, even when she pronounced words (“woids”) in a way (“birds”—“boids”) that he had never (“love”—“lave”) heard them before.
“I’m originally from Kumasi.”
“I’m originally from Chicago.”
Were they fencing for the pussy? He couldn’t really tell; her body language and the fact that she had spoken to someone else in a “foreign” language unsettled him a bit.
But she was a square soul, that much was obvious. Kumasi, University of Ghana, Legon, Accra, twenty-five years old, from a “good family,” a something in the Ministry of Culture, a new-breed Ghanaian woman, square as a brick.
They were into their second Guinness stout before he felt comfortable enough to look—“What the fuck do y’all do around here?”
She pushed her glasses up on her nose and glared at him.
“I don’t understand your question?”
“I mean, you know, after the movies, what else is happenin’?”
“Oh, there are a number of things to do.…” She began to tick things to do off on her fingers; plays at the University, cultural expressions at Krokobite (that’s what it sounded like), excursions to different places.
Bop slumped in his seat, staring at Elena Boateng’s lips as she talked, feeling more and more aroused. He thoughtlessly interrupted her monologue on places to go. “How much are the rooms at this hotel?”
She slowly pushed her glasses up on her nose and smiled at him.
What did that mean?
“Oh, the Golden Orchid is quite expensive, something in the range of seventy-five to one hundred dollars.”
Bop smiled. Shit, that wasn’t nothing; he could handle it out of his petty cash fund.
Fred and Helene had helped him exchange $2,500 for so many cedis he couldn’t even count them. Thousands of cedis. Thousands.
“Were you thinking about staying at the Golden Orchid?”
It was his turn to turn a hard look on her. He felt tempted to say something fresh, like, yeahhh, I was thinking of how sweet it would be for us to get together up in here.
“Uhhh, not really. I was just wondering about the prices.”
They chatted, misunderstanding each other; it had mainly to do with rhythms. Hers was off to him, and his was off to her, but they persisted through another Guinness stout.
Bop felt tight and had to go pee.
“Be right back; don’t go nowhere.”
The waiter practically led him by the hand to the “gents.”
He stood at the urinal, watching a slow-motion erection happen.
How long has it been?
From that hour forward, she was like a sexual magnet. I’m gon’ git my first piece o’ African pussy.
He thought about Justine, listening to Elena Boateng promote the inevitable. Justine, mellow woman, why in the fuck did you have to grab that pipe?
“I don’t go to the German movies because I like German movies. I go for the pure pleasure of it.”
They were together for the second time in two days. He felt she had put some kind of spell on him until she calmly asked him “Are you using a condom, please?”
“Huh?”
“You have condoms?”
They were sharing bottles of Guinness stout in the main room of the Vernon house, the fan in the ceiling pouring gentle breezes on them with each revolution.
He slid closer to her on the sofa.
“Yeahh, I got condoms.”
Elena continued sipping her beer as though she hadn’t asked the question she had asked. Bop matched her, sip for sip, puzzled by her question and her behavior. What’s goin’ on here? One minute this chick is asking me if I got some rubbers and the next minute she’s freezing on me.
The radio was playing smooth jazz in the background. He had fumbled from station to station looking for rap music, couldn’t find any, decided to settle for jazz from England.
She wanted to listen to some of the reggae tapes she carried with her in her car. They sipped their stouts silently.
Bop stared at her feet and allowed his eyes to drink up her form and attitude.
“How old are you, Elena?”
“I’m twenty-five; how old are you?”
“I’m twenty-five too; that’s a real coincidence, huh?”
“I suppose so.”
“What’s your sign?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What’s your sign, you know, like what sign was you born under? I bet you a Scorpio.”
“Oh, perhaps; I’m not into astrology.”
“Oh.”
He slipped his arm around behind her on the sofa, obliquely. She seemed to ignore his move. Close up, he got a tiny whiff of the kind of funk he had experienced at the airport.
Oh wowwww …, she’s nervous.
He dropped his arm down behind her waist, settled his hand on her hip. She pretended not to notice his touch.
“Uhhh, Elena, c’mere, I wanna show you something.”
She gave him a curious look when he stood and reached for her hand.
“Should I bring my beer?”
“Yeah, bring it.”
He led her out of the main room into the short hallway where the bedrooms were located.
Damn …, it sho’ would be nice to have some smoke right now.
They sat on the side of the bed in his bedroom
silently for a few minutes, moonlight streaming in.
“Elena, put your beer down for a minute.”
Obediently, she placed the beer bottle on the floor and turned toward him, pushing her glasses up on her nose.
The moment spelled Now, and Bop leaned over to kiss her. How long had it been? He could feel her softness on his hardness already.
“No, please.…”
He leaned back slightly to take a closer look at her, to measure the emotional thing a little more seriously. What the fuck is this, some kinda neurotic person?
“Why not?”
“If we kiss, you will want to do more.”
“Hey, that’s the idea.”
She laughed out loud for the first time since they had met, a real laugh. Was she laughing at what he had said? Or was she laughing with him?
He gently removed her glasses after the laughter died, placed them on his night table, and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Now is the time for you to run outta here, miss lady.
Elena stared at him in the glazed light, not moving. The sound of the families in the compound next door echoed softly through the room. He flung his shirt on a nearby chair and pulled her from the bed by her armpits and kissed her.
He thought he was hearing himself when he heard her first moan. Whooooo.… First she don’t, then she do.
They began to impatiently undress each other, creating a chaotic battle for a few wild moments. He gently placed her on the bed and stared at her. Beautiful black African sister. She reached her hand out and caressed his penis. He was surprised. She had given no indication that she was into dick until now.
Where did I put the fuckin’ rubbers?
“Bop, don’t get off into fuckin’ in Africa; you’ll never be able to stop. Remember, youngblood, African women furnished the world with its very first pussy.”
“What’re you sayin’, Chester, they got freaks over there?”
“I’m saying more than that; you’ll see.…”
He pushed the latex down the length of his dick and eased onto the bed beside her.
“Foreplay, don’t forget foreplay. Most of these funky chumps jump on women like love-starved Congolese gorillas ’n shit. Foreplay, youngblood, foreplay.”
Bop kissed Elena’s eyes, her nose, the corners of her lips, her ears, while his left hand massaged her right breast and slid down to cup her stuff.
“Wait, wait,” she whispered and hopped out of bed.
What the …?! She tripped out of the bedroom, leaving his hands with a bare feeling. Now what?
He sprawled on the bed, took a swig from the beer bottle on the floor, listened to her bare feet padding from the main room to the bathroom. What a helluva time to have to take a shit, sister.…
He leaned up on his elbow when he heard the sound of the slowly drizzling shower.
“Clyde, may I use any towel here?” She called above the drizzle.
He loved the way she said his name, it came out sounding like “Cle-day” to his ears.
“Yeahhh, baby, you can use any towel in there.” A shower, right now. Why? He could feel his erection sink, the elastic of the condom slacken. Bop smiled in the moonlit night. You better come on ’n git it while it’s still here, sweet thang.
Ten minutes later she tiptoed back into the room with a bath towel saronged on her body, smelling like a tropical plant.
“I needed a shower,” she explained and sprawled on top of him, her body moist and fragrant from the shower and her perfume.
The condom rose between her thighs like a magnet to steel. He felt slightly confused about the way she handled him. She didn’t seem to like kissing very much but she knew where to touch him, how much pressure to apply; where did she learn all this stuff?
He leaned over her body, carefully positioning himself between her legs. Looking into her face to watch the effect his penis would have when he entered her.
She reached down and peeled the condom off as she whispered, “We don’t need this; I’m taking birth control pills.”
A soft, rainy season sun opened his eyes. Elena was gone. The note read: “Good morning, sweetheart, I had to leave, I’m a working girl. I will see you tomorrow evening. Thank you, Elena.”
Thank you? Thank you? Thank you?! He sprawled on the bed, indulgently scratching his nuts. Thanks?
“Ooooooh, my Gawd! Oooohhh my Gawd! Oh my Gawd! You are killing me! You are killing me! You are kiiilling meeee! Oh my Gawd!”
Thanks?
The lovemaking flickered through his mind like a video. “You are killing me!”
When had any woman ever screamed, “You are killing me?” He scratched from his balls to fondle his engorged dick, passionate memory plus a pee hard. And slowly sat up on the side of the bed, horror stricken. Oh my God. I got AIDS.
The feeling of the moment had robbed him of any concerns beyond getting his first African nut. And now it was daytime, the lady was gone, and he was permanently diseased; he knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt.
He slumped back on the bed, pee hard gone, mentally booting himself in the ass. What kinda crazy shit is this? First, she wants to know if I got condoms, then she strips the motherfucker off ’cause she’s on the pill. Now I got AIDS. I know I got it.
He jumped out of bed to go take a close look at his dick in the bathroom. The condom was beside the bed.
He showered, washed his dick several times, and sprawled back into bed. This broad has got to have something. I know she got something. She couldn’t fuck that good unless she had something. Damn! I done come all the way to Africa to get AIDS.
He wasn’t allowed to wallow in his imagined misery long; people were constantly dropping by to see the Vernons.
The fine English chick with the green eyes, “And d’you know when they’ll return?”
“Next week, late next week.”
“Please, be shore to tell them that Lucretia called.”
“OK.”
“My name is Phil Mensah, I’m a Mend of the Vernons; they wanted to take a look at my painting ‘Black Jesus.’”
“They’ll be back next week.”
The Japanese woman came. And a French couple from Cannes and a host of Ghanaians.
And he took a walk down the rutted street and became acquainted with Patience Hlovor, while trying to bargain with the woman selling sweet potatoes on the corner.
“You shouldn’t pay that much for that,” the woman whispered out of the side of her mouth.
Bop turned to stare at the woman who had spoken to him. What the hell was two hundred cedis. Shit! That wasn’t even a half a dollar. Cedis were like play money.
“How much should I pay for it?”
The woman edged him aside and began to talk to the vendor in Ga. It was too cold.
He took a few steps back to frame the scene in his head. Two African women on the side of the road, arguing fiercely in this musical language that sounded mostly like uhh huhhh in his ears for the sake of a quarter. It took him back home inside himself.
He suddenly felt like he wanted to cry; the women, these women could be his mother or sister. He was touched that they would argue over him.
“There, I only paid a hundred fifty.”
“Thank you, madam.”
He bowed and she hid her face behind her hands. How could someone with balls be shy?
She was older than he was, he could see that, maybe forty, but she was chocolate and muscular. She made him feel that he was looking at a peasant, like a Haitian refugee type.
They walked down the street together and wound up in her room. She was the maid of this big man named Papa. She had status in the neighborhood.
She sat and talked to him with so much wisdom and love that he felt ashamed of the way he was. He couldn’t forgive himself for contracting AIDS.
I didn’t have to do it, I could’ve waited for a good clean ho.
Did Elena say she was coming by tonight?
She didn’t show up that night or the next morning. He spraw
led in bed, watching the sun come up. I ain’t sick, I don’t feel tired, I like the food, but I got AIDS; everybody in Africa has AIDS, they say this is where it comes from.
He started praying: “Dear God Almighty, Jesus Christ in Heaven, Our Lord, don’t let me have AIDS, please.”
Elena came in the afternoon and destroyed all his resolutions. This time she left the condom in place. Strange shit. After she left he sprawled out once again. It felt nice to lay on your ass all day; I could do this indefinitely.
“We won’t be able to get in next week, but the week after. Stay cool.”
The Vernons were giving him another week of being by himself, to think. The messenger smiled at the thousand cedis note.
I’m in a black country, run by black people; everything is black but they have potholes up ’n down the street.
He couldn’t figure out a lot of things, why people were so poor and lived in shacks. He thought about the streets that he walked. They didn’t have sidewalks; they walked on the side of the road. The English never felt the African needed to be on equal footing, so he made him walk beside the road. Bop didn’t know that. He was ignorant of the history of the country.
He freaked out on the women; they walked in front of him like mobile shelves, their hips were as well balanced as the things they carried on their heads.
He got up to get himself a cold, neat gin from the bottle in the fridge.
“Helene likes a little gin in her tea in the evenings.”
He propped his head up on the brick-hard pillow and sipped his gin.
Yeahhh, Chester was right, there’s a lot of pussy to be had in Ghana. But I got AIDS. What does it matter?
By the time he had sipped through his third neat, cold gin, he had convinced himself that he didn’t have AIDS.
Elena is too fine to have AIDS. She ain’t been fuckin’ no dope fiends, that’s for sure …, ’cause they ain’t got none. She’s real clean; that’s why she went to take that shower. Midway into the fourth gin, he felt elated by his logic.
But I better be more careful in the future.
The future was the next day and he was no more careful than the first time. She insisted on stripping the condom from his penis at the crucial moment. She forced him to come inside her as a moral commitment. Gawddd! You’re killing me!
It was almost too hard on him; he walked up the rutted street to buy a couple of hot yams and was captured by the maid. A real ol’ fashioned Aunt Jemima looking woman, complete with a bandanna around her head. They fell in step without realizing it; she was a safe haven.