by Odie Hawkins
“The group, really dyno-mite, huh?”
The gin had created a soft haze in his head, making him feel slightly hostile. “What the fuck is dyno-mite?”
“Oh wowww! You’re an American! I never would’ve guessed. I thought you were a Ghanaian. My name is Russell Franklin; what’s yours?”
Russell Franklin shot out a right hand that looked like a pink paw. Bop cautiously shook the man’s fingers as though he were handling four-day-old fish. The last thing I need hanging around me is a square-ass white boy.
“Name is Clyde Johnson. ’Scuse me, I see somebody over there I have to talk to.” Weird about shit here. People I never thought about knowing want to know me over here. I wonder why?
“Bop, take if from one who knows. The first thing you have to learn to do is stay away from white liberals in Africa. They’re dangerous for us emotionally. ’Cause a lot of ’em want to be hurt, to atone for the sins of their fathers, especially in Africa. They come to serve Africa and a lot of the Africans seem to want to serve them, ’specially the women.
“Be forewarned.”
Yeahhh, Chester was definitely onto this scene, he knew what he was talking about.
Basically he got in the line to get behind this fantastically pretty brown-skinned woman. “Uhhh, ’scuse me, what’s this line for?”
The sister’s look made him feel two feet tall. “This isn’t a line, we’re having a conversation with Kojo Adjei, one of Ghana’s best known writers. Have you read his book, A Time for Us?”
“Uhh, no, not yet. You got a funny little accent; where you from?”
“I’m from New York. Where are you from?”
“Chicago by way of Los Angeles.”
The line that wasn’t really a line had slowly placed them in front of Kojo Adjei. Bop didn’t like the man the moment he spoke.
“Ah hahh, a brother and sister from the U.S., I can tell. You are welcome to the land of your fathers.”
It wasn’t so much what he said as the way he said it. It sounded to Bop as if he thought that he owned Africa and that he was giving them his special, personal blessing.
Bop eased away from the group around brother Adjei. I don’t need no snub-nosed pumpkin-faced asshole to welcome me back nowhere, I paid my way over here.
“What’s wrong? You act as though you’ve been insulted or something.”
The pretty brown woman stood at his side. He couldn’t really figure out how to explain what he was feeling. “Nawww, it ain’t about being insulted. I just don’t like phonies.”
Ten minutes later she suddenly deserted him for more articulate prey. “Nice talking to you, Mr. Bop; I must run.”
He watched her swivel away, an alcoholic haze squeezing his eyes half shut. Wowww! Wonder what her problem is?
A return to the bar table for a fresh triple gin sweetened his mood. He stood in different areas, pretending that he was looking for someone or waiting for someone. Occasionally he glanced at his red-black-and-green watch, the outline of Africa holding the time.
Aunt Lu, Uncle David, wonder what y’all had for dinner tonight?
It felt weird to be in the company of so many different types of people and not know any of them. For long moments he stared at small groups of bobbing heads and tilting glasses, trying to decide if he wanted to join them.
Bunch o’ phonies …, punk-ass phonies.…
He wandered back out onto the fringes of the crowd. The musical group was bringing everything to an unappreciated ending. He carefully placed his drink on the lawn near his feet and applauded too loudly and too long. The group leader looked at him with a startled smile.
Five minutes later Bop was standing in a grove of trees behind the bandstand, smoking high-grade Ghanaian marijuana with two members of the group. These were the first hip brothers he’d run into. They clicked.
“Glad you liked the music, man.”
“It was copacetic.”
“Right on.”
Copacetic? Where is my mind?
He was standing because they didn’t have lots of stuff to sit on and no one wanted to dirty themselves sitting on the grass. The Ghanaians, he noticed, sit anywhere. And sleep anywhere—on the edge of walls, on narrow benches, standing up. They have perfected the art of sleeping. And staying awake.
“Think about the accomplishments of people like Du Bois, Nkrumah, Padmore, guys like that, way back then. They were intellectual giants to have figured out the philosophical currents to come, in a manner of speaking.” It was the pretty brown-skinned woman. He stared in her mouth as she talked.
What the fuck is she talking about?
“Africanists, Bop, people who are into ‘their’ Africa, can wear your ass out because there’s a lot to know about Africa. She’s an old continent, gave birth to the world. People will drop names on you you’ve never heard ’cause you haven’t read shit but fuck books and your interest in the Pan-African world is almost zero.”
“Awwww c’mon, Chester, git off my back, man; I read.”
“You read what?”
“Books.”
“What kind of books?”
“Like you say, fuck books mostly.”
They shared a laugh and Chester Simmons gave Bop a list of books to read. He read a couple of them but they didn’t seem to have anything to do with his world or his life.
“Malcolm X was cool. But he couldn’t dance worth shit. That’s one of the things I got.”
Chester would hold his sides laughing at Bop’s literary critiques.
“Why would anybody wanna read Native Son? It’s boring shit to me.”
Chester counseled him often. “You know something, Bop, you and your generation are a rare breed. Some of the most aware people in this world are in your age group, but they are balanced off by the most stupid—nawww, can’t say stupid, let’s say—most ignorant young black people I’ve ever known. You don’t know anything about yourselves, your history, your place on the planet.”
“Awwww, c’mon, Chester, gimme a break, man.”
Nkrumah. Mao. Gandhi. Hitler. Mussolini. Castro. Peron. Franco. Jackson. King.
“Bop, these people changed the course of history, man. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, Chester, I understand; whaddayou think I am, dumb or somethin’?”
And now he was standing in front of all the things Chester had talked about and didn’t know what to say.
He felt bad about his ignorance, but he was too high and too drunk to really care. He wandered away from the name-dropping with a malicious smile on his face.
No wonder she didn’t want to talk with me. I don’t know a lotta shit.
The lights blinked the signal to leave. He was startled. White folks are so fuckin’ orderly. Damn, we could’ve had some fun. He felt bottled up by the atmosphere. They had stood around for a couple of hours and chit-chatted and drunk heavy, and now suddenly it’s time to go.
He wanted to party. He was high and mellow and wanted to get loose. The party was over.
Being in Accra, Ghana, was, for Bop, something like a beautiful freak show. The colors the people wore, the colors the people were. He fit right in. Until he said anything.
“Take me to Troas Street, in Osu.”
“Eight hundred.”
“Awww c’mon, man, don’t gimme that shit, it don’t cost but four hundred. I take taxis all the time.”
Bop and the driver shared a laugh. What the hell; it’s only money. Why am I bargaining with this dude over a few cedis? It wouldn’t hurt me if I gave him a hundred thousand cedis.
“No, don’t go to Osu; just drive around for awhile, to different parts of town.”
The driver, a small, wolfish looking man with slashes on his cheeks, grinned. “You wanna see Accra?”
“Yeahh, show me Accra.”
The driver drove along the beach, turned in and out of turnabouts, like traffic circles eddying and whirling.
“What’s your name, man?”
“Zek
e.”
“Mine is Bop. Go around the circle again.”
The driver didn’t question his requests; he obeyed. Bop was fascinated. It was like having a servant. Someone who would obey you without question.
People moved like different tides on both sides of the street. There were people out for pure pleasure and people who were hard at work, huge trays of bread on their heads, fish, brass fixtures, brassieurs, iron pipes, charcoal baskets, kitchen stoves, typewriters, automobile parts, everything but human beings. They carried human beings on their backs and stuff on their heads.
Bop stared out of the taxi window at the people on the rutted paths flanking one of the main streets.
Wowww.… That’s amazing to be able to carry that much shit on your head. They must walk real straight.
The driver, his eyes glowing from fatigue, watched Bop watch the people, intrigued by the young American man in African clothes. He took note of his slurred remarks and his droopy eyelids. “Home, Osu?”
“Yeahh, take me home, home.”
Elena woke him up with her soft, insistent nose. She had taken time away from her job to be with him. He faced his future with resignation. Fuck it, if she got AIDS, I got it too, by now.
“Elena, have you been taking your birth-control pills regularly?”
“Ohh my Gawwd! I knew I had been forgetting something!”
Crazy women. Crazy like hell. And sweet as sugar cane.
“Bap?”
“Bop, Elena, not Bap.”
“Bap?”
“Yes, Elena, what is it?”
Look at her—pretty clear white eyeballs, face so pretty and smooth, square as a brick.
“What do you do in America?”
It took three Guinness stouts to loosen him up enough to try to explain.
“I’m retired from what I used to do, OK? I used to be a gangbanger.”
“A gongbonger, what’s that?”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“I was a Brick.”
“What does that mean?”
He stared at her innocent expression and reached over to pull her into his arms. “Hey, it don’t mean nothing. Nothin’ at all over here.”
He could almost point at the moment he felt the first shivers. He was kissing Elena good-bye at the front door and feeling her ass and trying to get her to stay a few more hours with him.
“No, Bop, I must go; my boyfriend is waiting for me.”
“What?! Your what?! Your boyfriend?!”
“I’m just joking with you.”
“Well, don’t joke with me like that.”
He realized for the first time that he loved Elena and that she loved him. He could tell from the way he felt and from the way she looked at him.
“Thank you, Bop.”
“Thank you, Elena.”
He gave her right cheek a final squeeze and patted the other one.
“Come back tomorrow, OK?”
“Maybe.”
“OK, try? OK?”
“Maybe.”
Women were such a pain in the ass. He lay on the bed feeling woozy. The next day he couldn’t get out of bed and didn’t want to get out of bed. He felt like he had a giant case of flu.
Patience nursed him with pills, sugar cane, caring.
“How did you know I was sick?”
“Everybody in Osu knows about everybody in Osu.”
“But you’re the one who decided to help me?”
“Take these three together at six o’clock. And this one before you go to bed.” She was such a no-nonsense type of person. And yet she wasn’t a mother figure, something like an aunt. But more like a pure woman.
He flung himself out on the bed with hot-cold spells and huddled up in knots, trying to understand what was happening to his body.
Oh yeahh, this is what the yellow fever shot was like. Imagine if this shot was permanent. Two days later he was strolling slowly to Patience’s job, five thousand cedis in hand, and a note.
“Oh! Bap, it’s OK, it’s OK, thank you, please.”
“You helped me pull through. Patience; a lot of people won’t do that for other people.”
He hugged her and pulled back, aroused. She was such a deep sister. A maid working in the big house, required to be available to do almost anything six days a week, around the clock. This woman is a slave. He squeezed her closer and felt sad and enlightened at the same time. This is what these old people meant when they talked about slavery. The only difference here is that they pay them a few cedis to be in slavery.
They kissed but couldn’t reach the right emotional pitch to do anything else. They didn’t.
“Patience, I’m goin’ oh, see you later, OK?”
“OK.”
Ghanaian women seemed so submissive but he suspected a mad dog at the core of it. They want what they want and will go through any lengths to get it.
He strolled up the street wondering if the women in Accra hadn’t developed a taste for dicks because they were always seeing one stuck out somewhere.
He freaked out the first time the saw a dude pull his stuff out and start pissing, right across from the police station. Bop stood aside, waiting to see what was going to happen. He was jolted by the sight of a man pissing onto a wall behind him. Wowww.… Everybody pisses outdoors. Little girls slide their panties over to one side and stand up over drains and do it.
He had seen a woman with pounds of fish on a platter on her head squat over a drainage ditch, with a baby on her back.
Well, I guess you’d have to piss somewhere if you didn’t have outdoor toilets. He found himself trying to remember things that Chester had told him about Ghana.
“Ghana is an old country with some super people in it, but they were subjected to an English PR historical blitz that drove a lot of them crazy. You’ll find a lot of inequalities going on. Suffer with them and learn where they stem from.”
People were constantly dropping by to see the Vernons. A few of them wanted to talk about the Los Angeles he had just left. The Hungarian woman with the two Ghanaian children, for example. “You are saying that there was more than one riot?”
“Oh hell yes! There was riots inside of riots. Some people, most people, were rioting because of Rodney King, some people were rioting ’cause they was just mad in general.”
The Hungarian woman introduced him to well-made akpeteshie, loosening his tongue many degrees. “A lot of what was goin’ on was totally fucked up. Like, hey, the police use to just mess with us ’cause they didn’t have nothing else to do.”
“How do you mean … mess with you?”
“Uhhh you know, like makin’ you lay flat out on the ground ’n shit.”
He strolled around the house naked after Magda left, mentally replaying his rap. Yeahh, there were riots inside of riots. The anti-Korean riot was a damn good example. What made them people think we were gonna put up with their shit? That’s the weird thing about America; everybody thinks that black people will put up with anything.
“That’s been one of the greatest Eurocentric flaws, Bop. They’ve always felt that they could dog people of color and get away with it. It just goes to show how deep-rooted racism is. The colored people of the planet have never submitted to the white man’s shit and never will, but they don’t seem to understand that.”
Chester, I wish you were here; man, you could straighten out a lot of shit in my head right now.
He had to hurriedly pull on a pair of short pants to answer the door. Another visitor. Elena, with a large pot of something. “I brought you some omo tuo.”
He let her in, feeling slightly pissed. “Where you been? I thought you were gonna come back the other day. I damned near died of the heebie jeebies since I last saw you.”
“Oh!”
He had to laugh. Ghanaians could say “Oh!” in so many ways and at so many different tonal levels that “Oh” seemed to be a language by itself. He found himself saying “Oh!” when she told him she thought she was
pregnant.
“Oh? You say what?”
“I think I’m pregnant, Bap.”
He suddenly felt the weak feeling he had when the fever was on him. He set her down beside him on his bed.
“Run this past me again. How could you be pregnant?”
Bop started urging his elementary math skills into play.
“Uhhh Elena, how could you be pregnant by me, baby? We ain’t known each other but three weeks.”
“I’m just joking with you. Caun’t you take a joke? Come, let’s have some omo tuo.”
Omo tuo, the soup thing with the rice balls that were pounded into snowball shapes, the blackeyed peas, the smattering of greens, the smithering of greens, the fish. The stuff you ate with your right hand. Delicious.
She had shown him how to do it on an earlier occasion, just before a monumental case of lust had enveloped them.
“Yeahh, I could dig some omo tuo.”
Elena was gone and once again he was alone, staring out of his bedroom window at the rain washing the dirty blue sky. A lush, beautiful, soft rain. The rain made him feel like going out into the middle of it naked, throwing his head back and screaming, “Africa, goddamnit! I’m in Africa!”
Ten minutes later the soothing rain had seduced him into a heavy sleep, punctuated by warped dreams. “The police; look out, man! Here come the police!”
A wild chase and escape from the L.A.P.D. through the back alleys of South Central Los Angeles. Hundreds of hours of chases replayed themselves in his head; some of the chases were in slow motion, some went fast forward, a few were held in freeze frame.
He saw exploding bullets flying through the air, knives flashing in jagged patches of sunlight, bricks being dropped on his head.
He jerked himself away from the nightmare, grinding his teeth together and moaning from the recalled pain of being shot.
Accra was quiet; the rain had stopped and, for once, there were no roosters crowing in the rutted roads of Osu. He clicked on the bedside lamp and looked at his African continent watch (gotta write Aunt Lu and Uncle David tomorrow)—3:30 A.M.
Bop slowly sat up on the side of his bed, feeling alert but drained at the same time. He hadn’t had a bad dream during the three weeks he had been in Africa, an unusual thing for him. This was the first.