Himself wiped the perspiration from his brow agitatedly. He said in a froggy voice, “Thank you very much, Mr. President.” No sarcasm was intended. The President’s voice went down an octave even lower than before. Himself had to strain his ears to hear him. “I don’t trust that goddamn CIA, so you be careful, buddy boy. And keep what I told you under your hat. Don’t you tell nobody’s body. You hear?”
Himself said, “You have my word, Mr. President. Everything stays under my hat, and my head stays where it’s supposed to be, on top of my broad shoulders.”
The President laughed and said, “Tata.”
That very same night His Excellency got a call on his new, direct and private line. A gravelly flesh-crawling voice said, “Is this Prime Minister Jaja?”
Jimmy Jay said, agitatedly, “How in the hell did you get this number?”
The voice sounded like somebody scraping a blackboard with a rusty knife. “We just want you to know, Mr. Prime Minister Jaja, that we love you. We’re out there every day, and we’ll be protecting you with our own lives, if it comes to that. You’re a great man, Prime Minister Jaja. You’re in the tradition of men like Frederick Douglass and W. E. B. Du Bois and Robeson and Malcolm and Martin and Medgar and Elijah and Garvey and Touré and Neyrere and Chaka and Nkrumah, and also Rosa Parks and Harriet Tubman.”
“Well,” Himself said, lying back and relaxing now, “thank you very much. But I’m afraid I don’t deserve to be compared with giants like—”
“Don’t be afraid of nothing,” the blackboard-scraping voice assured him. “You deserve it all right. All the praises given to you, and more besides. You’re the greatest Black man on this earth. And for that matter, you’re the greatest woman too. I am not a chauvinist pig.”
“I’m overwhelmed—” Himself began.
“You’re the greatest,” the voice on the other end insisted, “and you are definitely the chosen one. And we will let no harm come to you from outside forces, over our dead bodies.” He lowered his voice and growled the rest. “I repeat, you are the chosen one, and we have chosen you for martyr-dam. We are going to kill you and blame it on the American government in collusion with the Ku Kluck Klan, and Black folks all over this country and throughout the world will insurrect, and we’ll have ourselves a real revolution. It’s the only way. I just called you up to offer my congratulations. You’ll go down in history. So, don’t you worry about a thing. Nobody’s going to harm one hair on your handsome head, I guarantee—”
Himself was enraged and sweating chinaberries. Crabs were staging a feasting orgy in his intestines. He knew a feeling close to vertigo. His voice was cracked and quaking. He forgot he was supposed to be a dignified African prime minister; he reverted to the jargon of the streets. “Excepting you, you simpleminded motherfucker! I recognize your voice,” he lied. “And I’m going to put the word out on your ass. If one solitary hair is harmed on my head, you, your mother, your grandmother, if you got one, and your grandmother’s grandmother and all your children and your children’s children’s children down to the hundredth generation will wish like hell they’d never been born. And as soon as you get your simple ass off the phone, I’m going to call the baddest Juju man in Africa and give him your name.”
The voice on the other end went from gravelly to high soprano. It began to stammer, frantically, idiotically. “But-bu-bu-but, Mr. Pu-pu-pu-prime Minister, pu-pu-pu-please ma’am and pu-pu-pu-please sir. I mu-mu-mu-mean, cu-cu-cu-cain’t you-you-you-tu-tu-tu-take a joke?” As Himself slammed the receiver back onto its cradle.
22
Through the years Jimmy Jay had grown to rely heavily on his premonitions, especially in times of extraordinary strain and stress, placed his absolute faith and confidence in his undeniable presentiments, trusted them to send out SOSs to him and throw up mucho danger signals. Perhaps it was the latent African in him, he thought whenever he thought about it. No matter, he looked religiously for omens, good and bad (Give me a sign, O Lord!); he wore his amulets religiously and more so now than ever since the experience of his African pilgrimage, in that highly civilized state of human being known as Bamakanougou in the Central Province of Guanaya. He thought, smilingly, of his erstwhile buddy Hugh Masekela. After four months in the old country, Jimmy had reverted to his roots like a bee-martin to his hole. Remembering Hugh Masekela again, he thought of himself as “The Africanization of Ooga Booga.” Jimmy Jay Leander deemed himself defenseless without his premonitions, and they never ever failed him. But this particular day his prescience did him dirt, deserted him completely, caught him entirely with his guard down, with his trousers lowered, so to speak.
He’d awakened to a sun-blessed day. The meteorologist at radio station WLIB predicted a balmy one in a very late October of the decade of the eighties, of cloudless skies with no sign of any kind of precipitation anywhere in the Western Hemisphere all along the Eastern Seaboard. He’d awakened, that morning, hardened in the middle of him, horny, spry, and chipper, and had gone through his ablution ceremonies, relieved himself, becoming softer, memberwise, showered, brushed his pearlies, singing as he went—OH WHAT A BEAUTIFUL MORNING, OH WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DAY—shaved, stared at the bathroom mirror, admiringly, at himself, at the clean-looking handsomeness of himself, profiling from the right side and the left, then frontally again, as if he still couldn’t believe his own eyes. You vain bastard! he thought, even as he continued to observe himself, admiringly. Clear dark-brown eyes of burning brilliance that seemed to stare beyond the far horizon, singing IN THAT GREAT GITTIN’ UP MORNING now, heavily eyelashed and eyebrowed, fully lipped and perpetually poutish. There had always seemed to be a hidden mischief in the eyes and mouth. He smiled openly now at his extravagant good looks. A mouth crammed full of gleaming pearls, proportioned evenly, except for the two upper front that were slightly larger than their other next-door neighbors, a sensuous mouth that seemed to have an avid appetite for life and living. “You’re the vainest sonofabitch alive!”
Recalling now, nostalgically, his boyhood deep down in the delta of the ’Sippis. He’d been a boy of whom the little girls usually said, “Humph! He thinks he’s cute!” He came out of his nostalgic narcissistic daydream, as he thought of Her Excellency Maria Efwa, and he remembered that he was His Excellency Jaja Okwu Olivamaki, Prime Minister of the Independent People’s Democratic Republic of Guanaya, a.k.a. Himself, a.k.a. the Minister Primarily. He donned his phony beard, drifted into the communal and commodious living room, where they all gathered every morning, exchanging pleasantries, sipping coffee or tea, and munching English crumpets, discussing casually their program for the day. But first of all, he went, as usual, leisurely through the New York Times, front to back, section A (the front page), the Cold War heating up again, as per usual. Israel and the PLO, Poland and His Holiness, rebellion in South Africa. Bombs, rioting. First World people acting up, ungraciously. Ingrates all. After all white folks had done for them. Civilized them. Christianized them. Then leafing through that section unhurriedly till he reached the obituary page, slowing down to a cruising pace now, perusing carefully names and pictures, then sighing deeply, relieved that he did not see his own face or his own name listed, which meant that he was still among the living. (He’d get back to the editorial page later), then to section B (with the sports, the Yankees in a very lengthy losing streak; Mr. October was in Los Angeles; Billy Martin acting up, hired again—fired again), then on to section C (the Wednesday-morning living section, the arts, books, plays, entertainment, a brief go at the morning crossword puzzle), then back to section A and the editorial page. A letter to the editor caught his eye. He could feel the wonderful dark-black eyes of Maria Efwa upon him like the warmth of an African midnight. Perhaps it was a figment of his tremendous wish fulfillment. He felt the soothing of her midnight eyes pervading him with a sweet and overwhelming warmth, as he read:
“Dear Editor: The cowtowing of the American government to the fascists of South Africa is a disgrace to the American people and its interna
tional image. This country has become the buttress of every oppressive government on this earth. If this government withheld its support for one day only, every reactionary regime in the world would come crashing down so loud and instantly, it might very well cause an earthquake of grave and seismometric proportions on the Richter scale.”
He paused and looked around him. He breathed deeply his approval. He mumbled, “Tell it like it EYE ESS is!” He read further.
“Instead of welfare, we have become a warfare state, the world center of munition makers. We are the White Marketeers for Death throughout the universe.
It is time for the American people to wake up and understand who is the real threat to World Peace and the annihilation of all life on this planet. Hooray for the courage of the Roman Catholics of the USA.”
Jimmy Jay shouted softly, “Yeah! Bravo to the Catholic Church. More power to them. Blessed are the peacemakers! God Bless Jesse Jackson!” He had begun to read aloud, and he knew his cabinet was listening now.
“The Star-Spangled Banner has become a right-wing symbol for World Imperialism and counterrevolution, somewhat like the swastika used to be a symbol of fascism and despised throughout the world.”
He stopped reading, momentarily. “Listen to this.” He need not have worried. They were listening with every bit of their aural equipment.
“But back to the neo-Nazis in South Africa. If war breaks out in that unhappy place, and this government goes to war to save the world for “democracy” and against “Godless Communism,” this government will be faced with some very severe and perhaps irreconcilable contradictions, due to the fact that the US Army is in the main a Black army, which will be called upon to go thousands of miles away from home to kill other Black folks in the name of freedom which they do not themselves enjoy back home.”
He stopped and laughed and slapped the paper, and shouted mutedly, “Right on, brother, right on! Or sister, just as likely.” He paused and wiped his perspiring and admiring face. “That’s some dangerous stuff. They killed Martin for messing with their international devilment, and Malcolm too. That’s why they can’t stand Jesse. I hope the cat who wrote this is in another country by now, a million miles away from here. It won’t do him any good. The CIA will hunt him down, even if he’s up there on the moon.”
“They might be able to get some of the Black Uncle Tom majors and colonels and brigadiers, nearing retirement, and bucking for one- and two- and three-star generalships, but the rank and file will say, ‘Hell no! We won’t go!’ And if some of them are forced to go, the damn majors and colonels would be scared to give them armed rifles, not knowing which enemy they would train their rifles on.”
“Goddamn! Goddamn! Goddamn!” the bogus PM mumbled. “The brother or sister is baaad! He’s so bad it’s a wonder he isn’t scared of his own damn self.” He continued to read, mumbling intermittently, “Right on!” . . . “Let it all hang out.” . . . “Go on, with your bad damn self!” . . . “I sure hope the CIA never catches up with your ass. I feel sorry for you if they do!” He looked up at Maria Efwa. “Please ma’am, excuse me language.”
He got up and began to walk the floor. They had never seen him so excited. He continued to read until he came to the signature, read it aloud, absentmindedly, at first. Then he read again, unbelievingly, “James Jay Leander Johnson, Lolliloppi, Mississippi! . . .” His voice trailed away.
“Goddamn! Goddamn! Goddamn! Goddamn!” He fell back in his chair. He was lathered all over with sweat, as if he’d been caught out in the rain in Bamakanougou, unexpectedly, without his British umbrella. He got up and began to walk the floor again.
“That’s your name,” Maria Efwa stated, worriedly.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Jimmy Jay responded.
“Somebody is trying to get you into trouble,” Her Excellency suggested. Her eyes were filled with great concern, larger, darker, deeply dilated now were they.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” His so-called Excellency repeated. He stared incredulously at his name in the paper, as if he thought to stare it into nonexistence. He threw the paper aside. He laughed. He said with exaggerated bravado, “What have I got to worry about? That’s not my name anyhow. I’m not James Jay Leander Johnson from Lolliloppi, Mississippi. I am His Excellency Jaja Okwu Olivamaki, the Prime Minister of the Independent People’s Democratic Republic of Guanaya.” He looked around to them, desperately. He demanded, “Well, am I or am I not?”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “However—yet and still—” Then she asked anxiously, “What are you going to do?”
His Wife’s Bottom suggested, pompously, “Call them, the CIA people, and assure them that someone forged your name. Surely, with your prestige, Your Excellency, they’ll believe—”
Jimmy Jay stared at HWB in disbelief. “What prestige has Jimmy Jay?” Then he said, “They did not forge my name. My so-called prestigious name is Jaja.” Then in a quaking voice he said, “I’m the Pruh-pruh-pruh-pruh-prime damn Minister.”
“Then you have absolutely nothing at all to worry about,” HWB pontificated.
It all came back to him now. The signs were all there, the bad omens, the terrible premonitions. And he had been so wrapped up in Himself, and his smoldering romance with himself, and his unrequited romance with Her beautiful and most majestic Excellency, he had ignored the signs. It had not been a coincidence that he had come in late a couple of nights before and had watched the late-late show, titled The Latter-Day Crusaders, in which a man was being sought and tracked down in the dense rain forest of South America by the CIA. Robert Hedford had thought himself secure, had lived there for a decade with the kindly “natives.” Nobody knew where he was, excepting his mother. He had managed to get word to her, clandestinely, through a surreptitious grapevine. She sets out to find her son, to lay eyes upon him one more time. She goes through the densest of rain forests, like A MESSAGE TO GARCIA, thick and feral and primordial, wild with crawling howling snarling treacherous venomous murderous beasts and reptiles, overcome by tropical heat. You could almost smell the sweaty funk come off the Tee Vee screen. She finally gets to him. He walks toward her overwhelmed with the shock and pleasure of seeing her once more, a thing he’d not dared to dream was possible. “Mother! Mother!” he shouts as she pulls a handgun from her pocketbook and shoots him dead. She, his mother, is the executioner sent by the CIA to dispatch her son to heaven or the other place.
That same day Jimmy had been given a beautiful book written by Counter and Evans, a couple of Black Harvard scientists who had traveled to the inner rain forest of Suriname to reach a tribe of Africans who had lived there for centuries, with their indigenous culture untouched by so-called civilization. I Sought My Brother, a beautiful book of text and pictures. He had been deeply moved. And that same night he had gone to sleep and dreamed. He had put the two experiences together in his dream, the scary movie and the beautiful book, and had come up with a nightmare that awakened him in a damp cold shivering sweat. In his dream, the Organization had tracked him down all the way to the dense forests of Suriname, where he lived happily with his people and Her Excellency Maria Efwa, who was his wife and also was their gracious queen. They had sought him out and found him, but when he faded into the landscape among the indigenous people, and they could not tell him from the other, they decided to wipe out the whole village, which they proceeded to do. He woke up shaking like he suffered from Parkinson’s. He got out of bed and went shakily to the bathroom and took a sleeping pill and washed it down with Scotch and water, a thing he had never done before. And lay there for hours afraid to fall asleep for fear that his nightmare might return. But then the following day, the warmth of Maria’s smile, the mere presence of her, her magnificence, had washed away his premonitions. So that what should have alerted him, the omens and the premonitions, the memory of the nightmare, had forsaken him, because he had forsaken them. Her Excellency was dangerous. Perhaps she was the Great Witch Doctor, the saboteur within their midst.<
br />
He turned to Barra Abingiba. “What in the hell are you laughing at? You said I had nothing to worry about, so long as you were with me. You said you had me well protected.” Perhaps Barra was the ringer in their midst. All that time he’d spent in the States. “What in the hell do you know about the Brotherhood of the Bell?”
“I told you to get your own protection before you left home. But you wouldn’t listen to me. You were a nonbeliever. What brotherhood of what damn bell?”
He listened carefully to Barra’s voice, the blackboard-scraping voice that had offered “martyrdom” to him.
He couldn’t believe he was having this stupid discussion with Barra Abingiba, even as he protested, “I am not a nonbeliever.”
Barra laughed at him again. “You want me to get you in touch with the man?”
He had never noticed the rasping quality of Barra’s voice before.
“What man?” the shaky so-called Prime Minister asked. He did not want to hear the answer.
“The Doctor,” Barra asserted, raspily. “The Witch damn doctor if it pleases you. The baddest Black man on this earth. The CIA doesn’t scare him. He’ll take them on any day in the week. All you’ve got to do is just say the word.” The grating Louis Armstrong voice was there for all to hear, and clear as scraping a blackboard with a rusty knife. His flesh crawled, repeatedly.
Jimmy felt an icy coldness in his mouth. “I’m saying the word. Goddammit, can’t you hear me?” Sweat was pouring from all over him.
Her Excellency had never seen him like this, in such a state. She’d always thought of him as “super cool, laid back,” as Barra Abingiba would have expressed it. She loved him now, albeit brotherly, even as she feared for him. It humanized him, made him more like everybody else. It warmed her toward him. Then she thought, It’s a trick. He knows I’m watching him. And I almost fell for it. Stay on your guard, Maria Efwa. You are a married woman. You must be faithful to the one back home. Be faithful even in your contemplations. “As a man (or woman) thinketh, so is he and so is she.”
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