The Minister Primarily

by John Oliver Killens

  One thing was certain. For bad or for worse, Lolliloppi, Mississippi, would never ever be the same.

  25

  The stewardess had cautioned them to fasten their seat belts. Delta Airlines. They were in final descent over Jackson-of-the-Big-Sipp. There was no one aboard the plane excepting His Excellency and his entourage and his own SS persons and good old Carlton Carson and his henchpersons. Mississippi, he thought. ’Sippi! The Big Damn Sipp! A chill danced swiftly across his shoulders. His stomach percolated. In a very few minutes he would be home. Home! Fifty-three miles from the place that birthed him. He was happy. He was saddened. He was exultant. He was scared. He thought of Brother Malcolm. “The chickens were finally coming home to roost.” He smiled, remembering Louis Jordan. “Ain’t nobody here but us chickens.” He reached out toward the beautiful one who sat beside him, took her hand and squeezed it, and she returned him squeeze for warming squeeze. It was a pity Her Excellency was married and never forgot that she was married. He felt profoundly sorry for himself. But then there was always Debby Bostick, on the sidelines. Perhaps not always. She was not the kind to hang around forever. She didn’t have to. All that beauty and intelligence housed in one great superstructure.

  Thousands were out at the airport, white, Black, Red, men, women, and even little children. A kind of homecoming he could never have imagined or even dreamed of just six months ago. Against his will he felt his eyes filling up. Tears of sorrow? Tears of joy?

  They were deplaning now, and the folks were cheering, and a great big band was playing DIXIE. Somehow it moved his fervent heart to laughter.

  On the ground now, on the sweet Black Sippi earth now, it was almost like he remembered feeling when he first deplaned at Bamakanougou. Homecoming. From the Jackson airport they flew into Lolliloppi via a custom-made especially constructed bullet-proofed helicopter and came down in front of the Rob Lee Hotel where they would be stopping during their stay in Lolliloppi. Mobs of people thronged both sides of the street. As they deplaned from the chopper, an elderly colored gentleman dashed suddenly from the crowd and broke past the police security toward the ersatz Prime Minister shouting, “Jimmy boy! Jimmy boy!” And almost caused our hero to start a liberation movement in his trousers, an accident he narrowly averted, as the police dragged the old gentleman away, where they would keep him under lock and key until the Guanayan delegation had left old Lolliloppi. An incident that did not go unnoticed by crafty Carlton Carson, whose bulbous nostrils (à la Wallace Beery) were still on the lookout for the rotten fish in the Denmark woodpile or convoluted metaphors to that effect. Carlton Carson would visit old Jeb Robinson nightly in the Lolli hoosegow. He had a sudden revelation that the answer to the mystery of His Excellency was hidden somewhere here in Lolliloppi, not in fishy rotten Denmark. He sometimes thought his sudden revelations, his brainstorms, were sent to him from Up on High by the Big Man Up There. He therefore believed religiously in his sudden revelations.

  During their brief sojourn in Lolliloppi, the Guanayan delegation went everywhere by armored chopper, even if it were no more than three doors from the Rob Lee Hotel. “Cawnt take no chawnces with these Hawnkies,” Alabama-born Mamadou Ben-Hannibala was overheard to comment in the strangest accent ever uttered since prehistoric Homo sapiens graduated from signs to “ughs” to this and that.

  The Biltmore Restaurant where they were to have dinner that first evening was four doors down the street from the Rob Lee Hotel. At precisely 7:30, they came down on the elevator from their penthouse executive-suite’ed apartment on the fifth skyscraping floor and in true military fashion led by Mamadou Ben-Hannibala, they sashayed across the lobby. Outside, Lolliloppi’s finest had formed a tunnel of protection from the hotel to the restaurant. But instead, Ben-Hannibala convoyed them to the armored helicopter, and they got into the copter. White and Black folks stood on the opposite sidewalk staring wild-eyed as they heard the motor sputter and watched the blades of the copter turn furiously, lift from the ground only to, a half of a minute later, come to earth in front of the Biltmore Restaurant at Main Street and Fifth Avenue. At which point Mamadou and his folks formed their own tunnel of security from the copter to the entrance to the restaurant. The white folks scratched their heads, in panic. The Black folks smiled with admiration.

  All during dinner, two white men of the famous LPD stood nearby lengthwise, north and south of the long rectangular table and tasted every item of the greasy down-home cooking, before it came to rest upon the dining table. Four Guanayan SS persons stood at attention, rifles at the ready, ringing the outer perimeter from all sides, north, south, east, and west. The more hours spent in old Lolli by the Guanayans, the closer the white citizenry verged on uncontrolled hysteria, the nearer Himself came to a nervous smashup.

  * * *

  Early on, it had become clear that the Grand Visitation would be overpopulated due to the fact that hundreds of counterfeit invitations had been printed and sold (sometimes on the corner of Main and Yazzoo) for fifty bucks apiece. In an act of divine inspiration and desperation, they had hurriedly thrown up a giant tent à la Bailey and Barnum, as His Wife’s Bottom would have described it, and they moved the circus (change that to reception) way out on the outskirts of town. All of Lolli’s finest were on duty, including the fire department, the FBI, the CIA, and the Secret Service. NBC, ABC, CBS, and all the national and local networks were in attendance at this Grand Occasion.

  Coming down on the elevator that memorable evening with Maria Efwa at his side, in her elegant gown with her blouse of colorful kente cloth and a long flowing skirt of golden silk, the elevator was so jammed with security persons of all ethnicities and denominations, it got stuck between the fourth and third floors. The elevator twitched with a tension that was demon-instigated. Obviously. Jujued, for days, perhaps from here, unto eternity.

  The Chief-of-Police’s voice, intending to be the voice of calm, said tremulously, “No cu-cu-cause to panic, folks, no cu-cu-cause at all to panic. Just a slight cah-cah-case of mal-fuck—I mean mal-functioning. Pu-pu-push the lobby button, Lee-roy.”

  Leroy pushed the lobby button, which had the effect of shaking the elevator up and down and sideways, somewhat like an airplane when it runs into a thunderstorm. Then it settled quietly into immobility.

  Meanwhile, suspecting Caucasian skullduggery and even hanky-panky, four Guanayan SS persons formed a square ring around Her and His Excellencies, pushing those on the outer perimeter rudely further up against the wall, at the same time causing His and Her Excellencies to assume an ever-closer attitude of togetherness. His Excellency’s face flushed painfully and broke out in a perspiration of embarrassment, as he felt his thumping thighs up against her soft and tender slimness and felt her sweet warm breath against his neck, and felt himself growing shamefully hard against the middle of her. He mumbled, “I’m sorry,” to her. But the middle of him, full of mannish mischief as it was and always and forever was, felt no sorrow whatsoever. Grew resolutely even harder every ticktock of infinity. Her sweet face glowed with perspiration, as she whispered that she understood. At the same time, she tried to maneuver herself into a more uncompromising position, but it availed her naught, because the more she stirred herself the more mischievous Himself became down there where the tension was more furious than ever.

  Panic in the voice now of the chief of Lolli’s finest. “Try it again, Lee—roy. Pu-pu-pu-push the lobby button.” Leroy pu-pu-pu-pushed the lobby button. This time the elevator shook like the ravings of a caged and enraged elephant.

  Optimistic cries of “It’s going this time!” “I knew we’d get it started!”

  Just as it settled as before into a state of immobility and quietude, somebody screamed, “It’s them Africans! Them African niggers! This damn thang is hainted!”

  Meanwhile the tension grew more excitedly between Her and His Excellencies. It was as if the lines of communications had broken down between his mental faculties atop and his mannish mischievousness down under.

&n
bsp; “Pu-pupupush the panic but—I mean the emergency button, Lee—roy!”

  Leroy pushed the panic button.

  “What’s the matter in there?” A slow-syrupy voice came as if from out of nowhere.

  “We stuck in here—between the third and fourth floors, Nicodemus.”

  “Rajah,” Nicodemus responded, complacently. “Nicodemus to the rescue. Hold your water, folkses. Rajah.”

  The so-called Prime Minister thought to himself, I thought only colored folks named their children names like “Nicodemus.” Her sweet breath was coming heavily now onto his nervous neck.

  * * *

  Ultimately, the elevator, huffing and puffing, shaking like Saint Vitus, made its way down to the lobby, due somehow to a combination of the white man’s technology and the African’s Juju, or whatever. In any event, when they reached the lobby, there were murmurs of ecstatic admiration all over the place as Her and His Excellencies glided across the lobby toward the entrance, where long black limousines outside were waiting, patiently. Excitement—Wow! Flashbulbs popping.

  When they reached the mobs of folks outside there was a mix-up that verged upon becoming a racial incident. Across the street from the hotel the famous KKK had thrown up an impressive picket line, with signs that suggested bad forebodings. Signs that read

  MAYOR HARDTACK HAS BETRAYED HIS SACRED TRUST

  TO WHITE SUPREMACY.

  A NIGGER IS A NIGGER IS A NIGGER DON’T

  CARE WHERE HE COME FROM.

  THE KLU KLUX KLAN WILL RIDE AGAIN!

  The Klansmen stood over on the opposite side of the street, white-robed and white-masked underneath their pyramidal white hoods, armed to the teeth and elbows with their rifles at the ready.

  An odd excitement took over His Excellency’s sensations that had naught to do with fear. His face creased into a smile of confidence. He reached out toward Her Excellency and took her warming hand in his own warm hands and whispered, “Not to worry.”

  His Wife’s Bottom’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets, as he recalled all the horror stories he had heard about the ’Sippis. Foreign Minister Mamadou Tangi smiled arrogantly and unperturbed. He heard Cool Horace Whitestick say, unmistakably, “The shit is ’bout to hit the fan.”

  At which point the two entourages separated. It had not been the mayor’s intention that they should not be integrated. Mayor Rufe had organized a tunnel of policemen from the hotel to the limousines through which the entourages were supposed to walk, in safety in the spirit of togetherness. But Mamadou Ben-Hannibala had, as per usual, formed his own tunnel of protection that led inevitably to the armored helicopter. His Excellency’s heartbeat quickened, as he heard Ben-Hannibala order, loudly and distinctly, “LIBERATION PLATOON! CLOSE RANKS!” As they moved in more closely around His Excellency’s entourage. After they had deposited each of them into the helicopter, Her Excellency being first of course, followed by the Minister Primarily, they turned their attention to the famous Ku Klux Klan.

  “LIBERATION PLATOON, PRESENT ARMS!”

  “PLATOON, ATTENTION!”

  “ASSUME THE POSITION!”

  Whereupon most of the platoon knelt with their rifles aimed across the plaza at the famous KKK.

  “LIBERATION SQUAD, FORWARD MARCH!”

  About a dozen of Mamadou’s persons (men and women) marched across the plaza to where the KKK stood transfixed. His Excellency watched the proceedings from the vantage of the helicopter thinking to himself, Old Mamadou Ben-Hannibala truly got his Juju working!

  When Mamadou reached the other side of the street, he walked, militarily, up to the wide-shouldered six-footer who stood in the center of the group. Tapped him on the shoulder with his riding crop.

  “I believe you’re the Grand Dragoon of this motley collection of Neanderthals, Sire.”

  The wide-shouldered six-footer was speechless, temporarily. Finally, he answered, “You-you-you gu-gu-gu-got that right, buh-buh-buh-boy.”

  Mamadou Ben-Hannibala reached out with his riding crop and disengaged the hood from the red-faced white man, unmasking him before the world and Mississippi. “And you, Sire, are Rayfield Willingham of the Willingham Department Store, so-called.”

  Ben-Hannibala went down the line from red-faced white man to shocked red-faced white man, unmasking each of them and calling them by name and occupation. For the rest of their born days and lives they would always believe in Juju and witchcraft and Black magic and mojo and roots and so forth and so on. The last little biddy beady-eyed red-faced cracker squeaked the question. “But how do you know us all by name?”

  “Elementary, my boy. We got you simple-assed crackers covered. We got you infiltrated. One of your stupid sapsuckers belongs to us. Plus, we got our Juju working.”

  * * *

  Everywhere His so-called Excellency turned that evening he found dear Evaline Gertrude at his elbows. He thought he sometimes heard her mumbling, “Or heads will fucking roll,” but he knew he must have been mistaken; that is, until he thought he heard Mayor Hardtack mumbling, “Or fucking heads will fucking roll.” The Big Tent reminded him of springtime and Barnum and Bailey at the Garden; Madison Square, that is. Music all over the place, B. B. King, Big Joe Williams, the Clancy Brothers, Lena, Nina, and Aretha. Black and white folks comingling freely, genuinely enjoying themselves and each other and at that moment he thought of Martin. He thought of Jesse and his Rainbow Coalition.

  FREE AT LAST! FREE AT LAST!

  He thought, at this moment, Blacks and whites were free at last, and even though it lasted only one-hundredth of a moment at this point in time and space, it will have been worth the trip for him. He wouldn’t let the Klan incident outside the hotel spoil the trip for him. Guanayan flags hanging all over the place. Pictures of Jimmy Jay Leander Johnson hanging, not in effigy. Whites and Blacks dancing together in Mississippi! The irony of it caught him in the throat and shoulders, welling his eyes with shamefaced tears. He dried them slyly. Her Excellency’s hand went out to him beneath the table and squeezed it warmly as if to tell him that she understood. Now it was time for the ceremonies to begin.

  Speech after speech about how much progress the races had made together, due to good old southern hospitality, which was traditional. Jimmy Jay realized that in his own way, Mayor Hardtack was serious, possibly sincere even. He actually believed that progress had been made. And perhaps it had. All the mayor’s life he had been brought up to believe that Blacks were inferior to white folks. Jimmy Jay’s trip back home made the mayor take another look at all those truths he had taken (from his mama’s breasts) to be self-evident.

  Then Big Joe Williams and Lena Horne came to the dais and sang together, and Jimmy Jay was overcome with a flood of memories. All the southern great ones gone but not forgotten, especially as the two sang:

  I was born by the river

  In a little tent,

  And just like the river

  I’ve been running home ever since.

  Lena, sweet, petite, and beautiful Lena, dedicated her participation to Medgar Evers and Bessie Smith. Big Black formidable sweet-singing Joe Williams dedicated his to the great Sam Cooke and Bessie.

  Jimmy Jay thought of Sam Cooke and Otis Redding and Ledbetter and all the other great ones.

  It’s been a long time coming, but I

  know a change gon come.

  He could not fight back the tears building in his shoulders up through his face and forming in his eyes. He was no longer His so-called Excellency, he was James Jay Leander Johnson, Mississippi orphan Black boy, listening to a jukebox in a country store. Sam Cooke wailing.

  A long time coming,

  But I know, yes I know

  A change gon come.

  His people had given so much beauty to this land and received so little in return. Indignities, rejection, death at an early age. Bessie Smith bleeding to death on a southern road because the hospital turned back the Empress of the Blues, because she was Black.

  He remembered the handsome d
ignified Black man, Dr. Drew, at Howard U., who saved so many American lives with his contribution to blood plasma, only to lose his own life on another southern road because a white hospital refused him accommodations.

  He took a silken handkerchief from his boubou and pretended to be sneezing as he slyly wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He stared out at the Black and white faces, dancing together, crying, shouting, jumping for joy. He understood Sam Cooke and all the others more than ever before. More than anything else he understood profoundly the deep faith of his people. It may be a long time coming, but now he knew, he understood, profoundly.

  A change gon come, God was not through with Jesse Jackson yet.

  Before he felt the touch of her hand, he sensed her reaching out again toward him beneath the table. Maria Efwa’s hand took his in hers and they squeezed each other’s warmly. It was as if they were on the same wavelength and always had been since time began. And amid all the shouting and the clamor, nothing else had meaning. A change was going to come, and they would share the change together.

  Everywhere His so-called Excellency turned that evening he found ever-faithful Evaline Gertrude near him with those great big beautiful eyes that always seemed astonished, which made our hero extremely nervous. Jimmy Jay, a.k.a. His Excellency, was seated at the banquet table on the raised platform when he suddenly became aware that someone was playing footsie with him. He never knew he had such irresistible sexy ankles until this historic trip to the good old USA. He turned nervously to the left of him and realized that it was the dainty right foot of the angelic-looking daughter of Mayor Rufus Hardtack. She was seated between her papa and the Minister Primarily. Maria Efwa sat beside him on the other side. Himself broke into a cool damp sweat, which made the good mayor wonder at the perspiration pouring from the PM’s forehead. Why would an African be sweating in an air-conditioned tent?