Black Power: The Superhero Anthology
EDITED by BALOGUN OJETADE
Copyright © 2017 Balogun Ojetade
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1542694582
ISBN-13: 978-1542694582
DEDICATION
I dedicate this anthology to Orrin Cromwell Evans, president of All Negro Comics and co-creator – along with his brother, George J. Evans – of Lion Man (1947), the first Black Superhero (and the superhero Stan Lee stole borrowed HEAVILY from in the creation of the Black Panther in 1966). Until lions have their own storytellers, stories will always glorify the hunter.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments
i
1
Heroes
1
2
Fall of the Caretaker
19
3
Are You Experieced?
37
4
Ghost
54
5
Capes at the End of the World
8
6
Where Monsters Roam
99
7
Blue Spark and the Gentle Giantess
104
8
Gotta Go!
124
9
New Elements
139
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Real Monsters
Glascock
Django Unplugged
Nikia the Pandora
Shadowboxer: Neutral Corners
Black Licorice
In Need of a Friend
Brianna’s Interlude
A Monstrous Journey
The Superhero’s Fatter Cousin
Tally Marks
160
168
190
214
220
245
279
304
319
338
356
FOREWORD
Two words thrown around in popular culture with little regard for substantive reasoning: Divas and Heroes. Merely reaching a high note doesn’t make one a diva nor does reaching supersonic speed or altering time and space make one a hero. Just as we should understand there is so much more to diva-osity, there is a social complexity to what makes and who is deemed…a hero. Layered nuances of heroism are explored in this literary collection; layers of heroic definitions, heroic apprehensions, and consequences of heroic proportions. Complementing and complicating the layers is the infusion of soul; the clash of heroic sensibilities interwoven with perspectives from the oft-overlooked lens of the Black diaspora.
An inquiry of the word Hero in online search engines produces the typical representations promoted by mass media. To find an image that remotely resembled the heroic dreams and values of a people who, throughout their history, could have used someone to swoop down, puff a barreled chest, and allay fears of injustice and oppression. The image of that hero was sparse, if not absent altogether.
Our heroes were real. They shed blood, stood alone, and in most cases, suffered the ultimate sacrifice for the right and the righteous. We were fortunate to have them because the heroes of our creation, the ones whose lives, philosophies, actions, and interactions from the surreal to the outlandish, rarely saw the light of day; not in print, on shelves, and definitely not in the collective cultural consciousness.
Today is a different day! Today is a better day. A day of greater access, control, production, and distribution. We bring to a world stage the heroes who are the hopeful manifestations of our values and beliefs. Heroes defined by our perspectives and experiences. A heroic amalgamation of strengths, foibles, sinisterness, and folly without apologies, explanation, or need for outer-cultural approval. To date, many of the heroes given to us have existed as orphans in the world. Nomads who appeared to serve as extensions or add-on features in an alien world that looks like ours…but today is a different day.
As you experience this anthology, page by page, you will enter spaces of the creative, inventive, and intellectual. Within the words, the cool, hip, and ‘round the way elements adds flavor to the familiar bam, pow, and whap. In your mind’s eye, you will hear dialects that conjure images…images without the need to be darkened by colored pencils just to make them palatable. Whether the action takes place on a different plane of existence, on one square city block, or in the infinite of space, you will know that you are there because the heroes we create…be us.
Guy A. Sims, Ed.D.
Revelation, the Brotherman Graphic Novel
Living Just A Little: A Novel
The Cold Hard Cases of Duke Denim series
HEROES AGAIN
Balogun Ojetade
ONE
Akin leaned back on the loveseat and kicked his boots up on the old oak coffee table before him.
The woman sitting beside him pressed her sock-covered feet against his thick thigh and thrust her legs into locked position.
Akin’s legs flew off the table. His feet landed on the hardwood floor with a thud.
“Hey!” Akin protested.
The woman inspected the table. “You better not have scratched my table, Akin!”
“Afrikah, you trippin’,” Akin said. “Ain’t no scratches on that old table that weren’t already there. Speakin’ of scratch, though…on the real, there’s some serious scratch to be made in exorcisms.”
“I thought you were a Babalawo,” Afrikah said. “Or a Yoruba priest, or whatever you call it.”
“Best damn Babalawo you’ll ever meet,” Akin said. “And what you mean, ‘whatever you call it’? How is your name ‘Afrikah’ and you don’t know?”
“My mama named me ‘Afrikah’,” she said, pursing her lips. “You already know that, though. And I said ‘Babalawo’, so obviously I know a little something.”
“What do you know?” Akin asked.
“I know Ricky Martin is a Babalawo, too,” Afrika said. “And Forest Whitaker.”
“Okay, I see you’ve been googling,” Akin said. “Anyway, Christ Holiness Cathedral ain’t got a monopoly on dealin’ with demons, we do exorcisms, too. But the key is to make that loochi. Now, the way to get paid doing exorcisms is this: you find a big church, with a mostly white congregation and get them to invite you in.”
“Why a white church?” Afrikah asked.
“‘Cause white churches spend money on exorcisms,” Akin answered. Black folks see a possessed congregation member, they run…or rebuke him in the name of the Lawd.”
Afrikah laughed.
“You tell ‘em you’re a visiting pastor who’s anointed with a special gift to sniff out and exorcise demons,” Akin went on. “Tell ‘em you want to have a special meetin’ where you will share with them what the Lord has blessed you with. Wednesday nights are good; white folks spend big money on hump day…that’s a well known fact.”
Akin jumped up from the couch, clapping his hands. “Make sure to build up a little advance publicity a week or two ahead of time. Warn them about how demons slowly take hold of their victims, infecting them with their hunger…all demons got some kind of hunger – drugs; sex; gamblin’; even goin’ to church. That gets ‘em all turnt up, to where they can’t help wonderin’ if Aunt Becky or little Bobby Earl is possessed by Ol’ King Peacock, hisself.”
Afrikah peered at Akin side-eyed. “How much do you charge those folks for that ‘special meeting’, Akin?”
“Who said anything about money?” Akin s
aid with a sly smile. “The demonstration is free. You just work your hoodoo and those demons will pop out of those white folks like D’s in a training bra. That’s when you pass the plate a couple times and stack them chips!”
“How are you going to exorcise any demons when you don’t even believe in Hell?” Afrikah said, shaking her head.
“Who says demons come from Hell?” Akin replied. “The Book of Job, first chapter says: ‘The sons of God came to present themselves before the Lord, and Satan was also among them.’”
Afrikah raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re saying demons come from Heaven?”
“And Earth,” Akin replied. “People manifest extraordinary abilities every day. They use those powers for good, bad and in between. Do enough bad with what you got and you’re as much demon as any from the Christian Hell. What do you think of that, Afrikah?”
“I think a lentil burger and sweet potato fries would hit the spot right about now,” Afrikah replied.
The bridge of Akin’s nose wrinkled. “Ew. Vegan food depresses me.”
“Whatever,” Afrikah said, rolling her eyes. “Let’s go to the waterfront. You can get that grilled fish you like and I can get what I like.”
“Ok, let’s go,” Akin said. He reached in the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a ring with a car key and a house key attached. He tossed it to Afrikah. “You drive.”
***
Akin and Afrikah sat at the waterfront enjoying great food from the popular Waterfront Eatery. Afrikah claimed to love the food, but Akin suspected she really just wanted to go there all the time in hopes of getting discovered by some big time movie director or actor. Akin had to admit, Afrikah was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen and her acting skills were top notch. They should be, he had paid nearly a hundred thousand dollars for her combined education at Columbia University – where she earned her MFA in Theatre – and at the Sidney Poitier School of Acting, where she received private instruction from the iconic master actor.
The money was well spent, however. Afrikah was one of the best grifters in the business, though she preferred to see her cons as simply acting, not criminal acts.
Afrikah was a good person, too. It was only she and his spiritual beliefs that kept Akin from going completely off the rails, spiraling downward into a life of total darkness. He wanted her; to make her his wifey, if not his wife. There were only three things stopping him: she was already married; she was married to his best friend; and although his best friend was locked up on a twenty-five year bid, with no chance of parole, his friend fully expected Afrikah to wait for him until he got out and had made Akin promise to keep suitors away until his return home.
Akin watched two speedboats race across the water, a common sport for the young, affluent Blipsters – Black Hipsters – who lived in the area.
A homeless man shambled past Akin and Afrikah. Akin held out his plate of fish and hash browns to the man. The man took it, grinning toothlessly as he issued thanks and well-wishes.
“What’s with you tonight, man?” Afrikah said. “You never give anything to the homeless; and food you barely touched? What’s up?”
“Filled with the Holy Spirit, I guess.” Akin said with a shrug.
“Don’t blaspheme, for Christ’s sake,” Afrikah said. “This is me, Akin, remember? Afrikah Baptiste, from Simpson Road, not one of your marks. And…”
The crash sounded like a bomb going off.
The boat lurched over the boardwalk. It took to the air, just barely grazing Akin, but slamming, full force, into Afrikah before crashing into an old oak tree.
Akin grunted as he struggled against the darkness trying to overtake him. He looked over at Afrikah. Her head lolled forward.
“Afrikah, you all right?” He groaned. “Baby? You all right?”
She moaned like someone refusing to be roused from sleep.
“Afrikah! Say something!” He cried.
Akin was answered with silence.
A heavyset man appeared at Afrikah’s side. He looked to be around forty, with a thick beard but no mustache. His face was nearly as black as his beard and he breathed through his mouth. His beard was wet as if he had just been on the water.
Akin pulled himself to his knees. The darkness was fading. He touched Afrikah’s neck. He felt a pulse. He breathed a sigh of relief.
“Don’t try and move her yet,” the bearded man cautioned. “Best wait on the ambulance.”
“Call 911. Please,” Akin begged.
“I already did,” the man said.
“Are you the guy that hit us?” Akin asked.
“Hell no,” the man replied. I was the Good Samaritan that pulled over to help y’all.”
“Good Samaritan…you a church-going man?” Akin asked, instinctively.
“Yes, sir, I am,” the man replied. “I’ve been a member of Christ Holiness Cathedral all my life.”
“That big church in Fayetteville?” Akin said, shocked. “That’s a white church, isn’t it?”
“God sees no color, friend,” the man said. “Nor should the man of God.”
“Amen, brother!” Akin said. “Brother, I would like to visit your church sometime. What is your name?”
“My name’s Timothy Robinson,” the man said.
“Pleasure to meet you, Brother Timothy,” Akin said shaking his hand. “I’m Reverend A.J. Pearl.”
“Reverend?” Timothy gasped. “It’s an honor!”
Akin felt Afrikah stir. She was conscious. Her eyes were still closed because, obviously, she was on board with his grift.
He turned his gaze skyward, placed one hand on Afrikah’s forehead and one on her abdomen and prayed loudly. “Lord, resurrect and heal this woman – thy faithful servant, Lord. Restore her soul into her broken body… heal all her broken bones, torn tendons and damaged ligaments! Rebuild the flesh torn asunder in this terrible accident and take away her pain and suffering! In Thine Holy Name we pray…amen.”
“Amen!” Timothy echoed.
Afrikah sat bolt upright. She raised her hands high and waved them. “I…I was headed toward a bright light and I heard your prayers, Reverend. I heard you calling me back and then a voice like still waters said ‘It’s not your time, my child. My servant is calling you back home.’ I’ve been resurrected!”
She sprang to her feet and danced, doing the Whip and the Nene before Akin. “I’ve been healed, praise Jesus!”
Akin stood. He took her hand in his and raised them above her head, echoing, “Praise Jesus!”
Timothy’s mouth hung open in awe. “I ain’t never seen no man perform a miracle like that!” he gasped. “You…you brought her back from the dead, right before my eyes!”
“Only God can raise the dead,” Akin said. “Give God the praise.”
“Praise Jesus!” Timothy shouted at the night sky. “Praise his Holy Name!”
Akin placed his hands on Timothy’s shoulders. “The Lord got a message for you, Brother Timothy.”
“For me? Really?” Timothy said, startled.
Akin nodded. “He says he forgives you. He knows you caused that poor soul over there to crash his boat on purpose… ‘cause of him sleepin’ with your wife and all.”
Timothy took a step backward from Akin. Sweat ran down his forehead, over his cheeks and then settled in his beard. “I… um…” he stuttered.
“Now, now, Timothy,” Akin said. “The Lord knows it was a just killin’. He only requires one thing for you to appease him. A simple task, really.”
“Name it,” Timothy said. “I’ll do anything!”
“He just wants you to introduce me to your pastor; that’s all,” Akin replied. “The Lord got a message for him, too.”
“Praise Jesus!” Timothy said, waving a hand. “I’ll get right on it!”
“You do that,” Akin said with a wave of his hand, as if he was shooing Timothy away.
“How can I reach you, to let you know when the meeting is set?” Timothy asked.
�
��The Lord will let me know,” Akin replied. “Now, go!”
Timothy trotted off, singing the Lord’s praises.
Akin turned to Afrikah. “You okay?”
“A little sore,” Afrikah said, tilting her head from side-to-side. “But I’ll be like brand new in a few minutes.”
“Good!” Akin said.
He nodded toward the visitors to the waterfront and to the destroyed speedboat and its unmoving driver. “We’d better get going before people start asking questions. My influence is starting to wear off.”
“Akin?” Afrikah said as they walked away from the scene of the accident.
“Yes?” Akin answered.
Afrikah grabbed the waist of his jeans and lifted him a few inches off the ground as she continued to walk. “If you ever pull a stunt like that again without letting me know first, I am going to shove your nose up your navel. Are we clear?”
“As Crystal, baby,” Akin croaked. “I didn’t plan that. When I picked up on Timothy’s thoughts, I rolled with it. I knew you’d be okay, though. You’ve been through worse.”
Afrikah put him down. “Yeah, but it still hurts like a mother.”
“Apologies,” Akin said.
“So, do you miss it?” Afrikah said.
“Miss what?” Akin said, feigning ignorance.
“You know what?” Afrikah said.
“Look where being a hero landed Milton,” Akin replied. “A brother who saves the world is still just a nigger to these folks.”
Afrikah grabbed Akin’s wrist, stopping him. “But if they knew the good we did that day, maybe they’d see us differently. Maybe Milton wouldn’t be spending damned near the rest of his life behind bars.”
Akin shook his head. “If ‘ifs and buts’ were candies and nuts, every day would be Christmas. We can never let the world know what we can do. Remember what they did to Ben Underwood? To Henrietta Lacks? They hate and fear the weakest of us. Those of us with power, with influence, with abilities they don’t understand, or possess? We’d be murdered outright after they tore us apart to see what makes us tick.”
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