Midnight and the Meaning of Love

by Sister Souljah

  “Whenever, just let me know,” I told him.

  In my prayers, I had asked that we make it through the night without a rude banging on my front door, a gang of officers coming to take me away for assault with a deadly weapon, my feet and my hands.

  I had known what had to be done since the day that Bangs’s body shook with anger, the night her uncle snatched away her baby. I also knew I had to separate my Umma and my sister from anything that I might do. I knew I had to execute it swiftly and immediately afterward to be joined by one or more people whom I could use as an alibi in case there was an investigation. I knew I needed everyone to see me at that ball game last night and to also see me leave the game along with others. I also was certain that everything could go terribly wrong, but I calmed myself to accept that however it ended up going was how it was supposed to go.

  If Bangs’s uncle hadn’t been at her house, my plan would’ve failed and I would’ve had to leave for Tokyo with the task undone. If her uncle had never come out of the house or stepped through the alley within the amount of time I had allotted myself, then nothing would’ve happened to him. I concluded that if he hadn’t deserved it somehow or if it wasn’t supposed to be me who avenged him for abusing Bangs, then he would have been nowhere in her vicinity. I had faced the dilemma like a complicated riddle. Admittedly, I even tried to excuse myself from doing anything about it. One voice in my mind argued, Bangs is not my wife … If something goes wrong with me defending Bangs, I could miss out on rescuing my real wife, who I do love immensely, and to who I am willingly responsible. Then the same voice argued, Maybe Bangs is in this trouble because of something she did. But in the end, I thought to myself that Bangs’s uncle was worse than a vulture, a creature that at least waits till after a death to pluck and pull at the flesh. Her uncle was a man who did every fucked-up thing he could get away with, because he was confident either that every other man was doing the same thing as him, or every other man was absent, or every other man was too much of a coward to take him out. For me it became a matter that almost wasn’t about Bangs. It was about men needing to check other men and make sure they respect some boundaries and limits. And I knew from the moment that I got here on American soil, in the Brooklyn borough, that some of these niggas just had to go.

  Saturday, May 10th, 1986

  Sunlight came uninterrupted and remained, thankfully. I woke up at 9:00 a.m. I woke Ameer up at 9:30. I saddled him with my duffel bag and a knapsack, before he could even consider washing up or showering in my apartment. I didn’t have the time to give.

  “You carry it. What the fuck is in here, cement?” he asked.

  “I would, but it’s better if you carry it. I don’t want niggas around here to think I am going away. You know the streets. They might get excited and run up into my spot while I’m gone.” I also carried a knapsack on my back.

  “True,” he said, and carried my stuff willingly all the way to the trunk of the taxi.

  “Pull over on the right corner for a minute,” I told the cab driver when we reached the subway entrance.

  “Your meter is running,” he told me in a heavy Indian accent.

  “No problem,” I assured him. I took my backpack off and handed it over to Ameer. “You want to hold something?” I asked him, looking him dead in his eye to convey that it was one of my burners. He paused. “Nothing on it,” I guaranteed him.

  “Hell yeah, word up,” he said calmly.

  “Hold it for me,” I told him. He grabbed the backpack and climbed out of the cab.

  “And be easy,” I added.

  “Later,” we both said at the same time. He slammed the door.

  I saw Ameer walk down the steps to the subway, the knapsack slung over his shoulder as my taxi sped off.

  Chapter 24

  WISDOM

  Even though the two living spaces at the Ghazzali home were separate, the scent of Sudanese foods being prepared was not. The entire place was filled with the warmth of spring and the scents of Khartoum.3

  I placed my duffel down and walked to the back room, looking for Umma. I found her in her new bedroom seated on her blanket, a pen in one hand and surrounded by papers. I wondered why even though I knocked, she did not answer. Gently, I pushed her door open; oddly, she did not look up at me.

  “Umma!” I called.

  She shook her head, used her right hand to move her hair from out of her face, wiped away a few tears, and finally held her head up to face me. Even though I had called out her name, seeing her expression, I couldn’t speak. She looked me over with a slow study.

  “Allah is merciful,” she said. I heard these kinds of words many times, but not with the same kind of sorrow.

  “I had a feeling last night,” Umma said. “In the evening it was just an anxious feeling. Then about ten o’clock at night it was a feeling of great joy. Then less than an hour later, my joy turned to a feeling of vulnerability—like I was in great danger. I was upstairs, myself and Naja and all the Ghazzali women. We were cooking, preparing for today. The men were here in the house, Mr. Ghazzali and his sons. Temirah must’ve noticed something also. As I kneaded the bread, she asked me, ‘Sana, are you feeling okay?’ I said I was, but I wasn’t. It took some seconds for me to search myself. I didn’t want to worry Naja or anyone, so I stepped away. In the bathroom I made a prayer. Even as I was speaking to Allah, my moods were moving, heart racing a bit. When I opened my eyes, I knew I was not in danger. It was you.”

  Standing still in the entrance of her door, I could now feel Umma’s intensity moving inside my chest, stirring inside me.

  “Alhamdulillah! Allah the merciful heard my prayer. You are here!” she said with a muffled excitement.

  I smiled as a look of great relief came over her face. My own tension began to diffuse.

  “You must remember son about the nature of a mother’s heart. Wherever you are in this world, if you are at ease, I am at ease. If you are troubled, I am troubled. This is the nature of true love. So whatever you consider, consider it first in your own mind. Then consider it again thinking only of me. Treat it as if we are one heart, one life, you and I.”

  “Is that the meaning of love?” I asked, finally breaking my silence.

  “True love is like this,” Umma said. “And since Akemi loves you and you love Akemi and she is there and you are here, you must know that true love is like this,” Umma emphasized, but her words also felt like a question placed before me. I thought of Naja, Umma, and Akemi. Afterward, all I could do was agree “Yes, true love is like this.”

  But when I thought further, I said to myself, I’m a man. I don’t have the same emotions as a woman. Those kinds of powerful emotions would paralyze me. Yet for Umma, Akemi, and Naja—I would sacrifice my life.

  “As for the girl with the child …,” Umma said softly, switching topics, to my true surprise. My soul shook. How much could Umma possibly know about last night? I already knew that I would never discuss it with her or anyone else. What’s done is done.

  “Be careful with her. She has already entered your mind. It is a short trip for a woman to enter your heart once she is already in your thoughts.”

  Umma’s bomb exploded inside me. I didn’t react, and Umma didn’t reveal that she was aware of the intensity of her words, although we both knew their strength and impact and meaning.

  “And you already have three women living in your heart—your mother, your wife, and your sister. It is already a lot, for a young, young man. Carry only what you can carry well and properly. The rest must be carried by other men. Each man should do his part.”

  Chapter 25

  FINALLY

  Back to back behind a boys’ baseball team, I boarded Japan Airlines flight 322. I counted eighteen of them, all wearing the exact same jacket, sixteen of ’em teenagers. Even the two male adults had their team windbreakers on. It was warm outside and air-conditioned in the airport, but my head was hot. I had a list of things revolving in my brain while my eyes monitored everything
and everyone, my heart hoping there wouldn’t be one hitch before takeoff, a sudden voice calling me, “Hey, you! Step out of the line!” But it didn’t happen. I had moved smoothly through the scanners, metal detectors, and airport security. So far, so good, I thought to myself.

  When I booked this flight, I had imagined that I might be the only teenager flying, surrounded by two hundred fifty old heads wearing business suits. But I was wrong. It was Saturday, late afternoon and the gate had been filled with all types and ages, a number of teens in T-shirts, all of them organized, quiet, and preoccupied by some toy or technology or book. Some were having excited conversations softer than a murmur and only their faces revealed emotion. Directions were spoken in a soft, polite voice, first in Japanese, then in English.

  I reached my seat, an aisle seat at the bulkhead in coach class, so there was no one seated in front of me. I had room to stretch my legs. I placed two bags in the overhead compartment before sitting down. I loosened the laces on my tan suede Clarks and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my suede Ralph Lauren shirt. I ran my hand over my fresh Caesar cut and fastened my seat belt. I glanced at my Datejust—twenty minutes till takeoff—then I took a deep breath.

  As passengers filed in, searching for their seats and wheeling their carry-ons behind them, I put in my earplugs and turned on my music. I took the black case from my pocket, removed my new Gucci sunglasses, and eased them over my eyes. The darkening of the cabin and all the images that surrounded me soothed me some.

  Sudana had gifted me these and insisted that I open her gift right then and there as she and everyone else watched. I never expected the royal send-off, the gifts and celebration that Umma, Naja, and the Ghazzalis had prepared for me. It was a sweet gesture and a magical meal made with great care and a deep love, from how the dishes were positioned on the table, to the look and garnishings on the food, to the aroma they created in the Ghazzali home. The taste and blend of the spices was Umma through and through. And as she stood there dressed in royal robes that she made and beaded by her hand, it was simple for me to see that this all was an expression of a mother’s true love for her son.

  Despite me being tired and stressed and having an endless checklist churning in my mind, I was moved.

  Tilal Salim, Mr. Ghazzali’s younger son, filmed it all using the camera that Ameer and Chris gifted to me. Then Naja threw the whole place into a frenzy when a frog leaped out of her pocket and onto the table where the food was still being admired. The green creature was lucky he had not leaped into the steaming soup pot.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll catch him. I’ll catch him.” Naja jumped up from her seat and chased it. Umma and Mrs. Ghazzali stood shocked. Mustapha Salim helped Naja while Tilal kept filming and the Ghazzali daughters just laughed.

  “I found him in the backyard,” Naja confessed, cupping the captured frog between her two palms. “Sudana—” Naja began, almost snitching.

  I looked at Sudana. She gave Naja a stern look and placed one finger by her lips.

  Naja understood immediately and changed the direction of her talk. “His name is Panic because every time people see him, that’s how they act. But I don’t know why!” Naja said, peeking in at her frog.

  “Naja, put him back outside,” Umma said softly. “And then wash your hands and return to the table.”

  “Yes, Umi Umma,” Naja agreed immediately, exaggerating her obedience. I knew she had a plan. I looked at my sister and smiled, my stress easing some. When Naja and Sudana returned all cleaned up, Mr. Ghazzali said, “Wait, let’s take a photo!”

  “Tilal is already filming,” Basima, his eldest daughter, pointed out.

  “A photo with my camera,” Mr. Ghazzali insisted, pointing out that the movie camera would be leaving with me when I left.

  As everyone stood and merged together for the photo, I looked toward Umma, who was looking toward me. A memory as swift and impossible to catch as lightning flashing through a cloud shot through my mind, and I was certain it shot through Umma’s also. It was a memory of our last night living in the Sudan, though no one knew it would be our last. Our big family was gathered together. A photographer who my father had hired called out suggestions for how each of us should sit or stand to be captured in his lens. We were all dressed in our best. My father, seeming taller than a tree and more important than the sky, had his three wives and most of our family present.

  Mr. Ghazzali clicked three photos. He then handed his camera to his wife, gathered all of us men, and Mrs. Ghazzali clicked a photo of Mr. Ghazzali, myself, and Mustapha and Talil. Then we all prayed and ate together.

  Afterward we all resisted the power of sumptuous handmade food and spices that pushed people into relaxed postures. Umma and the other females piled gifts for me onto the table where only the desserts remained. Mr. Ghazzali leaned on me to get moving or risk missing my 6:00 p.m. flight. Mustapha and Talil loaded my luggage into the trunk of their taxi while Umma and I excused ourselves and went downstairs to speak privately.

  “I went to Queens this morning to check on our new house,” I told her. “Mr. Slurzberg is an interesting man.”

  “What happened?” Umma asked.

  “Him and his wife were sitting on the porch doing nothing. The wife offered me some water. I accepted her offer because I wanted to go in and see how they were progressing with moving out.”

  “And?,” Umma said.

  “The place looked exactly how it did when you saw it, nothing packed away and a mess.”

  “What did they say about it?” Umma asked.

  “I told Mr. Slurzberg if he didn’t move out on time he would have to refund the rush fee that I paid him.

  ” Umma laughed. She knew the ending of my short story.

  “Mr. Slurzberg said, “I have six days and six hours left. In six days, six hours and one minute this place will look like we were never here.” We both laughed.

  Umma slid me a final gift. “This is for Mr. Nakamura, a gift from your father.”

  I looked into Umma’s eyes, knowing that she had gift wrapped one of my father’s possessions for a man who she hoped would accept her son properly into his family. I understood my Umma’s heart, but in this matter I did not share her sentiments. I accepted the gift with mixed and incomplete thoughts about how I would handle it.

  “Okay, Umma, I’m about to go now. I love you.” I looked around. “You have the keys, money in your purse, and a safe place. You will be driven everywhere and watched over. You have everything,” I said.

  “Except my son.” She said tearing.

  I embraced my mother strongly and kissed her cheek, whispering in her ear, “Don’t worry, I will return to you, inshallah.”

  * * *

  The plane began moving forward slowly. It picked up speed until it was moving so quickly that it seemed to be standing still and we lifted into Allah’s sky.

  Through my dark sunglasses, I surveyed the area of the cabin where I was seated. Every seat seemed occupied, and the crowd was almost completely Japanese. As the air conditioning blew out above each seat, some people wrapped themselves in blankets. A few passengers reclined their seats. Some slid black face masks over their eyes to seclude themselves. Some men read newspapers and other people read books. There was a fourteen-hour flight ahead of us, and people seemed the opposite of anxious. They appeared relaxed and well prepared.

  Here was a place so different from my Brooklyn block. No matter young or old, everyone on board was going somewhere for a specific reason and had paid a premium price. Everyone was peaceful, probably hoping for the same thing, a safe flight.

  My side seat tray was down already.

  “Would you like a drink?” the polite, petite flight attendant asked. She was the only European, blonde, her blouse crisp and spotless, her hands clasped in front of her, the same as the Japanese flight attendants working the aisles. The drink cart was behind her. I pulled one of my earplugs out.

  “No, thank you,” I answered, holding down my stack of index car
ds in my left hand and my marker in my right hand. My English-to-Japanese word and phrase dictionary was laid out on the tray.

  She smiled and asked, “Will you teach yourself Japanese in”—she checked her watch—“thirteen hours?”

  “No, just a few words,” I replied with a smile. She smiled back and turned to serve the passengers seated across from me, using both English and the Japanese language with ease. There was a pattern of requests for green tea by the elders and diet Coke by the young. Businessmen requested drinks—Asahi, which is a Japanese beer, sake, and hard liquor as well.

  I went back to thinking of the most useful words and phrases that I needed to know while moving around in Japan. Then I’d look them up in English and learn the Japanese translation. I’d write it down on the index card in Japanese on the front of my cards. Then I’d write the answer key in English on the back of the card. So far, I had completed 52 study cards and I was aiming for around 100 or 150.

  “Mido, I’m Yuka,” some girl said to me. She was walking past my seat for the second time. “Let’s trade music,” she offered with excited eyes. “You are listening to music, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I answered.

  “So let’s trade. I’m in seat 42A on the aisle right up there.” She pointed to a more forward area, but I believed it was still part of the coach section.

  “What kind of music are you listening to?” I asked her.

  “You’ll see, here.” She handed me her headphones that she had been wearing around her neck like a necklace. She used her left hand to touch the wire of my earphones, so sure that I would lend them to her. So I did.

  “Arigato!” she said softly with great excitement. She then continued forward toward her seat, her slim legs swishing in some new Levis. She wore black Adidas on her feet and rocked her small purse on her backside instead of in front of her or on her side like most American girls did.