A Particular Kind of Black Man

by Tope Folarin

  During your first few days in Texas, you fell for Boyz II Men, Mariah Carey, Aaron Hall, Whitney Houston, and Michael Jackson. Every night, after you and your brothers prayed, you would flick on the clock radio, close your eyes, and listen. You studied the tunes that emerged from that cheap clock radio harder than anything you were supposed to be studying in school. Soon you had many melodies to accompany your dreams. You no longer needed to create your own personal lullabies.

  Sometimes, when you were listening, time seemed to stop and accelerate simultaneously, sometimes the music embraced you and caused you to forget where you were, who you were, sometimes you felt the music had created you so you could acknowledge its existence. The first time you felt this way was when you heard Lauryn Hill sing. Something came loose in you after you heard “Killing Me Softly,” and you remember wishing you could hear that song, and only that song, again and again.

  * * *

  Do you remember how hard Tayo worked to gain your stepmother’s love? In the beginning she treated you and Tayo the same. When she looked at him her eyes remained blank and cold. When he prepared her favorite okra soup she nodded and smiled vacantly. She slapped him once for bouncing a basketball inside the house. On the rare occasions when she hugged him her eyes seemed to be elsewhere, to be searching for Femi or Ade, anyone but him.

  Do you remember how pleased you were that she was rejecting him just as she had rejected you? Each time she did so you felt a little less alone. You knew it was wrong to enjoy someone else’s misfortune. This did not stop you.

  But Tayo refused to give up. Do you remember how he continued to hug her, regardless of what her eyes said? Do you remember how he continued to smile up at her after he finished his chores? Do you remember how he tickled her feet, and how she laughed, at first as if she was annoyed, and then genuinely? Although it took some time, you saw that the coldness in her eyes was beginning to fade away. That she was beginning to warm to him.

  Soon Tayo began to tell you things about her life that you had never known. Do you remember that day when you and Tayo were playing basketball at the park after school and he casually mentioned that your stepmother’s husband had died in a car accident shortly after Ade was born? You stopped dribbling because you were so shocked. You were breathing hard. As you reached into your pocket for your inhaler Tayo swiped the ball from you and raced to the other side. He stopped at the free-throw line and arced a beautiful shot through the net. He raised his arms. “I won again!” he yelled.

  Do you remember how angry you were with him at that moment? You couldn’t tell if you were upset because you were finally beginning to realize he was better at basketball than you, or because he knew things about her you had never guessed.

  Do you remember the other fragments of information Tayo shared with you in the following days? That her favorite show was Dateline, that she, too, had played basketball when she was young, that she had met your father at a house party in Lagos many years before they decided to get married, that she knew your mother, your real mother, when they were both young girls though they had never been friends, that she missed Nigeria more than she ever thought she would, that every night she dreamed of going back?

  Do you remember how each revelation caused you to become angrier with Tayo? How—though you could never explain this feeling—you felt that he had betrayed you? That he was somehow betraying your other mother, your real mother?

  Do you remember?

  * * *

  Your family moved to another apartment a few months later. By now you and your brothers were listening to the radio constantly. Your mother and father, surprisingly, had little to say. You made sure not to listen around them, but on the rare occasions when your father caught you he would yell at you. You would bow your head while he shouted for a few minutes, but he never took the clock radio when he was done, so you assumed he just didn’t want you to play your music when he was around. You were more than happy to oblige. Your mother sometimes stood by your bedroom door when the radio was on, but she never said a word. She would merely observe you for a few minutes, and then she’d walk away.

  You and Mom no longer spoke to each other as mother and son. You addressed her like she was a random elder to whom you were to show deference and respect, and she responded as if you were a child in need of food, shelter, and occasional correction. On the few occasions when you were in the car with her you didn’t speak much, but she allowed you to fiddle with the car radio as much as you desired.

  In the car she smiled at you every now and then. You felt incredible when she did so. You were surprised to learn that she knew so many of the songs on the radio. Sometimes both of you hummed together.

  Sometimes when you were in the car with your mother you wondered what kind of music your other mother, your real mother, listened to. Thinking about her felt like an illegal act. Your father had told you and Tayo to move on, to leave her in the past. But sometimes you couldn’t help yourself. You wondered if she liked American music. Or juju. Or something else. You wondered if she would hum with you. You wondered if she would let you sing for her. Maybe at the end she would clap loudly and kiss each of your cheeks.

  * * *

  Do you remember that time your father slapped Femi? Dad had just come home from work. You could tell from the way he was walking that he’d had a tough day. He was working at a temp agency because nothing else was available, and sometimes he came home with a smile on his face after spending a day in an office, and other times he came home with dark sweat patches under his arms, smelling like oil and grime.

  Today he smelled horrible, like sweat and oil and sour lemons.

  Femi was watching TV, which was technically OK because he had finished his homework, but you and your siblings knew to stay out of your father’s way after work, to give him a few minutes to cool down. Femi did not move.

  “What are you doing there?”

  “All my work is done,” Femi said. He said this to the TV.

  I know you will never forget the way your father’s eyes went red, how he strode across the living room and raised his hand. The sound is perfectly preserved in your memory, a loud, stunning pop of noise, like a wet kiss, and Femi’s shocked look afterward, his hand cradling his face. And before the tears come you look up and see your mother walking into the room, the expression that crosses her face. You cannot identify it because you have never seen it before. But you know something has changed. Inside her. You’re not sure what it is. But you know.

  * * *

  You made a few friends during your first couple months of school in Cirrilo, and you discovered there were others who loved Boyz II Men and the Fugees as much as you did. One friend, Scott, even handed you Boyz II Men’s latest CD after class one day, only a couple days after you’d mentioned to him how much you loved their music. You thanked him so many times that his face suddenly bloomed a bright shade of red.

  Unfortunately, you had no CD player, so the disc sat on your dresser, collecting dust. You pulled out the liner notes every night after dinner, and you spent your evenings memorizing each lyric, each song, each producer, and you tried to compose the rest of the album—the songs that weren’t on the radio—in your head. You even tried to sing the lyrics the way you thought the Boyz would sing them. Sometimes during these moments you dared to imagine that you were a singer with your own songs on the radio, inspiring others as Boyz II Men and Lauryn had inspired you, because this is what you actually wanted to do with your life, but you knew this would never happen. You had been raised to be practical. To be conventional and conventionally successful. This is why you did not ask your father for a CD player—you knew this would be a step too far. You knew he would tell you to focus on your studies, to stop dreaming stupid dreams, that he might even decide to forbid you from listening to music altogether. So instead you cherished your one CD and polished it nightly. You packed up your dreams and hid them from yourself.

  Somehow, she knew. On your twelfth birthday, after your fa
mily had sung for you and before your father opened up your birthday pizza, your mother tapped his arm and told him to wait. She disappeared into their bedroom and emerged a few moments later with a big box wrapped in brown paper. You and your brothers stared at it.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Dad said, and Mom pointed at you.

  “It’s for you. Open it.” she said, and she motioned toward the box.

  “Mom, how many times have I told you that we cannot do this, that if we buy something for one child we must buy something for everyone . . .” Dad said, but he trailed off when Mom touched his arm again, and then everyone looked at you.

  You stood before the box, and after looking up at your parents again for permission—your father did not return your glance, and Mom nodded encouragingly—you carefully opened the package. Inside was a mini-stereo system with a CD player.

  When you looked up at your mother with amazement, hoping for an explanation, she said, simply:

  “I knew you wanted it, so I got it for you.”

  Everything in you melted. You felt lost in love.

  But then, for some reason, your heart cooled. You put the box down. “Mom, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” you said, looking up at her. You saw that she was trying to tell you something with her eyes. “I really needed this.”

  Your father smiled brightly. Mom nodded.

  “I understand,” she said. “This is just the beginning.”

  That night you played your Boyz II Men CD for the first time. You were surprised that many of the melodies you’d never heard matched up almost perfectly with the versions you’d crafted in your head. You looked up to see your stepmother standing in the doorway. She smiled at you. You finally understood what she was saying to you. With her eyes. In that moment you left your room. You left your house, your city, Texas, you left America, you journeyed into the future, you saw how your relationship with her would evolve, what you would become to her.

  You saw that she had already decided to leave.

  You saw that your time with her was drawing to a close.

  You smiled at each other and in her eyes you recognized the love that would never be.

  GRANDMA + TUNDE

  “Hello, Grandma?”

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Tunde.”

  “Ah! Tunde! How are you?”

  “I’m fine, ma.”

  “I must wish you a happy, happy birthday! I’m sorry I didn’t call you before. The electricity here isn’t reliable.”

  “Thank you, ma.”

  “So how are you doing? How is school?”

  “School is fine, ma.”

  “Is your father there?”

  “He is at work, ma.”

  “And where is Tayo?”

  “Tayo is at school.”

  “What is that noise?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s my new CD player.”

  “What did you say? And why aren’t you at school?”

  “I am sick, ma.”

  “Ah-ah! What is wrong with you?”

  “I just have a cold; I am actually feeling better.”

  “OK. I will be praying for you. You must get better soon.”

  “I will, ma.”

  “All will be well with you.”

  “Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  “Grandma, can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “You might get mad at me.”

  “How can I get mad at you? You are my grandson. There is nothing you could do to me to make me angry.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Ah-ah! Did I not just say I wouldn’t get mad? Ask me your question!”

  “OK. I know this might sound weird, but I just read this book about some aliens.”

  “What are aleens?”

  “People from outer space.”

  “From where?”

  “Space.”

  “Where is space?”

  “I mean from the sky. From outside the Earth.”

  “Which kind books are you reading, now? Is that what they are assigning for you at school?”

  “No, I just like to read about them for fun.”

  “OK-o. I hope you are still keeping up with your studies as you read about the aleens.”

  “I am, ma.”

  “So what is your question?”

  “Well, I just read this book, and one of the people in the book didn’t actually exist—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, this guy was talking to another guy on the phone, and he thought the second guy existed, but he found out by the end of the book the second guy wasn’t real.”

  “Does your daddy know you are reading these kind of books? You should be reading your Bible and your schoolbooks. That is all.”

  “Yes, ma.”

  “OK. Continue telling me about this man.”

  “Well, like I said, the first guy discovered that the second guy wasn’t alive, that the second guy was just a machine.”

  “So what is your question?”

  “Well . . . when I finished reading the book, it kind of made me think about you.”

  “Me, ke?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I know that you are alive, and that you are real, but I’ve never seen you.”

  “And so?”

  “So there was a part of me that was wondering if you actually exist. I mean, I know you exist, but I can’t prove it.”

  “What do you need to prove?”

  “I mean, I’ve never even seen a picture of you!”

  “You want to see a picture of me?”

  “No . . . I mean, yes, I do, but that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Tunde, you will have to forgive me, but I don’t know what you are saying.”

  “All I’m saying is how can I know you are real when I never see you? And how can I be sure that Mom still exists when I never even hear from her?”

  “Tunde, are we talking right now?”

  “Yes, ma.”

  “And do you feel anything for me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what do you feel if I tell you that I love you?”

  “Well . . . I feel good.”

  “So what do you think about that feeling?”

  “I like it.”

  “Does it feel real to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can you love me if you have never seen me?”

  “I don’t know. I just do.”

  “That is right. Sometimes you just have to know. Even if you can’t see something with your eyes.”

  “OK.”

  “So you understand?”

  “I guess.”

  “Are you sure?”’

  “Well . . .”

  “So what is still bothering you?”

  “Well, I’ve been having troubles with my memory recently. I know this might not make sense, but I’ve been remembering things that didn’t happen to me. At first these memories were about things I had just experienced, but now I’m having false memories about earlier periods of my life. I have no idea where they’re coming from, but they’re vivid. Really vivid. Almost like they are not actually memories, but things that are happening to me right now.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, like I know for a fact that my stepmother gave me a CD player for my twelfth birthday. I still have the card she gave me. I even called Dad to ask him the other day and he confirmed it. But . . .”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, for some reason a part of me is convinced that Dad gave it to me right after my stepmom left. I know this isn’t right, that it can’t possibly be right, but it feels real.”

  “I see.”

  “I guess this isn’t such a big deal, but this has been happening to me a lot recently and it’s really starti
ng to mess with me. This is why I’m writing so much now. I’m trying to record my most important memories as quickly as I can so they remain pure. Like I know that you and I had a conversation about aliens and my biological mother, and I know it was incredibly important to me, but I want to make sure I’m getting it right. I want to make sure I’m remembering you, the real you, and not some version of you that never existed.”

  “How long has this been happening?”

  “A few months, I guess.”

  “Well, I think the only thing that matters is that I supported you when you were young. And that my words are still supporting you today. That’s what memories are for. They are meant to sustain you and refresh you. Always remember that your memories are for today, not yesterday. They change because you change.”

  “Yes, ma.”

  “Are you sure you understand?”

  “I think so, ma.”

  “Good. So don’t worry yourself. Everything will be fine.

  “OK, ma.”

  “And now I have a question for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you fighting this?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You said that you can see things that did not happen to you as if they did. Tell me why this is bad?”

  “Because they aren’t my memories.”

  “Have you considered that this might be a gift?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Has it occurred to you that these other memories are showing you something important about your life? Something important that you need to know?”

  “I hadn’t considered that.”

  “Before you discard them or assume you are sick, why don’t you allow them to speak to you?”

  “Because they aren’t real, Grandma.”

  “I am beginning to notice you are very fond of that word. Maybe that is the American in you. Maybe you should give them a chance. What is the harm in accepting something that comes so easily to you?”

  “OK, ma. I will try.”

  “Good.”

  1995–96