A Particular Kind of Black Man

by Tope Folarin

  We’re walking fast, and suddenly I am a six-year-old in Salt Lake City, walking up and down the streets as my mother drags me along from one errand to another, because now, like then, I don’t know where she is taking me, and now, like then, I am struggling to keep up with her, though I am a full foot taller. My mother looks back at me and flashes a huge smile. I can’t remember if this is a good smile or one I should be afraid of.

  We stop abruptly in front of a shack that is leaning away from a large dilapidated building. The lone window is boarded up, and the words THIS HOUSE IS NOT FOR SALE are spray-painted above the window in eccentric purple. My mother hops up to the stoop and pulls me beside her. She begins to knock. No one answers. She knocks faster, louder, and I look around, afraid that someone might come out and see us. If she is having an episode I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

  The door finally cracks open. A tired old face stares at me with utter incomprehension. My mother steps in front of me, and the door swings open. “Theresa!” My mother smiles bashfully, then she grabs my hand and pulls me closer. “This is my son. He has just arrived from America.”

  The woman’s face crumples. She looks at me like I’m a supernatural figure. She gestures toward the darkness inside her home. “Come in, come in,” she says.

  My mother shakes her head. “No. There is something else I want from you.” My mother drops my hand and unravels the edge of her wrapper. She produces a few colored bills from the folds inside, and sorts them in her hand. Her hand shakes as she extends a few bills to the woman. “Can I have one Fanta?”

  The woman looks at the money as if it is poisoned. “Put that away. For you I always have something.” She closes the door and I look down at my mother. Her lips are pursed. They might soon burst apart.

  The door opens. The woman passes the Fanta to my mother, and my mother hands it to me. Instantly my hand cools, and then my arm. Condensation trails down the glass on all sides. My mother pulls the Fanta from my hand and opens the top with her teeth, and then she hands it back to me.

  “Drink it,” she says. “This will help with your stomach.”

  I do not like soda; I can’t remember the last time I actually drank one. But I don’t have much of a choice, not now. I tip the soda toward my mouth and swallow deeply. The moment I stop I feel the bubbles coming up my nose and throat, the dreaded feeling. But then I feel my mother rubbing my back, and I hear her encouraging me to drink more.

  “Don’t stop now,” she says. “Drink until you have finished it. Then everything will be OK.”

  I gulp the Fanta down. My mother watches me eagerly.

  When I’m done my mother takes the empty bottle from me and hands it over to the woman. The woman takes it hesitantly. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in?” she says. My mother shakes her head and tells her that we have somewhere to go. Then she takes my hand and we proceed into the darkness. I look behind us to glance at the woman once more. I have no idea what my face is telling her, but she shakes her head, and then she recedes into her house. The door closes.

  We walk back up the alley, and then onto a street I do not recognize. And then another street, and then another. I have given up trying to keep track of where we are.

  The world is surprisingly quiet here. Every single building that we pass is dark, but I can feel so many lives humming inside each one. My mother’s pace slows some, but she continues to move. She hasn’t looked at me once since we left the Fanta woman’s house.

  Finally she stops. Across the street from us is an empty thoroughfare. A long gutter runs parallel to the sidewalk on which we are standing. There are car parts strewn all over the place: exhaust pipes on the sidewalk, alternators and radiators spread across the road. License plates dot the walls of the structures around us. Nothing stirs.

  Something about this place, this time in my life, feels familiar.

  My mother sits on the edge of the sidewalk. She pulls my hand until I’m sitting next to her. Then she leans into me.

  “Remember when we used to do this?”

  Despite my feelings of familiarity I can’t remember anything that resembles this moment. I do remember occasionally sitting with my mother on the couch in our apartment, and later on the floor at the women’s shelter. I remember trying my best to distract her so that she would forget to hurt me.

  But now I feel safe.

  A forgotten memory slips through the cracks. My mother is lying next to me on my bed and whispering a story into my ear. The story is about a talking turtle that wants to learn how to fly. I have heard this story many, many times, but what I love most is the way my mother’s hot breath feels against my neck, and the way her words gain life in my mind, the turtle trying and failing and trying again, and then climbing onto the back of a friendly seagull and drifting up through the clouds toward the sun.

  I glance down at my mother’s head because I want to see if she’s up for a conversation. There are so many questions I would like to ask her. There’s so much I need to know. Her chest rises and falls. She is asleep.

  I look around. I have no idea how to get back to her place. My mother seems content and I don’t want to wake her up. I don’t want to shake her out of her dreams.

  I stand and lift my mother into my arms. She settles into me. I walk carefully, picking my way through the debris on the streets. There is no one here who can help us.

  I will get us back home.

  Acknowledgments

  I started writing this novel when I served as a fellow at the Institute for Policy Studies. Special thanks to Emira Woods, Dedrick Asante-Muhammad, and Marc Raskin, who served as my mentors while I was there, and John Cavanaugh for his consistent help. Also to Ethelbert Miller for starting me down this road, Abdul Ali for the nudge, and Gore Vidal, Saul Landau, Sarah Browning, and Ashawna Hailey for the pep talks.

  Shout-out to Helon Habila for reading the first chapter of this novel back in 2012, and for telling me that I should keep doing this writing thing.

  To Jessica Powell—thanks for being such a supportive writing partner for so many years.

  And to Josephine Reed for putting me on the radio and connecting me to so many writers.

  To Transition Magazine for publishing my work before anyone else, and the Hurston/Wright Foundation and Marita Golden for providing me with a space to explore my artistry.

  Much love to the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop and the Kimbilio Writers’ Workshop—two spaces where I felt safe sharing my work and where I learned a great deal about myself and creating art.

  The Caine Prize for African Writing has been especially generous to me—thank you for the recognition, and for the continued support over the years.

  To Georgetown University, and especially the Lannan Center for Poetics and Social Practice, for providing me with the funding and space to complete the first draft.

  To the good folks at Politics and Prose—thank you for not kicking me out all those times when I was copying the text of the books I was too broke to buy into my notebooks. I’m so thankful!

  To the taxpayers of the United States of America for subsidizing my countless trips to the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden, the National Gallery of Art, the National Museum of African American History and Culture, the National Museum of African Art, and the Smithsonian American Art Museum—I would not have finished this book without you.

  To the various folks who have supported me and believed in me through the years—Akwe Amosu, Chris Eaglin, Ralph Eubanks, Wil Eubanks, Sy Henderson, Chris Ingram, Kemi Ingram, Jason Jacobs, Ezra Jones, Robert Mallett, Valerie Mallett, Arshad Mohammed, Juliana Montgomery, Christina Nelson, Lois Quam, there are so many more . . . thank you.

  To all my work colleagues who have accepted my many absences over the years—in particular Joanne O’Rourke Hindman and Nina Mojiri-Azad. And a special shout-out to Steve Harris for being such a great boss, and Maurice Jones for giving me a shot.

  To Maria Massie—thanks for taking on this book and fo
r never giving up.

  To the editorial, publicity, and production teams at Simon & Schuster—thanks for being so patient with me, and for your fine work.

  To Carina Guiterman—thanks so much for helping me to get this over the finish line. And Lashanda Anakwah for your support and enthusiasm.

  To Ira Silverberg—you pushed me and pushed me and I’m incredibly grateful that I had a chance to work with you. You’re the editor I prayed for.

  To Ola, Gbenga, Lanre, and Bisola—thanks for being such great siblings, and for keeping me honest.

  To my parents for all their love and support and for sacrificing so much. Dad and Mom and Mom—I can’t thank you enough.

  To Funmi, for bringing so much joy into my life.

  And Stephanie—well, you have my heart.

  About the Author

  © VALERIE WOODY

  TOPE FOLARIN is a Nigerian American writer based in Washington, DC. He won the Caine Prize for African Writing in 2013 and was shortlisted once again in 2016. He was also recently named to the Africa39 list of the most promising African writers under forty. His work has been featured in various literary journals, including Callaloo, Transition Magazine, and the Virginia Quarterly Review. He was educated at Morehouse College and the University of Oxford, where he earned two master’s degrees as a Rhodes Scholar.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Tope Folarin

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  First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition August 2019

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  Interior design by Carly Loman

  Jacket design by Alison Forner

  Jacket art: Admire Kamudzengerere, Unweaving Traces Of My Face 3, 2017

  Monot Ype 6 4 X 47 Cm, Copyright The Artist, Courtesy Tyburn Gallery

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Folarin, Tope, 1981—author.

  Title: A particular kind of black man / Tope Folarin.

  Description: New York : Simon & Schuster, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019012960 | ISBN 9781501171819 (hardback)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Family Life. | FICTION / Coming of Age.

  Classification: LCC PS3606.O4227 P37 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019012960.

  ISBN 978-1-5011-7181-9

  ISBN 978-1-5011-7182-6 (ebook)