by Maya Angelou
The warmth flowed through me and I had to hold on, close my teeth, contract my muscles or I would have become an embarrassing quiver of gratitude.
Kwesi Brew lifted his glass. “I propose a toast, Nana. A toast.” He bounded up and I quickly stood to clink his glass. I expected Nana to join us, but the chief remained seated, although he held his glass aloft.
Kwesi said, “To the African Personality.” I gestured with my glass and repeated, “To the African Personality.” Nana roared, “To the African Personality,” and we drank.
I realized that I had not seen the tribal leader on his feet since my arrival. His bare muscled arms were robust and his skin was as smooth as black flannel, but maybe he was ill.
Kwesi saw my concern and shook his head, “Sister, Nana does not stand. In our tradition everyone stands for the Nana, but the Nana, spiritual and moral leader of Ahanta people, stands for no one. It would mean that all the Ahantas are standing and no one is great enough to command such tribute, you understand? Na Na. Ena ena. Mother of his people, father of his country.”
The chief busied himself during that explanatory speech. He twisted the knobs on the radio at his side and sipped from his glass of schnapps.
“But Sister”—Kwesi poured drinks for the two of us—“We, you and I, are lowly mortals, not saints like our chief.”
Nana roared a cautionary “Kwesi,” and Kwesi laughed. “Nana, you are my chief, and if I make a mistake I am certain you will overlook it.” Nana smiled and beckoned Kwesi to sit down again.
He spoke in a moderate voice, “You are my poet, and maybe Ocheame, but you are not my jester. Sit, now and let me talk more to this lady.”
Kwesi and I sat obediently upon the sofas like scolded children.
“Efua speaks of you as a sister. T. D. Bafoo, our enfant terrible, claims you are his relative. Even Kofi Batcha and others supported your membership in the Ghana Press Club. Julian Mayfield was the only Black American there until you came.”
Nana listed each commendation as if he were reading from a plaque soon to be presented to me.
He continued, “It is known that your salary at the University is less than any amount paid to a non-Ghanaian. It is also known that your son studies at Legon and that you receive no financial assistance for his education.”
His monologue was leading toward a sweet haven of help. I knew now why I had been sent for. The Chief and the Chief of Protocol were about to announce that I had been allotted a fabulous raise. A smile slipped out of my control, but Nana was not watching me, and Kwesi, who had not taken his gaze from my face, smiled back. “You are a mother and we love our mothers.” Nana had reached a rhythm reminiscent of preachers in Southern Black churches. There would be no turning back.
“Africa is herself a mother. The mother of mankind. We Africans take motherhood as the most sacred condition human beings can achieve. Camara Laye, our brother, has said, ‘The Mother is there to protect you. She is buried in Africa and Africa is buried in her. That is why she is supreme.’”
Kwesi was accompanying Nana with his voice, “Ka, Nana, Ka, Nana, Ka, Nana.”
I had been forgotten for the while as the men performed a concert of sound, passion and music. Years of discomfort on the hard seats of the Christian Methodist Church in Arkansas had given me the talent to appear attentive while my real thoughts were focused in the distance.
What was I going to do with the money? Would I pay off the car or Guy’s tuition or buy gold? I decided that if the university had displayed such patience so far, it could wait a little longer for Guy’s tuition and my car payment, and I would have a gold necklace. I would have a necklace made of gold the color of sunrise and it would make my brown skin voluptuous, and I would at last buy a small piece of Kente cloth, red, gold and blue. I would ask the seamstress to make me a skirt so tight that it would mould my behind into a single roundness, and I would have to take mincing and coquettish steps.
Nana’s sermon on the saintliness of Motherhood was falling, the tempo had slowed, Kwesi’s encouragements had ceased. When Nana stopped talking there was a moment of respectful quiet.
I said, “Nana, I appreciate hearing that Africans cherish their mothers. It confirms my belief that in America we have retained more Africanisms than we know. For also among Black Americans Motherhood is sacred. We have strong mothers and we love them dearly.”
Kwesi put his glass down. “Sister, I do not wish to contradict you, but isn’t it true that the most common curse word among Americans imputes that the offender is the offspring of a female dog?”
What would he have said had he wanted to contradict me?
I said, “Brother, I was speaking not of Americans but Black Americans. We’re not the same; we’re more like you, if you haven’t noticed.”
Nana laughed, “She’s got you, Kwesi.” Kwesi kept his diplomatic smile and plunged directly to my heart.
“But, Sister, isn’t it true that Black Americans and Black Americans alone, of all the people in the world, created a curse word which suggests that the accursed has known his own mother? Known her, that is, in a biblical sense?”
My rapier brain parried, “Yeah, yes, well, not really. I mean, I don’t know…. Possibly in some other language …” I was falling and Nana became my net. He said, “Kwesi, you know that the oppressed person, if convinced that he is worthless, looks to strike the person dearest to him. Oscar Wilde reminded us that we always hurt the thing we love. So it is human all over the world.” He laughed, “Even in Harlem. Maybe especially Harlem. That is why we must do something special for our people in the diaspora. You in America have labored long and done well. Look at your schools, Fisk, Tuskegee, Atlanta University. You were slaves and now you head universities. Horace Mann Bond and St. Clair Drake are friends of mine.” I had been ready to leave. After Kwesi spoke of the vulgarity heard so frequently in our neighborhoods, I was prepared to disappear in shame, but the mention of our schools and scholars was redemptive.
I smiled, “Oh yes, not all Blacks hate themselves.”
Nana said, “We are well aware of that” (He often used the royal “we”) “and now … I asked you here to see if you are interested in a job in Kaneshie.”
So I wasn’t being offered a raise. All that daydreaming about gold had been a waste of time.
I said, “Kaneshie? That sounds lovely.” It was horrible. Kaneshie was a bush town, 150 miles from Accra.
I continued, “But I am quite happy at Legon, and I think I am of use there. Kaneshie? They say it’s beautiful country up there, but—”
Nana interrupted, “This job pays double your present salary and you will be provided with a bungalow and a new car.”
Kwesi said, “Now that’s looking after our people in the diaspora.”
A move was not necessarily a negative thing. A house of my own in the heavily wooded area up north could be quite inviting, and with a new car I could drive to Accra in a few hours, and I could still buy that red-gold necklace and even a full kente cloth.
Kingdoms may fall and love may leave, but a dogged survival instinct is loyal to the end. I had never been promised nor (despite my secret hopes) did I expect certainty. I knew that God was in His heaven and anything might happen to His world. Kaneshie was the center of the diamond industry, and as I thought about it, it began to increase in promise. Rumors had it that people walking around might stumble upon diamonds laying in the road. I had not been a particularly lucky person, but just possibly I would find a lovely diamond to go with my gold necklace.
I said, “Nana, the idea interests me. What would be my duties?”
He answered, “You would do much as you are currently doing. Run the office. You can type of course?” He didn’t wait so I didn’t have time to lie. “And, I suppose, familiarize yourself with the working of a mine. Know the laborers, the output, the World Bank prices. This sort of thing. I’m sure you could do that.”
I had always liked the idea of being someone’s girl Friday. It promise
d responsibility with good pay and was a sort of marriage without sex.
“I’d be pleased to give it a try, and thanks to the person who mentioned me for the job.”
Kwesi looked at me and wagged his head forward, then smiled and said, “Nana, I believe we have had a most fruitful meeting. Maya will do well in Kaneshie. It might be a little lonely at first, but your people will be coming up to, see you and you will make friends. Now, Sister, do tell me how did you come to read my poetry?”
Nana said, “Kwesi, one minute. Poets are worse than prime ministers, always looking for ears. Maya, I’m going to send for my children. They should meet you.”
Kwesi laughed, “Of course. The Budu-Arthur tribe. They are wonderful, and they are many.”
Nana lifted his voice and hurled it into the universe.
“Children, come. Araba, Adae, Abenaa, Abaa, Ekua and Kwesi Budu-Arthur. Come, come and greet your American Auntie.”
The clarion voice, enunciating the names with such force, prepared me for a schoolroom of children arriving in martial drill. Instead, a tall, slim, beautiful girl of fifteen entered the lighted area.
“Poppa, you wanted me?” Her voice lovely and musical.
Nana said, “Araba, yes, I want you and the others. Miss Angelou, this is my oldest child. Araba Budu-Arthur, Miss Angelou.”
As he spoke, more children drifted in, talking among themselves. When five of them had gathered, Nana looked up and asked, “And Adae? As usual I must ask. And Adae?”
Four young voices answered him, but no meaning could be extracted from the din. When the noise reached a peak, another girl entered to stand with her siblings. Adae was nearly as tall as Araba, but while her older sister displayed a solemn dignity, Adae seemed to move even standing still. The children stood together like an often rehearsed theatrical troupe, their eyes focused on me.
I said, “I’m pleased to meet you all.” Adae turned to her siblings and said knowingly, “That’s the way American Negroes speak. They say ‘you all.’” She faced me again, while her brothers and small sisters examined me with obvious curiosity.
Adae said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Maya. Very pleased.”
Keeping my voice low, I said, “As you have noticed, I am an American Negro, and among my people children do not call their elders by their first names. A fifteen-year-old girl [Adae was 15] would call me Mrs. Angelou, or if she liked me and I agreed she would address me as Auntie Maya. I will accept either.” Adae looked at her older sister then at the young children. She looked at me for a very long minute.
“Very well, I don’t know you yet, but I’ll probably like you, so we will call you Auntie Maya. Do you agree?” She left me no time to respond. She nodded and said, “Goodbye, Auntie Maya. Good-bye, everybody.” The four smaller children, as if on a signal, chorused, “Hello and good-bye, Auntie. Good-bye, everybody,” and running, followed Adae from the room.
Nana, who had been silent during the exchange, spoke to Araba who was standing calmly before me. “And you, Araba, do you have something clever to say to Auntie Maya?” Her voice was as smooth as cream, and her smile was gentle. “Auntie, Adae knows that African children behave as you described Black American children do. She was acting the way European kids act at our school. Please overlook her, she’s really a very nice person.” Araba excused herself with the grace of a kindly monarch taking leave of adoring subjects. Kwesi and Nana smiled at each other.
Kwesi said to me, “That is the Budu-Arthur brood. There is no way to tell what they will become, but I’d wager Adae will be president of the world and Araba will be its queen.”
Nana shook his head and laughed to himself proudly, “My children.” Then he looked over at me, “I do hope Adae didn’t annoy you. It is through the eyes of strangers that a parent can see their children as people.”
I denied any annoyance and said I’d like to see the children alone.
He agreed, then ordered the driver in one shout and modulated to continue speaking to me. “You will hear from me when an appointment is arranged.” He offered me his hand, and I was tempted to kiss it, but checked myself just in time. I grasped his hand and shook it firmly.
“Thank you, Nana.”
“Don’t thank me, but when you go to Kaneshie let them know that your heart and head are concentrated on Africa and not, like most Americans, on Coca Cola and Cadillacs.” Nana added, “And Maya, take your C.V.”
The driver had come in. I asked, “C.V.?”
He said, “Curriculum vitae. Your schools, degrees and work history. Good night. Kwesi will see you to the car.”
Kwesi was at my side being solicitous, the driver was standing beside the car, and I was laughing weakly. Kwesi noticed me trembling when he embraced me and probably credited my nervous response to meeting the great man.
“Sister, we must talk. You must come to me and my wife Molly. We will feed you and definitely no fish. Ha, ha.”
If everyone knew my dietary restrictions, why didn’t Nana know that I had not been to college? I should have said so on the spot. During the drive home, I berated myself for the show of cowardice. Obviously the temptation of a good job, large salary and European-style benefits were enough to send my much vaunted morality scurrying. It wasn’t pleasant to admit that I was no more moral than the commercial bandits upon whom I heaped every crime from slavery to Hiroshima.
As soon as I reached my house, I decided that when Nana telephoned I would tell him to offer the job to Alice or Vicki. Then I pillowed myself in goodness and slept righteously.
When our grinning faces appeared at Julian’s door, he tried waving his arms to distract us, but only succeeded in agitating the tell-tale odors of sage, oregano and fried pork. He had received another package of sausage from Washington, D.C. The Revolutionist Returnees had gotten wind of its arrival and converged on the Mayfield home in private cars, taxis and on foot. Julian, who was no more or less generous than the next person, put on a gruff face and said he was working and we had to leave, but when he saw we wouldn’t be run off, he gave in and laughed. “Which one of you nuts was spying on the airport?”
Ana Livia brought a platter of sausage patties to the porch, and we fell upon it with a savor unrelated to hunger. Homesickness was never mentioned in our crowd. Who would dare admit a longing for a White nation so full of hate that it drove its citizens of color to madness, to death or to exile? How to confess even to one’s ownself, that our eyes, historically customed to granite buildings, wide paved avenues, chromed cars, and brown, black, beige, pink and white-skinned people, often ached for those familiar sights?
We chewed the well spiced pork of America, but in fact, we were ravenously devouring Houston and Macon, Little Rock and St. Louis. Our faces eased with sweet delight as we swallowed Harlem and Chicago’s south side.
“All we need now is a plate of grits.” That from Lesley Lacy who had probably never eaten grits in his life.
Julian brought out a bundle of week-old dailies from the States and dealt parcels out to us as if they were large floppy cards. He saved a magazine and held it above his head. “Here’s my article on Baldwin in Freedomways.”
Nobody Knows My Name, James Baldwin’s book, had passed through so many hands its pages were as fluffy as Kleenex and had caused fierce arguments. Some detractors denounced Baldwin as a creation of White America, adding that he had been constructed by the establishment for the establishment. His supporters argued that if White America had been smart enough to make a James Baldwin, obviously there would have been no need to create one. In New York City, Sylvester Leaks had disappointed some of his fans by attacking Baldwin. We in Ghana knew that Julian had written an article in support of the controversial author.
Julian, in his most roguish tone, said, “I’ll put the magazine here. No tearing, scratching or biting, first come and all that shit.” Alice moved like a whip, snatched up the magazine, which meant that she would take it home and that Vicki or I would be next in command.
Ana Li
via spoke and took our total attention by announcing, “Dr. Du Bois is sick. Lucid, but very sick. He said he has stopped learning and it is time for him to go.” Our small crowd made a large noise of protest. Du Bois was ninety-six years old, and frail, but we wanted him to live forever. He had no right to his desire for death. We argued that great men and women should be forced to live as long as possible. The reverence they enjoyed was a life sentence, which they could neither revoke nor modify.
When the discussion reached a noise level that prohibited all understanding, Julian said he had read about a march to Washington, D.C., to be led by Martin Luther King, Jr. The news of Dr. Du Bois’ deteriorating health was driven away by an immediate buzzing of sarcastic questions.
“King leading a march. Who is he going to pray to this time, the statue of Abe Lincoln?”
“Give us our freedom again, please suh.”
“King has been in jail so much he’s got a liking for those iron bars and jailhouse food.”
The ridicule fitted our consciousness. We were brave revolutionaries, not pussyfooting nonviolent cowards. We scorned the idea of being spat upon, kicked, and then turning our cheeks for more abuse. Of course, none of us, save Julian, had even been close to bloody violence, and not one of us had spent an hour in jail for our political beliefs.
My policy was to keep quiet when Reverend King’s name was mentioned. I didn’t want to remind my radical friends of my association with the peacemaker. It was difficult, but I managed to dispose of the idea that my silence was a betrayal. After all, when I worked for him, I had been deluded into agreeing with Reverend King that love would cure America of its pathological illnesses, that indeed our struggle for equal rights would redeem the country’s baleful history. But all the prayers, sit-ins, sacrifices, jail sentences, humiliation, insults and jibes had not borne out Reverend King’s vision. When maddened White citizens and elected political leaders vowed to die before they would see segregation come to an end, I became more resolute in rejecting nonviolence and more adamant in denying Martin Luther King.
