New York, My Village

by Uwem Akpan

  Applause.

  “When the genocide broke out in July 1966, a year before the Biafran War, my family was living in northern Nigeria, near Marna Market in Sokoto, precisely. I was ten years old and in primary four. I can never forget the sight of Hausa-Fulani mobs sweeping through the neighborhood. Daddy was one of the thirty-five thousand victims.

  “He had locked us inside and blocked the front door of our home where we were hiding with our Igbo neighbors, who had run to us for refuge because Barisua, my thirteen-year-old elder brother, was best friends with Arinze, their son. We all barricaded ourselves in Barisua’s room. While the Igbo boy was a clown with big ears, the Ogoni boy, my brother, was serious-minded, his sharp eyes giving him a tense look. Yet, they wore the same haircuts and had received First Holy Communion together. Because they were tall muscular things, their soccer coach had picked them for the two-pronged attack in their high school team, despite being in mere form two. Since I was a quiet brooding child, the only time I spoke with Arinze was when he cajoled me into mock wrestling during his sleepovers in Barisua’s room.

  “Now, Daddy could have tried to tell the mob we weren’t Igbo or spoken to them in their Hausa language. But he also realized he couldn’t get the Igbos with him off the hook, and I don’t think he could live with himself if they died and we lived. We could hear Daddy begging loudly for our lives against the backdrop of chants that the coup was an Igbo coup, since it spared all the Igbo leaders, who were as corrupt as the leaders from other ethnic groups, who were assassinated. When someone smashed our window, Arinze’s dad started to cry and moved to take his family outside, to spare us. Mommy, Barisua, and I held and corralled them in. Daddy was saying, “You cannot continue to kill the Igbos—” when his voice disappeared. We knew they’d killed him because the mob cheered. We let go of the Igbo family. Barisua pinched his own left arm till it bled. Arinze shat in his red shorts.

  “By the time the mob destroyed the front door and the metal protector behind it and got into our living room, the Hausa-Fulani business partners of Arinze’s parents had arrived to rescue us. We were one plywood door from death. I was watching everything through the keyhole when the sharp smell of blood made me vomit and sit on the floor.

  “Thus, my last memories of Daddy weren’t of his body, but of his voice. Then of his blood on the machetes and crowbars and Korans of the attackers bursting into our living room. Though Mommy and Arinze’s parents didn’t allow us children to see the corpse, they’d gone outside, where she knelt by it to soak her most expensive headtie with his blood and roll and tie it up in a bag with camphor, to bring home to Ogoniland on the Atlantic or wherever we would be killed.

  “Our rescuers evacuated us from the semi-desert—Igbo and Ogoni alike. They hid us till they could figure out a way to relay us city by city, village by village, forest by forest, for months, our version of the underground railroad. They took huge risks, for even the Nigerian army and police were intercepting and killing refugees. After six hundred and sixty miles of trekking and busing southeast, we arrived at Arinze’s ancestral village near Onitsha. Everyone celebrated our arrival, and their priest praised Daddy’s martyrdom daily at Mass …”

  The camera showed Father Kiobel holding back tears and apologizing that he could not continue. The Igbos and minorities clapped and embraced, and shouted we really needed a Biafran War memorial Mass. The PA announced that this was the first time Biafra was mentioned in a multi-ethnic gathering without violence.

  The valley agreed.

  I COULD NOT CALL Father Kiobel immediately because the violent death of his dad reminded me of mine. I felt closer to the priest, as though a veil had been removed from his face. I battled my tears as I tried to imagine what it must have meant for him to actually hear his dad being killed, how the Good Samaritans could have disposed of the body, how he accompanied his mom and the blood-soaked headtie and Arinze’s family in that long treacherous Sokoto-Onitsha refugee march-cum-burial procession. And, seeing his emotional state, I decided right away it would be insensitive to ask him of the connection between his mother and Mary of New Jersey.

  When I finally did phone Father Kiobel that night, he had been waiting anxiously for me. “Ekong, I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you I was going to bring up Biafra, in case I couldn’t,” he said, and finally broke down and wept like he needed to drain himself of fifty years’ worth of tears. He said the silence he broke that Sunday began with the abrupt silencing of his father’s pleas for the Igbo family. He thanked me for pushing him to speak up.

  I was pleased the war was finally thawing in his heart, beginning to water our multi-ethnic dialogue in ways only he—who was loved by all—could manage. And to hear our war story being proclaimed fearlessly in this international gathering, to hear it cascade down from the sanctuary and echo in the valley, had the weight of an Eighth Sacrament. It was the first time our minorities were getting a detailed account from someone in authority of our 1966 genocide, instead of the Igbo versions.

  When he stopped sobbing and said he hoped by the time of the memorial Mass to mark the beginning of the war the following year, at least the anthology might be some guide to our people’s journey to peace, I could not have thought of a greater endorsement of my project. It seemed it was worth the wait. I was also happy to hear Two-Scabbard—on behalf of the youths—had asked him to quietly inform the foreign parishioners they would no longer be entitled to the front pews. The youths had decided that henceforth, they must sit wherever they found space, or stand outside.

  “Mbok, Ekong, you’ll help the parish organize a memorial as inclusive as today’s celebration next year, in July,” Father Kiobel appealed. “Two-Scabbard has already suggested you as the natural chair of such a planning committee.”

  “I shall accept only on one condition,” I said. “We must include Caro’s story—the murder of her grandpa—in our reconciliation plans.”

  “Absolutely. As you know, Caro has always found it easy to confide in me about her Biafran history. This was how I became close to you two. Actually, on Tuesday, to calm her, I had confided in her I’d bring up Biafra. So, yes, we’ll prepare our parish, to avoid another civil war.”

  “We have to hit the right note. Your speech today was the first and major step.”

  I was so proud I had made that spontaneous decision five days before to challenge him on Biafra. His sharing of his Biafran story was my first unqualified success in America. It was totally unexpected. I had rescued something from the ashes of New Jersey.

  CHAPTER 25

  Bless her heart

  AFTER SMELLING THE ALCOHOL ON EMILY’S DESK, I WAS kneeling under mine, staring at where the caked white powder had been, when Emily and Jack’s laughs distracted me. I did not jump out to welcome her back from Europe, because I did not know what the asshole had told her. It was not also the right atmosphere to relay Caro’s compliments.

  I continued with my inspection. The week-old hardened layered stuff was scraped off, but there were new traces in other parts of the cubicle. They looked fresh, like sprinkles of new snow. But it was good for my mind; I finally felt I was reading this powder stuff right: it was not a figment of my imagination. I took many pictures of the spots. When I pulled my chair out, I hesitated to sit because I noticed a smudge of the powder on it. Still, I brushed it off and steeled my back and lowered myself mightily and defiantly into it with a grunt.

  As I was putting away my passport and a few folded clothes in a drawer in case Lucci “visited” my apartment, Emily burst in to hug me from behind. She was full of happiness. She sounded refreshed and said she and Jack and Paul Maher had had dinner the previous night in Soho, where Paul told them how happy he had been to make my acquaintance and how much he enjoyed the Uramodese Prize president’s powerful speech. “By the way, Jack and I had a deep, deep chat in his office,” I said, and waited eagerly for her to signal to me they had discussed his racism.

  She never did.

  The more dramatic she was a
bout her trip, the more silence froze the rest of the office. Everyone was hard at work. I decided not to bring up the truth about Jack with Emily now, for it would have been a cruel blow to the benefits of her trip. “Ekong, Angela says Liam is really excited about your lunch!” she announced. “You Nigerians have balls. It should be great for both of you, my two fav peeps.” A few people looked up with shock or jealousy on their faces.

  As Emily began to ask me what I was doing with my passport and a bloated bag in my office, Molly came out, tense as ekpan. I greeted her but she avoided my eyes. Emily hugged her and relayed Paul’s greetings as they went in and closed the door. For the first time that day, our colleagues relaxed and spoke to each other or sipped coffee. Some kept glancing at Molly’s door like a bomb could explode behind it. Angela and another person laughed and left altogether.

  EMILY EMERGED CRYING and trembling. Her face was crimson red, and she was sweating ikpo ekpo. She told me she had been fired.

  “And, you know what, it doesn’t matter,” she said.

  “Iyo, Andrew & Thompson can’t fire you!” I said, standing up. “Molly did this to you …?”

  “No.”

  “I mean, why?”

  “She’s crying, too. You don’t understand. It’s really nothing to be upset about.”

  I walked into her cubicle and offered her Kleenex.

  “Is it the Black book of Tuskegee?” I asked. “Are they punishing you for spotlighting the racism of your Alabama childhood?”

  “No, no … diversity issues didn’t get me fired! I would’ve told you straight up. In our business, anybody can be fired. It’s not personal. Molly says Andrew & Thompson can’t sustain my salary. So, yes, yeah, money fired me. I’m okay, I’m totally okay. It’s my second layoff. Gosh, I’m so embarrassed. What do I tell my authors? I’m sorry to cause a scene. Please, Ekong, go back to work.”

  I tried to get her to sit down, but she could not. I phoned Jack, who was outside. He was in shock. Two people, who stopped over and spoke in nervous whispers, could not look into our eyes. When Jack arrived and raised his voice to protest Emily’s firing, they disappeared like ifot. When I realized our colleagues had known what was coming to Emily, Andrew & Thompson felt like a crab basket. When I suspected Angela also had known without telling Jack, it felt worse.

  Then, before Jack could stop Emily, she ran back into Molly’s office and banged on the door. A few more people left. The whole development began to hit home when Jack brought a box and a trash bag and started clearing her stuff. When he continually smiled at me and stroked his chin, I knew he was posturing as a good company guy, despite his anger. The bastard even began to fill my ears with his weekend. Well, on a day like this, I could not help but oblige. “Could I beg you not to tell Emily about my reckless private-comic phone call to Chad yet?” he whispered. “She’s already in pain. Let’s give her a week to recover, okay? Please?”

  I nodded because, even for me, the timing of the firing was brutal. And I was not distracted by his “private-comic” phrasing of his racist shit, because I was beginning to understand that New Yorkers spoke in codes about racism. I never wanted to adjust to this culture. Anyway, to see my friend at her happiest and then, shortly, at her saddest only reminded me of Molly’s own tales of layoffs and headhunting. Though later Emily was calmer when she called from home and promised to stay in touch, I felt like I was cut off from the last white person who truly understood my anguish about race. My knack for losing my Hell’s Kitchen friends had followed me to the workplace.

  Caro was mad about Emily’s firing, like she wanted me to return home that minute. Father Kiobel was so depressed he asked a torrent of incoherent questions. “What exactly is this carpet powder?” he kept asking, no matter how many times I said it did not matter. “Is there carpet powder or no carpet powder? Would you stop saying Emily is fired? Are you sure she’s not poached by those who bought Trails of Tuskegee? Why do our police prioritize the safety of white folks over our people? Ekong, are you sure you’re not drunk? Why does world security mean white security? If you’re really, really sure the white powder is in your cubicle alone, why not call nine-one-one? What if Liam Sanders doesn’t want to talk about it at your lunch?”

  It was as if he had lost Emily, the guardian angel of his turbulent retracing of his war-torn refugee childhood. I assured him I would keep in touch with her.

  WORK WAS QUITE DIFFICULT for me that week. I kept my anger about Emily Noah’s dismissal to myself. I did not talk much to my colleagues. And I was also lucky Jack was doing everything to avoid me. I greeted Molly as casually as possible, for after all, our relationship had not really recovered since she revealed her phobia for crawling things.

  The next Monday I heard the exterminators were coming. I wanted everything to be sanitized. But since my relationships in Hell’s Kitchen had evaporated, I had no one to leave my keys with. To give the workers access, I did not lock my door but simply closed it. I was not too worried about theft or Lucci’s invasion because I was still carrying my vital documents around.

  At work, Molly nervously invited me to her office. She was in a purple shirt, ash pants, and black shoes, Lenten colors, as though to mourn the departure of Emily. She looked exhausted like she had had no weekend, and without makeup her freckles burned deep. “Please, have a seat,” she said, beckoning me to the chair in front of her desk. I did not know whether to call this progress or not, because of the way Keith had come close to me two Saturdays ago, only to profoundly insult me. I perched on the chair without my back touching it. My hands were hanging straight down, and my knees were trembling with anger as I poured out my disappointment over Emily. I told her how foolish, how humiliated Emily looked when she emerged from her firing to realize everyone already knew of her shit.

  “Let me begin, first, by saying I’m so sorry Emily is no longer with us,” Molly said. “I understand how much this has hit you, and I didn’t know word got out, okay? This has been really difficult for everyone. Very difficult. As Paul told you at the prize event, I pulled every string to get Emily here. So, I’m not only sad as in sad. I’m wracked with guilt. I’m sure she’ll find another job soon.”

  “I’m not blaming you, though. Emily did say you yourself were crying, too.”

  “Bless her heart.”

  “Molly, you’ll need another Emily for your dreams here! Maybe I’m paranoid, but to be honest, I hope they don’t fire you before then … to totally end the test run of Black presence here. Because, if you didn’t leak the news of the layoff, then the tentacles of evil must be longer than one victim! I’m saying if Angela could keep that away from Jack, you need to watch your back, please.”

  “Ekong, I could quit Andrew & Thompson myself, you know.”

  “Nse nkpo? If you leave, isn’t that like losing Emily twice? And where would Liam Sanders get another Molly Simmons to fight racism here? I say buckle up to fight, in case whiteness pushes back like Dr. Zapata said.”

  “Well, let’s not dwell on this depressing stuff.” She stood up and excused herself to leave the room. “Ekong, could I get you some water? Coffee?”

  “Water.”

  WHEN SHE RETURNED, she did not wait to set the two paper cups on the desk, before launching into the subject of New Jersey. It took me unawares. I finished the water in one swig to quench the fire that wanted to erupt again in my heart. She did not mince words in condemning the New Jersey incident as the worst case of racism whose victim she personally knew. Her tired eyes lit up in pain like they were going to burn down the rest of her face.

  “Worse, my two questions to you in that church were racist, too!” she said inconsolably, dropping her head, bracing like I was going to scream at her. “Oh Lord, I feel like going to confession!”

  “Calm down first.”

  “You’re just being nice to me.”

  I reminded her of how she almost ran over to the same New Jersey to rescue me from “some really racist poisonous shit.” I reminded her of how she
wanted to call the police.

  However, I advised her, if she was talking Catholic confession, she herself needed the consciousness of her wrongdoing at the moment of sin for it to be a mortal sin, a crime unmitigated by ignorance. “But who runs these confessionals, anyway?” I continued, fighting to calm her. “What if you don’t get the help you need there? Do you have the right confessor to educate you on racism? There’s a world of difference between a Father Orrin and a Father Walsh/Father Kiobel/Father Schmitz. Some of these confessionals are mere spiritual death traps!”

  “But, in your heart of hearts, Ekong, do you think I’m a racist?” she said bluntly, lifting her face.

  “I’m glad you yourself have brought up these two questions you texted me that day. I’ve been thinking of how to broach the subject, seeing your commitment to uplifting minorities and the immeasurable support you’ve given me even before I got here …”

  “Look I’m so sorry I ever sent those texts.”

  “I accept your apologies, my friend. Yes, they were racist, but I believe you made a mistake. I haven’t known you long enough to even situate it in your character. Character maketh a person. And folks make mistakes.”

  “I sincerely apologize. I swear I’ve never asked any Black person those questions before, and I’ve had tons of Black friends. I’ve always seen myself as someone who puts everything into leveling the field for all. But now, I guess, I am one of Dr King’s white moderates!”

  “No, no, no.”

  Tears came down her face. I said nothing but pushed her Kleenex pack and water closer to her. It was still fresh in my mind how moving to shake hands with Keith two Saturdays ago had led to unpalatable consequences. People need space to grow. “I wish I could tell you why carrying these stereotypes is particularly shameful for me!” she said. “I wish I could share my very complex childhood with you.” I told her she was putting too much pressure on herself. When she continued to cry, I told her I myself was also learning to navigate the discrimination issues of our world. I recounted my disgraceful spitting before Keith. But she shook her head and wept more and said I was comparing apples and oranges. She said I did not understand white fragility.