Black Power

by Richard Wright

  “I want to see your party and how it works,” I said to the Prime Minister.

  He nodded but did not answer.

  “Free—dooom! Free—doooom!”

  The roar came from all sides. Gratitude showed in the eyes of those black faces for the man who had taken their hand and told them that they had no need to fear the British, that they could laugh, sing, work, hope, and fight again.

  I was astonished to see women, stripped to the waist, their elongated breasts flopping wildly, do a sort of weaving, circular motion with their bodies, a kind of queer shuffling dance which expressed their joy in a quiet, physical manner. It was as if they were talking with the movements of their legs, arms, necks, and torsos; as if words were no longer adequate as a means of communication; as if sounds could no longer approximate their feelings; as if only the total movement of their entire bodies could indicate in some measure their acquiescence, their surrender, their approval.

  And then I remembered: I’d seen these same snakelike, veering dances before…. Where? Oh, God, yes; in America, in storefront churches, in Holy Roller Tabernacles, in God’s Temples, in unpainted wooden prayer-meeting houses on the plantations of the Deep South…. And here I was seeing it all again against a background of a surging nationalistic political movement! How could that be?

  When I’d come to Africa, I didn’t know what I’d find, what I’d see; the only prepossession I’d had was that I’d doubted that I’d be able to walk into the African’s cultural house and feel at home and know my way around. Yet, what I was now looking at in this powerfully improvised dance of these women, I’d seen before in America! How was that possible? And, what was more, this African dance today was as astonishing and dumfounding to me as it had been when I’d seen it in America.

  Never in my life had I been able to dance more than a few elementary steps, and the carrying of even the simplest tune had always been beyond me. So, what had bewildered me about Negro dance expression in the United States now bewildered me in the same way in Africa.

  I’d long contended that the American Negro, because of what he had undergone in the United States, had been basically altered, that his consciousness had been filled with a new content, that “racial” qualities were but myths of prejudiced minds. Then, if that were true, how could I account for what I now saw? And what I now saw was an exact duplicate of what I’d seen for so many long years in the United States.

  I did not find an answer to that question that afternoon as I stared out of the window of the Prime Minister’s car. But the question was lodged firmly in my mind, enthroned there so strongly that it would never leave until I had, at least to my satisfaction, solved the riddle of why black people were able to retain, despite vast distances, centuries of time, and the imposition of alien cultures, such basic and fundamental patterns of behavior and response.

  We rode on through the cheering throngs. Whenever the car slowed, the black faces, laughing and excited, with heads thrown back, with white teeth showing, would press close to the windows of the car and give vent to:

  “Free—doooom!”

  But my emotions were preoccupied with another problem. How much am I a part of this? How much was I part of it when I saw it in America? Why could I not feel this? Why that peculiar, awkward restraint when I tried to dance or sing? The answers to those questions did not come until after I penetrated deep into the African jungle…. On we rode. The crowds surged, danced, sang, and shouted, but I was thinking of my mother, of my father, of my brother…. I was frankly stunned at what I saw; there was no rejection or condemnation; there was no joy or sorrow; I was just stupefied. Was it possible that I was looking at myself laughing, dancing, singing, gliding with my hips to express my joy…? Had I denied all this in me? If so, then why was it that when I’d tried to sing, as a child, I’d not been able to? Why had my hands and feet, all my life, failed to keep time? It was useless to say that I’d inhibited myself, for my inability to do these simple things predated any desire, conscious or unconscious, on my part. I had wanted to, because it had always been a part of my environment, but I had never been able to!

  “What do you think?” the Prime Minister asked.

  “It’s most impressive,” I said.

  “They’re an unspoiled, a spiritually virgin people,” he said.

  We came at last to a block of cement houses; from windows and doorways black faces shouted and called:

  “Kwame! Kwame!”

  “Free—dooom! Free—doooom!”

  The car stopped and the Prime Minister got out; I followed him.

  “What is this?” I asked him.

  “This is a meeting of the Women’s Division of the party,” he told me.

  We entered a concrete compound and sat as the meeting, dedicated to reorganization and installment of new officers, got under way. A tall black woman led a chant:

  “Forward ever, backward never…”

  There was a relaxed, genial atmosphere; now and then an easy laugh floated over the crowd. The men, clad in their native togas, sat in the rear, rising occasionally to aid in making seating arrangements. In front sat about two hundred women also clad in their native cloths and, for this ceremony, they wore an enormous amount of gold in their ears, around their necks, on their arms and fingers. The yellow sheen of the gold against the background of black skin made a startling combination in the red rays of the dying sun. There was one fat, black woman who, I’d have said, had at least three or four thousand dollars’ worth of gold on her arms and around her neck, and it was pure native gold, mixed with no alloy….

  A psalm was sung in English. Next, an African of the Christian persuasion stepped forward and, in English, led the group in prayer. Then came a pagan chief with his umbrella, his staff, his “linguist” and proceeded to pour a libation of corn wine to the dead ancestors. The two religions nestled smugly, cheek by jowl, and the setting sun shone as calmly as usual; there was not a tremor in the universe…. After he emptied the bowl by dribbling the corn wine upon the ground, the chief had the bowl filled again and he passed it around to each person nearby and they took three sips. (Three is the lucky number among many Africans of the Gold Coast.)

  A series of speakers rose, both men and women, and, in a mixture of English and tribal tongues, exhorted the women to give all their support to the Leader, to the Convention People’s Party, and to the struggle for national liberation. To this already turgid brew was added still another ingredient; a woman rose and proclaimed:

  “I’m Mrs. Nkrumah!”

  A howl of laughter rose from the women. Puzzled, I looked at the Prime Minister; he grinned at me, and said:

  “It’s a joke.”

  “I am Mrs. Nkrumah!” the woman said in a voice that sought to still all doubts.

  The Prime Minister rose and, sweeping his arms to include all the women, said:

  “You are all my brides!”

  The women laughed and clapped. Nkrumah, of course, was a bachelor.

  “I have to say that to them,” he whispered to me as he sat again. “Now, tell me, do you understand what you are looking at?”

  “You have fused tribalism with modern politics,” I said.

  “That’s exactly it,” he said. “Nobody wanted to touch these people. The missionaries would go just so far, and no farther toward them. One can only organize them by going where they are, living with them, eating with them, sharing their lives. We are making a special drive to enlist women in the party; they have been left out of our national life long enough. In the words of Lenin, I’ve asked the cooks to come out of their kitchens and learn how to rule.”

  The new women officials to be installed were called to come forward and stand fronting the Prime Minister. A short statement of aims and duties was read to them and, at the end, each woman was asked to raise her right hand and repeat the following oath (I’m paraphrasing this from memory):

  “I pledge with all my life my support to the Convention People’s Party, and to my Leader, Kwam
e Nkrumah; I swear to follow my Leader’s guidance, to execute faithfully his commands, to resist with all my power all imperialist attempts to disrupt our ranks, to strive with all of my heart to rebuild our lost nation, Ghana, so help me God!”

  I was thunderstruck. Nkrumah had moved in and filled the vacuum which the British and the missionaries had left when they had smashed the tribal culture of the people! It was so simple it was dazzling…. Of course, before Nkrumah could do this, he would first have to have the intellectual daring to know that the British had created a vacuum in these people’s hearts. It was not until one could think of the imperialist actions of the British as being crimes of the highest order, that they had slain something that they could never rekindle, that one could project a new structure for the lives of these people.

  But, an oath to a Leader? In the twentieth century? Then I reflected. Well, why not? This oath was perhaps the most rational pledge that these women had ever given in all of their lives. Before this they had sworn oaths to invisible gods, pagan and Christian, and now, at last, they were swearing an oath that related directly to their daily welfare. And would these illiterate and myth-minded women have understood an abstract oath taken to a flag or a constitution? In the light of their traditions and culture, this oath seemed logical to them, for the swearing of oaths was a common feature of their rituals. And, in a society ruled by chiefs decked out in gold and silk, what symbol other than that of a living man, a man whom they could see, hear, speak to, check upon his actions—what symbol other than a living one could make them feel that their oath was really binding…? Indeed, the taking of this oath was perhaps the only act in their lives that they had performed over whose consequences they would have some measure of control. Nkrumah was tapping the abandoned emotional reservoir that Christian religion had no use for; he, in contrast to the Christians who called upon them to attend church service one day a week, was commanding the whole of their lives from day to day and they stood before him willingly, pledging to give. It was not a morality easier than that of the church that Nkrumah was offering them; it was a much harder one and they accepted it!

  The slip of paper upon which the oath had been written was given to the Prime Minister and, at once, impulsively, I leaned forward and said to him:

  “May I make a copy of that?”

  I regretted asking the moment the words had escaped my lips; but I had spoken and there was no backing out.

  “What did you say?” he asked me.

  “I’d like to make a copy of that oath,” I stated.

  He glanced off without answering, still holding the slip of paper in his hand. I knew that he knew what I had asked and he seemed to be debating. Would my rash request make him distrust me? Would he think that I’d use the oath against him and his party, his people, his cause? I gritted my teeth, scolding myself for being too forward in my zeal to account for what I saw…. He was looking off into space; he had not answered me. Ought I ask him again? I decided not to. Nkrumah had been educated in the United States and he must have known instinctively how such an oath had struck me. And I knew that he couldn’t imagine my being shocked and, at the same time, being in complete agreement! But, if he was reticent about this, what about the other things I’d see in the Gold Coast?

  Another song was sung and, as we all stood up, the Prime Minister, looking off, slowly and seemingly absent-mindedly, folded the slip of paper containing the oath and put it into his pocket. I knew then that I’d never get a chance to copy it…. I was of a mind to remind him that I had asked for it, but discretion became the better part of curiosity and I inhibited myself. I’d be content with what I’d heard. Obviously the Prime Minister did not want me to attach too much importance, politically or psychologically, to that oath. How could I make him understand that I understood, and that in general I agreed to it as being an inevitable part of the twentieth century?

  The meeting ended and we were escorted by the roaring motorcycle cavalcade back toward the Prime Minister’s home. During the ride the Prime Minister was poised, aloof, silent. Intuitively, I knew that he was thinking of my reaction to that oath-taking…. We reached his house and sat upon the lawn under a starry sky and listened to an African band playing native tunes. Suddenly the Prime Minister spoke to me:

  “Let’s go upstairs and talk.”

  “A good idea,” I said.

  In his living room we sat on a divan; a steward served some drinks.

  “Did you like what you saw?” he asked me.

  “I’m stunned, amazed, and gratified,” I told him truthfully. “Like is no word for what I felt. You’ve done what the Western world has said is impossible.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. A silence hung in the air for several moments. I felt called upon to say something, to explain, to justify myself.

  “Look, I think you know something of my background,” I began. “For twelve years I was a member of the Communist Party of the United States. I’m no longer a Communist, but I’m for black people. I know from history and from my personal life what has happened to us—at least, I know some of it. I don’t know Africa intimately. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to understand all of this. I think that my life has prepared me to do that.”

  “I’m a Marxist Socialist,” he told me.

  “I know that there are political things that have to be told with discretion,” I went on. “But I’d like to see and know how you organized all this.”

  I wanted to be given the “green light” to look, to know, to be shown everything. I wanted the opportunity to try to weigh a movement like this, to examine its worth as a political instrument; it was the first time in my life that I’d come in contact with a mass movement conducted by Negro leadership and I felt that I could, if given a chance, understand it.

  He gave me a mechanical nod, but I could see that his thoughts were far away. Then a crowd of men and women pushed their way into the room and there were more introductions.

  “He is a novelist,” the Prime Minister said, pointing to me.

  “A novelist?” a tall black man echoed.

  “Yes; a novelist,” the Prime Minister repeated.

  The tall black man’s face was baffled; he stared at me, as though he doubted my existence. The Prime Minister saved the day by bursting into a loud and long laugh which was soon joined by all in the room. I sat silent and soon the crowd was talking among themselves in their tribal tongues. The Prime Minister rose and left; he returned a few moments later and sat next to me.

  “The ideological development here is not very high,” he said.

  “Uh hunh,” I grunted.

  “There are but two or three of us who know what we are doing,” he said.

  “George gave me a list of your bright boys to talk to,” I told him.

  “Is Kofi Baako on that list?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Talk to him,” the Prime Minister said. “He’s my righthand man.”

  “Is he here tonight?”

  “No; he’s in Cape Coast at the moment.”

  The Prime Minister disappeared and I struck up a conversation with some of the party militants. I wanted to break down their reserve and hear what they thought.

  “Do you think that the English will shoot if you press your demands for self-government?” I asked.

  A look of horror came over their faces.

  “They can shoot, but we won’t,” a boy swore.

  “They’ll never get us in that sort of position,” another told me.

  Some of the boys who didn’t understand English asked what I had said and they formed a knot debating and arguing my question. I was soon standing to one side. It was a strange household. People came and went. Presently a line of women edged into the room; at that moment a band downstairs began a dance tune and the women at once went into that same snakelike, shuffling dance that they had done on the streets earlier in the afternoon. The band boomed louder and the sound of dancing came from downstairs, upstairs, everywher
e…. I wandered out upon the balcony and saw the Prime Minister dancing alone on the lawn with about ten women around him. African dancing is not like Western dancing; one dances alone if one wants to.

  It was hot. I felt exhausted. It was near three o’clock in the morning when I met the Prime Minister entering the living room.

  “I must go. I’m dead tired,” I said.

  “The car will take you home,” he said.

  We shook hands. A young man escorted me down to the car and soon I was whizzing through the humid night toward the government bungalow.

  Nine

  Next morning when I awakened my sense of amazement at what I’d seen was, if anything, stronger than it had been the day before. I’d seen something new under the sun. What a bewildering unity Nkrumah had forged: Christianity, tribalism, paganism, sex, nationalism, socialism, housing, health, and industrial schemes…! Could this sweep Africa? I could well understand why the British, when they first saw it, thought it was a joke. They could not believe that a black man could take the political methods that Europe had perfected and apply them to Africa.

  And, of course, only a native African could do what Nkrumah had done. Five hundred years of European barbarism had made it impossible for any European alive to claim the kind of frenzied assent from these black millions that Nkrumah claimed. To that degree, the Nkrumahs of Africa had something that the Europeans could never take from them. What had given Nkrumah the chance to do this was that the British concepts of education had misfired; they had thought that any African who earned a string of university degrees would never dare to stick his hands into this muck, would feel too much revulsion to do so…. From the point of view of British mentality, an education was a guarantee that the educated young African would side with the British, and, what is more, many of them did, especially the young Christians. And the British had never suppressed nationalist feeling per se; they’d merely shunted it into ineffective channels.