Black Power

by Richard Wright

  “Yes, sar.”

  “May I see him?”

  “You American, sar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait, sar.”

  He left. Five minutes later I heard footsteps behind me; I turned. A slight, brown man of about forty came forward. He had on an old dark-colored cloth and he wore sandals.

  “Good afternoon, Nana,” I said, addressing him according to custom.

  “Welcome,” he said.

  I took his right hand in both of my hands, which, I’d been told, was the proper way to greet a “father of the people.” He spoke English with a tribal accent and was most polite, gracious. He bade me sit and we talked casually. A group of toga-clad young men drifted in and seated themselves on the floor around us, listening, smiling. Meanwhile, the chief was observing me closely. A boy brought in two bottles of beer. The chief poured out several glasses. As he handed me a glass, he said:

  “Pour a libation for us.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes,” the chief said. “You. You are African.”

  “But I’ve never done it before.”

  “Then try.”

  “But what am I to say?”

  “Anything that’s in your heart.”

  I tilted my glass and let a few drops of beer fall into a huge wooden vat in which cigarette stubs and trash were collected. As the beer dribbled downward, I declaimed in a tolling voice, calling upon our common ancestors to witness that I had come from America, that I wished health and happiness to everybody, that I yearned to see Africa free, that I was a stranger who bore no ill-will toward anyone; I beseeched the ancestors to watch with care and love over those who were present; I begged them to bless the fields, to make the women fertile, and to protect the children…. My glass was empty.

  “You did fine,” he said, filling my glass again.

  We drank and when our glasses were empty, the chief took me gently by the hand and said:

  “Come with me.”

  “Yes, Nana,” I said, following him obediently.

  As we walked down the long veranda, he whispered to me:

  “I want to show you a mystery.”

  We came to a corner of the veranda that overlooked a dismal courtyard. He caught my arm, stopping me. I wondered what he was about to reveal. Then he pointed off into some shadows.

  “Do you see that box?” he asked me.

  I squinted and saw a dark, oblong metal box about eight inches thick, about two feet long, and about a foot wide.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s in that box?” he asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Look at it…. Go closer and look at it,” he urged me.

  Maybe it contained some foolish, but, to his mind, powerful fetish? I wanted to burst out laughing, but I inhibited myself. I bent forward and examined the box and saw that it seemed to be covered with flies or some other insects. Then I knew; they were bees, crawling….

  “What’s in the box?” he asked me.

  “Honey’s in the box,” I said brightly.

  “You think that those are bees?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I said, puzzled at his insistence.

  “They are not bees,” he said.

  “Well, maybe you’ve got some insects in Africa that I don’t know about,” I ventured. “What are they?”

  “That’s a mystery,” he said.

  I stood looking at him and he stood smiling at me, watching me. He led me back to the group of young men. I was trying to think hard, but the material I had to think with was slippery. Maybe a joke was being played on me?

  “Say,” the chief asked me suddenly, “do you like riddles?”

  I felt that I was playing a game with little boys and I said:

  “Well, yes. But I’m not too good at them….”

  “I’d like to ask you one,” the chief said.

  “Well, try me.”

  “What’s smaller than an ant’s mouth?”

  I thought a moment and said:

  “The ant’s finger.”

  There was a moment’s silence. The young men began asking, I gathered, what I’d said and, when the chief translated my answer for them, they burst into wild laughter, clapping their hands. The chief poured me another glass of beer.

  “You are clever,” he said.

  “Was that the right answer?” I asked.

  “It could be,” the chief conceded. “The right answer is the food that goes into the ant’s mouth. But if the ant had a finger, his finger would have to be smaller than his mouth.”

  A furious discussion took place between the young men and the chief; they spoke in their tribal tongue and finally the chief rose, pushed his forefinger into his mouth to demonstrate that what I had said was true. Evidently the chief won the argument, for the young men lapsed into silence. The chief sat and looked at me with admiration. I felt enclosed by a dream.

  “You are too clever,” the chief said.

  “Oh, I’m not,” I said. “But what’s the mystery in that box?”

  There was silence. Beyond a paneless window I saw a dark green mountain rising and melting into a gray and lowering sky. Was this the normal, day-to-day reality of a chief’s entourage?

  “Say,” the chief asked me suddenly, “did you ever see a dwarf?”

  “A what?”

  “A dwarf. A little man…. You know what I mean?”

  “No,” I said.

  “But you have heard of them?”

  “Yes.”

  He rose and crossed to the paneless window, then called to me.

  “Come here.”

  I rose, crossed, and stood beside him.

  “You see that mountain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, there are dwarfs on that mountain.”

  I held very still. Was he pulling my leg? I studied him; his face was intensely solemn.

  “Really?” I asked, letting my voice spill over with curiosity.

  “Yes.”

  I decided to pretend to believe it all.

  “How big are they?”

  “Well, they are so tall,” the chief said, holding up his hand to show the height. “They have feet that are turned around—”

  “Backward?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they talk?”

  “No: they whistle.”

  “Are they friendly?”

  “Yes; very friendly.”

  “You’ve seen them?”

  “Yes; I’ve seen them,” the chief said.

  “But this is wonderful,” I said, wondering what the meaning of it all was. Did he think that I would believe this? “What do they look like?”

  “They have long, silky hair.”

  “Do they wear clothes?”

  “Yes; of course.”

  “If I went up there, would I see them?”

  “No. You’re a stranger,” he said, shaking his head. “You mustn’t go up there.”

  “Why?”

  “The dwarfs would beat you up—”

  “But you said that they were friendly—”

  “They are. But to us—”

  “But suppose I took a gun to protect myself?”

  “But you can’t see them,” he told me.

  “They’re invisible to strangers, is that it?”

  “Yes. And they’d beat you up. And when you came down, you’d be covered with sores and bruises.”

  Well, that was that. But that mystery box…

  “Now, tell me about the mystery in the box?” I asked him.

  “That box is my protection,” he told me.

  “What’s in it? Guns?”

  “No. Bees—”

  “But I said that they were bees—”

  “No; no…. You don’t understand,” he said. “My army’s in that box.”

  “What?”

  “I have an army of bees in that box. The bees protect me,” he said with deep conviction.

  Silence. Was the man mad or pretending?


  “Say, Nana, how many people are in your town?”

  He looked surprised and spread his hands in a wide, helpless gesture.

  “We are many, many, many,” he intoned.

  “But you don’t know how many?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Now, why do you say that those bees are your army?”

  He thought a moment, then told me the following story:

  “Two years ago I had a hard fight with some of the chiefs in this town. It was a long fight, but I won it. The night after I’d won that fight, I went into my room and saw that box. I’d never seen it before and I didn’t know who put it there…. I saw those bees on it and it puzzled me. I asked the fetish priest why a box with bees on it had been put in my room…. You see, I knew that there was some reason for it. The fetish priest told me that the bees had been sent by God to take care of me. They were my army.

  “Now, that was why I took you to see that box…. If you had been an enemy of mine, those bees would have buzzed you out of here…. They sting and drive out all of my enemies. Only last week a man came here with evil intentions against me. Those bees drove him out; he ran away, screaming….”

  “What did the man say to you?”

  “Nothing. He didn’t have a chance—”

  “Then how do you know that he had evil intentions?”

  “Because the bees attacked him!”

  Yes; the bees had attacked the man. That was proof…. What could I say? He was sincere. I sat confronting men who were dreaming with their eyes wide open. Beyond the paneless window I could see the upthrusting cross of a Christian church. Yes; Christianity was here in Africa. For centuries the missionaries of the Western world had tried to alter the mental habits of these people, and they had failed. But had they really tried? There were missionaries in Koforidua, isolated, apart, white…. These people were black…. Only a fool could not see the simple lesson of that. But why had the missionaries tried at all? It may be that the motives that made them try could explain why they had failed.

  And it was more than clear now why Nkrumah had to get rid of these old chiefs. Here was a man who was the head of a town of 25,000 people and he didn’t know that there were 25,000 people in the town! No modern political organization could possibly have need of a man like that; only the British could use him…. It was chiefs like this who had, for more than a century, bartered away the mineral and timber resources of the nation for a few paltry pounds and a few cases of gin…. Indeed, I felt, after having talked with this chief for an hour, that the Convention People’s Party had been rather kind. The party was offering men like him “honorary” positions.

  I learned later—in Kumasi—that the chiefs had been demanding a second house, a sort of senate, in short, a bicameral system of government in which their “voices” could be heard. But when they were informed that they would, in that setup, be in a position to veto the legislation passed by the lower house, and that, if they did veto the wishes of the people, they would find themselves no longer “fathers” of the people, but just plain, ordinary politicians and that they would be treated as such, attacked in public, criticized, and opposed at the polls, the chiefs had thought it over and had finally said:

  “No, thank you.”

  They were wise. They knew in their hearts that their authority came from mumbo-jumbo and not from rational thought; that it came from spells, mystery, and magic which could not possibly succeed at the polls….

  I stood at the front door and the chief identified himself to me proudly: he was Barima Osei Kwesi, Omanhene of New Jauben. He asked me if I had a place to stay, if I was being properly fed, if there was anything that he could do for me. I realized then why the old tribal setup in the Gold Coast had had no need of hotels. The chief was generously offering me the hospitality bred of the long traditions of his people, but he didn’t know how many people were in his town….

  Before taking leave, I asked him:

  “Those dwarfs…How can they walk like you and me if their feet are turned backward?”

  “That?” he said. “It’s easy. Watch me….”

  He walked rapidly backward several feet.

  “See?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s simple,” he said.

  “Yes; I see it is. Good night, Nana.”

  “Good night,” he said. “And keep well.”

  I held his right hand between my two hands.

  “Good luck to you.”

  “The same to you.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Thirty-One

  It has been raining steadily now for several hours; there is so much moisture in the air that a piece of paper grows quickly limp. Outside the colors are white and green: white mist and rain and dark green of the foliage of the trees.

  It’s about six o’clock and all’s quiet. The green hills, haloed by clouds, bend broodingly over the town. No wonder the mind of “primitive” man felt that there were spirits in this jungle, for it does seem that some presence, some living but invisible being is hovering here. It is, of course, the weather, a weather that dominates everything, seeping into the senses, creating a mood. One feels that one is not living in the world; one feels—Yes; I’ve got it…. I feel more or less the way I felt long ago when I first made a visit to witness a Catholic mass…. Imagine living in a world whose dramatic setting evoked in you a continuous mood of wonder and awe and dread! And imagine being unable, because of a lack of the capacity of reflection, to step outside of that mood and question it…! One would be trapped. I’m not saying that the weather accounts for everything here; but I swear that it helps…. The mist and rain of these jungle hills complement and stimulate those feelings in one which one always tries to ignore: that sense of something untoward about to erupt, that feeling that one’s unwanted moods are about to intrude upon one’s waking, rational thoughts. At any moment a big, shiny-eyed cat might leap out of the rainy black jungle, just as an impulse toward impiety might leap compulsively out of the unconscious of a deeply devout Christian….

  It’s only natural that a man, misapprehending the nature of cause and effect, should think that his dead father was somewhere out there in the depths of that unpredictable jungle, that that father was still watching over him, ready to encourage or censor his thoughts and actions, to bring down upon his head praise or blame. Especially would this be so if he’d both loved and hated that father, wanted his guidance and rejected it when it came as being too severe. No wonder he feels that he must pour libations continuously, offer gifts, make sacrifices. He views his ancestors as being huddled together in loneliness in that other world, seeking the most unheard-of ways and means of re-entering life, ready at any moment to find an excuse for snatching one of the living into their dreadful world of shades, of nonbeing….

  Is this not merely a turning upside down, a reversal of what the African lives and feels each day? To put it plainly: are not these living men projecting their hostile impulses upon the dead and converting those dead into a dead that can never die? For every tree in the jungle forest there is a taboo in the tribal home; there are a hundred thousand don’ts which they long to violate.

  But they cannot violate them: the menstrual taboo must be observed; one must turn one’s stool over when leaving it, for fear an evil spirit might possess it; one must never give another something with the left hand, for the left hand is used in cleaning one’s self after answering calls of nature; a portion of each meal must be set aside for the dead, or else the dead will be displeased; men must never plant seeds, for the planting of seeds is the task of women: seeds are more likely to grow if women put them in the ground; boys of a certain age must not be with their mothers; girls of a certain age must not be with their fathers; and so on…. Wild savages? No! Just too afraid, overburdened, too civilized….

  Yesterday, amidst a green and towering nature, the distinction between the objective and the subjective was wiped out; one lived, nervo
us and afraid, in two worlds and one could not tell them apart. The urge to kill the beast stalking in the green and wet jungle, the urge to kill the enemy who was trying to kill you and take your wife, the urge to kill the chief who was sending you to death in war or captivity—the urge to kill must have been ever-present. And how the heart must have fought against killing, felt that killing was wrong, loathed and dreaded killing; and, finally, the heart found a way to stop killing and at the same time to kill with justification, that is, kill with ritual…. The heart then killed to satisfy the demands of the heart, but it deluded itself into feeling that it was killing to satisfy the demands of the angry and dead father, to appease and keep him quiet. And killing like that made the heart feel better, safe once more, for the heart was really killing for its own sake, for itself—killing for itself but in the name of another….

  What a contagious quality of emotion must be in the lives of men who live like that. There is no way to check one’s perceptions or feelings against any objective standard. What one feels, one’s neighbor also feels instantaneously by the mere fact of communication, for, in that state, to feel something is to make it true. What one imagines instantly exists. What one fears comes immediately into being. Thought and feeling become omnipotent.

  Hour after hour it rains and I hear the water dripping from the roof of the house….

  Thirty-Two

  Next morning at breakfast my host, Mr. Eccles, put in his appearance. He was a tall, affable young man with English public school mannerisms. He immediately told me that he’d arranged a cocktail party at which would be all the “important” people of the area. I protested, but he said that they would be disappointed if he did not give a party.

  At nine o’clock about twenty guests, English and African, stood around with glasses filled with scotch and soda and talked. British CID men, businessmen, and government men tried to get me to commit myself on the question of colonialism; I talked for three hours and said absolutely nothing. It was exhausting….

  After the party we drove a long way in a heavy rain to a bar where Mr. Eccles introduced me to an African businessman. He was a dour, huge, black fellow; he was in his shirt sleeves and his collar was open. He was drunk; his breath smelled like a brewery.