by Lisa Braxton
“Pay?” Sydney looked at Malachi. “I thought payment would be college credit.”
“Oh, Syd, we should be able to afford it. We’ll take a little something out of what we get for renting the basement.”
“And when I have time,” Lawrence continued. “I’ll cut grass, make a few extra dollars that way, too.”
The two men returned to the car and came back with several more items. Malachi carried a box of smaller Bridgewaters, and Lawrence had a a rolled-up area rug flopped over his shoulder. Sydney wished he had discussed the matter with her before offering Lawrence the internship. She wondered what else Malachi hadn’t told her.
“I got a new mower, gas powered. It’ll cut through anything,” Lawrence said.
“That’s good,” responded Sydney. “You’ll help keep the yards looking nice around here.”
Malachi and Lawrence later carried in a large oval mirror with a white ceramic frame and finally, an oak dining room chair. Malachi was carrying the chair upstairs when the kitchen phone rang. Sydney ignored the phone and turned to Lawrence. “You must be hungry after that long ride.”
Lawrence nodded. “I could eat something.”
When they got to the kitchen, Malachi was holding out the phone with his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s your mother,” he whispered. “Syd, baby, you have to talk to her.”
“I know.” She took the phone from him and swallowed hard.
CHAPTER 6
A SPRING IN THE sofa bed frame poked Omar in the side as he shifted around to check the time. He squinted to see the clock on the kitchen range. It was six-thirty and time to get up. Natalie was already gone. He had heard her tipping out the door a few minutes ago. As she left, she announced into the air that she was going to an accounting study session. Unusual, he thought. She had never had a session this early. He was about to question her, then changed his mind. He knew it would lead to an argument about the heat not working.
Their landlord, James Fullerton, lived north of Bellport along the shoreline. If Omar timed it right and caught the seven-fifteen crosstown bus, he could transfer to the express and arrive at the landlord’s doorstep by nine thirty. Omar would be done in plenty of time to get back to Petite Africa to play drums for Uncle Mustapha’s lunch crowd. Fullerton wasn’t in his office on weekends, so Omar would have to go to his home.
He stepped into the shower and braced himself under the spray of ice-cold water. It was something he never got used to. Once he was done, he turned on his transistor radio. The weather forecast a pleasant day with no fog and the temperature reaching fifty degrees by midafternoon.
He thought about making it easy on himself and dressing for the restaurant in a boubou, a loose, light flowing robe and trousers popular in his country, and a thin sweater underneath. But he was afraid that Fullerton wouldn’t take him seriously dressed that way. Whenever he left Petite Africa, his wardrobe drew stares from people not accustomed to West African fashion. American people on the street, including the black ones, would stare at him. Sometimes children giggled and pointed at him. But if he wore the white man’s clothes he wouldn’t have time to change before going to the restaurant. He’d have to pack an extra bag. In the end, he decided to wear the boubou.
He quickly ate tapalapa, leftover homemade Senegalese bread he had gotten from Uncle Mustapha’s restaurant, and then went to the spare bedroom. It was where he kept his drums, repaired them, and practiced. He had arranged his instruments along the perimeter of the room according to type—djembe, ashkikos, sabars, benbes, agogos, dundun, and caxixis. On the wall he had hung one of the framed photographs he had gotten from Duke Ellington and on the fireplace mantle was the tall, earthen pot from his mother, Fama, that she had intended for The Duke to have. He had yet to give it to the musician all these years later.
He picked up drums, cowbells, shakers, and mallets and stuffed them into carrying bags, then locked the apartment door, walked to the elevator, and hit the button. He wished Natalie had an appreciation for drumming. If she could meet Fama, she would explain to Natalie the drum’s importance in his life. Fama would tell Natalie how Omar crawled around their hut in Senegal when he was still a baby, patting upturned pots, and how once he was able to pull himself up to a standing position he’d grab hold of one of his father, Ibrahim’s tamas, or talking drums, and play with it. With pride, Fama would tell Natalie that not long after Omar started forming words he would pat the head of Ibrahim’s djembe with his little palms and say sabar, sabar,” the word for “drum” in Wolof. Then maybe Natalie would understand.
It took Omar a few moments of not hearing any movement in the shaft to remember that the elevator wasn’t working this week. He bolted down the steps, squeezed past an abandoned sofa in the foyer, and out the front door.
Saturday was his favorite day in Petite Africa. Shop owners pulled their merchandise out of their stores and displayed it on racks and tables, converting sidewalks into a village market. People shopped as if they were in their home countries; American tourists who found their way to Petite Africa bought “exotic” gifts. Omar walked down his street, King Street, which was known as “Cape Verde Lane” among the locals. Eventually, he passed an open field where children were playing “catch your tail,” by linking arms, and trying to catch the handkerchief of the opposing team. He liked seeing them playing this game as kids did all over West Africa.
He turned onto Clermont Street and watched Bamba Toukou pull his wooden food carts onto the sidewalk. His son, Bamba Junior, a thick, squat teenage version of his father, ambled out of the store with barrels of ice on each shoulder. The sound of ice crashing into the trays soon followed.
“Hey, drummer man,” Bamba Senior called after Omar, “got some fresh white fish today, too much for me to sell. Tell your uncle I give him discount.”
Omar waved. Drummer man. He loved the name. Most of the shop owners along Clermont Street had either been to performances of The Fulani Sound—what he and his best friend Khadim Adepo called themselves when they performed together at the local clubs—or danced to Omar’s and Khadim’s rhythms at street festivals.
He turned a corner onto Hancock Avenue, called “Togo Street” by the locals. Two blocks later, the air was filled with the sweet smell of dough and sugar. Junio Ortiz, owner of Ortiz Cakes and Pastry Shop, was rolling up the metal shield over the front door of his business, signaling that the ovens were hot and ready. Next door, Uncle Mustapha’s goddaughter, Esmé Tavernier, owner of Esmé’s Africa Wear Shop, was pulling clothes racks of her hand-dyed batik dresses, skirts, and boubous onto the sidewalk. She playfully blew a kiss to Omar.
When Omar got to the corner of Hancock and Wheeler Avenues, he slowed at Hallima’s Salon. A dingy sandwich board on the sidewalk listed prices for braiding and hair-pressing services. There was no mention of how much it cost to buy her useless herbs. He wanted to go inside to demand his money back on the love potion but hesitated. Hallima was a feisty woman, loud enough to draw the attention of everyone on the street and big enough to fill the front doorway. She might try to humiliate him in front of her customers.
One block up he reached Garfield Avenue, known as “Petite Africa Boulevard,” which was filled with shops on the ground level and box-like apartments on the top. He walked past Le Baobab Restaurant, his Uncle Mustapha’s place. Even outside, Omar could detect the aroma of familiar spices and herbs and knew his uncle was preparing yassa guinaar, a grilled chicken dish, and michoui, marinated roast lamb shank, for the lunch crowd.
Normally during the early hours of the day in Petite Africa, Omar talked to the vendors to learn of news from home, but he knew he’d have no peace with Natalie if he used this morning for anything other than meeting with Fullerton. Omar checked his watch. He had four minutes to make the crosstown bus. He walked faster. The crosstown bus never lingered. He had to catch it.
With one block to go, he spotted the bus at the curb of Seavie
w Avenue and Garfield. He ran, but the bus pulled away, belching sooty smoke in his face. He leaned against the bus shelter to catch his breath. It would be another thirty minutes before the next bus. He thought it wouldn’t be worth his time to wait for it. If he walked four blocks over, he could catch the local. He’d probably be a little late getting to the restaurant, but Uncle Mustapha would understand.
Except for cleaning women, the shelter was empty. They wore white starched uniforms, white stockings, and white shoes with matching soles. Omar caught bits of their conversation as they chatted about housing vouchers and the new high-rise apartment buildings they would move into once the redevelopment project was completed.
Omar couldn’t believe it. These people had accepted the demolition of Petite Africa as a reality. They thought the apartments the mayor had announced that they would be moved to were luxury accommodations.
He heard a car horn in the distance followed by the sound of screeching tires. All at once, the car pulled to the curb next to him. “Naka mu demee? Naka mu demee?”
It was a familiar voice shouting the Wolof greeting. It was Khadim in his yellow taxi. Omar was pleased to see him. It had been days since they’d talked. Khadim was one of the few people he could have a full conversation with in his native language. Whenever Omar talked to Uncle Mustapha, the old man switched from Wolof to English to French then back to Wolof all in one sentence. Omar wasn’t sure if his uncle was being lazy or showing off his language skills.
“Mu ngi dox!” Omar shouted in response that he was doing well. Khadim popped the trunk. Omar dropped his sacks of instruments there and slid into the passenger seat.
“I am glad to see that you are fine, my friend,” Khadim shouted in Wolof over the chatter of his two-way radio. “I have been telling everyone about our partnership. I can see my name on my classroom door. Master Drummer Instructor Khadim Adepo.”
Omar slowly turned in his seat to face him. “I advise you not to tell everyone yet. The drumming institute is only in the heads of me and uncle.”
Khadim’s brow creased. “It will still happen, yes?”
“If Uncle Mustapha can stop the plans of the city to take Petite Africa, then maybe we shall get the African Cultural building. Nothing is certain.”
“I hope we get the building, my brother. It could help us get the attention we need for the recording contract.”
Omar looked back at the bus stop. “Those people believe anything they are told. They are ready to be kicked out of their homes, and they are so happy about it.”
“That is because they do not have the inside details like we do.”
“It is so good that we have Benata.”
Khadim’s wife gave them regular updates on the status of the redevelopment project from conversations she overheard at her desk at Bellport City Hall while processing tax delinquencies.
“Benata tells me we will have success,” announced Khadim. “She knows because the mood of the mayor has been bad lately. His secretary told Benata that he is running scared because of the protests of your uncle.”
Omar relaxed in his seat. Uncle was putting pressure on city hall, just as he said he would.
Over the two-way radio the dispatcher asked Khadim to pick up a fare by the navy yard. Khadim told her he was taking a bathroom break.
“Natalie does not want to believe that Petite Africa will prevail,” Omar shrugged. “She thinks we will soon be in the road.”
Khadim shook his head. “She must have the faith.”
Omar had always been careful when he brought up Natalie’s name. Khadim had never commented on Omar’s personal decisions, but Omar was fairly certain that his friend disapproved of his marriage to Natalie because she was not only an American woman, but a non-Muslim. He had heard Khadim speak disdainfully when referring to the “mixed marriages” between Muslims and non-Muslims and between black Africans and black Americans.
Khadim snapped off the radio. “Fooy Dem? What is your destination, my friend?”
Omar told him of his plans to talk to Fullerton and gave him directions.
“You are going way out there? You are lucky. I have been up since cock crow and have made plenty of money already today. I can take a few hours’ break.” Khadim turned the meter off and clicked on the “off-duty” sign. “But why don’t you just move, my friend? I could find out if we have any vacancies in my building. It would be an easy move since I am just one block over.”
“But your building is no better than ours. You tell me all the time about the rats.”
Khadim shrugged. “We have rats, but we have heat and electricity.”
“I will stay where I am.”
Khadim put the taxi in gear and pulled from the curb. “Do you think he will fix all those things?”
“I do not know. All I can do is talk to him.”
Omar wished his friend would just drive and not ask so many questions. He was not at ease around Khadim, who grew up in St. Louis, a large, industrial center of Senegal, whereas Omar grew up as a fanna faana, a rural Wolof who spoke a rustic dialect. The city folk tended to look down on people from the village and saw them as muuhat, ignorant of modern ways. Khadim claimed to be a devout Muslim. He prayed more than five times a day, gave alms to poor people, and never drank. During Ramadan he fasted and abstained from sex with Benata from dusk to dawn. Omar was technically a Muslim but never honored the traditions.
The two men spent many hours together rehearsing as The Fulani Sound. They performed at venues across the Bellport metropolitan area. Omar was both impressed and intimidated by Khadim’s skill in playing the tama, the talking drum, with precision. Khadim had a unique ability to manipulate the drum to change its pitch, squeezing it enough to make his bicep flex and women in the audience scream in approval. That never happened when Omar played the tama. Khadim also played the balafon, similar to the American xylophone, and the African lute. Omar had never learned to play either instrument. Then there was Khadim’s hair. His dreadlocks were long, past his waist. He’d swing his head left to right, sending his dreads in all directions. Women would come up after a set asking for an autograph, admiring his dreads and touching them. Sometimes they had lit cigarettes between their fingers. More than once Omar wished a customer would accidentally turn the lit end in just the right direction to burn up those dreads. There was no reason for Khadim to draw most of the attention when they performed.
Khadim mashed down on the horn to alert the driver ahead of them that the traffic light had turned green. “You should obtain that community lawyer Uncle Mustapha knows,” he said.
“I shall talk to Fullerton first. Maybe I can solve this easily.”
Khadim shook his head. “The ways of Fullerton are known all over Petite Africa. He has a hot head and so does his wife. I will take you there, but I think you should have a bodyguard.”
“You are being dramatic, my friend. Idrissa went to see him once and came back in only one piece.”
Khadim laughed. “Maybe he did not tell you the end of the fable. My friend Mamadou ended up in Bellport Hospital after he went to see Fullerton. He was there for three days. The wife messed him up.”
From the passenger-side window Omar watched homes grow larger, with attached garages and circular drives. There were more properties further from the road, and some had low stone walls along the perimeter. Lawns were manicured. This was the kind of community where Natalie wanted them to move.
“There is something heavy on your mind, my brother?” Khadim asked when they got to a stop sign.
Omar hesitated, not wanting Khadim to harshly judge Natalie. But he had no one else he could confide in. He told Khadim about Natalie’s overbooked schedule.
Khadim banged on the steering wheel. Omar flinched.
“I told you not to marry an American woman, and especially not a black American woman,” Khadim shouted. “You cannot trust
any of them, but you especially cannot trust the black ones. They are selfish, spoiled, lazy, and they have no morals.”
“I regret that I introduced the topic,” said Omar.
“You know what she is doing, do you not?” Khadim turned and looked directly at Omar, waiting for a response. Omar wished his friend would keep his eyes on the road.
“She is doing the boom boom with that voice coach,” Khadim continued. “She is pretending that she has these gigs around town and all these classes. I bet she has not set her toes on the college campus in months.”
Omar tried to remain calm. “You do not know what you are talking about.”
“The black American women do it all the time,” Khadim said, rocking back and forth in his seat. “They will cheat on you every second. You should read Black Confections.” He reached under his seat and handed him a rolled-up copy of a magazine. The cover pictured a woman in a bra and panties made out of wrapped hard candy. “One of my customers left this in the taxi. The black American woman waits for her man to leave for work and then she brings her other man in the back door for the boom boom. She makes him go home just before her man returns from work. Every single issue I read, the same thing happens.”
Omar tossed the magazine over his shoulder into the back seat. “You should give Bamba that magazine to wrap fish for his customers.”
“It is all true, my friend. You can pick up a copy at the five-and-dime store. It is right in there.”
They drove on.
“I know she is at the college,” Omar offered after a few minutes. “I dropped her lunch to her there last week.”
“You dropped her lunch there because you do not trust her. You wanted to make sure she was there.”
Omar wondered if Khadim would have considered marrying an American woman if he had not met Benata. Years ago, when the Senegalese teenager was visiting her aunt in Petite Africa, Khadim was at a friend’s house next door to the aunt and noticed Benata. After meeting the extended family, he convinced them to get Benata to stay in the United States longer than her tourist visa would allow by having her enroll in college and obtain a student visa. Then he married her and got her to apply for permanent residency.
