The Talking Drum

by Lisa Braxton

  “I don’t know if the apartment would give you enough space. It’s kind of small,” Sydney said. Kwamé shot her a look. Sydney glared at him in response.

  “The basement unit has over eight hundred square feet,” Kwamé rebutted. “It’ll be pretty roomy if it’s just the two of you.”

  “Excuse me, but what about the stairs?” Sydney asked, ignoring Kwamé.

  “The exercise will be good,” Inez responded. “Walking up and down will keep my joints from getting stiff.”

  “Miss Sydney and my buddy here could really use the extra income from the rental as they get their business off the ground,” Kwamé explained.

  “Kwamé, we’re not discussing personal matters here,” Sydney interjected. “Malachi and I will handle this.”

  “Opening a small business can be risky,” Willie said, looking around. “The key is to draw customers early in the game.”

  “That’s what we’re hoping to do,” Malachi answered. He told them about their attempts to get a celebrity for the grand opening.

  Inez smiled broadly. “Willie and I know some people. We might be able to contact a few.”

  Willie shut the encyclopedia volume and put it back on the shelf. “How about The Fierce Warriors?”

  Malachi shook his head. “The godfathers of the spoken word? We’ll never be able to get them. They’ll charge more than we can pay.”

  Sydney first heard The Fierce Warriors at Malachi’s apartment when they were dating. He had two of their albums. They were a group of poets and musicians that had come out of Howard University whose lyrics were about black nationalism and the civil rights movement. She thought about the check she’d gotten from Bernadine and Martin. She was sure they could afford to spend a portion of it to cover the band’s expenses.

  “When you have the inside track you don’t have to worry about such things,” Willie said with a sly grin.

  Sydney doubted that they knew The Fierce Warriors. It was likely all talk, all bluster. But it couldn’t hurt to have them try to help.

  “I’ll make some phone calls,” Inez offered.

  “A group like The Fierce Warriors could attract some deep thinkers to your bookstore,” Willie added.

  “That’s what we want,” Malachi responded. “We want to attract that crowd, people who will come here and discuss the affairs of the day, like a salon. They’d sit and read, have debates, and buy books, of course.”

  Malachi left the room, returning with a set of keys. He looked at Sydney. “Let’s give the Taylors a tour of the basement apartment.”

  The Taylors, accompanied by Kwamé, walked ahead of them.

  Sydney grabbed Malachi’s arm. “No. You give the tour. I’m going up to the photo lab.”

  She was angry. Malachi was letting Kwamé manipulate him into signing a lease with these strangers. She trusted this couple about as much as she trusted Kwamé, which was not much. Something about them smelled crooked.

  “Don’t sign anything without me being present,” she added. “I have a stake in this too, remember? We’re partners.”

  “I know, Syd,” Malachi responded. “I know.”

  Sydney could tell by the look on his face that he was only half listening to her.

  CHAPTER 13

  OMAR AND KHADIM ran up the gazebo stairs two at a time as the crowd at Petite Africa Green began to cheer. It was an unseasonably hot afternoon in July, almost one hundred degrees. The air was heavy and damp after a morning rainfall. To Omar it felt like a day during the Senegal rainy season. Bounding up the steps after them were an African lute player, a keyboardist, drummers, harpist, and dancers. As the musicians tuned their instruments, the dancers fanned out in front of them and began swaying to the rhythms.

  Usually The Fulani Sound performed alone. But Uncle Mustapha, the other property owners, and tenants wanted the Green packed. They wanted to remind the people of the upcoming meeting of the Bellport Redevelopment Authority and the role they could play in demanding that the project be halted.

  Uncle Mustapha grabbed a microphone and shouted, “Salamalekum, ça va, hello,” switching from Wolof to French to English. People thrust their fists in the air and responded in their native languages. Next, Mustapha described, as he had done so many times, how the Harborview Project would bulldoze their homes and community, leaving them virtually on the streets.

  “How is your wife doing?” Khadim asked, scooting his stool close to Omar’s. “Is she still on the run?”

  Omar looked up from tuning his drum. Khadim wore the grin of a hyena, he thought. He promised himself he’d never share his problems with Khadim again.

  “Her time away is temporary. She will return soon.”

  Khadim shook his head. “I do not know why you have not replaced her with a new one while she is gone. This is so easy, my brother. Just do it.”

  Omar’s jaw tightened. “You sound like a parrot, my friend. You only have one topic of conversation, and you keep repeating it.”

  Khadim shrugged. “Women are everywhere.” He nodded to the crowd. “At least fifty out there right now could replace your wife, a good African woman who would wash your back, cook, clean, do the boom boom. You might even find one who will give you a son. You are crazy, man. All you can think of is your spoiled wife. A stick that has a long time in the water does not change into a crocodile.”

  Omar got off his stool. He punched Khadim in the shoulder. Knocked off balance, Khadim dropped his drum and jumped to his feet. He looked stunned. The rough mixture of sounds petered out as the musicians stopped warming up and turned toward the two. Unaware of the commotion, Uncle Mustapha continued speaking to the crowd.

  “Tejjil sa gemmin!” Omar shouted, breathing heavily. “If you do not shut your mouth, I will shut it for you. We can go on the grass right now.”

  Khadim glared at him, raising his palms. “I think I plucked a nerve, and I did not mean to. I am only trying to give you advice, my brother.” They stared at each other and eventually both sat back down. Omar resumed tuning his drum. He thought about Natalie. When was she coming back? It had been two weeks. He thought she would have at least called by now. He had Beverly’s number but he could not lower himself to call.

  “I can handle my wife myself. She is not your business.” Omar growled and turned away from Khadim. Incredibly, his friend would not be deterred.

  “They are like fruit that is falling from the tree, my friend,” Khadim teased. “You do not have to look far. You need to start plucking.”

  Uncle Mustapha finished his remarks and turned to Omar to see if he and the others were ready. Omar nodded yes. Mustapha handed the microphone to the harpist and walked off the stage, the signal for the show to begin.

  Omar set the pace with his djembe. Khadim placed his tama, or talking drum, under his arm, squeezing it to change the pitch as he struck the drumhead a mallet. With every squeeze, Khadim flexed his bicep. Omar braced himself, knowing what was coming. Women started screaming and shaking their hips. This only encouraged Khadim. He swung his head around and sent his dreadlocks flying.

  In the distance, Omar noticed the crowd parting for Uncle Mustapha as he left Petite Africa Green. Uncle deserved to relax.

  As had been rehearsed, the lute player left his instrument and circled the gazebo playing hand cymbals. Omar switched to the dundun, striking the drum with a stick. He strolled to the front of the gazebo and looked out at the crowd of mostly women. They were moving to the beat. Under their sweat-soaked blouses, he could see erect nipples. One woman wiggled her tongue at him as if she was licking a lollipop. Maybe Khadim was right. Omar had been overlooking the fruit that was dangling right in front of him, so easy to pluck. Natalie didn’t want him, so why shouldn’t he satisfy his lust?

  Out of the corner of his eye, Omar saw Khadim approaching. Apparently his friend had gotten over their fight and wanted to have one of thei
r drumming duels, a favorite with their audiences. Omar pounded out rhythms with his stick. Taking his cue, Khadim smacked the tama in frenzied syncopation. The dancers spun back and forth like human tops and twirled, jumping higher and higher.

  CHAPTER 14

  AUGUST 15, 1972

  Mr. and Mrs. Stallworth:

  I have received your request from Willie Taylor for a performance by The Fierce Warriors at your grand opening. I’m sorry it has taken us so long to respond. We were out of the country for an extended period. The Warriors believe in the cause you are undertaking, launching a bookstore and cultural center in the black community. We are available the date of your event in October.

  The Fierce Warriors perform charitable concerts each year for organizations that cannot afford to pay the full cost. Since your business is just starting, we will give you that discount. See the enclosed contract. Please return it, duly signed, within ten days.

  Yours in the struggle,

  Hideki Baruka

  Manager

  The Fierce Warriors

  Sydney gasped as she read the letter. Finally. They not only had a headliner for the grand opening, they had The Fierce Warriors. This was more than a dream. She was sure they would draw a crowd. She folded the letter and contract and put them away in the rolltop desk. If only she’d met the Taylors sooner, she wouldn’t have spent all those weeks in fruitless calls to performers’ agents. But the important thing was that she had met the Taylors, and they had been more than helpful. She reached for the phone to call her mother and tell her the news but stopped before she lifted the receiver. Bernadine had probably never heard of the group. She wished Malachi was home. He and Lawrence had left about an hour ago to purchase jerseys, sports equipment, and other supplies for the Liberty Hill Little League baseball team.

  She paced the room. She wanted to tell someone. Inez Taylor wasn’t downstairs in the apartment. She had seen her climb into a Buick twenty minutes ago.

  Then Sydney heard the ice cream truck roll onto the block as it always did on Saturday afternoons. Its piercing jingle was annoying enough but it also reminded her of Kwamé, who had bragged that he was the one who convinced the mayor to bring the ice cream truck back to the neighborhood. From the window she saw a small gaggle of kids gather around the truck.

  Beyond the truck she spotted Lawrence coming out of Kwamé’s record shop. Apparently, the two were becoming friends. Lawrence would be excited about the news, but he’d be gone by the time she made it down the stairs.

  Then she glanced at the apartment above the record shop and saw the curtain flutter. Kwamé’s wife was home. Della would be thrilled about The Fierce Warriors coming to perform.

  But she imagined their conversation might be awkward. She didn’t know Della. They were little more than strangers. They hadn’t spoken except for a few words they had exchanged at the wedding and the day Sydney and Malachi moved into the Victorian.

  “We’ve been here four months, Syd. You should have talked to Della by now,” Malachi had said to her the other day. “Knock on her door. Ask for a cup of sugar. Don’t women do that all the time?”

  Sydney didn’t need a cup of sugar, but she had a half dozen blueberry muffins she’d baked that she could use to break the ice with Della. Before she could talk herself out of it she was in the kitchen folding muffins into a cloth napkin. As she searched for a container to put them in, she heard squeaking. It sounded like a rusted wheel. She glanced at the clothesline in the backyard and figured the pulley was the cause of the noise. She dropped the muffins into a straw breadbasket that was given to her and Malachi as a wedding gift.

  She crossed the street, the breadbasket swinging from her arm. When she reached the other side, she decided to stop in the record shop. She was sure Kwamé would consider her rude if she didn’t at least say “hi.” He might be hungry for a snack and welcome one of her muffins. Despite her misgivings about him, she thought it only right that she try to maintain at least a cordial relationship with her husband’s best friend.

  It was her first time inside the record shop. It was bright and spare with naked light bulbs hung from sections of the ceiling. Record albums, 45s, and cassettes filled rows of unpainted wooden bins in the middle of the room. Eight-track tapes were stacked in cubby holes along the walls. Edwin Starr’s “War” poured from speakers mounted in opposite corners of the ceiling.

  Rhythm and Blues seemed more like a museum about a record store than an actual business. It was noon and it was empty. Dust covered the front counter and the cash register. Faded album covers sat on display tables. She spotted Kwamé in the back of the store in his office doorway, his back to her. She walked toward him until she realized that he wasn’t alone. She began backing away. But he caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye. He swung around. A young white woman peered over his shoulder. Kwamé glared at Sydney through narrowed, angry eyes.

  “Need something?” he asked, sounding irritated.

  She shook her head. “No. I was on my way to see Della.”

  He pointed his index finger at the ceiling, slicing the air. “Up there.”

  Sydney felt uncomfortable, as if she had done something wrong. When she got back to the entrance of the record shop, she remembered she had meant to offer him a muffin. She glanced back. Both Kwamé and the woman were staring at her. Sydney hurried out the door and climbed the winding stairs to the second floor. When she got to the door, she stopped to catch her breath. She heard a television. Sydney knocked and waited. She knocked again. Then she banged the door with her fist. A few second later, she heard the floor boards creaking from inside. After a series of clicks from the bolt locks, the door opened as far as the chain would allow. Two brown eyes peered through the crack.

  “Yeah?” a voice behind the eyes said.

  “I … I don’t mean to disturb you.”

  “You ain’t disturbing me.”

  Then Sydney heard someone running up the stairs behind her. A boy about ten years old was headed to the landing and stopped short when he saw Sydney. He looked from Sydney to the door.

  “Hol’ on,” Della shouted and shut the door. She dislodged the chain to open the door. Della reached into her bra and pulled out some one-dollar bills. “Get me a carton of Kools,” she told the boy. He grabbed the money and hurried down the stairs.

  “I know it’s been some time since we moved in. We’ve been so busy getting everything settled that I didn’t have time to visit with you before. So, I thought it was time I dropped by to say ‘hi,’” Sydney said.

  “Well ain’t that nice of you,” Della replied in her southern lilt. She invited her in. The apartment door opened into the living room. The décor was simple, reminding Sydney of her grandmother’s parlor. A mustard green sofa, covered in plastic, blended with the walls. A matching recliner on the wall opposite the sofa was stacked with neatly folded children’s clothes. A framed, sepia-toned picture of Jesus Christ, with long hair and palms pressed together in prayer, hung on the wall behind the chair. Flanking it on each side were framed photos of Martin Luther King, Jr., and John F. Kennedy.

  Della reached to turn off the television but paused at a news bulletin—another fire in Petite Africa. The reporter stated the fire had broken out in the kitchen of Ortiz Cakes and Pastry Shop. No one was hurt. The kitchen staff was able to put it out with fire extinguishers, but the kitchen was destroyed. Della snapped off the set.

  “That was a close call,” said Sydney.

  “Those people can’t seem to catch a break over there,” Della added.

  “But at least this one didn’t involve the arsonist.”

  “Yes, we do have to count our blessings.”

  Sydney felt relieved that the fire gave them something to talk about, an ice breaker of sorts.

  “Please excuse the place,” Della said. She swept a bean-bag ashtray off the coffee table and two crumpled
Viceroy cigarette packages, apparently Kwamé’s. Sydney followed Della into the kitchen where she dumped the ashes and empty packages into a trash can.

  “This is my little workshop,” Della announced, nodding toward the pantry. The shelves were filled with miniature gazebos and bird houses of untreated wood, rows of vases, and small pots of paint and brushes.

  Della waved Sydney to the Formica table. A lawn bag full of clothes sat in the chair opposite her.

  “What you got there?” Della pointed at the basket. Sydney lifted the lid, smiling.

  Della began to smile back, exposing front teeth that overlapped. She quickly put a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t know you baked.”

  Sydney laughed. “I don’t bake a lot, but blueberry muffins are one of my favorite things to make.”

  “Then we got something in common.” She reached into the refrigerator for a pitcher and poured them glasses of iced tea.

  Sydney asked her for sugar.

  Della chuckled. “You don’t need no sugar. It’s already sweet. We serve it that way down south.

  Sydney took a sip.

  “What you think?”

  “Delicious.” Sydney almost choked after one gulp; it was so sweet. She put her glass down. “Really. I can come back later. I feel I’ve caught you in the middle of something.” She gestured toward the bag of clothing.

  Della waved her off. “Reverend Williams asks me every year to head the clothing drive. You can’t say ‘no’ when the pastor comes calling.” In Della’s southern accent, “Williams” sounded like Wee Yums.

  As they ate, Sydney handed Della the letter from The Fierce Warriors. “I’m pretty excited about this. Malachi doesn’t know yet.”

  Della’s eyes grew wide. “The Fierce Warriors are coming to little ol’ Bellport? Ain’t that something. Me and Kwamé saw them in New York once at The Blue Note.”