The Talking Drum

by Lisa Braxton

  They came upon Bamba’s Food Market on Clermont Street, where a stocky teenager was tossing a bucket of ice on a pushcart full of red snapper in front of the store. Four blocks later, they came upon a rally. At the center of a town green , a tall man who looked to be about seventy years old, stood in a gazebo badly in need of paint. He shouted into a microphone. Sydney soon realized it was Mustapha Mendy, the man she had seen at the fire and police department news conference a few months back. His dark suit looked to be a size too big. She thought he’d either lost some weight since buying it or he was shrinking due to old age. His voice crackled and sounded tinny through the small speaker. Pacing the gazebo floor, he bounced from French to English to some other language she guessed was African. People stood in a semi-circle, six to seven deep around the gazebo and held up signs and placards in French and English, thrusting them high in the air each time Mustapha raised his voice. One said Sauver Nos Maisons!, which Sydney translated to mean, “Save Our Homes.” Another said, “No Damn Expressway Ramp” and “Petite Africa is not a Slum.” One translation upset her—Liberte Hill est un Traitre, “Liberty Hill is a Traitor.” People started to shake their fists and shout as Mustapha spoke louder and faster. Sydney took wide, medium, and close-ups with her Konica, focusing on the action around her. She zoomed in on Mendy’s sweaty face with her telephoto lens, as he jabbed the air with his fist.

  Then she trained the camera on Della and Jasmine standing near the front of the crowd. She would surprise Della with the photos later.

  After three more blocks, they got to a sandwich board in front of Hallima Santafara Beauty Salon. We Braid Beautiful Plaits for Half-Price it read. Della went in first, grasping the rusty doorknob. The hinges let out an agonizing wail as she forced the door open.

  Della spoke to the woman at the front counter, who then ushered Jasmine to a shampoo bowl. Sydney stepped over tufts of frizzy hair on the salon floor as she looked around for a water fountain. She found one in the waiting area. She pressed the metal lever, but the flow was so low she’d have to put her lips on the spigot to get a drink and she didn’t feel it was sanitary to do so. She sat down in one of the waiting area’s vinyl chairs, her moist blouse sticking to the back of the seat. A black-and-white television, its image flickering, was showing a soap opera, “The Edge of Night.”

  After her shampoo, Sydney watched a large woman in a boxy, floral pantsuit lead Jasmine to a swivel chair at a styling station. The other beauticians were all much younger, trimmer, and fashionably dressed in multi-colored tube tops under blouses that tied at the waist, close-fitting bell-bottom jeans, and platform shoes. Sydney got up and crossed the room, ducking to avoid the rickety ceiling fan, to sit closer to Della and Jasmine. Della introduced Sydney to the woman, Hallima Santafara.

  Hallima squeezed behind the styling chair and draped a small black plastic cape around the child. She pulled a stiff bristle brush from a long glass tube of blue cleaning solution and dried it off on a paper towel. She scooped a dollop of lime-colored hair grease from a jar with her fingers and dabbed it on Jasmine’s scalp.

  Sydney marveled at how Hallima untangled Jasmine’s knots without making her shed a tear. Her thick fingers moved quickly, creating neat squares of stylish braids. When Hallima was almost done, Sydney told Hallima about the flyers. The woman turned around and spoke in her African language to a young woman who was sweeping up tufts of hair around the barber’s chair. After exchanging a few hushed words with Hallima, the young woman started a conversation with the shampoo girl in the same language. Sydney noticed the two clucking and narrowing their eyes at Della. Sydney glanced at Della who noticed the same thing.

  Della looked at Hallima. “What they saying?”

  Hallima frowned at her employees and shook her finger at them while speaking to them in their language in a scolding tone. Both women sighed heavily and went back to the work they were doing.

  “Do they have a problem with us being here?” asked Sydney.

  “If they do, we can leave,” added Della. “I can finish Jasmine’s head myself.” She turned to Hallima. “I’ll pay you for what you’ve done so far.”

  Hallima shook her head furiously. “No, no, no. Do not worry, ladies. Those are my nieces. They are rude. From the younger generation. You know how it is. Please accept my apology.”

  “What were they saying?” asked Sydney.

  Hallima snapped blue and yellow barrettes at the ends of Jasmine’s braids. “Some of our people blame the Liberty Hill people for moving the demolition project to our neighborhood, but we know that you are not to blame.”

  Sydney thought about the Liberte Hills est un Traitre placard at the rally on the green. “I’m sorry I mentioned the flyers,” she apologized.

  “Please, please, Miss, leave your flyers here. We are happy to help you.” Hallima untied the styling cape she’d put on Jasmine. “I am so sorry for your trouble.” She turned to Della. “I will give you half-price discount for today’s services.”

  “Well,” Della smiled, “I can’t argue with that.”

  Once the three of them were back on the street, Sydney had one box of flyers left. They headed in the direction of the restaurant. People gave them a wide berth on the sidewalk. Some swung around to glare at them as they passed by, especially the women.

  “What is wrong with these people?” Sydney whispered to Della, wondering why they seemed so hostile.

  “They must have the same disease as those hussies in the salon,” Della whispered. She pulled a tissue out of her purse and dabbed at a trickle of sweat rolling down her neck. “They think we’re in bed with the Harborview developers and the city.”

  “Why?”

  “Remember what Hallima said? People here blame Liberty Hill for the Harborview Project.”

  “Is that it?”

  I think they’re also anti–black American in general.”

  “Why would that be? They’re just as black as we are.”

  “Because our ancestors were slaves. They see themselves as different, better than us, even though some of them have slavery in their history too.”

  Sydney thought this over. “But if we had our heads wrapped up like they do, and we were wearing what they have on and didn’t open our mouths, they wouldn’t know the difference.”

  Della stopped abruptly and faced her. “But that’s not the reality, is it?”

  Sydney felt relief when they reached Garfield Avenue and saw Le Baobab Restaurant. She’d been thirsty for hours and was tired of dabbing at her sweaty brow. But, to her dismay, the door was locked. She and Della took turns peeking through the door’s small, square window. The place was dark.

  “Can I look, Mommy? Can I look?” Jasmine raised her arms so Della could lift her to the window. “Maybe they’re hiding,” Jasmine said.

  Della chuckled. “I don’t think they’re hiding, honey. I think we got here too early.”

  Sydney looked up at the awning. Over the name of the restaurant was an illustration of a tree with spindly branches and a thick trunk. She wondered why anyone would name a restaurant after something so hideous looking. As they turned to leave, Mustapha Mendy approached, holding a large box with leafy vegetables in one arm. His white dress shirt was rumpled. Rivulets of sweat ran from his temples to his salt-and-pepper beard. With his free hand he held a suit jacket over his shoulder.

  “Mesdames, your timing is perfect,” he said rapidly, in an African accent. “We are just opening.”

  They followed him inside. “Are you sure you want to eat here?” Sydney whispered to Della. “They’ll probably spit in our food.”

  Della laughed. “I think we’ll be okay.”

  Quickly, Mustapha slipped through the kitchen’s double doors ahead of them. When he returned to the dining area he flipped on a series of wall switches. Lights came on as well as a large metal ceiling fan. Within minutes, the stale, hot air had been pushed
out.

  Like Hallima’s Salon, Le Baobab was shaped like a shoe box. It had plush seat cushions, freshly polished hardwood floors, and textured, copper-colored wallpaper on three walls, exposed brick on the fourth. White linens covered small tables in the center of the room. Booths lined the perimeter. Large gourds with animal carvings on them were placed on counters and tables throughout the dining room. A framed black-and-white photo of a deep, brown-skinned man wearing glasses hung behind the counter. Sydney read the caption that was printed in French. It was Léopold Sédar Senghor, the president of Senegal. A flag with green, yellow, and red panels and a green star in the center hung next to the photo. A photograph of athletes dashing toward a soccer ball hung on the other side of the flag. It was the Senegal National Football Team, according to the caption.

  “Olele! Olele! Welcome! I say to you, welcome to my restaurant,” Mustapha announced from the middle of the dining room. He wore a broad smile. In his hands he held a tray of drinks, one cup smaller than the others, with a straw in it. “My name is Mustapha Mendy, but all the people are calling me Uncle Mustapha, as you too, can.” He gestured for Sydney to sit down in a booth where Della and Jasmine were already seated. Mustapha put the drinks on the table and handed each a menu printed with fancy, cursive lettering.

  Sydney guzzled her drink without pausing to ask what she was drinking.

  “What’s that?” Jasmine pointed at her cup with an upturned nose.

  “Ginger mango lemonade,” Mustapha said with a touch of pride. “All little boys and girls in Senegal love it. Big and strong it makes them.” He turned to Della and Sydney. “I know that you are newly to Le Baobab, but are you newly to Senegalese restaurant?”

  They nodded.

  He looked from one to the other and then took back the menus. “You have special treat from me. Do not worry about identifying the food you want. I bring for you what I think you like.”

  When he’d walked away, Jasmine picked up her cup with both hands, took a long sip through the straw, and then spat it back into the cup. “I don’t like this, Mommy,” Jasmine whined.

  “That’s fine, honey,” Della said softly. “You don’t have to drink…”

  “Don’t like it!” Jasmine screeched loudly and glared at Della. She slammed the cup on the table. “I don’t like this place, Mommy. I want to go home.” She elbowed her mother in an attempt to push her way out of the booth.

  Della glared at Jasmine. “We’re not going anywhere, Jazz,” she said in a low, but firm voice. “We’re staying here, and the nice man is gonna bring us something to eat.”

  “Jasmine, my specialty is peanut butter cake,” Sydney said, hoping to calm the girl. “Have you ever had that before?”

  Jasmine shook her head.

  “Well, if you behave, you can make one with me sometime.”

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  Sydney had no idea how to make a peanut butter cake, but she figured she could find a recipe in one of her cookbooks.

  Della exhaled, letting her shoulders relax. Sydney now realized why Della had her come along. Jasmine was sometimes more than she could handle alone.

  Lyrics in a foreign language floated from speakers mounted on the walls near the ceiling. Other diners, mostly white men and women in business suits, began to walk in, followed by a few Africans. A little boy and girl handed the new arrivals menus and led them to tables. They looked to be around six or seven and were dressed in African clothing, long loose-fitting print tops with matching billowy pants.

  Mustapha returned with silverware and a white sheet of butcher-block paper as a placemat and crayons for Jasmine. “Can I move this someplace for you?” Mustapha pointed at the box of flyers.

  “I actually wanted you to take a look,” Sydney said.

  He left the table and when he returned, he had a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses perched at the end of his nose. He reached into the box and read one of the flyers. “Is this business belonging to you?” he asked.

  “It’s mine and my husband’s.”

  Mustapha stretched a bony hand across the table. “I must as one business owner to the other congratulate you. It is hard thing to run business. I wish you best of luck on this new adventure. How am I helping you?”

  “I was hoping you could leave a stack of these at the front counter, but if you think people will be offended…”

  He frowned. “Why think this?”

  “No reason,” Della answered quickly, then shook her head at Sydney.

  He looked over his shoulder at the boy and girl across the room. “That is Kofi and Anamara, mes petit-fils, my grandchildren. They are twins. They are the star pupils for The Uncle Mustapha Culinary Institute. I instructing them on how to make meals, wait on customers, make the kitchen spic and span.”

  “That’s good, gives them discipline,” Della said.

  “Keeps them far away from no good, gives them something to do after school while their mother Ansa is working still,” Mustapha continued. “They collecting skills they use later.” He called Kofi and Anamara over to the table.

  “What’s the language you’re speaking?” Sydney asked.

  “Wolof. That is our mother tongue. I do sometimes speaking to them in French, but I desire them to understand language of their ancestors.”

  “That must be what we heard you talking out there at the gazebo earlier,” Della said.

  His eyes widened. “You are there?”

  “Only for a few minutes,” Sydney answered. She told him of her freelance work for Inner City Voice and the pictures she took of him today and for the newspaper a few months ago.

  “We want to remind city that if they try to take Le Baobab or the other businesses in neighborhood, they will have to answer to the people, to us. Everybody ignoring this neighborhood for long time. We move here from West Africa, from West Indies. We build it up. Now the city wants to destroy it.”

  Mustapha went to the front counter and returned with sheets of paper on a clipboard. He showed it to Sydney and Della. It was a stack of petitions written in English and French. It said that the city was threatening an injustice against Petite Africa residents by destroying the community and that it would cause a hardship to the recent immigrants just learning the American culture. Mustapha leafed through the stack.

  “We include three hundred signatures, and we get more when we take them to City Hall. We stop condemnation and eminent domain.” He told them that when members of the Petite Africa community addressed the Bellport Redevelopment Authority at a recent hearing, the authority took no action. So their next step would be to pack the city council meeting next week with people who would be displaced.

  “Good luck,” wished Della. “You have a nice restaurant. It would be a shame if the city took it.”

  His jaw went slack. “I spend years building reputation for Le Baobab. Now they want to put plaza for civic center here. I tell them ‘no.’ The people still need Petite Africa.”

  A customer across the room waved Mustapha over. The man gripped the table with both hands and rocked it to show how wobbly the legs were. Mustapha made his way over there slowly, crouched down and fiddled with the table’s legs, and then made his way back.

  “I know that man is real estate developer,” he jeered through gritted teeth after returning to the table.

  “How can you tell that?” Della asked.

  “I know my customers. He is not regular, and he is wearing a jug of cologne. He is licking his chops but not for what is on the menu of Le Baobab, I am afraid. But he is buying most expensive thing on the menu, brochettes—and I am needing the money.”

  Sydney remembered seeing the dish of cubed filet mignon on skewers with yucca fries on the side listed on the menu.

  “But he’s checking the place out. That’s rude,” Della agreed.

  “Even though this place is right now full,
” he made a sweeping motion across the dining room, “I have only one fraction of the customers of before. Long ago people line up outside the door. This talk about the city taking over Petite Africa wipes my customers away. Some of them already think we are closed. They are stopping coming ’round. If I do not have the tenants upstairs, I have not even a calabash of rice to eat.

  “I struggle my whole life,” Mustapha continued. “In Senegal I study to be hotel operator for two years. But I have no career prospect. That is before they build new university. I leave Senegal for better opportunity. But America say my skills not enough. I have to start over again at university. I get mad. I say no. America say I do not comprehend English enough. And when I speak English, when I come here first, people do not comprehend me.”

  Sydney could believe it. Trying to understand what he was saying did not get any easier for her the longer he talked.

  “All I do is drive taxi. I saving my money—every Abraham Lincoln penny,” he continued. “I get myself apartment. Then I start to cook food in my kitchen, food people in Petite Africa say remind them of home. Fresh food, lamb, fish, plantains, and yams—the way they like it. Not like in America. I learn to cook when I am little boy. I watch in my village in Senegal the women, and I remember from all those years before how to make meals. Then I get street cart; I get permit. My fellow cabbies like it because they stop and get provisions without getting out of cab and losing fare. I have four boys deliver dinners to neighborhood. Ladies in church sell my dinners. Shopkeeps in this block make regular stops for lunch here. They tell me I should open restaurant. I listening. Then I buy the building and rent out the apartments upstairs. I pay good money to fix building. My renters live in luxury.”

  Mustapha seemed to go into his own world as he told his story. His gestures became more animated, his eyes glassy. Sydney didn’t feel he was looking at her and Della, but through them. He didn’t ‘come back’ until Kofi and Anamara came to the table with steaming bowls on a tray. They noticed Jasmine but said nothing to her. She was busy coloring her placemat.