The Talking Drum

by Lisa Braxton

  “Soupi Kandja,” they said in unison.

  “Petit-fils, tell our guests the ingredients,” Mustapha commanded them.

  “It has shrimp, oysters, fish, and rice,” proclaimed Anamara proudly.

  “What else?” he asked.

  “It is kind of like your…” Kofi paused, screwing up his face, apparently trying to remember, “American gumbo.”

  “Très bien, baah na, very good,” Mustapha cheered, clapping.

  Sydney poked the soup with her spoon following what Della was doing. She identified crab claws, okra, and beef in addition to the ingredients the twins had mentioned. Sydney waited until her soup had cooled. She tasted a spoonful. It did remind her of gumbo but with a little more tang and oil. The shrimp was succulent.

  She looked over at the other tables. Some of the couples ate from the same large bowl, sopping up their food with spongy bread.

  “You’re grandbabies are so cute,” Della said to Mustapha.

  “Because they resemble grandpère.” Mustapha threw his head back and laughed loudly. He escorted the children to other customers’ tables and then went back into the kitchen.

  Sydney was tipping her bowl to scoop up the last of the soup when the front door opened, filling the restaurant with rays of late afternoon sunlight. Della and Jasmine turned around to see a man come in carrying several large sacks. Sydney thought he was handsome with his thick mustache and dark chocolate skin. A small gold hoop earring hung from one ear lobe. He looked to be in his mid- to late-twenties. His eyes were striking. From a short distance, she was pretty sure they were green.

  He was tall but not as tall as Malachi. His flowing robe ended at his shins and was in a bright shade of blue with gold stitching around the neck and cuffs. He wore matching baggy pants and a skull cap over close-cropped hair, a leather choker with a small pouch around his neck, and leather sandals. His clothing reminded her of outfits she had seen people wearing on her walk with Della and Jasmine earlier through Petite Africa, except that his garments looked newer and ironed.

  He unzipped the sacks in the middle of the bandstand, and pulled out a drum about two feet tall with a bell attached to it. Another was a djembe, shaped like a goblet; the top half had a series of black chords criss-crossing each other. A third was shaped like a small barrel, reminding Sydney of the kind of drum she saw marching bands use at football game half-time shows. He opened a smaller sack and arranged a bell, wooden mallet, drumsticks, and rattler in front of the drums.

  “Is he gonna play all those at the same time?” Della asked.

  “I’m waiting to see that myself.”

  As Omar patted the djembe, Kofi and Anamara burst through the kitchen’s double doors and ran up to him on the bandstand. He picked each of them up above his head and shook them until they giggled. Once he put them down, they grabbed the noisemakers, spreading them around the stage. They went from noisemakers to drums, apparently eager to play with all of the instruments.

  Mustapha returned to the table with a platter of poisson farci, stuffed whole fish, fried plantains, and mixed vegetables. To Sydney’s relief, he set down additional glasses of juice.

  “We try bissap juice this time,” Mustapha said, nodding toward Jasmine. “Little boys and girls in Senegal this, too, like.”

  Jasmine folded her arms across her chest and grimaced.

  “Thanks,” Della said, looking up at Mustapha. “You tried.”

  They watched as Omar tied the djembe around his waist using a thick cloth belt. He closed his eyes and started striking the face of the drum, alternating with his palms, fingers, and fingertips. Diners turned in their seats to watch him and began bopping their heads in time with the beat. He produced sounds that were high-pitched and sharp as well as low, deep, round, and full.

  Then he leveled off, patting softly, and producing a sound low enough that diners could talk without shouting. Kofi and Anamara played along on the rattler and the bell. Sydney went to the stage with her camera. Without missing a beat, the drummer gave her a nod and a smile.

  After finishing off the roll of film, Sydney rejoined Della and Jasmine. She tried the fish. It was delicious, flavored with a spice that gave it a sweet, intense taste.

  Jasmine’s eyes were focused on Kofi, Anamara, and Omar.

  “You like the drumming, Jazz?” her mother asked.

  “Yes, Mommy. Can I go watch?”

  “Sure, sugar pie. I’ll take you to the edge of where he’s playing. But don’t bother what the man’s doing.”

  After they walked away, Mustapha sat down across from Sydney. A waitress, Marie Thérèse, brought the next course, croquettes de poisson, fish cakes.

  A rapid drumbeat turned everyone’s attention to the bandstand. “The drummer is talented,” Sydney said.

  Mustapha’s eyes softened as he looked over at Omar. “He is my nephew. Samir, my wife, die some time before of the cancer. It is hard. I almost every night cry, I love her so much. My daughter Ansa has her own life with hubby and my grandbabies. But not long after I bury my wife, Omar, my nephew, move here from Washington, D.C. He help me not be sad. I don’t know if without him I survive my grief.”

  Mustapha told her about his plans for the drumming institute and encouraged her to write about that for Inner City Voice. “In future we give to people of all ages the master classes. We attract the scholars in their ivory tower, people who have heavy pockets full of money who donate to us. We teach drumming, and we teach English to people who need lessons. We also tutor kids in school. Our drumming institute into the national spotlight bring Petite Africa. It is our hope.”

  “I had no idea that a project like this was going on here,” Sydney said.

  “Because Uncle Mustapha telling nephew to keep it hush-hush. We collecting names for people donating money.”

  “Good luck,” Sydney said.

  “If the city decide to toss away our lawsuit, our dream die. They knock down the African Cultural Center building we want to use for drumming institute. They take this building also.”

  Sydney looked around. “But wouldn’t they have to pay you fair market value for this place?”

  Mustapha chuckled. “What is fair market value? They pay me to get out of their way, then they build a gleaming cement jungle, and the price of everything goes up. If they destroy Petite Africa they are cutting off the blood supply to the brain of this community,” he pointed at his temple. “Do you know how many people right here get their beginning in America in Petite Africa?”

  As Sydney cut into her fish cake, Mustapha continued. “This community is the first step for many from Africa or The West Indies. Hundreds of people first coming through Petite Africa and staying here until they are ready to go to U.S. other parts.”

  Mustapha froze at the sound of a siren wailing. Then he looked toward the door. “It is just a police car.”

  “You thought it was another fire?”

  Mustapha’s brow creased. “It is not coincidence that insurance give some building owners more money than fair market value. But I think another reason is there for these fires.” He leaned across the table. “Somebody wants to scare Africans and West Indians away. They do not want us here in Bellport. But that is not right. We are Americans like all the other Americans.”

  “I find it hard to believe that someone would try to chase you away with the fires.”

  “That is my belief,” he shot back. He looked at his watch. “I must check to see if my other cook is late again. He did not show up on time yesterday.”

  She wondered why it was taking so long for Della and Jasmine to come back. She looked over at the bandstand. Della was talking to the drummer, laughing as if she was having a grand time.

  “I told Jazz to stay on the edge and watch, but she don’t listen very well,” Della said after she returned to their booth.

  Jasmine was striking a med
ium-sized drum with the mallet while Anamara played a cowbell and Kofi danced around. Jasmine was playing in perfect rhythm. Customers put their forks down and clapped.

  “What were you and the drummer talking about?” Sydney asked.

  Della’s eyes twinkled. “His name’s Omar. He’s a funny man.” She began on her fish cake as the drumming continued. When she was done, Mustapha returned with bowls of caramel bananas, peanut ice cream, and a slice of coconut cake.

  “Dessert is always free for first-time customers,” he said, smiling.

  “I can go up and get Jasmine if she’s disturbing your nephew,” Della offered.

  Mustapha shook his head, “No, she is fine. The child is natural talent. Let her play.”

  Della took a bowl of ice cream. “Maybe I best get Jasmine anyway before her ice cream melts.”

  “Please, I think the child is finding some new friends,” Mustapha explained, nodding toward Kofi and Anamara. “I put away her ice cream for now.”

  Sydney watched Della dip her spoon into her ice cream. Jasmine wasn’t the only one who found friendship, she thought. Della had only talked to Omar for a few moments. But this was the first time Sydney had seen such joy on Della’s face.

  CHAPTER 17

  FIVE SUITCASES were lined up by the front door. Down the street, Natalie’s brother, Richard, had parked his apple green Gremlin with a trailer hitched to it. That morning Richard had driven up from Washington, D.C., to move Natalie back to their parents’ house. It was a rescue mission.

  “Do you want me to help?” Omar asked, peeking through the doorway of the drum room. Richard and Natalie were removing the legs from her desk. “No man,” Richard answered without looking up.

  Omar didn’t want to be there during the packing. He wished he could be on another planet. But he knew that if he left, he’d wish he had stayed. This could be the last time he would see Natalie. A few days after they wrestled over the jar of herbs, she shocked him with her announcement that she was leaving for good. Omar told Uncle Mustapha, who offered to loan them money to move to a nice apartment in a different section of Bellport. But Natalie said, no. She wanted a divorce. Upon hearing that word, Omar felt so low he could have cried.

  Sulking, Omar walked into the living room. He pulled a flyer from the drawer of one of the end tables and sat on the couch. He’d read it at least twenty times. It helped take his mind off Natalie abandoning him.

  One of the Americans from Liberty Hill had given a box of flyers to Uncle Mustapha. Omar had watched as Uncle placed a stack of the flyers at the front counter and taped one to the side of the cash register.

  It was just before the other American, Della, walked up to the bandstand with her daughter Jasmine. The child had natural ability on the drums. It was unusual for a child so young to keep the beat that long, especially with no training. She had great coordination and technique usually only seen in children twice her age. If he and Uncle opened their drumming institute, he would see that she got a scholarship. Her talent should not be wasted.

  “Do you want this?” Natalie stood in the doorway, holding in her hand their wedding album, a white, three-ring binder of cardboard pages with a sticky sheen and plastic cover sheets that held the pictures in place.

  The question struck Omar like a blow to the chest. He understood that she wanted to move on with her life, but why would she want to throw the album away? It was as if she wanted to rid herself of any reminders of their marriage and time together.

  “No, ma chère, you keep it.”

  She hesitated, as if his response surprised her. She spun around and left the room.

  He studied the flyer again, making a mental note of the grand opening. He hoped that Khadim hadn’t gotten a copy from Uncle in the stack left at the cash register. This was a solo project, not a Fulani Sound project. The grand opening might be his break, his chance to launch his drumming career. If so, Natalie would wish she had stayed.

  After Natalie and Richard came back into the unit after putting the remaining boxes of her things in the trailer, Omar picked up the last two suitcases to take them to the car.

  “No, Omar,” Natalie said softly. “We’ll do it.”

  “We don’t need your help,” Richard added.

  “But I want to help,” said Omar. “The elevator is not working. I know that you two are tired.”

  Richard exhaled. “Okay then.”

  The three of them walked half a block to where the Gremlin was parked. Omar was aware of a deep emptiness inside of him. This must be how people felt when packing up the belongings of a loved one who had died, Omar thought. He deposited the suitcases in the backseat and watched as Richard shifted the car into gear and he and Natalie drove away.

  CHAPTER 18

  USING TONGS, Sydney grasped the corner of exposed photographic paper and shook it in the tray of developer until the image of Uncle Mustapha became clear. He was standing in the middle of the gazebo at Petite Africa Green, with his fist thrust in the air. She had two more rolls to develop. After publishing one of her photos from the rally she and Della and Jasmine had stumbled onto, Max wanted more shots to fill a two-page feature on urban renewal for an upcoming issue of Inner City Voice. He assigned her to write a story to accompany her photos.

  She loved the hours alone in the darkroom, seeing how her camera technique, using various filters, lighting, and shutter speeds, conveyed visual stories. As she worked, her mind drifted back to her conversation with Uncle Mustapha. She was disturbed by suspicions that property owners would burn down their own buildings for the insurance money, endangering not only people’s homes, but their lives.

  “Syd, you in there?”

  The Neighborhood Improvement Association meeting must have finally ended. She told Malachi to wait while she squeegeed the front and back of the picture and hung it to dry. Then she removed her black rubber gloves and opened the darkroom door.

  “Sorry I missed dinner,” Malachi said.

  “It’s all right. I’ve been up here for hours and haven’t eaten yet myself. The food’s still warm in the oven.”

  He sighed deeply. “I thought that meeting would go on all night. Kwamé really needs to limit public comment to two minutes or less.”

  “Anything interesting happen?”

  “We’re trying to get property from the city before the mayor gets too distracted with the redevelopment project. I figure if we can get a large enough parcel, we can build the recreation center, and a couple of baseball fields. We can use the rec center as the home of the little league team. We can start having annual banquets, that sort of thing.”

  “You’ll probably get more kids involved,” Sydney said.

  He paused for a moment. “And there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “Kwamé wants me to run for vice president.”

  “Of the Neighborhood Improvement Association? Were you going to talk to me about it?”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t say yes without you.” He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. She crossed her arms and shifted away from him.

  “But you said yes to the Taylors without me agreeing on it. You stood there and let Kwamé shove the Taylors down our throats. You never did get their references.”

  He exhaled. “I was wrong, Sydney, and I’m sorry. I’ve learned. We’ll discuss the board decision and if you’re not comfortable with it, I won’t take it.”

  “I don’t understand you. You want to open a business, sponsor a little league team, and now be vice president of a neighborhood association. What’s next? Mayor?”

  He said nothing.

  “Why did you let Kwamé force the Taylors on us?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way, Syd. He saw an opportunity for both the Taylors and us to get what we wanted. They needed a place, and we needed tenants. And it’s working out, isn’t it? They’re paying o
n time, they’re quiet, they’re not damaging the place, you get on well with Inez. And they helped us get The Fierce Warriors to agree to perform at our opening.”

  “Yes, all that is true. But that’s not the point. Kwamé bullied us into renting to them. He rolled right over us, and maybe he’s doing that again to you right now with this neighborhood association thing.”

  Malachi sighed. “You’ve got a point. Kwamé can come off like he’s the boss man sometimes.”

  “Why is he like that? Why do you let him get away with it? He’s so pushy and he talks all the time.”

  Malachi sighed. “It’s how he is. Kwamé grew up poor. His mom had him wearing handouts from Goodwill. She never had food in the house. He never had a nice pair of sneakers, or decent clothes. He didn’t have a lot growing up. There was no stability in his life. Half the time his mother didn’t feel like raising him, so she sent him to her sister’s. He grew up thinking that he had to get his, since no one else was going to look out for him. He and I lost touch while I was working on my PhD. Word on the street was that he did a tour in ’Nam. That must have done a number on him too. A lot of brothers got messed up over there.”

  “Well, he’s your buddy, so I am going to try for your sake. But we’re going to have to keep him in check.”

  “Baby, he helped me find this house and process the paperwork.”

  “Agreed, but Kwamé’s not your business partner. I am. We both have a lot riding on this. I’d have been a lot happier renting to people with a background check. We’re lucky that they’ve turned out to be pretty great, so I’ll let this go for now.”

  Malachi looked around the darkroom at the photos from Petite Africa that Sydney had hung using twine and clothespins. “These are really good.”

  “You think so?”

  “You should mat some of these and put them downstairs. We can do an art exhibit in the bookstore.”

  She laughed. “You’re just trying to butter me up for something else you want me to go along with.”

  “Not true. I mean it, Syd. You’ve really got an eye for the camera.”