The Talking Drum

by Lisa Braxton

  Bernadine turned to Sydney. “Are you sure you should even have this artwork out here like this? They’re part of Malachi’s collection, aren’t they?”

  “I know, but Malachi insisted. He says displaying artwork is all part of this being a cultural center.”

  “You have nothing to worry about, Miss Syd,” said Lawrence. “We’re working in shifts, me and Kwamé—I mean—Mr. Rodriguez. Nobody’s gonna walk out with this art. I’ll go run the cash register when he relieves me.”

  Lawrence excused himself for a moment and came back with flyers about an upcoming healthy eating seminar the bookstore would be hosting on the uses of sweet potatoes. He handed them to Sydney. “If you wouldn’t mind helping me hand these out to the customers. My grandmother says she can’t wait to do this for y’all.”

  Sydney and Bernadine returned to the foyer. The first customers came through the front gate and onto the porch. Many of the women, wearing African clothes—long, loose-fitting print tops and matching skirts—held up their skirts as they climbed the stairs to avoid tripping.

  Uncle Mustapha has been true to his word about passing the word along, Sydney thought.

  The customers seemed thrilled to see African masks and the paintings on display and ran their fingertips over them. Sydney was relieved that Lawrence was watching everyone closely.

  She glanced toward the front door as Willie came in. She had never seen him look so tired. His shoulders sagged. She stepped forward to greet him, introducing him to Bernadine.

  “Had to take Inez to the doctors this morning,” he explained.

  “Is she all right?” asked Sydney.

  Willie shrugged. “Headaches. She’ll be fine. She gets bad ones sometimes. Because of the stroke, I’m careful. I took her for an exam. She’s downstairs resting.”

  “I hope all this activity up here won’t disturb her,” Bernadine said.

  “She’ll be fine. Pumpkin’s down there with her,” he replied. “The little kitty helps her nerves.”

  “Sydney tells me that you and your wife used to teach in Paris, at the École Bilingual International?” Bernadine inquired.

  He gave her a blank look. “Yes,” he answered, finally.

  Bernadine looked at him quizzically, as if expecting him to say more. When he didn’t, she continued.

  “My husband’s son, my stepson, taught there around the time you were there. His name is Guy Doucette.”

  Willie’s eyes darted left to right. “I’ve got to get downstairs to Inez. It was nice meeting you.” He shook Bernadine’s hand, and then quickly turned on his heels. As he left, the women watched as he got swallowed up in the crowd.

  Bernadine turned toward Sydney. “That was odd, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe he didn’t hear what you said with all of the people. He’s got a sick wife on his mind.”

  “No. I think he heard me,” Bernadine said.

  She left Sydney to find Martin. Sydney figured she could hand out some of Lawrence’s leaflets but could not remember where she put them. She walked down the hall to find Lawrence. She was surprised not to see him at his “post,” guarding the artwork, but in the lecture hall unzipping his duffel bag. She watched him curiously as he grabbed the three-volumes of The African and Black American Experience off the shelf. She identified them by the gold lettering on the spine. What was Lawrence doing? Maybe Malachi was letting him borrow them for some reason. But she couldn’t imagine why. It was an expensive set. Sydney shook her head as she backed out of the room and went back to the foyer.

  In a moment, Malachi joined Sydney there. “Baby, this is going better than I thought,” he said, surveying the scene. “I’m going to have one of my students take a notebook around and get the addresses of everybody here so we can create a mailing list.”

  “Good idea,” Sydney agreed. “We’ve got some notebooks in the supply room.”

  She led the way down the hall. They stopped at the sound of the familiar greeting in Wolof.

  “Olelele! Olelele!” Uncle Mustapha shouted as he came down the hall trailed by Kofi and Anamara. “Is little Jasmine here?” he asked.

  Sydney told him where to find her.

  He looked down at his grandchildren and nodded. They rushed passed him into the crowd. Sydney and Malachi motioned Mustapha to the supply room doorway where they could talk away from the noise.

  “So how are the emotions on this first day in business?” Mustapha asked.

  “I was feeling nervous until I saw all of the people from Petite Africa coming in,” Sydney said.

  He held up his hand to interject. “Uncle Mustapha cannot take the full credit, only part,” he said. “I tell my customers if they coming to Talking Drum grand opening and they spend money here, they can bring receipt to Le Baobab and get ten percent discount on next meal.”

  “Sir, thank you,” said Malachi. “That’s gracious of you.”

  Mustapha’s eyes twinkled. “I want hubby-and-wife team to be success. I giving you friendship I do not find when I first open Le Baobab.”

  Malachi extended his hand to Mustapha. “We appreciate it.”

  “I aspire to stay whole day but cannot.”

  “Why? What time do you have to open the restaurant?” Sydney asked.

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Le Baobab not open today. Tonight is city council hearing. The community must organize plans for the meeting. We have more signatures on petitions, another five hundred.”

  Sydney had read in the paper about tonight’s planned public hearing before city council. The hearing would allow residents to state their objections to the city’s plan to take Petite Africa properties by eminent domain.

  “When will council make a final decision?” Malachi asked.

  “Any day. They do not tell us.”

  Malachi left to find Lawrence to put him on the cash register. Sydney walked back to the foyer. She was shocked at who she saw walking into the bookstore. It was Percy, Kwamé’s friend, wearing a foul-smelling snorkel jacket with brown and green stains. “What brings you here?” she asked, barely able to muster a polite tone.

  “How y’all doing today?” He offered Sydney his dirty, bloated hand for a greeting. She swallowed hard and gently shook it. “K-man was telling me all about the grand opening. Told me I should come. Well, here I am.”

  She quickly turned toward the room behind her. “I don’t see Kwamé at the moment. I think he’s pretty busy back there. You can come back to catch him later.”

  “No, that’s all right. I’ll just walk around and have a look. I’ll find him,” he said. He stood taller than most of the other guests and was as wide as the hallway.

  “Where’s your dog?” she called after him.

  He turned and smiled, exposing brown teeth. “Bridgette? I tied her up on the fence out there. She’s okay. She don’t bite.”

  Sydney looked outside to see Bridgette’s leash looped through the front gate as if she were guarding the event. The animal would scare off customers. Where was Malachi? They’d have to get Percy and that mangy dog out of here, she thought.

  As Sydney went looking for him, she stopped at the lecture hall. Strange. There was Willie talking with an elderly couple, pointing to some photos he had taken out of his wallet. But only minutes earlier he had told her he had to get downstairs to Inez. There was no way he could have checked on her, come back upstairs, worked his way through the crowd, and found a seat in the reading room. It was impossible. Even for a young person. She decided not to waste time trying to figure it out. The Taylors could take care of themselves.

  CHAPTER 23

  OMAR HEARD the blare of a car horn as he stepped off the curb. The car was speeding in his direction. He jumped back onto the sidewalk. The tires screeched as the taxi came to a sudden stop. It was Khadim wearing sunglasses. He rolled down the window.

 
Naka my demee? Naka my demee? “What are you doing here in Liberty Hill, my friend, hiding from me?” Khadim shouted over the fuzzy squawking of the two-way radio.

  Omar couldn’t believe his bad luck. Khadim was to know nothing of his venture at the bookstore. “I should ask you the same thing,” Omar said. “I do not remember you having taxi fares in this neighborhood.”

  “I am taking the shortcut to City Hall.”

  “Why do you go there?”

  “You still have not answered my question.”

  They locked eyes.

  “I want to pick up some African drumming albums.” Omar gestured at the record shop behind him.

  Khadim flipped his sunglasses to the top of his head. “African drummer needs to buy albums of African drummers?”

  Khadim’s attention shifted to the crackling sound of the two-way radio. He grabbed the loudspeaker/microphone and pressed it to his lips, speaking into it too low for Omar to hear. “I have a pick up down at the Harbor,” Khadim stated. “I have bad news to tell you,” he added, turning back to Omar. “My landlord says the city is taking my building.”

  Khadim’s news stunned Omar. “I thought the owner of your building was in that lawsuit with Uncle Mustapha and the other building owners?”

  Khadim shrugged. “I guess he dropped out. He said I can get housing vouchers. I go to City Hall after I pick up this fare. We talk about this later.” He put his sunglasses back on and sped off.

  Omar watched the taxi turn the corner. Across the street at the bookstore, two college-age men came down the porch stairs as Uncle Mustapha approached with Kofi and Anamara trailing him. One of them tried to hand Uncle a flyer, but he brushed it aside and climbed the stairs to the porch with his grandkids close behind. He hoped Uncle Mustapha and the other residents fighting the action wouldn’t get discouraged by this latest news. Omar was surprised that Mustapha’s shirt was wrinkled and untucked, its tail fluttering behind him. That wasn’t like Uncle. He was always meticulous about his appearance. He ironed his shirts and never left home without checking his ensemble in a full-length mirror. His upcoming rally at City Hall probably had him too preoccupied to think about ironing his clothes.

  He crossed the street. Sam Cooke’s voice came from the porch speakers. Omar smiled to himself. He’d grown up listening to Cooke on Ibrahim’s gramophone.

  He wished that he had worn shoes instead of sandals as he stepped into the foyer. The high heel of a fat woman’s shoe stabbed his foot like a knitting needle. She wobbled off balance, bumping her rear end up against him.

  “Well, hello,” she purred as she turned around to look him up and down. He smiled and sidestepped her.

  The crowd was so thick that he was forced to float with it into one of the rooms. A small, gold-plated sign over the doorway indicated that it was the reading room. Over the hum of conversation, he heard children playing. He looked down. It was Kofi, Anamara, and Jasmine tearing through the room as if they were on a playground.

  He looked around. He hadn’t seen so many books in one place since being in the college library at Howard. They were divided into categories like Slavery, Reconstruction, Black Nationalism, White Supremacy and were wedged into bookcases six feet tall, placed so close together that he had to walk sideways to make his way down the narrow aisles.

  His stomach tightened at a tap on the shoulder, anticipating that it was Hideki. But it was Sydney, the friend of Della’s. She handed him a flyer about a healthy eating class scheduled in a few weeks. It said people could learn about forty different ways to prepare yams. “Is this a tale?” he asked her.

  “It’s true,” replied Sydney, smiling. “The lady who teaches the class says she has enough recipes to write a cookbook if she wants.”

  “Then she knows more than the women of my village. I wonder if she will make yam pottage and sweet potato fritters.”

  “You’ll have to come back for the class to find out,” she said with a wink and walked away.

  Omar watched Sydney go over to Jasmine, Kofi, and Anamara and wag a finger at them. He looked at his watch. He needed to hurry if he was going to talk to Hideki before The Fierce Warriors’ backyard performance. But he didn’t know how to find them. He approached Sydney in the hallway.

  “The Fierce Warriors are old friends of yours?” she was smiling. “As good as you play, you should be part of the group.”

  “That is more true than you know,” he said.

  Sydney led him to the landing in the attic. Omar could feel his heart rate pick up as he knocked on the door. He tried to calm himself, not wanting to appear nervous.

  “Hideki! My brother!” Omar said, trying to sound casual, as his old friend opened the door.

  Hideki stared blankly at Omar.

  “It is me, Omar.” He spoke a little louder than he intended.

  “I know.” Hideki responded in a dry, flat tone.

  Omar expected his old friend to open the door wider to let him in, but Hideki folded his arms across his chest and blocked the doorway. Was Hideki joking with him? Omar walked past him into the living room. It was empty except for a couch and recliner. Another doorway led to a kitchen.

  “How long has it been?” Hideki turned around, joining Omar but leaving the door open.

  “I have lost track,” Omar responded.

  A voice coming from the stairwell said, “Hey, man, you all right up there?”

  “Yeah, man, it’s cool,” Hideki responded to Malachi, who reached the landing.

  “Just checking.” Malachi gave Omar a stern look.

  “Not a problem, Dr. Mal,” Hideki responded.

  Malachi went back down the stairs.

  “I haven’t seen you in years.” Hideki sat down on the couch. “You caught me off guard.”

  “I did not mean to startle you.” Omar didn’t know whether to sit down or leave. From the kitchen he could hear the other members of the group. He waited but Hideki didn’t call them in to announce him. His old friend looked at his watch, then at the kitchen doorway. “We need to get downstairs and warm up a little on the stage before we play,” he said. “You’re welcome to join us there before we get started. We’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  Before Omar could respond, Hideki ushered him out the door.

  Later, with the customers streaming into the yard, Omar waited for The Fierce Warriors to appear. He began to wonder if Hideki had delayed their entrance, hoping that Omar would give up and go away. Then, one-by-one the band members mounted the stage—his other old friends Shaka Tabur and Baba Lumumba shook Omar’s hand. There were several new members that Omar didn’t know who joined the others onstage.

  Hideki beckoned Omar to follow him up to the stage. Hideki walked to the far end, sat on a stool, and began tuning his drum. “You cross my mind when I come through Massachusetts, but I had forgotten what city you moved to.” Hideki’s voice was still flat. Omar had hoped for a reunion warmer than this.

  “How’s the drumming going, man?” Hideki asked as he did a mike check. “You were on your way somewhere when you left Howard.”

  Omar stiffened at the question. “I get bookings. I stay occupied.”

  Hideki snickered. “I thought you and your uncle were going to start some kind of drumming school. I thought you were going to get a recording contract. I expected to see your name in lights somewhere. What happened?”

  Omar didn’t know if this was a question or a slight. “I see your celebrity has grown like a bush fire.”

  Hideki chuckled. “Man, you crack me up with that African stuff you talk. I had forgotten about that.”

  Omar began to feel awkward. He thought it was odd that Hideki had not introduced him to the newer members of the band. They were ten feet away, testing their drums, doing mike checks. Omar thought about introducing himself but decided it was only proper that Hideki handle introductions. “Will you be
in town for a while?”

  “Nah, man. We’re leaving right after this, heading to New York City. Got a couple of gigs uptown. That’ll be the end of our tour.”

  “Too bad we will not have more time to talk.”

  Hideki stopped in mid-motion, the ropes of the drum in his hands. “Really?” he snapped. “Talk about what?”

  Omar was jarred by Hideki’s instant switch in mood.

  “The Fierce Warriors have been to Bellport before, and we didn’t hear from you,” Hideki continued. “We were out in Worcester last year. I’m sure you knew about it. What you want, man? You must want something. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “I was going to tell you later, after you perform, but since you ask me, I shall tell you. I have a business proposition.”

  Hideki said nothing, moved upstage, and continued tightening the ropes to tune his drum.

  Omar followed him. “I want you to settle your debt.”

  Hideki stopped what he was doing. “What debt?”

  “I wrote half the songs The Fierce Warriors perform and recorded with ABC records. I am willing to negotiate.”

  Hideki stood up and motioned Omar to come with him to a corner of the stage. He spoke in a loud whisper. “We wrote those songs together, all of us,” he said. “We were just a bunch of kids drumming.” He stabbed Omar’s chest with his finger. “I don’t owe you nothing.”

  Omar brushed Hideki’s finger aside. “I want what you are obligated to give me.”

  “That’s ridiculous, man, you got nothing in writing. You can talk to my attorney.”

  Hideki walked back to where he’d left his drum. Omar followed. “You didn’t even know what a drum was until you begged me for lessons,” Omar exclaimed. “You thought all of us Africans were savages until I educated you out of your ignorance.”

  Hideki’s chest was rising and falling fast as he patted the drum head to check the sound. Omar was pleased to see that his words had affected him.

  “You are the savage,” Hideki growled. “You took my woman. You had no respect. I thought we were ‘brothers.’”