The Talking Drum

by Lisa Braxton

  Omar was stunned. Hideki was still angry because Natalie left him for Omar. Omar assumed Hideki would have dismissed the incident long ago, like so many men from his country would have. “You are the one who had no respect,” Omar responded. “She knew all about the others.”

  Hideki grimaced. “That has nothing to do with anything.”

  Baba Lumumba yelled, “Hideki, man, we got to get ready.”

  Hideki glared at Omar. “I don’t have time for this.”

  As Hideki walked away, Omar stepped in front of him. “I do not have time either. I have no time for your lies,” he countered. “You are a thief. You stole my music.”

  In the next moment, someone grabbed Omar from behind by the shoulders.

  “Time to go,” Malachi boomed, forcefully walking Omar off the stage, through the back yard and onto the back porch. Mustapha stepped into their path as they came through the kitchen.

  “He is with me,” Mustapha explained to Malachi. After a pause, Malachi released him.

  Uncle Mustapha took Omar’s arm, and the two snaked their way through the bookstore to the front door. Omar knew better than to try to resist his uncle. Growing up, he had heard stories about what a legendary wrestler Mustapha had been at amateur competitions in Dakar. Omar was sure that, despite his years, Uncle still had all the moves. Once they were outside the gate, Mustapha flung Omar against the chain-link fence, setting him free. Omar lost his balance and fell on the sidewalk as a mangy German shepherd on a leash looped around the front gate barked at him ferociously. Omar was relieved that the dog was far enough away that it couldn’t reach him. The strap snapped on one of his sandals. Mustapha leaned against the maple tree, breathing hard and clutching his chest.

  “Uncle! Your heart!”

  “My heart is fine,” Mustapha gasped.

  “You must take it easy,” Omar said.

  Mustapha didn’t respond. Gradually, he stood up straight. His breathing returned to normal.

  “I am concerned about you,” Mustapha shouted. “What are you doing in there?”

  “Getting what is rightfully mine.” Omar tried to catch his breath.

  “What is yours rightfully or what is yours rightfully you think? Only a fool tries to get back more. I am disappointed in you. What does your papa think right now if he sees you crawling around on your belly like a serpent, begging for favors? Ibrahim is ashamed.”

  Omar was incensed. What his father would think was none of Mustapha’s business.

  “A tree that grows in the shade of another will die small,” Mustapha continued. “Do not try to fasten your success to your old friend. You must yourself do it.”

  “I have been trying…”

  “Then you are trying not hard enough,” Mustapha roared over the sound of the dog barking.

  Omar grabbed onto the fence to hoist himself back to a standing position.

  “You need to come with me,” demanded Mustapha. “We go to planning meeting for City Hall protest. You will stop this folly.”

  Omar knew he should listen to his uncle, but he didn’t want to. “It is late. I have a gig tomorrow, and I must go home to get some rest.”

  “A gig?” Mustapha spat out the words. “That is all you have. Gigs. Every day. Every night. Gigs. What about Petite Africa? You have no place to lay your head if project goes through.”

  Omar broke from his uncle and tramped down Liberty Hill Boulevard, the strap of his sandal flapping. He passed by the pawn shop, the ice cream shop, and the bank. Eventually he saw the door to Jake’s Tavern and After Hours Club. He grabbed the brass knocker and slammed it against the door repeatedly. He wanted a drink to help him forget about today.

  The first thing Omar noticed on entering Jake’s was the overpowering smell of cooking oil mixed with sweet syrup, not the type of smell he expected in a bar. He looked around. The place was having a special event in the small dining area. Tables were filled with black American women all wearing the same outfit—a purple skirt and jacket and white blouse with a bow. Waitresses brought them platters of fried chicken wings and waffles. He read the sign in grease pencil on the easel near the hostess station. It welcomed The Gadabouts Social Club in celebration of its thirtieth anniversary. Omar walked to the bar, careful to keep his sandal on his foot. Men turned on their stools to stare. He was fairly certain that few African men walked into Jake’s regularly. A man in a boubou was something these people probably rarely saw up close.

  Omar sat at the far end of the bar near the kitchen. A bartender appeared through the smoky haze and asked him what he wanted. He knew he should eat something. He hadn’t had anything since breakfast. But he decided instead to experiment with bourbon and ordered Jack Daniels with ice. He took a sip, then another. His meeting with Hideki had been a disaster. He’d had no intention of asking Hideki for payment for their collaboration. He went to the grand opening to see if The Fierce Warriors would be willing to bring him on as a backup drummer, to tour when he was needed, and in time bring him back into the group fulltime. But Hideki had angered him. His old classmate was still holding a grudge against Omar.

  Hideki was dating Natalie when they were at Howard. She found out that he was sleeping around, broke it off, and started dating Omar, who she’d been confiding in about her problems with Hideki. Then Natalie became pregnant. When Hideki found out, he wanted to fight Omar. They were blood enemies after that.

  At the grand opening, Omar had felt stung when Hideki made reference to Natalie. In the weeks since she’d left, Omar tried to blot her from his mind. He had sacrificed so much over his love for her, his college education, his friends at Howard, the Wolof Warriors, and the prospect of performing with Duke Ellington. If only Natalie could have been more patient with him while he rebuilt his career. He would have moved them out of Petite Africa. But she didn’t give him a chance.

  With his glass now empty, Omar ordered a second bourbon, holding his glass up to the bartender to get his attention. It was pointless dwelling on the past. Natalie was gone. He would push ahead with his music.

  The bartender slid another drink to him. Omar felt comforted as the liquor filled his empty stomach. Jack Daniels talked to him, whispering that everything would be okay. As he looked around he noticed that everyone seemed to be moving in slow motion, including a large black American man who eased himself onto the stool next to his.

  “The name’s Sam,” the man said, extending his beefy hand. Omar didn’t feel like company, but the man wouldn’t move his hand away, so Omar felt obliged to shake it. Sam ordered a Scotch on the rocks. After it arrived, he turned toward Omar, sipping his drink. Not being in the mood to talk, Omar continued to look straight ahead at the mirror on the wall behind the bar.

  “Shame, ain’t it,” Sam said. “Those people ain’t got a chance.”

  Omar said nothing, his focus shifting to his drink. He took a long sip and scanned the menu the waiter had brought to him. Chicken and waffles didn’t interest him. Neither did any of the burgers listed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam lean back and unzip his jacket, exposing a large gut. He looked Omar up and down.

  “You’re an African, ain’t you?”

  “Senegal.” Omar said, regretting that he’d come into an American bar. He was hoping to keep the conversation short. To his relief, the man slid off the stool, tipped away, and squeezed his frame into a phone booth at the other end of the bar. The bartender returned with another drink. Sam returned after Omar emptied his glass.

  “You live across the way?” Sam asked, nodding his head in the direction of the door.

  “Petite Africa.” Omar’s tongue felt thick, reminding him of what happened whenever Fama tried to feed him cassava leaves when he was a little boy.

  The man grabbed his shoulder and leaned toward Omar so close that Omar smelled his sweet cologne. “Let me be the first to express my condolences.”

 
Omar was puzzled. “I do not understand.”

  The man raised bushy eyebrows. “They’re tearing it down, bit by bit. You know that. They’re gonna run you folks out of there. Where y’all gonna move to?”

  Omar jerked his shoulder from the man’s grip. “They shall not tear it down. There shall still be a Petite Africa.”

  Sam raised both palms in mock surrender. “Sorry, friend. Didn’t mean to offend.” He took a sip of his drink, grimacing as he swallowed. “But it’s only a matter of time before they take the whole neighborhood and kick you out.”

  Omar felt dizzy. He held onto the cushioned ledge of the bar. The bartender returned. “Refill?” he asked.

  “Yes. No ice this time,” Omar said.

  “I hear they’re gonna fix it up real good, though” Sam asserted. “They’re gonna build a marina. I got a boat I can put out there. A fishing boat. Bought it when I took early retirement a couple of years ago. I was with the state thirty-five years, a guard at Concord State Pen.”

  “They have no right to our homes.”

  “Huh?”

  “They have no right to destroy our community,” roared Omar.

  Sam threw his head back and laughed. “You must be kidding,” he continued. “The city does what the city wants, especially in an election year. Besides that, the place is a dump. I hear you all don’t even have indoor plumbing down there. And you’re packed twenty to thirty people to an apartment. Might as well be back in Africa, living in one of them shacks.”

  Isn’t that what Natalie had called it, a village of nothing but shacks? Omar swung around with a clenched fist, punched Sam in the chest, and knocked him off his stool. Gasps rose from the social club women. Men at the bar put down their drinks and bottles at the sound of Sam falling to the floor. Sam landed on his back. The seat of his pants had split. He looked up from the floor confused and held up his hands in a pleading gesture.

  “Hey, man. Are you crazy?”

  Omar leaped on top of him, straddling him. He slammed his fist into the man’s face repeatedly. Sam fought back, getting Omar by the throat. Omar grabbed Sam’s thick fingers but couldn’t break the man’s grip. Omar couldn’t breathe. He thought he was going to pass out. Then, from behind, someone grabbed the collar of his boubou and lifted him off of Sam.

  Sam held the side of his face as he looked up at Omar. “What’s your problem, man?” he screeched between short breaths.

  Omar couldn’t see who had him in a choke hold. The person guided him through the bar, grabbed him by his waistband, and pushed him into the street. Omar stumbled and fell on the curb. His boubou was ripped down the front to his waist. His pants tore at the knees where he hit the pavement. He rolled over on his side into the fetal position to dodge the kicks aimed at his back and ribs. His head banged into the iron ledge of a storm drain. He smelled the dirty, stagnant water that had pooled in the drain and choked back the vomit rising in his throat. He lay there unable to move and gulped blood that was trickling onto his bottom lip. Sirens wailed in the distance.

  CHAPTER 24

  SYDNEY ROLLED onto her side and hit the clock radio’s snooze button. She was having a hard time motivating herself to get up and slept on and off all day. Della had called earlier, asking to meet at Le Baobab for dinner. Sydney didn’t know why Della was so insistent. She could go over to Uncle Mustapha’s restaurant for mafé when she took Jasmine for her hair appointments. The clock radio came back on. Sydney listened to a report about a hearing at city hall. Three hundred residents had crammed into City Council chambers last night to protest the plan for the city to take over Petite Africa.

  The radio report said it was bedlam. At one point, police were called in to quiet the booing and hissing audience and keep people from rushing the seating area for the council members. The outcome was favorable to the residents. Thanks to the protests and legal challenges, the city agreed to let the courts, not city council, determine the legality of taking the properties and weigh the hardship it would put on residents of losing their homes. Sydney thought about how pleased Uncle Mustapha must have been at the result.

  Sydney turned off the radio and rolled onto her back. Late afternoon light seeped through the sides of the window shades. The bottoms of her feet ached and her calf muscles were stiff from standing so long yesterday. Foot traffic during the grand opening had been heavy all day. By the time The Fierce Warriors had come on stage, the backyard, porch, and driveway were as packed as Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Those who couldn’t fit outdoors listened from the kitchen. Later, fans followed the band over to Rhythm and Blues Record Shop, where Kwamé arranged for The Fierce Warriors to autograph copies of their albums for customers.

  Malachi decided to keep the bookstore open until midnight. It had paid off. The cash register chimed all night. Malachi took this as a good sign. He figured that if half the number of people who came to the grand opening became regular customers, the store would have a strong chance of surviving. One of the few annoying moments of the day was when Percy showed up with that mangy dog, Bridgette. To Sydney’s relief, customers didn’t seem to mind the dog and some actually played with her as they came in or out of The Talking Drum.

  The phone rang. Sydney hoped it was Della calling to cancel their plans. It was Max. “Great job on those photos, keep it up,” he said. “Gonna run them in the next issue. A full spread in the centerfold.”

  Sydney sat upright. “Glad you liked them.” She had taken three rolls during The Fierce Warriors’ concert and candid shots after the performance with the musicians and the crowd. Max had sent a courier at the end of the night to pick up the film.

  “Can you handle another assignment?” he asked. “I need an article and some photos of Petite Africa. A couple of the holdouts just decided to give up the fight. They want to sell to the city and get out. They don’t want to even wait for the court decision. They want O-U-T. If more owners follow suit, we’ll have a stampede out of Petite Africa. Man-on-the-street interviews would be good. See how people feel. I know you had a long day yesterday…”

  “That’s fine, Max. I can get to it today.”

  “Fine. Just fine. Let’s stay on top of this. The day of reckoning is coming for Petite Africa.”

  “And the people know it. Feelings are raw. I’ll be able to get some good quotes for my story.”

  She told him of her plans to go to Petite Africa for dinner.

  “Perfect timing,” he said. “See what you can get.”

  After they hung up, she checked the clock. It was almost five. She took a hot shower, letting the spray of water massage her calves and feet. When she got to the first floor, she was surprised to hear the hum of the adding machine. Malachi had left hours earlier to go with Kwamé to a neighborhood improvement association meeting. She had thought he would still be there. But he was back and sitting in the reading room with the cash register drawer on the table next to stacks of cash, checks, and receipts lined up in neat rows.

  “What happened to the meeting?”

  “Wasn’t long.” Malachi didn’t look up.

  He held up a hand as he punched numbers into the adding machine. Once he was done, he ripped a long strip of tape from the machine, looked at it from top to bottom, and frowned. “It’s not adding up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He took his glasses off and squeezed the corners of his bloodshot eyes. “We’re one hundred fifty dollars short.”

  She yanked out a chair and sat down. “Are you sure?”

  “I keep coming up with different amounts—first two hundred short, then one hundred and seventy-five. Now one fifty.”

  She watched him count a stack of cash he had on the table. “Do you want me to stay and help?”

  He waved her off. “No. Go on and see Della. I’ll figure this out.”

  She turned to leave but then came back. “Who had access to the drawer?”


  Malachi seemed to think this over for a moment. “I rang up most of the sales, and then Lawrence took over while The Fierce Warriors were performing and later when they went over to record shop.”

  She had a question. She paused to think about it for a moment. Then she went ahead. “Did you have anyone watching Lawrence? Was he handling the register alone?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Now why would I do that? He was one of my best students. I trust him. He’s not like he was before.”

  Sydney told him about seeing Lawrence stuffing the volumes of The African and Black American Experience in his backpack.

  “Are you sure that’s what you saw?”

  “Definitely.”

  He sat there not saying anything for a while. “Then he must’ve had a good reason for taking them. Maybe he just borrowed them. Maybe he needs them for a paper he’s writing.”

  He shoved the cash and checks into the slots of the register drawer. “We have to be very careful before we start making accusations.” He snapped off the adding machine.

  “No accusations. Just telling you what I saw.” Sydney was glad that she had someplace to go. She knew Malachi would sit and stew over the situation for hours. She pushed the idea of Lawrence stealing from them out of her mind. He’d done a great job mowing their lawn and organizing groups that could generate customers for The Talking Drum. Already he’d gotten a couple of regular customers to take charge of one of the discussion groups. Cynthia and Renée, a lesbian couple that lived in an apartment above the ice cream shop down the street, had agreed to run the women’s employment support group.

  Twenty minutes later she walked into Le Baobab. Near the bandstand she spotted Della talking to Omar. When Della saw her, she broke off the conversation and motioned to their booth where two tall glasses of mango ginger lemonade were waiting for them.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Sydney said as she slid onto the bench opposite Della.

  “Girl, no problem.” Della gestured toward Omar. “That poor man is having such a hard time.”