The Talking Drum

by Lisa Braxton

  “Do you know him?” Della asked.

  “We met a long time ago,” Omar replied. “He is my musical hero.”

  “I’ve never seen so many drums,” Della declared.

  “After the fire, drummers gave them to me,” he said proudly. “A few I was able to save from my own collection—the djembe my papa gave me and some others—but most are donations.” He went back into the kitchen.

  The drum that most fascinated Sydney was the dundun. It stood about two feet with a cowbell attached to it. She picked up the mallet and lightly tapped the cowbell.

  Omar brought out a platter of monkey bread and guava juice and placed it on a TV tray. Then he arranged the folding chairs in a semi-circle with his chair facing theirs.

  “Sit,” he commanded everyone, and then placed a djembe in front of each of them. He sat across from them, propping his djembe between his knees. Omar closed his eyes and started striking the face, alternating with his full palms, his fingers, and fingertips. He produced some high-pitched, sharp sounds and, at other moments, low, deep, round, and full sounds. As he played, his eyelids drooped and his mouth puckered as if he was in a trance. His head tilted from left to right on its own beat.

  Sydney and Della watched as Jasmine started tapping her feet.

  He opened his eyes and paused from playing. “Did you know that the African drum shall talk to you?” he asked Jasmine.

  She started giggling. “A drum can’t talk.”

  “It shall talk,” he stated. “Even the smallest drum can talk, like the one you are holding.”

  He told the three of them to wedge the drums between their knees, tilt them at an angle as he was doing, and strike the center of the drumhead with an open palm. “This is a djembe,” he shouting over his playing. “You must never play this drum with sticks.”

  “Why?” Jasmine shouted back.

  “Because the drum will turn into a lion and bite you on the nose!”

  Jasmine shrieked as she laughed, bouncing up and down in her chair.

  Every so often Omar had to stop playing to correct Sydney and Della’s hand positioning, but Jasmine needed no coaching. She played properly and maintained the beat.

  “What is the drum saying to you, little Jasmine?” he shouted.

  The child looked down at her hands as she hit the drum. “It’s saying that I must smile.”

  “You are right. Do you know why it’s saying that to you?”

  She shrugged. Omar turned to Sydney for a response. Sydney looked at Della, who shook her head as she played.

  “Because you are playing Fanga, the welcoming rhythm,” he explained.

  Omar dropped the palm of one hand on the middle of the drum face, creating a bass sound, and then slapped the face and snapped his hand back like the end of a crackling bullwhip. After several beats, he gave the drum a volley of quick strikes, a hard slap, and then raised his arms. Following his lead, the others stopped playing.

  “I must congratulate you,” he said to them all. “You have just completed your first drumming lesson. Now we can eat.”

  CHAPTER 36

  BELLPORT GAZETTE

  May 20, 1973. Federal authorities have made another arrest in connection with a series of fires in the South End of the city, the area commonly known as “Petite Africa.” James Fullerton, owner of several properties in the immigrant community, has been arrested on arson charges. His arraignment is scheduled for next week. Bellport resident Lawrence Briggs was arrested five months ago on charges that he set fires in Petite Africa. An ongoing investigation by the Bellport Arson Squad revealed that Lawrence was on Fullerton’s payroll to do upkeep and repairs at some of his properties. Fullerton also allegedly hired Lawrence to set some of the buildings on fire. Fullerton, who lives in the luxury waterfront community of Swift Moore Estates twenty miles north of Bellport, has become known for raising rents unannounced, planting spies at tenant union meetings, and letting his buildings fall into disrepair.

  Two people have died and twenty-four others have suffered serious injuries in a spate of fires that began in Petite Africa two and a half years ago. Seven buildings burned down, resulting in four and half million dollars in property losses.

  There’s no word on whether additional arrests will be made.

  In October 1973, Bellport Mayor Chauncey McShane stood on the temporary stage that had been erected on the brick-surfaced plaza in front of the Civic Center Arena. He held up a pair of oversized scissors and cut a symbolic red ribbon draped across the main entrance. Nearby were influential politicians, business leaders, and VIPs from the Harborview Redevelopment Authority.

  “This is a new day in Bellport,” McShane declared into the microphone. Lights from cameras flashed in his face. A news photographer positioned on a platform facing the stage had his video camera hooked onto a giant tripod. He zoomed in on the scene. “Our Harborview project will transform our fair city into the crown jewel of New England,” McShane continued.

  People rose from their folding chairs and applauded.

  “After we lost Bell Manufacturing, Nathaniel Hawthorne Boot Factory, Bellport Tool and Die, people outside of the state wrote us off. They said Bellport would become a ghost town. But we didn’t listen to them, did we? We believed in ourselves, and look at us now.”

  The applause was thunderous. People whistled and cheered. The ribbon cutting took on the feel of a political rally. Word had leaked from city hall that the mayor had ordered the ribbon cutting months before the interior was completed, hoping the ceremony would help boost his poll numbers among voters. He was counting on the Harborview Redevelopment Project to buoy his campaign. When the applause quieted, he glanced over his shoulder at the VIPs behind him. “I want to bring someone up here. My good friend Kwamé Rodriguez has some remarks. You all know Kwamé.”

  The crowd cheered. A few people thrust their fists in the air in the Black Power salute as Kwamé mounted the stage.

  “We look forward to the prosperity this project will bring, not just to Bellport, but to Liberty Hill,” Kwamé shouted. “For too long, people have hit the accelerator when they crossed into Liberty Hill and didn’t ease up until they got to the next town. This arena complex and the expressway ramp will rebuild and renew our communities.”

  “I have heard enough,” Omar grumbled to Khadim in Wolof. They were standing next to the platform, waiting their cue to take the stage for their performance. There were still several people to speak, then the Bellport High School marching band would perform.

  “Your uncle would spin around in his coffin if he could see this right now,” Khadim said.

  “I was not going to do this gig until you convinced me,” Omar responded. “We are standing in the spot of the gazebo, where Uncle held his rallies and protested against the project.”

  “And the plaza goes all the way back to Garfield Avenue where Le Baobab was. Your uncle would demand that the city tear up this plaza and rebuild his restaurant for him. He would not rest until they did.”

  Omar focused his gaze on the glass-brick tower on the front of the arena to keep the tears away. “It is a shame this day has come. Uncle fought for the people of Petite Africa until his last breath.”

  A state senator was now at the podium speaking.

  “I wonder what your uncle would say about your former landlord’s arrest.”

  “It is not what he would say. It is what he would do. He would go to the jail and spit in the man’s face. Because of Fullerton, Esmé died. I almost died, too.”

  Khadim shook his head. “I hope they let Fullerton rot in his jail cell.”

  Later, as the marching band began the first verse of “America the Beautiful,” the men loosened the ropes of their drums, patted the drumheads, and adjusted the tension to set them to the proper pitch.

  Omar heard a dog barking. In the distance, near the plaza’s edge, he saw a
bald-headed man wearing a snorkel jacket, in spite of the warm fall day. He was being pulled along by a grey German shepherd. They seemed familiar, but Omar could not place them.

  “After Uncle died, I thought you were gone forever, like the rest of the people of Petite Africa,” Omar said.

  “I thought so, too, my brother.” Khadim put his djembe to the side and clutched his tama under his arm, patting it lightly. “But driving taxi in Rhode Island is not enough. Benata is having another baby. I need cash. If the city has more gigs like this, I’ll take the train up every weekend.”

  “The drumming institute is not as big as the institute that Uncle and I wanted at the African Cultural Center, but it is a start,” Omar said. “I wish he could be here to see it.”

  Since moving into the Stallworths’ basement apartment, Omar had negotiated an agreement to open a drumming school in the bookstore reading room, called the “Mustapha Mendy Drumming Institute.” In return, Omar got a break on his rent. Della and Jasmine were the first to enroll, along with Kofi and Anarama.

  “But it is nothing to cough at, my brother. Nothing to cough at.”

  “Someday I will move the drumming institute to its own building. Then I will open drumming institutes all over the country,” Omar said.

  “Crawl first, then walk, my friend.”

  Omar laughed. “If you help me, I will soon run.”

  Khadim cocked his head to the side. “What is your meaning?”

  “You must join me. The opportunity that Allah sends does not wake those that are asleep. I have more kids than classes right now. I need another teacher.

  Khadim grinned. “How much does it pay?”

  “More per day than a weekend driving taxi.”

  An assistant to the mayor came up to them and flashed two fingers. “Two minutes,” he said. They picked up their drums and climbed the stairs at the side of the stage, waiting for the high school band to finish. Khadim turned to Omar. “You give me something to think about.”

  CHAPTER 37

  IN THE TIME since Kwamé took the job in Washington, he and Della had become more distant, barely talking to each other. Kwamé flew home some weekends, and when he did, he spent most of his time at the record shop. When he was home, he never left the television.

  Tonight, he was in the recliner, watching The Streets of San Francisco with a beer in his hand and four empties crushed on the coffee table. Della peeked in, not wanting to say anything that would rile him. He had been so testy lately. “I’m going across the street,” she said.

  He said nothing. She waited. Then he burped into his fist.

  “Did you hear me?”

  He turned his head an inch in her direction. “What you doing that for?”

  “I’m going to Syd and Malachi’s.” She held her breath, hoping he would simply nod and turn back to Karl Malden and Michael Douglas on the screen.

  Kwamé took a swig and then set the beer down on the tray table. “Do whatever you want, Dell. Take your classes, go see your friends, but when I have an opportunity I’ve worked for years to get, you can’t support me.”

  His self-pity made her feel sick. “Kwamé, I…”

  He shifted around in the recliner. “You’re selfish, Dell. That’s the only way to look at it.”

  Instead of letting Kwamé bait her, she backed out of the room, grabbed her keys and purse, and stepped out the door. She breathed in deeply when she got outside, catching a cool whiff of air. A light rain fell. She began to realize how stifling it was to be around Kwamé.

  She had lied. She wasn’t going to the Stallworths. She was going to see Omar. He had invited her over because he said he had news he wanted to share with her. She thought that while she was there, she’d tell him about an opportunity to teach a drumming class at one of the alternative schools, which was expanding its music program.

  “Olele! Welcome. Come in,” Omar said as he opened the basement door. His smile dissolved as he met eyes with her. “You do not look happy, ma chère.”

  She gave him an update on her troubles with Kwamé. He put his arm around her and led her to the couch. He poured them glasses of wine and sat down next to her.

  “So what is your exciting news?” Della asked after they both had taken a sip.

  “Uncle Mustapha’s estate has been settled. He left his daughter, Ansa, and me, in good shape. I shall have enough money to rent this apartment and have food in the fridge for many years.”

  Della sat there a moment, thinking about what he had said. Omar had been through so much, with the divorce, the fire. He was finally getting a break.

  “Congratulations,” she said, lifting her glass to his so they could clink them in a toast.

  “You can do better than this, right?” he took both glasses and set them on the coffee table.

  Della pulled back. “What do you mean?”

  He gave her a playful peck on the mouth, then a longer kiss. She was warmed at the feel of his full, smooth lips and kissed him back forcefully. They sat there a while, holding each other’s hands and kissing deeply. Her whole body began to relax.

  After a while, she reached for her glass of wine. “I have something I want to tell you, too.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What is that?”

  “How would you like to teach at…” She stopped at the sound of someone knocking at the door.

  “I am not expecting visitors,” Omar stared at the door.

  After a pause, the knocking resumed. Two seconds later, a heavy fist pounded the door. Omar stood up.

  “Are you sure you should answer it?” Della whispered.

  “It is my door. I shall answer it.”

  Omar opened the door. Standing there under the floodlight over the doorway was Kwamé. Della was shocked. Kwamé’s eyes shifted from Omar to Della on the couch and back to Omar.

  “What are you doing with my woman?” Kwamé snapped.

  After a pause, Omar said, “I am doing nothing. We are just talking.”

  “Bullshit!” Kwamé knocked shoulders with Omar as he shoved past him through the doorway, putting Omar off balance. Omar had to grab onto the wall to steady himself. Kwamé marched into the living room and stood over Della, his eyes bulging, nostrils flared. “You need to come home. I knew I couldn’t trust you. ” He slurred his words. “You never went to Malachi and Sydney’s. They told me.”

  Della had not anticipated that Kwamé would check up on her and regretted not considering that.

  “No me jodas, Dell. You lied to me. Why?”

  She sat there, staring up at him, still shaken by his sudden appearance at Omar’s apartment. “Where’s Jasmine?” she asked finally.

  “Never mind about Jasmine.” He talked through gritted teeth. “I’m talking about you.”

  “Where is my daughter?” she demanded.

  “Upstairs with the friends you claimed you were with.”

  She hated the sarcasm in his voice. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, Dell, but we’re going home and taking care of it.”

  She stood up. “We were just talking, Kwamé. I came over to tell Omar about a position in the school system.”

  “Hmm. You couldn’t tell him over the phone?” He pointed at the wine glasses on the coffee table. “And what about these?”

  “Okay. Let’s go.” Della got up and walked toward the door.

  “Ma chère, are you okay?” Omar asked.

  Kwamé spun around at Omar. “You think I don’t understand that je ne sais quoi, that French bullshit? Who you think you’re talking to? You don’t talk to Della that way.” Kwamé grabbed Della by the wrist and squeezed it so hard she wanted to cry out. Omar stood in the middle of the living room speechless.

  Kwamé pulled Della outside. It was beginning to rain heavily. They crossed the street in silence, stepping around puddles. When they
got to the front of the record shop, Kwamé let go of her hand.

  “Dell, I don’t understand what’s going on with you anymore. You’re playing me for a chump, you and your little drummer man.”

  Della wanted to explain why she was drawn to Omar, a simple man who she found comfort in, and who respected her. She wanted Kwamé to understand how much he had damaged their relationship with his many women, his big talk, and his indifference to her dreams. She’d put up with him, but leaving her and Jasmine for that job in Washington, D.C., was too much. She could put up with no more. Their relationship had become so strained that they’d become nothing more than roommates. She didn’t see the point of explaining how she felt to Kwamé. He was too selfish, insecure, and driven by his ego to listen. Yet, she told herself, she should try.

  “Omar’s just a friend, that’s it. You know what happened to him in the fire. I told you his uncle died. He needs friends right now.”

  Kwamé shook his head. “There’s no reason for my woman to be at some dude’s apartment alone.”

  “Your woman? You’re barely even here. I don’t know what we are anymore.”

  “It’s not right, Dell. That’s how things get started, a couple of glasses of wine, a little conversation, a little kissing, and then you’re in the bed.”

  By the light of the lamp post she could see the vein in his neck twitching “Is that how it started with you and those tramps you chase up and down the streets?”

  A light flickered from a window in the building. She looked up and saw one of her tenants on the third floor looking down at them. “I’m not gonna stand out here and argue about this. We can take this inside, or you can stay out here by yourself!”

  As she turned to go inside, he grabbed her arm and jerked it hard to force her to stay. She lost her balance and slipped on the wet sidewalk. Her head smacked into a utility pole as she fell. Pain shot from the back of Della’s head down her neck. Despite that, she managed to prop herself up on her elbows.