by Ibi Zoboi
Kamau and I were homeschooled together along with the eight other children our age who were born into the Movement in the same year. Homeschooling us was the Movement’s way of reaching back for something old, traditional, and maybe African. Public schools were closing all over Philadelphia, and charter schools were full of young white women from the Midwest thinking they could change the world and save the poor Black kids.
So our entire schooling, from the age of five up until now at seventeen, was within the four walls of my father’s house on Osage Avenue. There, we ate vegan breakfasts of oatmeal and almond milk, cubed tofu and brown rice for lunch, and on the days we memorized the names of all the Black freedom fighters dating back to the uprising on the Amistad, and even Mansa Musa, ’cause my father says Black history didn’t start with slavery, we were allowed one organic vegan sugar-free lollipop from Whole Foods.
The very best days were when we got to visit the zoo—not to pet the animals, of course, but to protest. The Movement didn’t believe in keeping animals in cages, much less eating them. A few members would stand outside the Philadelphia Zoo chanting and shouting and singing for the freedom of all living things: Black people, native people, disabled people, immigrant people, tree people, and animal people.
A couple of years ago, on one of those seasonal trips to protest at the zoo, Kamau leaned toward me and asked, “But what about the freedom of gay people?”
“What about it?” I repeated, holding a picket sign that read If You Can Name Them, You Can Free Them!
“What’d they ever do to us? We’re not oppressed by them,” Kamau had said. His freeform locs were tied into a bun on top of his head. His T-shirt, with the words “Black and Green,” hung loose over his thin frame.
“Right!” I said. “There must have been plenty of gay people in Africa.” We’ve been having this conversation since we were twelve. In that moment, I tried to make Kamau feel better, even though Kofi Sankofa has never mentioned anything about gays in his lectures. But with all that talk about preserving the traditional Black family and bringing more Black babies into the world, Kamau made his own assumptions. And those discussions with my best friend always ended with the words “Such bullshit.”
Kamau doesn’t let go of me until Mama Afua limps her way to the front of the church. And it takes her a while because of her bum knee.
“She was the one who snitched on you the last time,” I whisper to Kamau. “You think she knows something about what I’m doing tonight?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she does,” he says. “She must’ve already read it in the cowrie shells and sage smoke, or the ancestors must’ve whispered it to her. If that’s the case, they’re the snitches.” He flashes me one of his half smiles and walks away to help the Young Warriors with the setup.
I shake my head as I watch Mama Afua scold Kamau for not draping fabric over the crucifix on the pulpit properly. That’s how the Movement has managed to keep us teenagers in line. We’re led to believe that the Movement’s elders’ eyes have eyes, and their ears have ears. So being disrespectful in any way, openly questioning the Movement’s philosophies, or even tasting a piece of bacon is never an option. We can’t even listen to trap music because my father says it’s the white man’s way of helping us to enslave ourselves with an endless cycle of celebrating sex, violence, and drugs.
But Kamau and I have been secretly poking holes into this thing since we were twelve: when my mother got sick. We question, Google, fact-check, smirk, and roll our eyes at just about everything the Movement says and does, even though the mastermind is my father. And Kamau managed to fool them for a whole weekend when he went to New York City for a party, until Mama Afua figured it out. She read it all over his face, smelled it on his breath, and saw it in his eyes. Still, there was one thing they haven’t figured out about Kamau. And that’s how I knew that the elders of the Movement are just like everybody else. They’re not magical. And they can’t keep us trapped in this life forever.
With each passing minute, my breath shortens and my heart races. I have to pay attention to the time and keep a poker face, as Kamau says. He’s done this before, and even though he got caught, he thinks I can pull it off since I’m Kofi Sankofa’s daughter and all. No one would expect it from me. But I’m sweating and my hands are clammy.
Soon, some members will be coming in with their children and my job is to usher the little ones down to the basement, where the Sisters in Sisterhood, the teen girls of the Movement, will have a kente-cloth-covered table full of vegan food and keep them engaged with songs and games while their parents listen to Kofi Sankofa’s lecture. The Movement is organized in that way. Everyone has a role, a job. Everyone looks out for each other. Kofi Sankofa always reminds us that this is our little three-hundred-member African village in a big white city.
I keep an eye on the doors in front of the church and behind the pulpit, even though the Young Warriors are part of the security team. There’s no telling what type of people my father will attract this time. Some of his former students from Temple University usually came through, if they were not part of that petition to kick him off the faculty for spreading hate speech. Usually, it was longtime followers of the Movement who came from all over the East Coast, or newbie high school and college kids after they’ve binge-watched all his YouTube videos, especially his most popular lecture, “A Seat at the Table.”
Word on the internet was that my father had gone soft. He used to travel all over the country lecturing white folks on how they needed to not only make room for Black people at the table, but they had to give up their seats. They couldn’t hold on to their power and only give us a little bit. They had to let it go completely so we could make all the decisions around this proverbial table. Then he raised the bar by telling Black folks to “Get Up from the Table and Flip It”—to overthrow power and not seek it for themselves,
But now they were saying that my father was having an existential crisis with all this “there is no table” mess. He said that the best way to handle white supremacist bullshit was to not only get up from the table, but walk away and forget it was even there in the first place.
And just as my father said he was done fighting white people, they finally got him for tax evasion. They couldn’t lock him up for spreading “hate speech,” inciting riots, and telling hardworking people to leave their good-paying jobs because he says they’re like modern-day plantations. Getting him for not paying taxes was a way to shut him up for a while.
But people are still coming to hear him speak about how he hates what white people have done all over the world. He doesn’t trust them, neither. And as his daughter, I’m supposed to be his most supportive follower. But all Kamau and I keep saying to ourselves is, Such bullshit.
Plus, I have my own dreams, especially since finding out that I got a perfect score on the SATs when I took them three years ago.
I want to go to college—a really good one like Columbia University—to study paleontology. And deep down in my heart, I really like white boys, especially an older one named Dr. Ross Geller—a paleontologist and young Columbia graduate. Thinking of Ross and how cute he is on that old TV show Friends is the only thing to keep me from bailing out on my friend. Kamau made me promise that I would do what he did—live out my dreams for one night. Only for one night. And then we both could start planning our Great Escape, he calls it. We both have less than a year before we turn eighteen and we can do whatever the hell we want, including leave the Movement for good.
My father manages to fill the whole church, and it’s standing room only with all the wooden pews packed with warm Black bodies. The audience applauds and cheers when he makes his way up to the pulpit to the sound of djembe drums and the sight of raised fists. Dr. Kofi Sankofa Jones, in his long, graying locs and shimmering white-and-gold embroidered boubou, only has to raise one hand to silence the audience. Then he shouts with a deep, booming voice into the mic, “Power to the people! The Movement is ours, the path is cle
ar, and our freedom is near!” Then he leads his followers to begin the opening song, “Lift Every Voice and Sing.”
This is my cue to meet Kamau in the parking lot of the church. Before I leave, I take a look at all the people who’ve come to hear my father speak—all brown faces, some smiling, some pissed, and everything in between. They’re here because they want freedom from oppression, and they think my father will lead them to some kind of promised land. As for me, I just want freedom, period. And it doesn’t involve my father or no promised land. I discreetly make my way out of the church and around to the parking lot. My heart is beating so fast, I might as well be a walking djembe drum.
Kamau is standing near the blue minivan. He motions to where he hid my bag. I kneel down to retrieve it and hoist it onto my back. When we’re finally facing each other, we both take a deep pranayama breath just like we were taught in yoga since we were toddlers.
“You ready to have the time of your life?” Kamau asks, pursing his lips and trying to hold in a laugh.
“Stop making fun of me, Kamau,” I say.
“Are you sure you don’t wanna check out that ball I went to? Even if you don’t like it, just take all that good fun and put it in a paper bag for me. Better yet, a video and some pictures will do.”
“You know I would if I had more time. And are you sure you don’t wanna come with me? We can still get a bus ticket at the last minute.”
“No, Geri. If I leave tonight, I’m never coming back. I’ve had enough of this bullshit. We gotta do this right. Save some more coins, say goodbye without saying goodbye. You know? And please, I wouldn’t wanna go sit in no café just to read a Dead White Man book and . . . assimilate. Or whatever the hell you’re trying to do in there.”
I exhale deep and look up at the warm, late-afternoon sky. My father’s shouting can be heard from outside even with the giant AC system blasting from the church. He’s going on and on about not ever needing the white man’s help and how we’ve got to do this or that on our own. “Weren’t you trying to assimilate in that vogue ball, Kamau?”
“I wasn’t trying. I fit right in.” Kamau does his dance, flinging his wrists from side to side, perfecting his tutting and clicks.
I turn around to glance toward the church’s back door, making sure no one sees him doing this. No one knows that the party Kamau went to was a kiki. A vogue ball. And when he turns eighteen, he’ll be competing to join a house in New York City—House of Ninja or House of Xtravaganza, hopefully. He’s that good. But his parents would disown him if they knew. The Young Warriors would turn their backs on him.
“Okay, it’s time for you to bust the hell up out of here, Nigeria Jones,” Kamau says, and I cringe.
“Don’t call me that,” I say through clenched teeth.
“It’s your name, girl. Claim it!” he snorts. “Okay, fine. What you want me to call you now? Becky? Once you put on that wig, you’ll have all the good hair.”
I roll my eyes hard at him and sigh. “Where’d you put the bus ticket?”
“Front pocket along with your wallet, your cheap-ass phone, and some cash,” he says, and extends his arms out at me to give me a hug. “I’m a text and a phone call away. The bootleg revolutionaries in there will be at this all night, so I’ll cover for you. You weren’t feeling well and you went home to sleep. And since I’m there, they won’t suspect a thing. You wouldn’t go running off to anywhere by yourself. Especially not to New York City. Perfect plan.”
“Perfect plan,” I repeat.
“Okay. The return ticket is for midnight on the dot. So you got seven hours, Blackerella. If the Ross of your dreams shows up, make the first move. But don’t go up to nobody’s dorm room or apartment no matter how much they know about Tyrannosaurus rex. And since you wanna have this white-girl experience and all, please . . . I’m begging you . . . do not get white-girl wasted.”
“Oh, shut up, Kamau!” I shove his shoulder, laughing.
“And don’t forget that Harlem is one subway stop away. Just get to 125th Street and ask the closest brother selling incense, shea butter, and your father’s books and DVDs for help if you need it.”
We hug each other one last time, and he holds me even tighter. “You are so brave, Becky Jones,” he says. “I don’t get you, but we’ve always been the two unicorns up in this place.”
Kamau watches me as I leave the parking lot and discreetly pass the closed bright-red front doors of the church and walk to the corner of West Girard and Belmont Avenues to catch a cab to the Greyhound Terminal on Filbert Street.
But I end up at the McDonald’s on North Broad Street instead. I’m here for two things: the bathroom mirror and a bacon double cheeseburger. Kamau suggested that I try it. If I’m doing this one-night-of-fun thing, I might as well go all out.
I’m in the bathroom tucking my shoulder-length locs beneath the blond ombré wig. It’s dark brown at the roots and blond at the ends—as if I’d been a brunette and wanted to be like the girls who have more fun. I have to admit, there’s something about the wig against my deep-brown skin that makes me look neater, almost. Nicer, even. I smile different smiles in the mirror and practice saying my name with different voices, tones, and codes. Geri. Geri? Geri. But never, ever Nigeria.
I change out of my skirt and into the pair of jeans Kamau put into my backpack. I’ve been wearing skirts my whole life because the Movement believes that young women like me should protect our womb energy. Jeans are stifling. We need to keep the “portal of life” free and clear for all those new Black babies coming into the world. I don’t even want babies. As usual, all of that nonsense is bullshit.
I think of throwing the skirt into the trash, but I have to be on the midnight bus back to Philly and play it cool. I have to be Nigeria Jones, the princess of the revolution, when I return. Like Kamau said, we have to plan this right.
I step back away from the mirror to take a good look at myself wearing a regular white T-shirt, torn jeans, and a messy wig. I look . . . regular. I push back some of the hair behind my ears like I’ve seen the girls on Friends do. Rachel has the prettiest hair, but still, she isn’t smart enough for Ross. I wonder if Ross would approach me if he saw me sitting by myself in Central Perk.
But my phone pings in my backpack and a text from Kamau reads, Don’t forget the bacon double cheeseburger and a Coke. Live a little!
You just got out of the Movement jail yesterday and you’re talking about live a little. Whatever. I’m on it! I text back with a series of food emoji and a smiley face.
So I take a window seat on the five-o’clock Greyhound to New York City and pick apart the bacon double cheeseburger. I nibble on the bacon and burger and savor every single salty, oily morsel—the white man’s mass-produced plastic food, as my father calls it. I’ve been a vegan my whole life, except for the times Kamau and I secretly had ice cream, had pizza, or had mistaken a hamburger for soy.
But I spit out the last bit of bacon into the paper bag. I can’t finish the rest, not even the soda. So I eat the fries and sip my water. My stomach disagrees with my taste buds.
When I reach into the bottom of my backpack for my book, I discover that Kamau has packed his tablet. On it is a sticky note with a password to a Hulu account. “So you can watch your stupid show,” it reads.
My heart leaps and I squeal on the inside. “Thank you, best friend,” I whisper. In no time, I’m logged on, and even though I’ve seen every episode of every season, I decide to watch my favorite ones to prepare for this trip. I’m on the episode where Ross and Rachel are breaking up. “She doesn’t appreciate him,” I say as I put in my earbuds.
The older Black woman sitting next to me scoots over and closes her eyes.
“What do you see in those white boys, anyway?” Kamau asked me once.
“The same thing you see in them,” I said. But he assured me that he doesn’t like white boys. He likes the Jaden Smith type—Black boys who look like him, I guess. I wonder if the Movement would be more tolerant if t
hey knew I liked white boys or if they knew Kamau liked Black boys. My father sees everything in Black and white. There’s hardly anything or anyone in between. Or if he ever did mention Asians or Latinos, it was to remind us that they’ve never experienced the transatlantic slave trade. According to him, Black people are the most oppressed people in the world.
I pause a scene where Rachel and Phoebe are having a heart-to-heart, place the tablet on my lap, and hold my head in my hands. Friends was the only TV show Mama watched when she was sick. It made her laugh a little and let her take her mind off things. But my father disapproved, of course. He did of anything that had to do with white folks’ nonsense.
The thing about my father’s way of seeing the world in black and white is that there are no gray spaces. Everything is a fight. Black against white. White against Black. And while I didn’t grow up surrounded by actual walls, my father’s ideas and words have created an invisible wall.
So I have to break past the fact that even though I got a perfect score on my SATs and could’ve gotten into an Ivy League by the time I was fifteen, my father said that I couldn’t let these white institutions capitalize on my genius. He had me take that test to prove something, to show off, to make his point. And it did. But I had my heart set on Columbia. I dreamed of going to the most remote places on this earth to dig for old bones, older than people. Before humans and their stupid ideas. Before hate. Maybe even before love, too. Dinosaurs just existed. No lectures, no books, no language. No world-conquering Europeans and no defeated everybody else. Just those powerful, unrestrained creatures roaming the planet.
I sit back up in my seat, hold my head high, inhale, and push my blond ombré hair behind my ear. Tonight, I’m not the daughter of a Black nationalist revolutionary freedom fighter. I’m a freshman studying dinosaur bones and geology. And since there’s no actual Central Perk anywhere in Manhattan, any café near the university will do. I’ll be relaxing on a warm Saturday evening in May just as finals are over, and be immersed in classical literature about white people and their problems, while sipping on my iced latte.
