by Odie Hawkins
“Git outta here!”
“I bullshit thee not, young Brick. They have some stuff that they lighten their skins with. I’m telling you! The cultural imperialism takes all forms. They’ll take an African woman out of her own beautiful clothes and stick her into some crap that makes her look like a European scarecrow. They’ve convinced them to give their children little blonde dolls for Christmas.
“They’ve given them ‘Christmas,’ complete with the reindeer and Sanny Klaus and the whole avocado. We don’t want to get into the white Jesus they’ve given these people.…”
“Let’s get back to the women.”
“Oh, sorry ’bout that. I was about to go on a crusade for a minute. What can I say? They managed to go down into Africa, I’m talking about Ghana specifically, and convince these African women that they’re ugly. They’re telling them, with hardcore-porno advertising, the movies, magazines, name it, that the only way you can look beautiful is to look like us.
“The fuckin’ irony of it is this: at the same time they’re trying to wipe the African woman out, the European women are grabbing hold of the African thang as hard as they can. Last thing I read about it was that some European models were having fat injected in their lips to make them bigger and fuller like African women. I don’t have to tell you about the suntan syndrome and white women in France doing dances from Senegal.
“It gets crazier and crazier, the more you think about it. They’ll push some ol’ dull-ass style onto the sister and snatch and grab at her jungle patterns and all that rich color like freaks. And it looks like it’s gonna be that way for awhile, before the sisters come back to theyselves. But it’ll take years. I see them going through a lot of the madness we went through thirty, forty years ago. Before your time. B.B., before Bop.
“I’m sure a lot of the women would deny it, of course, but what is straightening your naturally kinky hair and dying your natural dark skin? It’s symbols of self hatred. We went through that. The sad thing about many of our sisters and brothers is that they don’t pay us enough attention. There’s a lot we could teach them about how Eurocentric systems corrupt and distort.
“But many of them don’t want to hear that. They want to try to pretend that we are not Africans and that our Diaspora never happened. Don’t worry, my boy, you’ll find enough madness in Ghana to keep your ass occupied all day long.”
Bop signaled for another beer. He remembered to hold his hand palm down and imitate someone scratching the air instead of beckoning with his fingers, palm up.
The fright-wigged women and the “small snakes” were replaced by a couple of older women. They were dressed more or less in traditional skirts, except that one had on a T-shirt with the legend, “I am covered with the blood of Jesus.”
They stood at the tap, gesturing, obviously enjoying each other’s company. They wore scarves on their heads, covering any evidence of “cultural imperialism.”
Men strolled into the bar, giving him that half-assed salute that he had learned to imitate. They made him think of the English comedian Benny Hill when he did his imitations of the English Army sergeants.
Two more days. The thought depressed him. What the hell is the matter with me? I’m going back home. Back home.
Back home to Uncle David and Aunt Lu? Nawww, I’ve already leeched on them as much I can stand it. Maybe as much as they can stand it too.
Life suddenly seemed complicated to Bop. It was no longer a point of who are you going to stay with, but where are you going to live?
Here I am, twenty-one years old and I ain’t never had a place of my own. I either been in jail or living with somebody. It’s tune for me to get out there. Maybe I could hook up with Justine. The thought of where she was, of the thing that she was into made him feel low, murderous, evil.
Idiot bitch! Why would she have to suck on the pipe? ’Cause You Gave IT TO HER, Pal.… He could feel the old arguments and counter arguments rising up. Crack everywhere; if she didn’t get it from me she would’ve gotten it from somebody else.
“Betty, what time is it?”
Once again the owner held her watch up to study its time.
“It is two o’clock.”
“Thanks.”
Two o’clock, time for some food. Damn them fools biting each other in the ass at the pad. I think I’ll trip to the Kitchen.
The Country Kitchen. A nice buzz in the afternoon.
“Lemme have a cold Club beer and I’ll order in a few minutes. OK?”
He liked the Country Kitchen, this huge, African-hut designed restaurant. It was 2:20 P.M. and time to style and profile. The tables were filling up. People came to do serious eating in the Country Kitchen. They had a fine choice of traditional Ghanaian food or Chinese influenced dishes. The Chinese food wasn’t the Chinese food of California, but it came close enough.
Wonder what would happen if I ordered a burrito?
It was fun for him to trip around by himself; it gave him a chance to filter stuff without having to explain what he was feeling or seeing.
“Would you like to order now?”
“Uhh, yes, lemme have this lobster in chili sauce.”
Two thousand cedis, shit; I oughta order two of these bad boys.…
“Rice or chips?”
“Chips?”
“Yes, chips.”
“What’s chips?”
“Potato.”
“Yeah, chips, I’ll have chips.”
He studied the waitress’ rhythmic walk away from him. Mannn, they sho’ got some fine sisters in Ghana, straightened hair or not.
He sipped his beer, feeling grand, on top of it, looked around slyly at the people in the Kitchen. The nut-colored woman with the Raster styled hair held his attention for five whole minutes. Beautiful woman. High cheekbones, lush mouth, gorgeous body; he could see it all at the table. She was alone, eating fufu with goat meat in light soup.
He used his beer glass as a cover, hoisting it and checking her out over the edge. Elegant woman, about thirty-five, probably rich, judging from her clothes ’n shit. Fascinated, he watched her hand dip into the soup, pinch off dabs of fufu, swallow it, grab hold of a piece of goat, and tear a chunk of meat from the bone.
He had never seen anything so elegant in his life. How in the fuck can you dig down into a bowl of soup with your bare hand, pull out a piece of this dough and goat meat, and eat it, looking like a queen.
Bop’s second glass of beer almost drove him over to the elegant lady’s table, but some unidentified element held him in check.
Better not make a fool outta myself.…
Ten minutes later she had washed her manicured fingers, paid her bill, and departed. Her table was immediately occupied by a couple of potbellied young men in striped shirts and ties.
Must be bank clerks out for dinner.
He tented his fingers under his chin, trying to look debonair. Wowwww.…
Bop casually looked in the opposite direction before turning his eyes back to the gay couple two tables to his left. Wowwwww.… They weren’t the casually dressed macho guys of Venice Beach or the cool homosexuals of San Francisco. These were the flaming swishes of his prison days; “Bernice” and “Joan.” Or “Francine” and “Rosie.” They looked like throwbacks and acted like it.
African, Ghanaian gays. Wowwww.…
They were so old-fashioned they were trying to act like women. They were in lavender scarves, pastel shirts, high-heeled sandals, perfumed (he liked the scent), and speaking English in high tones.
“So, I just told her, ‘You are annoying me!’”
“And what did she say?”
“She just lowered her face and apologized. What else was there to do? I mean, I was quite annoyed.”
“Really?”
Bop peeked around at nearby tables for reactions. No one paid them any obvious attention and, after a few minutes of not attracting any attention, their high tones gradually melted into the general hum.
Gays. I never thought abou
t gays in Ghana, or Africa. Wonder what the lesbian scene is like. They must be here. If you got gays you gotta have bulldaggers.
“Awww c’mon, Bop, let’s stop calling lesbians bulldaggers and homosexuals fags and punks.”
“What do you call ’em, Chester?”
“Lesbians are lesbians and homosexuals are gays. That’s the name that they’ve generally agreed on. People don’t call us Negroes any more because most of us have agreed that we are African Americans.
“Let’s cool it on the homophobic stuff; it’s uncouth.”
“Homo-what?”
“Anti-gay talk. Remember, it’s just a different form of sex life. That’s all.”
“Pardon me, may we share your table? The rest of them seem to the filled.”
“Yeahh, sure.…” Bop felt suddenly wrenched from his sightseeing to deal with the couple standing beside him. He gestured for them to sit down.
“Thank you,” they murmured.
The woman was a European and the man was Ghanaian. The three of them sat awkwardly for a couple of minutes. The man broke the ice. “Thank you for sharing your table; the Country Kitchen is becoming more popular all the time.”
“Yeah, looks like it.”
“I am Paul Mensah and this is my wife, Phyliss.”
“Howdyu do?”
They shook hands. The woman was English; he could tell from the clipped sound of her words. English, a strong chin, feathery hair, a prominent nose, penetrating eyes. She made him feel uncomfortable. He didn’t have any particular attitudes about mixed couples, but he felt puzzled by African men with white women in Africa.
I don’t think I could do it, not with all the sisters tripping around here. I don’t know.
“Been here long?” Phyliss Mensah spoke in a very clear, softly accented voice.
“Oh, about forty-five minutes now.”
The Mensahs laughed, thinking he was being deliberately funny.
“Oh yes, service can be outrageously slow here at times.” He shared the laugh. They were nice people. He relaxed.
“You mean here, in Ghana?”
“Yes, in Ghana. Unless you’ve been here in this restaurant longer than you’ve been in Ghana.” Yeah, they were nice people, straight up.
“Naww, I ain’t been here long. Matter of fact, I’ll be going back Saturday.”
“You’re American?”
Bop felt like laughing. What the fuck else could I be?
“Yeah, I’m American.”
The waitress blindsided him with lobster in chili sauce and rice.
“Uhh, miss, I ordered chips, remember?”
The waitress allowed a sign of annoyance to curl the corners of her mouth down. What the hell, you’ve got rice; eat it.
Paul Mensah caught the expression and lit into the waitress in Ga. Bop was surprised to recognize the “kp” and “gb” sounds. The waitress cast her eyes down apologetically and hurried away with his plate.
“Sorry, Mr …?”
“Just call me Bop.”
“Sorry, Bop. It seems that some of these people don’t pay any attention to what you ask for. You must make them sit up.”
Make them sit up. Hell, that’s one way to put it.
“She still ain’t took you guys order yet.” The beer was tangling his tongue a bit.
“Oh, she will,” Phyliss added. “Paul knows how to get them hopping.”
Five minutes later, Bop was eating lobster in chili sauce with chips. Fifteen minutes later, the Mensahs were eating roasted chicken and shrimp fried rice. They were curious about him.
“So you decided to come on your own, you didn’t come with a group?”
“Naw, I couldn’t see myself being led around by some man with a bullhorn in his mouth. You know what I mean?”
“I quite understand.”
“What do you do, Bop, in the states, that is?”
Bop stared at Paul Mensah’s mouth for a minute, trying to figure out what to say. I don’t do shit. I used to sell drugs when I was a Brick.
“I work with youth. I’m a gang counselor.”
They literally bubbled over each other trying to ask him about his work. “Oh my! That sounds fascinating. It must be quite adventurous.”
“You better believe me, lady.… You could get killed on the job.”
“And you’re so young. What took you into this line of work?”
Bop was enjoying himself. His belly was full of lobster in chili sauce with chips and his beer high had leveled out “Hard to say, Paul. It’s been more like a callin’ than anything else.”
“Calling?”
“Yeahhh, you know like they say.… ‘Many are called but few are chosen.’”
“Yes, of course.”
“Fascinating, absolutely fascinating.”
He was at a peak. It was time to move on. He signaled to the waitress. She made a beeline to their table.
“Well, Paul, Phyliss, I gotta git on. A whole buncha stuff to do; you know how it is.”
They shook hands again. Paul Mensah handed him his card. “I know you’re coming back to Ghana; get in touch.”
Paul and Phyliss Mensah, Export-Import, African Art, “I will, I will. Y’all take it easy.”
He made a grand stroll-exit. The food had absorbed the beer. Now what?
He strolled from Danquah roundabout on the right side of the road. Here we are in the middle of town and they don’t even have sidewalks. The stores were owned by the Lebanese and the vegetable stands in between were rented and stocked by the Lebanese. They used Ghanaians as front men. He found out by asking, “You own this vegetable stand?”
“No, this belongs to the white man next door. I work here. You are welcome.”
He walked to the end of the business district, which ended at Romonas and crossed the street to walk back to Danquah roundabout on the other side of the street.
Ghana is boring. It’s like Watts. No movies, no hip places to go, just a bunch of joints where you can go and drink beer and gin. People selling stuff everywhere—bread, shoes, dish towels, can openers, belts, cassettes, plastic, everything. Life struck him as being too serious.
People walked past him, talking and laughing, but he didn’t feel that they were really enjoying themselves. Life was too serious to be enjoyed.
It was almost five o’clock, he could tell from the lightweight traffic jam that was beginning to happen in front of him.
Kwatsons. He wandered into the closest thing he had come to that resembled a supermarket in Osu. Three aisles of odds and ends with a butcher shop at the rear and dishes, glasses, stationery, and some more odds and ends upstairs.
They wouldn ’t know what to do if they saw a Vons, or a Boys or a K-Mart.
He went upstairs to buy envelopes and strolled back out into the humid, dusty street.
Number One, the all-purpose joint on the corner, facing Danquah Circle. “Lemme have a Club beer.”
The beer was cold but he didn’t have an urge to drink it. He had had enough beer for the day. He slumped in his seat under the beach umbrella, studying the scene. Wonder if shit would be different for me if I was a Ghanaian? They don’t seem to be bored. Everybody seems to have something to do. People are going from one place to another. I see a baby on every woman’s back, so I guess that must take up the slack, if you don’t have movies or a TV to watch.
Wonder what Elena is doing tonight? Ain’t this a damned shame? I got a thang going on with a woman and I don’t even have her phone number. I don’t even know if she has a phone. I don’t even know where she lives. Time to go back to the Chamber of Horrors.
Fred was in super form. The morning growl session had been fueled by who knows how many beers, and now he was prowling around the house with a beer glass in his hand, degrading his spouse. “You don’t mean a fuckin’ thing to me! You understand me?! You ain’t shit!”
Helene took note of Bop’s entrance with a mean look. “Some woman came here this afternoon looking for you.”
“Did she wear glasses?”
“Yes.”
Elena. Damn. While I’m lushing it up and down the streets I could’ve been laying up between them pretty black thighs. Shit!
Fred barely took notice of his arrival except to pause for a swallow of beer and not in his direction. Good. Don’t include me on your hit list; I don’t need it.
He retreated to his room, stripped to his shorts, and sprawled across the bed. The dreams came easy after the beer (how many did I have today?), the good food, the heat and humidity. It was easy to lock Fred out; he had learned how to do it in jail. There was a button you had to push in your head if you didn’t want to hear or be included in everybody’s escape plan, the he-said-they-said bullshit, the occasional sadistic guard, the mutterings and snoring of hundreds of people locked up together.
He was on a road with a red stripe painted in the middle of it. The road was walled in on both sides by lush green jungles. He walked toward the horizon on the road, taking note of the fruit that grew on the trees. There were moments when he felt himself floating above the road, but he was following the red stripe, whether on the road or in the air.
Huge birds with pelican beaks swooped back and forth in front of him as he slowly made his way through one hilly stretch of the road. “Keep going, keep going, keep going,” they seemed to be saying. “Keep going, keep going.” It was a weird bird song.
The road curved and, as he rounded the corner, a gigantic, charcoal-colored woman stood in the center of the road, naked, smiling at him. Charcoal textured, with snow white teeth, short nappy hair, gorgeous breasts and hips, incredibly female. She beckoned to him in the Ghanaian way with the palm down and said, “Ba—Ba, come.”
He walked toward her, feeling small, strange, inadequate. She’s too big for me. She must be six feet tall. As he approached her she turned and started walking away from him. He hurried to keep up. Her pace was unhurried but he couldn’t reach her side. He managed to match her pace ten strides behind.
Her back was strongly muscled; the indentation between the top of her body and the bottom perfectly molded. Wowwww.… What is she? 50-22-50 or something?
He wanted to run up behind her and run his hands along the curve of her buttocks. I ain’t never seen a ass this perfect. He felt mesmerized by the rhythm of her walk, every lilting step was an invitation to dance, to touch.
