by Odie Hawkins
Bop could feel himself becoming aroused. She’s too big for me. I’d be like a baby in her arms. He felt that feeling, but he couldn’t push the erotic element to the side.
She turned to smile at him, encouraging him.… “Keep going, keep going, keep going,” the birds whispered now.
Suddenly she stopped, turned to him, opened her arms, and spoke for the first time. The voice sounded familiar but he couldn’t place it. “Come, give me your love.”
He approached her hesitantly, and as he did so, she began to shrink. He was within five yards of her and she was his size.
“Come, give me your love; I need it desperately.”
He floated into her arms and they kissed. It was a long, feverish kiss. He felt his mouth being glued to her lips and wanted to pull away, but he couldn’t.
And then he opened his eyes in panic and saw that he was kissing Justine, and her face was a network of scratches, scars, termite carvings, decayed, ugly. He screamed and woke up simultaneously.
“Whatcha doin’ in there, motherfucker! Jackin’ off!?”
Fred was still at it; Helene was still taking it. Bop pulled his bathtowel from the chair beside the bed and scrubbed the sweat from his face and upper body.
What the fuck was that about? How long have I been asleep? He peered through the dim moonlight streaming into the window, at the quartz clock on the bedside table. 7.30 P.M. Well, they say you dream when you just go to sleep or when you’re just getting ready to wake up.
The tiny rivulets of sweat from his forehead and armpits continued for a few minutes. He trembled but he couldn’t get away from it. Justine. He had managed to blot her out of his dream-consciousness for days. Justine. Maybe I’m getting malaria again. He palmed his forehead. Just perspiration, no fever. Justine.
He flung the towel across the room and sprawled out with his hands interwoven behind his head. Why in the fuck should I feel guilty about her? She had her mind about her when she decided to do what she wanted to do. Why should I feel guilty?
He dabbed at the perspiration rolling off his temples and discovered he was crying. Oh wowwww.… An Original Brick crying. Wonder what they would say about this?
The tears simply rolled out of the corners of his eyes for a few minutes, uncontrollably. He felt stupid, crying, because he couldn’t really focus on a reason for his tears.
I really fucked that girl up. I’m gon’ have to do something for her when I get back.
He remained awake for an hour after Fred finally swore his way to sleep on the living room sofa. “Fuck you, you stinky bitch!”
Releasing Helene to have a nightcap of gin and brandy, and a tortured sleep.
9
Helene woke him up with a sour expression on her face. “That woman is here again. Couldn’t she wait until people got up before she started visiting? It’s only 7.30 A.M. and we didn’t get in bed ’til late.”
Kiss my motherfuckin’ ass, Helene; I don’t have to be a genius-psychologist to see where you’re coming from. After somebody had ragged my ass the way you got ragged last night, you’re looking around for a chance to brush some of that shit off your head.
He ignored Helene’s ill-tempered remarks and pulled Elena into his room.
“Hi baby; I’m glad to see you.”
“I thought you would be. Put some clothes on; we’re going for a ride.”
Thursday. One more day ’til kick-off.…
“Shit, I didn’t know you had a new car.”
“There are many things you don’t know about me. Bop,” she said, sounding mysterious.
“Hey, you got that right, lady.”
Funny little car with wood paneling on the doors, looked like somebody had made it by hand. Minor 1000, whatever that was. English.
He was stunned to see the road they were on, how much it resembled the road in his nightmare. If I see a red stripe I’m jumping out of here.
“We’re going to Larteh, to my mother’s ancestral town. Some people might call it a village, but I think it’s a town. And we will visit the shrine of Akonodi to ask Okomfohene Nana Oparebea for her blessings.”
He studied her profile. Damn, this is a fine sister, but she’s crazy as a Betsy-bug.
“We gonna do what?”
“Don’t worry. It’ll all be painless. And then I thought we could have lunch at Tamara’s and spend the night and return in the morning.”
“You got it all mapped out, huh?”
“Yes.”
She was fun to travel with. She told weird little stories. “There were three men on a bridge; all of them fell into the river and one of them came out of the water without getting his hair wet. Which one was that?”
“Damned if I know.”
“The bald one.”
“Oh, I see, said the blind man.”
They took wayward turns off the main road to stare at mud-walled hamlets. “Our people need better housing, better feed, more medical facilities, a manufacturing capability.”
“Sounds like you need a whole bunch of things.”
They paused to buy sugar cane, had it cut into edible lengths, and sped off, spitting the residue of the juicy stalks onto the road.
She was a regular. He liked the way she ignored the sap from the cane running down her chin.
“We must get some watermelon; I love watermelon in the countryside.”
They found a watermelon stand three miles up the road, purchased slices, and spat seeds as the journey continued.
Ten A.M. The sun and the hum of the motor had lulled them into a quiet place. They passed people on the roadside carrying logs on their heads.
“Elena, did you see that? That woman carrying a tree trunk on her head.”
“Oh! That’s the way they carry things here.”
“I know that, baby, but a tree trunk?!”
The Ghanaian countryside didn’t seem receptive to the idea of picnicking. Or lovemaking. The roadsides were dense and hostile-looking to him. It wasn’t the first time he had been in the countryside, and once again he asked himself: Could I live out here, in this?
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“Yes, beautiful.”
He looked at her thighs through the thin fabric of her dress, the way the muscles rippled as she worked the clutch and the gas pedal. He felt tempted to simply ask her point blank.… Elena, do you have AIDS? Have you had sex with anybody else over the last ten years who may have had AIDS?
She placed her right hand on his left thigh and canceled out all questions.
“I think I’m going to miss you, Bop.”
“You better.”
Larteh came at the end of a curve in the road. Suddenly, after a gentle winding around a few hills, they were on the main street.
“Larteh is simple. If you’re going uphill, you’re going into town; if you’re going downhill, you’re going out of town.”
She drove uphill through the clots of people, exchanging greetings and comments with people.
“Looks like you know everybody in town.”
“Just about; this is where I spent my earliest years.”
They came to the end of the street and she parked in a vacant lot, an imposing house with a stone porch on one side and a church on the other side.
“Well, here we are.”
“Well, where are we?”
“This is the home of the chief, my mother’s senior brother. He isn’t here now; he has a business in London, but my uncle Bobby should be here.”
“Your mother’s brother is a chief?”
“Yes.”
The girl is full of surprises. A chief.… Wowww. Then she must be a princess or something.
“Let’s sit here for a few minutes.”
They occupied seats on the porch, and within minutes a young man came with a pitcher of ice water and two glasses. “You are welcome,” he murmured and padded away.
You are welcome. They didn’t say, “Welcome,” or, “Glad you came,” or anything like that. They always
said, “You are welcome.”
“Elena, why do people always say, ‘You are welcome?’”
She looked puzzled for a few beats and pushed her glasses up on her nose in a characteristic gesture.
“You are welcome. That’s what that means.”
“Thanks, sweet thang; you’ve just explained the whole thing.”
“You are welcome.”
She clearly understood his frame of reference and she mocked him for it. You are welcome.
A wild-looking dark-skinned man with bloodshot eyes and an expensive piece of cloth swathing his potbellied body staggered around the corner of the porch.
“Elena!”
“Uncle Bobby!”
And from that point on Bop felt himself in an undertow of liquid Ga for a few minutes. He was beginning to like the flow of the sound. It seemed that people were playing musical mouths with each other. Before she stopped speaking, the other was responding, or maybe, he reasoned, it just seemed to sound that way to his ears.
“Clydee Johnson, this is my Uncle Bobby Adjei Danquah.”
They shook hands and did the finger snap and took careful measure of each other. Bop liked Uncle Bobby right off. He liked the way he straightened his cloth on his shoulder and threw lascivious glances at the full-hipped women walking past.
This motherfucker is a player. Elena took note of what he was noticing and telegraphed a shy smile in his direction: Yes, he’s all the things he seems to be.
“Elena, have you taken him inside the palace?”
The palace? What the hell is he talking about?
“No, uncle, we were waiting for you.”
“Oh!”
He stuck his hand out to Bop like an American politician asking for votes. Elena had to race to keep up.
“I introduced you already, uncle.”
“Well, so what? It never hurts to meet good people coming and going. I am called Bobby Adjei Danquah.”
“And I am called Clyde Bop Johnson.”
The uncle was slightly tipsy but obviously in control of his scene. He herded them through the door, opened another door, and pushed them into a room that was as spacious as an auditorium. Bop estimated it to be as large as a football field, about fifty yards across and a hundred yards from end to end, with plush sofas surrounding the edges.
Damn, this is a palace.
“Sit! Sit! Sit!”
Uncle Bobby was all over the place, ushering them to seats near the door.
“The chief is gone. Official business. Clyde, will you take something?”
“Uh huh.”
Bop had learned not to refuse anything. It was always easy to ignore it, once you got it. The important thing was to get it.
Elena settled back on the sofa, looking amused as Clyde Bop Johnson, a Brick, dealt with Uncle Bobby Adjei Danquah’s effervescence.
Uncle Bobby clapped his hands twice and the same young man who had brought them water on the porch appeared.
“Bring us the gin!” Uncle Bobby commanded. He turned to Elena and spoke rapidly in Ga. And turned back to Bop. “I told her she should come home more often; Accra is no place for a young woman. Now then, you are here to pay your respects to Nana, eh?”
“Eh? Uhh, yeah, we’re here.…”
“Good. Ahhh, the gin.”
Uncle Bobby gave him the impression of a man in constant motion; he gestured, he rearranged his beautifully woven cloth over his left shoulder, he squirmed, he talked, he drank.
“To the good life,” he toasted, holding his tulip-shaped wineglass full of gin up to the light. Bop matched him with his glass; Elena took a timid sip.
Once again, Uncle Bobby turned to her and spoke in Ga. He turned back to Bop for the translation. “I told her to go visit the family house. We will meet her there later.”
“Uncle, we are here to see the Okomfohene Nana Oparebea.…”
“I know. I know. And you shall meet her this afternoon. A group of African Americans are going to meet with her this afternoon at three o’clock.”
“Did you say African Americans?”
Uncle Bobby took a swallow of gin and laughed. “Yes, your people, OK?”
“Yeah, I’d like to see them.”
Beefeater, a quart bottle, it shot straight to the top of his head. He was high after a half glass. Uncle Bobby whipped another dollop into his glass.
Elena was smiling at the scene. Uncle Bobby stood up suddenly, pouring the contents of his glass down his throat in the same motion. “Come, Bop. We’ll go to meet my friends.” Once again he herded them out. Bop felt like a schoolboy.
“Elena, can you find the family house?”
“Yes, uncle, I can find it.”
“Good. Go there. We will come to collect you at (Bop noted Uncle Bobby’s study of his watch) 2:30 P.M.”
“Yes, uncle. Do you want me to drive you to where you’re going?”
“No, it isn’t far; we’ll walk. Walking keeps me fit.”
Bop was surprised to notice how meek Elena had become. When her uncle spoke she almost bowed.
“Come with me, Bop.”
Bop got the impression no one had refused to do anything Uncle Bobby wanted them to do in a long time. Elena sprinkled her fingers at him, as though to say, “Good luck, pal.”
“See you later, Bop.”
“Yeah, see you later.”
Suddenly he was torn from his lady’s side and was trailing in Uncle Bobby’s wake. The man didn’t walk, he sailed down the street. Bop felt lost, watching Elena drive past them.
Uncle Bobby reached back and clamped his heavy arm around Bop’s shoulders.
“We are men. Do you have a thousand cedis?”
Bop began to nag Uncle Bobby at 2:15 P.M. “Uhh, Uncle Bobby, it’s 2:15; I think we oughta be picking Elena up, you know, for our meeting with the No Na.”
“There’s time; cheers! Don’t worry.”
By 2:15 P.M., Bop felt that he knew every bar in Larteh. Uncle Bobby was well known and obviously an important man. He opened up paths through groups of people by pushing people aside. When he spoke, everyone paid close attention. And he could drink. Bop had to give him that. After the Beefeater at the palace, he had watched him down a Guinness stout in three swallows, share a glass of Club beer in the Zanzibar, drink a double tot of gin (local) in the Sugar Cane Club, and now, at 2:30 P.M., in the place called Mery’s Bar, he was sharing a double tot of gin and brandy mixed with a group of men who closely resembled him in age and behavior.
These brothers act like they own the world. It was a new experience to see gray-haired men with potbellies act so boldly. He could only contrast/compare their attitudes with the men their age in L.A., who went around with low profile, seeming to beg with every gesture to be left alone.
How many times had he heard some middle-aged man say, when he was a Brick, “I don’t want any trouble.” These men weren’t concerned about anything like that. They gave orders to younger men and, drunk, with their “togas” drawn up, walked through the streets like lords. He was impressed.
“Uhhh, Uncle Bobby, I don’t wanna bug you or anything, but remember we promised Elena we’d pick her up. Remember?”
Bop was finally able to persuade him to leave at three P.M. after having spent four thousand cedis. Yeah, the brother could sip well.
Elena didn’t seem surprised to see them late and tipsy. “I didn’t expect you ’til later.”
“But I thought we was s’posed to be at the shrine place at three o’clock.”
“Bop, how long have you been in Ghana?”
After quickie introductions to a succession of smiling female faces and limp handshakes, they were once again trailing Uncle Bobby back up the street to the Shrine of Akonodi.
“Elena, who were those women?”
“My mother’s sisters, Uncle Bobby’s wives.…”
“Wives?”
“Yes.”
“Which ones were the wives?”
“Christina, Mercy, Grace, and Rosema
rie.”
“He’s got four wives?!”
“He had six; two of them died.”
Bop stared at the glittering figure striding up the street in front of them, exchanging greetings and glad-handing colleagues. Wowwwwww.…
Up the street to a blackboard sign: “African Traditional Religion, Okomfohene Nana Oparebea, Life President of Traditional Psychic and Healing Association of Ghana.”
The path veered off to the right, a rock-strewn path that seemed to trickle down to a natural amphitheater. The drums grabbed him halfway down the hill. The drumming sounded like a giant heartbeat to him, with little rattles going on between time.
Uncle Bobby gave him a long, mysterious look as they came off the path onto a paved terrace. Bop felt like he had wandered onto a movie set. Nothing seemed real.
There were three terrace levels, and sheep were being slaughtered on each level. People were busily going back and forth, doing whatever. And flush in the middle of it, against a far wall, a small, dark, wrinkled woman sat on an elaborately carved stool, her head held in her right hand, looking seriously interested and bored at the same time.
Elena whispered into Bop’s ear, “That is Okomfohene Nana Oparebea; they say that she was the force behind Nkrumah.”
N-krumah N-krumah N-krumah what? Bop drew a blank for a few beats. Nkrumah? Chester had thrown the name at him half a dozen times.
“Nkrumah was a visionary dude. He was coming off with stuff about a United States of Africa; you know the CIA had to figure out a way to snuff him out.”
Everything seemed to be happening at the same time. People were talking to Okomfohene, sheep were being bled, the drummers were drumming, and suddenly it all stopped.
“Where are the brothers and sisters from the states?” Bop whispered to Elena; she relayed the question to her uncle, who pulled an important looking, baldheaded man with dreamy eyes over to one side to repeat the question.
The answer was simple: “They are not here.”
Bop had to smile. Ghanaians could come up with the funniest shit. I can see they ain’t here; where are they?
He decided to table the question and go with the flow. Uncle Bobby and the baldheaded man had their heads together. The baldheaded man turned from his head-to-head conference a couple of times to stare at Bop.
