Midnight

by Odie Hawkins

  Uncle Bobby gestured for them to come to him and the baldheaded man.

  “Would you like to receive Nana’s blessings?”

  “Huh?”

  “Yes, we would,” Elena answered for them.

  “Did you bring schnapps?” The baldheaded man asked.

  “Yes,” Elena answered again.

  “Come,” the baldheaded man said and led them to seats a few yards to the left of the Life President of the Traditional Psychic and Healing Association of Ghana.

  Bop’s mouth felt dry and, after all the sipping of the afternoon, he felt completely sober. He made an oblique study of the old woman seated on the throne-stool. She must be older than dirt.

  He had never seen anyone who looked so completely old and wise. He felt a vibe that told him that she knew he was looking at her. Weird feeling. She didn’t turn her head and make any effort to have eye-to-eye contact with him, but he knew that she knew he was checking her out.

  Bop felt his stomach rolling around. Damn, I hope I ain ’t got diarrhea. And some bright spots danced in front of his eyes. Oh shit! Malaria.…

  “You have the schnapps?” The baldheaded man was standing in front of them.

  Elena reached into her purse and pulled out a green bottle labeled “Henkes.” Bop felt like he was on the edge of something but couldn’t fall off. He was afraid, but he couldn’t place a label on what he was afraid of.

  What ’re they going to do to me?

  Uncle Bobby was seated two chairs away, chatting with a distinguished looking gray-haired man in a dashiki. Things had a strange blend; they were quite casual, but at the same time he felt something different happening to him.

  The baldheaded man suddenly called to him to come and kneel before the Okomfohene.

  “Huh? Who? Me?”

  The man called to him again with his hand and one silent word, “Ba.” Elena pushed him out of his seat.

  The man said some words to the old woman and asked Bop to kneel in front of her. Bop knelt and when he looked into the old woman’s eyes he felt like a piece of glass. The old woman stared through him, he could feel that, but as he focused, adjusted his eyes to meet hers, he could see scenes. He saw himself playing in a vacant lot in Chicago. He could see the green paths that bordered Lake Michigan, pleasant scenes of people having picnics, family dinners during holiday times. Chicago. Shit, I ain’t thought about Chicago in a long time.

  The slide suddenly slipped to California. He could see himself driving through the San Bernardino Mountains into Crestline, thirty thousand dollars in a gym bag, Justine sleeping in the back seat.

  Justine again. After a January weekend at the Kannas Hotel, leaving Crestline with two inches of fresh mountain snow on the hood of the car, down to three days at the Santa Monica Hotel, snow melting all the way.

  “Please, please, return to your seat.” The baldheaded man was speaking to him and the old woman was smiling oh so sweetly. He wished that he could remain kneeling in front of her a bit longer.

  He returned to his seat beside Elena, unable to speak about what he had just experienced. A couple of minutes later, as he was beginning to sort it out, the baldheaded man stood before him with a shot glass and the bottle of schnapps. He poured a full tot and Bop drank it, remembering to pour the last drop on the ground. My Dew Drop Inn training.

  A few minutes later the okyeame (the baldheaded man) was signaling for him and Elena to come and kneel before the Okomfohene again.

  Bop was surprised to feel Uncle Bobby kneel behind them. The baldheaded man asked, “And is this your wife?”

  Bop made a numb nod, no.

  “Are you going to marry this woman?”

  It was Uncle Bobby behind them asking the question.

  “I don’t know,” Bop answered as honestly as he felt.

  “Where is your life going?” the old woman asked, with the baldheaded man translating.

  Bop stared at her and felt like crying.…

  “You tell me, sister, you tell me.…”

  The old woman smiled at him, took the green bottle, and poured some of the liquor on the ground in front of their knees and turned her vision back inwards.

  The baldheaded man and Uncle Bobby shepherded them back to their seats. Bop felt like he had had some terrible shit mashed out of his soul.

  Tamara’s. They sat at a choice table in this overpriced hotel restaurant, overlooking the valley that led to Larteh. The food was delicious and overpriced, the beer was too cold and overpriced, but the view into the valley was gorgeous and their vibes were honed to a fine edge.

  “Elena, what do you think about this afternoon?”

  “I grew up in Larteh, remember?”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means that I’ve been in the Okomfohene’s presence many times.”

  “Oh.”

  There was so little to say and so much understood in Africa. Bop felt older, more mature. This scene wasn’t about uzis, dope, flashy craziness; it was about how deep you could get. Chester had warned him.

  “They’ll be peeling layers back on your ass in Africa, Bop. I’m not bullshittin’ you. You’ll come across shit that will have you frowning or smiling for years, if that’s where you think you want to go. In Ghana, for example, the West African country with the friendliest, most gracious people on the continent, everybody lies. Why?

  “You hear what I’m saying? Everybody lies! I don’t even know if they know they’re lying or not. It’s like a part of the national character. A taxi driver will say, ‘I’ll collect you at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.’ You may never see him again. You can make a date with a woman for Friday, May whatever, and not see her ’til the following May. People will come up to you and lie when they don’t have to lie. ‘Oh, you’re looking for a flat? My brother will rent you a flat tomorrow.’ You may never see that person again. And on and on and on.…

  “I’ve never been able to figure out what it is. Maybe it’s a reaction to the kind of truth they were forced to come to grips with when the English ran their asses. I don’t know. The shit is deep.”

  Some European tourists had had a few too many beers and were starting to become obnoxious. Bop and Elena exchanged coded looks. It was time to go to bed.

  Friday. The car hummed along.

  “This your car?”

  “Oh no, this is my cousin’s car. She loaned it to me.”

  “Oh.”

  Sugarcane juice running down her chin, watermelon seeds, Larteh, Uncle Bobby, the Okomfohene Nana Oparebea, Tamara’s, the look into the valley.

  “Just …, Elena?”

  “Yes?”

  The green countryside seemed to promise something if you could stand still long enough for it to curl around you.

  “Elena, pull over for a minute; stop the car.”

  “You have to urinate?”

  “No, I have to tell you something.”

  She slowed down and killed the engine on a track off the road. She turned to him with a blank look on her face. “Yes?”

  Ghana was so quiet. No crickets, no birds chirping, no lions roaring.…

  “Look, I think I love you. OK?”

  “OK.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, what’re we going to do about it?”

  Elena shook her head from side to side for a few beats, as though she were trying to ward off a persistent fly. Or a headache.

  “I’m not going to do anything. There’s nothing I can do. You’re boarding a British Airways flight to U.K. tomorrow and from there to Los Angeles. Correct?”

  “Yeahh, that’s true, but I’m telling you I love you.”

  He was horrified to see the look of the old woman suddenly appear behind her glasses … when she turned to face him. And fascinated.

  “Bop, let me tell you something. I’ve thought a lot about this. The African woman has been the most loved woman in the world. And the most abandoned. Do you understand what I’m saying?�
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  Bop looked far off at a distant tree and thought about something to say; nothing registered. He nodded no.

  “I can’t take you back to the beginning of time or anything like that. Let’s start at the fifteenth century.”

  “The fifteenth century?” She was beginning to sound like Chester.

  “Yes. The fifteenth century. The Portuguese came and they fell in love with us, with the African woman.”

  “Oh yeahh, I see where you comin’ from.”

  “The French fell in love with us, the English, the Dutch, the Germans, the Danes, the Lebanese …, the African Americans, and you’ve all left us.”

  Bop stared at Elena’s face. No, it wasn’t the face of the old woman; it was Elena’s face and she was trying to explain something to him.

  “Uhhh, so, you say all that to say what?”

  “I’m saying all that to say that I don’t think it’s incredible that you are in love with me, the African woman.”

  “Wait a minute, what’s that mean?”

  “Does it mean that you’re going to stay here in Ghana with me or go back to where you came from?”

  “My visa is up, baby.”

  “I understand.”

  She started the car and drove on.

  He had to endure Friday night in order to get to Saturday. Fred went into a special brand of narcissistic mysticism that forced him to strip buck naked and roam through the house with a bouquet of burning sage, screaming out Club beer chants.

  “Woogie Woogie Boogie Choogies, Chobbbie Woogie.…”

  Bop lay in bed, amused rather than suffering from the incantations and silliness. It would do this brother a lot of good, I think, to take a trip to the Shrine.

  Fred finally collapsed at two A.M., and Helene blessed his naked frame with a blanket on the living room sofa. They don’t have anything to do with each other. Maybe that’s what the problem is. Maybe they ought to try a little sexin’ ’n shit. But who am I to talk? I’m leaving.

  He got up slowly, determined to follow a routine, no matter what. He was beginning to see some value in having a routine. Push-ups. Brush your teeth. Walk over to the soccer field for a little workout, back home for a shower.

  The Vernons were early risers, but he really couldn’t figure out why they got up so early. Maybe it was to turn the air blue with cigarette smoke and bad vibes. They both smoked and he was reminded one evening, after they had gone through two packs each, of something that Justine had once said: “Kissing a man who smokes is like licking an ashtray.”

  Justine.

  People began to filter in about elevenish. He was pleasantly surprised.…

  “Thought we’d throw a little beer bash for your ass.”

  Fred amazed him. He could get completely out of it at night and then stroll around the next day as though nothing had happened. The people wandering in were the ones who had popped in while the Vernons were up north and a few faces he hadn’t seen before.

  He was surprised to see the fine brown-skinned sister he had clowned with at the embassy. “Hope you make it back; take it easy.”

  She moved fast, shot quickly, and took no prisoners. Fast sister. Nice gathering. People strolled around with bottles of beer in hand or something harder, paused to chat with him.

  “Hope you’ll have good things to say about us Ghanaians.”

  “Oh yeahhh, lots of good things.”

  He felt like a celebrity. Elena blinded him with her appearance.

  “Heyyy, Elena, I’m glad you came. I didn’t know if you was gonna see me off at the airport or what.”

  She looked uncomfortable. “I’m not going to the airport with you; I’m not good at departure scenes. Here, I have a present for you.” She took a kente cloth scarf from her purse and draped it around his neck. “This is the real kente. I want you to remember me.”

  They wedged themselves through what had become a house full of partygoers. Fred was progressing toward drunken hostility. They stood outside the gate beside her car.

  “Cousin let you use the ride again, huh?”

  “Only to visit you. I have to return it within the hour.”

  An hour. No time to go anywhere, to do anything. He felt awkward and frustrated. “Can we sit in the car a minute?”

  They sat there, watching the women with loaded trays on their heads walk past. Little boys kicking a deflated soccer ball, girls playing the hop-clap game in the cluttered lot across the street.

  Saturday in the Osu ’hood. No drive-by shootings, no graffiti on the mud-crusted walls, no screeching cars twisting around corners, no John Wayne policemen, just people hustling to survive.

  “Elena, look, I’ve really had a good time with you, OK?”

  “Yes please.”

  Were those tears running down her cheeks? Wowwww.… What’s going on here?

  “Heyyy, what’s the matter? You OK?”

  “Yes, I’m OK.”

  He patted her hand. What else was there to say?

  “Look, I told you I loved you yesterday. I meant that.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Yeahh, it’s true. I do love you.”

  “Bap, I love you also, I think.”

  It was becoming too complicated for him. What now? I’ve told her I love her and now she’s telling me she loves me too. What now?

  “Elena, look, let’s stay in touch, OK? You have to give me an address or something so that I can write you.”

  She dug into her purse and handed him a card with her name and a post office box number printed on it. “You can write me here.”

  “OK, I will.”

  “I must go now.”

  “Gimme a kiss.”

  She leaned over and gave him a dry peck on the lips. Well, what could you expect? You’re leaving. He got out of the car and walked around to the driver’s side.

  “I’ll write you as soon as I can, OK?”

  She had taken off her glasses and he could see the tears clearly. Wowwww.…

  “Good-bye, Bap.”

  He stood there for a few minutes, watching her dodge potholes as she drove away. Women are so weird. Just when you think you got a handle on them, they fly off in another direction.

  “Bap, I love you also, I think.”

  Fred was warming up; he could hear his voice snarling higher in a one-man argument with himself. Bop backed away from the gate and began an aimless stroll up the road.

  Let me go check Patience out.

  Patience was working. She was hauling buckets of water to the second floor; she was cleaning, scrubbing, washing, ironing, working. She stopped when she saw him in the back area, on the bench between the big house and the boys’ quarters.

  “Have you chopped?”

  “Yeah, I had a sandwich about an hour ago.”

  She sat beside him on the bench, looking tired but cool. “They are having a party for you but you are here. Why?”

  “How did you know they were having a party for me?”

  “This is Osu.”

  He felt the temptation to ask her if she knew about his departure scene with Elena. Yes, of course, she knew. “This is Osu.”

  For the second time in less than an hour he felt ill-at ease, awkward. Should I tell Patience that I love her too? Nawww, she doesn’t need that. He looked down at her hands folded in her lap.

  Short, stubby fingers, callused. Who was it that said people with stubby fingers were artistic? Somebody.

  “Papa is not about.”

  “Not about what?”

  “He has gone out.”

  “Oh.” And left you to work like a dog ’til he gets back. And then he’s gonna really make you work.

  A rooster crowed in the next yard. The sound of children screaming and playing broke the silence. She took his hand and led him into the boys’ quarters.

  Two hours later, after carefully making love to each other, after a brief sexual catnap and a long conversation.… “Patience, I think I may come back to Ghana.”

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nbsp; “You are welcome.”

  He strolled through the streets, tripping on familiar scenes. A pause for a cold beer in the Dew Drop …, a double tot of gin in the Shalizar.

  “So, you’re going back to America this evening?”

  “Damn, Betty, how did you know?”

  “This is Osu.”

  He found himself strolling through the tree-shaded lanes in the Osu Cemetery, one of his favorite rest spots. He sat on one of the stone slabs—“Here lies Malcolm Quartey, man for all seasons—1935–1989.”

  Here sits Clyde Bop Johnson, twenty-five years old, an original Brick, been shot, beaten, fractured, fucked with, still alive.

  He leaned back and rested his elbows on the cool slab. Accra, Ghana, West Africa. What will I tell the brothers at home about this place? He looked beyond the open gates of the cemetery at the traffic winding around the street in front. Women carrying stuff on their heads. Somebody oughta give these sisters a break. Hot splashes of color flashed beyond the gates, the hubbub of people talking reached his ears in isolated patches.

  Yeah, what can I tell the brothers about this place?

  He stood, brushed his pants off, and slowly made his way back to the dregs of the party.

  “What the fuck is this?! We give you a party and you disappear! What the fuck is this?!” Five o’clock, three more hours to go before I’m free of your sick shit. Helene chatted with three women in a distant corner, trying to pretend she didn’t hear Fred’s voice.

  “Had to go out, Fred, had to say good-bye to a couple of people.”

  “That ain’t no fuckin’ excuse! We give you a party and you disappear! What the fuck is this?!”

  Bop recognized the signs. Fred was in high gear now and nothing would bring him down. He didn’t need a target or encouragement. Bop turned away from him and went to his room.

  “Where the fuck you goin’?!”

  Helene spoke from across the room: “He’s got to pack, Fred. Remember, he’s leaving this evening.”

  “Who the fuck asked you anything?! Huh, I don’t need you to tell me a fuckin’ thing! You understand what I’m sayin’?! I don’t need you to tell me shit!”

  Bop sprawled across the bed on his back and stared up at the ceiling. Going back home to the madness.