No, Mama, I’m not depressed, but thank you for asking Mrs. Mensah to check in on me. It’s just that I need to get back together with Jamila, who broke her foot and her ankle and is mad at me because of a bunch of stuff that happened. Mainly, she thinks I’m choosing Michelle over her. That’s not true but that’s how she feels. Like she’s been abandoned. I know that’s not a good feeling because that’s how I felt at the beginning of the summer.
So far this sounds like a “disturbing message” and, Daddy, I know how you feel about that, but keep reading. It isn’t.
I spent the whole night thinking about all this and I’m going to use all my power to make Jamila happy on Sunday. I know a way to do that and to do what Nana says is important, to contribute to the community, at the same time.
I send this message to Mama and Daddy first thing Saturday morning. Mama responds right away.
I trust you to do the right thing, Neva. You’ll know what that is.
n. 1. an intense feeling of deep affection 2. a great interest and pleasure in something: We share a love of music. 3. a person or thing that one loves
I’m sitting on our back steps with my dictionary in my lap admiring all the pretty things in our yard. The blue spruce that separates Mr. Charles’s house from ours, the little purple blossoms on their slender green stems in Nana’s lavender patch, the bright red geraniums in the clay pot on the picnic table. I need these things to help me find the right words to tell Jamila how I feel about her. Words that will make her smile like she did when her daddy tickled her.
Most folks don’t read the dictionary but I do. I thumb through the pages hoping my eyes will land on the magic words. But they’re not here. Maybe I won’t find the words I need in a dictionary. Well, what about the song I sang to Mama? Um … no. Those words aren’t right either.
My mind keeps going back to how Jamila looked in her daddy’s arms. Her paapa. Joyful … with her paapa … That’s it. Maybe it’s not English words I need. The way to Jamila’s heart is through Twi, her daddy’s language.
I race back into the house and up to my room to put my dictionary back in its place and grab my phone to search for Twi phrases. A bunch of language videos pop up, and lucky for me how to say “I love you” is not hard to find. I just hope these words are right ’cause I’m sure going to look bad if they’re not.
Mafe wo (I’ve missed you)
I send the message to Jamila and sit on my bed, cross-legged, hoping for an answer.
Saa? Me nso mafe wo
It takes me a few minutes to translate what she wrote.
(Really? I’ve missed you too)
She’s missed me too? I jump up and prance around my room before sending her another phrase.
Mehia wo (I need you)
Jamila types back.
Me nso mehia wo (I also need you)
I respond as soon as I’ve had a minute to translate.
Medɔ wo (I love you) I’ll be right over!!!!!
I tear out of my room and fly down the front stairs with one hand on the banister and my other hand on the wall. The Twi word for love has a letter I never saw before, ɔ. It looks like an inverted c. I jump down the last three stairs in one leap, wondering how you pronounce it. With an aw sound?
“Where’s the fire?” asks Granddad. He’s got stains on his T-shirt and this time they just may be from cooking.
“Jamila misses me.” I grab a bagel from the platter in the center of the table. “Can I go see her?”
“Don’t you think it’s too—” Granddad starts to say, but Nana gives him a look. She can probably tell it would be too hard for me to sit still at the table.
I grab a handful of raspberries on my way through the garden and pop one in my mouth to make sure they’re still ripe. The juice explodes in my mouth like fireworks.
n. the action of anticipating something; expectation or prediction: Her eyes sparkled with anticipation.
I’m not bragging on myself but texting Jamila in Twi was a great idea. Not just great. It was, what? I search through my brain for the best word I can think of. Stupendous. That’s it.
Stupendous: extremely impressive
I know because Jamila’s mama mouths a silent thank you when I step into their backyard.
“I didn’t know you were a budding linguist,” Mr. Mensah says, stepping back from his canvas.
“Your alphabet has some letters we don’t have in English,” I say, suppressing a grin and turning to look at his painting. It’s a new one of his home country. This one has Jamila right in the middle of it.
“Just wait until you see it, ooh. We’re bringing Mother Ghana to us since we cannot go to Her.” Mr. Mensah gazes at his painting for a few seconds and smiles. “Yes, Twi and English both have the vowels a, e, i, o, and u, but Twi has two more vowels: 3 and ɔ. 3 sounds like eh, and ɔ sounds like aw.
“Maybe next year,” says Mrs. Mensah, getting up from her chair and offering it to me. “Another year will give us more time to dream about it.”
“Anticipation,” I say.
“Yes,” she says, smiling. “One of my favorite things.”
Jamila sits at the little café table with her cast leg up on a chair just like the other day, but she breaks into a grin when I hand her the fruit I brought from our garden.
“You still have raspberries?” she says. “Clay hasn’t eaten them all?”
“I saved these for you,” I fib, but I know it’s okay.
Jamila pops a few raspberries into her mouth and her eyes light up. She fakes a big swoon and clutches her neck like there’s a big choker there or something. “Divine,” she says, grinning. “That’s something you would say.”
“Come inside,” Mrs. Mensah says, laughing and gesturing to her husband. “Let’s give them a chance to catch up.”
Jamila and I are quiet for a few seconds before she brings up the subject we’re both a little afraid to talk about.
“So, you’re going to march tomorrow?”
“No … everything got sort of complicated so I decided not to.”
“Won’t Michelle miss you?”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But we’re not really that close. Not like us.”
Jamila lowers her head but I can still see the dimple in her right cheek.
“Well, everybody says she’s doing good stuff. My paapa was talking about her last night.”
“In a nice way, I hope.” Jamila frowns and I tell her how Granddad and Nana didn’t like Michelle at first.
“She’s not bad,” she says. “She just has a different style, that’s all. And, you know, I’ve been wondering about all the political stuff. Everything that’s going on around here.”
“Me too,” I say. “The meeting I went to was something.”
I tell Jamila about the feeling of electricity that jumped from person to person.
“You’re sure you want to miss that?”
“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging and looking down at my feet.
“Better think about it some more,” she says. “I mean, I would go if I could.”
“I don’t know. I don’t understand everything like Michelle—”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” says Jamila, opening her eyes real wide. “Do what you always do.” She sits up straight in her chair and pantomimes paging through an imaginary dictionary. “Look it up.”
“I hope I don’t look like that,” I say, laughing along with her.
She licks her index finger and turns a few more imaginary pages.
“For real, girl. This is you.”
adj. 1. having life, living, existing 2. full of energy and spirit; lively: Grandma’s more alive than many people half her age.
The March for Justice begins at twelve noon but Clay’s been jumping around our house since eight this morning. He has the day off from the swim club but I think he should maybe do a few laps in the pool just to calm down.
Michelle took Clay’s advice and replaced me with Anton on the front line, which i
s a very smart move if you ask me. She didn’t, but that’s okay. I have my own special plan for today.
“We should all stay together,” says Granddad. “Clay, Anton, no messing around. You hear me?”
I slip out of the living room and sit on the porch in the rattan love seat with Nana. She has her eyes closed but her face tells me she’s enjoying the fragrances wafting up from the garden when Mr. Mensah’s Volvo pulls up in front of our house. Right on time.
Mr. Mensah gets out and hurries around the car to open the curbside door for Jamila. Her cast is the thing that pops out first, painted with Ghanaian and American flags. She leans out of the car and waves before wrapping her arms around her daddy’s neck so he can lift her out of the car.
“Sorry I can’t get in the dirt today,” she says to Nana. She’s followed out of the car by the rest of the Mensah family—her mama, holding her baby brother, and her auntie.
That’s Mr. Charles’s cue to retrieve the supplies we hid at his house yesterday night. A big aluminum tub, ice, bottles of water, and lots and lots of iced tea. It was Mr. Mensah’s idea to chill the tea in red, gold, and green plastic pitchers. The colors of the Ghanaian flag.
Mr. Charles gets things set up just in time to hand bottles of water to five people walking down the street carrying signs but then I’m surprised by something Jamila’s auntie does.
She clears her throat and stands right next to me. “My brother has told me something very nice about you,” she says, nodding at Jamila’s daddy. “We were all so sad that our trip had to be canceled but you found a way to bring us all together and, most importantly, to put a smile back on my niece’s face.”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” says Mr. Mensah. He darts back to his car and pulls a boom box from the back seat. “Eh! Music!” he says, holding the box high over his head like he’s crossing a river and doesn’t want it to get wet. “We’ll send the marchers off on just the right beat.”
He turns the music on and the drums and horns of highlife send a jolt of electricity through every single one of us. It’s hard not to move, but who would want to stand still?
Nana and Jamila sway together on the love seat and I feel the energy coming off them. Is this what Mama feels when she’s onstage? I tap my feet and start to sway, soaking up all the good feelings swirling around our porch.
“Go ahead,” says Mrs. Mensah, clapping her baby’s hands together.
Mama said I’d know what to do and she was right. I throw my head back and let myself go all silly and loose and free.
“Baby Girl sure can dance,” says Granddad.
“It’s called prancing, Granddad,” says Clay. “P-R-A-N-C-I-N-G.”
Prancing: dancing or moving in a lively or spirited manner; capering
I step down from the porch and weave my way through our garden. My eyes land on the brilliant red raspberries hanging now in full clusters. I scoop up a handful as I glide along the paving stones to the sidewalk. My brother is the first one off the porch to join me.
My girl Jamila showed me how I look with my nose in a dictionary: a little bit nerdy, a little bit funny, a whole lot of just being who I am. Okay, I own it. Here are some of my favorite (and not-so-favorite) words. They’re not in alphabetical order. I just went through my story from start to finish and pulled stuff out.
LINGERIE is women’s fancy underwear and pajamas. From what I can tell, lingerie seems to be lacy and frilly and sort of expensive, but it’s just another style of underwear. You know, like sports bras are a separate style.
TROLLEYS is short for trolley cars. We still have them in parts of West Philly. They’re basically buses with an electric motor that draws power from overhead wires. They used to be a lot noisier than they are now. Instead of making a clanking sound, these days they sort of “whoosh” when they go by.
A FRAGRANCE is a perfume or aftershave. (Yes, guys use fragrances too.) I think everybody already has their own natural fragrance. That’s enough for me.
NEWSY is a Philly thing. It means nosy or nosey, however you want to spell it. It’s how you describe somebody who should mind their own business.
To MARVEL means to be filled with wonder or astonishment. For example, some people don’t think clothes hanging outside to dry looks nice, but I marvel at how our jeans, and tops, and towels dance in the breeze when they’re on the clothesline in our backyard. It’s better for the environment when you don’t use a dryer, and it makes the clothes smell really, really good.
CLOTHESPINS are wooden or plastic clips used to fasten clothes to a clothesline. And down in Center City, there’s a forty-five-foot-tall steel sculpture of a giant clothespin across the street from City Hall. It’s a Philly landmark.
MURALS, paintings on sides of buildings, are big in Philly too. I mean, Philly has thousands of them. They’re called “wall art,” and they look really cool.
EROSION is a process where the surface of the Earth gets worn down. It can be caused by things like wind and rain. Sinkholes are caused by water erosion.
A CRISIS can be any really bad or dramatic event. Of course, some crises are more important than others, but for me, not being able to get my ring unstuck from my hair was a crisis, especially when it happened in front of my friend’s mama. So embarrassing.
Don’t be surprised if you’re asked to sign a PETITION at some point. It’s usually a written request signed by a lot of folks asking people in charge of a certain situation for something. For example, you might want to petition your town to add a stop sign at a busy intersection.
A DASHIKI is a big, colorful, loose shirt, originally from West Africa.
SWITCHING is an old-school word. It refers to women walking in a show-offy kind of way. I asked Nana if there was a word for men walking to show off. Her answer: “strolling.”
A COMMOTION is a big old confused mess. Think of a food fight in the school cafeteria. That’s a commotion.
The VESTIBULE is the part of our house between the front door and the living room. It’s like a short hallway that you can walk through in four or five steps.
DE´COLLETAGE is a French word. At first I thought it just referred to a low neckline, but it describes a dress or blouse cut low in the back or across the shoulders too.
Clay wore a TOGA when he was in a play about ancient Rome. A toga is a loose piece of cloth that a man wears over a tunic. It covers the whole body except the right arm. You probably won’t see anybody wearing one these days unless they’re in a movie or something.
A REBEL is a person who resists authority, control, or tradition. There are lots of ways to stand up for what’s important to you. One is to write and circulate a petition.
It’s not always bad to be HARDHEADED. It means to be practical and realistic.
Here’s another Philly thing: We love WATER ICE in the summertime. It’s frozen and made from water, sugar, and fruit flavoring. It’s close to sorbet but softer.
A STILETTO is a kind of woman’s shoe with a thin, really high heel.
It’s not nice to call somebody a LIGHTWEIGHT. It means they’re not important or don’t know their stuff.
WHAT YOU NO GOOD? One of Granddad’s sayings. It means “what have you been up to?”
MIGRAINE. This is my least favorite word in the entire world. A migraine is a really bad headache. Not only does your head throb like a marching band is performing inside it, but when I get a migraine, I also can’t stand light or the smell of food. And sometimes the headache can last for more than one day. Not fun.
A SERENADE is music or a song usually played outside under the window of someone you love. Okay, I serenaded Mama by phone, but that’s only because she was so far away.
LINGUIST. This is probably what I should be when I grow up. A linguist studies the structure, use, and psychology of language. Some linguists speak many languages and work as language teachers or as interpreters at the United Nations. But linguists also study things like how languages change over time and how language is learned by children.
This book would not have come into being without the inspiration from my brothers. They helped shape the seed of the story without even knowing it. I’m also grateful to my rock star literary family, editor Andrea Davis Pinkney and agent Miriam Altshuler, who kept me on the path.
There are also friends who provided much needed support, Steve Sadoski and especially Zusong Tindana.
And above all else, my husband, Rob, who has always believed in me.
Christine Kendall’s short fiction has appeared in numerous literary journals. Her debut novel, Riding Chance, was nominated for an NAACP Image Award in the category of Outstanding Literary Work for Youth/Teens. Christine lives in Philadelphia, PA, where she cocurates and hosts the award-winning reading series, Creative at the Cannery.
Copyright © 2020 by Christine Kendall
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
First edition, September 2020
Cover design by Maeve Norton
Cover art © 2020 by Pat Cummings
e-ISBN 978-1-338-32493-8
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The True Definition of Neva Beane Page 12
