Midnight (12 page)

“Ohhh, maybe seventeen meters, maybe twenty meters.”

Bop settled back into the passenger's seat, unable to figure out how far a meter was. Fuck it, it's a nice day. He smiled at the driver; the driver returned his smile.

Chester was right; these are the friendliest motherfuckers in the world
. For the first time in his life he felt no fear of other people or the police.

The thought jolted him as he stared out at the lush, rolling green lands, dotted with huts, half-finished buildings, people walking with loads on their heads.

Always got something on their heads
.

It was a strange feeling, not to fear other people. He glanced at the driver again. In the states I'd have to be on my guard with a dude taking me on a ride this far. And the police, from what he had seen of them, made him think of comic figures in old movies. They stood on crates in the middle of obscure intersections and made single cars screech to a stop. He'd seen a few “hammers” around, but no one who resembled the L.A.P.D.

It was strange to look out at people who looked like him but were doing things he'd never thought of doing. The woman carrying a tree trunk on her head, the little girl with the tray of pineapples stacked in a neat pyramid on her head.

“How far is this place?”

“Not far, not far.”

A long red-colored road, people walking on the edges like shadows, turning to stare at the taxi as though they had never seen a car before. Green fields beyond. The sight of the ocean on his left surprised him, really surprised him, and delighted him.

“Kokrobite,” the driver whispered to him, as he drove through an old-fashioned, hand-operated road barrier. The driver drove into a grove of trees beside four other cars, tilted his head back as though he were already asleep, and pointed a lazy finger at the gravel path.

“This Kokrobite. I will wait here.”

No demand for immediate payment, no bad vibes. The man was half asleep as Bop made his first step up the path leading to the performance area. The drumming accelerated his walk.
What the hell is going on here?

The concrete performance area and the three tiers of audience came into view. The dancers were performing, the drummers were drumming, and everyone was having a good ol' time. He didn't know what to think about all the white people in the audience. There were more whites in the Kokrobite audience than he had seen all week in Osu, Accra.

He made his way to a vacant seat on the left fringe of the audience. The waiter was waiting to serve him the moment he took his place.

“Lemme, have … uhhh … a double cone-gnack.”

He did a slow peripheral pan of the audience. Mostly Europeans, he could tell from the accents, trying to clap their hands in time, silly grins on their faces, happy to be present at a “primitive” scene.

The drummers were hot and the dancers were too cold, but he felt a spark missing. They were doing a performance; it wasn't real.

There was a brief lull before Mustapha and his drum ensemble made their move toward the huge drums set up on the concrete stage.

Bop tossed his double down and ordered another.

Mustapha and the ensemble shuffled toward the stage from the cover of the grove of trees that Bop had just walked through. He counted eight men and women shuffling toward the drum. The men were chanting and shaking small instruments and playing drums with strings on the sides.

They pressed the stringed drums under their arms and made rhythmic patterns with every step they took. The woman, dressed in a sky blue and forest green traditional dress, danced beside the men, a distant look on her face.

Bop settled back in his seat, enchanted by the scene. The horizon was the backdrop, the drum ensemble had shifted into another gear, and the dancer was staring directly into his eyes. He went with it, buzzed on cognac and vibes. He went with it. When the lady's eyes signaled for him to come out of the audience and dance with her, he went, followed by eight other people.

Something that seemed like it was going to have a special meaning was spoiled. He returned to his seat and sneered at the rhythmless Europeans trying to git down.

It was hard not to admire their courage. Pale, blonde, dry people were trying to do it, honestly. Some members of the audience applauded their courage when the drums released them.

The set went on, the drums reaming Bop's consciousness.
I guess this is what I came for
. At one intense point of an exchange of ideas between drums, he felt like crying. He couldn't put a label on the feeling; it was as though the drum had awakened feelings he didn't know he had.

And too suddenly, the drummers were shuffling away, chanting as they moved, the lone dancer a part of the mirage.

Damn.… That was some heavy shit they just laid on us
.

He looked around for someone to share his vibes with. The Europeans were bubbling with love for African rhythm. He twisted in his seat to take in the rest of the crowd. It wasn't difficult to spot her; she was obviously the most beautiful woman in the whole place.

He stood up quickly and made a beeline to her side. It was irresistible not to talk with this sister.

She is too fine
.

Small sister, 'bout five or so, built like a brick shit-house, chocolate-honey colored. He stopped next to her chair and made a French Army salute.

“Clyde Johnson at your leisure, and what might your name be, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

The beautiful chocolate-honey colored woman covered her beautiful mouth with her beautiful hands and laughed.

Bop became instantly hostile.
What's this about? Why is she laughing at me?

“What's so funny?”

She stopped laughing to reveal a beautiful smile.

“It sounded so funny to hear someone say what you just said.”

He plopped into the empty seat beside her. This was going to be fun.

“Oh yeahhh, you thought that was funny, huh? Well, what do you think of this?”

He pantomimed slugging her in the jaw with an exaggerated swing. She laughed harder. He knew he had her on his line now. She was sensitive to his Bop-don't-play-that sense of humor.

“Seriously, what's your name?”

“Seriously, my name is Nana Cecilia.”

“Pleased to be of your acquaintance, I'm sure.” The continent was changing Bop; he was beginning to feel he could be as suave as the rest of them.

“Pleased to meet you,” she answered and dazzled him with a smile. “And this is my mommy.”

Bop stared vacantly at the queen sitting on the other side of Nana Cecilia. He nodded politely, wondering how he could have missed this larger version of his dream sister.

The queen nodded back without smiling and adjusted the folds of her large batik scarf as though they were ruffled feathers.

The mother did not approve of him sitting next to her daughter, but he guessed she didn't want to be impolite. Ghanaians, he had found, were always polite. The older woman puffed her chest out, adjusted and readjusted her cloth around her body, but she didn't actually come out and say, “You can't talk to my daughter.”

Bop took advantage of the cultural lull. “Uhhh, you come here a lot?”

“To Kokrobite?”

“Yeahhh, here.”

He still felt ill at ease trying to pronounce African names like Kokrobite.

“Not very often. I'm too busy preparing for my exams and, of course, my responsibilities as an Ampoti-hene take up a good deal of my time.”

“Am-potty-what?”

Three performance groups later, Bop felt that he knew what an Ampoti-hene was all about. “I had a position something like that when I was in the Bricks.”

A war chieftainess
. He couldn't really figure out what to make of it. He could definitely figure out what he wanted to do with her, but mommy was the block.

“Uhhh, look, 'Cilia, why don't we take a little walk?”

They were into the jugglers now, marvelous athletes who seemed to be able to twirl anything around on the end of a stick—dishpans, plates, each other.

“Take a walk with you, where?”

They were almost whispering now.

“Uhhh, right over there, towards the beach.” She stared at him a few seconds.

“My mom would not give permission for me to walk anywhere with you; you are a stranger. It wouldn't be proper.”

Bop was ready with the counter-punch, “Hey I may be a stranger to her but
you
know me. I'm no stranger to you.” He gave her hand a furtive squeeze.

Mom took note of the action and stood up, outraged. “Come Cecilia, it's time.”

He wanted to respond to her shy wave good-bye with a hug, but mom's forbidding glare held him in his seat. “See you.”

He slumped in his seat and ordered another double cognac. His dream sister was gone, stolen from him by her jealous momma.

Damn
.

He sat through a couple more demonstrations of Ghanaian culture, feeling depressed. There was something vaguely disturbing about watching the dancers dance for the Europeans.
Why do they have to grin at these mother-fuckers so much?

Ten minutes later he staggered to his feet and started the walk back to his waiting overpriced taxi.

The night air bashed against his face, leaving the odor of roasting corn, sugar cane syrup, stray snatches of languages, raw sewage, smoke from charcoal fires, Accra.
My last week in Ghana, West Africa.… So much happened, I can't even remember half of this shit
.

“Bop, mark my words, by the time you've been in Africa a week, you'll be feeling like you've lived your whole life there.”

You were right, Chester, right as rain. Did I do what I was supposed to do? I didn't make the slave castles, but that was something Chester warned me about
.

“Ofainey, I beg you, don't be misled into no such shit as believing that our roots take place in a slave castle. Go deeper than that. You're young; your hormones are pumping. Fall in love with Africa, Bop; it's a beautiful place to love. In some of the village places they'll make you feel like you're in the middle of your natural habitat. The music of the languages will hypnotize you; you'll have times when you've understood exactly what someone has said, without understanding a single word. It's in the sounds. People yell 'n scream at each other just the way they do in Chicago—

“‘Heyyyy maaaan, where you goin'?'

“‘Ovah heah to pick up this stuff. I'll see you lataah, down at the joint.'

“You hear shit like that. It's a funky old kind of place; people honor traditions. Some of the contradictions will wear you out, but forget about that. Just go with the flow.”

Wowwww …, the Vernons are home. Let me hurry up and hear what they did
.

6

Fred and Helene were back from the north, full of piss, vinegar, and good vibes. “Too bad you don't have more time, Bop; you'd love the north. You know how it is when you go inland; shit is different.”

Helene made one of her uniquely creative dishes, a lasagna-styled casserole with tamales and pasta. Fred set up the party atmosphere with three beers. They enjoyed each other's company. Fred exchanged winks with his wife. “What did you do while we were gone?”

Bop tried to tell them but nothing would come out. “Oooh, I hung out, you know, just sorta hung out.”

Fred had drunk just enough beer to challenge his description of what he had done. “Just hung out? What the hell does that mean?”

Wowwww …, shades of Aunt Lu and Uncle David
. “Uhhh, well, you know what I mean.”

Later on that evening, after the mango pie, they spooled it out more carefully. “So, now, you got a woman, huh?”

Elena Boateng, my woman? Hmmmmm
. “Uhhh, Fred, I wouldn't go so far as to call her that.”

“What would you call her? Y'all been fuckin', right?”

Fred's words scalded him. It would've been all right to talk about the scene together, man to man, but not in front of Helene.

“Uhh, I think you could say we've become tight.”

Helene Vernon saved him from further explanation with a letter. “I checked the PO box and this is for you.”

Subconsciously, while waiting for the envelope to be placed in his hand, he asked the silent question:
Did they send any money?

The letter was from Chester L. Simmons, written in a dim cell in a Romanian prison.

“It's from Chester.”

“I saw the return address.”

Bop stripped the brown envelope off of the three-page letter. “It's from Chester L. Simmons.”

The Vernons exchanged knowing looks; it was obvious from Bop's tone of voice that he was talking about a hero. He started reading the letter aloud without thinking. “Ohhh, sorry; you guys wanna hear this?”

“Read it, Bop; let's see what ol' Chester boy is talking about.”

“Bop, I hope this letter finds you at the Vernons' place and that you and they are doing as well as possible. As you can see from the info on the envelope 'n shit, I'm doing time in another kind of joint. A Romanian jail, youngblood, is not to be laughed at. But I'll deal with that in due time. What happened? Well, let me make it quick 'n dirty. After you got out I got a li'l bit antsy. You know how it is. I didn't even have anybody to rap with.… I don't have to try to begin to tell you what a conversation with the average funky chump is like in the joint. So, I decided to ‘absent' myself.

“How do you ‘absent' yourself from prison? Well, you just don't
be
there anymore. It ain't no real big thang. As a matter of fact, I used to ‘absent' myself as often as I wanted to. I ran into the fuckin' warden one night, in a Mexican restaurant in Chino, and he asked me whether I was going to be back in for the morning roll call. I told him yes, and I
was
back there.… bright 'n shinin' …, but that's neither here nor there.