Midnight (20 page)

“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 Rosemarie.”

“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.

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?”