The Blackbirds (6 page)

“I can tell you what I saw in Hoosegow, and that's that a lot of pretty girls were up in there, and a lot converted. I watched other girls seduce girls, and that was some weirdness for me. I saw girls impress other girls, get them to talking, get them laughing, then they are making out like it's no big deal. They have so much Bambi-sexuality up in those joints its crazy.”

Ericka said, “Leave Bambi out of this, Destiny.”

Kwanzaa said, “Don't spoil my childhood memories, but what is Bambi-sexuality?”

Destiny sighed. “Bambi-sexuality is when they kiss and feel each other up, but don't go all the way. They use each other to practice some parts of foreplay. But sometimes the heat is too much and it goes to the next level. Some were making scissors. I'd see girls who had been turned out, when their girl was set free, become the one who was trying to turn a new girl into a scissor lover.”

Kwanzaa raised a brow. “What are scissors? You said scissors and Indigo said scissors. What does that mean?”

Ericka said, “Jesus, Kwanzaa. Even I know what that is.”

Destiny said, “Google it, hit Images, and be prepared to see a new world.”

Indigo said, “Before we go on, let me be clear and set the record straight. I am not
converted
. Taking a weekend vacation to London won't make you British. I'm not British.”

Destiny teased, “Sure you're not a hasbian?”

“What is a hasbian?”

“A has-been lesbian.”

“One can be a has-been?”

Destiny said, “You learn about another world in Hoosegow. It's not charm school.”

“Well, I didn't learn about that world in Oklahoma,” said Ericka. “All I learned was the Bible and weed.”

“I believe you, Indigo. You are two-timer with one girl. I don't think you're a LUG.”

Indigo asked, “What the hell is a LUG?”

“Lesbian until graduation.”

“Don't insult me with your foolishness.”

Destiny laughed hard. “It's cool if you are. How you roll is how you roll.”

“What I did will never happen again.”

Ericka laughed so hard she cried. “Lesbian until graduation. Will she get a degree?”

“I dropped out,”
Indigo said, then pointed at Destiny. “You sure know a lot about the lifestyle of women who like women. This person you're seeing, the one no one has seen yet, is a man, to be clear, right?”

Destiny laughed. “Might be fun for you and lobster girl, and I am not knocking what you did, you like what you like, but that's not for me. I like beef, not seafood.”

Ericka tried to calm down. “I can't imagine Indigo like that, with a woman acting like she was a man. What's the point of being with a woman acting like a man, when there are men?”

“I'm right here. Have some respect.”

Destiny said, “I get hit on all the time, especially since I started rocking on two wheels. The power of the CBR. My derriere is always in the air. Guys holla, but a lot of girls come at me too. Married women are the worst. They are aggressive. They pull up next to me at red lights and flirt the hardest, have that
hotel, motel, Holiday Inn
look in their eyes. They'd cheat on their man and go down on me in a minute. They think
CBR
means ‘
coochie be ready'
for them to play with or something.”

Kwanzaa had her phone in hand, was looking at videos, then raised her voice. “
This is scissoring?
You did this? This is what girls do with other girls? I thought girls were just going downtown and finger
banging and calling it a damn day. This crap ain't real. If I can't do doggie or reverse cowgirl, what's the point of even getting in bed with somebody?”

Indigo said, “Jesus, lower your voice, idiot. Stop trying to scissor-shame me.”

Destiny said, “That's probably why the second time the girl didn't want the dry humping and brought the toy. I guess a woman can do doggie and reverse cowgirl with a strap-on.”

Kwanzaa announced, “Indigo-the-Nigerian has another dual citizenship.”

“I
visited
Britain.
I did not change citizenships
. I would never change citizenships.”

Kwanzaa laughed. “My, oh my. Are we feeling defensive?”

Indigo hissed, then snapped, “I was with
one
girl—”

At the same time Ericka and Kwanzaa said,
“Two times.”

Then Ericka howled. “Indigo's
CBR
stands for ‘
coochie been retrained.'”

Kwanzaa howled too, “
CBR
stands for ‘
coochies bumping repeatedly
.'”

Indigo laughed. “I am
hetero
. I was curious and infatuated. I tried something different. I have to get all of this out of my system while I am single, unmarried, and childless, because I will soon be in law school, and then I will be a lawyer who engages in either the business industry or entertainment law. Family and a Nigerian man will be in my life, taking up time. Yaba the Laker didn't work out for me, but I have moved on with no regrets. Maybe Olamilekan will be ready soon, and maybe he will be ready today to make a serious commitment.”

Ericka asked, “So is Yaba the Laker out of the picture for good?”

“He calls. He wants to see me. But Olamilekan is more handsome, is sexier, is an intelligent man who makes me laugh, a man who is focused and ambitious. I want Olamilekan, but he has to be a man who respects women, a devoted man, loving and caring, God-fearing and wants to settle down. I want my clichéd soul mate, but until that man stops hiding from me, until a ring is on this finger, I'm not going to rest and use this real estate as a bloody paperweight.”

Destiny winked. “Sounds like she got you real good, Indigo. Woman was like a man.”

Indigo snapped, “Did you not hear a word in that moving speech I
just gave? I told you that in
confidence
. I'd better not see it pop up in Linda Ikeji, Uche Eze Pedro, or Emeh Achanga's blog. If any African blogger confronts me about this, if I receive one phone call from one relative overseas and this is the subject matter, I will deny every word, then contact my mother and sue each of you individually for defamation of character.
Don't cross me
.”

Kwanzaa said, “The woman did you like she was a man. Woman was like a man.”

In her soprano voice, Kwanzaa sang the lyrics
Woman like a man
, from Damian Rice's CD. Kwanzaa and Ericka joined in and added their mezzo-sopranos to the teasing. Soon Destiny lent her remarkable contralto singing voice to the dancing bright tones the others had created. Indigo added darker and richer tones as the others sang a smooth harmony with the strong lead voices. They ended the jam session and laughed, ceased the teasing chant. Then the others asked Indigo to repeat her wicked story again, slower, with more detail.

Still teasing Indigo, soon they were on the escalator heading down to the lower-level parking garage, colorful helmets in hands. The motorcycles had been left in spaces at the far end.

Destiny said, “Okay, which one of us has been with the oldest guy? Let's judge that one by both the age of the man
and
by age difference in years between the woman and the man.”

Kwanzaa said, “Two categories. A doubleheader. Cool.”

“Let me see some hands in the air.”

Ericka groaned again, six eyes going to her as she was prepared to raise a hand, maybe both hands, add herself to at least one of the other lists, but a car screeched down the ramp. The sharp noise and loud music startled them and all attention shot toward the fast-driving fool.

It was a brother in his twenties. He was handling a convertible Mercedes.

Indigo's frown turned upside down and she said, “What have we here?”

The brother had light-brown skin, a rich complexion that had hints of oranges underneath. His hair was close to being shaved on both sides, longer on top, in a short and stylish
bro
hawk. He rocked a beard, full and dark. The brother pulled up four spaces from them, top down.

The song “Blackbird” by Nina Simone played on his system.

The ceiling in the garage was low, the acoustics amazing. It sounded like Nina Simone was alive, feet away, and having a concert. The brother
sat there, eyes closed, in a zone, listening to the song as it reverberated throughout the garage as if he were at Carnegie Hall.

He was a handsome man, very Will Smith meets Blair Underwood, only half their age.

The music from his sound system was mesmerizing. Without a thought they began humming. Then Indigo sang the first line. Ericka joined in on the second line. Kwanzaa changed the duet to a trio. Destiny made it a quartet. They sang the song together, softly at first, with feeling. Their singing grew louder, and with heart and soul, they gave away their blues.

They became a choir singing out their pain to the sweetest rhythm.

Their voices echoed in the emptiness of the promenade's garage.

When the song ended, when their quartet was done, the driver applauded.

Then as the brother turned off his radio and started raising the top on his car, there was more resounding applause. Men, women, parents, and children who were walking in the garage had stopped in their tracks to listen to them sing. Not until then did the friends realize their voices had echoed in the hollowness. As people passed by, everyone called them Blackbirds.

The brother eased out of his car and came toward them, a pleasant smile on his face.

Indigo said, “If he's not wearing a wedding band, isn't gay, is articulate, has at least one degree, has subject-verb agreement, and doesn't stutter, I call dibs.”

Ericka said, “What about Olamilekan?”

“My backup might need a backup, so back up off of this one.”

Kwanzaa said, “He's too short for you.”

Indigo said, “To be fair, I can only judge a man by length and girth.”

Destiny said, “You're going to mess around and catch the Kwanzaas.”

Ericka and Indigo laughed.

Kwanzaa showed her middle fingers and said, “That is so not even close to being funny.”

He stood at the average height for a man, but being lean and toned
made him seem taller, though not as tall as Indigo's ex before the footballer. The brother wore gray Morehouse sweat pants, colorful Reeboks, and a black fitted T-shirt that had the neologism
NEGROPHOBIA
across the chest in white letters, that term inside of a red circle, a slash across its center. He wore an Apple watch, carried an Apple phone, and had a big apple smile for the apple bottoms.

Destiny did a double take, and lost her awareness of where she was in relation to the rest of the world. She was pulled back to another regretful day, into another part of her past, into another compartment, the era of her teenage life. He was someone she never wanted to see again. Destiny walked away when he came closer, turned her back to the conversation, made herself busy with her hoodie and helmet, felt her palms sweating, began taking short breaths.

He said, “You ladies sounded amazing. I was going to say y'all look like four fine-ass Bond girls. But the way y'all killed that Nina Simone song, forget Bond girls, I'm calling y'all the Blackbirds. I'd better send a tweet and tell the Supremes, En Vogue, 702, SWV, and Destiny's Child you beautiful Blackbirds could harmonize and resurrect the girl groups.”

Indigo said, “We'll be Bond girls if they let Idris be James Bond.”

“Then the world would end because 007 would never want to get out of bed.”

“You think we'd
let
him get out of bed if 007 looked like Idris?”

They laughed, all but Destiny Jones. She was in a state of mild panic.

He told Indigo, “Love your accent. Where are you from?”

“My parents are from Nigeria, and no Nigerian 419 scam jokes, please.”

“What's your name?”

“Indigo Bose Fumilayo Titilayo Titilola Mojisola Morenike Abdulrahaman.”

There was a pause. He said, “Bet you can't say that ten times real fast.”

She did.

Everyone laughed. Everyone except Destiny.

He asked, “All of you are from West Africa with names longer than the alphabet?”

“I am the only Nigerian. My friends are Americans. They have slave names.”

Kwanzaa said, “Here we go again.”

Ericka said, “Indigo, you know it was your people who sold us down the river.”

He laughed, asked Indigo, “Your parents are from Nigeria, but where are you from?”

“I'm Nigerian. That answers your question, does it not?”

“Where were you born?”

He had derailed the little game Indigo always played. It was a thing she always did, implied she was also born in Nigeria. She would be quick to point out that the United States was one of the few places on the planet where illegals and noncitizens could come from anywhere in the world on Sunday, have a child on Monday, and the child was considered a citizen. Other countries would stitch the mother up and send her back to her country, unless the father was a citizen, as most of the world was still patriarchal. No matter where a Nigerian had their children, those children were still Nigerian. So Indigo wasn't lying. She was Nigerian.

She said, “I'm Nigerian. African, baby. That's all you need to know. Stop swimming in my Kool-Aid. You're wearing Morehouse, but I don't hear an ATL accent. Please explain.”

Kwanzaa asked, “Yeah. Who are you, man from Morehouse who talks to strangers?”

He said, “I was born here in L.A. I was born at Daniel Freeman before they tore it down.”

“Would be hard to be born there after they tore it down.”

“I stand corrected.”

“I was born at Daniel Freeman too. Before they tore it down.”

They playfully threw up the letter
W
, representing West Coast, not gangbangers.

The brother introduced himself. He told them his name was Dubois.

“You're not dropping the final
G
on your words. I actually understand you. People from Atlanta call College Park ‘Collie Park.' Say things like
skraight
instead of
straight
.” He had just graduated from
Morehouse, and now was back home to start work on his master's at Pepperdine.

He said, “I also have this other hobby I do on the side from time to time.”

Indigo said, “Don't tell us you're a male stripper. Every brother wants to be Magic Mike.”

Kwanzaa said, “I have a few quarters to put in your G-string if you are.”

They laughed again. He jogged to his car with the stride of a long-distance runner, and hurried back, handing Kwanzaa and Indigo a red, black, and green flyer.

He did standup comedy too, said he had been getting on stage since he was fifteen, told them he was doing a show soon to help raise money for the families of black men killed by the police.

He said, “We're doing a show called
Red, Black, and Bruised
. We're going to tear down a few Confederate flags and hit the black experience in America, going to get on stage and talk about the hypocrisy, rip on decades of abuse and atrocities, but it's straight standup.”

“Can you make what we go through in America as black people a gut buster? Can you make us laugh about slavery, Jim Crow, police brutality, mass incarceration, and bad hairstyles?”

“I could've made Harriet Tubman laugh from the plantation to freedom, then back to the planation to free some more people. I could've made Rosa Parks laugh on the bus, and made Martin Luther King Jr. crack up as he wrote a letter from a hot jail cell over in Birmingham.”

The girls told Dubois that it was Indigo's birthday, and that they'd gone hiking that morning. He said he had hit the pavement at sunrise with his mother and her running group, had run five miles, then had worked out again, hitting the heavy bag and getting in the ring for three rounds at Crenshaw Boxing Gym. Now he was heading to Johnny Rockets to get a burger.

He said, “It's your birthday for real, pretty girl born in L.A. with parents from Africa?”

Indigo smiled. “Sure is, man who was born at the black hospital, went to Morehouse, is built like a male stripper, wears no wedding ring, runs,
is going to grad school soon, and plays hood-rat loud music as he drives a nice car.”

“My Nubian queen, on your special day, I will have to sing ‘Happy Birthday' to you.”

He sang, and he could sing. He sang the traditional happy birthday song, his tenor voice rocking it between one octave below middle to one octave above middle, then switched it up and did the funky version, the Stevie Wonder classic, had Ericka, Kwanzaa, and Indigo smiling. But when he changed up and sang ‘Happy Birthday' with an African accent, did African dances, did them well, and at the same time became a human beatbox and imitated instruments, Indigo became ecstatic. He became drums, African talking drums, flute, and piccolo. His silliness and being on point had Indigo jumping up and down, clapping, and laughing, especially when he pulled her over and made her dance with him. Indigo showed him how to do it right, moved like Tiwa Savage and Yemi Alade. Soon Dubois had started a party, had Indigo, Ericka, and Kwanzaa singing and dancing, and the African dancing switched into them doing the whip, the Nae Nae, and the Superman. All the girls joined the impromptu birthday fun, all except Destiny Jones.

When Dubois was done he asked Destiny, “You okay over there, my sister?”

Destiny had hoped the brother would come and go without paying her any attention. But he had noticed her. Jaw tight, memory strong, she exhaled, faced him, unsmiling, pulled her hair back from her face into a loose ponytail, let her entire face be seen, and then took a hard breath before she looked him straight in his eyes. Her jaw was tight. Heartbeat strong, galloping. She sucked her teeth.

“Hey, Dubois.”

He stared at her features, at her mean expression, his mouth open as his eyes moved over the topography of her appearance, evaluated her, all the while muted and surprised.

He said, “DJ? You have to be kidding me. DJ, is that you?”

Nostrils flared, Destiny Jones nodded. “Hey, stranger.”

“I'm serious. DJ, that's you for real?”

She nodded again. “Yeah. It's been years.”

“You're looking awesome.”

“Thanks for the hyperbole.”

“I mean it, and not in a disrespectful way. Your hair, the color, the way your locks are crinkly, they look very Afrocentric. You were on the creamy crack last time I saw you, that or a press-and-curl. You're taller than I remember, and I guess the best way to put it is, well, fuller in the right places, not trying to sexualize you, just revere the change, and damn, you are fit. I mean, you always had a nice body. Your arms are solid. Your core is tight. Amazing transformation.”

“I had a final growth spurt when I was almost sixteen. And I went away to Hoosegow, and the place I stayed wasn't a gluten-free or farm-raised environment, so thanks to the food with fat, steroids, antibiotics, and other poisonous additives, I put on a few pounds. And thanks to the rustic gym they had, and so many girls who worked out all day, I'm no longer flabby. I'm toned.”

“You were never flabby. Not at all. Always had a baby face and a woman's body.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Silence settled between them. She didn't hide her past. He knew. She knew he knew. Destiny twisted her lips, uncomfortable in her skin as she looked into his light-brown eyes.

Dubois said, “Wow. Sorry I keep looking at you like this, but . . . wow.”

“Yeah, my thighs are thick and I have a heart-shaped butt like a video vixen.”

“That's not what I meant. You've been on my mind off and on.”

“Since when?”

“Since the last time I saw you.”

“You mean, when I stopped by your mother's house in Baldwin Hills?”

“Yeah.”

“What were those off and on thoughts, exactly?”

“Had wondered how you were doing.”

“I guess you lost my number a few years ago.”

“Okay, I deserve that.”

Destiny posted a false smile. “I'm fine. Thanks for asking. Thanks for caring.”

“I should have called you, or at least gone to see your mom or dad.”

“Thanks for checking on me.”

“I'm serious, how are you? How have you been? How are your parents?”

“Does it matter to you?”

“We're friends.”

“We
were
friends. My real friends stuck by me when life got rough.”

Destiny glanced left to right, realizing that Ericka, Kwanzaa, and Indigo had moved in closer, and all were touching her. She said she was fine, then faced Dubois again.

She said, “So, you're fresh out of Morehouse, heading off to grad school at Pepperdine, and doing standup now, like your father did. I'm sure he's smiling down from heaven right now.”