The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou (130 page)

I smiled, “Oh yes, not all Blacks hate themselves.”

Nana said, “We are well aware of that” (He often used the royal “we”) “and now … I asked you here to see if you are interested in a job in Kaneshie.”

So I wasn’t being offered a raise. All that daydreaming about gold had been a waste of time.

I said, “Kaneshie? That sounds lovely.” It was horrible. Kaneshie was a bush town, 150 miles from Accra.

I continued, “But I am quite happy at Legon, and I think I am of use there. Kaneshie? They say it’s beautiful country up there, but—”

Nana interrupted, “This job pays double your present salary and you will be provided with a bungalow and a new car.”

Kwesi said, “Now that’s looking after our people in the diaspora.”

A move was not necessarily a negative thing. A house of my own in the heavily wooded area up north could be quite inviting, and with a new car I could drive to Accra in a few hours, and I could still buy that red-gold necklace and even a full kente cloth.

Kingdoms may fall and love may leave, but a dogged survival instinct is loyal to the end. I had never been promised nor (despite my secret hopes) did I expect certainty. I knew that God was in His heaven and anything might happen to His world. Kaneshie was the center of the diamond industry, and as I thought about it, it began to increase in promise. Rumors had it that people walking around might stumble upon diamonds laying in the road. I had not been a particularly lucky person, but just possibly I would find a lovely diamond to go with my gold necklace.

I said, “Nana, the idea interests me. What would be my duties?”

He answered, “You would do much as you are currently doing. Run the office. You can type of course?” He didn’t wait so I didn’t have time to lie. “And, I suppose, familiarize yourself with the working of a mine. Know the laborers, the output, the World Bank prices. This sort of thing. I’m sure you could do that.”

I had always liked the idea of being someone’s girl Friday. It promised responsibility with good pay and was a sort of marriage without sex.

“I’d be pleased to give it a try, and thanks to the person who mentioned me for the job.”

Kwesi looked at me and wagged his head forward, then smiled and said, “Nana, I believe we have had a most fruitful meeting. Maya will do well in Kaneshie. It might be a little lonely at first, but your people will be coming up to see you and you will make friends. Now, Sister, do tell me how did you come to read my poetry?”

Nana said, “Kwesi, one minute. Poets are worse than prime ministers, always looking for ears. Maya, I’m going to send for my children. They should meet you.”

Kwesi laughed, “Of course. The Budu-Arthur tribe. They are wonderful, and they are many.”

Nana lifted his voice and hurled it into the universe.

“Children, come. Araba, Adae, Abenaa, Abaa, Ekua and Kwesi Budu-Arthur. Come, come and greet your American Auntie.”

The clarion voice, enunciating the names with such force, prepared me for a schoolroom of children arriving in martial drill. Instead, a tall, slim, beautiful girl of fifteen entered the lighted area.

“Poppa, you wanted me?” Her voice lovely and musical.

Nana said, “Araba, yes, I want you and the others. Miss Angelou, this is my oldest child. Araba Budu-Arthur, Miss Angelou.”

As he spoke, more children drifted in, talking among themselves. When five of them had gathered, Nana looked up and asked, “And Adae? As usual I must ask. And Adae?”

Four young voices answered him, but no meaning could be extracted from the din. When the noise reached a peak, another girl entered to stand with her siblings. Adae was nearly as tall as Araba, but while her older sister displayed a solemn dignity, Adae seemed to move even standing still. The children stood together like an often rehearsed theatrical troupe, their eyes focused on me.

I said, “I’m pleased to meet you all.” Adae turned to her siblings and said knowingly, “That’s the way American Negroes speak. They say ‘you all.’ ” She faced me again, while her brothers and small sisters examined me with obvious curiosity.

Adae said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Maya. Very pleased.”

Keeping my voice low, I said, “As you have noticed, I am an American Negro, and among my people children do not call their elders by their first names. A fifteen-year-old girl [Adae was 15] would call me Mrs. Angelou, or if she liked me and I agreed she would address me as Auntie Maya. I will accept either.” Adae looked at her older sister then at the young children. She looked at me for a very long minute.

“Very well, I don’t know you yet, but I’ll probably like you, so we will call you Auntie Maya. Do you agree?” She left me no time to respond. She nodded and said, “Good-bye, Auntie Maya. Good-bye, everybody.” The four smaller children, as if on a signal, chorused, “Hello and good-bye, Auntie. Good-bye, everybody,” and running, followed Adae from the room.

Nana, who had been silent during the exchange, spoke to Araba who was standing calmly before me. “And you, Araba, do you have something clever to say to Auntie Maya?” Her voice was as smooth as cream, and her smile was gentle. “Auntie, Adae knows that African children behave as you described Black American children do. She was acting the way European kids act at our school. Please overlook her, she’s really a very nice person.” Araba excused herself with the grace of a kindly monarch taking leave of adoring subjects. Kwesi and Nana smiled at each other.

Kwesi said to me, “That is the Budu-Arthur brood. There is no way to tell what they will become, but I’d wager Adae will be president of the world and Araba will be its queen.”

Nana shook his head and laughed to himself proudly, “My children.” Then he looked over at me, “I do hope Adae didn’t annoy you. It is through the eyes of strangers that a parent can see their children as people.”

I denied any annoyance and said I’d like to see the children alone.

He agreed, then ordered the driver in one shout and modulated to continue speaking to me. “You will hear from me when an appointment is arranged.” He offered me his hand, and I was tempted to kiss it, but checked myself just in time. I grasped his hand and shook it firmly.

“Thank you, Nana.”

“Don’t thank me, but when you go to Kaneshie let them know that your heart and head are concentrated on Africa and not, like most Americans, on Coca Cola and Cadillacs.” Nana added, “And Maya, take your C.V.”

The driver had come in. I asked, “C.V.?”

He said, “Curriculum vitae. Your schools, degrees and work history. Good night. Kwesi will see you to the car.”

Kwesi was at my side being solicitous, the driver was standing beside the car, and I was laughing weakly. Kwesi noticed me trembling when he embraced me and probably credited my nervous response to meeting the great man.

“Sister, we must talk. You must come to me and my wife Molly. We will feed you and definitely no fish. Ha, ha.”

If everyone knew my dietary restrictions, why didn’t Nana know that I had not been to college? I should have said so on the spot. During the drive home, I berated myself for the show of cowardice. Obviously the temptation of a good job, large salary and European-style benefits were enough to send my much vaunted morality scurrying. It wasn’t pleasant to admit that I was no more moral than the commercial bandits upon whom I heaped every crime from slavery to Hiroshima.

As soon as I reached my house, I decided that when Nana telephoned I would tell him to offer the job to Alice or Vicki. Then I pillowed myself in goodness and slept righteously.

When our grinning faces appeared at Julian’s door, he tried waving his arms to distract us, but only succeeded in agitating the tell-tale odors of sage, oregano and fried pork. He had received another package of sausage from Washington, D.C. The Revolutionist Returnees had gotten
wind of its arrival and converged on the Mayfield home in private cars, taxis and on foot. Julian, who was no more or less generous than the next person, put on a gruff face and said he was working and we had to leave, but when he saw we wouldn’t be run off, he gave in and laughed. “Which one of you nuts was spying on the airport?”

Ana Livia brought a platter of sausage patties to the porch, and we fell upon it with a savor unrelated to hunger. Homesickness was never mentioned in our crowd. Who would dare admit a longing for a White nation so full of hate that it drove its citizens of color to madness, to death or to exile? How to confess even to one’s ownself, that our eyes, historically customed to granite buildings, wide paved avenues, chromed cars, and brown, black, beige, pink and white-skinned people, often ached for those familiar sights?

We chewed the well spiced pork of America, but in fact, we were ravenously devouring Houston and Macon, Little Rock and St. Louis. Our faces eased with sweet delight as we swallowed Harlem and Chicago’s south side.

“All we need now is a plate of grits.” That from Lesley Lacy who had probably never eaten grits in his life.

Julian brought out a bundle of week-old dailies from the States and dealt parcels out to us as if they were large floppy cards. He saved a magazine and held it above his head. “Here’s my article on Baldwin in
Freedomways.”

Nobody Knows My Name
, James Baldwin’s book, had passed through so many hands its pages were as fluffy as Kleenex and had caused fierce arguments. Some detractors denounced Baldwin as a creation of White America, adding that he had been constructed by the establishment for the establishment. His supporters argued that if White America had been smart enough to make a James Baldwin, obviously there would have been no need to create one. In New York City, Sylvester Leaks had disappointed some of his fans by attacking Baldwin. We in Ghana knew that Julian had written an article in support of the controversial author.

Julian, in his most roguish tone, said, “I’ll put the magazine here.
No tearing, scratching or biting, first come and all that shit.” Alice moved like a whip, snatched up the magazine, which meant that she would take it home and that Vicki or I would be next in command.

Ana Livia spoke and took our total attention by announcing, “Dr. Du Bois is sick. Lucid, but very sick. He said he has stopped learning and it is time for him to go.” Our small crowd made a large noise of protest. Du Bois was ninety-six years old, and frail, but we wanted him to live forever. He had no right to his desire for death. We argued that great men and women should be forced to live as long as possible. The reverence they enjoyed was a life sentence, which they could neither revoke nor modify.

When the discussion reached a noise level that prohibited all understanding, Julian said he had read about a march to Washington, D.C., to be led by Martin Luther King, Jr. The news of Dr. Du Bois’ deteriorating health was driven away by an immediate buzzing of sarcastic questions.

“King leading a march. Who is he going to pray to this time, the statue of Abe Lincoln?”

“Give us our freedom again, please suh.”

“King has been in jail so much he’s got a liking for those iron bars and jailhouse food.”

The ridicule fitted our consciousness. We were brave revolutionaries, not pussyfooting nonviolent cowards. We scorned the idea of being spat upon, kicked, and then turning our cheeks for more abuse. Of course, none of us, save Julian, had even been close to bloody violence, and not one of us had spent an hour in jail for our political beliefs.

My policy was to keep quiet when Reverend King’s name was mentioned. I didn’t want to remind my radical friends of my association with the peacemaker. It was difficult, but I managed to dispose of the idea that my silence was a betrayal. After all, when I worked for him, I had been deluded into agreeing with Reverend King that love would cure America of its pathological illnesses, that indeed our struggle for equal rights would redeem the country’s baleful history. But all the prayers, sit-ins, sacrifices, jail sentences, humiliation, insults and jibes
had not borne out Reverend King’s vision. When maddened White citizens and elected political leaders vowed to die before they would see segregation come to an end, I became more resolute in rejecting nonviolence and more adamant in denying Martin Luther King.

Someone made the suggestions that although we were radicals, as Black Americans we should support our people in the States and form a march sympathetic to the Washington march. As products of a picketing, protesting era, we unanimously and immediately agreed. Of course, we would march on the American Embassy with placards and some appropriate shouts. Julian would investigate Ghana’s policy on marches and secure permits if needed. Lesley would inform the Ghanaian students at the university who might like to join. Each of us excitedly chose assignments, feeling ourselves back on familiar ground. When it came to action we were in the church where we had been baptized. We knew when to moan, when to shout and when to start speaking in tongues.

Since Dr. Du Bois was too old and ill to accompany us, Julian would ask Dr. Alphaeus Hunton. Dr. Hunton was co-director with Dr. Du Bois of the Encyclopedia Africana, and would represent the older, more sober, more thoughtful segment of the Black American residents. We also decided to do more than march. Hundreds of thousands were expected at the Washington gathering and Mahalia Jackson was to sing and Dr. King would speak. Our community couldn’t even count on one hundred people, so we decided to write a stinging protest declaration and form a committee which would present it to the American ambassador inside the embassy. Our arrangements were made and agreed upon, and we broke up our meeting, our heads filled with a new and exciting charge and our fingers still smelling of spicy pork sausage.

The Washington March was to begin at 7:00
A.M
. on August 27. Because of the seven-hour time difference, we planned to begin our supportive march at midnight on the twenty-sixth in the park across from the embassy.

The crowd, much larger than any of us expected, stumbled around in the dark greeting and embracing. I heard American voices which were new to me, and saw Guy arrive laughing with a group of young Ghanaian friends. At eighteen, he had a long history of marches, having participated in political protests since he was fourteen.