The Gay Icon Classics of the World (3 page)

I tore the book from his hands while he was reading. The rejection insulted him. Kadaru struck me in anger. I found myself outside his tent with all my belongings being thrown at me. I collected what I could, dressed, and started walking - without a word. I said goodbye to no one. It was nighttime but I was sure that I was heading in the correct direction towards the Nile. I was angry. I didn't know why, but I hated everything in human existence. I hated Nubia, Egypt and all the people I had encountered until then.

I sat quiet throughout the entire journey home. I found a river barge and sat among its load, steering at night while the sole boatsman slept. As on the journey there, I slept but little. I didn't clean or eat. I drank only water. The lack of food made me delirious. My arrival at the port of Asyut was unwelcomed. From the threshold of our doorway, Mohammaded looked up in horror at my disheveled appearance. He hardly recognized me. I told him everything about my horrible journey. Despite my protest, he undressed me, bathed me, and put me to bed after giving me some soup. Mohammad was leaving the room with the filthy clothes from my journey as I told him that I wanted to leave Egypt. He returned with the scroll in his hands - the scroll he had given me. “Where would we go?” he replied. His answer, his soft voice, changed my mood. I realized that Mohammad had just taken care of me from the moment I entered our home, which he had never done before. I just stared in awe. In Arabic I said, “Mohammad, I love you.” With those words, I felt faint. I felt my body collapse from fatigue. I thought myself lucky that I was already lying in bed. Mohammad lay down next to me and untied the ribbon of the scroll and read me a poem. Ironically, it was poem number 10. As he read, my memories of
my cousin Kadaru flashed before me. I turned to Mohammad's vision next to me and his words drifted away as his soft voice put me into a much needed sleep.

The Mukasa tribe were known as a fierce hunting tribe throughout all of Africa. Their tall masculine frames towered over almost every man in the eastern coast region. The Mukasa hunters wore finely-woven white loincloths to distinguish them from common men. These white loincloths were the pride of the hunter, for an excellent hunter never soiled his loin cloth even during a hunt. To the Mukasa hunter, a white cloth was the mark of excellence. By the age of 15, all Mukasa sons were put through the rigorous test of manhood. Those who passed were admitted into the training necessary for the Mukasa hunting band, thus bringing honor to the boy's family. The Mukasa hunting band governed the tribe and supplied every family with food and shelter. Those Mukasa men who weren't hunters were given the task of handymen or, depending on ability, specific functions that met tribal needs. The messengers were often the fastest of all Mukasa men and were considered important, for they carried all communication between the roving Mukasa hunting bands and the village. However, messengers weren't allowed to hunt.

One particular year, 12 Mukasa boys were to compete for the hunter's training. One of the boys was named Ofosu. Ofosu was a handsome young lad with fine, clear ebony skin and
well-defined features. Ofosu had two other brothers who also entered the competition. They were much stronger and more precise with their tools than Ofosu but he was confident about winning the competition. Although Ofosu and his brothers were strong, they knew that none of the young men competing was stronger or more precise with his spear than Banatu. Banatu came from a fine family of Mukasa hunters and it was expected that any man from this family would be a fine hunter. All the boys won the contest except Ofosu.

It had upset Ofosu that he wasn't fierce enough, as his brothers were, to become a muchrespected hunter. Still, he prided himself on the speed race in the competition, for he had surpassed everyone, even Banatu, in the running race. Although Ofosu was not granted hunting status, he was given the honorable title of messenger by the head chieftain. This made the other young men jealous, for Ofosu was immediately allowed to go on hunting trips while the remaining 11 boys were for forced to stay close to the village for training in the Mukasa hunting techniques.

Soon, Ofosu worked his way up the ranks to head messenger for the long-distance runs. This was because he was able to pace himself with little effort and still have breath to relay whatever message he was to deliver. A special white linen was woven for his runs which made both Ofosu and his family proud. “Your expectations will be no different from your fellow hunters, Ofosu,” said the Head Chieftain. “You are never to soil your linen while running."

Ofosu had a secret method of keeping pace for long distances and remembering his message. He would simply put the message to song and sing it out loud with every exhale of breath. He did this with ease while he ran. It seemed to pass the time. One day, while Banatu was hunting for jackrabbit in a nearby field close to the village, he heard the sweet sounds of a beautiful voice in the distance growing louder. He knelt low to see who might be delivering such a delightful sound, a sound which seemed to touch his heart in a particular way. As the singing runner passed him, it surprised Banatu to see that it was Ofosu.

Ofosu arrived at the village unaware that Banatu had heard his singing. He delivered the message of a great catch made by the hunters just south of the village and that a feast of water buffalo would soon grace every house within two days' time. After delivering the message, Ofosu had a quick rest and drank some water before dutifully turning around and heading back to catch up with the hunting band. Banatu noticed that as Ofosu left the village, there was no song beautiful song coming from him.

Upon his next messaging trip into the village, Ofosu was stopped within view of the village by Banatu. This stunned Ofosu because it didn't dawn on him that others might hear his
singing, especially the almighty Banatu. Ofosu felt that people might find it foolish. Ofosu looked down in shame and embarrassment.

Banatu asked him to continue singing. Ofosu thought it a foolish request but sang the message anyway for fear that Banatu might harm him in some way. With all the courage Ofosu could muster, he obliged and looked straight into Banatu's eyes. Ofosu noticed the strange look in Banatu's eyes as he sang. When Ofosu finished singing, Banatu let him pass into the village. Once in the village, Ofosu did his duties and rested. As he returned to the hunting band, Ofosu was stopped once again by Banatu, but rather than request a song, Banatu sang (rather poorly) a tune of love for only Ofosu's ears. Ofosu was moved by such dear sentiment and ran off without a word, leaving Banatu's heart aching for Ofosu to reply. Banatu thought himself foolish for what he had done and was tormented by these feelings he had for Ofosu. Ofosu returned a third time to the village and on his departure saw Banatu hiding in the brush staring at him. Rather than stopping, Ofosu smiled and kept running, all the while singing the song that Banatu sang to him earlier. Ofosu's singing was far more beautiful than Banatu's thus making the song ever more appealing to whoever heard it. This filled Banatu's heart with joy.

As the Mukasa hunting band returned with their prize-winning catch for the village, Ofosu ran ahead, hoping to see Banatu.

All the while, Ofosu was singing not his usual message for the villagers, but rather Banatu's love song. However, this time he was surprised to be stopped by all the young lads in training from the village. They laughed at his singing and taunted him with unkind
words. Banatu was among them but said nothing. They demanded to know who the song was for, but Ofosu did not reply. Ofosu's silence angered the young men and they ambushed him, dragging him into mud. Banatu watched in horror, yet could have stopped the scuffle, for he was far stronger than the other boys. However, the fear that they might find out the song was for him overpowered his desire to rescue Ofosu. During the scuffle, Ofosu's loin cloth was soiled. Ofosu managed to get away, but arrived in the village just as the hunters returned. Ofosu couldn't clean himself in time. The chief demanded how he became dirtied, but Ofosu looked down in shame and didn't reply. Ofosu was immediately brought before the hunting Chieftains and punished for dishonoring both family and community by soiling his loin cloth. For his punishment, Ofosu was to receive 100 lashes. The tribe all gathered in a circle by the central village area to watch the beatings. Ofosu was brought before them, without his loin cloth, completely naked. Ofosu's shame and humiliation showed upon his face but also on the face of another. The Chief entered the circle's center with a
Pago
stick for lashing. Ofosu leaned forward to receive his blows but a cry from the crowd stunned everyone. It was Banatu, caming forward before the chief. Banatu said that Ofosu's soiled loin cloth was because of him but explained no further. He then said that it was he and not Ofosu that should be given the lashes. The Chief was quite surprised by this turn of events, but agreed to Banatu's request. Banatu then softly removed Ofosu from the line of fire and placed him among the crowd. He then removed his loin cloth and wrapped it gently around Ofosu and returned to the center where the chief began reining his blows.

Banatu didn't flinch once during the beating, all the while singing his love song to Ofosu. The crowd was amazed at this confession of love. Ofosu looked on in confusion. When the hundredth lashing was laid upon Banatu's bloodied bottom, he got up, walked over to Ofosu, and took him by the hand. Together they left the village, never to return.

This story was passed on to many a generation in the Mukasa tribe, and every time the strong wind blows, the Mukasa people say it's Ofosu running to his mate. If you listen to it closely, you might hear their song of love.

Once there lived a young farmhand named Graham. Graham was a fine young man, and though poor, his wealth lay in his creative wit and joyful acts. One could also say that if cultivated, Graham could become quite a dashing character. However, Graham was just Graham the farmhand. He was short and a bit bowlegged which made him wobble as he walked. His head was quite narrow and was covered by great big tufts of bushy black hair straggling down from his crown. Day after day, Graham wore day after day the same ragged burlap pants and an old dirty shirt which was held together in the middle by a pull string.

Each day before sunrise, Graham, with his fellow harvesters, would make the long journey into the fields with their sickles and binding ropes. They also carried with them their day's lunch which consisted of either an apple or boiled potato. With graceful repetitions, they would reap bushels upon bushels of the lustrous grain until dusk when they returned home for their evening meal. The work was long and tiresome in the hot summer days. To pass the time during their labor, Graham acted out humorous scenes which were often based upon the real life drama of fellow servants and laborers in the farmyard. All of the scenes consisted of maidens, of whom he played to their exact likeness. His favorite tale was that of the fondled maiden: the story of how a farmhand with falsely smitten words of love got a hand or two up the maiden's frock. Graham liked this story, for he developed a knack
for a maidens voice. As he acted out the deafening shrill of the fondled maiden, it sent the other harvesters rolling to the ground in laughter. When he was through with his skit the farmhands would clap for more but Graham would only bow five times and proceed with his field work.

One morning whilst telling his favorite tale, Graham's feminine shrill attracted the attention of the farm landlord who scowled with much displeasure, for he had noticed that the other workers were laughing rather than working. The landlord also observed that the other farm hands furthest from Graham were straining to hear his tale, thus slowing their work progress even more. Thinking to set an example for the rest, the landlord, with whip in hand, quietly approached Graham. As Graham was about to act out another scene, the landlord slowly lifted his whip and poised to strike. The other workers saw the landlord's approach and quickly went about their farm work, but not Graham. He was so fixed upon his performance that he never heard the crack of the whip which came down on him with great force. He felt its sting across his back. The blow was so hard that it sent him flying into a nearby bushel; ripped his shirt and tossed his sickle and binding rope asunder. “Damn ye, begone!” hollered the farm landlord as he raised his whip again for another blow. With tears of shame and embarrassment, Graham scuttled away in fear. When he was far enough away and out of breath he stopped. The stinging of his back caused him to rub the sore spot. When he pulled his hand back he saw that blood was drawn. Angered by this sight Graham swore never to return to that field or any other field again. Graham walked to the nearby Avon river to soothe his wound in the cool waters that flowed.

Graham scooped up the river water with his hands cupped together and let it trickle down his spine. The water soothed his throbbing back.

Following the curvy path of the River Avon, Graham walked until sunset, when he came upon the town of Stratford. The year was 1583 and Stratford was a bustling town of tradesmen, guilders, and merchants of all kinds. The Avon river provided Stratford with the means of easy access and transportation of goods to London—riches, business ventures and agricultural trade.

Tired and hungry from his big fright and long journey, Graham sought shelter. Not far from where Graham stood he noticed a local inn. The inn was typical by Graham's limited knowledge. It was a plain white plaster structure with thatched roofing, two floors, and small wood shelved windows. On the side were stables and a pantry. Graham thought to search the rubbish pile which was beside the Inn's pantry door for tossed morsels or bone scraps to feed his famished body. He quietly climbed onto the waste pile in search of food. As he scurried through for scraps he heard footsteps. Graham ducked in fearful anticipation of a cast iron pan painfully crashing upon his back. When neither pain nor pan appeared, Graham slowly looked up into the funniest face he had ever seen. The face was as round as a clock with bulbous fat cheeks. The face was blanched white with a big, fat red veined nose. The face looked curiously at Graham, but the look of wonder turned into a smile. A smile that seem to stretch from ear to ear. Graham thought that this face reminded him of the moon. The face was that of the gentleman innkeeper.