When he asked me what Africa was like I told him all the wonderful things, reminding him, as I always reminded my students, that Africa wasn’t a country but a continent as varied, if not more so, as Europe. I wanted him to feel proud of where his ancestors came from. I wanted him to know that there are places in the world where a black man doesn’t have to walk around fearing the colour of his skin. So I told Toussaint all the good things – the weather, the food, the spectacular landscapes, but above all I spoke of the warmth of Africa’s people. Told him how modern the continent is, how he could go to malls just like he does in America. ‘So one day,’ I said, ‘when you decide to visit, just let me know and I’ll hook you up.’ Hook you up, I’d offered, as though I were his age, speaking in his lingo – even though these days I know nobody his age to put him in touch with. I was inviting him not just to Nigeria, but also to the whole continent, as if the continent were my personal possession, my home. I was inviting him as though he were family, as though he were my son.
Now, as I lie in bed, I close my eyes to better picture my shelves with the spines of my literary friends. I am making a mental list of the books I will lend to Toussaint. I think of James Baldwin, Ralph Ellison, and Earnest Gaines as well as C.L.R. James. I suspect, however, that Toussaint’s mother will have already made him read the The Black Jacobins, so that one might not be necessary. And with his interest in Africa I could maybe give him some books on Nigeria. I have a few on Fela. And what about books relating to cooking and chefs? I could lend him The Famished Road and another book by Zola whose title escapes me. Memory. All of this was assuming that Toussaint had a real passion for food. But what if he didn’t? What if he didn’t really enjoy his job? What if he was only working to make ends meet? What if he’d like a different career, a better career? I fall asleep still thinking of him and my books.
The next morning, smiling at the swiftly vanishing threads of my dream, I go to search for Toussaint. He’s not in the kitchen so I return to the dining hall and sit with Pearl and Reggie.
‘Where’s our wonderful chef?’ Pearl asks, mimicking what I’ve just asked Reggie.
‘He’s not here yet, darling,’ Reggie answers.
‘Where’d he go?’ Pearl persists.
‘I don’t know, honey.’
‘Honey?’ asks another woman at the table.
‘Honey honey, touch me baby, ah-hah,’ Pearl sings.
‘Honey?’ the other woman repeats, looking for it.
‘No, Donna, nobody’s asking for the honey,’ Reggie explains. ‘Have you got your HEARING AID in? Donna?’
‘Honey honey, hold me baby, ah-hah.’
Madness, I think to myself. It’s madness here, madness. Madness. Old age is a massacre. No place for sissies. No place for love songs. No place for dreaming. No place for dreaming erotic dreams about a man half my age. And because I’m distracted, I’m slow to notice what’s going on around me until an angry voice draws me back.
‘What do you see when you see black folks?’ the man shouts. ‘They’re either in prison or they’re walking around, pants hanging down their butts. They’re loud, they cuss, and they’re dangerous.’
‘That’s what you see,’ Reggie shouts back, ‘because you’re a racist bigot.’
‘I don’t give a fuck what you say. All I know is that my granddaughters now can’t even play in the park across their street because of all the black thugs who wanna hurt them.’
‘You!’ Reggie threatens, pushing back his chair. ‘You!’ Quickly, I reach for Reggie, afraid that he’ll do something rash, but instead he jabs his finger back in the direction of the other man’s jabbing finger.
‘Reggie,’ I call as he storms out. ‘What about Pearl?’
‘She’ll be fine,’ he shouts. ‘Plenty of white folks here to make sure she’s okay.’
‘Reggie,’ I call again, getting up to follow.
‘What,’ he snaps, shaking my hand off his shoulder. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ he says, turning reluctantly to face me.
‘No,’ I tell him. ‘You’re not the one who should be apologizing.’