Chapter 2

Bella had said that Mr Allan was being ‘racist’! What had she meant? That was a word that every Black pupil watched out for. It was unspoken and forbidden – like a silent, abominable crime. A taboo. We knew what it meant and where it stemmed from, but it was a painful topic. Like how an amputee finds the loss of his limb painful – a permanent scar with an everlasting pain. Everyone knew not to poke fingers into that wound. Who did that so openly?

I found myself thinking back to the maths lesson of the previous week while I watched my German teacher, Mrs William, recap her previous lesson. She’d asked for a reminder of what we’d covered, and when no-one else volunteered, I did. She asked one or two questions that the class could not answer and so I again supplied the answers, and she was indeed pleased. Next, she started repeating almost all she had taught in the last lesson as most pupils in the class were not able to understand. My mind and attention strayed to the reason why Bella’s grandmother might have thought Mr Allan, our white American teacher from Detroit, was being racist. What did Bella’s grandmother know about racism?

I saw her as a childminder. She had come into the country to help with minding her grandchildren about eight years ago, when we were all in elementary school. We called her Mama, and she spoke Yoruba all the time, watched African movies and taught her grandchildren Yoruba or about Jesus. Bella’s brother, Clint, was three years younger.

Did Mama even know that community organizers right here in Detroit were planning the largest civil rights demonstration in American history? It was aimed to draw attention to employment and housing discrimination against Blacks. I smiled to myself. Why did every problem amongst Blacks get labelled or blamed on racism?

I imagined Bella speaking to Mama: ‘Mr Allan scolded Ngozi in maths again today, Mama!’

A hissing sound, followed by some negatives to qualify Mr Allan: ‘Agbaiya. Chiefracist! Jealousy is what is worrying him! Shiyor!’

I loved Mama. I loved her cooking. There was always puff puff and chin chin in Bella’s home. Mama’s Jollof rice was something else, and the stories she told about Nigeria made me remember those times we were in elementary school, when I spent almost every weekend at Bella’s house, while Bella spent weekdays with me in my home.

My twelve-year-old mind dragged itself from Mama, Bella’s grandmother, and went investigating the maths lesson. Unlike Mr Dwight, Mr Allan had come right up to my desk and asked me to repeat what he had said. I stood up, as guilty as a child caught red-handed stealing candy from the cupboard. He looked at me angrily and said, ‘Why are you quiet? I said, tell me what I said just now?’ That was not racism.

‘You are still what you are, even though your grandfather, Rev George Lee Thompson, is well known socially.’ I pondered on this. It was not racism, as it had nothing to do with my colour or race.

‘I consider it the height of disrespect for any student not to pay attention when I speak. You will be reported to the principal and face the consequences for daydreaming during my lesson!’

I could not find any incidence of racism. I was the one at fault. A letter had been sent home warning my mother that if such behaviour continued, I would be expelled as the school did not want me to influence other students with continuous unacceptable behaviour. My mother had been angry, and she had said that I could not visit with Bella or Pam until further notice and they too could not come over until my teachers reported that they had seen improvement in my focus during lessons...

What was wrong with these teachers? I was the one answering all the questions, getting the highest marks, taking the top—

I almost jumped out of my seat, then stood up shakily. My eyes caught the plea in Pam’s eyes, but Bella’s held a warning. Luckily for me, Ms Ward repeated her question, and I answered it without any fuss and resumed my seat. It was writing time and it involved writing first in English then in German about a family member who had most influenced us. Hmm. I had a long think about this one. Definitely not my mother, though she had her very good points. I knew she pampered me as an only child without a father. I could only imagine her emotional trauma in losing my dad, two months before I was born, to some strange and rare blood disease. I must have been so special, and my birth must have consoled her and even replaced the void left by the death of my father. Even now, I knew she was the rock of my life and the standard by which I measured virtues like honour, dignity, and grace. She had refused to allow any man to take a place in her life above me. Even Uncle Bill! I had so badly wanted siblings and another real dad to live with us, but my mother had said I would understand her decisions better when I was much older.

Mom loved me abundantly and taught me by example. Like Grandma Lilee, she had a deep faith in God. I wouldn’t feel guilty not writing about my own mother, then, although thank goodness she did not understand a dot of German! There was Aunty Ruth, who had always been like a second mother to me. She was not biologically related to my parents or the family, but she had been a faithful friend over the years and had crossed over the friendship line to the family one. My mother was also an only child of her parents, and so Aunty Ruth was like the big sister Mom never had! That made her automatically my aunt. It was an African thing. My friends understood, but our white teachers never understood when I said I was holidaying with an aunt who was not a sibling to either of my parents. Her home was my home when my mother had to be at work, and she was the one who came to parents’ meetings or school events when my mom could not be physically present. Moreover, Aunty Ruth frequently visited or spent weekends with us. The love and devotion she showed Mom reached out to me profusely. She had no child of her own, and so I was a daughter figure in her life.

There was my maternal grandpa, George, who was a reverend and a replacement for my father. He was very active in my spiritual development as a Christian. I called him Daddy. His wife, Grandmother Olivia Thompson, Mom’s mother, personally made it possible for me to be close to Mary Woods Harper and even Thomas Chapman, who she said were my ‘cousins’ – in the African way, I guess. They furnished me with stories from their own families, but their presence always made me wonder why my own mother had been an only child and why she had just me. Maybe if my dad had not died, I would have had siblings. Maybe.

Grandma Olivia had enriched my life further with stories passed down by oral tradition, about who I was and where I came from. I learned the history of generations past; their dreams, their migrations, and their occupations. It impressed on my young mind that when I eventually got into high school, I would study political science and concentrate on Africa. I was already in love with all the national heroes like Marcus Garvey and Martin Luther King. My grandparents would never realise how much bravery and encouragement I had imbibed from these collective stories of their lives and those of other Black heroes, and how all of this would become part of my personality and drive.

Or there was my paternal grandma, Lilee, strong, outspoken, and fearless, who still made my mother cower, it seemed.

Right then, like a flash of lightning, my mind took me back seven years to when I was only a seven-year-old kid. I remembered the day well. My long, thick hair was braided in four plaits. Both my paternal and maternal grandparents were celebrating Thanksgiving that year with us, and there was a discussion going on. I did not understand it, but I was drawn to Grandma Lilee. She was very cross about something. I’m sure now that it had to do with racism and apartheid. That evening it was very cold outside. The world was unfriendly and there were problems in the North and South, and Black communities everywhere weren’t happy. I remember being angry that the adults always dragged issues of business and government into celebrations. As the only child there, I sat anxiously and watched as the air of festivity turned cold and unfriendly, just like the world outside. I wished again, as I often did on such occasions, that I had siblings. I looked at Grandma Lilee and wondered about the society she belonged to – I knew she did because of the white t-shirt with pictures of Black people on it that she always wore to meetings.

That bleak November day I sat alone, my appetite level draining fast as Grandma read something to her listeners. Her eyes shone with rage and, to my great surprise, she suddenly turned to me and said, ‘Ngozi! Don’t let anyone call you a Negro. You are an African. In fact, you will be the first amongst us all here to go to Africa!’

I smiled as I remembered her words. That did it! I now knew who had been the biggest influence on my life. I’d known the word ‘Negro’ from age seven – and knew that it was a bad word. Grandma Lilee won! I would centre my writing on her.

As I started to write about her, I felt proud of my heritage, and I suddenly realised that I wanted to be a person who brought change and to make a difference in the Black community and in Africa especially. Ms Ward had done this well, I thought – what a brilliant way to get pupils to reflect on their family history and to see how much they knew about their ancestry. I took my time to gather my thoughts about Grandma Lilee. I wanted to show her off. I could be called to read my write-up aloud – especially as I was usually top in my German class, unless I couldn’t be bothered. This was an essay to bother about! I wrote:

Grandma’s full name is Lilee Coleman. She is married to Samuel Coleman. She is my father’s mother. She was a working-class lady in her working years before she retired. She is very practical, and I admire her courage and fearlessness. She is very confident in herself, and when she speaks she is never known to mince words. To me, Grandma Lilee’s voice is my late father’s voice – which I have never heard. Grandma Lilee is a staunch member of the United Negro Improvement Association, whose founder believed that all African Americans should return, if they wished, back to Africa. (She detests the word ‘Negro’.) She bonds well with family and in-laws like my maternal grandma, Olivia, and my Aunty Ruth.

Grandma Lilee tells me family stories, which are all very rich in history, oral tradition and culture, and that speak of love and family commitment. She tells me that I remind her of her son, my late dad, because I look like him: tall, slim, fair-skinned – and he too had freckles on his face like I have. I cherish her hugs and kisses and I still enjoy her and her husband’s visits...

I paused, thinking it would be good to mention my historical background in relation to my family. I continued to write:

Even though my dad is dead, I know I come from a small family whose ancestors were farmers hailing from Dublin, Georgia. My family relocated to Detroit, Michigan in the 1930s to escape the violence in the South. Grandma Lilee ensured that I did not lose connection with my dad’s line of the family. As a disciplinarian, she has brought me up to value justice and stand for what is right – no matter the cost. But best of all, Grandma Lilee never underestimates me. She believes children are not too young to understand the issues of a world that sees things in white and black colours through segregation.

She was the first person to give me this awareness of my roots and of why I should be proud of my origins. While everyone calls me Marsha Lynne, she and Grandpa Samuel call me ‘Ngozi’ and insisted it be my school name as well, in memory of my dad. Grandpa Samuel had once mentioned that his enslaved mother was Igbo and that Ngozi meant ‘blessing’.

Grandma Lilee is in her mid-seventies, but she has enough fire in her to raze down and scourge anything that stands in her way.

I briefly paused as snatches of conversation I had heard from Grandma Lilee bounced round my mind. ‘I don’t care how you are going to move heaven and earth, but Ngozi is coming out of that class...’

I suddenly felt a sense of panic and the urge to ease myself. Why? What was wrong with my class? I looked around at my classmates, who were struggling with their writing. Most had written half a page and some fewer and they were stuck! I proudly studied my two pages of writing, which I had done in fifteen minutes. Within the next twenty minutes, I would have finished translating it all to German. Thank you, Grandma Lilee, for making this work possible!

I let Ms Ward know I had finished my English section and she was impressed. She came and hovered around me like a pollinating bee as she read my work. I watched her bob her head up and down at intermittent intervals. Finally, she said, ‘Excellent!’ She asked me to pick up a German dictionary and some other resources from her table. I took the opportunity to stretch my legs a little and visit the bathroom.

I drank some water from the tap at the back of the class, then went to her table to collect the stuff for my work and returned to my seat. I was conscious that I needed to find a way to understand what Mom and Grandma were arguing about...

Suddenly I remembered Aunty Ruth. She hadn’t been there on the day, but I was sure my mom would have mentioned it to her. I now knew where I would spend the coming weekend!