As Ike walked into his apartment, the phone began to ring. He paused, poised between irritation and curiosity. His voice came alive on the answering message, inviting the caller to leave a message. Then he heard: “Ike, Usman Wai here. Long time. Well, nothing important as such, just touching base. Give me a call tonight when you get in—however late. Actually, I’m going to be up till midnight or twelve thirty. If I don’t hear from you today—”
Ike lurched and snatched up the handset.
“Hello, Usman!” he shouted into the phone.
“You little rascal,” Usman teased. “You’re now screening calls?”
“Actually I was in the middle of something.”
“Oh yeah?” Usman said, chuckling. “You just got divorced, and you’re already getting into another middle.”
“Dirty mind! Who told you I was in that line of activity?”
“I don’t trust you Nigerians with middle affairs.”
“Oh, so you little Sierra Leoneans have now picked up the habit of insulting your Nigerian masters?”
Usman roared in his shuddering laughter. “You Nigerians always confuse size with seniority.”
They had not spoken for close to three years. Usman was the first African Ike met after moving to New York. They used to exchange visits and hold long telephone conversations, at least twice a week. Then Usman had called one day when Ike wasn’t at home. Ike and Bernita had had one of their incessant, senseless fights. He had stormed off to the quietude of Saint Stephen’s and from there to a bar. Bernita had answered the call. As Usman expressed pleasantries, she cut him short.
“I ain’t interested in none of your Zulu greetings,” she screamed. Usman laughed nervously, thinking she was joking. He froze when Bernita huffed, “And I ain’t laughing with your Zulu ass needa.” Stunned silent, he listened as she outlined his offenses. In essence, he was accused of procuring “wide-ass Zulu bitches” for Ike.
Ike had apologized profusely to Usman, but the wound was hard to heal. Their friendship had seemed to cease. And now came Usman’s surprise call.
Usman was in his late sixties but had stern eyes that belied a genial nature. He spoke with a broadcaster’s baritone. And he had enjoyed a bright career as a young broadcaster with the Ghana Broadcasting Corporation. The coup that ended Kwame Nkrumah’s reign also swept away a corps of idealistic professionals who’d meandered their way to Ghana, drawn by Nkrumah’s Pan-African vision.
“What a surprise, Usman. You just cut off and went underground,” Ike said.
“Your bee stung me,” Usman teased. “I had to run for cover.”
“And you left me to battle the bee all alone.” Ike snickered. “Some brother you are!”
“My mother didn’t raise a man who would stand up to a bee. I know when to run four forty.”
Again, the sound of deafening commotion outside Cadilla’s store flooded Ike’s apartment. As Usman spoke, Ike’s antennae were tuned to the irksome racket.
“Hello?” Usman shouted. “Are you upset I called?”
“Why would you even think it?” Ike asked.
“You just sighed.”
“I did? Well, there’s this bunch of kids down at the store …”
“What about them?” Usman asked.
“Well, day or night, they gather outside the store. They’re there, rapping and screaming. I’m going to shout down and tell them to go home and sleep.”
“You’re out of your mind, you funny fellow,” Usman said between spasms of laughter. “Who do you fancy yourself to be, a village headmaster?”
“I’m tired of their rowdiness.”
“My friend, don’t mess with these American kids. You’re looking at the freest kids in the whole world. They can curse you out real bad. And they have the law on their side, too.”
“It’s not funny,” Ike said severely.
“You think I was testing out some comedy sketch here? I’ve lived in this country long enough to know that you leave kids alone. They could kick your ass, too.”
Ike stayed silent, seething.
“So, tell me about Queen,” Usman demanded.
“It’s over. We’re divorced.”
“What kind of divorce did you have?”
“Are there varieties? A menu list?”
“I mean, was it contentious and protracted?”
“Short and bitter.”
“Acrimonious?”
“You’re just in love with big words, Usman. You know Queen. Do you think she would care for an amicable way of doing anything? For her, even sex was like waging a war!”
“Leave out the pornographic asides,” Usman teased. “I’m not interested in those.”
“Instruction taken. So, Bee hired an attack dog for an attorney. Her attorney was this short woman with a quiet face. But when she opened her mouth—phew! It was fire, Usman! The way she came after me, you would think I was a Manhattan millionaire.”
“How was your own lawyer?”
“Terrible! A wimp! She behaved as if her job was to worship Queen Bee’s lawyer. And I was paying her!”
“Did Bernita gun for money?”
“Gun?” Ike echoed as sadness descended on his mood. “She gunned and got! I think the judge found her lawyer intimidating. Basically, the judge ruled that Bee should walk away with my savings.”
“Listen,” Usman said, “you’ll rise again.”
Ike thought, Rise again? Had he, he wondered, really risen before? The idea perplexed him. But his mind soon fastened on the coming trip. His spirits rose. He looked about the room until he caught his image in the mirror. Dark circles ringed his eyes. He leaned close to the mirror and peered at the mild devastation his face had become. Then, recalling Usman’s words, he smiled at the mirror.
“I will rise,” he said, fondling a bottle of Red Stripe. Quite unexpectedly, Bernita scooted into his mind. For how could his rise be complete or confirmed if she did not stalk him again, as on the day of their meeting at that wedding in Baltimore? Buoyed by the vision, he raised the bottle to his lips, sucked, and rinsed his mouth with the swill. Then, slowly, he swallowed.
“The good thing is, you’re a talented young man. America offers great opportunities.”
“I used to think so, too,” Ike said wearily. “But now I know better.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve become one of those who bash this country. I’ve lived here twice as long as you. There’s no place in the world where people like us have it better.”
“You could be an American Methuselah, if you wish. But I also know what I know. With a cum laude in economics, I have been driving taxis for thirteen years. Do you know why?”
“You told me before.”
“Yes, it’s all about my accent! So the talk about opportunities—it’s ridiculous.”
“You hate it here? My friend, try Europe. Or Asia.”
“Well, I’m here for now, not in Europe. We’re supposed to be living in this new global setting—a village, many call it. In college, I took classes where the buzzwords were ‘synergy,’ ‘hybridity,’ ‘affinities,’ ‘multivalency,’ ‘borderlessness,’ ‘transnationality,’ whatnot. My sister lives in Onitsha, near my village, but she has Internet access. A gallery somewhere in this city buys and sells deities from Africa and other parts of the world. Many American companies are selling stuff to people in my village. They’re certainly selling stuff to me, to lots of people who speak the way I do. But I apply for a job and I’m excluded because of ‘my accent,’ quote, unquote. It’s worse than telling me outright I’m a foreigner, I don’t belong. Then academics rush in to theorize me into an exile. That’s why I refuse to wear that tag.”
“I’m not going to argue with you. You feel quarantined because of your accent, and you’re a bitter kid. I would be, too, if employers treated the way I speak as a terrible disease. I’d be hopping mad, as a matter of fact. But why am I even discussing accents with you? I called to see how you were doing.”
“After the human hurricane swept over me?”
“Exactly! So, what are your immediate plans?”
“Why don’t we plan to meet next week, for lunch or something? My treat.”
“I will be in Nigeria next week. In my village, in fact.”
“Is everything okay?”
“My mother summoned me home ASAP. My sister has cluttered my in-box with e-mails demanding I come home to take care of some business. She writes on my mother’s behalf. I wish they had just sent me the ticket.”
“You really have to go, it sounds like.”
“Sounds like? I’ve booked a solid seat on KLM. I’ve also found a great business opportunity.”
Usman asked, “Sounds like you’re about to make some good money?”
“Serious money, yes.”
Usman laughed. Infected, Ike laughed, too.
“Doing what, exactly?” Usman asked. “Gambling?”
Ike chortled and then collected himself. “A trade secret! If I tell you, I have to kill you.”
“Don’t get into drugs, my friend.” Usman’s tone was devoid of joviality. “These American chaps have no mercy in their dictionary. They can throw your ass in the slammer—and let you rot there.”
“I won’t touch drugs, am I crazy?” Ike protested.
“You got me scared for a moment.”
“No, my deal is clean. It’s the main reason I’m making this trip, even though it’s costing me lots of money I don’t have.”
“You’re the first African cabdriver I know to ever complain about lack of cash. The others roll in lots of cash.”
“They didn’t marry Queen Bee!”
They succumbed to long, hard laughter. Then Usman spoke with his characteristic humor.
“Listen, I have a little bit of cash lying around. I can put two thousand dollars in your pocket. Half of it is a gift; let’s call it my contribution to your post-Bee survival fund. The other half is a loan.”
“Are you sure?” Ike asked, stunned.
“No,” Usman said. Then, feigning a child’s voice, he added, “Let me go and ask my mommy.”
Ike said he’d repay the full amount. Usman insisted on giving him half as a gift. He said he would drop off the cash at Ike’s apartment the next day, around seven in the evening.