The Collected Autobiographies of Maya Angelou by Maya Angelou
I thought I would complete one more paper before a break. I lifted a form letter and a small brown manilla envelope caught my eye. It read, “Grace Nuamah.” I opened it to find a roll of Ghanaian pounds stuffed inside. Happy surprise made me give an involuntary shout. I was living close to economic catastrophe, and I knew how precious the salary was for Grace.
She was demonstrating a dance step to her class when I entered the rehearsal hall. The students saw me first, and she, following her distraction, saw me and stopped the class. We walked together out of the door.
She said, “Sister, welcome back from the town. We missed you, oh.” I said, “Sister Grace, Bertie told me about your pay—”
She interrupted, “Into each life some rain must fall.” Africans whose own lore and literature are rich with proverbs also make frequent use of English axioms.
I told her that I had found something highly unusual on my desk and showed her the envelope.
She said, “But Sister, it’s your pay packet.” I said that my salary had been delivered to me in Accra and offered the envelope. There was not a hint of recognition on her face as she took the packet and began to read. “Well, then …” She narrowed her eyes against the bright sunlight. “Oh, Sister! Oh, Sister!” Stretching her arms over her head, she jumped up. “Oh, Sis-ter, Sis-ter. Hey, thank you, oh.”
Students and musicians and workers, hearing her loud shouts, came running. She said in Ashanti, “Sister is blessed. She found my money. Sister is blessed.” The smiles and pats and hugs would have been worth contriving a recovery of Grace’s loss.
She said, “Sister, I will repay you.” I told her that I was repaid, but she insisted. “Sister, I shall repay you.”
Throughout the day, people stopped in my office to shake my hand, rejoicing in Grace’s good fortune.
Two weeks passed and the memory of the incident waned. University life with its steady routine restored my energies and I felt so good I decided to give myself the treat of having a proper lunch. Like all faculty members, I had been assigned to take meals in one of the university’s eight halls, but it was only on the rare occasion that I visited Volta Hall High Table. The dining room was vast and tiered and quiet. Following the British academic arrangement, students sat at Low Table about four feet beneath the long high row where faculty sat facing them. I joined the members at High Table, without speaking, for we knew each other only casually, and there was no love lost or found between us.
Although the African food had been anglicized, it was delicious. A Ghanaian lamb curry, cooked with a minimum of spices, was served and was accompanied with diced papaya, fresh pineapple, tomatoes and mango. I offended the steward by asking for fresh red pepper.
The steward answered with an imitative British accent, “Oh, but Madam, we don’t serve that.” I knew that students brought their own pepper to the dining room and I was also certain that the steward had had his own cache stored in the kitchen.
When I suggested that maybe he could find a little for me, the White professors looked at me and sniffed disapproval. So typical, their faces seemed to say. So crude a palate and coarse a taste, so typical.
I said loudly, but with courtesy, “If you can’t get some for me, I’m sure one of the students would gladly bring pepper to High Table.” The steward frowned and reminded me of many American Negroes in the early fifties, who were enraged whenever they saw a natural hair style in public. They felt betrayed, as if the women wearing the frizzy coiffure were giving away secrets; as if they were letting White folks know that our hair wasn’t naturally straight. I had seen Black people curse each other on New York City subways and had seen women snubbed in streets throughout the United States because they dared to reveal their Negro-ness.
The steward, infuriated, said “I will find pepper. I will bring pepper to you, Madam.”
I ate slowly, relishing every fiery mouthful, ignoring the departure of the faculty. Innate obstinacy made me order and eat a dessert which I did not want and which the steward did not wish to provide.
Coffee was served in the Senior Common Room, and I took a seat by the window and listened to the conversation in progress.
“It was really a little serio-comedic drama. We had traveled about fifty miles into the interior and at nightfall John stopped and let down the flaps of the Land Rover, so we crawled in the back to go to sleep.”
A woman’s voice cut through the air, “You and the mosquitoes, I don’t doubt.”
“Oh no, we had netting. Anyway, just as we were drowsing, we heard a voice, ‘Ko koko koko ko koko ko.’ ”
West African houses in the interior are often made of thatch or non-resonant land-crete, so a visitor seeking entrance, unable to rap on a responding door, would politely stand outside and make the sound of knocking, “ko ko ko, ko ko ko.”
The storyteller continued, “John lifted the flap and an African stood there dripping wet, wearing a sarong and waving his hand at us.”
At nightfall, a farmer home from his fields would take the akatado, the shawl of his wife’s dress, and go to the bathhouse. After washing, the man would drape himself in cloth before returning for the evening meal.
“John made me put my slacks back on and we got out of the Rover.”
One of the listeners hugged himself and chortled, “Better you than me.”
The woman continued, “We didn’t see that we had a choice. Anyway, we had thought we were miles from civilization, but we followed the man through a few yards of jungle and there was a village.”
The same woman with the keen voice said, “Personally, wild elephants could not have made me leave that car.”
“Well, the man took us to the chief, and he had someone serve us tea with whiskey in it. Pretty terrible, actually, but we drank it. Then an interpreter arrived and the old man, toothless and quite ragged, looked directly at us as he spoke his dialect.”
I thought of the unpleasant irony that Africans and Asians always speak dialects, rarely languages, while Europeans speak languages and almost never dialects.
The woman continued, “The interpreter said, ‘the chief says, you are human beings. I can see that, because I am a human being.’ ”
There was a little laughter in the Common Room.
She went on quoting the old African. “ ‘God made daylight so that human beings can be busy outside tending their farms, fishing, and doing all the things for which they need light. God also gave human beings this head,’ ” she pointed a thin finger at her own head, “ ‘so that they would have enough sense to make indoors. Human beings sleep indoors at night, for God made night so that animals can search for their food, and breed, and have their young.’ ” The woman paused, then added, “Well, I thought that was poetic. Then he sent us to a hut where ledges had been built in the walls. We were given mats to sleep on. I guess it was a kind of guest house. John said the people who had lived there before had died of mosquito bites. Anyway, we slept in our clothes and in the morning a woman was cooking over a fire just outside and she gave us yams and crab stew about seven-thirty in the morning. Imagine crab stew at seven-thirty in the morning. When we tried to give her a tip, she refused, and beckoning us to follow, took us back to the old man and the translator was called again. He stood before the chief who looked at us and shook his head as if we were naughty children. When he stopped talking, the translator said, ‘The chief says “you are human beings. I can see that. God has chosen to make you without a proper skin. I do not question why. I accept. We brought you inside and slept you and fed you because you are humans. You cannot pay us. We did not make you human. God did that. You are traveling in a strange land. What less could we do? If I came to your land, and was outside, you would have to do the same for me. Could I pay you? No. For you did not make me. God did that.’ ”
A man with a mouthful of coffee sputtered, “Can’t you just imagine the old codger caught in a revolving door in New York expecting somebody to help him because God made him?”
There was a rou
An English woman stood, dropped her napkin and spoke in a low voice. “Even if that story is true you should never tell it again. You and your husband sound like ungrateful clods, and the African has the grace of Saint Augustine. I must say that I don’t pity you. I don’t pity Africa. I pity Europe. What poor representatives she has sent abroad. I am here to give three seminars. I must say I’ll be relieved to go. You are an embarrassment.”
The woman left and there was more soft embarrassed laughter. I sat watching the little group, wondering and curious to see what they would do and even more interested to learn what I would do.
“Well, must be going.”
“I, too. See you at seven?”
“Of course.”
“Ciao.”
“Ta.”
And they were gone. I looked at the steward, but his face had no more expression than a black billiard ball. I gathered my belongings and left the Common Room walking in an air of pleasant pride. I had not let my heart be troubled, I had not spoken idiotically, and I was overjoyed that the English woman whom I had seen only once had stood up and talked back. It was sad that she was leaving, and I wouldn’t have the chance to know her.
On an early morning the small figure of a woman stood in my office door. I was used to being at the institute long before other faculty members, so I supposed the figure to be a student, but as I neared I recognized Grace Nuamah.
Her smile was white and wide and a wonderful morning treat. “Sister Maya, welcome. Sister Maya, I came early to ask you to come to lunch with me today.” It wasn’t yet eight o’clock. “I wanted to ask you before you made other plans. A special friend of mine is preparing food. And Sister, there will be no fish.”
Grace and I left Legon under the blistering midday sun.
“Sister, I am still thanking you. We’re going to Ring Road and then over to Asylum Down.”
I asked whose house we were visiting. Her smile was sassy. She said, “Someone who knows how much I am in your debt. Just you wait and see.”
After we reached Accra, the drive was short. Following her directions, I stopped the car in front of a large impressive house surrounded by palms and a beautifully kept flower garden. Grace laughed with happy anticipation.
“Just you wait, Sister Maya.”
Her expectation was contagious, and I became excited. The door was closed, which was unusual in Ghana, and meant that the house was air conditioned.
A servant greeted us. Seeing Grace, he grinned, “Ooo, Auntie, welcome.” He spoke Ashanti, so I assumed our hosts were also from the north. In the foyer, I was introduced and the servant nodded solemnly to me, but gave his smile back to Grace.
“He is expecting you, Auntie Grace. Please come and sit; I will bring beer.”
We followed him into the richest living room I had seen in Ghana. Over-stuffed sofas were discreetly placed on Oriental rugs. Ornate sconces hung on walls covered with flocked paper. Crystal and silver sat on highly polished tables and recorded music issued softly into the room.
When Grace and I were alone, I asked, “Who are these folks?” Grace, still grinning, said, “Just you wait.”
We were sipping beer from German steins when a side door opened and a slim man of medium height wearing a suit, shirt and tie entered the room. He moved like a dancer and spoke in a rich baritone voice.
“Oh, little Grace. So you have come. What honor you bring to my humble house.”
He took Grace’s hands and drew her up from the sofa. She purred like a stroked kitten. He said, “You have stayed away entirely too long. If our relationship is in jeopardy, the crime must be on your head and it is you who will pay.”
He was laying it on and Grace was loving it, twisting her short body from side to side, taking one hand then the other from his grasp to put over her mouth as she smiled coquettishly. Their chatter and gestures came to an abrupt stop and Grace said, “Brother, I have brought my friend.” They both turned to look at me, and I knew at once that I had been a spectator at a ritual which had been choreographed for my enjoyment.
“Sister Maya, this is my dear friend Abatanu.” Now the man smiled for me. His teeth were white as if they had just been painted.
He reached for my hands and I stood.
“Miss Angelou, you have made a great impression on Grace, and she is not easily impressed. Welcome.”
He held my hands a moment too long, and looked just a little too deeply into my eyes. I decided in those first moments that I didn’t like his type. His suaveness was too practiced and his sophistication too professional. When he led the conversation to my background, my family, and where I lived in the States, Grace became silent, allowing us to get acquainted. Although I knew how to equivocate and to flirt by oblique responses, the man’s manner so put me off that I answered politely, but directly. Only a charlatan or a fool will ignore rejection, and Mr. Abatanu was neither.
When we sat down to lunch, he spoke only to Grace, and although she repeatedly tried to include me in their conversation, he would have none of it. Grace saw her match-making intentions foiled by our mutual lack of interest, and tried every gambit to sow interest between me and my host, but at last admitting failure, we finished the meal amid awkward silences.
My departure was plain. I shook hands with Abatanu and he soberly accepted my thanks for lunch. Grace said she’d join me in the car, so I went outside and didn’t have long to wait.
“Sister.” Hurt and reprimand vied for prominence in her voice. “Sister,” she shook her head, “Oh, Sister, and I was trying to thank you. He is a fine man, educated man, rich man, and he loves women, oh.”
“Grace, I was glad to meet him, so I thank you.”
“No, Sister, you didn’t like him and when he saw that, he stopped liking you.”
“Sister Grace, he never started liking me.”
“I told you I would thank you, and you probably thought I forgot, but I have been talking to Abatanu for weeks about you, and when finally I had everything arranged you didn’t like him. Oh, pity, Sister. Pity.”
It was hot. I was driving and more than a little irritated that I had spent an entire afternoon bored. I said, “Sister Grace, not to be rude, but if he is so fine, why don’t you have him?”
My question surprised her and drove the frown from her face. She laughed and put her hand lightly on her breast.
“Me? Me? Oh no! When you have a big beautiful gold nugget, you don’t melt it down to play with it. You might lose it. A wise person puts the nugget in a strong box and saves it for an important occasion. Sister Maya, I’ve been saving him a long time, and I was giving him to you.”
She stayed quiet for a while as I drove through heavy afternoon traffic, then she gave a great sigh and asked the breeze, “And what about him? Oh, what does he think?”
Years before I memorized a George Eliot quote, “I never feel sorry for conceited people, supposing they carry their comfort around with them.” Abatanu had enough comfort to cushion him from a drop higher than the one I furnished for him. I said nothing. Grace sighed again and said, “An African woman would have appreciated the gift and accepted it.”
I hadn’t been expecting her to give me a teddy bear or a talking doll. I gave my attention to the highway, hurrying back to Legon. When we stopped, I got out and took Grace’s hand. “Sister, I truly appreciate your thinking so kindly of me, and I’m grateful for your generosity.”
Grace would not or could not surrender her distress.
“Sister, I knew Americans were different, but.…” She shook her head, patted my shoulder, and I stroked her arm. We stood looking at each other with nothing more to say.
Sheikhali was late again. I had been dressed and waiting for two hours. His tardiness had become so frequent that even as I prepared for a rendezvous I did so slowly, knowing there would be no need to rush.
Our date was for seven. At nine-thirty I got into my car and drove to the Star Hotel.
The head wai
He wore a flowing white robe and red tasseled fez. He was followed by the small Mamali who wore a matching outfit. They strode to my table. Sheikhali called for another chair and the two men sat down.
“Maya. I went to your house. It was dark. Even the servants refused to answer.” I decided not to tell him that both Otu and Kojo were away.
“I went to the Continental Hotel, the Lido, L’auberge. Am I a man to chase a woman? Look at me.” Anger had furrowed his face and tightened his throat. “My French is not good enough. I have brought Mamali to speak for me.”
For the first time Mamali spoke, “Good evening, Sister. Sheikhali has asked me to translate for him. He will speak Fufulde. I will translate into French.”
Mamali spoke with warmth, but his posture and words were formal.
Sheikhali leaned back in his chair and looked at Mamali.
“Bon?”
Mamali nodded, the big man coughed and began. His language was melodic and his voice soft. He stopped.
Mamali said, “I have walked thousands of miles through forest storms, and I know under which tree to stand when the rains fall; a certain tree can change the mind of the winds. I know.”
Mamali stopped so that Sheikhali could resume. He spoke for a long time. When his voice fell, the attentive Mamali spoke again.
“I know the desert. I find my way through sand that burns and sun that bites, and I am never lost. I look at a cow. I feed a horse. I know them. I look at the moon and read the weather. You know books. Me, I know life. I have never been into one school. Not one. You read. I can write my name. So you know schools, but I know man, woman, cow, horse, desert, jungle, sun and moon. Who is smart, you or me?”