Makenju started awake as the plane bumped the ground. He stretched and looked up. Akbar was shrugging into his shoulder rig and reaching for his jacket. The queen was not in sight.
“She must be in back getting herself ready for the public,” he muttered to himself. He stretched again, opened the drawer and loaded his Ruger. Habit forced him to jack a round in the chamber and safety the weapon before he stood and jammed it in his waistband.
Akbar donned a pair of oversized aviator glasses. “How do I look?”
Makenju eyed his protégé. “Like a bloody candidate for the Tonton Macoutes,” he said, stifling a yawn.
The plane cruised to a halt, and the pilots began their post flight. Minutes later, a door to the cabin at the rear of the jet opened, and Maryam appeared, clad in the khaki dress, scarf, and dark glasses. She carried the bomber jacket in the crook of her arm.
“Gentlemen?”
“Majesty.”
“Mrs. Oludara,” she gently corrected.
“Procedure, Ma’am: A member from our embassy will meet us on the tarmac. Akbar will exit first, confirm the man’s credentials, and we’ll quickly be on our way. Your luggage will travel in a separate car.”
“Where are we staying?”
“The Sheraton. Right by the lake. Security is good there. When President Clinton was in office, he and the First Lady stayed there.”
“Very good.”
“We have adjoining rooms. You in one, Akbar and I in the other. Check in has been arranged and the man from the embassy will have the keys. We will go north on Lake Shore Drive and enter through the underground garage.”
“Can’t we just go through the front door?”
Makenju eyed Akbar warily.
“Perhaps next time, Ma’am. Our job is to keep you safe, and we don’t have a full strength security contingent. Let’s take as few chances as possible.”
“Very good.”
The pilots alighted from the cockpit, side arms noticeable on their waists. Makenju and Akbar nodded at them. The co pilot undid some latches and the door swung downward. He went out first, followed by Akbar. Maryam hesitated for a moment until Akbar called into the plane, then she went down the steps, followed by Makenju.
“The pilot?” Maryam climbed into the back of a Mercedes saloon, rear door held by her other bodyguard.
“Both will stay and ensure the plane is secure and prepped for immediate takeoff.”
Makenju glanced around the tarmac one last time and hefted himself into the Mercedes. Inside, Akbar and the Queen sat in one seat. In the jump seat sat a thin black man with a large head and a florid looking white man.
“Your Majesty,” the black man began, “Welcome back to the States. My name is Alim. It is my pleasure to serve you on your visit. Allow me to introduce Mr. Rupert, US Department of State.”
“You spooks can’t get your own ride?” Akbar grumbled.
Rupert smiled, showing yellow teeth. “Good morning, Your Majesty. Major Akbar. I took the liberty of having your customs processing done. If I may have your passports?”
Akbar produced the three booklets. Rupert took them and efficiently stamped them. Alim rapped on the window separating them from the driver, and the car started east.
“Closer than O’Hare?” Makenju asked.
“Much,” Alim agreed. “More importantly, almost a straight ride to the university campus.”
“Your majesty, majors,” Rupert began, “I understand this is an unofficial, personal visit. Please understand, however, the government of the United States has a vested interest in your safety while you are here. I understand these two men,” Rupert nodded in their general direction, “will provide personal security. I must make you aware the government will have plainclothes men in close proximity for the duration of your visit.”
“It was our express intent to not arouse any attention during this trip,” Akbar growled.
“Understood, Major, and we will be discreet. We cannot, however, allow the sovereign of a foreign nation to just roam around Chicago, or any of our cities, for that matter, protected by just two men. The international repercussions, should something unfortunate occur, would be disastrous.”
Makenju nodded and looked out of the window as 55th Street whizzed by.
“So what is it you are saying, Mr. Rupert?” Maryam asked graciously.
“Just know, Ma’am that we are watching.”
Makenju did not like the sound of that, but he said nothing.
The Mercedes made a left and pulled onto the Dan Ryan expressway.
“Also, Ma’am, if you could see fit to have your embassy alert ours when you leave Chicago, we would appreciate it.”
“Fine,” Akbar groaned.
“We understand security, ma’am. But…how can I put this delicately?”
“Feel free to be candid, Mr. Rupert.”
“I know your men are armed. Rightfully so. If possible, we want to avoid any…incidents. Major Makenju’s reputation in intelligence circles is, well, one of violence.”
Akbar snorted.
“Please accept the State Department’s support,” Rupert concluded cryptically.
“Of course, Mr. Rupert,” Maryam replied gently. “And do thank your government for me. This is, however, merely a mother coming to town to check on her college aged daughter, whom she has not seen in some months. My visit is not that of a monarch but a mother. The duty that has been mine since birth dictates these other precautions. I am pleased, however, the US government has taken such an interest in my security, and I appreciate it.”
She’s lying, Makenju thought. She’s as pissed as Akbar is. We won’t be staying at the Sheraton long, that’s for sure.
“Mr. Alim,” the queen continued.
“Ma’am?”
“While I am here, I am Mrs. Oludara. I want for the embassy to provide my men with an automobile. We want to remain discreet.”
“Will you require a driver, Ma’am?”
“Thank you, no. My escorts will see to that.”
Rupert raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“Please have someone meet us at the hotel with the vehicle, Mr. Alim. Thank you.”
Alim pulled a telephone from the armrest and spoke rapidly in his native tongue.
“Done, Mrs. Oludara.”
Maryam sat primly while the Mercedes merged onto Lake Shore Drive and headed north.
“That Ferris wheel is divine,” she said softly to Makenju.
“Navy Pier is one of our city’s most famous attractions,” Rupert began, “along with our museum campus, and of course, shopping on the Magnificent Mile.”
Makenju shook his head. Did this man think the Queen flew a few thousand miles nonstop to shop?
The Mercedes rolled to a stop under Wacker Drive. The State Department man got out first, followed by Akbar, Alim, and Makenju, who extended his hand to help the Queen exit the car. She took it and squeezed it gently. He noticed. It made him a bit angry.
They stepped into the parking garage and headed for the elevator, where a homeless man sat in a chair with a bundle of papers at his feet.
“Mate, if you’re going to be undercover,” Makenju grinned, “try not shaving for a day or two.”
The man stared blankly, and Rupert shook his head. Once on the elevator, he turned to Makenju.
“I told him that,” the white man grinned ruefully. “Trust me; the rest of our guys won’t be so obvious.”
“Hope not,” Akbar removed his aviators.
Rupert and Alim followed them to the doors of their adjoining suites. Akbar pulled his revolver from under his shoulder and put it at his side. Makenju did the same with his Ruger.
“I can assure you that won’t be necessary,” Rupert said nervously.
“Tell that to the Secret Service when your president visits our country,” Makenju replied calmly. Akbar went in the room, gun drawn. Minutes later, he emerged from the other door.
“Clear,” he called. The elevator opened and a dark man in a western cut suit bustled out. Makenju pushed Maryam into the open doorway, and Akbar slammed the door. By the time the man reached the door at a quick lope, Makenju’s automatic was in his face.
Alim looked shocked. Rupert groaned.
“We have to avoid this kind of thing,” he muttered.
“Can I help you,” Makenju asked pleasantly, ignoring the other two men.
Alim looked steadily at Makenju.
“This is Muhammad from the embassy,” he said slowly, “more than likely he has the keys to your automobile.”
Muhammad didn’t bat an eye. Makenju laughed to himself. What a place, this Chicago, he thought. Where gofers take having a weapon thrust in their face as just another day at the office.
“Can I reach in my pocket for the keys?” Muhammad asked with a grin.
Makenju grinned back and lowered his pistol. Muhammad’s grin got wider as he flipped some keys out of his pocket and Makenju caught them, in his free hand, mid air.
“Cadillac CTS-V. Couple of years old, but she runs good. Diplomatic plates,” Muhammad started.
“Not very discreet,” Makenju commented.
“Sorry, Major, all of the bulletproof station wagons are in service,” Muhammad never stopped grinning.
“Do I know you, son?” Makenju found himself liking the young man’s attitude.
“I did my stint in the army before going into diplomatic service,” Muhammad admitted. “Everyone knows you Major. Pleasure to meet you.” He stuck out a hand.
Makenju shoved his Ruger in his waistband and shook the younger man’s hand heartily.
“Pleasure’s all mine, soldier. But don’t,” he grinned wickedly, “ask me to tell any old war stories, deal?”
“Deal. Alim?” Muhammad turned to the thin man. “I drove the Cadillac over here. Any chance I can ride back in the limo with you?”
Alim nodded warily. Muhammad produced a card from his breast pocket.
“My mobile number is on there, major,” he said. “if you need anything, you call.” He shook Makenju’s hand again. “Oh, and by the way? That CTS has the Corvette engine in it. With those diplo plates, no one is going to stop you. I’d give it a go if I were you.”
Rupert paled. Makenju laughed. Alim started down the hall.
“What’d you do in service, Muhammad?”
Muhammad laughed and turned to follow the Alim. “Motor pool, sir.”
“So the Caddy?”
“125 like sitting in your living room, sir. ‘'Scuse me. Call me if you need me.”
Makenju waved and knocked on the door. Akbar opened it. Maryam sat at a desk in the suite, which was luxurious, but far from regal.
“All good?” Akbar grinned. Some soldiers love their work.
“Yeah. Kid from the embassy. Dropped off a nice Cadillac for us. Ma’am?” he looked at Maryam and smiled, “You OK?”
“Indeed. Thank you for saving me from one of my own people, Major.”
“I was not aware that royalty engaged in sarcasm,” Makenju mused. Akbar shook his head and opened the door to the adjoining room.
“Major?”
“Ma’am?”
“Close the door, please.”
Makenju did as he was told. Maryam stood and walked over to her. She stopped just short of her nose touching the top button of his shirt.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Makenju’s head swam.
The queen let out a soft, throaty laugh.
“How long have you been waiting to push me like that?” she asked quietly.
“Just doing my job, Ma’am.”
“Let’s remember this is a job, Ibrahim. It is something else, too.”
“I know my job, he said, “something else, where you and yours are involved, is always a bit more confusing.”
“I want to see Chicago,” she said in a small voice.
“You’re in charge, Ma’am. I’m just a hired gun. With a recently expunged military prison record, at that.”
“And?”
“You call the shots, I shoot. You want to see this city; I guess I am at your disposal.”
She smiled.
“Any chance we can lose Akbar?”
“Negative.”
“He feels like a third wheel.”
“He is here to protect his sovereign, Ma’am. From what I hear of Chicago, I’ll need all the help that I can get. ”
“May May,” she pleaded softly.
“Mrs. Oludara.”
“We have to find that silly girl…eventually.”
“It is why we are here, right? Could be wrong, but that’s why you got me out of jail?”
Maryum Oludara laid her head against the soldier’s broad chest.
“I don’t need my bodyguard. I need my friend. I need some rest from…everything. I need to find my child and make sure she is fine. Please understand, Ibrahim.”
Makenju stood still, his mind racing.
He opened his mouth, and Maryum reached up and put a finger to it.
“I don’t want to talk about your feelings. I know how you feel. You have made your feelings quite clear. That was a different time. Things have changed. You have to accept that. You cannot do anything about the past. I tried to right it as best I could. You have to move on, Ibrahim. You can continue to be angry about the time you spent or you can try to find happiness in the future.” She hugged him.
Makenju hugged her back, briefly, and said, “It is not enough. Eventually, Maryum, you have to acknowledge what happened. You have to acknowledge how I felt. May May, you have to admit the role you played in all of this. Only then will it start to get better.”
He disengaged and headed for the door to his room.
“Major?”
“Ma’am?”
“We shall leave for the university within the hour.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
The Flight
A weary Makenju, clean, freshly shaven and polished, leaned over the desk where the Queen’s majordomo had spread several papers.
“Your passports,” he handed them each an official booklet bearing their names and photos.
“Because of my service to the state, I needed a new one,” Makenju joked.
The majordomo, a shrew of a man named Igweike, saw no humor in this.
“These are diplomatic passports,” he shrilled. “At a level only just below that of the ambassador.”
“Will Her Majesty be traveling under her own passport or an assumed name?”
The little man gave Makenju a chilly look.
“Royalty does not require passports. However, in the interests of discretion and security, Her Majesty will travel under her own name, Mrs. Maryam Oludara, on a diplomatic passport as well. The royal family does not use aliases under any circumstances, gentlemen.”
Makenju chuckled. Akbar shook his head.
“Your diplomatic status allows you to carry weapons as diplomatic security for Mrs. Oludara.”
“Good. Make mine a howitzer.”
“Standard issue Ruger automatics or Smith and Wesson revolvers are what we provide. Plus all of the ammunition you can use.”
Makenju let that pass.
“Thank God,” Akbar murmured.
“You should go on Death Row sometimes, Brother,” Makenju grinned, “release is quite…liberating. No pun intended.”
“Her Majesty will be provided with transport from the embassies. They are on alert from around the globe that she could arrive within several hours’ notice. Drivers will be provided.”
“No need,” Akbar said.
“He’s right,” Makenju agreed. “She wants it just the three of us.”
Igweike pouted somewhat, but he saw the two army officers were not going to relent.
“Fine,” he sighed. “Under the terms of our treaty with the several countries in question, as diplomats of this level you can be neither stopped nor detained for any reason whatsoever. Should you run into difficulties, please contact the nearest embassy.”
Makenju cleared his throat and spoke. “What about the media? If I have to put a bullet in some crazy to save her life…”
“The embassy will work that out. All of the embassies have considerable sway with the media in our host countries. Given your reputation, though, Major, please understand these agreements have their limits. Try not to live up to your renown as a homicidal maniac.”
“Well, there’s that,” Akbar said drily.
“Old man,” Makenju said heartily, “You don’t seem enthused at the thought of this adventure.”
“Major, I just want to get the princess home and safe. As soon as possible.” Akbar was glum.
“This is not a visit of state and again, discretion is pertinent. The Queen has arranged for a private jet, paid with her own funds, to transport you. The pilots will be from the Air Force, however, volunteers who can act as back up security if need be.”
Both majors nodded.
“I guess,” Akbar said, his chiseled ebony face grim, “We can get started.”
“Your mission?”
Grunt.
“Majesty wished that I would brief you…”
“She can’t do it on the plane?” Makenju asked. “I thought time was important…”
Few stares were more glacial than Igweike’s.
“Fine,” both majors chorused.
“Princess Thandiwe is pursuing undergraduate studies at the University of Chicago. Government.”
“No Harvard?”
“The U of C is a respected institution with a strong school of government located in an area known for discretion.”
There was that word again. Everything about the damned royal family centered on discretion, Makenju thought bitterly.
“She may attend Harvard for graduate studies before coming home to take instruction from her mother regarding her life’s role of service to her people.”
“Beauty of a matriarchal society,” Akbar said drily.
“Indeed. It appears the princess has disappeared, but no foul play is suspected. Her condominium was left in a state as if she was taking a planned trip. Mail held at the local post office. Perishables disposed of. Her luggage is gone.”
“So what’s the purpose of this trip? A junket to the States armed to the teeth at the taxpayer’s expense?” Makenju was happy to be free, but already finding himself tiring of people who took things for granted.
“Her Majesty, Mrs. Oludara, is under the impression the Princess is involved with the wrong type of young man, someone who could disgrace both the princess and the royal family should their relations continue. She wants her daughter returned to school; her security team replaced, and most importantly, wants to have an old fashioned mother/daughter conversation about right and wrong.”
“Why not just send her to school here?” Akbar was glum again. “Plenty of universities in Africa.”
“It is not my place to question the royal prerogative,” Igweike sniffed.
“When do we leave?” Makenju asked.
“As soon as the quartermaster outfits you.”
“No,”Makenju corrected. ‘As soon as I see my paperwork, signed by Her Majesty and the Vice General, reinstating me to the army with full benefits and authority due my rank.” His face grew hard.
Igweike pulled an envelope from under the sheaf of papers.
“She said you would ask.”
“She was right,” Makenju retorted. “Hmmm…a year’s retroactive pay, too. And why is it you can’t get the mail delivered on time?”
Igweike shrugged, the most plebian expression he had made since they arrived.
“To the quartermaster’s,” Makenju ordered.
An hour later, outfitted with pistols (Akbar, the better shot, opted for a 357 revolver) and duffel bags of gear, a civilian jeep sped them to the tarmac at Seko Selassie Mohammad airport. Sitting beside a smart Gulfstream devoid of any markings was an idling Rolls Royce.
“That’s certainly discreet,” Makenju muttered as he hefted his gear from the jeep. Akbar went to meet the air force officer standing at the foot of the retractable steps. Makenju waited until the driver alighted from the Royce and went for its rear door. Everyone save Makenju and Akbar was in uniform.
The Queen stepped from her vehicle unassisted, as her driver hefted a suitcase from its boot and followed her to the foot of the plane’s steps.
“Rather tall for a bodyguard,” Makenju thought, as he reached for the weapon at the small of his back.
She was beautiful. Short, plump, and every inch a monarch, with oversized dark glasses covering most of her small, delicate face and a dark green scarf covering her head. She wore a khaki dress and a smooth letter bomber jacket festooned with air force insignia several sizes larger than she against the cool night. She hugged the driver, a strange show of public affection. Stranger was the driver reached down, hoisted her up a few inches and kissed her mouth. Giggling was unregal, but she did it anyway.
Akbar stepped forward.
“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness,” he saluted.
“No, Major, the prince corrected, “We are just Mr. & Mrs. Oludara here. A husband dropping his wife off at the airport. We could be any other couple leaving a loved one behind to take a trip.” The prince actually grinned. His dimmed slightly when he saw Makenju .approached, duffel in tow.
“Your Royal Highness,” Makenju’s eyes met the monarch’s.
“Major.”
The royals, Makenju noted, had their issues. Adherence to protocol and respect for those serving them were not their problem.
Makenju took the lead, going up the steps of the plane, searching it thoroughly, although he knew it had already been examined. He beckoned to his queen, who then alighted, followed by Akbar. Makenju and Akbar introduced themselves to the pilots, whom the queen thanked for their service to the crown. The pilots beamed and returned to the cockpit as the monarch and her two handlers strapped themselves in. Akbar took a window seat in the living room like cabin. Mrs. Oludara took an opposite window seat that allowed her to see the Rolls Royce on the tarmac, where her husband stood, waving. She pulled off his bomber jacket and settled into the comfortable leather lounge.
Makenju looked this scenario over with mild disgust, then unholstered his pistol, ejected the magazine, ensured the slide was empty and put them in a drawer beside his chair. He tilted his head back and tried to get some sleep as the Gulfstream taxied. The aircraft was aloft in no time and banking east. The pilots had assured him theirs would be a direct flight to Chicago. The plane had been retrofitted with auxiliary fuel tanks that would land them at Midway airport sometime late the next day.
Sometime after reaching cruising altitude, Makenju felt the plane’s wings dip back and forth. He opened his eyes and saw two fighter jets bearing air force markings on either side of the Gulfstream.
“So much for discreet and privately funded,” he said aloud.
Mrs. Oludara looked up from her book and gestured that he should come sit with her. Akbar appeared asleep, but Makenju knew he missed nothing.
“How are you Ibrahim?” she asked, genuine concern in her voice.
“Well, twenty four hours ago I was using a pail to dispose of my own excrement. Now I am in a multi million dollar aircraft with a billion dollars of machinery on either side of said aircraft. Two days ago I had a black armband and a knife made from a razor blade stuck through a toothbrush handle for protection. Today there is an unloaded 40 caliber P944 in the drawer with my fingerprints on it. Oh, yeah, I’m richer by a whole year’s salary today. Yesterday I was unemployed and wondering where I would get money for smokes.”
“I put money on your books several times. Thandiwe made me. It was a difficult transaction to carry off, but we did it.”
“Yeah, I could picture that. One of your aides discretely adding commissary money to an accused killer’s books for the lady whose husband, who happens to be the Vice General of the armed forces, had imprisoned on false charges. Is that a regular practice for him? I asked around. Place was a regular Chateau dIf. Forget the back pay. Perhaps I need to go to the tabloids.”
He kept his voice even and soft in the quiet cabin. She did the same.
“What you did is an executionable offence…”
“And I was on Death Row. Without a trial, I might add.”
“You should have known better than to let love guide you so foolishly.”
‘Love?” Makenju barked a laugh. Akbar stirred on the other side of the cabin. “Love? What could you know about love? I did not go to jail and lose everything for love, but for an offense that occurs every day, going back to Biblical times. Even King David, scoundrel he was, had the decency to send his friend to the front lines. Not jail him.”
“We are not at war,” she said softly.
“Perhaps we could start one. Been done before. Preemptive strikes then send soldiers who have sex with the wrong women to the front line. Save on prison space. Perhaps acquire new territory in the process.”
“You sound bitter,” she said sadly.
“You let your husband put me in jail. No, your husband put me in jail and you never lifted a finger.”
“I got you out.”
“When it was convenient for you!”
“No,” she said sadly, “when the timing was right. You are a career soldier, you love the Crown, but sometimes you have no concept of the burdens of duty. I have to sacrifice the benefits of the one for the good of our country.”
“Sounds good. That is why those planes are along side of us. For the good of the country.”
“It is my divine right to lead my people. I am travelling as a mother. I remain a head of state. Should war break out back at home while I am away, I am expected to stop whatever I am doing and deal with the situation involving our national security. Duty such as mine does not take exceptions for family crises.
“Stop living in the past, Makenju. Isn’t it enough you were cared for, then? It is valuable to hold a special place in a woman’s heart. You don’t have to be with her to have that.”
“Spoken truly like a woman. Keep a special place for the suckers in case you need them, or their loved ones need you, later.”
“You know better.”
“I know the women of this family, Mrs. Oludara.”
‘We used to be friends. You can call me Maryum,” she looked out of the window, sadly. “You used to call me May May.”
“You used to stand in my corner and not watch me quietly railroaded into jail for all I’ve done for this damned country.”
“Men do not understand…times come and go…you have to change with the times.”
“Please. That is not gender specific. Plenty of women fall for, and stay with, the wrong man.”
“Can we not fight?”
“Your Majesty, if you wish to not know my feelings, do not ask.”
“You seem so bitter with your honor…would you have preferred to stay in your cel and await your termination?”
“I would have preferred to have been left alone. To continue to serve my country and my love life be my own affair.”
“You wanted marriage…commitment…love, honor, respect…all of the things you could not have with someone of a social position ranked so highly above yours. Especially under those circumstances.”
“Adults make their own decisions…”
“Some adults, my dear Ibrahim, are children. One of the myths our society is that women mature faster than men. That is not so. Society provides a safety net for women, a support system on so many levels. It expects a man, however, to shoulder the burden of his actions regardless of age or station in life. Your own imprisonment, sadly, demonstrates that. There are some cases where women are offered options without responsibility. Society will protect a woman before it will embrace a man.”
Makenju stood.
“Thanks you for the sociology lesson, Mrs. Oludara. May I be excused?”
“I wish you wouldn’t hate me so, Ibrahim.” She sighed. “Yes, you are excused.”
He nodded and went back to his seat to brood as the flying living room floated above the clouds.
“Your passports,” he handed them each an official booklet bearing their names and photos.
“Because of my service to the state, I needed a new one,” Makenju joked.
The majordomo, a shrew of a man named Igweike, saw no humor in this.
“These are diplomatic passports,” he shrilled. “At a level only just below that of the ambassador.”
“Will Her Majesty be traveling under her own passport or an assumed name?”
The little man gave Makenju a chilly look.
“Royalty does not require passports. However, in the interests of discretion and security, Her Majesty will travel under her own name, Mrs. Maryam Oludara, on a diplomatic passport as well. The royal family does not use aliases under any circumstances, gentlemen.”
Makenju chuckled. Akbar shook his head.
“Your diplomatic status allows you to carry weapons as diplomatic security for Mrs. Oludara.”
“Good. Make mine a howitzer.”
“Standard issue Ruger automatics or Smith and Wesson revolvers are what we provide. Plus all of the ammunition you can use.”
Makenju let that pass.
“Thank God,” Akbar murmured.
“You should go on Death Row sometimes, Brother,” Makenju grinned, “release is quite…liberating. No pun intended.”
“Her Majesty will be provided with transport from the embassies. They are on alert from around the globe that she could arrive within several hours’ notice. Drivers will be provided.”
“No need,” Akbar said.
“He’s right,” Makenju agreed. “She wants it just the three of us.”
Igweike pouted somewhat, but he saw the two army officers were not going to relent.
“Fine,” he sighed. “Under the terms of our treaty with the several countries in question, as diplomats of this level you can be neither stopped nor detained for any reason whatsoever. Should you run into difficulties, please contact the nearest embassy.”
Makenju cleared his throat and spoke. “What about the media? If I have to put a bullet in some crazy to save her life…”
“The embassy will work that out. All of the embassies have considerable sway with the media in our host countries. Given your reputation, though, Major, please understand these agreements have their limits. Try not to live up to your renown as a homicidal maniac.”
“Well, there’s that,” Akbar said drily.
“Old man,” Makenju said heartily, “You don’t seem enthused at the thought of this adventure.”
“Major, I just want to get the princess home and safe. As soon as possible.” Akbar was glum.
“This is not a visit of state and again, discretion is pertinent. The Queen has arranged for a private jet, paid with her own funds, to transport you. The pilots will be from the Air Force, however, volunteers who can act as back up security if need be.”
Both majors nodded.
“I guess,” Akbar said, his chiseled ebony face grim, “We can get started.”
“Your mission?”
Grunt.
“Majesty wished that I would brief you…”
“She can’t do it on the plane?” Makenju asked. “I thought time was important…”
Few stares were more glacial than Igweike’s.
“Fine,” both majors chorused.
“Princess Thandiwe is pursuing undergraduate studies at the University of Chicago. Government.”
“No Harvard?”
“The U of C is a respected institution with a strong school of government located in an area known for discretion.”
There was that word again. Everything about the damned royal family centered on discretion, Makenju thought bitterly.
“She may attend Harvard for graduate studies before coming home to take instruction from her mother regarding her life’s role of service to her people.”
“Beauty of a matriarchal society,” Akbar said drily.
“Indeed. It appears the princess has disappeared, but no foul play is suspected. Her condominium was left in a state as if she was taking a planned trip. Mail held at the local post office. Perishables disposed of. Her luggage is gone.”
“So what’s the purpose of this trip? A junket to the States armed to the teeth at the taxpayer’s expense?” Makenju was happy to be free, but already finding himself tiring of people who took things for granted.
“Her Majesty, Mrs. Oludara, is under the impression the Princess is involved with the wrong type of young man, someone who could disgrace both the princess and the royal family should their relations continue. She wants her daughter returned to school; her security team replaced, and most importantly, wants to have an old fashioned mother/daughter conversation about right and wrong.”
“Why not just send her to school here?” Akbar was glum again. “Plenty of universities in Africa.”
“It is not my place to question the royal prerogative,” Igweike sniffed.
“When do we leave?” Makenju asked.
“As soon as the quartermaster outfits you.”
“No,”Makenju corrected. ‘As soon as I see my paperwork, signed by Her Majesty and the Vice General, reinstating me to the army with full benefits and authority due my rank.” His face grew hard.
Igweike pulled an envelope from under the sheaf of papers.
“She said you would ask.”
“She was right,” Makenju retorted. “Hmmm…a year’s retroactive pay, too. And why is it you can’t get the mail delivered on time?”
Igweike shrugged, the most plebian expression he had made since they arrived.
“To the quartermaster’s,” Makenju ordered.
An hour later, outfitted with pistols (Akbar, the better shot, opted for a 357 revolver) and duffel bags of gear, a civilian jeep sped them to the tarmac at Seko Selassie Mohammad airport. Sitting beside a smart Gulfstream devoid of any markings was an idling Rolls Royce.
“That’s certainly discreet,” Makenju muttered as he hefted his gear from the jeep. Akbar went to meet the air force officer standing at the foot of the retractable steps. Makenju waited until the driver alighted from the Royce and went for its rear door. Everyone save Makenju and Akbar was in uniform.
The Queen stepped from her vehicle unassisted, as her driver hefted a suitcase from its boot and followed her to the foot of the plane’s steps.
“Rather tall for a bodyguard,” Makenju thought, as he reached for the weapon at the small of his back.
She was beautiful. Short, plump, and every inch a monarch, with oversized dark glasses covering most of her small, delicate face and a dark green scarf covering her head. She wore a khaki dress and a smooth letter bomber jacket festooned with air force insignia several sizes larger than she against the cool night. She hugged the driver, a strange show of public affection. Stranger was the driver reached down, hoisted her up a few inches and kissed her mouth. Giggling was unregal, but she did it anyway.
Akbar stepped forward.
“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness,” he saluted.
“No, Major, the prince corrected, “We are just Mr. & Mrs. Oludara here. A husband dropping his wife off at the airport. We could be any other couple leaving a loved one behind to take a trip.” The prince actually grinned. His dimmed slightly when he saw Makenju .approached, duffel in tow.
“Your Royal Highness,” Makenju’s eyes met the monarch’s.
“Major.”
The royals, Makenju noted, had their issues. Adherence to protocol and respect for those serving them were not their problem.
Makenju took the lead, going up the steps of the plane, searching it thoroughly, although he knew it had already been examined. He beckoned to his queen, who then alighted, followed by Akbar. Makenju and Akbar introduced themselves to the pilots, whom the queen thanked for their service to the crown. The pilots beamed and returned to the cockpit as the monarch and her two handlers strapped themselves in. Akbar took a window seat in the living room like cabin. Mrs. Oludara took an opposite window seat that allowed her to see the Rolls Royce on the tarmac, where her husband stood, waving. She pulled off his bomber jacket and settled into the comfortable leather lounge.
Makenju looked this scenario over with mild disgust, then unholstered his pistol, ejected the magazine, ensured the slide was empty and put them in a drawer beside his chair. He tilted his head back and tried to get some sleep as the Gulfstream taxied. The aircraft was aloft in no time and banking east. The pilots had assured him theirs would be a direct flight to Chicago. The plane had been retrofitted with auxiliary fuel tanks that would land them at Midway airport sometime late the next day.
Sometime after reaching cruising altitude, Makenju felt the plane’s wings dip back and forth. He opened his eyes and saw two fighter jets bearing air force markings on either side of the Gulfstream.
“So much for discreet and privately funded,” he said aloud.
Mrs. Oludara looked up from her book and gestured that he should come sit with her. Akbar appeared asleep, but Makenju knew he missed nothing.
“How are you Ibrahim?” she asked, genuine concern in her voice.
“Well, twenty four hours ago I was using a pail to dispose of my own excrement. Now I am in a multi million dollar aircraft with a billion dollars of machinery on either side of said aircraft. Two days ago I had a black armband and a knife made from a razor blade stuck through a toothbrush handle for protection. Today there is an unloaded 40 caliber P944 in the drawer with my fingerprints on it. Oh, yeah, I’m richer by a whole year’s salary today. Yesterday I was unemployed and wondering where I would get money for smokes.”
“I put money on your books several times. Thandiwe made me. It was a difficult transaction to carry off, but we did it.”
“Yeah, I could picture that. One of your aides discretely adding commissary money to an accused killer’s books for the lady whose husband, who happens to be the Vice General of the armed forces, had imprisoned on false charges. Is that a regular practice for him? I asked around. Place was a regular Chateau dIf. Forget the back pay. Perhaps I need to go to the tabloids.”
He kept his voice even and soft in the quiet cabin. She did the same.
“What you did is an executionable offence…”
“And I was on Death Row. Without a trial, I might add.”
“You should have known better than to let love guide you so foolishly.”
‘Love?” Makenju barked a laugh. Akbar stirred on the other side of the cabin. “Love? What could you know about love? I did not go to jail and lose everything for love, but for an offense that occurs every day, going back to Biblical times. Even King David, scoundrel he was, had the decency to send his friend to the front lines. Not jail him.”
“We are not at war,” she said softly.
“Perhaps we could start one. Been done before. Preemptive strikes then send soldiers who have sex with the wrong women to the front line. Save on prison space. Perhaps acquire new territory in the process.”
“You sound bitter,” she said sadly.
“You let your husband put me in jail. No, your husband put me in jail and you never lifted a finger.”
“I got you out.”
“When it was convenient for you!”
“No,” she said sadly, “when the timing was right. You are a career soldier, you love the Crown, but sometimes you have no concept of the burdens of duty. I have to sacrifice the benefits of the one for the good of our country.”
“Sounds good. That is why those planes are along side of us. For the good of the country.”
“It is my divine right to lead my people. I am travelling as a mother. I remain a head of state. Should war break out back at home while I am away, I am expected to stop whatever I am doing and deal with the situation involving our national security. Duty such as mine does not take exceptions for family crises.
“Stop living in the past, Makenju. Isn’t it enough you were cared for, then? It is valuable to hold a special place in a woman’s heart. You don’t have to be with her to have that.”
“Spoken truly like a woman. Keep a special place for the suckers in case you need them, or their loved ones need you, later.”
“You know better.”
“I know the women of this family, Mrs. Oludara.”
‘We used to be friends. You can call me Maryum,” she looked out of the window, sadly. “You used to call me May May.”
“You used to stand in my corner and not watch me quietly railroaded into jail for all I’ve done for this damned country.”
“Men do not understand…times come and go…you have to change with the times.”
“Please. That is not gender specific. Plenty of women fall for, and stay with, the wrong man.”
“Can we not fight?”
“Your Majesty, if you wish to not know my feelings, do not ask.”
“You seem so bitter with your honor…would you have preferred to stay in your cel and await your termination?”
“I would have preferred to have been left alone. To continue to serve my country and my love life be my own affair.”
“You wanted marriage…commitment…love, honor, respect…all of the things you could not have with someone of a social position ranked so highly above yours. Especially under those circumstances.”
“Adults make their own decisions…”
“Some adults, my dear Ibrahim, are children. One of the myths our society is that women mature faster than men. That is not so. Society provides a safety net for women, a support system on so many levels. It expects a man, however, to shoulder the burden of his actions regardless of age or station in life. Your own imprisonment, sadly, demonstrates that. There are some cases where women are offered options without responsibility. Society will protect a woman before it will embrace a man.”
Makenju stood.
“Thanks you for the sociology lesson, Mrs. Oludara. May I be excused?”
“I wish you wouldn’t hate me so, Ibrahim.” She sighed. “Yes, you are excused.”
He nodded and went back to his seat to brood as the flying living room floated above the clouds.
Thank God
INTRO
All of the Indians had Black bodyguards. Not Africans. Not Carribeans. They were too ambitious. No, Black Americans possessed the requisite will to do violence on command yet lacked ambition beyond pursuing a good time and doing women. Which again fell into having a good time. Africans and those God-awful islanders, eventually, were not happy working jobs. They had to own. It seldom took long for them to realize they were the muscle, and the business, whatever it was, wasn’t rocket science. Indian businessmen understood to a one: hire an African as your driver today, tomorrow find him butchering you after learning your wife and daughters are suddenly pregnant.
No. For body guarding the Patels, Black Americans were best. Thank God for the Indians. They were the best thing for the gang economy. Drugs and mortgage fraud were almost out of the question. Too much leadership gone, sent to do 85% time in Fed joints. Old standbys like prostitution and gambling were all the feds would let the Italians keep, and they’d dug in their heels. Street crime? These thugs couldn’t walk through a nice neighborhood without the law harassing them. Robbing their own just was not profitable. All of this left a lot of young, angry and broke shooters. They could look menacing, but had lousy work ethics. They were also conditioned not to bite the hands that fed them. The Indians needed security. The kids needed money and flexible hours. It was a fair trade off.
Driving around Punjabis in luxury cars was a pretty decent way to get paid. The security work was easy. Everyone knew the Indians did not carry cash. Carjacking was a something of a risk, as the Desis liked their expensive rides. Seldom did they roll in areas where jacking was common, though. The Indians weren’t Arabs. Squeezing money out of the ghetto was not their thing. Arabs were different. For security they used their cousins and miscreants who darkened their doors were never heard from again. No, the Arabs chose to open shop in urban war zones and hide their money for whatever future purpose Allah decreed. The Indians went into business, WASP style, and wanted the world to know when they made it.
Viddyah “Jake” Suddhir had made it. He owned twenty limited service hotels in a tri-state area. He had three cars, a wife, a mistress, and two sons he was putting through Harvard and MIT, respectively. He favored cheap dark suits and ugly tan shoes that always needed a shine. He was the only Indian on his block in his gated community, and although he and his family were vegetarians, Jake threw the best barbecues each summer. Jake was shorty, dumpy, with a receding hairline, wore trendy eyeglasses, and limped most of the time. He was not quite fifty, and for all of his money, had eschewed dentists’ offices his entire life. It showed. Jake was always shadowed by Big Sko, his driver and go to guy.
Sko pushed Jake’s AMG Benz, worked security at some of the hotels, and generally stood, or sat, on post. Two things always confirmed that Jake was on site: The big black Benz parked right in the middle of the hotel’s drive, and Sko’s three hundred pounds slumped in a chair in the lobby, reading. Sko never had to take out garbage, or help guests with bags. He didn’t do reservations. He never wore a hotel uniform. Big Sko’s job was to sit right out front, like a fat iguana, and look mean. The badge hanging around his neck instantly made older white guests feel comfortable. He was on their side, and he looked like he could keep them out. Sko looked harder than any of the other bodyguards, and when the Indian businessmen all convened in one place, Sko stood out among the other drivers. It was eerie.
Few people knew that Sko was an educated man. He had attended a historically Black college on a football scholarship, and summer school had him graduated in three years. The combination of studying at an HBCU and a major like psychology made most white employers view him as a high school drop out. Jake had hired Sko to work at one of his first hotels. While Jake had a policy to never promote Blacks to management (bad business), he noticed Sko’s fraternity tats and brands and thought they were gang markers. After testing Sko out for a year, Jake promoted him when his current driver was sent downstate for having relations with his twelve-year-old niece. Here Sko couldn’t get a job with a college degree with the white man, and this Swami was paying him eighty grand a year to sit on his ass and occasionally tell kids they had to leave the premises. He tossed every tie he owned, starting wearing his pants below his behind, and shaved his head. He considered gold teeth, but figured he was taking the charade far enough.
Thank God for the Indians. The rest of the country was collapsing, but they were working and buying up everything. And employing everyone. Things just worked for them. Educated whites were now pushing brooms just to keep the lights on. Educated blacks were doing what they did best. Complaining. “Educated Mexican” was, to many Indians, an oxymoron. Educated Indians were building America and uneducated Indians (those possessing only a Master’s degree) were buying every damn thing. Folk on the Obama high could disbelieve all they wanted…Bobby Jindal had a chance. More of his folk were living the American dream. The Biptis were the small business owners, the hoteliers. Education worked for them. They were the engineers, the developers. They were industrious like the Mexicans but spoke English. Unlike the Blacks, the Buttonheads had unity. Unlike white Americans, they believed in propriety, the order of things, people, their betters and their lowers. Colonialism and a caste system entrenched that.
Jake limped to the breakfast area of the empty hotel and surveyed all that was his. Then he focused on the seven people in front of him. Big Sko struggled out of the chair, walked over to the breakfast nook, and loomed behind Jake, adjusting his sagging jeans.
“This is my twentieth hotel,” Jake began. “You’re gonna find I’m a fair guy. You also gonna find I don’t do the bullshit. You do things the way I want them done, you’re here when you’re supposed to be here, you follow instructions.
“Instruction number one: no cash. I sunk a lot of money into this place. A lot of money. It was a crackhouse and a damned brothel. I had my main man, Big Sko here, kick out all of them trash and then we got started. I don’t want to tell you the stuff we found here. Whatever. I don’t want that element back in here at all. A lot of money went into making this what it is. Don’t fuck it up. Some guy comes in with cash, we don’t do cash. Period. Some kid comes in with a credit card, we check ID. If he looks like trouble, we’re sold out. Period. Don’t piss me off with this one. Some guy think they gonna come in, show me something new? I’ma show him something old…”
Polite laughter.
“…do not piss me off on this one. I’m a three strikes guy. I put a lot of money into this hotel. I own a lot of them. I am not afraid to work the front desk. I will send you home, fire you, and work your shift myself. I can do that. This is my dream. Three strikes. You’re gone.
“You’re gonna be safe here, though. I got cameras everywhere. I’m gonna have security…What?”
A bespectacled Black man in his thirties had a raised hand. “Armed security?”
“Yeah, he’s gonna be armed. Just it won’t be obvious. Look, man, you’ll be safe. We got three entrances. Two are keycard only. This main entrance is keycard only after 9pm. We got an emergency shutoff to lock the doors from behind the desk. Somebody gets in here, they gotta get past Sko. It ain’t easy.
“Don’t worry about your safety. I got that. You sell me some rooms. Hold firm on your rates. I don’t want no riff raff in here. None. We want corporate customers or leisure travelers who look like they know how to take care of things. I’m fair, but I don’t do the bullshit. I got a lot of money in this place. Nice meeting ya’ll.”
Sarah, overweight, stylish, blond, and reeking of cigarette smoke, stepped beside Jake.
“As you can see, Jake put a lot of money into this hotel…I’m the general manager of one of the other hotels,,,”
“I wasn’t finished,” Jake glowered at her. He sniffed. “If you smoke, I don’t want none of you smoking in front of my hotel. You smoke around the back, behind the pool.” He looked hard at Sarah. “None of you. Now I’m finished.” Jake limped off. Big Sko found the closest chair and eased into it.
Sarah picked up where she left off. “Each of you has an employee handbook. You’ll see the policies. Now, was far as uniforms, black pants or skirt, ladies, white tops. The hotel will provide the ties…there is a uniform release form you must sign. It’s in your packet. Should you leave our employ, you have to turn in a full uniform or you will have $125 taken out of your last check…”
Hand. The Black guy again. “You just said a full uniform, but it’s really just a tie? We have to return the tie or be billed $125?”
“Yes.”
“This tie Hermes or something? Seven fold silk?”
It was obvious the guy was over their heads. He was probably funny, in his world. Sarah was good at not letting her annoyance show.
“No. Just keep up with the tie. Honestly, as I see all of you here with us for a long time, we shouldn’t even spend any more time on the ‘what if I leave’ scenario. Now, after six months, you will be eligible for health insurance. The amount the company pays is listed. Vacation for employees is one week paid, after a year’s employment. It does not roll over.
“One thing I want to discuss is garnishments. Jake doesn’t believe in them. If he is ordered by the court to garnish wages for child support, or some debt…well, two of those, and we have to terminate you. Sorry.”
Hand. This time from the scruffy, skinny white guy.
“My child support comes outta my check automatically. The state set that up. You telling me I’ma get fired for that?”
“No. You can have the state forgo the garnishments, and you send the payments yourself.”
“Is that even legal?”
Jake was back. “I employ a lot of people. Twenty hotels. How many people you employ? You know the headaches to this thing? My accountant gotta do garnishments for twenty hotels times how many employees, she’ll go blind. No. No garnishments. “
“What about direct deposit?”
“No direct deposit,” Sarah continued. “You get paid every other Friday, after 5pm. Checks are not available until 5pm. No exceptions.”
Everyone nodded and started scribbling on the papers in front of them.
Sarah left and went into Jake’s office.
“Jake, we gotta make some changes.”
“Changes cost money. I gotta lotta money in this place.”
“These are American workers, Jake. We’re not offering them anything they’re used to…”
“You’re right,” Jake mused, then put his hands behind his head. “Unemployment is up. They’re not used to working. They’re not used to being told, ‘Here’s a job if you want it. No background checks. No one taking money you earn out your check because you made some mistake. No bank screwing up your deposit. Just a job. You don’t have to take work home with you. Come in here, the place sells itself, and do what you’re told. I did the same thing twenty years ago. I now own the places where I used to work. I’m growing. My business is growing. I have taken over hotels that were failing, and I put people to work. How is what I am doing so bad?”
Sarah shook her head.
“Do you know what’s wrong with this country? Americans are lazy. They don’t want to save any money. They want everything they want, and they want to do half as much work for twice as much compensation. White Americans preach “self reliance” until someone tells ya’ll, go do that. Go be self reliant. Things are bad all over, now, and people who learned long ago to get by on less cash and never got the credit lines you got aren’t complaining as much.
“It’s fine and dandy when you were looking down at the Blacks, and using the Mexicans as examples of self-reliance. Blacks were herded into colleges and told, ‘Just get an education. It’ll all work out from there.’ Mexicans were told, ‘Just work hard, it’ll all work out from there.’ Whites were told, ‘It’s all somebody else’s fault! It’ll all work out from there.’ I combined all of those things, and look, I help other people make money. I went to school, I work hard, and I don’t blame anybody else for my shortcomings. Look where it got me? Better yet, lookit the guys I put to work that no one else would hire?
“Now, mainstream America is feeling the crunch. I offer people the same chance I got twenty years ago. I am the American dream. Work hard, save money, you can have the money, the Mercedes, the business. I no longer work for my money. It works for me. Those platitudes were OK as long as you could use them to look down on someone else. Let’s not gripe about how guys can’t get their money a day early to blow it in a bar or Best Buy. I’m providing the vehicle. Let’s just make some money.”
Sarah had heard it all before.
“Sarah?”
She turned around.
“You can always leave. My brother just bought a hotel. He needs a GM. This place was going to hell in a handbasket and he rescued it. Put a lot of money into it. Want me to call him?
“Thank God he bought the place. That town can’t afford to lose any more jobs. Say, remind those guys I’ll bill them $125 if they don’t turn in the ties when they quit! Thank God for America!”
All of the Indians had Black bodyguards. Not Africans. Not Carribeans. They were too ambitious. No, Black Americans possessed the requisite will to do violence on command yet lacked ambition beyond pursuing a good time and doing women. Which again fell into having a good time. Africans and those God-awful islanders, eventually, were not happy working jobs. They had to own. It seldom took long for them to realize they were the muscle, and the business, whatever it was, wasn’t rocket science. Indian businessmen understood to a one: hire an African as your driver today, tomorrow find him butchering you after learning your wife and daughters are suddenly pregnant.
No. For body guarding the Patels, Black Americans were best. Thank God for the Indians. They were the best thing for the gang economy. Drugs and mortgage fraud were almost out of the question. Too much leadership gone, sent to do 85% time in Fed joints. Old standbys like prostitution and gambling were all the feds would let the Italians keep, and they’d dug in their heels. Street crime? These thugs couldn’t walk through a nice neighborhood without the law harassing them. Robbing their own just was not profitable. All of this left a lot of young, angry and broke shooters. They could look menacing, but had lousy work ethics. They were also conditioned not to bite the hands that fed them. The Indians needed security. The kids needed money and flexible hours. It was a fair trade off.
Driving around Punjabis in luxury cars was a pretty decent way to get paid. The security work was easy. Everyone knew the Indians did not carry cash. Carjacking was a something of a risk, as the Desis liked their expensive rides. Seldom did they roll in areas where jacking was common, though. The Indians weren’t Arabs. Squeezing money out of the ghetto was not their thing. Arabs were different. For security they used their cousins and miscreants who darkened their doors were never heard from again. No, the Arabs chose to open shop in urban war zones and hide their money for whatever future purpose Allah decreed. The Indians went into business, WASP style, and wanted the world to know when they made it.
Viddyah “Jake” Suddhir had made it. He owned twenty limited service hotels in a tri-state area. He had three cars, a wife, a mistress, and two sons he was putting through Harvard and MIT, respectively. He favored cheap dark suits and ugly tan shoes that always needed a shine. He was the only Indian on his block in his gated community, and although he and his family were vegetarians, Jake threw the best barbecues each summer. Jake was shorty, dumpy, with a receding hairline, wore trendy eyeglasses, and limped most of the time. He was not quite fifty, and for all of his money, had eschewed dentists’ offices his entire life. It showed. Jake was always shadowed by Big Sko, his driver and go to guy.
Sko pushed Jake’s AMG Benz, worked security at some of the hotels, and generally stood, or sat, on post. Two things always confirmed that Jake was on site: The big black Benz parked right in the middle of the hotel’s drive, and Sko’s three hundred pounds slumped in a chair in the lobby, reading. Sko never had to take out garbage, or help guests with bags. He didn’t do reservations. He never wore a hotel uniform. Big Sko’s job was to sit right out front, like a fat iguana, and look mean. The badge hanging around his neck instantly made older white guests feel comfortable. He was on their side, and he looked like he could keep them out. Sko looked harder than any of the other bodyguards, and when the Indian businessmen all convened in one place, Sko stood out among the other drivers. It was eerie.
Few people knew that Sko was an educated man. He had attended a historically Black college on a football scholarship, and summer school had him graduated in three years. The combination of studying at an HBCU and a major like psychology made most white employers view him as a high school drop out. Jake had hired Sko to work at one of his first hotels. While Jake had a policy to never promote Blacks to management (bad business), he noticed Sko’s fraternity tats and brands and thought they were gang markers. After testing Sko out for a year, Jake promoted him when his current driver was sent downstate for having relations with his twelve-year-old niece. Here Sko couldn’t get a job with a college degree with the white man, and this Swami was paying him eighty grand a year to sit on his ass and occasionally tell kids they had to leave the premises. He tossed every tie he owned, starting wearing his pants below his behind, and shaved his head. He considered gold teeth, but figured he was taking the charade far enough.
Thank God for the Indians. The rest of the country was collapsing, but they were working and buying up everything. And employing everyone. Things just worked for them. Educated whites were now pushing brooms just to keep the lights on. Educated blacks were doing what they did best. Complaining. “Educated Mexican” was, to many Indians, an oxymoron. Educated Indians were building America and uneducated Indians (those possessing only a Master’s degree) were buying every damn thing. Folk on the Obama high could disbelieve all they wanted…Bobby Jindal had a chance. More of his folk were living the American dream. The Biptis were the small business owners, the hoteliers. Education worked for them. They were the engineers, the developers. They were industrious like the Mexicans but spoke English. Unlike the Blacks, the Buttonheads had unity. Unlike white Americans, they believed in propriety, the order of things, people, their betters and their lowers. Colonialism and a caste system entrenched that.
Jake limped to the breakfast area of the empty hotel and surveyed all that was his. Then he focused on the seven people in front of him. Big Sko struggled out of the chair, walked over to the breakfast nook, and loomed behind Jake, adjusting his sagging jeans.
“This is my twentieth hotel,” Jake began. “You’re gonna find I’m a fair guy. You also gonna find I don’t do the bullshit. You do things the way I want them done, you’re here when you’re supposed to be here, you follow instructions.
“Instruction number one: no cash. I sunk a lot of money into this place. A lot of money. It was a crackhouse and a damned brothel. I had my main man, Big Sko here, kick out all of them trash and then we got started. I don’t want to tell you the stuff we found here. Whatever. I don’t want that element back in here at all. A lot of money went into making this what it is. Don’t fuck it up. Some guy comes in with cash, we don’t do cash. Period. Some kid comes in with a credit card, we check ID. If he looks like trouble, we’re sold out. Period. Don’t piss me off with this one. Some guy think they gonna come in, show me something new? I’ma show him something old…”
Polite laughter.
“…do not piss me off on this one. I’m a three strikes guy. I put a lot of money into this hotel. I own a lot of them. I am not afraid to work the front desk. I will send you home, fire you, and work your shift myself. I can do that. This is my dream. Three strikes. You’re gone.
“You’re gonna be safe here, though. I got cameras everywhere. I’m gonna have security…What?”
A bespectacled Black man in his thirties had a raised hand. “Armed security?”
“Yeah, he’s gonna be armed. Just it won’t be obvious. Look, man, you’ll be safe. We got three entrances. Two are keycard only. This main entrance is keycard only after 9pm. We got an emergency shutoff to lock the doors from behind the desk. Somebody gets in here, they gotta get past Sko. It ain’t easy.
“Don’t worry about your safety. I got that. You sell me some rooms. Hold firm on your rates. I don’t want no riff raff in here. None. We want corporate customers or leisure travelers who look like they know how to take care of things. I’m fair, but I don’t do the bullshit. I got a lot of money in this place. Nice meeting ya’ll.”
Sarah, overweight, stylish, blond, and reeking of cigarette smoke, stepped beside Jake.
“As you can see, Jake put a lot of money into this hotel…I’m the general manager of one of the other hotels,,,”
“I wasn’t finished,” Jake glowered at her. He sniffed. “If you smoke, I don’t want none of you smoking in front of my hotel. You smoke around the back, behind the pool.” He looked hard at Sarah. “None of you. Now I’m finished.” Jake limped off. Big Sko found the closest chair and eased into it.
Sarah picked up where she left off. “Each of you has an employee handbook. You’ll see the policies. Now, was far as uniforms, black pants or skirt, ladies, white tops. The hotel will provide the ties…there is a uniform release form you must sign. It’s in your packet. Should you leave our employ, you have to turn in a full uniform or you will have $125 taken out of your last check…”
Hand. The Black guy again. “You just said a full uniform, but it’s really just a tie? We have to return the tie or be billed $125?”
“Yes.”
“This tie Hermes or something? Seven fold silk?”
It was obvious the guy was over their heads. He was probably funny, in his world. Sarah was good at not letting her annoyance show.
“No. Just keep up with the tie. Honestly, as I see all of you here with us for a long time, we shouldn’t even spend any more time on the ‘what if I leave’ scenario. Now, after six months, you will be eligible for health insurance. The amount the company pays is listed. Vacation for employees is one week paid, after a year’s employment. It does not roll over.
“One thing I want to discuss is garnishments. Jake doesn’t believe in them. If he is ordered by the court to garnish wages for child support, or some debt…well, two of those, and we have to terminate you. Sorry.”
Hand. This time from the scruffy, skinny white guy.
“My child support comes outta my check automatically. The state set that up. You telling me I’ma get fired for that?”
“No. You can have the state forgo the garnishments, and you send the payments yourself.”
“Is that even legal?”
Jake was back. “I employ a lot of people. Twenty hotels. How many people you employ? You know the headaches to this thing? My accountant gotta do garnishments for twenty hotels times how many employees, she’ll go blind. No. No garnishments. “
“What about direct deposit?”
“No direct deposit,” Sarah continued. “You get paid every other Friday, after 5pm. Checks are not available until 5pm. No exceptions.”
Everyone nodded and started scribbling on the papers in front of them.
Sarah left and went into Jake’s office.
“Jake, we gotta make some changes.”
“Changes cost money. I gotta lotta money in this place.”
“These are American workers, Jake. We’re not offering them anything they’re used to…”
“You’re right,” Jake mused, then put his hands behind his head. “Unemployment is up. They’re not used to working. They’re not used to being told, ‘Here’s a job if you want it. No background checks. No one taking money you earn out your check because you made some mistake. No bank screwing up your deposit. Just a job. You don’t have to take work home with you. Come in here, the place sells itself, and do what you’re told. I did the same thing twenty years ago. I now own the places where I used to work. I’m growing. My business is growing. I have taken over hotels that were failing, and I put people to work. How is what I am doing so bad?”
Sarah shook her head.
“Do you know what’s wrong with this country? Americans are lazy. They don’t want to save any money. They want everything they want, and they want to do half as much work for twice as much compensation. White Americans preach “self reliance” until someone tells ya’ll, go do that. Go be self reliant. Things are bad all over, now, and people who learned long ago to get by on less cash and never got the credit lines you got aren’t complaining as much.
“It’s fine and dandy when you were looking down at the Blacks, and using the Mexicans as examples of self-reliance. Blacks were herded into colleges and told, ‘Just get an education. It’ll all work out from there.’ Mexicans were told, ‘Just work hard, it’ll all work out from there.’ Whites were told, ‘It’s all somebody else’s fault! It’ll all work out from there.’ I combined all of those things, and look, I help other people make money. I went to school, I work hard, and I don’t blame anybody else for my shortcomings. Look where it got me? Better yet, lookit the guys I put to work that no one else would hire?
“Now, mainstream America is feeling the crunch. I offer people the same chance I got twenty years ago. I am the American dream. Work hard, save money, you can have the money, the Mercedes, the business. I no longer work for my money. It works for me. Those platitudes were OK as long as you could use them to look down on someone else. Let’s not gripe about how guys can’t get their money a day early to blow it in a bar or Best Buy. I’m providing the vehicle. Let’s just make some money.”
Sarah had heard it all before.
“Sarah?”
She turned around.
“You can always leave. My brother just bought a hotel. He needs a GM. This place was going to hell in a handbasket and he rescued it. Put a lot of money into it. Want me to call him?
“Thank God he bought the place. That town can’t afford to lose any more jobs. Say, remind those guys I’ll bill them $125 if they don’t turn in the ties when they quit! Thank God for America!”
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The Deal
A voice. “Makenju?”
Some stirring.
A different voice. “Makenju! Get up!”
More stirring.
Movement and footsteps as feet cross a short distance quickly.
Poking.
“Makenju?”
“Is he breathing?”
“Last I checked, I am. Here, let me prove it.”
A match flared and the smell of smoke filled the small area.
“Why are you sitting over there?”
“You know my routine. I rise early. It’s the training. You never forget it. And,” deep inhale, and more strong smoke smell, “I never sleep in beds. Especially here. Bad for the back. Chair does me just fine.
“Now, what can I do for you this morning, Captain?”
“Sir…”
Smoke trailed the waving hand. “If we can dispense with the titles due to the circumstances, we can do away with the ‘sir’ as well, soldier. What is it?”
“Sir,” the young captain stopped to correct himself, “there is a gentleman here…from the government.”
A cough, more smoke, and a gliding chuckle. “What could those bastards want? Tell them I am busy.”
“Yes, sir. He is most insistent.”
“Tell him I am killing time.”
“Sir?”
“Picking out which uniform I want to wear to my funeral.”
The second voice. A different voice. More heavily accented, but obviously more educated, as well.
“This is no time for morbid humor, Makenju.”
“Under the circumstances, might there be any other kind?”
“Can we get some lights in here?”
The sarcasm was faint, but it was there.
“On automatic timer, guvnor.”
“Well, can we get him up? Makenju, get up!”
More movement.
“Address him as ‘Sir’, or ‘Major’, Guv. He’s earned it.”
“How preposterous! The man is in…”
“That’s fine, captain,” Makenju said, obviously enjoying the exchange. “Not everyone has a soldier’s sense of order. Or honor.” He rose. Even in the shadows, his bulk was obvious. He thrust his hands in his pockets.
“Under the circumstances, you’ll forgive me not shaking your hand. No idea where you’ve been. I’ve just relieved myself and I don’t want to get my hands dirty touching the likes of you.”
The government man ignored the dig. The sun began to slowly come in through the windows.
“My name is Owadi.”
“I know who you are.”
“You do?”
“I knew your father. He was a toady. Actually, you can thank me for having him executed.”
The man blanched.
“You can also thank me for having you, your mother and your sisters spirited to London. That was the deal he made. His life in exchange for your safety.”
“What kind of man…”
“Don’t know. I’m a soldier…”
Sneer. “You were…”
“Mind your manners with the major,” the captain began harshly. “Didn’t he just tell you that he saved your life?”
Owadi surveyed the situation, and regained his composure. He was clearly outnumbered.
He started again.
“I represent Her Majesty’s government…the government is in need of your services.”
“Hmmm…” Another match. More smoke.
“I thought soldiers were health conscious…”
“Death of lung cancer is the least of my worries, Mr. Owadi. How may I help the government? More than likely from a consultory position? Given my current assignment.”
“Come on, man! What good could you do the government from here?”
“Here is where you visited me. He is apparently where we are.”
“Can we speak in private?”
“Captain, if you please?”
“Yes sir.” They were already moving. “Call if you need us, sir.”
Owadi could feel their distaste as they exited. Makenju chuckled.
“They are good men. Never mind them. They are naturally suspicious of civilians, and rightfully so of politicians.” He settled into his seat again and gestured towards the bed.
“Now, where were we?”
“I represent Her Majesty’s government. The government is prepared to offer you a pardon in exchange for your service…”
“I saw this on cable last night…”
“This is serious. A full restoration of your liberties…”
“I am a soldier, son,” Makenju sighed wearily. Owadi had to check the file again. Was the man really only 40? Granted. Death Row could do that to you.
Makenju continued, “My liberties are not granted by other people. I am as free as I choose to be.”
He stood, and began pacing.
“What concerns me,” he looked up, “is a restoration of my rank to active service in the army. Effective the minute I walk free, not to be rescinded for any reason other than treason against the Crown.”
“I am not authorized to interfere in military matters, Mr. Makenju…” Owadi stared ahead intently. In Africa, army officers were always being imprisoned for being on the wrong side of coups or other treasonous activities. Ibrahim Makenju’s service record indicated nothing but meritorious duty for over two decades, including a longer than normal stint as head of security for Her Majesty. Loyal only to the Crown, one of the few long standing and stable governments on the continent. Why was he on Death Row? And why was no official execution date set?
Makenju grunted, as if reading his thoughts. His shoulders slumped a bit. “I don’t know, either.” He straightened. “You cannot do that?”
“I’m…sorry, Major Makenju…” Owadi felt something for this man. Not compassion. He did not present a need for it. Respect? Perhaps that was it.
This was the man who ordered his father’s death. They had told him that. They also told him that he was to face a military tribunal at some unnamed date, and his crimes, should he be found guilty, would warrant execution. There had been no tribunal for the year he had been inside, and none scheduled. No execution date. No official charge of wrong doing. Just the removal of rank and from the army, placed in Death Row to die who knows when, for who knows what. Yet he still commanded the respect of his jailers, and Owadi clearly understood why.
“I do not have that authority…”
Makenju rose. Owadi rose with him.
“Seek authority from the highest level.”
“You do not know what it is the government needs?”
“Not the government, Mr. Owadi,” Makenju stepped forward and smoothed the lapels of the younger man’s suit. “Saville Rowe?”
Owadi smiled slightly.
“I promised your father we’d see to it your school fees at Eton were paid. He is smiling down on you now. You have made him proud. Stick with government service. Do your job. Join no factions; hold no loyalty for the government.”
“Then what?” Owadi was confused.
“Her,” Makenju said with finality. “Start, and stop, with her.”
“My loyalty?”
“Everything, young man. You serve her. You remain loyal to her. You get her to come down here and get me out.” That chuckle again. “You tell her I said I would do whatever she asks, but she has to give me what I asked for. I will only deal with her.”
“I do not…”
“Good day, Mr. Owadi,” the big man smiled. “She will come. And tell them I do not want a razor or any toiletries before she comes here. I will be honest with her. I expect her to be honest with me. Tell her that.”
Owadi gathered his papers. “I will, Major.”
He left.
Makenju went through his morning exercises in his cell, then prayed, and finally settled down to write in his journal. His mind was strong. He allowed himself to only remember the victories, only the good things, and not to dwell on the “why”. Makenju knew why.
He had one regret. In the bush, or in combat, one went without bathing and caring for one’s self as a necessity. There was no reason, he mused, when inactive, to be ungroomed. The harsh realities of prison life.
Military prisons work like civilian ones. Respect for deeds outside matters little. What keeps groups of battle hardened men in check is respect for the danger another inmate can do to someone inside. That was the catch 22: be prepared to do someone harm to remain alive, but doing someone harm will surely increase the amount of time you would spend behind bars with those same Neanderthals. Makenju’s reputation for fairness, coupled with a well known history of brutality in service of the Crown, only kept him free from danger to a certain extent. The black armband sewn to his tunic, indicating he was a Death Row inmate did the rest of the job. No wide man goes up against another man who has nothing to lose. And what was the worst you could do to a Death Row inmate? End his sentence early? No wise man behind bars does another man that kind of favor.
Makenju mused for the hundredth time that day on the origin of the meat in the evening meal when he heard footsteps coming his way.
“Excuse me, Sir? Major?” The night captain whispered in a frantic rush. “Sir? You have a visitor.”
Makenju pretended to feign indifference, but he rose from his chair just the same and closed his journal.
“Usher him in, Captain.”
“Sir…I cannot…Sir…this is a breach of protocol, but security measures…”
Makenju felt the presence of another person behind the captain, and heard the accent of an outlander.
“Security, Major. I will need for you to allow the captain to shackle you, for my men to search you, and for you to follow us.”
Makenju knew the voice.
“Indeed, Major Akbar. I will comply.”
Going through the brief routine, while trying to contain his relief, Makenju began lining his cards in order. There were only three people in the country that warranted this kind of protection. One would never visit a prison, even for him. The other was too foolish to believe he would require extra security measures to meet with a Death Row inmate.
“Is this necessary, Major Akbar?”
“My predecessor trained me to take all of the precautions where my sovereign in concerned, Major.”
“Quite right,” Makenju chuckled. “Your predecessor is a wise man.”
“Albeit an unlucky one. Or maybe not.”
A door opened. Two other men, dark, in western suits with noticeable bulges under their jackets, stood at attention on either side of the door.
A tall, brown man, also in western dress, sat at a table. His close cropped hair was flecked with gray. His face remained impassive. His tie was easily Hermes. He wore no jewelry save a wedding band.
Next to him sat a woman. She did not look African in the stereotypical sense. Not sub Saharan African. She appeared more Ethiopian, or Egyptian. She had high cheekbones, a thin, delicate nose and a plump face. Her eyes were green. Her head was covered, but the ends of honey colored braids poked through the bottom of her head dress. She looked up without smiling, but Makenju knew there was a gap between her two front teeth. She wore a western style skirt suit of a dark mauve, and a single strand of pearls. She was beautiful in a way only Black women are.
“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness,” Major Akbar intoned, “Former Major Ibrahim Makenju, Her Majesty’s Bortoru Battalion…”
“For crike’s sakes,” the man seated beside her growled, “We know who he bloody IS, Akbar.”
Akbar did not flinch. “Begging your pardon, Your Royal Highness.”
“Mark,” the woman spoke softly but firmly. “This is an affair of state. Please sit quietly, or would you prefer to tour the premises?”
His Royal Highness Prince Mark Ekweke Ngbodo Oludara sat silently, eyeing the disheveled Makenju with all of the hate he could muster.
“Ma’am,” Makenju began, “I am at your service.”
“I have need of your…talents, Mr. Makenju. I’ll get right to it. My daughter has gone missing. I intend to find her. I do not want press attention, as I believe this is an act of youthful rebellion. I do not need a security contingent. I will require you and Major Akbar to accompany me.”
“I trained Akbar, Majesty,” Makenju shrugged. “Overkill.”
“He has loyally suggested you. The government is prepared to offer you a full pardon in exchange for your services.”
“And my return to military duty, ma’am? And restoration of my rank?”
“Out of the question,” the prince snapped.
“Difficult at best,” Queen Maryum murmured.
“Then I respectfully refuse, Majesty.”
“My daughter…”
“I am sorry, Majesty. I am unjustly imprisoned. I have been kicked out of the only outfit where I have worked my entire life. I have served you faithfully and without reservation. I deserve the restoration of my rank and pension. I cannot serve you effectively without them.”
The prince stood quickly and in three strides was in Makenju’s face.
“If you think you will wear that uniform…”
“I know your wife, man,” Makenju whispered softly, tauntingly. “I know your wife. I need to be there for this mission…”
The prince’s eyes squinted almost imperceptible. “I could…”
“You already have. Careful. The penalty for striking royalty is execution. The penalty for striking one of Her Majesty’s senior officers is the same. Which of us is already on Death Row?” Makenju laughed with bitterness. “You cannot execute me twice. Your Royal Highness.”
The small woman shook her head.
“That is enough,” she said with conviction. “Major Akbar, please escort His Royal Highness to the car for his own safety. He should not be in such close proximity to such a dangerous man sentenced to die.”
Akbar complied. The other guards never batted an eye. The Queen motioned for Makenju to join her on the other side of the room.
“I would have thought you would have other, personal reasons for accompanying me.”
“I would have thought you would have other, related reasons for releasing me from here before now.”
“There is more to it than you understand…”
“I understand the world’s oldest activity and its consequences. I understand a man’s pride. I understand how this charade called ‘royal duty’ works…”
“She is my daughter.”
“I am a soldier.”
“You mean more than that to this equation.”
“I mean so much you allowed me to be railroaded into prison to salve an ass’ pride.”
“Makenju…Ibrahim…”
“A good way to ensure a man is out of the picture, literally and figuratively, is to send him away.”
She looked at him.
“I’ll make you a general.”
“I earned major. I want it back. I want full restoration of my authority. I want to only answer to you.”
Queen Maryum smiled sadly. “You know why we cannot do that.”
“Outside of this mission. I will stay away from you. I will not answer to the Vice general, however. I want to be left alone. I will leave you alone as well.”
“She asks about you.”
“We were friends. Up until my unfortunate incarceration.”
“Will you help me, Major?”
“I want it in writing.”
“Fine.”
“You are my sovereign. But I am your expert. You will listen to me or I will send you home with Major Akbar and continue the mission.”
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“My first duty is to protect you. If you are a danger to yourself, you have to go.”
“Agreed.”
They turned around and walked back to Major Akbar.
“Major Makenju has agreed to assist his government. We will process his immediate removal from this facility and have him briefed. His role is specialist and leader of this mission. He will not be replacing you as head of my security.”
The men stared stonily.
Makenju bowed to his sovereign and stood until the other security men led her out.
“How is the bastard?”
“Fuming,” Akbar grunted. “She told him on the way over she was going to restore you.”
“She always was a good actress. A bit insincere, but she got the job done. Thanks for your support.”
Akbar looked his mentor in the eye.
“Don’t make a mistake, here, Ibrahim,” he said softly, “You are a fine officer imprisoned for all of the wrong reasons. This country, that woman, needs you outside of bars more than behind them.
“But remember this: the wrong kind of love almost led you to your death. Next time, I cannot save you. Next time, she will not.”
“Agreed, Old Friend. Let’s find the warden. Perhaps you can bully him into letting me use the private shower in his office.”
Some stirring.
A different voice. “Makenju! Get up!”
More stirring.
Movement and footsteps as feet cross a short distance quickly.
Poking.
“Makenju?”
“Is he breathing?”
“Last I checked, I am. Here, let me prove it.”
A match flared and the smell of smoke filled the small area.
“Why are you sitting over there?”
“You know my routine. I rise early. It’s the training. You never forget it. And,” deep inhale, and more strong smoke smell, “I never sleep in beds. Especially here. Bad for the back. Chair does me just fine.
“Now, what can I do for you this morning, Captain?”
“Sir…”
Smoke trailed the waving hand. “If we can dispense with the titles due to the circumstances, we can do away with the ‘sir’ as well, soldier. What is it?”
“Sir,” the young captain stopped to correct himself, “there is a gentleman here…from the government.”
A cough, more smoke, and a gliding chuckle. “What could those bastards want? Tell them I am busy.”
“Yes, sir. He is most insistent.”
“Tell him I am killing time.”
“Sir?”
“Picking out which uniform I want to wear to my funeral.”
The second voice. A different voice. More heavily accented, but obviously more educated, as well.
“This is no time for morbid humor, Makenju.”
“Under the circumstances, might there be any other kind?”
“Can we get some lights in here?”
The sarcasm was faint, but it was there.
“On automatic timer, guvnor.”
“Well, can we get him up? Makenju, get up!”
More movement.
“Address him as ‘Sir’, or ‘Major’, Guv. He’s earned it.”
“How preposterous! The man is in…”
“That’s fine, captain,” Makenju said, obviously enjoying the exchange. “Not everyone has a soldier’s sense of order. Or honor.” He rose. Even in the shadows, his bulk was obvious. He thrust his hands in his pockets.
“Under the circumstances, you’ll forgive me not shaking your hand. No idea where you’ve been. I’ve just relieved myself and I don’t want to get my hands dirty touching the likes of you.”
The government man ignored the dig. The sun began to slowly come in through the windows.
“My name is Owadi.”
“I know who you are.”
“You do?”
“I knew your father. He was a toady. Actually, you can thank me for having him executed.”
The man blanched.
“You can also thank me for having you, your mother and your sisters spirited to London. That was the deal he made. His life in exchange for your safety.”
“What kind of man…”
“Don’t know. I’m a soldier…”
Sneer. “You were…”
“Mind your manners with the major,” the captain began harshly. “Didn’t he just tell you that he saved your life?”
Owadi surveyed the situation, and regained his composure. He was clearly outnumbered.
He started again.
“I represent Her Majesty’s government…the government is in need of your services.”
“Hmmm…” Another match. More smoke.
“I thought soldiers were health conscious…”
“Death of lung cancer is the least of my worries, Mr. Owadi. How may I help the government? More than likely from a consultory position? Given my current assignment.”
“Come on, man! What good could you do the government from here?”
“Here is where you visited me. He is apparently where we are.”
“Can we speak in private?”
“Captain, if you please?”
“Yes sir.” They were already moving. “Call if you need us, sir.”
Owadi could feel their distaste as they exited. Makenju chuckled.
“They are good men. Never mind them. They are naturally suspicious of civilians, and rightfully so of politicians.” He settled into his seat again and gestured towards the bed.
“Now, where were we?”
“I represent Her Majesty’s government. The government is prepared to offer you a pardon in exchange for your service…”
“I saw this on cable last night…”
“This is serious. A full restoration of your liberties…”
“I am a soldier, son,” Makenju sighed wearily. Owadi had to check the file again. Was the man really only 40? Granted. Death Row could do that to you.
Makenju continued, “My liberties are not granted by other people. I am as free as I choose to be.”
He stood, and began pacing.
“What concerns me,” he looked up, “is a restoration of my rank to active service in the army. Effective the minute I walk free, not to be rescinded for any reason other than treason against the Crown.”
“I am not authorized to interfere in military matters, Mr. Makenju…” Owadi stared ahead intently. In Africa, army officers were always being imprisoned for being on the wrong side of coups or other treasonous activities. Ibrahim Makenju’s service record indicated nothing but meritorious duty for over two decades, including a longer than normal stint as head of security for Her Majesty. Loyal only to the Crown, one of the few long standing and stable governments on the continent. Why was he on Death Row? And why was no official execution date set?
Makenju grunted, as if reading his thoughts. His shoulders slumped a bit. “I don’t know, either.” He straightened. “You cannot do that?”
“I’m…sorry, Major Makenju…” Owadi felt something for this man. Not compassion. He did not present a need for it. Respect? Perhaps that was it.
This was the man who ordered his father’s death. They had told him that. They also told him that he was to face a military tribunal at some unnamed date, and his crimes, should he be found guilty, would warrant execution. There had been no tribunal for the year he had been inside, and none scheduled. No execution date. No official charge of wrong doing. Just the removal of rank and from the army, placed in Death Row to die who knows when, for who knows what. Yet he still commanded the respect of his jailers, and Owadi clearly understood why.
“I do not have that authority…”
Makenju rose. Owadi rose with him.
“Seek authority from the highest level.”
“You do not know what it is the government needs?”
“Not the government, Mr. Owadi,” Makenju stepped forward and smoothed the lapels of the younger man’s suit. “Saville Rowe?”
Owadi smiled slightly.
“I promised your father we’d see to it your school fees at Eton were paid. He is smiling down on you now. You have made him proud. Stick with government service. Do your job. Join no factions; hold no loyalty for the government.”
“Then what?” Owadi was confused.
“Her,” Makenju said with finality. “Start, and stop, with her.”
“My loyalty?”
“Everything, young man. You serve her. You remain loyal to her. You get her to come down here and get me out.” That chuckle again. “You tell her I said I would do whatever she asks, but she has to give me what I asked for. I will only deal with her.”
“I do not…”
“Good day, Mr. Owadi,” the big man smiled. “She will come. And tell them I do not want a razor or any toiletries before she comes here. I will be honest with her. I expect her to be honest with me. Tell her that.”
Owadi gathered his papers. “I will, Major.”
He left.
Makenju went through his morning exercises in his cell, then prayed, and finally settled down to write in his journal. His mind was strong. He allowed himself to only remember the victories, only the good things, and not to dwell on the “why”. Makenju knew why.
He had one regret. In the bush, or in combat, one went without bathing and caring for one’s self as a necessity. There was no reason, he mused, when inactive, to be ungroomed. The harsh realities of prison life.
Military prisons work like civilian ones. Respect for deeds outside matters little. What keeps groups of battle hardened men in check is respect for the danger another inmate can do to someone inside. That was the catch 22: be prepared to do someone harm to remain alive, but doing someone harm will surely increase the amount of time you would spend behind bars with those same Neanderthals. Makenju’s reputation for fairness, coupled with a well known history of brutality in service of the Crown, only kept him free from danger to a certain extent. The black armband sewn to his tunic, indicating he was a Death Row inmate did the rest of the job. No wide man goes up against another man who has nothing to lose. And what was the worst you could do to a Death Row inmate? End his sentence early? No wise man behind bars does another man that kind of favor.
Makenju mused for the hundredth time that day on the origin of the meat in the evening meal when he heard footsteps coming his way.
“Excuse me, Sir? Major?” The night captain whispered in a frantic rush. “Sir? You have a visitor.”
Makenju pretended to feign indifference, but he rose from his chair just the same and closed his journal.
“Usher him in, Captain.”
“Sir…I cannot…Sir…this is a breach of protocol, but security measures…”
Makenju felt the presence of another person behind the captain, and heard the accent of an outlander.
“Security, Major. I will need for you to allow the captain to shackle you, for my men to search you, and for you to follow us.”
Makenju knew the voice.
“Indeed, Major Akbar. I will comply.”
Going through the brief routine, while trying to contain his relief, Makenju began lining his cards in order. There were only three people in the country that warranted this kind of protection. One would never visit a prison, even for him. The other was too foolish to believe he would require extra security measures to meet with a Death Row inmate.
“Is this necessary, Major Akbar?”
“My predecessor trained me to take all of the precautions where my sovereign in concerned, Major.”
“Quite right,” Makenju chuckled. “Your predecessor is a wise man.”
“Albeit an unlucky one. Or maybe not.”
A door opened. Two other men, dark, in western suits with noticeable bulges under their jackets, stood at attention on either side of the door.
A tall, brown man, also in western dress, sat at a table. His close cropped hair was flecked with gray. His face remained impassive. His tie was easily Hermes. He wore no jewelry save a wedding band.
Next to him sat a woman. She did not look African in the stereotypical sense. Not sub Saharan African. She appeared more Ethiopian, or Egyptian. She had high cheekbones, a thin, delicate nose and a plump face. Her eyes were green. Her head was covered, but the ends of honey colored braids poked through the bottom of her head dress. She looked up without smiling, but Makenju knew there was a gap between her two front teeth. She wore a western style skirt suit of a dark mauve, and a single strand of pearls. She was beautiful in a way only Black women are.
“Your Majesty, Your Royal Highness,” Major Akbar intoned, “Former Major Ibrahim Makenju, Her Majesty’s Bortoru Battalion…”
“For crike’s sakes,” the man seated beside her growled, “We know who he bloody IS, Akbar.”
Akbar did not flinch. “Begging your pardon, Your Royal Highness.”
“Mark,” the woman spoke softly but firmly. “This is an affair of state. Please sit quietly, or would you prefer to tour the premises?”
His Royal Highness Prince Mark Ekweke Ngbodo Oludara sat silently, eyeing the disheveled Makenju with all of the hate he could muster.
“Ma’am,” Makenju began, “I am at your service.”
“I have need of your…talents, Mr. Makenju. I’ll get right to it. My daughter has gone missing. I intend to find her. I do not want press attention, as I believe this is an act of youthful rebellion. I do not need a security contingent. I will require you and Major Akbar to accompany me.”
“I trained Akbar, Majesty,” Makenju shrugged. “Overkill.”
“He has loyally suggested you. The government is prepared to offer you a full pardon in exchange for your services.”
“And my return to military duty, ma’am? And restoration of my rank?”
“Out of the question,” the prince snapped.
“Difficult at best,” Queen Maryum murmured.
“Then I respectfully refuse, Majesty.”
“My daughter…”
“I am sorry, Majesty. I am unjustly imprisoned. I have been kicked out of the only outfit where I have worked my entire life. I have served you faithfully and without reservation. I deserve the restoration of my rank and pension. I cannot serve you effectively without them.”
The prince stood quickly and in three strides was in Makenju’s face.
“If you think you will wear that uniform…”
“I know your wife, man,” Makenju whispered softly, tauntingly. “I know your wife. I need to be there for this mission…”
The prince’s eyes squinted almost imperceptible. “I could…”
“You already have. Careful. The penalty for striking royalty is execution. The penalty for striking one of Her Majesty’s senior officers is the same. Which of us is already on Death Row?” Makenju laughed with bitterness. “You cannot execute me twice. Your Royal Highness.”
The small woman shook her head.
“That is enough,” she said with conviction. “Major Akbar, please escort His Royal Highness to the car for his own safety. He should not be in such close proximity to such a dangerous man sentenced to die.”
Akbar complied. The other guards never batted an eye. The Queen motioned for Makenju to join her on the other side of the room.
“I would have thought you would have other, personal reasons for accompanying me.”
“I would have thought you would have other, related reasons for releasing me from here before now.”
“There is more to it than you understand…”
“I understand the world’s oldest activity and its consequences. I understand a man’s pride. I understand how this charade called ‘royal duty’ works…”
“She is my daughter.”
“I am a soldier.”
“You mean more than that to this equation.”
“I mean so much you allowed me to be railroaded into prison to salve an ass’ pride.”
“Makenju…Ibrahim…”
“A good way to ensure a man is out of the picture, literally and figuratively, is to send him away.”
She looked at him.
“I’ll make you a general.”
“I earned major. I want it back. I want full restoration of my authority. I want to only answer to you.”
Queen Maryum smiled sadly. “You know why we cannot do that.”
“Outside of this mission. I will stay away from you. I will not answer to the Vice general, however. I want to be left alone. I will leave you alone as well.”
“She asks about you.”
“We were friends. Up until my unfortunate incarceration.”
“Will you help me, Major?”
“I want it in writing.”
“Fine.”
“You are my sovereign. But I am your expert. You will listen to me or I will send you home with Major Akbar and continue the mission.”
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“My first duty is to protect you. If you are a danger to yourself, you have to go.”
“Agreed.”
They turned around and walked back to Major Akbar.
“Major Makenju has agreed to assist his government. We will process his immediate removal from this facility and have him briefed. His role is specialist and leader of this mission. He will not be replacing you as head of my security.”
The men stared stonily.
Makenju bowed to his sovereign and stood until the other security men led her out.
“How is the bastard?”
“Fuming,” Akbar grunted. “She told him on the way over she was going to restore you.”
“She always was a good actress. A bit insincere, but she got the job done. Thanks for your support.”
Akbar looked his mentor in the eye.
“Don’t make a mistake, here, Ibrahim,” he said softly, “You are a fine officer imprisoned for all of the wrong reasons. This country, that woman, needs you outside of bars more than behind them.
“But remember this: the wrong kind of love almost led you to your death. Next time, I cannot save you. Next time, she will not.”
“Agreed, Old Friend. Let’s find the warden. Perhaps you can bully him into letting me use the private shower in his office.”
Thursday, March 11, 2010
The Asshole
Koor Mitchell was an asshole.
Koor understood this better than anyone else. It was just one of those things. Some people are nice guys because they have that much love for everyone else. They can handle the abuse that goes along with being so nice. Some nice guys become assholes for survival. They are a bit too nice for their own good, and their foreheads radiate the message, “Fuck with me!” People happily oblige.
Part of what made Koor an asshole was that he was a heck of a nice guy, under it all. The other part was that he was pretty smart. Intelligence breeds more assholes that humanity alone ever would.
What rounded out Koor’s personality, however, was this: he was honest. Koor would not lie to spare someone’s feelings. He didn’t pretend to be dumber than he was in order to get the things he wanted. He would not fabricate to keep his ass out of hot water. Koor did not pretend. If he was broke and homeless, he was broke and homeless, not “evaluating my housing options while growing streams of revenue.” Koor was real, and that made him as asshole. He wasn’t a bastard. Koor didn’t go out of his way to hurt or use people. He was an asshole. There is a difference, he often pointed out.
One thing Koor was not, however, was angry. Koor did not understand angry people. What are you angry for? Anger is a wasted emotion. One gets angry over things they can change. It is akin to one being angry the sun came up. There is nothing you can do about it, so why raise your blood pressure?
Anyway, today, Koor was anything but angry. Even an asshole had his days.
Merkur Daewoo Mitchell had played the lottery once in his life, in Iowa. He stopped at a gas station to fill up. Business pretty much stopped when he exited his car and went to settle his bill at the pump. The clerk, bless her heart, scrutinized his hundred to ensure Koor hadn’t been scammed into accepting a phony Franklin from someone. This was for his protection, she assured him. Realizing what was going on, Koor demanded his change in Quick Pick Powerball tickets.
One man standing behind Koor, the remnants of his hair jammed under a cap with a plastic mesh back and a front logo that read “They Were Good for Something…Cotton is a Cash Crop”, warned, “Son, you don’t wanna do that…”
That sealed it for Koor. He was not this dude’s son.
The old man wasn’t being considerate. Or even helpful. This city in Iowa was almost all white. While it accounted for 6% of state Powerball sales, it’s wins were in the double digits. In the interests of affirmative action, an Asian Indian family had been allowed to win once. Once. They did the right thing and promptly bought a hotel and a Subway, employing many town residents and furthering the stereotypes that made folk comfortable.
What if this jigaboo won? The only person who would be happy was Pete Willingham, the guy who owned the Cadillac dealership up the road. And Pete wasn’t a share the wealth kind of guy.
Regardless, Koor left the gas station with a fist full of tickets and a look of satisfaction on his face.
Two weeks later, Koor and his woman, Vira, were sitting naked in his living room, eating dry turkey sandiwches (Koor hated mayo…Vira loved Koor) when he decided, in a fit of post coital clarity, to check the winning numbers on his laptop.
“What’s that, Baby?” she asked, gagging on mesquite turkey, cheese and seven grain bread. Love had its costs. Good thing was that Koor liked to eat, too. And not just turkey.
“Gotta check and see if I won some money,” Koor grunted. His sandwich was dry too, but it was good.
The checking took a while, so Vira fired up her own laptop and began looking for wedding dresses on eBay. Women might not be logical, but they are intuitive as all get out.
“Let’s go back to bed Hon,” Koor finally said, closing his machine.
“How much we win?”
“Enough.”
“I gotta go to work in a bit.”
“Not anytime soon, Vira.”
It took Koor a few days to get his money. He called his lawyer, who was also licensed to practice in Iowa. The lawyer suggested private security. His brother in law happened to run such a firm. Koor agreed. He had seen on television where protesters milled outside of the gas station where he’d purchased the ticket. The townspeople did not care. Sure, he was one of those people, but he was from somewhere else. He would take his money and go back to from whence he came. It would have been different has he built a monstrosity of a house in the middle of town and then set about throwing loud parties and trying to get intimate with there women. This guy? He just wanted his money and to go home. And the cute, plump dish beside him made it clear he was not into white women.
No, black folk from urban areas in the surrounding three states, led by the Right Reverend Bishop T. H. Chickenwing IV descended on this little Iowa town to protest the fact that the urban poor paid the most into the lottery and got the least from it. The Right Reverend Bishop had them march all of the way from the happy America Hotel through town, stopping along the way to sit in (and eat breakfast) at the Corner Diner and then make their way to the gas station. The buses that would ferry them back to their respective homes were filling up at the station when the black SUV pulled in and the security team ushered Koor and Vira in. When the crowd got too close for comfort, Koor’s goons tossed a smoke bomb rigged to smell like Harold’s mild sauce. That lulled the crown into submission.
After verifying the ticket, Koor and his posse were back in the truck and headed to the state lottery office for his check. The crowd climbed aboard the busses, minus the Right Reverend Chickenwing. He was a man of the people, but he had to see Pete Willingham before he left town.
First, the cameras.
“Bishop Chickenwing?” a reporter called. “What was the purpose of this march?”
“We feel it is unfortunate and downright unfair that for a black man to win the lottery he has to travel 300 miles away from a major city. Also, we think it is wrong that poor black people spend so much on the lotteryu and receive little return on their investment.”
“But…isn’t the lottery a game of chance?”
“White people have the stock market. We have the lottery. You force us to play and then never pay off.”
“Bishop!” Another reporter called. Another mike thrust before him. “Do you have evidence that African Americans were forced to play state lotteries?”
“In the book of Malachai…before I quote some word, let me make one thing clear…My people will start marching against this injustice nationwide until this silliness stops…We will disrupt your lives, people.”
Across the country, mayors of small towns had their secretaries flooding the Right Reverend Bishop’s office with requests for marches that afternoon. The only thing better than no black people was black people who came, spent money, and left. They were so entertaining. And they could dance, too. If civil rights leaders across the country could flood small towns and leave with a Cadillac, well, the economy might turn around in no time.
Koor was oblivious to all of this. He had his check in hand and was headed back home. In the back seat of the SUV, he looked out the window while Vira lay in his arms, sleeping. His attorney, a small, nut brown man with a big head, posed a question.
“What are you going to do with the money?”
Koor shifted slightly. He didn’t want to break Vira’s rest.
“First things first…when we get back, I need you to file whatever paperwork is necessary. See to it that my ex gets the percentage she has coming for my boy.”
“You wanna give her 20% of THAT?”
“Nah. Judge set her percentage waaaaay lower because he is with me so much and I pick up his other expenses. But let’s tie off that end straightaway. If she tries to fight for an increase, tie her up in court.”
“You perhaps should fight for custody?”
“Please. I didn’t win that much money. Why fight? By just doing what I do she already has all but given him to me anyway.”
“True.”
“Call Ariel Capital Management and let’s see if we can get in and get some accounts opened. Have them messenger me over some prospectuses. Or is that ‘prospecti’?”
“With this kind of money, I can get you into a larger firm…”
“I want Ariel. Funny how you never heard their name associated with shenanigans over the last several years. “
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. I’ma talk to Vira. If she wants to quit her gig, fine. Set up some separate accounts for her at Ariel.”
The attorney raised his eyebrows. Vira smiled in her sleep. Koor ignored them both.
“I’m also gonna open a business…”
The attorney looked at his client sharply.
‘Why not just enjoy your money?”
“I wanna keep busy. It’s not that I am giving up work. I am just giving up working for anybody but me…”
“What kind of work? Like you do now?”
Koor shook his head in disgust. “No, I don’t want to sit behind a desk ever again. Office politics and dealing with the public on that level…forget it. I want to do something I like that the community will like that will make money.”
Omar Budd, Esquire shook his head and settled back into the seat.
Koor hated publicity, but he put his to good use. He used the photo op of him standing with the lottery commissioner and the oversized check as an opportunity to announce the opening of his new business.
Black leaders at home watched the press conference with joy. A new source of revenue was a good thing, because some of the faithful were starting to ask why they contributed to help keep Da Leader in a mansion while they lived in the projects. The newly rich were an easy group of black folk to pressure. They felt guilty having money and wanted to up their street cred by being seen doing the brotha hug with someone know to be down with “The Struggle”. The struggle now was for dollars. Every leader knew that. But they needed to get what they could before these fools following them woke up.
Collectively, Black leadership, espescially local black leadership, was salivating over the crumbs they’d get from the new black mega lottery winner. Then he opened his mouth.
Boy, would they have preferred someone not so articulate. Someone a little less self assured.
Black leadership nationwide screamed in unison at flat screens everywhere, “That asshole!”
“…I think a combination rib shack, barbershop and carwash is just what the community will support,” Koor continued. “I will fund this enterprise completely, and I already have folk scouting for locations. I hope to employ some of our young people, but employment will be open to anyone who wants a job and will show up on time and presentable.”
“Will you serve beef ribs?”
“Indeed, although I won’t indulge. I do not eat red meat. But this is about meeting the need of the marketplace, not personal preferences. That’s the number one rule of business: keep it business.”
“Baby,” Vira said later, as they were in bed spooning, “do you know anything about making ribs?”
“Nope,” Koor nuzzled the back of her neck. Vira giggled softly.
“Or cut hair?”
“I can wash a car good,” he wrapped his arm around her middle.
“Leave my tummy alone,” she giggled again, a bit louder.
“Sexiest part of your body,” he yawned.
“For the next five minutes, sure. But I think that’s gonna change if your hands keep slowly moving south, Mister. Merkur?”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“We like to do this. Great sleep aid.”
“Don’t play with me.”
“I guess to prove a point. Be good or I won’t let you have any ribs.” His hand pressed a spot on her side, and she shuddered.
“Alright. I sure hope you know what you’re doing. This could be an expensive point you wanna prove.”
“We can afford it.”
Things got off to a rocky start.
Bishop Chickenwing struck first, deploring Koor’s “choice of the most stereotypical businesses to open in our community. As if we do not have enough hair salons, rib joints and carwashes already sucking up our people’s dollars.”
Koor responded in the press, “Well, I didn’t have enough money to open a church and REALLY clean up…”
His rib shack went up first, and while the ribs were good, they weren’t anything stellar. What sold the ribs, though, was the waitresses.
That one got him into trouble with Vira.
“Who chose those damned uniforms?” she fumed.
“I did. They a riot, huh?” Koor responded weakly.
“That is SO insulting…”
“The girls like them. I tried something modest, and they wouldn’t come to work. I suggested this as a joke, and attendance is 100%. Good for business, too.”
“Merkur! The bottoms look like that outfit the little purple singer wore years back. With the behind cut out?”
“Oh, I mean, the health department insists they wear thongs with them…”
He was on the couch that night, but the uniforms stayed.
Several ministers got together and pooled their resources. The contracted with a local to eliminate Koor, for the good of the race.
“Thank God he saved,” muttered one minister, watching the assassin bop away. “I don’t think we could trust a heathen.” The others nodded in assent.
The problem was the ministers didn’t know where to find good help. Over the next several weeks each of their cars were stolen, houses broken into, and more than one daughter came up pregnant. That is ordinary enough, but the word was the babies were all fathered by the same guy.
“But Daddy, he SAVED!” they all cried.
And Koor was still on this side of life.
When the barbershop opened, Koor insisted on both male and female barbers fresh out of Cain’s. He charged a standard booth rent but put away half for each barber to take and open his or her own shop when it came time to move on.
The problem came when the waitresses from the rib shack started hanging around the barbershop, in uniform, on their days off. After a couple of waitresses requested maternity leave, Koor had to make some changes. Moving forward, all new male barbers had to be same sex oriented, he decided. Female barbers could bat for whichever team they like, as they were not producing any babies. Koor also began taxing the guys who got his waitresses pregnant, 25% over their booth rent, to cover child support and daycare. The pregnancies stopped. For a time. Other sexual shenanigans quickly erupted, and the shop became known as somewhere one could get faded in many different ways, especially by people with common equipment. Koor eventually stopped caring. The booth rent got collected, on time, he reminded himself.
Eventually, the ministers were forced to come, hats in hand, to see Koor.
He came from behind the counter at his rib joint, wiped his hands on his apron, and sat down with them.
“Don’t you think we should go somewhere more…private?” one asked.
“I do my business in the open,” Koor smiled. “I sell fatty food, haircuts and carwashes. Anything you got to tell me, you can tell me in front of my customers. Shoot. Most of them are ya’ll members, anyway.”
“Haaay Sista Johnson,” called the Reverend Carnation Green, Jr. The others shook their heads in disgust. What could they do? Boy’s daddy left him the church.
“His daddy was like that, too,” one muttered. They all nodded.
“Whatchall need?” Koor demanded.
“Brother Mitchell, we haven’t seen eye to eye…”
“Ya’ll tried to have me killed. Yeah, I heard about that. You also tried to fix it so my woman would be shunned if she visited ya’ll churches. Ya’ll wrong as hell…”
“We cain’t condone living in sin,” Rev. Green lisped.
“Uh, yeah,” Koor gave the Good Reverend a long, hard look. “Take it you’ll be visitng my barbershop later?
“Oh, no he didn’t. Look, I STAY clean…”
“Carn,” one of the ministers said wearily, “You missed his point. Look, Brotha Mitchell…”
Grunt.
“We are holding a benefit…”
“For?”
“We want to know if you will donate food…”
“For? Needy families? Kids who are starving? What?”
“We want to have a drive to support the community…an inter-church drive…to show our youth they matter.”
“Why not just throw open the doors of your church daily and feed them yourselves? You all got kitchens. You got cooks. Why you need me?”
“This is for the community, brother.”
“Bullshit, Rev. Ya’ll ride through the community and pass the women who put clothes on your back as they stand on the bus stop and you glide by in your Lexus. Churches are to black folk what corporations are to white folk. You have all of these resources and you do what with them?”
“Brother…look, we just want…”
“Something for free. Bounce.”
The ministers rose, looking perturbed. One said, “Fuck it. I gotta go. Man’s coming to put the ATM machine in my narthex.”
“Question?” Koor just had to ask.
Green answered. “Yes?”
“Forget it.”
As they left, a young woman strode in, angry.
“Are you the manager?” She asked, eyes flaring.
“Ah, yeah,” Koor responded. “Guess I am. What can I do for you?”
“Look, either you are or you aren’t.” The woman was in her 30s, mildly attractive and angry.
“How can I help you?”
“I want the manager. Don’t make me go to corporate.”
Koor laughed at that one.
“Why are you smiling? Why are you laughing? Corporate will hear about this. When they do…”
“Ma’am, what is your problem?”
“I have managed places before. You should always have a manager on duty, and a corporate contact number posted. I have a real problem.”
“OK…with?”
“Don’t interrupt me. I have a degree, I work downtown, And I know how to work the system.”
Koor’s voice grew hard. “Ma’am, do you have a problem with my product, or my service?”
“Don’t you take that tone with me, sir. When corporate hears of this…”
“Ma’am, what is it I can do for you?”
She stormed out.
Koor stopped a waitress working that zone.
“What did she order?”
The waitress, a comely 20 year old sporting two gold teeth, shook her head. “I don’t know, Mr. Mitchell. She just walked in. She didn’t even order anything.”
Koor shook his head.
The following day, Bishop Chickenwing stopped by.
“Brother,” he began gravely, “we need to talk.”
“OK.” Koor posted up at his table. “What’s up?”
“Heart disease is running rampant in our community,” the cleric began. “I personally can tell you that heart attacks and strokes take way too many of us before our time.”
Koor, something of a fitness buff, listened intently.
“I personally think it is a shame a man as intelligent as you would sell out people this…poison.”
Koor thought about that one.
“Well, Reverend,” he began.
“Bishop!” Chickenwing hissed.
“OK, Bishop,” Koor said. “Look, I’m not holding a gun to anyone’s heads to purchase my product. I am employing neighborhood kids. I am running an honest business. If people know they are hypertensive or have issues where they shouldn’t eat smoked pork laden in high fructose corn syrup, isn’t it on them to either avoid my place or, I dunno, come here and order some coleslaw or something?”
“Our people can’t exercise that kind of control when you are right here in the middle of the community! We are in a food desert! There are no Asian restaurants, no stir fries, nothing but barbecue and chicken places around here! You are adding to it, and not helping diversifying the food options in the community!”
Koor sighed.
“Bishop Chickenwing?”
“Yes?”
“Before you get wound up in a sermon, can I ask you a question?”
“Definitely.”
“Why all you preachers got money and wear them tacky, shiny four and five button suits?”
Chickenwing exhaled harshly.
“A business will go where it can make money. You can’t legislate that, or force people to do that. You know why fried chicken shacks and rib joints dominate in this community? Because we support them. A sushi place over here would fold in a week. Just like we do churches. There is no food desert, just people who have make their choices on what they want to eat. I am giving in to those choices. But I do not make them.”
Bishop Chickenwing exhaled sharply again.
“I came here, in good faith…you will be smote…”
“Man, you can smote my joint, Rev.” Koor stood and went back to his grill.
That night, after he showered the smoke smell from his body, he sat down to a dry turkey sandwich with Vira.
“Long day Baby?”
“I’m good Honey. Thanks for the sandwich.”
“Renee called.”
Koor hauled himself out of his chair.
“Where you going?”
“You know I like to eat in peace. Let me see what this fool woman wants.”
“Don’t call her that. She is your ex wife and the mother of your child.”
“She is…OK, Baby.”
Koor lay in his bed and punched the numbers.
“Good evening Renee. How may I help you?”
A trick he had taught himself during his divorce was to be unfailingly polite to Renee. It annoyed her. Once, she screamed at a judge that she was tired of him beig so damned polite. The judge threatened to throw her in jail for contempt while Koor sat mute, giggling inside.
“I understand you own a business now?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“And what’s this increase I got in child support?”
“Mmmm…Sure tehre’s paperwork with it.”
“I don’t read that stuff. What is going on Merkur?”
“Nada. What can I do for you?”
“I’m just thinking about helping you out. I mean. You have this business, you have your relationship, maybe you want me to hang on to Akin for the week and you just have him on the weekends?”
“Why?”
“I’m just trying to help you out. I’m seeing some new attitude with him…”
“So you think weekend parenting is fair to him?”
“Yes.”
Koor exhaled. “Then send him to me five days, and you have him on the weekends.”
“I’m not paying no child support!”
“Been good talking to you, Renee. If you think his attitude is getting out of pocket, perhaps he needs to spend more time with his father, not less.”
She hung up on him, threatening to see him in court.
Fat chance, Koor thought. She didn’t show up last time.
He and Vira had a quiet night. He was holding her as they both drifted to sleep.
“Baby?”
“Yeah V?”
“You gonna be OK?”
Koor sighed and held his woman harder. “I don’t know, Baby. I don’t know.”
Koor understood this better than anyone else. It was just one of those things. Some people are nice guys because they have that much love for everyone else. They can handle the abuse that goes along with being so nice. Some nice guys become assholes for survival. They are a bit too nice for their own good, and their foreheads radiate the message, “Fuck with me!” People happily oblige.
Part of what made Koor an asshole was that he was a heck of a nice guy, under it all. The other part was that he was pretty smart. Intelligence breeds more assholes that humanity alone ever would.
What rounded out Koor’s personality, however, was this: he was honest. Koor would not lie to spare someone’s feelings. He didn’t pretend to be dumber than he was in order to get the things he wanted. He would not fabricate to keep his ass out of hot water. Koor did not pretend. If he was broke and homeless, he was broke and homeless, not “evaluating my housing options while growing streams of revenue.” Koor was real, and that made him as asshole. He wasn’t a bastard. Koor didn’t go out of his way to hurt or use people. He was an asshole. There is a difference, he often pointed out.
One thing Koor was not, however, was angry. Koor did not understand angry people. What are you angry for? Anger is a wasted emotion. One gets angry over things they can change. It is akin to one being angry the sun came up. There is nothing you can do about it, so why raise your blood pressure?
Anyway, today, Koor was anything but angry. Even an asshole had his days.
Merkur Daewoo Mitchell had played the lottery once in his life, in Iowa. He stopped at a gas station to fill up. Business pretty much stopped when he exited his car and went to settle his bill at the pump. The clerk, bless her heart, scrutinized his hundred to ensure Koor hadn’t been scammed into accepting a phony Franklin from someone. This was for his protection, she assured him. Realizing what was going on, Koor demanded his change in Quick Pick Powerball tickets.
One man standing behind Koor, the remnants of his hair jammed under a cap with a plastic mesh back and a front logo that read “They Were Good for Something…Cotton is a Cash Crop”, warned, “Son, you don’t wanna do that…”
That sealed it for Koor. He was not this dude’s son.
The old man wasn’t being considerate. Or even helpful. This city in Iowa was almost all white. While it accounted for 6% of state Powerball sales, it’s wins were in the double digits. In the interests of affirmative action, an Asian Indian family had been allowed to win once. Once. They did the right thing and promptly bought a hotel and a Subway, employing many town residents and furthering the stereotypes that made folk comfortable.
What if this jigaboo won? The only person who would be happy was Pete Willingham, the guy who owned the Cadillac dealership up the road. And Pete wasn’t a share the wealth kind of guy.
Regardless, Koor left the gas station with a fist full of tickets and a look of satisfaction on his face.
Two weeks later, Koor and his woman, Vira, were sitting naked in his living room, eating dry turkey sandiwches (Koor hated mayo…Vira loved Koor) when he decided, in a fit of post coital clarity, to check the winning numbers on his laptop.
“What’s that, Baby?” she asked, gagging on mesquite turkey, cheese and seven grain bread. Love had its costs. Good thing was that Koor liked to eat, too. And not just turkey.
“Gotta check and see if I won some money,” Koor grunted. His sandwich was dry too, but it was good.
The checking took a while, so Vira fired up her own laptop and began looking for wedding dresses on eBay. Women might not be logical, but they are intuitive as all get out.
“Let’s go back to bed Hon,” Koor finally said, closing his machine.
“How much we win?”
“Enough.”
“I gotta go to work in a bit.”
“Not anytime soon, Vira.”
It took Koor a few days to get his money. He called his lawyer, who was also licensed to practice in Iowa. The lawyer suggested private security. His brother in law happened to run such a firm. Koor agreed. He had seen on television where protesters milled outside of the gas station where he’d purchased the ticket. The townspeople did not care. Sure, he was one of those people, but he was from somewhere else. He would take his money and go back to from whence he came. It would have been different has he built a monstrosity of a house in the middle of town and then set about throwing loud parties and trying to get intimate with there women. This guy? He just wanted his money and to go home. And the cute, plump dish beside him made it clear he was not into white women.
No, black folk from urban areas in the surrounding three states, led by the Right Reverend Bishop T. H. Chickenwing IV descended on this little Iowa town to protest the fact that the urban poor paid the most into the lottery and got the least from it. The Right Reverend Bishop had them march all of the way from the happy America Hotel through town, stopping along the way to sit in (and eat breakfast) at the Corner Diner and then make their way to the gas station. The buses that would ferry them back to their respective homes were filling up at the station when the black SUV pulled in and the security team ushered Koor and Vira in. When the crowd got too close for comfort, Koor’s goons tossed a smoke bomb rigged to smell like Harold’s mild sauce. That lulled the crown into submission.
After verifying the ticket, Koor and his posse were back in the truck and headed to the state lottery office for his check. The crowd climbed aboard the busses, minus the Right Reverend Chickenwing. He was a man of the people, but he had to see Pete Willingham before he left town.
First, the cameras.
“Bishop Chickenwing?” a reporter called. “What was the purpose of this march?”
“We feel it is unfortunate and downright unfair that for a black man to win the lottery he has to travel 300 miles away from a major city. Also, we think it is wrong that poor black people spend so much on the lotteryu and receive little return on their investment.”
“But…isn’t the lottery a game of chance?”
“White people have the stock market. We have the lottery. You force us to play and then never pay off.”
“Bishop!” Another reporter called. Another mike thrust before him. “Do you have evidence that African Americans were forced to play state lotteries?”
“In the book of Malachai…before I quote some word, let me make one thing clear…My people will start marching against this injustice nationwide until this silliness stops…We will disrupt your lives, people.”
Across the country, mayors of small towns had their secretaries flooding the Right Reverend Bishop’s office with requests for marches that afternoon. The only thing better than no black people was black people who came, spent money, and left. They were so entertaining. And they could dance, too. If civil rights leaders across the country could flood small towns and leave with a Cadillac, well, the economy might turn around in no time.
Koor was oblivious to all of this. He had his check in hand and was headed back home. In the back seat of the SUV, he looked out the window while Vira lay in his arms, sleeping. His attorney, a small, nut brown man with a big head, posed a question.
“What are you going to do with the money?”
Koor shifted slightly. He didn’t want to break Vira’s rest.
“First things first…when we get back, I need you to file whatever paperwork is necessary. See to it that my ex gets the percentage she has coming for my boy.”
“You wanna give her 20% of THAT?”
“Nah. Judge set her percentage waaaaay lower because he is with me so much and I pick up his other expenses. But let’s tie off that end straightaway. If she tries to fight for an increase, tie her up in court.”
“You perhaps should fight for custody?”
“Please. I didn’t win that much money. Why fight? By just doing what I do she already has all but given him to me anyway.”
“True.”
“Call Ariel Capital Management and let’s see if we can get in and get some accounts opened. Have them messenger me over some prospectuses. Or is that ‘prospecti’?”
“With this kind of money, I can get you into a larger firm…”
“I want Ariel. Funny how you never heard their name associated with shenanigans over the last several years. “
“Anything else?”
“Yeah. I’ma talk to Vira. If she wants to quit her gig, fine. Set up some separate accounts for her at Ariel.”
The attorney raised his eyebrows. Vira smiled in her sleep. Koor ignored them both.
“I’m also gonna open a business…”
The attorney looked at his client sharply.
‘Why not just enjoy your money?”
“I wanna keep busy. It’s not that I am giving up work. I am just giving up working for anybody but me…”
“What kind of work? Like you do now?”
Koor shook his head in disgust. “No, I don’t want to sit behind a desk ever again. Office politics and dealing with the public on that level…forget it. I want to do something I like that the community will like that will make money.”
Omar Budd, Esquire shook his head and settled back into the seat.
Koor hated publicity, but he put his to good use. He used the photo op of him standing with the lottery commissioner and the oversized check as an opportunity to announce the opening of his new business.
Black leaders at home watched the press conference with joy. A new source of revenue was a good thing, because some of the faithful were starting to ask why they contributed to help keep Da Leader in a mansion while they lived in the projects. The newly rich were an easy group of black folk to pressure. They felt guilty having money and wanted to up their street cred by being seen doing the brotha hug with someone know to be down with “The Struggle”. The struggle now was for dollars. Every leader knew that. But they needed to get what they could before these fools following them woke up.
Collectively, Black leadership, espescially local black leadership, was salivating over the crumbs they’d get from the new black mega lottery winner. Then he opened his mouth.
Boy, would they have preferred someone not so articulate. Someone a little less self assured.
Black leadership nationwide screamed in unison at flat screens everywhere, “That asshole!”
“…I think a combination rib shack, barbershop and carwash is just what the community will support,” Koor continued. “I will fund this enterprise completely, and I already have folk scouting for locations. I hope to employ some of our young people, but employment will be open to anyone who wants a job and will show up on time and presentable.”
“Will you serve beef ribs?”
“Indeed, although I won’t indulge. I do not eat red meat. But this is about meeting the need of the marketplace, not personal preferences. That’s the number one rule of business: keep it business.”
“Baby,” Vira said later, as they were in bed spooning, “do you know anything about making ribs?”
“Nope,” Koor nuzzled the back of her neck. Vira giggled softly.
“Or cut hair?”
“I can wash a car good,” he wrapped his arm around her middle.
“Leave my tummy alone,” she giggled again, a bit louder.
“Sexiest part of your body,” he yawned.
“For the next five minutes, sure. But I think that’s gonna change if your hands keep slowly moving south, Mister. Merkur?”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“We like to do this. Great sleep aid.”
“Don’t play with me.”
“I guess to prove a point. Be good or I won’t let you have any ribs.” His hand pressed a spot on her side, and she shuddered.
“Alright. I sure hope you know what you’re doing. This could be an expensive point you wanna prove.”
“We can afford it.”
Things got off to a rocky start.
Bishop Chickenwing struck first, deploring Koor’s “choice of the most stereotypical businesses to open in our community. As if we do not have enough hair salons, rib joints and carwashes already sucking up our people’s dollars.”
Koor responded in the press, “Well, I didn’t have enough money to open a church and REALLY clean up…”
His rib shack went up first, and while the ribs were good, they weren’t anything stellar. What sold the ribs, though, was the waitresses.
That one got him into trouble with Vira.
“Who chose those damned uniforms?” she fumed.
“I did. They a riot, huh?” Koor responded weakly.
“That is SO insulting…”
“The girls like them. I tried something modest, and they wouldn’t come to work. I suggested this as a joke, and attendance is 100%. Good for business, too.”
“Merkur! The bottoms look like that outfit the little purple singer wore years back. With the behind cut out?”
“Oh, I mean, the health department insists they wear thongs with them…”
He was on the couch that night, but the uniforms stayed.
Several ministers got together and pooled their resources. The contracted with a local to eliminate Koor, for the good of the race.
“Thank God he saved,” muttered one minister, watching the assassin bop away. “I don’t think we could trust a heathen.” The others nodded in assent.
The problem was the ministers didn’t know where to find good help. Over the next several weeks each of their cars were stolen, houses broken into, and more than one daughter came up pregnant. That is ordinary enough, but the word was the babies were all fathered by the same guy.
“But Daddy, he SAVED!” they all cried.
And Koor was still on this side of life.
When the barbershop opened, Koor insisted on both male and female barbers fresh out of Cain’s. He charged a standard booth rent but put away half for each barber to take and open his or her own shop when it came time to move on.
The problem came when the waitresses from the rib shack started hanging around the barbershop, in uniform, on their days off. After a couple of waitresses requested maternity leave, Koor had to make some changes. Moving forward, all new male barbers had to be same sex oriented, he decided. Female barbers could bat for whichever team they like, as they were not producing any babies. Koor also began taxing the guys who got his waitresses pregnant, 25% over their booth rent, to cover child support and daycare. The pregnancies stopped. For a time. Other sexual shenanigans quickly erupted, and the shop became known as somewhere one could get faded in many different ways, especially by people with common equipment. Koor eventually stopped caring. The booth rent got collected, on time, he reminded himself.
Eventually, the ministers were forced to come, hats in hand, to see Koor.
He came from behind the counter at his rib joint, wiped his hands on his apron, and sat down with them.
“Don’t you think we should go somewhere more…private?” one asked.
“I do my business in the open,” Koor smiled. “I sell fatty food, haircuts and carwashes. Anything you got to tell me, you can tell me in front of my customers. Shoot. Most of them are ya’ll members, anyway.”
“Haaay Sista Johnson,” called the Reverend Carnation Green, Jr. The others shook their heads in disgust. What could they do? Boy’s daddy left him the church.
“His daddy was like that, too,” one muttered. They all nodded.
“Whatchall need?” Koor demanded.
“Brother Mitchell, we haven’t seen eye to eye…”
“Ya’ll tried to have me killed. Yeah, I heard about that. You also tried to fix it so my woman would be shunned if she visited ya’ll churches. Ya’ll wrong as hell…”
“We cain’t condone living in sin,” Rev. Green lisped.
“Uh, yeah,” Koor gave the Good Reverend a long, hard look. “Take it you’ll be visitng my barbershop later?
“Oh, no he didn’t. Look, I STAY clean…”
“Carn,” one of the ministers said wearily, “You missed his point. Look, Brotha Mitchell…”
Grunt.
“We are holding a benefit…”
“For?”
“We want to know if you will donate food…”
“For? Needy families? Kids who are starving? What?”
“We want to have a drive to support the community…an inter-church drive…to show our youth they matter.”
“Why not just throw open the doors of your church daily and feed them yourselves? You all got kitchens. You got cooks. Why you need me?”
“This is for the community, brother.”
“Bullshit, Rev. Ya’ll ride through the community and pass the women who put clothes on your back as they stand on the bus stop and you glide by in your Lexus. Churches are to black folk what corporations are to white folk. You have all of these resources and you do what with them?”
“Brother…look, we just want…”
“Something for free. Bounce.”
The ministers rose, looking perturbed. One said, “Fuck it. I gotta go. Man’s coming to put the ATM machine in my narthex.”
“Question?” Koor just had to ask.
Green answered. “Yes?”
“Forget it.”
As they left, a young woman strode in, angry.
“Are you the manager?” She asked, eyes flaring.
“Ah, yeah,” Koor responded. “Guess I am. What can I do for you?”
“Look, either you are or you aren’t.” The woman was in her 30s, mildly attractive and angry.
“How can I help you?”
“I want the manager. Don’t make me go to corporate.”
Koor laughed at that one.
“Why are you smiling? Why are you laughing? Corporate will hear about this. When they do…”
“Ma’am, what is your problem?”
“I have managed places before. You should always have a manager on duty, and a corporate contact number posted. I have a real problem.”
“OK…with?”
“Don’t interrupt me. I have a degree, I work downtown, And I know how to work the system.”
Koor’s voice grew hard. “Ma’am, do you have a problem with my product, or my service?”
“Don’t you take that tone with me, sir. When corporate hears of this…”
“Ma’am, what is it I can do for you?”
She stormed out.
Koor stopped a waitress working that zone.
“What did she order?”
The waitress, a comely 20 year old sporting two gold teeth, shook her head. “I don’t know, Mr. Mitchell. She just walked in. She didn’t even order anything.”
Koor shook his head.
The following day, Bishop Chickenwing stopped by.
“Brother,” he began gravely, “we need to talk.”
“OK.” Koor posted up at his table. “What’s up?”
“Heart disease is running rampant in our community,” the cleric began. “I personally can tell you that heart attacks and strokes take way too many of us before our time.”
Koor, something of a fitness buff, listened intently.
“I personally think it is a shame a man as intelligent as you would sell out people this…poison.”
Koor thought about that one.
“Well, Reverend,” he began.
“Bishop!” Chickenwing hissed.
“OK, Bishop,” Koor said. “Look, I’m not holding a gun to anyone’s heads to purchase my product. I am employing neighborhood kids. I am running an honest business. If people know they are hypertensive or have issues where they shouldn’t eat smoked pork laden in high fructose corn syrup, isn’t it on them to either avoid my place or, I dunno, come here and order some coleslaw or something?”
“Our people can’t exercise that kind of control when you are right here in the middle of the community! We are in a food desert! There are no Asian restaurants, no stir fries, nothing but barbecue and chicken places around here! You are adding to it, and not helping diversifying the food options in the community!”
Koor sighed.
“Bishop Chickenwing?”
“Yes?”
“Before you get wound up in a sermon, can I ask you a question?”
“Definitely.”
“Why all you preachers got money and wear them tacky, shiny four and five button suits?”
Chickenwing exhaled harshly.
“A business will go where it can make money. You can’t legislate that, or force people to do that. You know why fried chicken shacks and rib joints dominate in this community? Because we support them. A sushi place over here would fold in a week. Just like we do churches. There is no food desert, just people who have make their choices on what they want to eat. I am giving in to those choices. But I do not make them.”
Bishop Chickenwing exhaled sharply again.
“I came here, in good faith…you will be smote…”
“Man, you can smote my joint, Rev.” Koor stood and went back to his grill.
That night, after he showered the smoke smell from his body, he sat down to a dry turkey sandwich with Vira.
“Long day Baby?”
“I’m good Honey. Thanks for the sandwich.”
“Renee called.”
Koor hauled himself out of his chair.
“Where you going?”
“You know I like to eat in peace. Let me see what this fool woman wants.”
“Don’t call her that. She is your ex wife and the mother of your child.”
“She is…OK, Baby.”
Koor lay in his bed and punched the numbers.
“Good evening Renee. How may I help you?”
A trick he had taught himself during his divorce was to be unfailingly polite to Renee. It annoyed her. Once, she screamed at a judge that she was tired of him beig so damned polite. The judge threatened to throw her in jail for contempt while Koor sat mute, giggling inside.
“I understand you own a business now?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“And what’s this increase I got in child support?”
“Mmmm…Sure tehre’s paperwork with it.”
“I don’t read that stuff. What is going on Merkur?”
“Nada. What can I do for you?”
“I’m just thinking about helping you out. I mean. You have this business, you have your relationship, maybe you want me to hang on to Akin for the week and you just have him on the weekends?”
“Why?”
“I’m just trying to help you out. I’m seeing some new attitude with him…”
“So you think weekend parenting is fair to him?”
“Yes.”
Koor exhaled. “Then send him to me five days, and you have him on the weekends.”
“I’m not paying no child support!”
“Been good talking to you, Renee. If you think his attitude is getting out of pocket, perhaps he needs to spend more time with his father, not less.”
She hung up on him, threatening to see him in court.
Fat chance, Koor thought. She didn’t show up last time.
He and Vira had a quiet night. He was holding her as they both drifted to sleep.
“Baby?”
“Yeah V?”
“You gonna be OK?”
Koor sighed and held his woman harder. “I don’t know, Baby. I don’t know.”
Thursday, March 4, 2010
All She Wrote
The following events may or may not have occurred. Names have been changed to protect the insane.
From the Diary of Roscoe Cleophus Twilliger, Esq. Side man to the legendary Fuzzhead Jenkins, Bluesman, Writer, and Daddy. Arch Enemy of Flatbush Jones, Yarn Cat Mass Producer.
Fuzzhead walked in, beaming.
The band had been having a rough go of it lately. Instead of our names being “Fuzzhead Jenkins & All She Wrote”, we should be going under “Fuzzhead Jenkins and All She Left.”
Yeah, we had the blues.
The blues is a movement in the composition of life. They aren’t just music; the blues represent the experience of love, loss, learning, joy, sadness and most of all, intimacy. They can come at any time, unannounced or expected and only one thing is certain: you have to work through the blues to get out of them, and when you’re done, you truly know you’ve been somewhere.
Every member of the band had woman trouble. Fuzz was luckiest because he had no woman. Anymore. He never said why. Aboubaka and I split with little closure and less communication, throwing my year off thus far. Rollo’s woman just announced she was with child…someone else’s. Again. Thutmose’s wife just left him…apparently, marriage is not about feelings nor trust nor understanding, but business. If anybody hasn’t a head for business, it’s Thut. Thutmose gets beat weekly in money deals by my nine year old, Lil Zeke.
Earl Grady’s woman left him hanging, saying they were too intimate. That made no sense to the rest of us, as they were always getting caught doing it like forty going north. Apparently, a serious relationship between two thirty something’s where they engage in regular carnalities is a bad thing, let her tell it. She feels used, like that’s all their thing is about. Now, every fool knows women get more interested in the do in their mid thirties, and by and large, men of color are happiest when they can engage in the world’s favorite activity with someone who knows how to make a good meal afterwards, but Earl Grady’s woman wants something more. She just doesn’t know what. Boy is a mess over there. I caught Earl Grady talking to his bass the other day. Not mumbling while he played. Talking to it. Like it was his friend.
Fuzz counted off, and we swung into “Everybody Plays the Fool.” We were swinging, alright, and when Fuzzhead hit the lyric, “and now you cry and when you do, but next time around someone criiiiiiiiiies for you, yah yah yah” the audience remembered there was a band in there. Even we were a bit taken aback. Something changed that night on the stage. And we all knew the blues were moving on.
After the set, at the studio that used to be Dr. Wax in Harper Court, Fuzz sat us down and explained, “I realized the audience doesn’t understand the blues. Hell, they don’t even recognize the blues. Americans in general have a thing about creation and amnesia.”
Earl Grady stopped whispering to his bass long enough to say, “Huh?” I swear he’s gonna do somethin’ to that instrument. It won’t be nice.
Fuzz looked at him. “Boy, we create art and then forget it’s importance. Couple that with the overall dumbing down of our society, and the fact that a group of people happily refer to one another as the most derogatory term their oppressors could find…”
I lit a cigarette. One of the water vapor ones. “Move on Fuzz.”
Fuzzhead passed out some manuscript. I looked at the notes.
“Have you lost yo’ damn mind?” I stubbed out my steam square. “We can’t do this song…”
Fuzzhead leveled me with a look. “Why?”
“It’s…ignorant…”
“So is so much of what is out there…”
“We aren’t rappers.”
Fuzzhead sat down at the piano and began banging out a tune. It was catchy, but familiar.
“Fuzz, that’s ‘What’d I Say’! That’s Ray’s song…”
“And we’ll pay him for it, or at least, his estate…believe me, none of the listening audience will know. Again, they can’t remember who made what music tow years back.”
“Man, these lyrics…”
“Are no worse than what we got out here now. We past the blues. We need to get paid. Perhaps this reverse psychology will open people’s minds…If nothing else, we’ll get paid, which is probably a big reason why the women left.”
To my knowledge, the man did not use illegal narcotics.
“We gonna need some horn players…the Baba twins are available… “
“Whatever…it’s your band.” Everyone knows the Baba twins, while outstanding horn men, are incredibly flatulent, on and off stage. The things one does for a gig.
So we started gigging, quietly recording Fuzz’ new song. It took three attempts on as many days to get through the lyrics without all of us breaking into laughter. We were even looking to do a video, but Fuzz was afraid the images may stir action where the lyrics did not. The blues? Women? Who had time to think of such things. We were about to start racial Armageddon, and all of us were black. And a handsome, big head dude with a fondness for cashmere jackets and a warped sense of humor was taking us there in overdrive.
They don’t do the bandstand shows anymore. Well, maybe ‘Soul Train’, and we weren’t going to risk getting lynched by the new guest host and the Chinese dancer. And Don Cornelius. He was always in the background somewhere, and we all know Don got a rep for beating ass. No, sir.
Somehow, Fuzz landed us a guest spot on one of the evening shows. I am guessing he called in a favor. I think he twisted DJ OPM’s arm. Fuzz and OPM went way back, and he had agreed to let OPM produce the remix to the new song, although we tried to explain to Fuzz that blues bands usually don’t do remixes. He isn’t hearing us. Times like this make me miss having a woman. Women are good to gripe to, and they are usually on your side. Here we got a hijacked version of Ray Charles’ “What I Say” with some lyrics that will likely lose us our US citizenship.
So we’re in the green room, waiting to go on, when Fuzz says, “Fellas, we’re about to make history.”
Even Earl Grady, a man who has basically taken a musical instrument as his lover, shook his head.
I had so much respect for these shows. Conan’s exit inspired me. Now this…
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” we had already tuned up during the sound check, but it always helps to play a couple chords during the intro, get the audience into it, “Fuzzhead Jenkins, and All She Wrote.”
Fuzz started out real mellow and groovy on the organ, playing the opening chords. Behind him, three beautiful, short black women swayed with tambourines. Fuzz insisted they represented the women we’d lost. The Baba Twins were off right of us, the band. I noticed there was a ventilation system between them and Fuzz, telling me that perhaps he was not as crazy as he appeared. Earl Grady doubled up his bassline with Fuzzhead’s, Thutmose Clearwater sat behind his drums, motionless as the Sphinx. Usually, I was on piano, but this configuration required me to do lead guitar. All we heard was the groove of Fuzz’ organ and his feet tapping the floor. He leaned into the microphone and in his clear tenor, began the song.
Two measures into it, Earl Grady’s bass thrummed harder, and the back up girls’ tambourines swang with the beat. It wasn’t hard. The music was someone else’s, after all. But the lyrics weren’t drowned out, either. I had my pistol in the small of my back in case there was a riot. Like Iceberg Slim wrote, in the desert, a sucker is grateful for even the shade of a toothpick. If there was a riot, I’d risk murder.
There was no worry. The crowd was on its feet, dancing, bopping along, and Fuzz was hollerin’ the lyrics. Mid strum, I realized that it wasn’t a BAD song. I mean, boosted instrumental aside (and face it…in the blues, we boost and improvise on everything) . We swung hard into the first chorus, and Fuzzhead stood up, kicked back the piano stand, and wailed into the microphone,
“Porch monkeys! Yah! Porch monkeys! Porch monkeys, yeah porch monkeys! Porch monkeys, umhmm, porch monkeys, porch monkeys, yeah, porch monkeys, get it good like you know you should do the lil gal monkey til you run outta wood cuz it’s all you do good aw yeah! Porch monkeys, yahhhhhh!”
The band never missed a beat. One or two of those bleats from the horn section were suspect, but we kept wailing. Them girls were working up a sweat, trying not to double over laughing while keeping in step.
Fuzz had worked himself into a lather, he was enjoying this buffoonery so much.
“Ya music’s stupid and you got no class…ya wear ya pants halfway down ya ass…n thinks its cool” In the background, on the horn changes, the girls sang “Porch Monkeys, yeah, porch monkeys!” Fuzz was possessed. On the next verse break, he began, “You pass on my lovin' all the time…but let some fool thug grab yo’ behind! Wonder why you sad (porch monkeys, yeah, porch monkeys!)”
As we came to the conclusion, Fuzz hollered into the mike, “Tell you what you are…tell you what you are now! Tell you what you are! Yeaaaaaaaaa!”
The band came crashing to a halt and the applause thundered. Fuzz wiped his brow with a towel and sat down with the host, who was still visibly excited. The crowd was hollering “Encore!” I wanted out of there. Earl Grady held his bass protectively. Thut had ducked below the drums. The girls were long gone. I knew somewhere, the NAACP was mobilizing troops to come take us out. The host chatted on.
“…the rhythm, the musicianship! And, look, you don’t have to tell me…it was a message song. I know. But what a message! The animal rights people will LOVE it!”
The song picked up major airplay. Urban radio, pop radio, blues stations. Can you say, “Crossover?”
And Fuzz? Couldn’t tell him nary a thing.
I was at the McDonalds drive through one day, thinking of how I missed Aboubaka, and the little girl who bought my food said, “That’s my HIT! Porch Monkeys! Yeah, porch monkeys!” What the hell was wrong with us?
Time magazine ran a cover photo of Fuzz, one of those shot from below as he got off a plane, and the title, “Monkey Man.”
The interview requests poured in. Fuzz was on CNN, MSNBC and even Fox and the Cartoon Network. There was talk about bringing back “Scooby Do” so the band could guest star. Thut liked that. He always had a thing for that Velma. BET refused to book us, saying we denigrated Black music. They had the producer of their hit show, “Booty Bump Ya’ll” send us a note on letterhead saying how ashamed we made them as Black people, and as a Black network owned by Swedes. Swedes have always identified with brothas. Why we drive so many Volvos.
It wasn’t all gravy. We had security following the platinum charting of “Porch Monkeys”. Some Black leaders were calling for our heads, especially after the DJ OPM remix that said something about “poverty pimps” and “talking black and sleeping white.” One group of angry single mothers put out a retaliation record, “It Ain’t All Our Fault”, but it went nowhere.
Fuzz called us to the studio one day and passed around the music for the new song. This was an original, slow swing blues.
“Fuzz,” I said, brushing lint from my new suit, “I ain’t singin’ this…”
“You ain’t, I am,” he corrected me.
“There’s no harp part on here,” I countered.
“This is our piano song. Every group has to have at least one song where the front man sits at the piano and belts out a ballad. Makes it look more serious. Think “Let It Be” or “November Rain.”
We didn’t argue anymore. Our music was offensive, but it was selling. I read the title.
“Fuzzhead, no,” I groaned. “Somebody is gonna figure this out…c’mon, man.”
“This is real.”
We shot the video for “Black People Read Coloring Books (They May As Well)” live at a South Side blues club, with interspersed images inside ethnic bookstores stocked with those conspiracy books you can’t find anywhere else. At one point, Earl Grady suggested we name the tune “Illuminati Blues”. The fact that he was starting to subscribe to Fuzzhead’s mania was disconcerting, to say the least. The video also showed young kids in an obvious ghetto reading said books, growing older, and their situation not changing. In fact, one young boy is reading the book in front of a liquor store and grows into an old man, reading in front of the same store, while his environment improves not one iota. Part of the scene shows him pushing away a pregnant young woman, dressed for work, and flailing his arms at her when she interrupts his reading. Other shots showed good looking, obviously successful women with black eyes and bruised lips pulling on thugs’ arms, while a young Black man, briefcase in his arm, is trying to pull the woman in his direction and is getting off punches at the thug. They had us on that morning show for the premiere. Elisabeth didn’t get it. Sherri tried to punch Fuzz. Goldberg and Fuzz had a great side conversation about something only they understood.
The National Academy of recording Arts and Sciences gave us “Band of the Year”. When we accepted it, half dressed video dancers protested our presence outside. One young man was interviewed on TV, in full hip hop regalia, explaining in fluent Ebonics why we were the devil incarnate. A 40 piece orchestra backed us for a house burning closer of “Porch Monkeys” that had everyone over 40 dancing in the aisles.
We were preparing to tour when one of the evening news shows broke the story of me and Aboubaka’s break up. It was not abusive. No drugs nor alcohol were involved. She and I had sent some pretty nasty email to each other, though, and somehow, mine surfaced. Nothing I am proud of, but Fuzz was forced to suspend me to placate the record company and the public. Well, he suspended me, and then he took me back, publicly, stating he wouldn’t bow to the Single Mother’s with Adolescent Crazy Knuckleheads (SMACK) lobby. “If they want our music to change, perhaps they either need to make better decisions of whom they let impregnate them or do a better job of ensuring these offspring they insist on raising alone don’t turn out to be urban terrorists of the first order. This was a private matter between a man and the woman he loved, who claimed, after he threw some harsh facts her way, that she had never been sexually satisfied. Obviously, he has suffered enough. I cannot, in good faith, defend his actions, but I will not be pressured into harming this man’s economy because a group of angry women want to make an issue of this when there are more pressing issues to address.”
We were asked to sing at the Republican National Convention, but Fuzz declined.
“I am only interested in not pissing of f the gays or the Israelis,” he often said. The GOP alienated both. We could not afford to have the country’s two most unified constituencies hating us.
Things started to nut up while we were recording the “You Really Have No Power Save Your Big Mouth” album.
Some reporters caught Fuzz coming off of a plane and asked what it was like to be so big. They meant his suit size. Boy’d been gaining weight, eating all that Harold’s. He thought they meant fame.
“It’s amazing,” Fuzz said, adjusting his shades. “We’re more popular than Barrack Obama.”
THAT set off a furor, with black grandmothers everywhere burning dolls of Fuzz in effigy, and Black male school teachers (all three of them) going on television saying how we were the white man’s tool. Racist whites went on their talk shows to decry our claiming more popularity than their favorite excuse tool, The Magic Negro. Black women called us haters. White women, interviewed from luxury vehicles with plates reading such as “NBACHSPT” said we had something against kids of mixed parentage.
Earl Grady tried to marry his bass in Kuala Lampur around this time, causing speculation that perhaps this wholesome band preaching accountability was not quite what it seemed. Someone got a hold of the liner notes of that first album and reached the conclusion that “Porch Monkeys” was derogatory after all.
Aboubaka went on television, invited for the sole purpose of talking about yours truly, then refused to say anything about me, saying our time had “come and gone”. I turned that into a song title and sent her all the royalties. She went on television again, claiming she had given me a million dollars to start the band.
Thutmose’s wife said he was not the father of any of their kids, she felt he was a poor businessman and regularly engaged in infidelity, although there were at least five pieces of evidence walking around proving she found love and happiness at three in the morning elsewhere.
The real beginning of the end, though?
Fuzzhead found a woman.
Akeba Sountaka wasn’t even good looking. She claimed she was a musician, but we never saw her pick up an instrument. She played the spoons at dinner, once, and was terribly off key.
Suddenly, the woman Fuzz referred to as his “African Queen” was everywhere, all the time with us. Now, we had to start referring to him as “Mr. Jenkins.” Akeba could be bossy as hell, always trying to interfere in the creative process, causing problems between me and Fuzz, not letting him eat mild sauce on his Harold’s. I missed Aboubaka something awful. Thutmose had taken to raising his wife’s kids, all of whom he claimed, and spent a lot of time at Little League games and the like. Earl Grady was dating some piano player, a cute pixie-ish yellow momma named Alicia. Nice behind on that one. Good voice, too.
One day, Akeba started clowning, saying that Fuzz wrote all the music and did most of the work. I threatened to have her deported back to Africa, and she started arguing that she wasn’t even from there. Everyone but Fuzzhead KNEW Akeba Sountaka was just plain old Tammy Watson from 43rd Street.
“It’s time,” Fuzz said one day, looking up. “I’m tired.”
The final album cover showed us walking across Harper Court to the studio. The final video, “Ya’ll Made for Good Material”, was actually shot in the studio. In a haze of smoke, smiles, tears and instruments, Fuzz at the piano, that old Akeba next to him, me playing lead guitar, Thut on his drums, beaming, and Earl Grady on his bass, that cute Alicia’s head on his shoulder, we brought the end to an era.
That night, on the rooftop of the Harper Court building, we started with “porch Monkeys” and ended with the blues, thanking our fans, placating our critics. When it was over, we sat down with the greatest movie critic ever, and as he talked to us through his computer, we unwound and laughed, knowing it would be our last time together.
Fuzz married Akeba. Well, he tried. Turns out she was married to someone else. Two somebody else’s. He retired from music, took up writing and teaching college, and basically swore off women. Except those who really found his intellect sexy and were younger than my son, Lil Zeke, who by then was Big Zeke, and had kids of his own. Akeba threatened to write a book about the group’s secrets until one local talk maven exposed that Akeba was functionally illiterate and couldn’t count past six. We won’t mention the bi polar issues.
Thutmose died cheering his kid on at a Little League game. His wife was so angry that she beat on his corpse for fifteen minutes, asking what she was supposed to do with “all these kids by myself”. Everyone loves differently, but his death ended talk of a reunion.
Earl Grady’s affair with Alicia ended on good terms, and she became a recording artist in her own right. Earl is still one of the best bass men in the country. He does commercials for credit cards and local fast food chains now.
Me? I had one ex wife, a son, and a lot of memories. I kept on living. I kept on loving. And you know what? I learned love comes back. You just gotta leave it alone. The blues will teach you that.
"Ya'll made for good material,
ya'll made for good material,
ya'll made for good material....
but now I've got to go,
I'm not meant to play here anymore, yeah
I started as a means,
to see if there were others sharing my dreams
and find a like minded few
who see the world as I do
But time has made it clear
upon closer inspection the beliefs I hold so dear
leave me in the minority
what was meant a lesson is in fact reality
"Ya'll made for good material,
ya'll made for good material,
ya'll made for good material....
but now I've got to go,
I'm not meant to play here anymore, yeah
Sometimes the hardest thing
is seeing what is really there
sometimes the bravest statement
is to ask if anyone cares
You can't go through life a caricature
I can't keep shaking my head in wonder
What do you do when you don't fit in
when it's too late to start over again
How you see love life and dreams
it is clear you're the only one it seems
who feels for things the way you do
who believes logic has a place next to the blues
Well, let me tell you: your days of making me feel outcast
because I might be right are through
Ya'll made for good material,
but then time moved past
and life it started to show
that it's time to move on, and realize
it is what it is.
From the Diary of Roscoe Cleophus Twilliger, Esq. Side man to the legendary Fuzzhead Jenkins, Bluesman, Writer, and Daddy. Arch Enemy of Flatbush Jones, Yarn Cat Mass Producer.
Fuzzhead walked in, beaming.
The band had been having a rough go of it lately. Instead of our names being “Fuzzhead Jenkins & All She Wrote”, we should be going under “Fuzzhead Jenkins and All She Left.”
Yeah, we had the blues.
The blues is a movement in the composition of life. They aren’t just music; the blues represent the experience of love, loss, learning, joy, sadness and most of all, intimacy. They can come at any time, unannounced or expected and only one thing is certain: you have to work through the blues to get out of them, and when you’re done, you truly know you’ve been somewhere.
Every member of the band had woman trouble. Fuzz was luckiest because he had no woman. Anymore. He never said why. Aboubaka and I split with little closure and less communication, throwing my year off thus far. Rollo’s woman just announced she was with child…someone else’s. Again. Thutmose’s wife just left him…apparently, marriage is not about feelings nor trust nor understanding, but business. If anybody hasn’t a head for business, it’s Thut. Thutmose gets beat weekly in money deals by my nine year old, Lil Zeke.
Earl Grady’s woman left him hanging, saying they were too intimate. That made no sense to the rest of us, as they were always getting caught doing it like forty going north. Apparently, a serious relationship between two thirty something’s where they engage in regular carnalities is a bad thing, let her tell it. She feels used, like that’s all their thing is about. Now, every fool knows women get more interested in the do in their mid thirties, and by and large, men of color are happiest when they can engage in the world’s favorite activity with someone who knows how to make a good meal afterwards, but Earl Grady’s woman wants something more. She just doesn’t know what. Boy is a mess over there. I caught Earl Grady talking to his bass the other day. Not mumbling while he played. Talking to it. Like it was his friend.
Fuzz counted off, and we swung into “Everybody Plays the Fool.” We were swinging, alright, and when Fuzzhead hit the lyric, “and now you cry and when you do, but next time around someone criiiiiiiiiies for you, yah yah yah” the audience remembered there was a band in there. Even we were a bit taken aback. Something changed that night on the stage. And we all knew the blues were moving on.
After the set, at the studio that used to be Dr. Wax in Harper Court, Fuzz sat us down and explained, “I realized the audience doesn’t understand the blues. Hell, they don’t even recognize the blues. Americans in general have a thing about creation and amnesia.”
Earl Grady stopped whispering to his bass long enough to say, “Huh?” I swear he’s gonna do somethin’ to that instrument. It won’t be nice.
Fuzz looked at him. “Boy, we create art and then forget it’s importance. Couple that with the overall dumbing down of our society, and the fact that a group of people happily refer to one another as the most derogatory term their oppressors could find…”
I lit a cigarette. One of the water vapor ones. “Move on Fuzz.”
Fuzzhead passed out some manuscript. I looked at the notes.
“Have you lost yo’ damn mind?” I stubbed out my steam square. “We can’t do this song…”
Fuzzhead leveled me with a look. “Why?”
“It’s…ignorant…”
“So is so much of what is out there…”
“We aren’t rappers.”
Fuzzhead sat down at the piano and began banging out a tune. It was catchy, but familiar.
“Fuzz, that’s ‘What’d I Say’! That’s Ray’s song…”
“And we’ll pay him for it, or at least, his estate…believe me, none of the listening audience will know. Again, they can’t remember who made what music tow years back.”
“Man, these lyrics…”
“Are no worse than what we got out here now. We past the blues. We need to get paid. Perhaps this reverse psychology will open people’s minds…If nothing else, we’ll get paid, which is probably a big reason why the women left.”
To my knowledge, the man did not use illegal narcotics.
“We gonna need some horn players…the Baba twins are available… “
“Whatever…it’s your band.” Everyone knows the Baba twins, while outstanding horn men, are incredibly flatulent, on and off stage. The things one does for a gig.
So we started gigging, quietly recording Fuzz’ new song. It took three attempts on as many days to get through the lyrics without all of us breaking into laughter. We were even looking to do a video, but Fuzz was afraid the images may stir action where the lyrics did not. The blues? Women? Who had time to think of such things. We were about to start racial Armageddon, and all of us were black. And a handsome, big head dude with a fondness for cashmere jackets and a warped sense of humor was taking us there in overdrive.
They don’t do the bandstand shows anymore. Well, maybe ‘Soul Train’, and we weren’t going to risk getting lynched by the new guest host and the Chinese dancer. And Don Cornelius. He was always in the background somewhere, and we all know Don got a rep for beating ass. No, sir.
Somehow, Fuzz landed us a guest spot on one of the evening shows. I am guessing he called in a favor. I think he twisted DJ OPM’s arm. Fuzz and OPM went way back, and he had agreed to let OPM produce the remix to the new song, although we tried to explain to Fuzz that blues bands usually don’t do remixes. He isn’t hearing us. Times like this make me miss having a woman. Women are good to gripe to, and they are usually on your side. Here we got a hijacked version of Ray Charles’ “What I Say” with some lyrics that will likely lose us our US citizenship.
So we’re in the green room, waiting to go on, when Fuzz says, “Fellas, we’re about to make history.”
Even Earl Grady, a man who has basically taken a musical instrument as his lover, shook his head.
I had so much respect for these shows. Conan’s exit inspired me. Now this…
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” we had already tuned up during the sound check, but it always helps to play a couple chords during the intro, get the audience into it, “Fuzzhead Jenkins, and All She Wrote.”
Fuzz started out real mellow and groovy on the organ, playing the opening chords. Behind him, three beautiful, short black women swayed with tambourines. Fuzz insisted they represented the women we’d lost. The Baba Twins were off right of us, the band. I noticed there was a ventilation system between them and Fuzz, telling me that perhaps he was not as crazy as he appeared. Earl Grady doubled up his bassline with Fuzzhead’s, Thutmose Clearwater sat behind his drums, motionless as the Sphinx. Usually, I was on piano, but this configuration required me to do lead guitar. All we heard was the groove of Fuzz’ organ and his feet tapping the floor. He leaned into the microphone and in his clear tenor, began the song.
Two measures into it, Earl Grady’s bass thrummed harder, and the back up girls’ tambourines swang with the beat. It wasn’t hard. The music was someone else’s, after all. But the lyrics weren’t drowned out, either. I had my pistol in the small of my back in case there was a riot. Like Iceberg Slim wrote, in the desert, a sucker is grateful for even the shade of a toothpick. If there was a riot, I’d risk murder.
There was no worry. The crowd was on its feet, dancing, bopping along, and Fuzz was hollerin’ the lyrics. Mid strum, I realized that it wasn’t a BAD song. I mean, boosted instrumental aside (and face it…in the blues, we boost and improvise on everything) . We swung hard into the first chorus, and Fuzzhead stood up, kicked back the piano stand, and wailed into the microphone,
“Porch monkeys! Yah! Porch monkeys! Porch monkeys, yeah porch monkeys! Porch monkeys, umhmm, porch monkeys, porch monkeys, yeah, porch monkeys, get it good like you know you should do the lil gal monkey til you run outta wood cuz it’s all you do good aw yeah! Porch monkeys, yahhhhhh!”
The band never missed a beat. One or two of those bleats from the horn section were suspect, but we kept wailing. Them girls were working up a sweat, trying not to double over laughing while keeping in step.
Fuzz had worked himself into a lather, he was enjoying this buffoonery so much.
“Ya music’s stupid and you got no class…ya wear ya pants halfway down ya ass…n thinks its cool” In the background, on the horn changes, the girls sang “Porch Monkeys, yeah, porch monkeys!” Fuzz was possessed. On the next verse break, he began, “You pass on my lovin' all the time…but let some fool thug grab yo’ behind! Wonder why you sad (porch monkeys, yeah, porch monkeys!)”
As we came to the conclusion, Fuzz hollered into the mike, “Tell you what you are…tell you what you are now! Tell you what you are! Yeaaaaaaaaa!”
The band came crashing to a halt and the applause thundered. Fuzz wiped his brow with a towel and sat down with the host, who was still visibly excited. The crowd was hollering “Encore!” I wanted out of there. Earl Grady held his bass protectively. Thut had ducked below the drums. The girls were long gone. I knew somewhere, the NAACP was mobilizing troops to come take us out. The host chatted on.
“…the rhythm, the musicianship! And, look, you don’t have to tell me…it was a message song. I know. But what a message! The animal rights people will LOVE it!”
The song picked up major airplay. Urban radio, pop radio, blues stations. Can you say, “Crossover?”
And Fuzz? Couldn’t tell him nary a thing.
I was at the McDonalds drive through one day, thinking of how I missed Aboubaka, and the little girl who bought my food said, “That’s my HIT! Porch Monkeys! Yeah, porch monkeys!” What the hell was wrong with us?
Time magazine ran a cover photo of Fuzz, one of those shot from below as he got off a plane, and the title, “Monkey Man.”
The interview requests poured in. Fuzz was on CNN, MSNBC and even Fox and the Cartoon Network. There was talk about bringing back “Scooby Do” so the band could guest star. Thut liked that. He always had a thing for that Velma. BET refused to book us, saying we denigrated Black music. They had the producer of their hit show, “Booty Bump Ya’ll” send us a note on letterhead saying how ashamed we made them as Black people, and as a Black network owned by Swedes. Swedes have always identified with brothas. Why we drive so many Volvos.
It wasn’t all gravy. We had security following the platinum charting of “Porch Monkeys”. Some Black leaders were calling for our heads, especially after the DJ OPM remix that said something about “poverty pimps” and “talking black and sleeping white.” One group of angry single mothers put out a retaliation record, “It Ain’t All Our Fault”, but it went nowhere.
Fuzz called us to the studio one day and passed around the music for the new song. This was an original, slow swing blues.
“Fuzz,” I said, brushing lint from my new suit, “I ain’t singin’ this…”
“You ain’t, I am,” he corrected me.
“There’s no harp part on here,” I countered.
“This is our piano song. Every group has to have at least one song where the front man sits at the piano and belts out a ballad. Makes it look more serious. Think “Let It Be” or “November Rain.”
We didn’t argue anymore. Our music was offensive, but it was selling. I read the title.
“Fuzzhead, no,” I groaned. “Somebody is gonna figure this out…c’mon, man.”
“This is real.”
We shot the video for “Black People Read Coloring Books (They May As Well)” live at a South Side blues club, with interspersed images inside ethnic bookstores stocked with those conspiracy books you can’t find anywhere else. At one point, Earl Grady suggested we name the tune “Illuminati Blues”. The fact that he was starting to subscribe to Fuzzhead’s mania was disconcerting, to say the least. The video also showed young kids in an obvious ghetto reading said books, growing older, and their situation not changing. In fact, one young boy is reading the book in front of a liquor store and grows into an old man, reading in front of the same store, while his environment improves not one iota. Part of the scene shows him pushing away a pregnant young woman, dressed for work, and flailing his arms at her when she interrupts his reading. Other shots showed good looking, obviously successful women with black eyes and bruised lips pulling on thugs’ arms, while a young Black man, briefcase in his arm, is trying to pull the woman in his direction and is getting off punches at the thug. They had us on that morning show for the premiere. Elisabeth didn’t get it. Sherri tried to punch Fuzz. Goldberg and Fuzz had a great side conversation about something only they understood.
The National Academy of recording Arts and Sciences gave us “Band of the Year”. When we accepted it, half dressed video dancers protested our presence outside. One young man was interviewed on TV, in full hip hop regalia, explaining in fluent Ebonics why we were the devil incarnate. A 40 piece orchestra backed us for a house burning closer of “Porch Monkeys” that had everyone over 40 dancing in the aisles.
We were preparing to tour when one of the evening news shows broke the story of me and Aboubaka’s break up. It was not abusive. No drugs nor alcohol were involved. She and I had sent some pretty nasty email to each other, though, and somehow, mine surfaced. Nothing I am proud of, but Fuzz was forced to suspend me to placate the record company and the public. Well, he suspended me, and then he took me back, publicly, stating he wouldn’t bow to the Single Mother’s with Adolescent Crazy Knuckleheads (SMACK) lobby. “If they want our music to change, perhaps they either need to make better decisions of whom they let impregnate them or do a better job of ensuring these offspring they insist on raising alone don’t turn out to be urban terrorists of the first order. This was a private matter between a man and the woman he loved, who claimed, after he threw some harsh facts her way, that she had never been sexually satisfied. Obviously, he has suffered enough. I cannot, in good faith, defend his actions, but I will not be pressured into harming this man’s economy because a group of angry women want to make an issue of this when there are more pressing issues to address.”
We were asked to sing at the Republican National Convention, but Fuzz declined.
“I am only interested in not pissing of f the gays or the Israelis,” he often said. The GOP alienated both. We could not afford to have the country’s two most unified constituencies hating us.
Things started to nut up while we were recording the “You Really Have No Power Save Your Big Mouth” album.
Some reporters caught Fuzz coming off of a plane and asked what it was like to be so big. They meant his suit size. Boy’d been gaining weight, eating all that Harold’s. He thought they meant fame.
“It’s amazing,” Fuzz said, adjusting his shades. “We’re more popular than Barrack Obama.”
THAT set off a furor, with black grandmothers everywhere burning dolls of Fuzz in effigy, and Black male school teachers (all three of them) going on television saying how we were the white man’s tool. Racist whites went on their talk shows to decry our claiming more popularity than their favorite excuse tool, The Magic Negro. Black women called us haters. White women, interviewed from luxury vehicles with plates reading such as “NBACHSPT” said we had something against kids of mixed parentage.
Earl Grady tried to marry his bass in Kuala Lampur around this time, causing speculation that perhaps this wholesome band preaching accountability was not quite what it seemed. Someone got a hold of the liner notes of that first album and reached the conclusion that “Porch Monkeys” was derogatory after all.
Aboubaka went on television, invited for the sole purpose of talking about yours truly, then refused to say anything about me, saying our time had “come and gone”. I turned that into a song title and sent her all the royalties. She went on television again, claiming she had given me a million dollars to start the band.
Thutmose’s wife said he was not the father of any of their kids, she felt he was a poor businessman and regularly engaged in infidelity, although there were at least five pieces of evidence walking around proving she found love and happiness at three in the morning elsewhere.
The real beginning of the end, though?
Fuzzhead found a woman.
Akeba Sountaka wasn’t even good looking. She claimed she was a musician, but we never saw her pick up an instrument. She played the spoons at dinner, once, and was terribly off key.
Suddenly, the woman Fuzz referred to as his “African Queen” was everywhere, all the time with us. Now, we had to start referring to him as “Mr. Jenkins.” Akeba could be bossy as hell, always trying to interfere in the creative process, causing problems between me and Fuzz, not letting him eat mild sauce on his Harold’s. I missed Aboubaka something awful. Thutmose had taken to raising his wife’s kids, all of whom he claimed, and spent a lot of time at Little League games and the like. Earl Grady was dating some piano player, a cute pixie-ish yellow momma named Alicia. Nice behind on that one. Good voice, too.
One day, Akeba started clowning, saying that Fuzz wrote all the music and did most of the work. I threatened to have her deported back to Africa, and she started arguing that she wasn’t even from there. Everyone but Fuzzhead KNEW Akeba Sountaka was just plain old Tammy Watson from 43rd Street.
“It’s time,” Fuzz said one day, looking up. “I’m tired.”
The final album cover showed us walking across Harper Court to the studio. The final video, “Ya’ll Made for Good Material”, was actually shot in the studio. In a haze of smoke, smiles, tears and instruments, Fuzz at the piano, that old Akeba next to him, me playing lead guitar, Thut on his drums, beaming, and Earl Grady on his bass, that cute Alicia’s head on his shoulder, we brought the end to an era.
That night, on the rooftop of the Harper Court building, we started with “porch Monkeys” and ended with the blues, thanking our fans, placating our critics. When it was over, we sat down with the greatest movie critic ever, and as he talked to us through his computer, we unwound and laughed, knowing it would be our last time together.
Fuzz married Akeba. Well, he tried. Turns out she was married to someone else. Two somebody else’s. He retired from music, took up writing and teaching college, and basically swore off women. Except those who really found his intellect sexy and were younger than my son, Lil Zeke, who by then was Big Zeke, and had kids of his own. Akeba threatened to write a book about the group’s secrets until one local talk maven exposed that Akeba was functionally illiterate and couldn’t count past six. We won’t mention the bi polar issues.
Thutmose died cheering his kid on at a Little League game. His wife was so angry that she beat on his corpse for fifteen minutes, asking what she was supposed to do with “all these kids by myself”. Everyone loves differently, but his death ended talk of a reunion.
Earl Grady’s affair with Alicia ended on good terms, and she became a recording artist in her own right. Earl is still one of the best bass men in the country. He does commercials for credit cards and local fast food chains now.
Me? I had one ex wife, a son, and a lot of memories. I kept on living. I kept on loving. And you know what? I learned love comes back. You just gotta leave it alone. The blues will teach you that.
"Ya'll made for good material,
ya'll made for good material,
ya'll made for good material....
but now I've got to go,
I'm not meant to play here anymore, yeah
I started as a means,
to see if there were others sharing my dreams
and find a like minded few
who see the world as I do
But time has made it clear
upon closer inspection the beliefs I hold so dear
leave me in the minority
what was meant a lesson is in fact reality
"Ya'll made for good material,
ya'll made for good material,
ya'll made for good material....
but now I've got to go,
I'm not meant to play here anymore, yeah
Sometimes the hardest thing
is seeing what is really there
sometimes the bravest statement
is to ask if anyone cares
You can't go through life a caricature
I can't keep shaking my head in wonder
What do you do when you don't fit in
when it's too late to start over again
How you see love life and dreams
it is clear you're the only one it seems
who feels for things the way you do
who believes logic has a place next to the blues
Well, let me tell you: your days of making me feel outcast
because I might be right are through
Ya'll made for good material,
but then time moved past
and life it started to show
that it's time to move on, and realize
it is what it is.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)