A Man's Voice

He was starting to sweat. Shining, though black like the fertile earth of a farm, his garments billowing… decorations flashing, with gourds shackled to his feet, and baring crooked teeth at the world, he seemed to smile and scream at the same time. His brow was furrowed like bark, his feet bare, ashy, looking like roughly shaped stone. The music rained down on me, as if a torrent from all sides--no, rather--a tsunami. Not evil nor good, just an exhibition of terrible beauty and strength that only Mother Earth herself can tend to accomplish.

Pops was a walking legend, our band leader, full of wisdom. And he was my mentor.

I ran into him in New York, on the way back from that cross-country trip. You know, my Kerouac moment, excepting one thing: I wasn’t broke, at first. I had set off with a nice nut in my pocket, since I had just been gifted a twenty-grand-winning lotto ticket.

But the money I took with me didn’t last long. I had arrived a little late that night. After months of wandering and camping, things like schedules and whatever’s for dinner that night weren’t on my mind too much in those days:

"One more time!" he yelled, for the fourth time, and a collective sigh seemed to slip from the shoulders and knees of the company.

Wait… aren't they excited? Am I playing too softly, too timidly? Is it my technique, my attitude? The look on my face?

I tried to smile, but it threw off my focus. In a tiny moment, my doubts swirled around me to protect me from the crushing wall of sound. It was always like this, always a see-saw: raw power and flow, something close to pure happiness at the highest point; at the lowest, complete bewilderment, and basically despair for failure. Pathetic, I know, but that’s how I do things.

Unconsciously I waited, my mind in a fetal state. Hands automatic, not in control of tempo, volume, or tone. I think I secretly like this kind of situation, else I wouldn't send myself there repeatedly. I’m like a crazy widow, waiting for their beloved to be found alive at the bottom of an ocean, and come home. Over and over, with every move, every glance at a sky that I’m pretending isn’t different, I make preparations for nothing other than waiting.

And then a knock on the door comes. Well, in my case, it feels like a slap in the face (or a bolt of lightning!), and it sets my spine rigid. This shot of medicine and encouragement is the “call.”

Simply, it’s a rhythm, played by the “lead” drummer. One that says, “Back to the top!” To me though, it’s also a safe word, a pep-talk, an admonishment, and a brotherly linking of the arms, all at the same time. I looked up: the dancers had already circled back. This rehearsal was a larger group, so their clothes were like flags, and swayed and tumbled in rhythm. I played louder, louder: listened, heard, and responded. Got back into it. I smiled and gritted my teeth, my blister ruptured, and I adjusted my grip. The sticks were cutting the air so fast, I could hear it. I was swept up! to the top of the wave, in a split second.

The view there is great, it’s precious, mystical, and impossible to explain. It may as well be my secret.

Nia was an angel. I was convinced. Though, when I first saw her in dance clothes—bright yellow, orange, and brown, and necklaces—I thought for sure, she’s a rich girl. The way she carried herself in that costume was like she was meant to do it. As if to confirm my suspicions, Pops made his entry with a characteristically flirtatious comment:

“OH! You must be the African princess!” He smiled when he saw her blushing right through her own dark face, and then turned comedically somber. “Here I am, waiting for you…”

“Mister dancer, oh, you’re very handsome, yes! But doesn’t dance come first?” She had composed herself, and her voice rolled out across the floor like a silken carpet, with impossible maturity. They both suddenly laughed, nice and loud. She nearly roared, with a brilliant wink in her eyes; “Dancing always comes before dancing!”

I gawked from the sidelines at her, a little mad. Maybe my own American manners were making me feel embarrassed at his rudeness, or it was his boldness rubbing off on me… but I was jealous, and wanting to compete! After a life of whim, still completely selfish. But not being graced with the balls of a bull, from a distance I envied his talent, his looks. And crudely, I cursed my own whiteness, for not being what she was looking for.

Slender, beautiful: her intelligent face was perfect above her body, like a crown. Or maybe she reminded me of a lighthouse, but her beacon lit only for Pops, and it made me crazy.

We were true African fusion, with singing, dancing, drums, and a full band. Perfect for the eclectic brand of debauchery only achievable by yuppies and hipsters. But I can’t deny, I saw those kids as my destined rivals. Every time we swam into the party after a gig, conversations were sure to ensue about Africa, about polygamy, castration, dark arts. It pissed me off! I could kill my high in ten seconds just hearing them—let alone arguing!

My second summer in the band, we were gathered outside. The smoke rose and bathed that brick gothic hall, a dull blue in the street light. His low voice, bold and efficient, bounced around the place as we talked:

“I love America,” he said. “We are lucky! Right?” His smile flashed.

Nia put her arm on my shoulder and said, “You’re the lucky one mister. We’re the ones that have to deal with you!”

Naturally, I was frantically thinking of something cool to say, but she saved me by asking for a puff. Then, something changed in his voice when he spoke next.

“Yes, there is something else, about that. I am lucky, I know! I could be here, all the way from Africa…” She dropped her arm. “My mother is very, very sick. I’m going back home.”

In light of that news, we were just tall children. It stuck with us all that summer, while we tried to manage everyone’s attendance, and do easier gigs. We couldn’t shake this feeling, this void. Dancers left. Most of them were hot for Pops and had no reason to stay. The aura of confidence, and sex-appeal, was something we could never replace. Nia pushed herself, though, burning with pride.

Not two months later, she fell off the stage. It happens sometimes, when a dancer messes up. Usually we don’t stop playing, but this time I stood up with a jolt, and silence collided with us in a way that crushed the soul of the whole room. She waved an arm fervently like she was telling us to keep going. I couldn’t, I was almost hyperventilating with anxiety. I stumbled off the stage and pushed through some people.

But a man stepped forward and leaned in to help her up. “Hey lady, what happened, are you—” he stopped abruptly. A part of her costume had fallen apart, and fell from her shoulder as he lifted. Across her shoulder, down her torso, all the way to her hips. She had too many scars to count. For the first time, she looked at me, right into me. Her eyes, those lasers, maybe were trying their best to tell me not to look elsewhere, but neither myself or the young man could avoid it.

A guy in the audience said “Damn, those African girls got it rough huh.” With a glance at him that could kill, she pulled up that fabric and stormed out. I’d never seen anyone limp faster.

When Pops came back, he gave me a buzz. His mother had passed. He wasn’t exactly happy to find out that most of the band members had left. Nia, too. She had been avoiding me with a level of skill that would have impressed the NSA. He and I met at the coffee house, early in the morning, myself for once sober. Outside under the stunted trees we sat and talked. He was carefree and kind as ever. “Nothing is impossible my son. But tell me, where is your woman now?”

My jaw was stiff. Open, close… open… “My woman? What the hell—”

He laughed, his tummy puffing up and down like a billows, and each hoot grated my ears with embarrassment. He was always like this. Always so precise in the face of a language barrier, relying on undercurrents of personality, on his intuition, and on humor. “Don’t worry, son.” He winked and took out his bottle. “We’ll get her back. My mother is dead now. I’m back and we will work. Like we did. But listen. Your woman gave me this.”

He pulled a small black notebook from his bag and flipped through it with a friendly touch. Photos were taped or glued to each page, of families, smiles; colorful pieces cloth, buttons, and other decorations were there, too. It had the unmistakable vibe of something handmade in the “Mother Land.” Hard-worked and picturesque men, with tools in hand. Captions were scribbled there in a hodgepodge of French, or English, or phonetic script from some language.

When he passed it to me and I looked closely at the first page, I felt it. A knot bigger than a bowling ball started to tangle up in my gut as I saw a young Nia. Standing out in the open, propping a basket of fruit on a durable hip-bone, she looked like a page from National Geographic. What really got me was her clothes; nothing more than shorts and a large bright green cloth crossing her breasts, wrapping around her to swaddle an infant firmly against her back.

“Son. She is a special woman. She was kidnapped, and she ran away. You know, these dogs, here in America. They are not like the dogs in Africa. There are two kinds of animals, son. And we are animals too! Humans. So you know, there is not wild, and there is wild. And some wild animal did try, very hard, to ruin her life. That’s how it goes sometimes, back home, you know. She asked me to tell you this. Do you know why?”

I was literally melting at this point. No, just falling apart, and angry too. Pancake batter being poured mercilessly into pan that's much too hot.

He didn’t wait for me. The master of patriarchal-voodoo-rhetoric continued, “Because she’s woman. Because she’s afraid of how we think—us people who think differently. You people. You.”

Unanswered questions flashed in my mind like spotlights on my face. In that moment, I had been given just enough to realize something terrible.

“Maybe, I don’t know, son… maybe she wanted my approval, right? That’s how we do things sometimes. This is her, her true self. Her family, her life--but it’s gone now. Anyways, she’s your woman, the one for you. I can make her dance like the fire, but someone else gotta light it, boy! She’s here now. You going to go get her, my son?” He asked me this as he unscrewed the bottle in broad daylight, and ended his performance with a swig.

I looked away, drowning my face in a long, slow drag that tasted like hot sea water in my throat. He let out a small giggle that was somehow loving. My voice was broken, so instead, I cried.