Maya Angelou
All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes

Chapter 28
[Malcolm X – Part 1]

Malcolm had arrived at midday in Accra, and by evening the May fields’ house was filled with expatriates eager to meet and listen to him. We sat on chairs, stools, tables and hunched on the floor, excited into a trembling silence.
— I am still a Muslim. I am still a minister and I am still Black. The golden man laughed, and lamplight entangled itself in his sandy beard.
— My trip to Mecca has changed many other things about me. That is what the Hadj is supposed to do, and when I return to America I will make some statements which will shock everybody.
He rubbed his beard and his eyes were quick with humor.
— Of course, I suppose people would be really shocked, if Malcolm X wasn’t shocking.
The crowd responded in quick unison like a laugh track for a television comedy. Those who knew him were surprised at Malcolm’s light-heartedness.
When I met him two years earlier, he had been the bombastic spokesman for Elijah Muhammad’s Nation of Islam. Clean shaven and dark-suited, he sizzled proudly on street corners and from television screens, as he called Whites “Blue-eyed devils” and accused America of totalitarian genocide.
“Just as Jomo Kenyatta was Kenya’s “Burning Spear,” so Malcolm X was America’s Molotov cocktail, thrown upon the White hope that all Black Americans would follow the nonviolent tenets of Dr. Martin Luther King. “Freedom at any cost” had been his rallying cry. He had been the stalking horse for the timid who openly denied him but took him, like a forbidden god, into their most secret hearts, there to adore him.

Jomo Kenyatta (1889 –1978)

The living room and side porch were filled with an attentive  and shocked audience, as Malcolm, still at ease, sat describing his recent pilgrimage to Mecca.
— Brothers and Sisters, I am pleased to see you all here in the homeland and bring you news which won’t come as news to you from that place you left. The situation has not lightened up. Black people are still marching, sitting in, praying in and even swimming in.
We all knew that the Muslims had shown disgust with the Black American integrationists.
He continued:
— And White Americans are still saying that they don’t want Blacks in their restaurants, churches, swimming pools and voting booths. I thought I’d bring you familiar news first. Now this is new news.
Those of us on the floor and those who had found chairs leaned eagerly toward Malcolm.
— I have had to rethink a number of things.
He said that though his basic premise that the United States was a racist country held true, he no longer believed that all Whites were devils, nor that any human being was inherently cruel at birth.
— On this journey to Mecca, I met White men with blue eyes, who I can call brother with conviction. That means that I am forced to reconsider statements I have made in the past and I must have the courage to speak up and out about those reconsiderations.
His possession of language had not diminished, nor had his magnetic aura lessened. We sat enthralled at what he said and how he said it.
— I am not in favor among the followers of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad, and this new statement will anger them more, but our people are in need of truth and I have tried and will continue to try to speak only truth to the people. The teaching of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad enabled me to break the noose that ignorance and racism put around my neck, and I will always thank Allah and the Honorable Elijah Muhammad for that. But a person must make the effort to learn, and growing is the inevitable reward of learning.
He never mentioned the Islamic leader’s name without the salutary designation, and although he was speaking to a very informal gathering in a homey living room, save for the lowered volume of his voice, he might well have been addressing an audience of thousands in Harlem.
Julian asked him to tell us why he came to Ghana.
Malcolm set his tea cup on a nearby table and, lacing his long fingers, began a sawing motion with them which was his only physical indication of tension.
After Mecca he had stopped in Cairo and met Egyptian government officials and David Du Bois, and had gone to Nigeria to confer with other African politicians. He needed as many governmental contacts as possible so that when he took the case of the Black American before the General Assembly of the United Nations, he could be sure at least of some African and maybe other nationals’ support.
Every complexion of political persuasion was present in Julian’s house that evening. There were true revolutionaries, counter-revolutionaries, petit bourgeois, capitalists, communists, hedonists, socialists, humanitarians and aging beatniks. When Malcolm mentioned arguing for our people before the United Nations, we shouted spontaneously and with one voice of approval. He said
— If our cause was debated by all the world’s nations, it would mean that finally, we would be taken seriously. We could stop courting the ‘fair-minded white people in the U.S.’ as Martin Luther King called some of his constituents. America would be forced to face up to its discriminatory policies. Street protests and sit-ins would be as passé as auction blocks and as unnecessary as manumission papers. If South African Blacks can petition the U.N. against their country’s policy of apartheid, then America should be shown on the world’s stage as a repressionist and bestial racist nation.
A single question arose from that diverse group, and Alice put it into words.
— Do you want us to arrange for you to meet Ghanaian officials and to see President Nkrumah?
The serious scowl left Malcolm’s brow. He looked around at the company, spending a few seconds on each face, Then he smiled.
— Black Americans! You all are really something.
He laughed aloud.
— You people just got here and already you know the President.
His laughter rang high, giving us license to join him and forget that of the forty or so people gathered, only Julian had actually met President Nkrumah and, although we all sported posters and drawings of the handsome leader, most of us had never even seen him in the flesh.
In the now relaxed atmosphere, Malcolm furnished us stories of his journey. Some were just funny and others were funny and bitter.
— I was waiting at the Nigerian Airport when a White man came up and spoke to me. He offered his hand so I shook it. Then he grinned and said, I’ve admired you, Mr. X, truly admired you.
I asked him:
— Would you have shaken my hand in New York?
He went red as a fire engine and said:
— I don’t suppose so.
So I asked why he felt it was all right to do so in Africa, and that man had the nerve to get indignant. He said:
—  Well, we’re both Americans!
Our merry response was totally lacking in merriment. We laughed, as usual, because of the truth in the incident and because there was nothing else to do about it.
When Malcolm followed Ana Livia to the buffet dinner in the dining room, a few people sat pooling knowledge like children gathering pennies to buy a special treat.
— How well do you know Kofi Batcha?
— And surely …, the Minister of Defense can be approached.
I think he owes me one.
— If you can’t be sure, he certainly won’t remember.
— He should meet Nana Nketsia.
— T. D. Bafoo will be of help.
— Efua Sutherland can open some doors.
— How about Geoffrey Bing?
— He’s White, old, out of favor, and going senile.
— But he knows where the bodies will be buried and who will dance on whose grave.
— What about Michael Dei-Anan?
We agreed to contact the poet-statesman who always had an available ear for a Black American.

Continued …

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Maya Angelou
All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes

Chapter 27

[ The Freedom March on Washington, D.C. 1963]

The Washington March was to begin at 7:00 A.M. on August 27 1963. Because of the seven-hour time difference, we planned to begin our supportive march at midnight on the twenty-sixth in the park across from the embassy.
The crowd, much larger than any of us expected, stumbled around in the dark greeting and embracing. I heard American voices which were new to me, and saw Guy arrive laughing with a group of young Ghanaian friends. At eighteen, he had a long history of marches, having participated in political protests since he was fourteen.
Alice and her Rhodesian friend appeared carrying sticks which had oiled rags wrapped tightly at one end. They would be lighted as we began our vigil.
Farmers and junior high school teachers, Black Americans on holiday in Accra, and some Peace Corps volunteers swelled the ranks. We had begun to wonder about Julian, who was late. Those of us close to him knew that was unusual, since he was always punctual in political matters.
The general atmosphere was festive, with little bursts of laughter exploding in the humid darkness. We had lighted some fire sticks when Julian arrived. He called a few of of us away from the crowd:
— Dr. Du Bois is dead.
His face in the flickering light was grey-black and his voice was flat.
— I don’t think we should inform everyone, but you all should know.
Alice, pragmatic and direct, said:
— Well, what timing. He had a full and useful life and I think we should tell everybody. They’ll feel more like marching.
We agreed and fanned out carrying the important news to the  congregation. Sound became muffled as if Dr. Du Bois himself had appeared and ordered immediate quiet from the group. Suddenly someone whose voice I didn’t recognize began singing:

“Oh, oh, Freedom, oh, oh,
Freedom, oh, oh, Freedom over me.
And before I’ll be a slave
I’ll be buried in my grave
And go home to my God
And be free.”

There were a few mumbles of opposition in the crowd. “This is a political demonstration. Why are they singing that Ole’ Time Religion stuff?”

The detractor was drowned out as voices joined the soloist. We were singing for Dr. Du Bois’ spirit, for the invaluable contributions he made, for his shining intellect and his courage. To many of us he was the first American Negro intellectual. We knew about Jack Johnson and Jesse Owens and Joe Louis. We were proud of Louis Armstrong and Marian Anderson and Roland Hayes. We memorized the verses of James Weldon Johnson, Langston Hughes, Paul Laurence Dunbar and Countee Cullen, but they were athletes, musicians and poets, and White folks thought all those talents came naturally to Negroes. So, while we survived because of those contributors and their contributions, the powerful White world didn’t stand in awe of them. Sadly, we also tended to take those brilliances for granted. But W.E.B. Du Bois and of course Paul Robeson were different, held on a higher or at least on a different plateau than the others.

Kwame Nkrumah, W.E.B. & Shirley Du Bois, Accra, circa 1960

We marched and sang thinking of home and the thousands who were marching in Washington, D.C., and many of us held in our minds a picture of the dapper little man, sporting a vandyke beard, perfectly groomed, who earned a Harvard doctorate before the end of the 1800’s and who said in 1904, “The problem of the twentieth century will be the problem of the color line.”
Dawn drifted in on a ragged file of damp and worn out marchers. During the early morning hours, a West African tropical downpour had drenched us and sent us scurrying to cars and trees and doorways. The African marchers said they could have forewarned us. They knew that a driving rain always followed the death of a great soul.
I asked:
— God weeps?
— Of course not. It is the way the spirits welcome a great soul to the land of the dead. They wash it first.
We had walked in the dark, through the flickering light of oil sticks, protesting American racism and extolling the indomitability of the human spirit.
But daylight brought a hard reality. We were in fact marching against the American Embassy. It was a large impressive building made more impressive by the marines who lay belly down on its rooftop pointing shining guns in our direction.

Our lines had diminished through the night. People who had jobs or children or appointments or reservations had slipped away. Although there had been an agreement that we would march in relays, I was happy that none of the Revolutionist Returnees had left. Julian was still trudging along like Sisyphus on his unending climb. Bobby and Sarah Lee walked together chatting in the way of old marrieds, calm as if out for a morning stroll. Lesley and Jim Lacy remained, their faces still showing youthful anger. Vicki, Alice, Kofi Bailey, Guy, a few Black Americans I didn’t know and some Ghanaians continued walking. Everyone stopped, as if on signal, when two soldiers came out of the embassy door carrying a folded American flag. They stepped smartly to the flag pole, ignoring us, and began the routine movements of raising the banner.
Someone in our group shouted:
— This isn’t Iwo Jima, guys.
Another screamed:
— You haven’t taken Bunker Hill, you know. This is Africa.
The incident fed energy to our tired bodies and we began to laugh. One of the soldiers was Black and during the ceremony, no doubt nervous, the soldiers fumbled and the flag began to sag toward the ground. It was the Black man who hurriedly caught the cloth and folded it lovingly into the White soldier’s arms.
Some of us jeered:
— Why you, brother? What has that flag done for you?
— Brother, why don’t you come over here and join us?
— That flag won’t cover you in Alabama.
The soldiers finished attaching the flag and began drawing the ropes. As the flag ascended, our jeering increased. A careful listener could have heard new vehemence of our shouts. We were scorning the symbol of hypocrisy and hope. Many of us had only begun to realize in Africa that the Stars and Stripes was our flag and our only flag, and that knowledge was almost too painful to bear. We could physically return to Africa, find jobs, learn languages, even marry and remain on African soil all our lives, but we were born in the United States and it was the United States which had rejected, enslaved, exploited, then denied us. It was the United States which held the graves of our grandmothers and grandfathers. It was in the United States, under conditions too bizarre to detail, that those same ancestors had worked and dreamed of “a better day, by and by.” There we had learned  to live on the head of burnt matches, and sleep in holes in the ground. In Arkansas and Kansas and Chattanooga, Tennessee, we had decided to be no man’s creature. In Dallas we put our shoulders to the wheel, and our hands in God’s hand in Tulsa. We had learned the power of power in Chicago, and met in Detroit insatiable greed. We had our first loves in the corn brakes of Mississippi, in the cotton fields of Georgia we experienced the thundering pleasure of sex, and on 125th Street and 7th Avenue in Harlem the Holy Spirit called us to be His own.
I shuddered to think that while we wanted that flag dragged into the mud and sullied beyond repair, we also wanted it pristine, its white stripes, summer cloud white. Watching it wave in the breeze of a distance made us nearly choke with emotion. It lifted us up with its promise and broke our hearts with its denial.
We hurled invectives against the soldiers’ retreating backs, knowing that the two young men were not our enemies and that our sneers did not hide our longing for full citizenship under that now undulating flag.
In the early afternoon, Julian, Alice, Jean Pierre, Dr. Hunton and I walked past the nervous eyes of guards and into the embassy. The calm first secretary, standing in for the absent ambassador, accepted our written protest and told us he would see that it got into the hands of the proper authorities. He smiled and said a chummy:
— My wife is marching in Washington with Reverend King. I wish I could be there.
The ceremony was unsatisfactory. We joined the once again large crowd of marchers and explained what we had done, and the march was over.
I went home alone, emptied of passion and too exhausted to cry.

Continued …

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Maya Angelou
All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes

Chapter 18

Sheikhali was exotic, generous and physically satisfying, but we had trouble translating ourselves to each other. My upbringing had not fitted me for even a pretended reticence. As a Black American woman, I could not sit with easy hands and an impassive face and have my future planned. Life in my country had demanded that I act for myself or face terrible consequences.
Three days after our meeting, I returned home to find a grinning Kojo and a large white refrigerator standing in my living room.
Kojo rubbed the enamel and said:
— Auntie, it’s for you.
— For me? From where?
— Briscoe’s, Auntie. It came today.
He grinned. Admiring me as much as the refrigerator.
— The Mali man sent it.
I read the tag attached to the door of the appliance. “For Mrs. Maya Angelou. From Mr. Sheikhali.” I said:
— But I have a refrigerator.
— I know, Auntie, but the Mali man said you could have two.
— It’s silly. I’ll send it back.
Consternation wiped away Kojo’s grin.
— Oh, Auntie. You’ll hurt the Mali man.
— Tomorrow I will call Briscoe’s and have someone come here and pick it up. Nobody has enough food for two refrigerators.
— But please, Auntie.
He  was pleading as if he was the donor, or even worse the recipient.
— I will do so, tomorrow.
His little shoulders fell and he turned, mumbling, and walked into the kitchen.
That next evening Kojo met me at the door.
— Auntie, Briscoe came and got your refrigerator.
His voice accused. He shook his head sadly.
— Poor Mister Mali man.
Sheikhali was disappointed that I refused his gift, but he offered to pay my rent and give me money for my car. When I explained that I was a woman used to working and paying my own bills, he stared at me in a questioning silence.
One late evening, in his hotel room, he told me he would marry me and take me to Mali. I would learn his language, Fulfulde, and teach his children proper French and English.
— What children? You have children?
I was standing at the window, looking down on the lighted gardens.
— I have eight children, from two women. But only one wife. You will like her. She is a good woman. Tall like you.
He sat on the bed, looking like a black Buddha, his wide shoulders outlined by a white sleeveless undershirt.
— You will be my second wife. I will build you a beautiful house and you will be happy.
The unusual proposal nearly made me laugh.
— But if you have one wife who is good, why do you want to marry me? And you already have children. What do you want with me?
I sat beside him on the bed.
— If I need more children I will take a young girl because you and my wife will have no more babies. But you, you are kind and educated. My wife is also kind, but she is like me, she has no education. My family will accept you. I will send to America for your parents and I will bring your son to Mali. Thus our families will marry.
He had taken my life and the lives of my entire family, except my brother, into his plan. There was no way to explain that not one of us could live within his embrace. He laughed when I thanked him, but refused.
— Women always say no. I will find out what you want, and then I will ask again.
My emotions, raised on the romance of Hollywood films, might have faltered had he pleaded love, but his offer had the crispness of a business negotiation, and I had no difficulty in refusing to participate in the transaction.

Continued …

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Maya Angelou
All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes.

Chapter 17

The sunlit dance floor seethed with wiggling bodies. Benson’s High Life Orchestra played the popular tune “Wofa No, No.” After dancing for a half hour, I was resting at my table in preparation for another spree. On Ghana’s dance floors, women and men could dance alone or with members of the same sex without causing the slightest notice. As I looked around at the mostly empty tables, I saw a man in a white lace Grand Boubou whose size was startling. His back was turned so his face was not visible, but he sat so high above the surface of his table he had to be over six and a half feet tall. He had broad shoulders and a very thick neck.
I didn’t want to be caught staring if he turned, but I did cut my eyes in his direction often, hoping to see his face. When the orchestra finished playing, three women and a small man returned, laughing, to his table. The big man stood and roared, “Bienvenue. C’était bien?” He turned and I saw that his face had the regularity of a perfect square. Every feature was of the proper size and in the proper  size and in the proper place. He looked like romantic drawings of ancient African kings on caparisoned horses. He would have been at home surrounded by voluminous tents, talking birds and camel caravans. He remained standing while the women sat. He pulled the smaller man away from the table and bent his great bulk to speak privately and briefly. When he finished he spoke to the women and they gathered their stoles and purses and followed him as he made a path through the tables to the door. I watched the small man walk toward my table. In a wee corner of my mind I hoped that he was headed for a destination beyond me.
He stopped and gave me a slight bow.
— Mademoiselle?
I nodded.
— May I take a little of your time?
I nodded again. He sat nicely on the edge of a chair.
— My name is Mamali, and I have a friend.
His quiet voice and manner gave him a ministerial air.
— Yes? May I ask your name and if you are married?
My answers were as direct as his questions.
— Is it possible that you noticed the large man who sat at that table?
I reined in wild horses and answered with calm dignity:
— I noticed him.
— He is my friend. He is Sheikhali, and he has asked me to ask you if you will dine with him tonight.
He took out a note pad and pen.
The horses were surging again. I said:
— But I don’t know him. Who is he? Where does he live? Where would we dine?
— Miss Angelou, he is from Mali. He imports thoroughbred horses and was formerly the largest importer of beef to Ghana. When he visits Accra for business purposes, he generally stays at my residence, but he has a place and I am certain that he would take you to a very fine restaurant.
— But is he married?
He had treated the three laughing women with the indulgence of a benevolent Pasha.
Mamali looked up from his note pad:
— All personal questions must be directed to himself. If you agree to dine, I will need your address. He will come for you at nine o’clock.
I hoped that I wasn’t accepting too quickly, but how could one know the peculiarities of a culture glimpsed largely in a technicolor fantasy?
My disappointment at finding the house empty was enormous. I needed Alice and Vicki to counsel me on what to wear. I needed to share my excitement over Sheikhali and most crucial, I needed them to see him and let him see them. Suppose he kidnapped me and sold me to an Arab trader? My apprehension was not bootless. During my stay in Cairo I knew ambassadors from sub-Saharan Africa who rushed to Arab countries to negotiate for the release of their nationals stolen and placed for sale on the  still active slave market.
It was most important that Sheikhali see my friends and understand that they were intelligent, worldly Americans who could call out the American Army to rescue me. When that last idea came to me I had been searching my closet for an elegant, rich but simple dress. I stopped and sat on the bed, imagining the American government, which had been a participant in both my people’s enslavement and emancipation, sending troops to rescue me from one more auction block.
At the knock I opened the door and my knees weakened. Sheikhali filled up the whole outdoors. He wore yards of blue silk embroidered with real gold, a small blue lace cap draped itself jauntily over his brow.
— Miss Angelou?
— Please come in.
His presence ate up every inch of space, and there was hardly any air left for me to breathe.
I said calmly:
— Please sit down. My friends will be here soon.
He sat, stretching long legs out into the center of the room.
— Your … uh … friends? … Your friends to eat? You, me, restaurant?
His English was terrible. I asked in French, if he would prefer to speak French.
When Sheikhali smiled, I  knew I had earned one more star for my heavenly crown. His black lips opened gradually and his teeth shone as diamonds spied through the darkness of a deep pocket.
— You speak French, too?
He used the familiar “tu,” and I was pleased.
I explained that I wanted to let my friends know where I was going and with whom. He nodded, the smile still on his face. — Write them a note. Tell them Sheikhali is taking you to L’Auberge Restaurant in his avion d’argent.
Ghanaians called the 1963 Coupe de Ville Cadillac with its high standing fins and prohibitive cost “money with wings,” so I was not surprised to hear Sheikhali call his car a silver airplane. I wrote two notes for my housemates, and allowed the gallant caliph to usher me into his silver American chariot.
In the restaurant he waved away the waiter and the menu and spread his hands like large palmetto fans on the tablecloth.
He spoke to me:
— We will have coquille St.-Jacques, trout, and beef steak. I suppose you drink wine?
I hesitated. Clearly he was not used to dissent. In the car I had been as demure as an African violet, but now I had to speak. I said:
— Thank you, but I don’t eat fish or seafood. I’d like steak and vegetables.
A tinge of surprise widened his eyes, then he smiled.
— American women. It is said that you know much. I see you (again the familiar ‘tu’) know what you will and will not eat. And wine, will wine please you?
As a Muslim, he was not supposed to drink alcohol. I refused the wine. His look was piercing.
He clapped his hands and the waiter scurried to his side.
— Mademoiselle will have steak, vegetables and wine. Good wine.
He continued ordering his own meal. I looked around the restaurant, trying not to think about the man or the rest of the evening and my good or bad luck at catching his attention.
— Mademoiselle Angelou, his voice was a soft rumble, May I call you Maya?
He was already using “tu,” so I said yes, and he took the conversation by force.
Although he often visited France he had never been to the States, and was it true that after slavery White Americans gave their money to the Blacks and now all Blacks were rich? I don’t think he heard my gasped denial. And why wasn’t I married? I was tall and young and pretty. Had all the men in Ghana gone blind? I murmured against the flattery, but he touched my hand very gently:
— Don’t you want children? You must not wait long, for a woman can live without a husband, but everyone must have at least one child.
He was obviously concerned.
— I have a son.
— In America?
— No, my son is here at the university.
He was too dignified to display his surprise, but I saw the flicker cross his face.
— You have a child at the university, but then how old are you?
I said:
— I’ll tell you my son’s age. He is eighteen. But my mother says a woman who will tell her own age will tell anything.
For the first time, I heard him laugh. He slapped his leg and nodded approval.
— I like a funny woman. Pretty women are seldom funny. I like you.
And I liked him. He was certainly the most sublimely handsome man I had ever seen. I knew that if the purple was visible in his blue-black skin under artificial light, he would be stunning in direct sunlight.
I asked:
— Tell me about yourself. Everything but your age.
He smiled, and as I drank wine he told me of his youth. He was the first son of a fourth wife. His father, who sired thirty-two children, had given most of his attention to the first sons. He had married Sheikhali’s mother, the youngest wife, in his old age. She had been catered to and and petted by her husband and all his wives because she had brought a whisper of youth back to the aging man, but after Sheikhali’s birth, the old man sickened and died, and nearly all his goods had been shared by the older wives and their offspring.
When he was ten years old, he joined other young men and began herding cattle. They walked cows and goats through rain forests, across the savannahs, and over the desert, protecting them from wild animals, venomous snakes, and severe weather. By thirteen, after his initiation into manhood, he was made leader of the drive and became sole supporter of his mother, her mother and family.
I told him:
— I compliment you. You’ve had a hard youth, but now you have become a rich man.
— I was a man at thirteen. I am still a man. Nothing has changed.
Maybe it was that balance of maleness and manliness which intrigued me. I had long known that there were worlds of difference between males and men as there were between females and women. Genitalia indicated sex, but work, discipline, courage and love were needed for the creation of men and women.
Dinner was finished and I couldn’t remember the taste of anything I had eaten.
— Now, we go to the hotel.
He clapped his hands again. I tensed. How dare he assume that he could take me to dinner and then immediately to bed. I was no prude and the thought of those large arms around me did make my breath quicken, but I needed some soft talk, some endearments, a few “honeys” and “darlings.”
He pulled a tooled leather bag from his smock and gave bills to the waiter.
— For you. Now help the mademoiselle.
The waiter pulled my chair and when I stood I saw Sheikhali was already at the door. He could hurry all he wanted, I followed idly, selecting the best way to reject an invitation which had not yet been offered.
We were in the car before any apt words came to me. Just as I formed a disclaiming and apologetic sentence, he began to sing. The tone was naturally deep and the melody haunting. I didn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear.
I was being serenaded. Possibly in his culture a serenade was equal to an evening of sweet talk and all the blandishments one could wish.
He parked at the Continental Hotel, and helped me out of the car.
— This is the best dance band in Accra, but if you prefer we can go on to the Star Hotel. Benson is playing there tonight.
I shook my head and he took the gesture to mean I didn’t choose the Star Hotel. In fact, I was physically responding to my ignorance. He had mentioned hotel, and I had immediately assumed that he was planning an erotic tryst and had just talked myself out of and into agreement.
I didn’t have to act demure when we entered the lobby. Embarrassment had made me truly docile. Sheikhali laughed when he danced and oh, the man could move. He lifted his arms and yards of blue silk billowed. He spun around and the lights glinted off the gold threads. His cap, still on his head, was the only non-moving part of the whirling mountainous man. Years of dance classes and professional dancing did not allow me to keep pace with Sheikhali. At the end of the first song he glided close and gathered me in his arms.
— You move like a night wind. A soft night wind. I like you.
We spent hours dancing and looking at each other. He whispered a translation of the song he had sung in the car: “A man loved a woman for her large eyes, for her hair that moved like a hive of bees, for her hands and sweet voice. And she answered him with a promise of eternal faithfulness.” When he clapped his hands and drew out his money pouch, I was sorry the evening was over.
— We can go to the Star Hotel if you like, or I can  take you home.
He looked down at me from an enormous height.
— Or since I have an apartment in this hotel, we can go there and rest for a time.
Happily, I chose the apartment.

Continued …

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Maya Angelou
All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes.

Chapter 14

On a mid-morning break I went into the Senior Common Room. My entry made no impact on the confident people who continued their conversation, offering their voices to each other as beautiful women offer their hands to homely suitors.
The Englishman was speaking desultorily through a thin nose:
— I understand their anger. I do think it is unattractive, but I understand it.
A Yugoslav woman, too intellectual for cosmetics, argued without passion:
— But they have been treated like beasts.
The Englishman was a little petulant:
— That doesn’t give them the right to act bestial.
A Canadian attempted to bring balance.
— While it isn’t a laudable response, it is understandable. The effects of cruel treatment die slowly.
The Englishman said:
— Look here, they’ve been there three hundred years, why the devil are they starting up now?
He raised his voice and ordered:
— Another beer, Kojo. Fact, beer all around.
He was an irritated Ronald Colman in an old movie. I sat in a corner drinking tepid beer, knowing I had walked in on a theatrical set and that I would be wise to either sit quietly or exit stage left.
The Ghanaian steward, old and doddering, understood “all around” did not include me, so he took bottles to the large table and went back to his stool behind the counter.
The Senior Common Room at the Institute of African Studies was reserved for professors, lecturers and some administrators. Although it was filled with ancient furniture and a persevering odor of beer, some employees from other faculties at Legon University preferred it to their own lounges. I supposed its popularity could be credited to the nearby Faculty of Music and Dance. At any moment in the day pretty girls and half-dressed men rushed past its door en route to dance classes. Master drummers gave demonstrations hourly outdoors behind the building. Singers practicing in the high-pitched Ghanaian tones could be heard in the area stereophonically. The lounge itself was stuffy, but the surrounding area was fresh and appealing.
The German professor from another department spoke loudly:
— Old Man, he said, attempting a British accent, it’s understandable that you’re tired of unrest. Your empires have exhausted you.
The Englishman answered:
— I don’t know about my empire, he pronounced it “empiah,” but agitation becomes a bore after a while.
The Yugoslav woman was ready for a fight.
— But not to the agitators.
The Canadian spoke and the room was no longer a set, nor were the people characters I could laugh at or ignore. He said calmly:
— But American Negroes are not the masses. They are only about ten percent of the U.S. population.
They were talking about Black Americans. I was sure that the recent riot in Harlem, which had been front-page news in Ghana had stimulated the discussion. I focused to listen and to find a place to enter.
— More beer, Kojo, please.
The Yugoslav woman’s voice was as neat as her body and clothes were abandoned.
— I put it to you that the American Negroes are fed up with the system because Democracy does not work. They feel that they are proof.
The old long-snout Briton popped up:
— Democracy was never created for the lower classes. Everyone knows that. Just like at Ghana.
As I was gathering a response to singe their ears, a Ghanaian professor of English walked in. He went to the crowded table and said:
— Hello, old chums.
Without turning to face the steward, he raised his voice.
— Beer all around, Kojo.
He pulled out a chair and sat.
— You were saying ‘just look at Ghana.’ What about my country?
I let my preparation scatter. Here was the proper person who would have the arch counterstatement.
The Englishman was already bored with the conversation, but he forced himself to respond. He said:
— Democracy which has never worked anyway, was never intended for the masses. And I gave Ghana as evidence.
The African accepted his beer, and without a glance at the steward, poured a glass and drank.
— Hum, he licked his lips. Delicious. We may not make a great democracy, but no one can complain that we don’t make a good beer. What?
The Europeans laughed and the African joined in. They had assassinated my people as well as my new country. I looked at the steward, but his face was passive and his eyes focused on the open door.
I raised my voice and said:
— Obviously you people think you’ve got all the answers. Well, you should wait until someone who really cares asks you a question. You don’t know a damn thing about Black Americans, and I resent every stupid  thing you’ve said.
It wasn’t going well at all. My brain was not responding properly. I needed to be sharp, cutting, and politely rude in order to reach their hardened ears, and all I had done was blubber.
I said:
— You people are idiots, and you dare speak of Ghana. You rejects.
I was surprised to find myself standing and my voice loud and screeching.
— You left your old cold ass countries and came here where you’ve never had it so good. Now you’ve got servants and can bathe more than once a month. It’s a pity more of you don’t take advantage of the opportunity. You stinking bastards.
Rage piloted me to the door.
— And don’t say a word to me, I’ll slap the water out of all of you.
I always knew that fury was my natural enemy. It clotted my blood and clogged my pores. It literally blinded me so that I lost peripheral vision. My mouth tasted of metal, and I couldn’t breathe through my nostrils. My thighs felt weak and there was a prickling sensation in my armpits and my groin. I longed to drop on the path to my office, but I continued ordering my reluctant body forward.
— Professor?
A soft voice turned me around. The steward was there smiling as if I was a child who had acted mischievously.
He asked:
— Professor, why you let them disturb your heart?
I stuttered:
— They were —I knew the steward was uneducated, but surely he understood the rude scene that had occurred. They were insulting my people. I couldn’t just sit there.
His smile never changed.
— And your people, they my people?
— Yes, but—I mean American Blacks. They been insulted before?
— Yes—but … And they still live?
— Yes, but … they also insulted Ghana, your country.
— Oh Sister, as for that one, it’s nothing.
— Nothing?
He was not only uneducated, I thought he was stupid as well.
He said:
— This is not their place. In time they will pass. Ghana was here when they came. When they go, Ghana will be here. They are like mice on an elephant’s back. They will pass.
In that second I was wounded. My mind struck a truth as an elbow can strike a table edge. A poor, uneducated servant in Africa was so secure he could ignore established White rudeness. No Black American I had ever known knew that security. Our tenure in the United States, though long and very hard-earned, was always so shaky, we had developed patience as a defense, but never as aggression.
I needed to know more. I said:
— But that African. He is a part of that group.
— No, Sistah. He is a part of Africa. He just a Beentoo
Beentoo was a derisive word used for a person who had studied abroad and returned to Ghana with European airs. The steward continued:
— He’s been to the United Kingdom. Been to the United States. In time, that posing will pass. Now he is at home, and home will take him back.
He reached out his arm and touched my shoulder.
— Don’t let them trouble your heart. In a way you are a ‘Beentoo’ too. But your people … they from this place, and if this place claims you or if it does not claim you, here you belong.
He turned and shuffled back to the lounge.

Continued …

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