Victor Lavalle - Slapboxing with Jesus

I shook my head for her. Besides soothing her, I was meant to bolster her will when necessary. — You’re not really hungry, Mom.

She grabbed my arm like we were going to fight, that hard, then released. — You’re right. You’re right. Her purse opened and out came the pills. I was embarrassed, suddenly sure that to all the other customers she was now not only the Angry African, but also heavy, her slim form before them only an act. Temporary.

— Mom, I groaned, people are looking.

She opened her mouth, for more volume. — You think I care what these people are thinking? I will speak whenever I please.

My head sank; let some revolutionary someone else be proud of the Unsilenced Woman. From another table I retrieved napkins, brought the stack over and dropped it on what was left of the spill. Mom spoke to no one. We were both learning to rely more on ourselves. I pushed my hands down until I could feel the moistness on my palms, then swished the papers around, sopping up all the brown wet.

Cleveland Morris had bosses. My mother tracked them down. Their office stood eleven blocks from our building, closer even than the Burger King. On Monday, she and I went. We stopped outside and Mom leaned against a wall, turned her face up and told herself not to be afraid. I rubbed the back of her hand halfheartedly.

In a seven-story building, their offices took up the entire sixth floor. She and I were shuffled into a waiting room; judging by the masses, we were on a very long line. Many women slept with their faces against their purses, leaning that far forward. The chairs were of all types: wooden with no backs, metal folding chairs, bright yellow plastic welded four to a frame. Men stood and paced then sat and huffed. No one was happy. People talked, conversations kept private by the loud rzzzz of the giant old fan spitting dust from a corner.

— So you want to know about Africa?

I wanted to quiet her. She watched me expectantly, as though I had questions rehearsed; our chairs seemed farther apart, a cause for both celebration and sadness. I put my hand out to touch her arm and pulled it back. I blew out air. I was confused.

We sat quietly, waiting just to make an appointment to be heard about Mom’s complaint. Mom took down the name of the woman who put us in the date book, the woman who seemed personally offended when my mother mentioned the words “small claims court.” I drew a picture of her big fat head on a sheet of paper that had been lying on the floor.

We returned on a Thursday. Mom brought me straight from school, rode a public bus overpopulated with the young. I dipped my head down as we traveled together. In the rear Cindac was yelling, — African Anthony! then ducking so my mother wouldn’t see who’d screamed.

Then us in the waiting room, sneaking into a spot I didn’t like because three rows of people sat behind me — having people behind you, that’s how spitballs got in your hair. Mom asked if my old sneakers were too old. I blurted out, — You should have stayed there.

— Where? She had been going over the delineation of grievances she’d prepared the night before.

— Uganda. I mouthed the word out, barely a whisper that no one else could hear. We could have just been living there, doing fine. I doubted very much that it was so shameful to be African in Africa.

But my mother had her own logic and reasoning and when I suggested she could have done better for her boy she twisted her lower lip like she’d suddenly been stabbed. She grabbed my right arm at the elbow, squeezed, said, — You don’t know anything.

It didn’t actually hurt, but I winced regardless. — Get off me. I pulled free.

She tugged her wig down; it was cut with unflattering bangs. — The very last time I visited, she said, you were eight. You remember? I was gone for two months?

Nodding, I said, — Nineteen eighty. That year, I was skipped a grade. My family hadn’t treated it ceremoniously.

She rubbed a thumb against her chin, just below the lip, like memories were stored there, like she could jiggle them loose; in her head they were slightly incongruous, trickling out in odd arrangements.

In fact, she remembered very little, only that a cousin named Franklin met her at the airport, that she’d brought along all our old clothes for family. I interjected that maybe this was where my Spider-Man T-shirt had gone, but, of course, she could not recall. Sixteen-year-old boys who had been given guns and called soldiers sat at checkpoints and jabbed their muzzles into any woman who passed. At a small club my mother danced to Percy Sledge. The land, she told me, was beautiful with hills. Unlike New York, in Uganda the weather was a blessedly dry heat, you were not grimy at the end of a day.

— At the airport I went six hours early. I had confirmed the ticket in New York and Nairobi; the woman at the ticket counter gave me trouble; she wanted a bribe; I’d been away so long I had forgotten how things worked; we yelled at each other. I missed my plane. She said I’d made a mistake but Franklin was sure she’d sold my seat to someone who knew how to pass a tip. At the airport, as I was panicking, I ran into a friend, Lucy. Lucy had gone to King’s College Budo with me.

— I thought you went to college in Canada, I interrupted.

— It’s called King’s College, but it’s a grade school. Listen:

Lucy offered to make the very long drive from Entebbe to Nairobi before her husband had said yes; he was standing there, obviously angry, but was a little man and took any responsibility very seriously. She had only been bumped from the Entebbe to Nairobi journey and, if they made it in time, she was assured there was still a place on the connecting flight to London and from there, America.

Lucy had two little girls; her husband owned two cars. A cousin of theirs acted as chauffeur for Lucy and the kids in return for a room, so he could live in a city. The girls wore dresses nice enough for a confirmation and bright, black shoes. They ate little cakes, cheered when they were told of the long ride. Their noses looked almost like mine.

As they got out into the country, the two men raced. Mom rode with the husband. In the other car the girls used the bumps in the road to excuse their hopping around. They were scuffing up the seats and enjoying themselves. At times the cars were close and Mom could hear them scream, Sorry Mummy! They threw their hands up and laughed like it was a roller coaster. Lucy’s husband was a better driver, the other car trailed, soon they were gone. Lucy’s husband wanted to wait but Mom showed him her ticket, the flight time. Mom cried a little and not every tear was genuine. They arrived almost an hour early. She gave him fifty dollars, but he refused. Mom told him to buy his girls some pastries with the money, but he told her it was Lucy who indulged them. Then he took the money anyway.

Mom called Franklin days later to ask him to send her some things she’d forgotten. He told her that Lucy’s husband had returned to find the other car parked by the road, empty. He had opened all the doors, inspected the boot. Not even blood. He came back with police whom he paid to make a genuinely thorough search. Lucy, both girls and his cousin left nothing. Franklin told Mom this and she was shocked, mute, but was not sad. She’d have urged him to keep driving even if she’d known what was going to happen to his family. She had to leave, it was no longer her home. Mom asked after Lucy for two more years and each time Franklin had no good word. There couldn’t even be a burial. She’d have sent a few dollars for some kind of ceremony. Mom cried sometimes and Grandma told her not to feel guilt, but it wasn’t that, it was relief and it was joy. She was thankful she had me in Manhattan. Regardless of who was sacrificed, Mom thanked God.