Zakes Mda - Cion

Unlike her neighbors, who were surely going to vote for the Democrats, she voted for George W. Bush. And did I know why she voted for George W. Bush? Because George W. Bush was a man of God. He got his messages direct from God. God’s truth was revealed only through him. And did I know again why she voted for George W. Bush?

“Because the GOP freed them slaves!” she said with a triumphant flourish.

And none of the people of Kilvert knew that. They had all bought into the lies propagated every day by the liberal media. That was why they were out in droves voting for the Democratic Party candidate. The “old-timers” knew the truth, which was why the Republican Party was the party of “them colored folks.” The phrase jolted me a bit because I had only seen it in old books and didn’t know that it was still in use…like the old-time “high-yella-nigger” that was dropped at the dinner table that first evening. The “old-timers” knew what the Kilvert folks didn’t know, that the Democrats fought a whole Civil War in order to keep “them colored folks” as slaves and then committed lots of atrocities during that war. They captured and tortured and slew the revered Harry Corbett to boot. They raped and pillaged and killed indiscriminately. The Civil War hero certainly did not sacrifice his life so that today his descendants should vote for people who were responsible for his murder.

“I tell them every day, if it was not for the GOP you’d all be slaves today,” she said, looking at them pityingly as their numbers increased toward the three-way stop where they would catch the bus.

Ruth looked at me as if she expected me to say something, or perhaps ask a question. She saw my befuddled look and decided to ask the question herself: did I know why “them colored folks” turned their backs on the GOP even though it had freed them from slavery?

“Franklin D. Roosevelt!” she provided the instant answer. “He was a cripple in a wheelchair. He gave them poor people programs. Colored folks got lotsa programs ’cause they was poor. Roosevelt bought them colored folks with food from them Republicans.”

She was fuming as if she was talking of some treachery that happened only yesterday against her own children.

Ruth was a lone voice because everyone else in the village, including members of her own family, was on the opposite side. She saw a political virgin in me, someone who could be groomed and won over to the side of sanity. A prospective ally in the political battlefields of her dinner table and living room.

“You being from Africa and all,” she said, “you gotta love George W. Bush. He give lotsa money to Africa. You know why he give lotsa money to Africa? ’Cause America owes Africa plenty for slavery.”

It was interesting to see how animated she got when she talked about these matters. I was affording her a captive audience, a luxury she never has because no one in her family seems to share her obsession with politics, let alone her political perspective. I was also a receptive audience and did not disagree on any issue as Obed often did — if only to annoy her. Of course, even if I disagreed on any point I would not have the heart to say so. I would not want to hurt her feelings by being a disagreeable guest. She certainly has welcomed me with open arms into her family. Hers is the generosity of the poor. Nowhere in the well-to-do sectors of society would a stranger be welcomed so warmly…without even knowing anything about him.

On my second day here she allocated me the root cellar under the wrap-around porch to sleep in — a big room with the door opening to the outside on the brick portion of the building. This is where she keeps her preserved food. My single bed is surrounded by walls of shelves laden with bottles of sauces and relishes that she has made herself. A salted and smoked side of a hog hangs from sharp hooks on the ceiling. She actually prepared the room herself, sweeping and dusting everything in sight, including the carcass. At the same time she kept on apologizing for putting me up in a cellar: it was not the most comfortable room in the world because of its generous ventilation so that her meat would not spoil. People did not normally keep meat in their cellars, she explained — cured or not cured it would spoil because of the heat and humidity. But her cellar was different. It stayed cool because of the gaps between some rows of bricks which allowed free circulation of air. It was all due to Mr. Quigley’s inventive mind, she beamed proudly. It was a brilliant feat to have a dry cellar in Kilvert, which is low-lying and wet. Of course in winter no one can sleep here. If the smell of smoke from the meat was too overpowering at night I must not hesitate to tell her in the morning. She would transfer either me or the meat to the attic. She could be preparing the attic for me right away but it would take a lot of work and time since it was crammed with Obed’s and Mahlon’s junk and there was hardly room to breathe there.

Out of embarrassment that she should be doing all this work for me I offered to help, but she would have none of that. Instead she ordered Obed to take me shopping for clothes at the Kilvert Community Center.

“You gonna scare people in that getup,” she said.

I discovered what it meant to “shop for clothes.” Men’s, women’s and children’s clothes of all types and styles were displayed on rails and on a number of rickety tables on the porch of the smaller of the two buildings that comprise the Kilvert Community Center. Other garments were in piles on the concrete floor. There were also shoes and handbags and old suitcases and cushions and books — all second-hand items donated by philanthropists for distribution to the poor citizens of Kilvert. People are free to come any time of the day or night to select the clothes they want at no charge. I chose the pair of jeans and the black and red check shirt I am wearing today. Obed suggested I take more and assured me that the stuff was free. Those who know me from way back will remember how impossible it was for me to take alms even at the worst of times. People change. Corrupted by the learning that initially happened as a by-product of a foolish quest to find meaning in my mourning, I have changed too. I have had a brush with the world, and therefore am no longer the simple professional mourner of yesteryear. But there is one aspect of me that has not changed: the guilt that eats me for a long time after partaking of the charity of my fellows. I told him that it was not necessary to take more than I really needed. After all, I still had a set of some of my civilian clothes in my suitcase.

On the porch of the main building I could see seven or so brooding elders in a row of seats lining the wall. Among them was Mahlon Quigley. I wondered what occupied their thoughts as they stared vacantly at the blue sky. I would not be surprised if they were lamenting a disappeared utopia as every generation before them has done and every generation after them will do. It is the way of brooding elders the world over, this longing for the “good ol’ days” that never really were.

“You know why they call us WIN people?” asks Obed, bringing me back to the present.

“Oh, is that what you call yourselves?”

“We don’t call ourselves that. Other folks do. Know why? ’Cause we got three bloods in all of us, homeboy. We got the White blood and the Indian blood and the Negro blood. Get it? WIN people. My Indian side is Shawnee. That’s why I tell you this is Shawnee hair. If you look at them pictures you gonna see Harry Corbett had hair like this.”

“But Ruth told me Mr. Corbett was Cherokee,” I say.

Suddenly the man is angry.

“She don’t know nothing, man. She just wanna screw up things for me.”

I am mystified how being Cherokee instead of Shawnee will inconvenience him. In any event there is no difference between Shawnee and Cherokee hair, is there?