things.”
“Sho ain’t, man. The white folks won’t let ’em,” said Buster.
It was good to think that all the Africans were not lazy. He tried to remember all he had heard of Africa as he watcheda purple pigeon sail down into the street and scratch where a horse had passed. Then, as he remembered a story his teacher had told him, he saw a car rolling swiftly up the street and the pigeon stretching its wings and lifting easily into the air, skimming the top of the car in its slow, rocking flight. He watched it rise and disappear where the taut telephone wires cut the sky above the curb. Buster felt good. Riley scratched his initials in the soft earth with his big toe.
“Riley, you know all them Africa guys ain’t really that lazy,” he said.
“I know they ain’t,” said Riley. “I just tole you so.”
“Yeah, but my teacher tole me, too. She tole us ’bout one of the African guys named Toussan what she said whipped Napoleon!”
Riley stopped scratching in the earth and looked up, his eye rolling in disgust: “Now how come you have to start lying?”
“Thass what she said.”
“Boy, you oughta quit telling them things.”
“I hope God may kill me.”
“She said he was a
African?”
“Cross my heart, man …”
“Really?”
“Really, man. She said he come from a place named Hayti.”
Riley looked hard at Buster and, seeing the seriousness of the face, felt the excitement of a story rise up within him.
“Buster, I’ll bet a fat man you lyin’. What’d that teacher say?”
“Really, man, she said that Toussan and his men got upon one of them African mountains and shot down them peckerwood soldiers fass as they’d try to come up …”
“Why good-God-a-mighty!” yelled Riley.
“Oh boy, they shot ’em down!” chanted Buster.
“Tell me about it, man!”
“And they throwed ’em off the mountain …”
“… Goool-leee!…”
“… And Toussan drove ’em cross the sand …”
“… Yeah! And what was they wearing, Buster?…”
“Man, they had on red uniforms and blue hats all trimmed with gold and they had some swords all shining, what they called sweet blades of Damascus …”
“Sweet blades of Damascus!…”
“… They really had ’em,” chanted Buster.
“And what kinda guns?”
“Big, black cannon!”
“And where did ole what you call ’im run them guys?…”
“His name was Toussan.”
“Toozan! Just like Tarzan …”
“Not Taar-zan, dummy, Toou-zan!”
“Toussan! And where’d ole Toussan run ’em?”
“Down to the water, man …”
“… To the river water …”
“… Where some great big ole boats was waiting for ’em …”
“… Go on, Buster!”
“An’ Toussan shot into them boats …”
“… He shot into ’em …”
“… shot into them boats …”
“Jesus!…”
“… with his great big cannons …”
“… Yeah!…”
“… made a-brass …”
“… Brass …”
“… an’ his big black cannonballs started killin’ them peckerwoods …”
“… Lawd, Lawd …”
“… Boy, till them peckerwoods hollowed,
Please, Please, Mister Toussan, we’ll be good!”
“An’ what’d Toussan tell ’em, Buster?”
“Boy, he said in his deep voice,
I oughta drown all a you bastards.”
“An’ what’d the peckerwoods say?”
“They said,
Please, Please, Please, Mister Toussan …”
“… We’ll be good,” broke in Riley.
“Thass right, man,” said Buster excitedly. He clapped his hands and kicked his heels against the earth, his black face glowing in a burst of rhythmic joy.
“Boy!”
“And what’d ole Toussan say then?”
“He said in his big deep voice:
You all peckerwoods better be good, ’cause this is sweet Papa Toussan talking and my nigguhs is crazy ’bout white meat!”
“Ho, ho, ho!” Riley bent double with laughter. The rhythm still throbbed within him and he wanted the story to go on and on …
“Buster, you know didn’t no
“Sho ain’t, man. The white folks won’t let ’em,” said Buster.
It was good to think that all the Africans were not lazy. He tried to remember all he had heard of Africa as he watcheda purple pigeon sail down into the street and scratch where a horse had passed. Then, as he remembered a story his teacher had told him, he saw a car rolling swiftly up the street and the pigeon stretching its wings and lifting easily into the air, skimming the top of the car in its slow, rocking flight. He watched it rise and disappear where the taut telephone wires cut the sky above the curb. Buster felt good. Riley scratched his initials in the soft earth with his big toe.
“Riley, you know all them Africa guys ain’t really that lazy,” he said.
“I know they ain’t,” said Riley. “I just tole you so.”
“Yeah, but my teacher tole me, too. She tole us ’bout one of the African guys named Toussan what she said whipped Napoleon!”
Riley stopped scratching in the earth and looked up, his eye rolling in disgust: “Now how come you have to start lying?”
“Thass what she said.”
“Boy, you oughta quit telling them things.”
“I hope God may kill me.”
“She said he was a
African?”
“Cross my heart, man …”
“Really?”
“Really, man. She said he come from a place named Hayti.”
Riley looked hard at Buster and, seeing the seriousness of the face, felt the excitement of a story rise up within him.
“Buster, I’ll bet a fat man you lyin’. What’d that teacher say?”
“Really, man, she said that Toussan and his men got upon one of them African mountains and shot down them peckerwood soldiers fass as they’d try to come up …”
“Why good-God-a-mighty!” yelled Riley.
“Oh boy, they shot ’em down!” chanted Buster.
“Tell me about it, man!”
“And they throwed ’em off the mountain …”
“… Goool-leee!…”
“… And Toussan drove ’em cross the sand …”
“… Yeah! And what was they wearing, Buster?…”
“Man, they had on red uniforms and blue hats all trimmed with gold and they had some swords all shining, what they called sweet blades of Damascus …”
“Sweet blades of Damascus!…”
“… They really had ’em,” chanted Buster.
“And what kinda guns?”
“Big, black cannon!”
“And where did ole what you call ’im run them guys?…”
“His name was Toussan.”
“Toozan! Just like Tarzan …”
“Not Taar-zan, dummy, Toou-zan!”
“Toussan! And where’d ole Toussan run ’em?”
“Down to the water, man …”
“… To the river water …”
“… Where some great big ole boats was waiting for ’em …”
“… Go on, Buster!”
“An’ Toussan shot into them boats …”
“… He shot into ’em …”
“… shot into them boats …”
“Jesus!…”
“… with his great big cannons …”
“… Yeah!…”
“… made a-brass …”
“… Brass …”
“… an’ his big black cannonballs started killin’ them peckerwoods …”
“… Lawd, Lawd …”
“… Boy, till them peckerwoods hollowed,
Please, Please, Mister Toussan, we’ll be good!”
“An’ what’d Toussan tell ’em, Buster?”
“Boy, he said in his deep voice,
I oughta drown all a you bastards.”
“An’ what’d the peckerwoods say?”
“They said,
Please, Please, Please, Mister Toussan …”
“… We’ll be good,” broke in Riley.
“Thass right, man,” said Buster excitedly. He clapped his hands and kicked his heels against the earth, his black face glowing in a burst of rhythmic joy.
“Boy!”
“And what’d ole Toussan say then?”
“He said in his big deep voice:
You all peckerwoods better be good, ’cause this is sweet Papa Toussan talking and my nigguhs is crazy ’bout white meat!”
“Ho, ho, ho!” Riley bent double with laughter. The rhythm still throbbed within him and he wanted the story to go on and on …
“Buster, you know didn’t no
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