keep shit clean and whatnot .
The other thing that freaked him out was being in Africa. He sprawled on top of the sheets, too hot to be covered up, saying over and over to himself, âIâm in Africa, Iâm in Africa, Iâm in Africa.â Subliminal flashes of ancient jungle dreams caused him to wake up sweating. Lions on the prowl, wild dances around a big fire, people dressed in outrageous colors, greasy folks. Thatâs what the magazines had shown.
He smiled and slipped out of bed to get a glass of juice. They had left him stocked to the gills.
âBop, thereâs enough fruit, vegetables and whatnot to last you for a month. If you feel the urge for something else, you can get if from one of these women walkinâ up ân down the streets. And if you need any help about anything you canât figure out, go next door to Madam Stella; sheâll help you. Weâll see you in two weeks.â
He poured himself a glass of ginger drink. They had all kinds of drinks in Africa. Quiet, except for the far-off sound of somebody laughing. The Osu district, Accra, Ghana.
After a few days of wandering around he felt confident going from place to place. He had even discovered the neighborhood jointâthe Dew Drop Inn.
The people were just like the people in the Dew Drop Inn on the westside in Chicago, exactly the same except that they spoke Ga. And they seemed to be hip, in a 1970s kind of way. Days after the Vernons had left, he was feeling in tune with the neighborhood. Walk six blocks down that street to get to the high-school jogging track, walk a few blocks that way to the main street, a few blocks the other way to get to the ocean.
He wasnât having any problems getting from place to place, physically; it was the emotional thing that played on him. Passing through the streets made him feel alien, strange; these were people like himself (he saw a lot who were shades darker than himself), brothers and sisters. But they were different. Accra was the capital, people had money, stuff to sell, everybody was selling something to somebody else. Or buying. But they lived in shacks and had drainage ditches running alongside the sidewalks.
No, they werenât sidewalks. Streets were heavily rutted country roads in the middle of the city, and the âsidewalksâ were those escape trails on either side.
One beep meant that a car was easing you behind; two beeps meant that you had been run over. He felt like someone coming from a place that wouldâve fixed all the crumble and decay he saw.
The superior-than-thou attitudes were resolved by reflections of the pictures of the Bronx, Detroit after Halloween Night, Watts, westside Chicago. What the fuck am I looking down my nose at this shit for? At least they got their own country . And they were friendly.
If he relaxed his homeboy face for a split second, someone would pop in on him with a smile.
âIâll tell you the lawdâs truth, Bop, I have to believe that the Ghanaian is the friendliest motherfucker on the planet. Youâll run into a prunehead every now ân then, but basically theyâre just naturally cordial.â
The people bustled but there was no sense of hurry; shit stank, fish smelled, a kind of corny barbecue was always in the air.
Fish, beans, rice, bank, fufu.
He listened in vain for the boombox, some funky chump with so many decibels behind him it wasnât even funny. No drug scene. The realization that he hadnât seen a rock-head in three days jolted him.
Wowwww! These people ainât into crack .
After four days, everybody on the street knew him and he knew everybody. On the fifth day he met Elena Boateng.
Who told him about the German films at the Goethe Institut? Maybe the Vernons had left him with the word . âThey show German films on Thursday night. Some of them are pretty good. You oughta make it.â
Outdoor seating, the film shown on a large screen hung between two palm
The other thing that freaked him out was being in Africa. He sprawled on top of the sheets, too hot to be covered up, saying over and over to himself, âIâm in Africa, Iâm in Africa, Iâm in Africa.â Subliminal flashes of ancient jungle dreams caused him to wake up sweating. Lions on the prowl, wild dances around a big fire, people dressed in outrageous colors, greasy folks. Thatâs what the magazines had shown.
He smiled and slipped out of bed to get a glass of juice. They had left him stocked to the gills.
âBop, thereâs enough fruit, vegetables and whatnot to last you for a month. If you feel the urge for something else, you can get if from one of these women walkinâ up ân down the streets. And if you need any help about anything you canât figure out, go next door to Madam Stella; sheâll help you. Weâll see you in two weeks.â
He poured himself a glass of ginger drink. They had all kinds of drinks in Africa. Quiet, except for the far-off sound of somebody laughing. The Osu district, Accra, Ghana.
After a few days of wandering around he felt confident going from place to place. He had even discovered the neighborhood jointâthe Dew Drop Inn.
The people were just like the people in the Dew Drop Inn on the westside in Chicago, exactly the same except that they spoke Ga. And they seemed to be hip, in a 1970s kind of way. Days after the Vernons had left, he was feeling in tune with the neighborhood. Walk six blocks down that street to get to the high-school jogging track, walk a few blocks that way to the main street, a few blocks the other way to get to the ocean.
He wasnât having any problems getting from place to place, physically; it was the emotional thing that played on him. Passing through the streets made him feel alien, strange; these were people like himself (he saw a lot who were shades darker than himself), brothers and sisters. But they were different. Accra was the capital, people had money, stuff to sell, everybody was selling something to somebody else. Or buying. But they lived in shacks and had drainage ditches running alongside the sidewalks.
No, they werenât sidewalks. Streets were heavily rutted country roads in the middle of the city, and the âsidewalksâ were those escape trails on either side.
One beep meant that a car was easing you behind; two beeps meant that you had been run over. He felt like someone coming from a place that wouldâve fixed all the crumble and decay he saw.
The superior-than-thou attitudes were resolved by reflections of the pictures of the Bronx, Detroit after Halloween Night, Watts, westside Chicago. What the fuck am I looking down my nose at this shit for? At least they got their own country . And they were friendly.
If he relaxed his homeboy face for a split second, someone would pop in on him with a smile.
âIâll tell you the lawdâs truth, Bop, I have to believe that the Ghanaian is the friendliest motherfucker on the planet. Youâll run into a prunehead every now ân then, but basically theyâre just naturally cordial.â
The people bustled but there was no sense of hurry; shit stank, fish smelled, a kind of corny barbecue was always in the air.
Fish, beans, rice, bank, fufu.
He listened in vain for the boombox, some funky chump with so many decibels behind him it wasnât even funny. No drug scene. The realization that he hadnât seen a rock-head in three days jolted him.
Wowwww! These people ainât into crack .
After four days, everybody on the street knew him and he knew everybody. On the fifth day he met Elena Boateng.
Who told him about the German films at the Goethe Institut? Maybe the Vernons had left him with the word . âThey show German films on Thursday night. Some of them are pretty good. You oughta make it.â
Outdoor seating, the film shown on a large screen hung between two palm
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