The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [109]
“Brothers. Brothers.” Joe stepped up to Vus and Jarra, daintily, like a proud bantam rooster. “Argument is one thing. Riot is another. This is not an occasion for either.”
Without changing tone he spoke in Liberian patois, “Ole man say in my country ‘Hurry, hurry get dere tomorrow. Take time, get there today’ Or better yet, ‘We come to party to show our teeth. We go to war to show our arms.’”
Vus turned to look at Joe, and I held my breath. Joe was the doyen of the African diplomatic corps; he had been supportive of Vus and all the other freedom fighters and was highly respected in Cairo, and I liked him. If Vus turned on Joe, I could cross him off our list of acquaintances, because Vus's tongue could be sharp as an assagai, and Joe was a proud man. Vus smiled and shook his head. He said, “Bro Joe, you should be president of this entire continent.”
Jarra, taking his cue from Vus's relaxation, said, “Speak for the rest of Africa, Vusumzi, not Ethiopia. However, maybe the emperor will make him a ras.” They laughed.
The gathering seemed to exhale at the same time. All of a sudden, music could be heard. The knots of people disbanded. Vus, Joe and Jarra walked away together and the man who had been the object of Vus's tirade disappeared. Only Kebi, Banti, who had been standing behind her husband, and I were left in the middle of the floor. Kebi looked at us, lifted her eyebrows and gave a tiny shrug of her frail shoulders. Banti put her hands on her hips and grinned roguishly. I thought of us as foot soldiers, bringing up the rear in a war whose declaration we had not known, left on the battlefield after a peace was achieved, in which we had not participated. I laughed out loud. Banti and Kebi chuckled. We moved nearer and, smiling, touched each other's shoulders, arms, hands and cheeks. Brought to friendship by the first man, and by the clever, humorous mediation of the third man, we three women were to be inseparable for the next year and a half.
I never learned what fuse ignited the conflagration. At home, Vus answered my query: “He was wrong, and too cowardly to say what he meant.”
“Did he insult you? I mean us, the race?”
“Not directly. Like most white racists, he was paternalistic. I would have preferred he slap me than that he talk down upon me. Then I could retaliate in kind.”
I totally agreed. Some whites, in black company, beset by the contradiction between long-learned racism and the demands of courtesy, confusedly offend listening blacks. The stereotypical “Some of my best friends …” and other awkward attempts at what they think to be civility, elicit from black people an outburst of anger whites can neither comprehend nor avoid.
An inability to speak fluent Arabic and the difference in cultures made friendships with Egyptian women difficult. The secretaries in my office were neither brave enough (I understood that as a six-foot-tall black American female editor, I was somewhat of an oddity) nor had the time (many had taken jobs to help their needy parents and siblings) nor were interested enough (some were already betrothed and were working to pay for their trouseaus) to respond to my friendly overtures.
I had heard of Hanifa Fathy and noted the respect with which her name was spoken. Hanifa Fathy, the poet. Then, Hanifa, wife of a judge. It was unusual to hear an Egyptian woman's marital alliance not reported as her first accomplishment. When we finally met at a conference, I was surprised to find her pretty. I had never heard her looks described. She wore her light-brown hair long, in the manner of Lauren Bacall, and her strong feminine features reminded me of the bold American actress.
When we shook hands (her handshake was firm), she