The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [21]
I walked onto the stage wearing my sky-blue chiffon gown and the blue high heels, dyed to match.
The first few calypso songs elicited only polite responses, but when I sang a Southern blues, long on moaning and deep in content, the audience shouted back to me, “Tell the truth, baby.” And “Sing, tall skinny mamma. Sing your song.” I was theirs and they were mine. I sang the race memory, and we were united in centuries of belonging. My last song was “Baba Fururu,” a Cuban religious song, taught to me by Mongo Santa maria a year earlier when I had joined Puente on a tour of six Eastern theaters. Speaking only a few words of English, Mongo taught me the song syllable by syllable. Although he couldn't translate the lyrics, he said the song was used in black Cuban religious ritual.
That first Apollo audience consisted of grandparents, raising the children of their own absent children, and young women on welfare, too good to steal and too timid to whore, and young men, made unnecessary.
The Afro-Cuban song ignored hope and laid itself down in despair. The blue notes humped themselves and became the middle passage. They flattened and moaned about poverty and how it felt to be hated. The Apollo audience shouted. They had understood. When I returned and announced that my encore was another African song, called, in Swahili, “Freedom,” they applauded, ready to go with me to that wished-for land.
I explained, “If you believe you deserve freedom, if you really want it, if you believe it should be yours, you must sing:
“U hu uhuru oh yea freedom
U hu uhuru oh yea freedom
Uh huh Uh hum.”
Willie Bobo, Mongo and Juliano set four-four, five-four and six-four times on conga, timbales and caracas, and I started singing. I leaned back on the rhythms and began
“O sawaba hum
O sawaba hum
O sawaba hum.”
I joined the audience on the refrain:
“Oh yea, oh yea freedom
uh huh
uh hum
uh hum
uh hum.”
The audience sang passionately. They were under my voice, before my voice. Understanding beyond my own understanding. I was the singer, the entertainer, and they were the people who were enduring. They accepted me because I was singing the anthem and carrying the flag.
By evening of the first day, I saw the power of the black grapevine. During the six o'clock show someone screamed from the audience, “Sing Freedom, Sing Freedom.” It was my encore, so I had to sing the routine of planned songs. The audience clapped until I returned. I began, “If you believe you deserve freedom. If you …”
“Uh huh uhuru yea freedom
uh huh uhuru yea freedom
uh huh uhuru yea freedom
uh huh, oh yea freedom.”
The audience had it and gone.
“Just a minute. Some of you all know the song, but let me explain it to the folks who don't know.”
A voice from the audience screamed. “All right, but don't wait for slowpokes. We ready to sing.”
I continued with my explanation and the drums began. The audience pounded out the rhythm, moving it, controlling and possessing the music, the orchestra and me.
“Uh, uh, oh huh.
O yea, freedom,
Uh huh. Uh huh.”
As the song ended the small crowd thundered a hot appreciation. Even as I bowed, I knew the applause was only in a small part for me. I had been merely the ignition which set off their fire. It was our history, our painful passage and uneven present that burned luminously in the dark theater.
For six days and three shows per day, the tumultuous response was repeated. On the last day of the run, John and Grace brought Guy, Barbara and Chuck Killens. I watched the three teenagers from a curtain peephole. The comedian's routines were beyond their understanding, the singer's laments about unrequited love didn't catch their concern. The