The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [22]
After the Killenses and Guy left my dressing room, I prepared for the last show. I knew I would never again make an appearance as a singer. There was only one Apollo Theatre, and no other place had the allure to melt my resolve. While the run had given me stature among my New York acquaintances, its real value was in the confidence it gave me. I had not won worldwide fame, or gained stunning wealth, but I was leaving show business at the right time: stepping down from the pinnacle of the Apollo stage. And an I-told-you-so imp had grinned behind my eyes all week long. Apollo audiences had been filling Frank Schiffman's ears with “Oh yea, oh yea, freedom,” so he hadn't spoken to me since opening night. It was going to be a hallelujah time when he gave me my check. I finished the set and waited in the wings while the audience yelled for my return. I went back to the microphone and began, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. This last piece needs audience participation. It is a song from Africa. It's called ‘Uhuru,’ which means freedom. I'd like the people of this side of the theater to sing, uh uhuru, oh yea freedom”—the drums began to roll in a quick promise—“and this side …”
“Damn, why don't you do your act, girl? If you can't sing, come back on Wednesday. That's amateur night.”
The man's voice came from the balcony, strident and piercing the dark theater like an unexpected light. My heart thumped, and I couldn't think of a thing to say. A few giggles from around the room encouraged him.
“Anyway”—his voice was meaner and louder—“anyway, if you like Africa so much, why don't you go back there?”
The only thing I knew was I would never get off the stage. Hell's eternity would find me rooted in front of the mute microphone, my feet glued to the floor. The baby-blue spotlight blinding me and holding me forever in that place. A grumble began in the balcony and was joined by sounds of displeasure on the main floor. I still couldn't move. Suddenly a lemon-sour voice from the front rows shouted, “Shut up, up there, you bastid. I paid money to come in here.”
Some “yeahs” and “that's rights” popped up in the theater.
They angered my detractor. He shouted, “Go to hell, you old bitch. I paid for this shit too.”
“Aw, cool it, goddammit. Let the woman sing,” a man's bass voice ordered from the rear. “Yeah.” Another man spoke from the balcony and sounded dangerously near to the heckler. “Yeah, you don't like it. Get your ass down on the stage and do what you can do.”
That was it. Either there would be a bloody fight with cutting and shooting or the heckler was going to come on the stage, take the microphone and make me look even more foolish than I thought I was. I was surprised to realize that the drummers were still playing.
The woman, my first defender, lifted her voice …
“Freedom, freedom, freedom.”
She was in tempo but the melody was wrong.
More voices joined, “Freedom, Freedom.” The drums rolled on like an irate river. “Freedom, Freedom.” The singers in the audience increased. “Freedom.” The entire main floor seemed to have joined the drums. They had taken my side and taken the song away from me.
The bass voice cut through the music, “Sing girl, goddammit, sing the goddam song.”
I sang “O sawaba hum, O sawaba hum. Oh yea. Oh yea, freedom.” We didn't sing the song Olatunji had taught me, but we sang loudly and gloriously, as if the thing we sang about was already in our hands. My closing show reminded me of Mother's advice: