The Heart of a Woman - Maya Angelou [68]
Because of my height, I could see him on a platform in front of the store. He held on to a standing microphone and turned his body from left to right, his jacket flapping and a short-brim brown hat shading his face from view.
“Abbey, these people”—the human crush was denser nearer to the bookstore—“these people are here to hear us.”
She grabbed my hand and I took Rosa's arm. We pressed on.
“Some of your sisters are going to be talking to you. Talking to you about Africa. In a few minutes, they're gonna tell you about Lumumba. Patrice Lumumba. About the goddam Belgians. About the United Nations. If you are ignorant niggers, go home. Don't stay. Don't listen. And all you goddam finks in the crowd—run back and tell your white masters what I said. Tell 'em what these black women are going to say. Tell 'em about J. A. Rogers' books, which prove that Africans had kingdoms before white folks knew how to bathe. Don't forget Brother Malcolm. Don't forget Frederick Douglass. Tell 'em. Everybody except ignorant niggers say ‘Get off my back, Charlie. Get off my goddam back’ Here they come now.” He had seen us. “Come on, Abbey, come on, Myra, you and Rosa. Come on. Get up here and talk. They waiting for you.”
Unknown hands helped us up onto the unstable platform. Abbey walked to the microphone, poised and beautiful. Rosa and I stood behind her and I looked out at the crowd. Thousands of black, brown and yellow faces looked back at me. This was more than we bargained for. My knees weakened and my legs wobbled.
“We are members of CAWAH. Cultural Association for Women of African Heritage. We have learned that our brother, Lumumba, has been killed in the Congo.”
The crowd moaned.
“Oh my God.”
“Oh no.”
“Who killed him?”
“Who?”
“Tell us who.”
Abbey looked around at Rosa and me. Her face showed her nervousness.
Mr. Micheaux shouted. “Tell 'em. They want to know.”
Abbey turned back to the microphone. “I'm not going to say the Belgians.”
The crowd screamed. “Who?”
“I won't say the French or the Americans.”
“Who?”
It was a large hungry sound.
“I'll say the whites killed a black man. Another black man.”
Mr. Micheaux leaned toward Abbey. “Tell 'em what you all are going to do.”
Abbey nodded.
“On Friday morning, our women and some men are going to the United Nations. We are going to sit in the General Assembly, and when they announce the death of Lumumba we're going to stand up and remain standing until they put us out.”
The crowd agreed loudly.
“I'm coming.”
“I'll be there.”
“Me too.”
“Yeah, stand up and be counted.”
“That's right!”
A few dissenting voices were heard.
“Bullshit. Is that all?”
“They kill a man and you broads are going to stand up? Shit.” And, “They'll shoot your asses too! Yes, they will.”
The opposition was drowned out by the larger encouragement.
Mr. Micheaux took the microphone.
“Come here, Myra.” The little man could spell my name but he never pronounced it correctly. “You talk.”
He turned to the crowd. “Here's a woman married to an African. Her husband just barely escaped the South African white dogs. Come on, Myra. Say something.”
I repeated what had already been said at least once. Repetition was a code which everyone understood and appreciated. We had a saying: “Make everything you say two-time talk. If you say it once, you better be able to repeat it.” Black ears were accustomed to the call and response in jazz, in blues and in the prose of black preachers.
Mr. Micheaux took the microphone from me and called Rosa.
She looked out at the faces and spoke very quickly.
“We'll be there. Any of you who wants to come will be welcome. We are going to meet at eight-thirty in front of the U.N. We'll make up extra veils and arm bands and our members will be waiting to distribute them. Come all. Come and let the world know that no longer can they kill black leaders in secret. Come.”
She gave the microphone to Mr. Micheaux and beckoned