All God's Children Need Traveling Shoes Read online

  “But is he married?” He had treated the three laughing women with the indulgence of a benevolent Pasha.

  Mamali looked up from his note pad, “All personal questions must be directed to himself. If you agree to dine, I will need your address. He will come for you at nine o’clock.”

  I hoped that I wasn’t accepting too quickly, but how could one know the peculiarities of a culture glimpsed largely in a technicolor fantasy?

  My disappointment at finding the house empty was enormous. I needed Alice and Vicki to counsel me on what to wear. I needed to share my excitement over Sheikhali and most crucial, I needed them to see him and let him see them. Suppose he kidnapped me and sold me to an Arab trader? My apprehension was not bootless. During my stay in Cairo I knew ambassadors from sub-Saharan Africa who rushed to Arab countries to negotiate for the release of their nationals stolen and placed for sale on the still active slave market.

  It was most important that Sheikhali see my friends and understand that they were intelligent, worldly Americans who could call out the American Army to rescue me. When that last idea came to me I had been searching my closet for an elegant, rich but simple dress. I stopped and sat on the bed, imagining the American government, which had been a participant in both my people’s enslavement and emancipation, sending troops to rescue me from one more auction block.

  At the knock I opened the door and my knees weakened. Sheikhali filled up the whole outdoors. He wore yards of blue silk embroidered with real gold, a small blue lace cap draped itself jauntily over his brow.

  “Miss Angelou?”

  “Please come in.”

  His presence ate up every inch of space, and there was hardly any air left for me to breathe.

  I said calmly, “Please sit down. My friends will be here soon.”

  He sat, stretching long legs out into the center of the room.

  “Your … uh … friends? … Your friends to eat? You, me, restaurant?”

  His English was terrible. I asked in French, if he would prefer to speak French.

  When Sheikhali smiled, I knew I had earned one more star for my heavenly crown. His black lips opened gradually and his teeth shone as diamonds spied through the darkness of a deep pocket.

  “You speak French, too?” He used the familiar “tu,” and I was pleased.

  I explained that I wanted to let my friends know where I was going and with whom. He nodded, the smile still on his face. “Write them a note. Tell them Sheikhali is taking you to L’Auberge Restaurant in his avion d’argent.”

  Ghanaians called the 1963 Coupe de Ville Cadillac with its high standing fins and prohibitive cost “money with wings,” so I was not surprised to hear Sheikhali call his car a silver airplane. I wrote two notes for my housemates, and allowed the gallant caliph to usher me into his silver American chariot.

  In the restaurant he waved away the waiter and the menu and spread his hands like large palmetto fans on the tablecloth.

  He spoke to me, “We will have coquille St.-Jacques, trout, and beef steak. I suppose you drink wine?” I hesitated. Clearly he was not used to dissent. In the car I had been as demure as an African violet, but now I had to speak. I said, “Thank you, but I don’t eat fish or seafood. I’d like steak and vegetables.” A tinge of surprise widened his eyes, then he smiled.

  “American women. It is said that you know much. I see you (again the familiar ‘tu’) know what you will and will not eat. And wine, will wine please you?”

  As a Muslim, he was not supposed to drink alcohol. I refused the wine. His look was piercing.

  He clapped his hands and the waiter scurried to his side.

  “Mademoiselle will have steak, vegetables and wine. Good wine.” He continued ordering his own meal. I looked around the restaurant, trying not to think about the man or the rest of the evening and my good or bad luck at catching his attention.

  “Mademoiselle Angelou,” his voice was a soft rumble, “May I call you Maya?” He was already using “tu,” so I said yes, and he took the conversation by force.

  Although he often visited France he had never been to the States, and was it true that after slavery White Americans gave their money to the Blacks and now all Blacks were rich? I don’t think he heard my gasped denial. And why wasn’t I married? I was tall and young and pretty. Had all the men in Ghana gone blind? I murmured against the flattery, but he touched my hand very gently, “Don’t you want children? You must not wait long, for a woman can live without a husband, but everyone must have at least one child.” He was obviously concerned.

  “I have a son.”

  “In America?”

  “No, my son is here at the university.” He was too dignified to display his surprise, but I saw the flicker cross his face.

  “You have a child at the university, but then how old are you?” I said, “I’ll tell you my son’s age. He is eighteen. But my mother says a woman who will tell her own age will tell anything.” For the first time, I heard him laugh. He slapped his leg and nodded approval.

  “I like a funny woman. Pretty women are seldom funny. I like you.” And I liked him. He was certainly the most sublimely handsome man I had ever seen. I knew that if the purple was visible in his blue-black skin under artificial light, he would be stunning in direct sunlight.

  I asked, “Tell me about yourself. Everything but your age.”

  He smiled, and as I drank wine he told me of his youth.

  He was the first son of a fourth wife. His father, who sired thirty-two children, had given most of his attention to the first sons. He had married Sheikhali’s mother, the youngest wife, in his old age. She had been catered to and petted by her husband and all his wives because she had brought a whisper of youth back to the aging man, but after Sheikhali’s birth, the old man sickened and died, and nearly all his goods had been shared by the older wives and their offspring.

  When he was ten years old, he joined other young men and began herding cattle. They walked cows and goats through rain forests, across the savannahs, and over the desert, protecting them from wild animals, venomous snakes, and severe weather. By thirteen, after his initiation into manhood, he was made leader of the drive and became sole supporter of his mother, her mother and family.

  I told him, “I compliment you. You’ve had a hard youth, but now you have become a rich man.”

  “I was a man at thirteen. I am still a man. Nothing has changed.”

  Maybe it was that balance of maleness and manliness which intrigued me. I had long known that there were worlds of difference between males and men as there were between females and women. Genitalia indicated sex, but work, discipline, courage and love were needed for the creation of men and women.

  Dinner was finished and I couldn’t remember the taste of anything I had eaten.

  “Now, we go to the hotel.” He clapped his hands again.

  I tensed. How dare he assume that he could take me to dinner and then immediately to bed. I was no prude and the thought of those large arms around me did make my breath quicken, but I needed some soft talk, some endearments, a few “honeys” and “darlings.”

  He pulled a tooled leather bag from his smock and gave bills to the waiter.

  “For you. Now help the mademoiselle.” The waiter pulled my chair and when I stood I saw Sheikhali was already at the door. He could hurry all he wanted, I followed idly, selecting the best way to reject an invitation which had not yet been offered.

  We were in the car before any apt words came to me. Just as I formed a disclaiming and apologetic sentence, he began to sing. The tone was naturally deep and the melody haunting. I didn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear.

  I was being serenaded. Possibly in his culture a serenade was equal to an evening of sweet talk and all the blandishments one could wish.

  He parked at the Continental Hotel, and helped me out of the car.

  “This is the best dance band in Accra, but if you prefer we can go on to the Star Hotel. Benson is playing
there tonight.”

  I shook my head and he took the gesture to mean I didn’t choose the Star Hotel. In fact, I was physically responding to my ignorance. He had mentioned hotel, and I had immediately assumed that he was planning an erotic tryst and had just talked myself out of and into agreement.

  I didn’t have to act demure when we entered the lobby. Embarrassment had made me truly docile. Sheikhali laughed when he danced and oh, the man could move. He lifted his arms and yards of blue silk billowed. He spun around and the lights glinted off the gold threads. His cap, still on his head, was the only non-moving part of the whirling mountainous man. Years of dance classes and professional dancing did not allow me to keep pace with Sheikhali. At the end of the first song he glided close and gathered me in his arms.

  “You move like a night wind. A soft night wind. I like you.”

  We spent hours dancing and looking at each other. He whispered a translation of the song he had sung in the car: “A man loved a woman for her large eyes, for her hair that moved like a hive of bees, for her hands and sweet voice. And she answered him with a promise of eternal faithfulness.” When he clapped his hands and drew out his money pouch, I was sorry the evening was over.

  “We can go to the Star Hotel if you like, or I can take you home.” He looked down at me from an enormous height. “Or since I have an apartment in this hotel, we can go there and rest for a time.”

  Happily, I chose the apartment.

  Sheikhali was exotic, generous and physically satisfying, but we had trouble translating ourselves to each other. My upbringing had not fitted me for even a pretended reticence. As a Black American woman, I could not sit with easy hands and an impassive face and have my future planned. Life in my country had demanded that I act for myself or face terrible consequences.

  Three days after our meeting, I returned home to find a grinning Kojo and a large white refrigerator standing in my living room.

  Kojo rubbed the enamel and said, “Auntie, it’s for you.”

  “For me? From where?”

  “Briscoe’s, Auntie. It came today.” He grinned. Admiring me as much as the refrigerator. “The Mali man sent it.”

  I read the tag attached to the door of the appliance. “For Mrs. Maya Angelou. From Mr. Sheikhali.” I said, “But I have a refrigerator.”

  “I know, Auntie, but the Mali man said you could have two.”

  “It’s silly. I’ll send it back.” Consternation wiped away Kojo’s grin. “Oh, Auntie. You’ll hurt the Mali man.”

  “Tomorrow I will call Briscoe’s and have someone come here and pick it up. Nobody has enough food for two refrigerators.”

  “But please, Auntie.” He was pleading as if he was the donor, or even worse the recipient.

  “I will do so, tomorrow.” His little shoulders fell and he turned, mumbling, and walked into the kitchen.

  That next evening Kojo met me at the door.

  “Auntie, Briscoe came and got your refrigerator.” His voice accused. He shook his head sadly. “Poor Mister Mali man.”

  Sheikhali was disappointed that I refused his gift, but he offered to pay my rent and give me money for my car. When I explained that I was a woman used to working and paying my own bills, he stared at me in a questioning silence.

  One late evening, in his hotel room, he told me he would marry me and take me to Mali. I would learn his language, Fufulde, and teach his children proper French and English.

  “What children? You have children?” I was standing at the window, looking down on the lighted gardens.

  “I have eight children, from two women. But only one wife. You will like her. She is a good woman. Tall like you.” He sat on the bed, looking like a black Buddha, his wide shoulders outlined by a white sleeveless undershirt.

  “You will be my second wife. I will build you a beautiful house and you will be happy.”

  The unusual proposal nearly made me laugh.

  “But if you have one wife who is good, why do you want to marry me? And you already have children. What do you want with me?”

  I sat beside him on the bed.

  “If I need more children I will take a young girl because you and my wife will have no more babies. But you, you are kind and educated. My wife is also kind, but she is like me, she has no education. My family will accept you. I will send to America for your parents and I will bring your son to Mali. Thus our families will marry.”

  He had taken my life and the lives of my entire family, except my brother, into his plan. There was no way to explain that not one of us could live within his embrace. He laughed when I thanked him, but refused.

  “Women always say no. I will find out what you want, and then I will ask again.”

  My emotions, raised on the romance of Hollywood films, might have faltered had he pleaded love, but his offer had the crispness of a business negotiation, and I had no difficulty in refusing to participate in the transaction.

  Kojo had been my “small boy” for two months. He had settled into his school routine and was usually available for small chores and swift errands.

  “Auntie?” His downcast eyes and softened voice made me tense. He wanted something. “Kojo, what is it now?” Clothes? Shoes? A new school?”

  “Auntie, there are some people to see you.” He stayed so far beyond the door only a quarter of his body was visible.

  “People? Where? What do they want?”

  He whispered, “In the backyard, Auntie.”

  No visitor had ever come to my back door. I hurried through the kitchen and opened the screen. The yard was filled with people dressed in rich cloth and gold. A very old man, leaning on a carved stick, was surrounded by two middle-aged couples, some young adults, and a few teenagers.

  A middle-aged man spoke, “Good afternoon, Auntie. We would speak to you.” I reproached Kojo for allowing the people to stand in the backyard, and said to the man, “Thank you. Kojo will take you around to the front. Please come inside.”

  Kojo giggled, and keeping his eyes down, slithered around me and out into the yard.

  I went back through the house and opened the door. The people filed into the living room, each shaking my hand and murmuring a name I couldn’t quite comprehend. I offered the available chairs, and the older people sat leaving one chair for me. The younger visitors remained standing. I had no idea what the occasion was, but the formality of my visitors was clearly ritualistic.

  I called Kojo to bring beer. When one woman complimented me on the prettiness of the living room, the crowd agreed quietly. A man admired a Kofi Bailey print of Kwame Nkrumah which hung on a far wall. There were faint approving sounds “Osagyefo.” “Man pass man.”

  After the beer was served and Kojo left the room, the old man cleared his throat.

  “Auntie, we have come to thank you for Kojo. We are his family. These are his brothers and sisters.” The teenagers bobbed and smiled. “His uncles and aunts are here and there is his mother and his father. I am the great-grandfather of Kojo, and we thank you.”

  The family was nodding and smiling. I looked toward the kitchen door, expecting to catch a glimpse of a peeping Kojo, but there was none.

  The old man continued, “We have come by lorry from Akwapim, and we have brought thanks.”

  By their bearing, clothes and jewelry, it was evident that Kojo’s family was high-born and well-to-do. If they had travelled from Akwapim by lorry to thank me, it was also clear that they treasured the boy.

  “Speak, Mother.” Great-grandfather stretched his hand to a woman sitting to his right.

  “Auntie,” the woman was twice my age. “The boy, Kojo, is good and he might become better. All the mothers cherish him.” Here the women gave an amen corner response. “He has grown in our family and in our village, so he was sent to the town. And proof of his goodness is he found you and your Sisters.” A new rumble of agreement trembled in the room.

  The old man stretched his hand to a tall man who resembled Kojo. “Speak, Father.”


  “Auntie, we have family here in the town, but none has the Brioni education.” In Akan languages Brioni meant White. “Our chief and our grandfather told us if Kojo was to become better, he must have that understanding. Now we have talked to his headmaster. We have spoken to his teachers, and we have listened to your steward who is our cousin. Without payment and without knowing his family, you, Auntie, and your Sisters are teaching our Kojo the Brioni ways of thinking, and so …” His voice trailed away.

  The old man spoke. “Bring the thanks.”

  The lounging teenagers came away from the wall. The older repeated, “Bring the thanks.” When they walked out, I smiled, but could think of nothing to say, and since none of the Ghanaians I had met indulged in small talk, it wasn’t surprising that the room became quiet. I was not immodest enough to think we deserved thanks, and I knew my housemates would be embarrassed when I related the episode. I kept smiling. The youngsters brought in a crate of vegetables, then another and another, and it seemed they would never stop. They packed crates against crates until the floor was covered.

  The old man pointed to a box of eggplant. “Here are garden eggs. Here onions, plantain, pineapples, cassava, yam, coco yam, mango, paw paw, and outside in ice we have brought you snails.” He meant the land mollusk which was as large as a kitten and which even starvation could not force down my throat. My jaws ached from smiling.

  He continued, “We want you to know that Kojo did not come from the ground like grass. He has risen like the banyan tree. He has roots. And we, his roots, thank you.”

  The old man braced his cane against the floor and pulled himself nearly erect. The other visitors and I arose.

  “Kojo’s family has many farms, Auntie.” That was obvious. “And while we are not trying to repay you and your Sisters, every month we will send you thanks according to the season.”