Descent

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Descent Alpha It was on the eleventh day of the third month of the new year when I entered the twenty second chapter and fourth verse of my descent. For me, this entrance was quite refreshing and very much needed. By this timely entrance my long disenfranchised black soul was briefly enraptured into the purgatorial place where overfed but satisfied abolitionists rested and then returned unto their nearly desolate fields of labor. When I was eventually restored, my soul was then reinvigorated as if it were a skinny stark naked and ashy black child basking in the rejuvenating spray of a just-opened fire hydrant on a scorching summer day.

It was a day that had dwelt precariously on the seemingly broad, but actually short narrow precipice between a seething hot summer and a cool refreshing autumn.

That morning, a thick rolling fog had hung very low over Kansas City until around the beginning of the noon hour when it suddenly burned away in the heat of an usually lazy but suddenly virulent autumn sun. However, this banished fog pondered for awhile and then eventually sought and exacted it’s revenge late that afternoon, returning as the wetness of molasses thick humidity that permeated our clothing and lighted upon our skin, leaving our flesh damp, sticky, and smelling of dollar store deodorant that had failed to meet it’s expected task.

That night was likewise muggy and sticky like the soiled sheets left behind by young lovers. There was tension and anxiety in the air. It hung low and thick, like the heat from a basement furnace. But, yet it was just there. I could feel this 2

tension and anxiety crawling into my pores and psyche like tiny newborn cockroaches seething in and out of the apertures of a morsel of rotting, moist food.

The tension was so uncomfortable it literally made me itch and I scratched and scratched until thick piles of flesh were gathered under my fingernails.

I stood up.

This night, I was in a dingy, pissy smelling, hourly rate motel sitting on the far north end of paseo avenue. My skin was damp. I was tense and angry.

For a long, seemingly endless time, I stood silently in the far corner, gazing intently at the nearly collapsed ruffled bed and at the delicate, small, tan foot protruding lifelessly from the disheveled pile of stained white satin sheets.

I looked Serene and peaceful, she was almost poetic in death. An aura that momentarily reminded me of tranquil strains from John Coltrane’s “Love Supreme” lifted from her motionless body and filled the room.

Momentarily, I closed my eyes. Then, I opened the again.

From the other side of the room, a single, dim purgatorial ray of floodlight sliced through the cracked picture window, descending from between the stained, frayed and yellowed drapes, and landed gently across this foot.

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In this singular ray of light, this foot itself was truly at it’s most beautiful. This one foot was a simplistic yet profound work of the finest art, beyond the highest talents and deepest ability of the best artisans. Just looking at it brought me closer to the creator.

Enveloped in tender brown skin that was smooth and succulent, the foot was without a single blemish or the most minute scar. The nails had been carefully pedicured into smoothly curved tips, and gently painted to a shiny deep rose finish that reached out, captured, and gently resonated the miniscule light that fell on it.

I turned my head and looked slowly to the side of the bed. A large black crushed velvet dress, black lace bra and panties still laid neatly draped across back of the ragged short burgundy armchair next to the bed. On the seat of the chair itself were matching leather black pumps and shiny little black purse with the dazzling golden trim.

Leaning back with a sigh, I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. I felt a muted stinging in my nostrils. The room smelled of smoke, urine, marijuana mingled with some cheap disinfectant that had been sprayed on the dusty, musky sheets.

For a brief moment, I remembered an old tattered black and white postcard I once saw of a vicious southern lynching. A swelling, grinning mob of about ten fat, burly white men in grimy overalls and tattered jeans were proudly standing next to the swinging corpse of a black man they had lynched the night before.

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The unfortunate victim was lean, jet black, totally naked, and the various slices and lacerations that covered his body made his shiny skin look like a tender side of beef that had been ripped and torn into by a pack of hungry, wild dogs. With his neck clearly broken, his battered and swollen head eerily slumped sickeningly to one side. One ear was completely gone, apparently sliced off. One eye was enlarged to the size of a ripe grapefruit and the other eye was still half open and locked into the infinite gaze of a man now dead.

For a brief moment, I wondered if, as this mob looked at that hated black man, whether they saw any inherent beauty in him. In the midst of their sheer psychopathic rage and twisted passions, did they stop for a short minute and just admire the absolute aesthetic splendor of this singular black man? Or, did they see only a primitive, depraved creature that was intrinsically worthy of the most heinous form of persecution and dying?

With my heart now pounding, I suddenly opened my eyes. Nothing had changed.

On the bed, the dead woman was still there. She was still not moving, still not breathing. Like the rest of her body, her tender foot hadn’t moved a minuscule in hours.

In another foul room, I could hear the slow and methodical drip of a leaky water faucet sharply piercing the thick silence of mortality. It had a rhythm. Soon, I felt my body my mind anticipating the timed precision of each fat drop of water as it crashed into the deep steel sink.

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Outside, I could hear the roar of cars and the bellows of large city buses passing on the street. Not too far away a plane was passing over. In the far distance, I could hear a lonely police siren, wailing in the night darkness.

Finally, I turned my head from this scene that had encaptured me for so long and walked to the front door. It was time to leave. Time to go. There was nothing left here. There was nothing here for me. Maybe, there never was.

Standing at the door for a brief second, I looked back at the foot and then at the entire pile of crumpled sheets. Somewhere under those soiled sheets was a very beautiful and truly lovely, yet lifeless body of a sister I felt that I had once loved.

Well, maybe I just once thought I loved her. I had no real idea what love is. But, that was all irrelevant now.

Turning back, I opened the front door to the motel suite. Feeling the warm summer night breeze tingle on my sticky skin made me suddenly realize that I was still totally nude. For a second, I weakly contemplated going back into the room and putting on my clothing. But, like the beautiful delicate foot I was leaving behind, the clothing that I was leaving behind held no more purpose for me. It didn’t matter anymore. Maybe, it never did.

Stepping into the city darkness, I didn’t even bother to close the door behind me.

I could feel the pavement beneath my feet. It was still warm, having captured and retained heat from the day. It was soothing, somewhat relaxing, and briefly

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reminded me of childhood mornings warming my feet on the black steel furnace vent before leaving for parochial school.

As I began walking down the still busy street, I could hear cars slowing down and shocked people shouting and talking at me from their open windows. I could hear the rude honking of car horns and the stunned gasps of stunned individuals that I passed by on the gritty sidewalks.

I just kept walking, closed my eyes, and kept thinking about her delicate, small, tan foot protruding lifelessly from the ruffled pile of white satin sheets.

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Chapter 2 From the earliest time that I can remember, I’ve had that same eerie recurring dream.

It’s a weird dream, a strange dream.

Now, I realize that it is and was more than a dream.

It was the Anointed Ones speaking to me in my youth.

Still.

I call it a dream.

In a paradoxical way, this dream is frightening and disturbing while being comforting and soothing at the same time.

Personally, I don’t understand it. Then again, understanding is, more or less, a relevant term.

Like a fog that descends on the morning horizon with no logical explanation, this eerie dream just arrives without fanfare or logic.

Without notice or introduction, it just plays silently across the cerebral celluloid screen of my mind late in the night seasons. This dream doesn’t rely on any particular time of year, time of month, or day of week. I just 8

go to sleep one night and this dream plays like a scheduled occurrence.

I always remember this dream, down to the most minute and intimate details. The fact that I can remember this dream so vividly is even more bizarre because I don’t remember my other dreams like I do this one. Out of all my nocturnal visions, only this one is implanted deep within my conscious being.

When this night vision begins, I always find myself standing alone in the living room of the small urbane house where I was raised and where my parents committed suicide. In this house, all the lights are on but there is no motion. It’s as if the entire scene is immobilized as if painted by artist.

Eerily, the house is the same exact one that I grew up in, but then again it’s not. There’s something different, but I just can’t quite put a finger on it. The rooms and walls look the same, the furniture is the same, in fact the way the dim coffee colored light from chandelier falls across the beige colored living room walls just the way it did when I was growing up. Still, it’s different. Yet, I cannot identify what makes it different.

In this dream, I’m just standing there, in center of the living room looking straight at the television. The television is one of those old oak, floor model, black and white televisions that sat on short narrow legs. It’s on but silently showing that black and white bulls eye symbol that television stations used to show all night long after they had no more programming to show.

Turning around in the haunting stillness, I see that the front door is wide open. From where I am standing, I can see that outside it is still

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early evening, when the sky is a combination of dark turquoise and purple, streaked with crimson and orange/red slices of light from the west.

I then walk outside.

Stepping onto the porch, I see that the world outside is frozen in time. There’s absolutely no motion, not even a bird in the sky or a stray dog straggling down the sidewalk. Methodically, as I walk out into the yard and as I look around, I see that this is the same exact block in the ghetto where I grew up on. I see the Browns’ home, the Rawlings’ home, the Kobe home and all the other homes lining this block.

Just like my house, they all look the same as I remembered them from my childhood.

I cannot help but notice that all the tiny box houses, up and down the street, are fully lit inside and their front doors are wide open, making them vulnerable.

It’s not normal. Nothing in this world is.

Then, I realize something.

I am alone.

Totally alone.

And, then another thought enters my mind.

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That I possibly am the only person on earth.

Everyone else is gone Far, far away.

And, they are not coming back.

And I think That maybe Just maybe They never were here.

And possibly.

I have no beginning.

Nor end.

Nor existence And then, I wake up.

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“I am a warrior of the descent. I am a child of Mother Africa, written by destiny into the line of the original man, and into the seed of the gardens of Kush. I am in the direct lineage of the original ones, yet, because of the evil and wicked devices and plans of the European Colonialists, my lineage is at present indirect and interrupted. This is shown in my pigmentation which is less than pure black, inferior to ultimate black, and unlike total blackness which absorbs and consumes all other pigmentations.

This present age is not my own, however I am able exist within this world and without this world at the same time. I am, yet I am not. I am seen of many, but, at the same time, I am seen of none. I move within their midst and cross the plains of their consciousness, yet my movements are beyond their generations and what they seem to think they are conscious of is merely a specter of what I might be.

I speak the language, wear the clothing, and follow the customs of this present world and this present age, yet my seeming assimilation is actually the manifestation of my rebellion to these languages and customs. By appearing to integrate into them as they integrate into me, I am actually segregating myself from them and they from me. They are not my own, but I must appear to make them my own until the glorious day of the final descent when the oracles are realized. I am symbolic of my reality and, at the same time, the realization of that which I symbolize. I am the thesis and antithesis of myself. My contradictions of self are actually my affirmations of self. I complete myself while, at the same time, I am keeping myself incomplete. For in my incompleteness is my hunger, and my drive, and my strength. Without it, I will not be prepared for the final vanquishing of the European Colonialists and the ascension of Mother Africa back unto her throne of grace and power.”

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After I finished praying, I opened my eyes.

The seventh chapter and third verse of my descent commenced at Leonard Vite’s fall opening.

It was a warm evening in the early fall.

Leonard Vite’s fall opening was very nice. An upcoming and talented black artist, Vite had secured an elusive month at the coveted Lexington Gallery For Emerging Artists. Lexington was a very uptown minimalist styled gallery in the northern tip of downtown Kansas City. Earlier, this autumn afternoon, I had left work precisely at 3:30, stopped at Accent’s for a quick bite to eat, paid my long overdue cable bill, got my hair trimmed and the oil changed on my car, stopped for half a bottle of vodka, and then went to the opening.

In a way, I really didn’t want to be here. It reminded me of the fact that I didn’t have as much going on in my life as I wished I had. To have nothing else to do but to wander aimlessly into an art exhibit could be construed as evidence that one has an insignificant life. Even those of the descent struggled with feelings of insignificance, inferiority, and meaninglessness. These feelings were a natural derivative of the social and cultural rape of the seminal forces which created the struggle and the need for the descending ones in the first place. They could not be avoided, not by those who had truly allowed themselves to be in the calling. Yet, once embraced, these feelings would led one to a more open vulnerability of self and a greater comprehension of how to overcame challenges and adversarial forces which would challenge the descent.

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However once there, I felt at ease and began weaving through the dense and eclectic crowd, taking in the sheer splendor of Vite’s large and luscious, velvety oil paintings.

Near the front entrance, I carefully navigated my way through a dense crowd of what appeared to be a large contingent of archaic wealthy original collectors dressed in costly thick woolen slacks and dated plaid smoking jackets. Many of them were accompanied by thin, wrinkled, and tanned older white women in their dull pastel colored pant suits and dresses. Mumbling quietly amongst themselves, they were lustily gazing on Vite’s works and seemingly deciding whether they seemed to be worthwhile investments.

It was in the midst of this group that I nearly collided with one heavily inebriated man as he struggled to balance three full glasses of burgundy champagne in his sweaty hands while attempting to read the tiny place card next to a particularly lush painting. For a moment, his eyes locked into mine and I felt as if he were insulted at my very presence. Maybe, he was one of those privileged and culturally existentialist ones who felt their very being was somehow above and beyond tolerating the presence of one such as myself. He turned away quickly and nervously, mumbling a barely coherent apology.

No sooner than I extricated myself from this group than I found myself in the midst of what appeared to be the local art student crowd. Many of them looked like they had just rolled out of bed and staggered into the opening. With their 14

wrinkled, stained, and faded old jeans, week old face stubble, and terribly unkempt clothing that looked as it had been stolen from the local charity donation box they seemed mix seamlessly into the crowd. As I passed through them, I couldn’t help but notice that some were even emanating the somewhat faint but clearly distinguishable smell of cheap beer and even cheaper marijuana.

As I made my way through the crowd, I kept my eyes and ears peaked for gathering intelligence.

One of the first things that the Anointed Ones revealed unto me was that there are no neutral parties in this great battle. All individuals are either aligned with the descent or with the European Colonialists. There are no fence straddlers or any other uncommitted or partially committed parties. All human beings are either fighting for the revolution or against it.

The Anointed Ones also revealed to me that all conversations, regardless of how common and trivial they may seem to be, are discussing either how to support the revolution or the stop it. Whether the talk seemed to be about sports, finance, current events, or even sex, all words that proceeded from the brains and hearts of men and women were designed to either support of destroy the descent.

As a result, I had mastered the art of thinking and talking in parallel realities.

Within the kernel of my mind, I was ever conscious of my calling as a soldier and operative of the descent. However, I cloaked this consciousness in an external appearance of words and actions designed to fit into the schemes of European Colonialists and work within context of the plans of the descent.

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These two realities existed and worked within me like trains running in opposite directions on parallel train tracks, yet keeping pace one with the other.

All the while, I would be listening, gathering, and committing conversations to memory. At night, in my apartment, the Anointed Ones would enter through the walls and I would brief them on my intelligence gathering that day. For hours, we would drink Vodka and discuss what faces I had seen and what conversations I had participated in. We would compare key phrases and linguistic patterns and distinguish those who were on our side against those who were not.

In regards to gathering intelligence, tonight was no different. As I worked my way through the exhibit, I listened closely and committed faces to memory. All individuals here were either an enemy or an ally. It was imperative that I be able to distinguish one from the other as we prepared for the great day of final warfare.

In any event, the focus of this event, Vite’s works themselves, were peculiarly interesting and visually provocative. They were very large and breathtakingly beautiful, Rembrandt-style oil paintings of African American slaves. I had never thought of hanging a painting of a slave on my empty walls of my low end apartment until I beheld Leonard’s dazzling work. But, with their rich and deep skin tones, piercing stares with spaciously open eyes and backgrounds plush with layers of glazed deep purples, scarlet, and royal blue, Leonard’s vast paintings were impossibly hard to resist. I found myself closing my eyes and imagining how one of these paintings would appear as it hung in my living room.

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Of course, there was the always-present money factor. On a meager teacher’s salary, owning a $25,000 oil painting was nothing more than a farfetched fantasy to me. Even Vite’s glossy, signed and serial numbered prints at $1500 each were way beyond my limited financial reach. The best I could hope to do was to buy a cheap black aluminum frame at Frame City and carefully frame one of the color photographs that appeared in the free guide they were handing out. That would have to do. It would be tacky and classless, but it would be my only option.

Still, being here was something to do on an otherwise lonely Friday night. It sure beat the hell out of sitting at home watching boring and redundant cable television or dropping in on my lonely, older, divorced sister and her four badass kids.

Navigating through this crowd was a much more relaxing endeavor than dealing with their screaming, fussing, fighting, and loud talking.

She existed. Mother Africa.

The first thing I noticed about her was her large, spacious, thick, and vulumptous backside that shifted and swayed lazily from side to side when she walked, causing the shingled bottom of her knee length dress to swing slothfully like the free hanging sash on a window dressing. When she stopped moving and began looking at another painting, the velvety dress continued to sway for a brief second as if the add an emphatic exclamation point to her very steps.

She was a large and busty caramel colored woman and her portly body was thickly rounded and yet deliciously inviting. In this midst of this dense crowd, her body 17

announced itself and screamed to me of lingering, steamy, infinite nights where mounds of sweat salty flesh converged and enmeshed themselves into labyrinths of caramel arms, chocolate legs, mocha breasts, cappuccino buttocks, and syrupy lips dripping with the salty juices of her most intimate places.

Immediately, I was enamored by her every step and taken in by her every move.

The crowds around me vanished into mental oblivion, their comments and conversation reduced to a barely audible din of irrelevant static. My eyes, my ears, my senses were focused on this one individual.

She was walking from one large painting to another and that brown suede dress continued to cascaded off her ample behind and still continued to swing back and forth like the sweeping branches of an old magnolia tree caught in the clutches of a warm Louisiana breeze. I was briefly raptured and found myself emotionally salivating at the sight of her buttocks as they arched up and inwards into a thick, rolled waist and out into a large back that flowed out into two thick arms.

For a moment, she had one arm behind her back and I noticed how her shiny, golden fingernails were seemingly painted to match her dress. They glittered, they glowed. They meshed into her dress and somehow out from it, becoming an extension of her clothing.

I watched her for a few minutes and then I reached in my jacket pocket for the fifth of gin that I was carrying with me, close to my breast. After taking a quick, discreet swig and grimacing as the acidic gin burned it’s way down my throat and 18

into my alcohol scarred stomach, I scuttled the bottle back into my jacket and continued watched this woman as she made her way to still another painting.

Once again, her dense, large, and sinewy legs moved like two thick caramel pistons pounding away in a Texas petroleum well. Her walk and her gait was like that of some kind of Paris runway model, her back unbent and her hips making deliberate confident strides.

She stopped and stood in front of a ten foot high painting of a dark black nude male slave standing regally with a golden, ornate scepter and lusciously jeweled crown sitting on his head. For a moment, she stood there with one delicate hand on her jutting hip and the other holding her chin.

I couldn’t help but notice that there was something very sassy but quite introspective about this big, beautiful black woman. I believed she was a deep thinking woman because of the way she stopped and slowly pondered each artwork as if she were some kind of French chef tasting and appreciating every miniscule flavor comprising a fine dish. Something in this woman cried out about confidence, fearlessness, and strength that oozed from her every poor with every stride that she took.

Like some kind of sick and lecherous old man watching half dressed young girls from his front porch, I found myself steadily becoming more and more fixated on this woman.

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The voices of the descent spoke to me and it dawned on me that this woman was Mother Africa in the flesh. This was the one spoken of by the prophets and told of by the oracles. She was here, in my city, and in my presence. Of course she had a name that all inhabitants of this level would call her by. But, I was convinced that Mother Africa was undeniably her identity. That is what was whispered in dark corners and in hushed voices. That would be her title to me. That is what she would be known as. She was Mother Africa – keeper of the womb from which all races sprung, here in my very presence. Feared, reviled, rejected, and insulted for her abundance of physical riches, her jealous and exploitative enemies would reject her while attempting to steal from her the very seed of her womb.

Her body was a land of wide and open plains, flaring and spacious hills, and deep caves whose very walls were emanating with precious gold, jewels, and diamonds.

Thick sticky sap seeped from her pores and costly perfumed oils ran through her veins. Her abdomen must be large and spacious for it had to carry within it the very seed of the tongues of the earth and her breasts must likewise be sizeable in order to nurse the sons and daughters of the generations of men. This woman had to be of size, for she was Mother Africa. It was her purpose and her destiny. Her unique beauty was captured in her size and radiated out unto the nations.

It was in this moment of enlightenment that I realized the true nature of her pigmentation. Within the core of my descending consciousness, I realized that while this woman appeared to be wrapped in caramel colored skin, her true skin color was the purest and darkest of blacks. She was of the original ones and her coloration was that from which all other colors in existence evolved from and assimilated into. The blackness in which she was wrapped was darker, purer, and 20

more absorbing that any black skin seen on this side of the great ocean. Those who beheld her should have dropped to their knees and acknowledge that she was the great tree of chromosomal material and they were merely inferior branches carrying within them diluted tributaries of what she was.

The day would come and all would know. Right now, I knew and I’m sure others here knew. Those of the descent are in all places, they just keep their identities hidden until the proper time comes.

As I looked upon this woman, I knew that my descent would lead me to her, through her, and beyond her and into the very boundaries of Mother Africa itself into the next level of my origin and existence. Mother Africa was the very threshold of omniscience itself and in order to walk through the pillars of purpose, I had to cross this threshold.

For a moment, I thought of those who dared to steal from her the very identity of her purpose. I thought of those who dared to steal the jutted formation of her lips, the wide curvature of her thighs, the vast fullness of her breasts, and of course, the brownness of her skin. How dare they attempt to play the part of gods and steal the identity of the purpose of the first one? And, in this moment, I understood why the earth was shattered and rocked with violence and murder and mayhem. It was because it’s inhabitants, in rejecting Mother Africa had also attempted to create in themselves a clandestine graven image of her. These twisted and deranged syphocants of folly were bringing the very rain of destruction down upon them and the earth.

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I wanted to go home to Mother Africa, to fall into her lush jungles and run across her wide plains. I wanted to abide within her fullness and richness and partake of her bounty. For within Mother Africa, and only within her, could my descent continue.

I wondered what it would be like to open the buttons on Mother Africa’s brown suede coatdress one by one, licking and sucking her newly exposed flesh with each step. I wondered if Mother Africa wore black lace underwear and what it would taste like to remove her slip, her bra, and her panties with my tongue. I wondered how much of me it would take to fill her up and bring her to the place where the insides of her thighs would quiver, where the small of her back would arch, and where her very insides would tighten up like a vise and then release with such intensity that she would have no recourse but to moan and dig her fingernails deep into my back.

Turning the other way, I reached into my jacket pocket and slipped out my halfempty bottle of gin. Despite the fact that my gut was scorching as if someone had poured lit gasoline down my throat, I was time for another drink.

One of the first things the anointed ones had revealed to me was that the drink of enlightenment and cultural knowledge was commonly known as alcohol. Without partaking of it liberally, one could not and would not be able to acknowledge, nor understand, the sacred oracles of the descending process. It was imperative to me that I consumed this drink on a regular and constant basis. So, I did. I drank a lot.

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The trash can in my home stayed full with empty cans and bottles that once held this sacred drink. When I didn’t drink it, my abilities to discern the knowledge of the descent wavered and weakened. So, I put forth my best efforts and consuming it constantly.

As time went on, I was learning that certain pills and tablets would enhance this consciousness that I needed. When combined with the drink of enlightenment, I would be able battle back the demons of conventional knowledge and consciousness and remain more aware of the true warfare that was being raged.

My eyes would be opened, my ears would be unstopped, and in some rare cases…my tongue would be loosened and I could speak freely of the descent. Of course, I had to practice discretion. There were enemies all around.

No sooner than I lifted the drink to my lips then I heard a soft, delicate voice that rang of experience delineated by the courtesy of childlike innocence.

“Can I have a taste?” the voice sweetly asked. It was her. She was now standing her next to me. I was clearly caught off guard and couldn’t even start to drink.

Quickly, as if I were a fifteen year old boy caught peeping a girlie magazine by his Victorianistic mother, I jerked the bottle down from my mouth nearly throwing it to the floor.

“Uhhhhhh…sure.” I responded.

Leaning forward on one leg, swinging a brown leather purse over her shoulder, and planting one hand on her hip, she confidently reached forward with the other hand and self-assuredly took the clear glass bottle from my hand. Without any

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vacillation or discomfiture, she tilted it way up and took a deep long drink, closing her eyes as if to focus on what she were doing.

She had a somewhat innocent and inquisitive looking round face. Her large round eyes were comprised of black pupils drenched in oceans of gleaming copper retinas deep set above a soft, wide, rounded nose. Her mouth was wide and pouting with jutting rosy lips and cheeks that were almost squirrel-like in their fullness. She had on very little makeup, she didn’t need it. Her caramel skin was nearly flawless, deep and rich. A small hoop earring hung on each ear.

“The cheap stuff.” She said, handing it back. “Yeah, cheap stuff.”, I replied, taking a swig before putting it back in my pocket.

“Nice shoes.” She said, cocking her head back and looking down at my feet. I looked down. In the haze of enhanced consciousness in which I had gotten dressed, I had put on one brown shoe and one black shoe. In fact, one was a slip on and one had shoestrings. I blinked my eyes and then looked again. Yes, it was true.

There was one brown slip on shoe and one black laced shoe.

I just stood there for a second and shook my head, laughing to myself. This was a hell of a first impression. To those unknowing of the truth, I was probably coming off as an alcoholic and a man who couldn’t even dress himself.

“Here, take one of these.” she said.

I looked up. In her upturned palm, she held a shining tin open with some large and powdery, white breath mints. I had been drinking steadily of enlightenment since I had left work several hours before. I knew I needed the mints. Without a word, I grabbed a few and tossed them into my mouth.

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They were cooling and refreshing. I decided I might as well introduce myself. “My name is Robert Washington”.

“Mya”, she responded, “Mya Jenkins.”

“Mya, Are you enjoying the art exhibit?” I called her by her earthly in order to move inconspicuously among the beings of the land. “Yes, Mr. Robert, and you?”

“It’s fine, it’s aight…”

“So, Mya, do you normally ask strangers to share their drink with you?”

“Well, that depends.” “Depends on what?”

“Usually, it depends on whether or not I want to taste what they are drinking. Then again, they can just seem to be an interesting person and I may ask even if I already know that I don’t like what they’re drinking. But, asking for a taste of someone’s drink usually breaks the ice.”

Of course, I knew that Mother Africa was speaking to me in symbolic terms. I engaged discussion with her knowing that, while her words seemed to center of earthly affairs, she was speaking clearly of the descent. My purpose, at this point in time, was to reciprocate the conversation and whatever else came from it until the time came for the realization of these things.

“Yeah, I guess that makes some kind of sense”. I replied. ”Of course it makes sense. If not, I wouldn’t do it. Plus you were over here acting like you were trying to hide your bottle or something. Turning all around and 25

bending over to take a drink. So, I decided that I had no choice but to come over here and mess with you.”

“Mess with me? Just picked a brother out of the crowd and decided to play with his head, huh?”

“Well, not any brother. But, I figured a man with one black shoe and one brown shoe should be would be fun to play with. Besides, you’d had your eyes glued to my ass for the last twenty minutes, so I decided to meet the man who fell in love with my ass. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t say no!”

“Does anyone ever say ‘no’ when you ask them for a drink?” ”Did you say ‘no’, Robert?”

I just started laughing. There wasn’t too much else I could say to that. I felt my cheeks getting warmer than the gin had already made them. Mother Africa tenderly poked my left cheek with one finger.

“Don’t start blushing now. You’re too old for that. So, Mr. Robert. Let’s see here.

One. You drink a lot but you don’t spend a ton of money on alcohol. In fact, you spend too little on your drink. Two. You own some nice shoes but you don’t match your them. In fact, you don’t polish them very often. And Three. You love to stare at big asses. Now, that we’ve established that…is there anything else about you that made it worth my while to come over here?”

“Not sure. It seems like you already know everything there is to know about me!”, I laughed.

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Buried deep Within the shifting red silt Of the angry nile But still not yet Rising From the red clay banks Of the languid thebes It’s not quite Like An archaic chariot wheel that would turn but it is Still remaining As a relic For pharoh’s specacular fall Until a singular Black man Formed in the image Of many Others But yet finds himself Laying Prostate in the 27

roach infested filth Of the Far bottom recesses Of an abandoned underground garage Struggling In a pool of dried oil While nursing baby rats crawl about his feet he still struggles To pull his Torn and ripped Slacks Back up From below his Dusty and scarred Aching Knees He is feeling Feeling the drops of the Warm blood As it is Dripping from his crushed Fingers Realizing that he is Violated 28

And yet Emasculated But still a man While In the far corners A single ghostly Ivory apparition Meshes quickly into The cement Floor And vanishes So then finally One teardrop Rolled From his cheek And he realized That was all He had left

Without a word, Mother Africa firmly grabbed the back of my arm and we began to slowly walk through the exhibit, turning sideways and slithering through the thickening crowds like gleaming serpents slinking through the thick, congested 29

foliage on the floor of the Amazon. At each painting, we paused momentarily and looked at it. Mother Africa read the title and first few lines from the place cards to me.

“So, Mya. Do you work here? Do you like art? You seemed pretty deep in it all when I first saw you.” I asked.

“How could you tell if I was deep in the art? If I recall, your eyes were planted dead on my booty from the first time you saw me.” Mother Africa chuckled “Really, coming out tonight was just something to do. Something to get out and see.”

“Nothing else to do on a Friday night? For a sister as fine as you? I’m sure you got plenty of brothers just dying to take you out.”

“Yeah..right. Robert, you can cut the ‘fine sister’ thing. It don’t work with me.

Now, as far as brothers…I can’t remember the last time a man actually asked me out on a date.”

“So, where you hanging out? The gay club?”

“Robert, you’re a man and you know that most brothers today just don’t believe in asking sisters out. Either they come at you straight asking for sex or they just trying to get into your head so they can add you to their personal groupie list. Too many games, too much crap, too many lies. People just don’t come out and be honest about what they want.”

30

“A groupie list? Isn’t that kind of rough? I don’t know brothers like that. I don’t think I know a single man with a groupie list.”

“Well, maybe we just run in different circles. But, most brothers I have come across just don’t seem to have any respect for the honesty, truthfulness, and women either. They know that they can get what they want without treating a woman with any respect so they just don’t have none for women. And, I don’t deal with disrespectful brothers. So, I am alone.”

“So, Mya…would you like to go out for coffee or something?”

“Are you asking me out on for coffee? Or do you just want to see what my ass looks like when I don’t have any clothes on?”

“So, Mya, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a Nurse. I’ve been a registered nurse for about seven years. Last year, I became a head nurse on my unit.”

“That’s great. My sister is a nurse. She got her training at the community college after working at the automobile factory for about twelve years. She said she likes it. Nursing, that is.”

“She left the auto plant? My dad retired from down there. It pays good don’t it? I know some brothers who work down there, and a few sisters too.”

31

Maybe she comes from that place Where The scorching sands of an African desert Meet and talk with The lush foliage of forbidden Edens This place A place Where I could drop to My weary knees Amidst the peaceful carcasses And crying skeletons Of forsaken slaves and forgotten mammies and And open my arms Unto the skies And my mouth Unto the heavens And welcome The teardrops of The gods Mingled with The sweat 32

Of sinners Somewhere A shining pool of warm blood Is forming on A dirty cold brick sidewalk It wants to permeate To enter within But it can’t Maybe This is the place She is from “Yeah, it pays well but the work can get very tiring and boring from what I heard.

It’s also hard on the body. My sister was starting to have all sorts of knee and back problems from the assembly line.”

“Wow. My father didn’t have any of them problems but my older brother works at an assembly plant in Michigan and he’s having all sorts of shoulder problems.

He used to have to hold a rivet gun, I think that’s what he called it, on his shoulder all day long. Now, he has hard time just playing catch with his sons. I don’t think it’s worth it for him.”

“So, what kind of nursing do you do?” “I’m a Psychiatric Nurse.”.

“You’re a Psychiatric Nurse? Man, that must be real interesting.” “Sometimes it gets really crazy. We get criminally insane people up there and everything.

33

Remember that woman last year who killed her kids, cut them open, and baked their intestines? She’s on my unit.” “Yeah, I remember that woman. Saw her on the news. She looked crazy all right.”

Yes, the Mary Size case. She lived off of Independence Avenue. Crazy looking woman. I saw her on the evening news. Mary Size had tortured her twin daughters with extension cords, hot irons, belts, and switches. She kept them home from school, starved them, beat them, and even made them stand naked in the bitter night cold. Finally, in one moment of pure madness, she sliced open her children like ripened pigs, baked their intestines in the oven, and made a pie. She even served them to her unknowing neighbors. I remembered seeing that wild look on her face as she sat there in court. The European Colonialists had gotten to her, like they had gotten to most of us of the darker skin. Their evil ways of destruction and carnage were now infiltrated into our very communities. Truly, if there ever was a case for the descent, it was Mary Size.

“Are you crazy? You know, from being around all them crazy folks? Doesn’t that rub off on you all?” I laughed as I asked. “Not yet! Sometimes, I want to get crazy on them but I can’t.” Mother Africa chuckled as she responded. She sounded as if she was used to hearing snide remarks and wisecracks about her employment as a psychiatric nurse.

“So…do you like it? Being a nurse that is. Seems like it would be a high stress occupation. Especially in your area of speciality.” “It pays the bills. If I work nights, I can get make more money. Something called a night differential. Can make enough extra to cover a car payment or even a month of rent, if you still 34

rent.” “So, Mya, Do you plan on doing nursing for a long time?” “I’m not really sure about that. Some days I’m at work and I feel I can do this for the rest of my life and some days I can’t stand it, go home, get on the internet and start trying to find another career.” “I feel the same way about teaching. Some days, I feel it’s the greatest thing in the world and then on other days…” Mother Africa confidently reached around me and deep into my inside jacket pocket and took out my bottle of gin. She took a long sip of it and then handed it back to me. I also took a sip, though not as long as hers, and put I back in my pocket. I felt the weight of the bottle. It was getting light. Almost time for another one.

“I may go back and get a doctorate and teach nursing. The University of Missouri has a very nice doctorate of nursing program. Depending on how it goes, I might get my employer to pain the lion’s share of the tuition.” “That sounds interesting. I wonder if a doctorate in nursing is hard to get. It seems like it could be complicated. Doing a dissertation and clinical stuff too.”

“I don’t know. I imagine it would be. There’s a lot of memorization when it comes to getting an nursing degree, bones and muscles, conditions and symptoms. Medical jargon. Someone told me that a doctorate in nursing isn’t too far from a medical degree. I may find out soon.” “Sooo…Robert, what do you do for a living?”

“I teach school. I’ve been doing it for a minute?” “Teaching? No wonder you drink so much. Do you teach kindergarten? Are you one of those big mean kindergarten teachers?” I laughed. I couldn’t myself, teaching kindergarten.

“Naw, I teach high school.”

“That’s just as bad. I know I couldn’t do it. Where do you teach at?” ”I teach at Madison High school down there on Abernathy Street.”

“Madison High? I know Madison. My youngest niece goes there.”

35

“What’s her name? I may have had her in one of my classes.”

“Her name is Renita L. Ericks” “Renita Ericks? I think I know her. Tall, thick glasses, varsity cheerleader?

Never had in her in class but I know who she is.” “Yeah. That’s her fast ass.

Tall, thick, likes to run around in skirts that are too short and with boys that are too bad.”

“I know Renita..” “uh huh. She got a big mouth, don’t know when to keep it shut?”

“Well, I didn’t want to go there, but she is a little loud.” “A little loud? She ain’t got no sense. That’s my niece. We all know how she is and we’re sure you do too.” “How long you been teaching?”

“Eight years. This is my eighth year. Been doing it eight years too long.

Thinking of doing something else soon.” “So, Robert. What’s a bad day as a teacher? What’s a day that makes you want to just quit and do something else?”

“Well, I don’t have any classroom management issues. Not anymore. Not like I did when I first started. Tried to be a nice guy but that didn’t last long. I had to put my foot up their butts for them to learn how to show some respect. Hmmm. For me a bad day is when I just can’t convince a student, especially a brilliant one, to take their education seriously. And, that seems to be a constant thing.”

“Really? So motivation is more of a problem than behavior? I believe that. kids today just aren’t motivated to work hard in school. Not when they can make the same amount of money without a good education.” For a moment, we stood in silence, looking at one of Vite’s more interesting paintings. In this one, a slave was dressed in a purple garment and reclining on what looked like some kind of exquisite couch. A white man who appeared to be a slaveowner was hand-feeding 36

him grapes. I looked down and behind me and noticed three sets of very muddy footprints leading from where we were standing across the gallery floor. Noone else seemed to notice these footprints. In fact, other people were stepping into them. Interestingly, the mud didn’t track.

I looked across the gallery to see where this prints led and my eyes rested on three men who were literally covered with mud staring at a painting that looked like it didn’t belong in this gallery. In fact, when Mother Africa and I had walked past that area a several minutes earlier, the painting wasn’t there. Maybe, the Anointed Ones had brought it as a contribution for the show.

The painting they were looking at, unlike the others hanging here, was some kind of linear abstract. It consisted of a large black canvas with a series of white and red lines slashing across it. It appeared that the artist had used very fluid paint because the lines sagged, dripped, and ran on the canvas. Looking down on the floor, I saw that some of the paint had dripped onto the hardwood.

The three men slowly turned around and I recognized them from the night journeys. Their names were James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner.

One night, they had met with the Anointed Ones and I was allowed to sit in on the meeting. I couldn’t recall what they had discussed but I knew it was grave importance. At that meeting, just like tonight, they were covered with mud mingled with dried blood. I couldn’t remember a time when I had seen them and they weren’t covered with mud and blood. For a brief moment, their eyes met mine and I could see a twinkling glimmer in their pupils. I wanted to go over and speak with them but I remembered that, in the best interests of the descent, we had to be discreet about addressing each other in public. They turned back to the 37

abstract painting and continued looking at it. Suddenly, Mother Africa took my arm and began guiding me towards another painting. I looked at her to see if she had seen Schwerner, Goodman, and Chaney. Apparently, she hadn’t or she chose not to mention it. When I turned back, they had left. In fact, the muddy footprints and the abstract painting were gone also. The Anointed Ones must have called them to an important meeting. Some people in the descent have very little time for to enjoy things such as art exhibits. ”So, Mr. Robert, do you plan on going back to school? For another degree or to study something else?” Mother Africa broke the silence.

“Hell no, I ain’t never going back. Well, I take that back. I’m not going back to get another education degree. They’re worthless outside of education. You can’t do anything with them in the business world. We got a ton of teachers with Master’s degrees in curriculum, instruction, teaching and all that other stuff that have found out that they are worthless outside of the education profession. Not putting another dime into that.” “That’s good to know in advance. I bet those people who spent all that money on those degrees wish they had known in advance what you are telling me.”

“Well, that’s the whole thing about teaching. The ads and posters talk about changing lives and making a difference but it’s like joining the mob. Once you get it too deep, you can’t get out. You’re too old to start over, your education isn’t worth anything anywhere else, and the pay just isn’t there..”

“I know that teachers don’t get paid very well. Some of my girlfriends teach and they talk about that all the time. Even with the summers off it’s still not good pay.”

38

“Exactly. And, it’s not like we get paid for the summers. We just get out pay for the school year spread out so that we keep getting a check during the summer. I don’t know. I just don’t seem myself doing this for the rest of my life.”

“Maybe you should have another drink, Robert.” I reached in and pulled out my now quarter full bottle of gin. After taking a few swigs, I handed it to Mother Africa and she tipped it up and finished it off. She stepped forwards, toward the wall next to painting and sat the empty bottle down on the hardwood floor. It looked like it belonged there.

“Why did you do that?” I asked after Mother Africa came back over to me.

“Now, you have to go out with me so I can buy you a drink.” I laughed.

“788 is right around the corner. Happy hour is over so there’s not a lot of people there. I can buy you all the gin you want, or can handle.”

Mother Africa continued.

“Well, I’m not going to turn down some drink, especially considering the fact that you drank all of mine.”

As Mother Africa and I left the gallery and headed towards 788, I thought I heard a large, ear shattering scream somewhere in the gallery. My head shot back, only to realize this sound was for my ears only.

39

Chapter 3 With a primal scream (And the shattering sound Of light released From the captivity Of light itself) And with it The angel descended from the heavens To a peaceful place Somewhere between Land and sky And this angel was Looking To and fro and Riveting it’s fiery eyes upon the inhabitants below this angel spread it’s wide wings and began opening 40

it’s cavernous mouth to receive the fruits of liberation the slaves were in the fields and they raised their shackles in deliverance and opened their mouth in praise as the iron tools of bondage that once constrained them opened up much like this angel’s mouth and fell to the earth around them the slaveowners were entrenched in fear and they fled the fields with their voices 41

wailing of horrors and terrors that were not yet to come but still yet had already come but still yet would not come the wives of the slave owners looked upon this scene with curiosity and intrigue and they walked down from their habitations as they walked they were stripping themselves naked and upon arriving 42

to the fields they laid prostate and open like a ripe harvest before these freed slaves “take us” these women entreated “mingle with our bodies” these women begged “release yourselves into and within us” they prayed “let us become one with you so that we will not be destroyed” they cried And these Newly freed men Turned to these women The wives Of their oppressors The companions of 43

Their tyrannizers And they Went unto them And laid with them And unto them And became one inside them before long The time came for the rising And the angel above Opened it’s hands And mouth To receive The souls of The liberated

But There were none There were no righteous ones There were no souls To be reaped 44

And the angel Gave out A reverberating groan Of a thousand wild boars That echoed across the fields And the commingled bodies Of the freed slaves And the wives Of their masters then The angel ascended back Into the heavens (And the light Gathered itself And returned unto The boundaries of light itself) the slave owners also returned with swords and daggers and

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knives and guns and in the name of liberating their wives from the bondage of the slaves these slave owners slew all the slaves that had laid with their wives they slew them all and they took their wives unto themselves and returned to their habitations Habuk was the name given unto the original one

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in whose line I have descended.

Habuk was a large, muscular, strong, courageous, and intelligent original one who ascended from the West Coast of Africa. A warrior and a hunter, Habuk had single handedly overthrown entire empires and destroyed entire packs of ravenous lions and other predators. His name was legendary and word of his exploits shook the very foundations of civilizations, even up to the cities of the European Colonialists. They spoke his name in hushed tones of fear and respect, lest he find out and destroy them all.

When the European Colonialists came to Africa, they captured Habuk only after expending great force and energy. It took dozens of Colonialists to subdue Habuk.

And, when they did subdue Habuk, it was just barely. Habuk was tied in multitudes of ropes and scores of nets and dragged onto the ship.

When Habuk was brought across the great sea, he was strapped to the top of a wooden slave galley ship for the entire trip. The Colonialists deeply feared to bring him below the decks, lest Habuk burst forth and break the ship in half or lead a revolt amongst the other captives.

Afterwards, Habuk was brought to this place of darkness and sold in Maryland.

Habuk fetched the highest price ever paid for a slave. Recognizing his value, worth, and strength, a wealthy plantation owner from Georgia paid over hundreds of millions of dollars for him. In fact, Habuk was purchased for so much money, 47

the recording clerk refused to list his sale in any official documents, lest a riot ensue.

Habuk’s befuddled owners were unable to dominate him or even make him the least bit subservient. Habuk refused to follow their demeaning orders and simply would not adhere to their emasculating requests. It wasn’t long before they began to fear Habuk, his power, and sought to destroy him.

Habuk was scourged severely and viciously whipped, but his massive back would not rip and break open in the least when he was beaten. The Colonialists even attempted to castrate and dismember Habuk, but their inferior tools of hate would break into pieces against his mighty black skin. Once, the Colonialists even tried to hang Habuk from a cypress tree but after letting him dangle for seven days, they angrily cut him down, realizing that he would simply not die.

Finally, they sent Habuk back to Africa, where he belonged and would remain.

Habuk was scuttled in the darkness of the night from the plantation onto an empty slave ship and set free. He wasn’t given food or water. He didn’t need it. Upon returning to West Africa, Habuk lived out the rest of his days as a warrior and a hunter.

Habuk was desired by many woman. They lusted for him and dreamt of him as they slept. Before he left, Habuk had sired many children both by slaves and by the daughters of slavemasters. His lineage lives today. I am in that lineage of Habuk.

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I was recounting this to a man at the liquor store one night. He asked me how did I know all this.

I replied “The Anointed Ones revealed it to me.”

The man just walked away. I prayed for his lost soul.

Mother Africa had a really nice tan colored bungalow just west of Prospect Avenue. With it’s gently sloping dark brown shingled roof, cappuccino shutters, and dark chocolate trim, Mother Africa’s place looked a lot like an urban gingerbread cottage.

Mother Africa had planted nice, waist high, thick evergreen shrubbery around the perimeter of the small but tidy front yard. In the frontage, it had a small opening that led in to a winding red brick sidewalk that curved from up to her front porch.

It was up this winding red brick sidewalk that Mother Africa had led me along the night before.

Inside, Mother Africa’s place was comfortable, inviting, and very eclectic looking.

The walls looked like they were constructed from some kind of dark, rugged timber and were decorated with a miscellaneous assortment of round African masks, old black and white pictures of long since deceased black folks, and some more contemporary framed pictures of family and friends.

49

Overhead, the ceiling was of exposed dark timber beams superimposed against a cream colored background. It looked like something out of cabin or someone’s recreation room or den.

Mother Africa’s had one of those homes with a wide but narrow living rooms that extended the across width of the house. On the rear left, there was an arched doorway leading into the kitchen and on the rear right, another arched doorway led into her bedroom.

In this living room, Mother Africa’s furniture was as eclectic as her walls. She had a large black leather sofa that was partially covered with what looked like a an old historic Negro quilt, a few sloping recliners that appeared to be made of some kind of woven bamboo, and a large upright chair with a tall back that looked like it had been carved from a tree trunk.

The large upright chair was covered with African carvings and engravings and even had a matching ottoman that was clearly a varnished tree trunk covered with similar engravings.

Mother Africa’s coffee table and end tables were made from the same kind of tree trunks and with the same types of carvings. I had never seen any furniture like this before. I didn’t even know that furniture like this was available.

Contrastingly, Mother Africa had a large black ultra-modern television set under the front window in her living room. This piece of technological sophistication 50

provided a stark contrast to the primitive looking chairs and tables that surrounded it.

There were several candles and incense burners adorning Mother Africa’s tables, television, and fireplace. In fact, when I had entered her home the night before, the smell of exotic incense was clearly present in the air. It was sweet, invigorating, and somehow primordial. In fact, it lingered in my nostrils long after I first smelt it.

Now, it was early the next morning, and I was laying in Mother Africa’s plush queen size bed just watching the dusty blades of an unstable brass ceiling fan lazily churn around and around. With each rotation, the base of the ceiling fan rocked back and forth as if it were going to break forth from the beam it was attached to and catapult across the room. When I first noticed it last night, it made me uncomfortable. I was afraid that I’d be on top of Mother Africa, deep inside her and oblivious to the world when this fan would come loose and plunge itself into my back. However, later in the night when Mother Africa was straddling me, I focused my eyes on this fan to keep myself from finishing to fast. Much like the alcohol that I consumed on a constant basis, what at first was my fear became my savior..

As my tired head sank back into the deep pillow, I licked my lips and the inside of my mouth. I could still taste the residue of some of the scotch whiskey and cola, hot wings, and Mother Africa’s intimate juices that had overflowed from my mouth the night before. It was faint, but still present. These flavors all seemed to 51

mesh together in my mouth into some kind of tart-sweet deposit that felt as if it were adhered like cellophane to the interior of my mouth.

Turning my head into the pillow, I could detect the lingering scent of Mother Africa’s sweet lotion, incense, sweat, and even what seemed to be another man’s aftershave commingling with it and creeping into my nostrils. I wasn’t the least bit surprised nor was I offended. Last night, when Mother Africa and I were making love, I had clearly seen another man’s watch and cufflinks next to the burgundy cordless phone on the brass and glass nightstand next to her bed. I remembered that one of the Congo visionaries had told me that the gifts of Mother Africa are for the embodiment of the world.

After thinking about this for a second, I raised my head up and looked over at the nightstand. The watch and cufflinks were gone. Maybe, Mother Africa thought I might be a thief and would pocket it while she was in the kitchen making some coffee. But, more than likely, she had noticed it out there and simply chosen to drop it conveniently into a drawer.

It was several minutes later and Mother Africa was still in the kitchen making some coffee. Over the sound of some soft r&b wafting in from the living room, I could hear her shuffling feet tinkering around in the kitchen and the unmistakable sound of a drip coffee maker.

Sitting up, I looked around her bedroom. It was long but not as long as her living room. At one end, there was a half open walk in closet with those sliding glass 52

doors. Through the opening, I could see crimson, turquoise, lavender, pink, and yellow dresses hanging silkily from padded hangers. On the other end of the room, next to the door, was a large six chest wooden dresser. It looked old, marked, and almost antique and shined as if it had been painted over with some kind of polyurethane mahogany finish.

On top of the dresser were an assortment of perfume bottles, sprays, and what appeared to be a pile of pearl costume jewelry. One of the dressers was half open and I could see some kind of sheer, shiny, turquoise nightgown hanging loosely from it and nearly down to the floor.

Looking straight ahead, I saw a Victorian styled loveseat with a red, green, and black upholstery scheme. The multicolored rectangles, squares, circles, and arcs that composed this scheme gave this loveseat a clearly afrocentric look. Looking closer, I saw that the loveseat was cluttered with various women’s magazines and a few random remote controls.

It was then I noticed the small black television on a planter stand in the corner, next to the walk in closet. On top of it was a distinguished and futuristic looking burgundy portable stereo. Small and compact. Space efficient.

Mother Africa came in from the kitchen with a cup of coffee in her hand. She was wearing a glimmering, short sleeve, mid thigh, silky kimono type robe. It was pink with some kind of Asiatic looking, intricate dark red and white embroidered pattern. Mother Africa was just letting this robe hang wide open, spreading her 53

body out like a luscious buffet comprised of reams of black flesh. I could see from her neck down her breasts, past her naval, and right to her neatly trimmed garden with a butterfly tattoo right above it.

Climbing upon the bed, Mother Africa reached forward and cautiously handed me the still hot coffee with one hand and with the other hand she casually pulled off the single musty sheet covering me from the waist down. As I sat up, she straddled me.

Mother Africa was heavy, well over two hundred pounds and, at first, the weight of her body felt heavy on my abdomen and pelvis. However, there was also something very nurturing and warming about having this large sized woman lay on top of me. There was something almost prenatal and embryonic about feeling the large mass of her warm flesh against mine. I remembered that I had felt that way the night before. There was something deeply comforting, intensely engaging, maternally embracing, and almost spiritually mesmerizing about feeling and tasting her flesh wrap over my own flesh, around my own flesh, and entrench itself unto my flesh. This experience was similar to the warm feelings of crawling into and wrapping myself under some warm flannel sheets during a biting cold winter night. In another way, it was reminiscent of the times in which I would curl up tightly between my mother and the corner of the sofa as she watched her soap operas on the television. In still another sense, it was empowering like the times when I tried on a fancy new suit at the clothing store, even if I knew that I could not afford it. The largeness of her flesh was a heaven to me, an euphoric and atmospheric place where I could be surrounded and assimilated by something 54

organic, warm, and nurturing. The heaviness was just a minor discomfort compared to the feeling of experience of being covered by her.

“Wake up, sleepyhead!”

“Thanks!”

Mother Africa quickly kissed me on the lips. I took a deep long sip of coffee.

“Yep, get rid of that morning breath.”

I laughed.

“Sorry it took so long, I was talking to my friend Renita on the phone.

Well, I should say former friend.”

“Telling her the details? I thought only men did that.”

“Hell no. I would never tell Renita about anything I do. First, I don’t trust her.

Second, our friendship left that level a long time ago. Her choice.”

“Oh ok.”

“Yeah, her and I used to work together, hang. We were tight. You know, did a lot of things together. Party, drink, even stayed down at the Hillcrest Marriott one weekend and just watched movies, talked about men, and ate pizza. Well, a few 55

years ago, Renita met some pretty boy brother that supposedly had a good job, a big house in Johnson County, and all that. And, I, well...I was going through some things at that time and suddenly Renita couldn’t return telephone calls or even half speak if she bothered to answer her phone. I was even in the hospital for a month and the heffa didn’t even bother to call me and ask how I was doing. Some friendship. And she wonders why she has bad karma.”

“I been there with people before. I know how it works.” For a moment, I thought about experiences in my life where people had unreasonably cut off people whom considered them friends. I had it done to me. And, I had done it to others.

I took another sip of the coffee. It had a different taste from most coffees I had drank. It was sort of nutty and with a tinge of what tasted like some kind of bitter herbs.

“Now, it’s a few years later. The nigga left her for another stupid, needy woman and her she is back trying to call me again. She up here trying to find out what I’ve been doing and trying to act like nothing went down with her. But, you know, I try to treat people right and so if someone jerks me over like that, I just don’t go back. It’s over – it’s done. That’s the end. If someone decides they don’t want to know me anymore, to hell with them, they need to make sure because I will always hold them to that.” Mother Africa added as she pushed her tongue against the inside of her mouth, forcing her round, full check to look as if she had a large wad of gum in her mouth. She seemed to be getting irritated.

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“I don’t blame you. When I was younger, I gave people chance after chance after chance. Now, when a person tells me what they are about, I wait until they show me. And, once they show me what they are – I believe them the first time. I just don’t believe in all that opening myself up to people stuff.” I added. I agreed with her. I used to bend over backwards for friends and friendship, but that was a thing of the past. Now, I was on a “one strike” system. If someone dissed me or “got new” on me one time, I didn’t give them another chance. Yeah, some may have considered it harsh, but I felt not a bit of discomfort about approaching life that way.

“Yeah, Robert, I know it sounds mean and nasty but a person has to look out for their own feelings. Hell, if you don’t…who will? After I hung up, I just put her simple as on call block. I mean, what’s the point? I don’t have anything else to say to her. She blew that friendship. You only have to disrespect me one time and I’m done with you. Finitio!”

“If you don’t mind me asking…” I was curious.

“What happened that landed you in the hospital?”

Mother Africa leaned forward and planted her hands on my chest, rolled her eyes around and up as if she were searching the right words to say.

Finally, she found them.

“Well, my first mistake was moving in this ignorant black man who I met when I took my nephew to the barber shop. Well, it wasn’t the barber shop or anything 57

like that. It was this man. I mean, he was tall and nice looking and all that. But he was more like a boy. Thirty two years old and all he wanted to do was sit on the couch, play video games, and talk about how trifling his child’s mother was. He had all this potential and that was all I saw. Potential is not reality. What people could be doesn’t have anything to do with what they are. So, anyway, I moved this fool in thinking that I’m gonna change him and he’s going to be this and that and we’re going to be happy. I mean, the man didn’t even have a job when I met him.

He was living in his mama’s basement and driving his daddy’s car.

Typical trifling negro…”

She cocked her head to one side and looked at me as if she were gauging my reaction. I was trying to sear every word into my memory. I knew there were great lessons and gems of knowledge in what Mother Africa was saying and I didn’t want to lose any of it. Time was fleeting and the fulfillment of all things was near.

“Oh, I see..” I responded before taking another sip of coffee.

“My second mistake was in trying to get skinny for that fool. He claimed that he would love me more and things would be much better between us and he would be more motivated to do better with his life if I did better with my weight. So, I did all these crazy diets, took all those pills. I was taking like fifteen and twenty pills a day. Combining stuff and all that. I wasn’t half eating. I would go three and four days without eating anything. And, I was spending all my money buying all this stuff that was supposed to make me skinny and all that.” Mother Africa continued as she moved her hands from my chest up to my shoulders, pressing her weight against me.

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”I tried some of that stuff, it didn’t do anything for me. So, what happened next?”

“Robert, I had a stroke. I lost about five dress sizes and then suddenly, I had a stroke. I was 26 years old and having a stroke and I fell down one morning in the kitchen and I couldn’t hardly move. I couldn’t even more my left side. The most I could do was to crawl over to the telephone and call 911. They had to break the front door to get in here and help me. I almost died trying to lose weight for that idiot. And he didn’t appreciate that one fucking bit.” Mother Africa added, reaching forward and taking the coffee from my hands, taking a sip, and then handing it back. She cleared her throat.

“I think you look fine. So, what happened when you had your stroke, he wasn’t here?” I added. Mother Africa smiled at me gently as if she felt what I had said was something sweet. ”I know I look fine! Anyway, Robert…his fat stupid ass was out probably laying up with some skanky ass woman. Probably white trash on top of that. He claimed he had some kind of temporary job packing boxes at night somewhere down in the bottoms but I never saw any money. Not a frigging dime. I was paying all the bills, gas, phone, lights. I was buying clothes for his children, every single time they came over here. And I was even paying on some of his old bills for rental furniture and stupid crap like that. I was just being a plain old stupid black woman. But, I can honestly say that I will never, ever, ever go that route again. There is no man alive worth putting yourself down like that for. I would die before I put myself out 59

like that for a man again. never. Hell no.” With those last two words, Mother Africa swiveled her head on her neck in true “sista-gurl” style before coming to a finish.

“So, I mean, like when you were in the hospital, was he still with you?

Did he come and stay with you? What happened then?” ”He came to visit like three times the first two weeks I was in the hospital. If he stayed for fifteen minutes, that was long time. I think he just came so he could claim that he came. One of those times he had the nerve to ask me if he could borrow some money. And, on the days that he didn’t come, he didn’t even bother to call. Yet, when I got out, I had a $200 cell phone bill cause he was all over town driving my car and calling God-knows-who on my cell phone. The asshole didn’t even have enough regard to call them during the evening. He was running up minutes all day long. His trifling ass was probably laying up here with all sorts of skinny ass women and he didn’t give a rat’s crap about the fact that I almost lost my life over his trifling ass. He just didn’t care. And, you know Robert, there are a lot of people out there like that. They just don’t care. Period. I honestly believe you got some people that are truly evil, down to the core.”

“Man, that’s terrible. I mean really, that’s really bad. Lord, I’m sorry to hear you had to go through that.”

“So, I had to do physical therapy and stuff. I told them at the hospital that I lived alone and so they kept me until they felt I could take care of myself. But, I made sure his ass was gone before I left the hospital.”

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”How did you do that?” ”I made a phone call? One simple phone call and that nigga was out of my life for good. Good riddance and I don’t want to see his ugly ass again!” ”A phone call? Damn, that don’t sound good. Is he dead? Did you have someone kill him or something. A phone call? That sounds like someone really got done in.” I was a little disturbed. It sounded almost as if Mother Africa had the man killed or mutilated or something.

“No nothing like that, not exactly. There’s just some brothers I went to high school with. They sort of thuggish but they look out for me. So, I called them and told them that I wanted him out when I left the hospital. I came home, him and all his stuff was gone and he hasn’t bothered to call me since. Well, he did leave one of his video games in the dresser but he never asked for it.”

“Never heard from him? Did they kill him or something?” ”I mean, they may have bitch slapped him a few times so he would understand.

But, he’s a big boy, he could handle it. But, no, they didn’t kill him. In fact, I’ve seen him around town a few times. He act like he afraid to speak. Big old nigga and he afraid to speak to me. If I see him on the street, he’ll cross to the other side.

But, it serves him right. He was trifling from the beginning and I was just a fool for taking him in.” Mother Africa widened her eyes and lifted up her eyebrows for a second as if she were daring me to challenge what she was saying. She had that look that my mother used to have when she was challenging me to come up with an explanation for my misbehavior.

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”So, not to be, uh, confrontational or anything, but if you knew he was trifling, why did you move him in? I mean, why?” ”Because, I was trifling too, at the time. I didn’t want to be by myself and I decided to just do whatever and live with the consequences. I found out that it wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t worth it. And, to be honest, the way I was thinking at the time, I asked for it. I’ll admit that. I brought that shit on myself. I asked for it and I got it.”

Mother Africa stopped, rested her hands on my shins, leaned back, closed her eyes, and pursed her lips. She haltingly shook her head and mumbled something to herself. I could tell that this conversation had struck a deeply sensitive nerve with her. She looked as if she were mentally planted somewhere between a place of deep anger and one of peaceful resolution. It was as if she were still furious about what had happened in her life but had was learning to come to grips with it.

Still straddling me, Mother Africa raised back up and piercingly stared into my eyes for what seemed like several long seconds. Her deep gaze was hypnotic and somehow mystically penetrating and it made me feel as if she were maybe irritated at herself for having discussed her ex with me like that or maybe even somehow associating me with her ex. But, I knew that we all have pasts and we all have bad memories. It just wasn’t a problem with me. We had a great time the night before and so whatever happened before in her life was just not a concern of mine. I hoped that it never would be.

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I sipped a little more of the now cooling coffee and responded with what a weak and hopefully disarming half-smile. It seemed to be successful. Mother Africa’s deep stare became playfully winching eyes and her tightly pursed lips slowly opened up into a narrow mischievious smile as she began licking her teeth with her tongue. She looked as if she were getting aroused.

“So, did you have fun last night?” Mother Africa asked seductively. She reached forward and ran a tender palm across my chest.

“Yes, I did.”

“Thought a sister couldn’t shoot pool, did you?” Mother Africa asked, cocking her head to one side and lifting up one of her eyebrows. Mother Africa had wiped me out on the pool table late last night. Then again, that was after I had killed about five shots of scotch at 788 on top of the bottle of gin she and I drank earlier and all the other drinking I had done that day. “You did surprise me!” I had to respond.

“I know I did. I got game like that!” “Smartass.” I replied flatly.

“Smartass? Do we have a sore loser here?” “I’m just talking. You did play a good pool game. You hit a lot of shots that I know I couldn’t hit. Especially those bank shots. You were good.

I’ll give you that.”

“Good? I beat you all six games. If I recall, at the end of each game you still had three or four balls sitting on the table. That’s more than ‘good’. It’s more like ‘dominating’...shall we say?” “True dat. True dat. You dominated my ass last

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night. Of course, I was half drunk. I mean, how much coordination can a drunk person have at the game of pool?”

“Uh, if I recall, I wasn’t exactly sober! I had quite a bit to drink too. And, I still whupped your ass. So, just give it up and admit the sister is good!”. Mother Africa said, raising a palm to me for a high five. I hesitated for a minute and then slapped her palm with mine. She deserved it.

Mother Africa raised her hand to her mouth and licked her palms. She moved her hand down between my legs and began to slowly massage me. Mother Africa’s touch was soft as fresh cotton but firm and stimulating. She gently stroked my manhood up and down, I could feel the blood rushing into it and it beginning to get erect.

Mother Africa raised the palm of her hand to my face. She looked at me as if I knew what she wanted. I just stared back. I had no idea what Mother Africa wanted now.

“Spit on my hand.” She said flatly as if I should have known what she was expecting.

“What? Spit on your hand?” I repeated her words in curious amazement. “Spit on my hand?” Mother Africa reiterated. ”Aight.”

With my free hand I gripped Mother Africa’s hand, drew it close, and spat on her palm. The wad of saliva was thick and gel-like with brown streaks of coffee in it.

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Smiling, Mother Africa ground this saliva between her palms, reached down between her legs, wiped my manhood up and down with it, coating it with the spit, raised her large hips up slightly, and then carefully inserted me deep inside her.

Slightly moving her hips from side to side, Mother Africa sluggishly wormed herself down onto me. Just like last night, Mother Africa’s insides were tight, soft, warm, and liquidy.

Breathing very deeply, Mother Africa began slowly and methodically grinding her wide hips in sweeping arcs. With each protracted grind, I could barely hear the gentle swooshing sound of her nightgown as her hips brushed up against it’s silky fabric. After a few minutes of circles, Mother Africa began moving her thick hips back and forth, slightly raising her hips off of my manhood with each backward motion and then forward, down, and into me with each forward motion. Leaning back, she planted the palms of her hands on the both sides of the bed. I could see a single glimmering bead of sweat form under her scalp, trickle down her face and neck, between her breasts, past her navel and vanishing into her tiny forest of pubic hairs.

“Oh, you can keep drinking your coffee. Don’t bother me.” Mother Africa said nonchalantly, raising herself back up and looking me straight in the eyes for a brief second. She leaned back and continued moving her hips.

For a few moments, I attempted to sip on my coffee but to no avail. As good as she felt, there was simply no way I could enjoy Mother Africa and handle this cup of still warm brew without spilling it onto myself. Keeping my body in place, I gently 65

reached my hand over and placed the coffee on the nightstand next to wear the cufflinks and watch lay the night before.

Closing my eyes, I felt Mother Africa’s sea embrace, surround, and engage me.

Like some unseen spirit, it reached out, pulled me in, and drew me into deep into her. In a weird way, I felt as if I were going back to sleep but in another way I felt as if I were beginning to leave my own body. I could feel Mother Africa hot and tight against me but the same time, it felt as if everything between our area of union and my head had lost feeling.

Mother Africa shifted her entire weight down on my pelvic region and I felt as if I were going deeper into her than I had ever been into any woman. In fact, my erection felt as if it were straining away, almost to the point of tearing, at the very flesh that draped my manhood. It was as if my organ was about to explode and implode, all at the same time and mingle into her flesh, becoming one thing with her..

The churning ceiling fan above combined with a just activated central air to send a cooling breeze on our bodies. I could feel the coolness across my sweaty face, neck, arms, and chest. The breeze seemed to go under my back and tantalize the beads of perspiration that were streaming down my back and in between my buttocks.

I began to feel and smell Mother Africa’s juices gently pouring out of her vulva and seeping down me, between my legs, and onto the sheets and absorbing into 66

them making them dense and wet. I could feel these sticky sheets starting to adhere to my moist ass. Mother Africa’s juices seemed to have some kind of flowery, milky opiate fragrance to them. I remembered smelling nothing quite like it. This fragrance crept up my torso, wrapped itself around my face and further enraptured my mind. It made me want to be her, feel her garden in and around my mouth, her clitoris clutched between my teeth, and taste her juices rushing over my tongue and down my throat.

The evil disgruntled voices of resistance began to speak to me. I attempted to block them, to drown their rubbish in the juices of this homecoming. However, it was still early and my strength had not yet been fully rejuvenated.

How in the hell did I go from simply having a drink at 788 to screwing her last night, sleeping over, and then getting some again this morning? I mean, I don’t know this sister from Adam. I already know of one other man she’s sleeping with and seen evidence of another. I really don’t know anything about this sister’s history or mental state. She could be a schizophrenic, paranoid, or any other kind of nut.

This sister could have a whole colony of diseases culturing in her pussy. Maybe the heat I feel is from some kind of bacteria or venereal disease she got molding down there. Who knows? I must be stupid to be doing this stuff. This is that high risk stupid stuff they talk about on television and I’m sitting up here doing it.

Fiercely, I tried to battle these voices, to fight them back. I closed my eyes, bit my tongue, and tried to focus on blocking out these evil minions of confusion. Yet, 67

they cried aloud and for a few brief moments, I allowed their sinister reverberations to wash over my sweaty body.

Aight, let me get this together. We had two or three drinks at 788 and just talked about regular old stuff. News, jobs, music and all that old stuff. She suggested we go around the corner to play pool and we did. We got real touchy feeling during the pool games and ended up making out in a booth afterwards.

I do remember that fat, white trash waitress shaking her head with disgust while bringing us another drink. What the hell was her problem? She ain’t never seen black folks feeling sexy before?

In the parking lot, we were practically grinding while saying goodbye. Then again, we just called ourselves saying goodbye. Then she invited me over. Just a few miles to her place. To watch television and relax. Yeah, right.

In fact, I wondered how the do I made it to Mother Africa’s house without crashing my car. I was clearly way over the legal alcohol limit and I wasn’t too great at night driving anyway. For some reason, I always had a problem handling the combination of the headlights of oncoming cars, ragged yellow lines, and Kansas city’s less than stellar urban residential streets.

Soon as we entered the front door, Mother Africa and I tumbled into bed. I don’t think she even bothered to turn off the lights in her living room. We rushed in, our clothes flew here and there and were straight up doing within minutes.

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For a first do, it was pretty well off the doing hook. I got on top, then she got on top. I hit it doggy style and she begged me to pull her hair.

After I was inside her doggy style for ten minutes, she sucked me for ten more minutes. We did that spoon thing and that scissors thing. Mother Africa and I fell off the bed and did it on the floor for awhile. We stood up and did it doggy style again. She asked me to take her into the kitchen and do her on the porcelain countertop. And I did it. We even did it on the toilet too. That was kind of disgusting. Finally, in her bed, we exploded into each other and fell asleep.

We shared our fluids, our juices, our essence. After our essence had mingled together in her garden, I tasted them.

Afterwards, we laid there and listened to a gospel cd that had been playing from the time we staggered in. I guess she leaves her stereo on when she goes out. Good idea. Gives folks the impression that you are home. My folks used to do that.

And now…this.

Finally, the voices of resistance retreated. I had won this battle. They fled back into the mental caves where they dwelt while attempting to devise new plans of attack and warfare. But, there was a price. I could feel the inside of my mouth bleeding where I had bit myself as I had fought them. It was warm and salty. It was the blood of warfare and of struggle. It was blood not shed in vain.

For a few seconds, Mother Africa sat up and moved about feverishly. She abruptly pulled off her nightgown and tossed it onto the floor. I could now see columns of 69

sweat rushing down her body. It reminded me of blood rushing down walls in one of those old horror movies.

Mother Africa was covered with sweat and her velvety skin was simply gleaming in the morning sun. Wiping her hand across her body, she flung a handful of salty perspiration onto my face and laughed, then moaned. Wiping her hand across her body again, she leaned forward and pried my lips open with her fingers and dipped a set of sweat-covered dripping fingers into my mouth. Her perspiration was salty, funky, and yet tasty.

She even reached down between her legs. I could feel two of her fingers going into her right next to my manhood. After pulling them out, Mother Africa dipped it into her mouth, licking it and then ran the dripping fingers across my tongue. More of that salty, tasty, and funky.

I turned my head to the side and looked towards on end of the long bedroom. An entourage of visitors had entered the room and were observing us. I recognized these visitors from a large meeting I had attended in one of my night journeys.

They had been taken by the Anointed Ones in the Tulsa Riots of 1920. Now, their task was visit members of the descent and update the Anointed Ones on their progress.

From what I could see, the entourage consisted of about ten men and women. They were dressed in very nice brown woolen suits and dresses. The ladies wore very nice matching hats, worthy of the front pews in church. The men wore nice hats too, but not as nice as the ladies. One studious looking, round speckled man in the 70

corner had a yellow pad and pencil out and was looking around taking notes. I wondered what he was writing. I hoped that it was as good report.

I looked up at Mother Africa and her attention was on the sharing of our essence one with the other. Her eyes were closed and her body was rocking back and forth, up and down. Glimmering salty sweat was still pouring profusely down her caramel body like shiny thin streams descending down a mountain.

I looked back towards the side of the room and the entourage was gone. They must had completed their report very quickly. I hoped it was a good one. I hoped that one day, Mother Africa and I could sit and discuss the contents of the report.

Finally, arching back, Mother Africa issued a battering of hard-driving, animalistic thrusts accentuated by a chorus of deep stuttering groans, tightened up, rolled her eyes back in her head, paused for a few moments, and then moved off of me. She crumpled into a heap at my feet, with her head resting on my abdomen and bent over as if she were in some kind of pain. I looked down. I was still rock hard, erect, and throbbing. Mother Africa was done, but I clearly wasn’t. I was nowhere near finished.

“So, Mr. Robert, did you like that coffee?” ”huh?”

“The coffee…you know, the drink..did you like it?” ”Yeah, it was good.”

“It was different, wasn’t it?”

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“Yeah it was a little bit different. It tasted sort of nutty and spicy. I haven’t tasted nothing like it. But, it was good.” “I got it from an African store down by the River Market. It contains some kind of African tree bark. It is supposed to make a person real aroused.” ”Men too?”

“Well, I would hope so…Uh huh.”

“Is that why my…” I started, looking down at my penis. It was still fully erect, throbbing and even twitching a bit. “Probably. Has something called Yohimbe or Yohimbine or something. Some kind of African tree bark. It supposedly makes men d’s harder and bigger. In fact, it’s listed in the Physician Desk Reference.

Then again, Robert…I don’t think you really need all that do you?” Mother Africa reached down and stroked me, laughing cleverly. Then, she slid up and put her head on my shoulder. ”Dang Mother Africa, you should have asked me first. I could be allergic to it or something like that. I could be up in your bed laid out dead with a great big erection.”

“I could work with that. A fine man with a big hard dick but nothing to say and no place else to go.. You get all the pleasures but none of the issues. No lies, no drama. Just good sex. I think I like that.”

Mother Africa laughed and closed her eyes and I closed mine too. Outside, I could hear children playing on the sidewalk outside her window.

They were playing double dutch.

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Chapter 3 I heard a sound Like the sound of a thousand mandingo slaves Kneeling on the decks of hundreds of lost slave gallions Clashing their shackles into the soft, damp, rotting wood and Lifting their faces unto the heavens While the saltwater spray rose up And descended on their torn and lacerated, ragged backs Stinging their wounds And convulating the dirt And the grime And the tiny pieces of sharp damp wood And the tiny, white maggots That abode deep Within the wounds on their backs From this sound I could tell that this ship was Sailing precariously on The very periphery of reality It was straddling the fine line between Human sanity and animalistic fury

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On either side Of this immense periphery were great abyss From which smoke bellowed And voices screamed And fires roared And demons cried And souls languished I thought about this sound Then I opened my eyes and I poured another drink

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It was the middle of the week and I called in sick. I just didn’t want to go in. I was very tired. In fact, I was exhausted. So, I refused to go into work. Fuck the kids.

Fuck that school building. The little bastards could terrorize an unsuspecting substitute today. I wasn’t in the mood to bother with them. Besides, I had greater things to worry about and larger, more important tasks to contend with. My presence was necessary for the salvation of the descent and I need to conserve my energy so that I would be ready when I confronted my enemies, both within and without.

Last night, I had been involved in a great argument here in my apartment. Marcus Garvey, Stokely Carmichael, Malcolm X, Ralph Ellison and others had dropped in for tea and to discuss the particulars of the next few stages of the descent. These great warriors had simply appeared in my living room and didn’t even bother to take a seat. They stood the entire time. I can’t totally recall what they looked like or what they wore, but I knew they were here. The Anointed Ones revealed this to me in my consciousness.

The argument was over something to do with the particulars of identifying and confronting enemies in our midst. Ellison wanted to approach them from a point of logic and reason and attempt to derive from them the purpose and meaning of their intrusions. Malcolm and Marcus wanted them to be dealt with swiftly and decisively. They preferred immediate execution, preferably by hanging. A few others were neutral and admitted that it may depend on the nature of the enemy. A weak minded brother or sister may still be saved, they argued. Therefore, it would be wise to judge each case on it’s own merits.

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While they argued amongst themselves and sipped tea, I finished off a bottle of cheap vodka I had picked up earlier that day. It burned my gut deeply and I even had lurch myself over several times for fear of vomiting. But, my physical discomforts were just a minor inconvenience for the great cause I had been chosen for.

In any event, this argument went on unto the wee hours of the night and I finally fell asleep in the midst of it. When I awoke in the morning, the participants were gone, however I felt drained and tired.

I crawled into my bedroom, planning to lay in my bed all day long, curled under the sheets. I didn’t want to go out, didn’t want to talk. I didn’t even want to see the light of the sun. I just wanted to be alone, in the darkness, and just lay there.

Once, the summer before, the leaders of the descent had argued and fought in my apartment for several days in a row. When it was over, I was so drained and the sunlight bothered and disturbed me so much that I taped over all my windows with thick black garbage bags. For the rest of the summer, my apartment was pitch black, even on the days where the sun was literally blazing. I didn’t take down these bags, they stayed up there all summer long. Every day that summer, I would sit there in the cool apartment and watch television with the sound off. Not a drop of sunlight would come in. That was perfect for me.

I remembered that experience well. For several days after, I did all my shopping and business after dark. There was one of those 24 hour grocery stores around the 76

corner and so I shopped and rented videos there. I knew it was odd. I was afraid that my abnormal behavior would attract enemies of the descent, however I needed to replenish my energies after the fierce battle that had taken place.

Afterwards, there were the night journeys. Sometimes, I would wake up covered in sweat, the sheets kicked off onto the floor, and my heart just racing from those travels. I didn’t understand them. Even though I tried. Maybe they weren’t meant to be understood by one beginning in the descent such as myself. It was part of the price for being in this movement.

I once thought that maybe I could find some enlightenment from others who had been involved in movements like this one. On that note, I went to the library and got a book on dreams and it suggested keeping a notebook next to your bed and writing the dreams down. I did that for awhile. I still didn’t understand the journeys any better.

So, here I sat, still in the black sweat pants that I had slept in, finishing off a large bottle of some grape wine that I opened when I called in sick and just staring out the window and into the parking lot. It was a damp, grey, rainy day. The black parking lot was shining like patent leather from all the rain that soaked it and the grass, sidewalks, and even some cars were covered with red, orange, brown, and yellow leaves from the defoliating trees.

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Across the way, I saw an unattended young boy in a yellow rain suit riding his tricycle on the sidewalk. I wondered why his young ass wasn’t in preschool or daycare.

I thought I heard a noise in my apartment. It sounded like a few quick footsteps or maybe a cabinet closing. I couldn’t tell which. I turned around, but there was no one there. Of course, I knew that it was enemies sent by the European Colonialists. Like cockroaches, they would infiltrate the very spots that I inhabited and harass me with strange and annoying sounds. They would attempt to badger me with screams, shouts, dishes crashing, and doors shutting. No one else would be privy to this harassment but myself. Others were shielded from having to hear this, but not me. In a way, it made me feel good. The enemy was focusing on me.

I must be of value to the descent.

One night I laid in bed and could have sworn I heard my mother calling “Robert…Robert” like she did when I was a child. Then again, sometimes this happened a lot. Not just in bed. Sometimes, it happened when I was teaching and a student asked a question or made a comment. It seemed like the student’s mouth was speaking the words but I was hearing it in the voice of one of my nowdeceased parents. On these issues, I wasn’t clear if this voice was that of enemies or allies. In time, I was sure that I would find out.

I got up from sitting on the windowsill and slowly made my way to my restroom, tossing the now-empty bottle of wine in the corner. Looking around my cluttered restroom, I realized what a real mess it had become in the past few days. I’d been 78

focusing on my mission too much to pay attention to my earthly surroundings. But, I needed to straighten up. Last night, Marcus, Medger, Ralph, and Stokely hadn’t said anything about my place being sloppy and disheveled. However, it was only respectful that I kept my place pristine for when I had visitors such as these.

The toilet and shower were in a serious need of a hard scrub and there was a rank pile of dirty clothes in the corner. The black wicker hamper was already full and the lid couldn’t even shut. I just shook my head and went over the sink. My entire apartment was in serious need of a real cleaning.

Deciding to wash my face before it got too late, I examined it in the mirror. I could see some new blemishes appearing on my face and back. In some places, my skin was dried out. The marks of a martyr. I bore these infirmities in stride.

Stripping down, I threw my sweatpants into the corner, adding to the pile of clothes already there. I took a few minutes and looked at my body in the mirror while deciding whether to take a bath or a shower this morning. The way I felt, I needed to take it now or I would not take it all day. At the same time, I didn’t know when I would have company again. I w anted to be ready and to leave no doubt that they had chosen the right person for the task.

In the mirror, I examined my soft flabby body. I examined myself from from my shoulders, through my thick biceps, past my buttocks which protruded out like two mounds of caramel rock and down to my thick legs. For a long time in my life, I wondered why I was never able to have the athletic, rock hard body other brothers 79

effortlessly had. I had worked out, did the weights thing, did the jogging thing, I even had purchased some equipment. But, it seemed to me that my body just seemed to be stuck in flabby mode. Even though the Anointed Ones had never made an issue of this, sometimes it concerned me. I wanted to make sure I was fit and physically prepared for the battles to come.

One night I was laying in bed When I heard A loud shriek Coming from My living room I bolted out of bed And into the living room To find The still-bereaved mother of Emmitt Till Holding her ears Covering her eyes and Screaming in great agony Her screams so Disturbed Betty Shabazz That she dropped The large crystal bowl Full of expensive chocolates 80

And hard Candies And fresh walnuts That Thomas Jefferson Had given her The night before It shattered on The floor Mingling Sharp, cutting pieces Of broken glass With the smooth And sweet Morsels of chocolate, Hard candy, And fresh walnuts Before I could Get a broom The bastard children Of Joe Louis And Cannonball Adderly Rushed in From outside they 81

Scurried about And picked up All the chocolates Candies And walnuts Hiding them securely in their mouths Until their shining brown cheeks Nearly burst From the fullness Of it all In their great haste And lust of hunger They cut themselves deeply On the shards of glass But still yet They Did not complain Finally Aunt Jemima came in From the restroom With a broom And a dustpan And she Whisked the broken Glass 82

Away It was then That I realized That sometimes My anger Is without reason And my rebellion Is without cause The revolution Will not be televised Because it has been Pre-empted By complacency A year before, the district had gotten a fitness plan that included free gym memberships and personal training lessons. The sessions had not done anything for me and the complimentary gym membership that came with employment there seemed to be useless. However, I did try.

For a few months, I went to the gym faithfully, agonizing over weights and cardio machines. But, I felt I was getting no real results. My stomach was still round and bulky. My black ass was still big and pronounced. My arms and legs were big but I didn’t see any of the so-called muscular definition the gym was supposed to bring.

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And, I tried a plethora of diets. I tried the Low-carb, low-fat, high-fat, the Miami Diet, the Arizona Diet and the Edenic diet.. I had tried them all but I just didn’t have success that they seemed to promise. Then again, maybe it was good that I had some girth. If the battles to come placed me in a position where my body had to feed on it’s own stored fat, I would be ready.

Then again, it wasn’t like I was huge. At six feet and two hundred thirty pounds, I was just a big ass brother. My stomach didn’t hang over my belt and I didn’t have to waddle around. But, I was just much bigger than I sometimes felt I should be.

Yes, even those such as I sometimes struggled with things such as weight and appearance. I closed my eyes, clenched my teeth and reminded myself that this earthly body was simply a vessel for my descent. The rolls of fat around my waste were irrelevant issues and had no lasting significance. The blemishes and blackheads which spotted my face and back were part of the price of walking in the flesh. Soon it would be all over and I would receive my just reward for having fought this good fight.

When I opened my eyes, I remembered Mother Africa said she was working a graveyard shift for the next few weeks. She should be off from work about now.

So, I decided to give her a call.

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Chapter 5 I found myself staggering through a beaded red velour cloth and into the cramped rear of a small but crowded dark and smoky club.

The glare of dim neon blue lights above descended on a congregation of sweaty black negro bodies that were fully clothed but yet grinding and pulsating against one another as if they were completely unclad and engaged in some kind of orgasmic ritual.

This blue light raced with a crystalline swiftness across their dark skins, illuminating and outlining their forms and their thick, rugged features.

These blue-black apparitions were dancing to some bass filled beats emanating and pulsating from an old yellowed jukebox standing placidly in the corner.

Their bodies moved in seeming unison to the beat and rhythm. When the tempo slowed, their grinding bodies slowed to a near halt. The only evidence of their still moving would be the dancing pings of blue light highlighting their most miniscule shiftings. As the tempo increased, their bodies would spring to life and begin moving, once again, in unison with the music itself.

The air of this place was heavy and strongly tinged with the nearly overwhelming smell of sweat, perspiration, fresh polyester, cheap perfume, and the deeply pungent aroma of cheap cigars.

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This tinged heavy air wrapped itself around my legs like a python and then seemed to just plunge itself into my nostrils like some kind of claw reaching within my cerebellum in search of a means to paralyze and possess me.

I stood immobile for a minute while my eyes adjusted to this dark place and my respiratory system began to move from deep panting breaths to shallower and quicker ones.

I turned to my left, there was a row of white clothed circular tables with tired looking black men and women sitting there in stoic silence religiously watching the center floor.

Their clothes were sharp and crisp. Most of the men were in shiny, dark colored, suits with white pinstripes and wide flaring collars. Many had set their tall matching derby hats down on the tables in front of them.

The dresses the women wore were likewise shiny with tops that were cut deep down to reveal cavernous throes of tender black cleavage.

Women and men, they all seemed to be slouched down in decaying red leather seats. Most tables were embossed in silence, but some individuals were actually holding sublime, clandestine conversations.

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They would lean over and whisper to each other as if some ominous authority was monitoring their every word. Nodding to one another, they would cut their gaze to some particular individual on the center dance floor or some other table, or maybe one of the waitresses walking by in their mid thigh tight red skirts and black low cut blouses.

Looking to my right, I saw a lengthy pockmarked wooden bar lined by a nearly full row of old battered stools. Sitting on chipped legs of dark brown wood, these stools looked very unstable and their seats consisted of old torn red vinyl that had been sloppily patched with grey duct tape.

I chose to sit at a stool. As I staggered along them attempting to find an empty one, I looked into the dimly illuminated, haggard, and dismal faces of the black folks. Gazing into their eyes, I gazed upon glossy brown pupils entrapped and swimming in seas of poisoned yellow pus.

I could detect tiny, shiny beads of sweat just below their hairlines and an occasional trickle as one burst forth and streamed down the face. Their eyes never left the orgy of dance taking place in front of them.

I found an empty stool and sat down. In front of it was an barren shot glass with the still smoldering butt of a half smoked cigarette drowning in the last few drops of some amber fluid that pooled at the bottom the glass. I noticed red lip marks on the cigarette as I gently slid the glass away to spare myself the smell of it.

Like the others, I turned my back to the bar and faced the dance floor, resting my elbows on the bar behind me.

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A bald, dark skinned, large burly man in an unbuttoned shiny pinstriped turquoise suit passed slowly in front of me cradling a small tan woven basket in one of his massive palms. It was piled with long sizzling planks of simmering crispy brown fried fish. They were dripping with bright red hot sauce and sleeping on a pile of grease soaked beige napkins.

I was famished from my journey this and caught myself nearly reaching forward and snatching one of these seething hot planks.

It appeared that he could feel my temptation because he turned his head and glared at me through some of those shiny brown pupils swimming in the yellowish pools. Some of the dim blue light danced down and skipped across his greasy skin and dipped momentarily into the deep round marks that covered his wide face and illuminated him in an aura of sapphire for a brief moment.

He was oily and shiny, his nose was broad and flaring, and his lips were thick and dark. These thick dark lips cradled a lit orange tipped bent cigarette about one inch long.

From his visage, I could feel the restrained but deeply smoldering rage reaching up from an abyss of emotion. In a brief flash, it reminded me of the nearly empty shot glass that held the quietly simmering remnants of a nearly finished cigarette.

I had pushed that glass away because I did not want it’s pungent smell to infiltrate my already poisoned nostrils and find a way to sicken me.

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Similarly, this man seemed to threaten me. I didn’t comprehend the nature of his threat but I could not deny it’s existence. There was something deeply angry about him that seemed to lunge forward at me through the painfully simple fact that he was merely passing by.

It was as if there was a rage that was mystically lifting itself from within his psyche and confronting me through the avenues of the temptation of this fried fish.

I felt a surge of defensiveness lurching through me, driving me to leap from this stool and mount a defensive against this man. Yet, there were questions. Was he going to attack me? Violate me?

Not knowing, I leaned further back on the stool and slid my elbows further back on the bar not knowing if he was about to pounce on me like some kind of rabid beast but yet making myself vulnerable to sudden attack. Was the inner rage that I was sensing within him about to be poured upon me some act of violent brutalization? I momentarily pondered this as what seemed like minutes became seconds and this incident was over.

He passed by without incident as a waft of smoke emanated his nostrils and assimilated itself into the poisonous air.

I turned my head from side to side, looking around. I expected to see the faces of observers who had fixated their attention on the near melodrama I had just experienced. To my surprise, all that was before me view were the sides of black heads, still continually illuminated and outlined in the dim blue light.

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Their faces were still fixated on the orgasmic dance floor, their heads momentarily nodding to one another as they engaged in still private and clandestine conversation.

Leaning slightly forward and looking further down the row of stools, I saw the man with the fish slipping python-like into the crowd, turning slightly sideways and pulling his basket closely as if he were some kind of rodent, protectively drawing in a stolen scrap of needed food, as it vanished into a slight opening in a broken plaster wall or faulty floor.

I glanced to my right and down. Before me was a pair of glossy black high heel shoes leading up to a duo of thick chocolate crossed legs extending from the slightly ragged hem of a very short, tight dark dress.

My eyes followed the dress up past a set of wide embracing hips and jutting upright breasts up into a stone-like but feminine ebony face iced with a short, neat pecan afro.

She was cradling a chipped square glass ashtray on her lap and bottle of half full beer in her hand.

After a momentarily silence, this woman silently let herself down from the stool.

Taking me by the hand she began walking seductively towards the dance floor.

Walking behind her, I couldn’t help but notice how her two buttocks moved alternately like sinewy cylinders underneath her black little dress. When

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she stepped one leg forward, a wave of sensual tissue muscle seemed ripple up the opposite buttock and then vanished into her lower spine.

It was live a wave that, once hitting shore and reverberating back, seemed to recede back into the open sea.

Still holding her bottle of beer, She wrapped her arms tightly around my neck and rested her head on my shoulder. I could feel the warm alcohol drenched breath from her mouth landing on the side of my neck and the density of her full breasts as they pushed against my chest.

She crushed herself up against me and I could feel the heat of her entire body emanating through thin clothing and imparting itself against my person.

Slowly and seductively, she began dancing.

With a methodical slowness seasoned with a sensual deliberation, she swayed her entire body tightly against mine, forcing me to move with her.

First, she moved to the left, and then she moved to the right.

She would guide her upper body in one direction and navigate her lower body into the other direction. I could feel her breasts harden as they rubbed across my chest and her pelvis begin to grow balmy as rested against mine.

In this thick and dense poisonous air, our bodies began to humidify against each other. The perspiration seethed from deep within our pores, 91

mingled with the dark and smoky atmosphere, and then blended together into a sticky coagulated dew that bound our persons as one grating entity.

I could feel and hear this stranger breathing onto me with more and more resonance and depth as the throbbing, barely coherent music continued to flood this structure. She was taking deep long sipping breaths, holding them as the pressure within her chest forced her firm breasts to grind her nipples into me as one grinding pepper into a mass of kneaded dough, and then slowly letting them out with a long, slightly animalistic groan.

For a brief second, looking around, I could see other couples engaged in the same sacrament of physical embrace. Bound in the throes of pseudointercourse, their bodies were locked in a the same type of arousing, sensualistic dance that we were..

For a second, I thought about the fried fish. The remembrance of it’s aroma of freshly cooked substance and of it piled as a simmering breaded mass covered with some kind of Tabasco caused a rush of saliva to seethe from under mouth tongue, rush up the walls of my dry mouth, and then throw itself as a pool of spit back upon my tongue itself. I swallowed it and tried not to think about the fish anymore.

As we danced, I could feel this woman opening her thick chocolate hips up wider and wider, inviting me within. Keeping one arm around my neck while dropping the other down to clench my buttocks, it was as if she trying to ravish me right there on the dance floor through our clothes.

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As I could feel her lean fingers pressing into my buttocks, I could also feel her movements evolving from back and forth motion into a circular motion. She pressed her pelvis against mine and then moved it slowly and deliberately in a clockwise, circular pattern.

I could feel the warmth of her sex hot against my erecting manhood. Still unable to speak, I pulled my tongue back against the rear of my mouth and tried to take small breaths to distract my body from full arousal.

We danced like this for what seemed like hours and days, our bodies lifted up and carried away upon a rapturous note of music and arousal. I felt her hot thick lips pressed against my still sore throat and one sweaty arm wrapped tightly around the posterior of my neck while another reached down and grasped my buttocks.

Her pecan afro was just below my stinging nose, covering my entire mouth, and a sublime funky odor ascended from it’s wilderness and infiltrated my nostrils like some invading secret adversary. The tang of it was stale and sour and with a smoky hue and a tinge of dried perspiration. Yet, it drew me in. This aroma seduced me.

Her smell intoxicated me. My sensibilities soon found themselves frozen in homage to this scent.

I shut my eyes and released my body so that it moved in timed synchronicity with hers. We moved in wide sweeping circular arcs, in short interrupted curves, and then together in forceful neanderthalic thrusts.

Our feet were planted in one place on the creaking, shifting hardwood floor while our duo of bodies moved as two magnolia branches caught, held 93

captive, and manipulated in the breeze of a cool Louisiana summer night.

Soon, I felt her hand reaching down and touching my crotch. She was unzipping my pants. Unable to speak, my body weakened into a syrupy state from fatigue, dance, and smell, I did nothing. She fumbled at my zipper, finally finding the latch and opening my fly. The entire time, she continued to dance and grind against me, her hand caught against the pelvic crush like a tiny schooner caught against two crashing waves.

Finally, she opened my fly, reached within and worked out my erect member.

This woman had to move it back and forth, slightly bending it in order to nustle it from the tight confines of my crotch area.

Still caught within her spell like a wayward fly entrapped within a spider’s web, I continued to move my body with hers, still taking sips of air, and feeling more and more intoxicated. I could feel her body against mine as she raised one leg up and gently wrapping it around my buttocks.

Against my exposed manhood and lower belly, I could feel the friction of clothes being shovelled together and I realized that she was raising her skirt. For a brief second, I could feel her hot, sticky skin against my hardened masculinity.

Raising up on her foot, she placed me deep inside her. Suddenly, my entire lower body felt as if it were swimming in a tingling, deep syrupy sea of sweltering chocolate opium. As she began to thrust her body slowly into me and then back again, I tried for a few futile moments to resist this final act. However, my lower entity adopted a mind of it’s own and began to move in choreography with her.

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As we became emblazoned in this thrusting, I opened my eyes for a few brief seconds and looked around. To my sensually intoxicated awe, the dance floor was now filled with other couples engaged in the same throes of intimacy.

The dim blue light faithfully danced down and highlighted skirts and dresses that were pulled up, the legs of throbbing women which were wrapped around the pulsating torsos of men, and jutting faces frozen in the aura of pleasure and restrained ecstasy.

Releasing the other arm from around my neck and then clenching my forearm with her hand, this woman leaned her back body back in an arc so that her head nearly touched the wooden floor. Slowly, her hand slid down my forearm and then grabbed my hand, her fingers quickly interlocking with mine.

She began to ripple her body, staring with her pelvis and out to her abdomen and then back again. Raising up her other leg, she wrapped both legs around mine and then grabbed my free hand with her other hand, once again interlocking her fingers.

Now, our bodies were tightly interlocked into some kind of ballet-like grip of sexual euphoria. Frozen in position, our only movement was the steady deep thrusting of her person into mine. Under this sodomic hex, I was feeling very weak and my mind seemed to be slipping off into some kind of sugary oblivion.

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I felt I could barely stand but yet some kind of unseen concentric force seemed grasp my body and keep it stable and rigid while she continued to ripple and pulsate her sexuality into mine. This force kept our sweaty fingers firmly interlocked, even though these perspiration covered fingers were the only thing keeping this woman from crashing backwards to the floor below.

I could feel the hot commingled fluids from our conjugation seeping down the front of my battered slacks, permeating the already sweaty cloth, and tingling delicately against my skin. Inside, I could feel a flood of desire and release rapidly building up and beginning to work itself towards freedom.

The soft round sacs just below my manhood began to tighten and harden up as I began pushing back this flood. Drawing my tongue back again and clenching my mouth, I tightly clenched my buttocks in an attempt to force this pounding stream of release all the way back into it’s reservoir.

Slowly arching my neck back and opening up my stinging eyes, I tried to fight off this mental intoxication and derive some degree of clarity from these transpirings.

From the beady red velvet cloth, to the pseudoconfrontation with huge menacing man cradling the basket of fried fish, to this public sexual intercourse – I struggled within my own mind to derive some logistics from it all.

I hadn’t spoken a single word since I had entered this odd place but now I found myself caught in the middle of a crowded dance floor with my aroused manhood plunged deep inside the pulsating femininity of a total stranger and I was even now fighting against my own being to keep from exploding into climax within her.

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For some reason, I turned my head to towards the tiny door in which I entered.

As I turned, the other couples embraced and engaged in the same fornication into which I was caught, slowly turned their heads towards me and then methodically and simultaneously separated one from the other.

With heads silently bowed, the men shamefully tucked their suddenly flaccid members back into the pants and zipped up their slacks while their companions lowered and straightened their skirts and dresses and then adjusted their clothing back into a more respectable fashion.

Suddenly, like the sea parting from the oncoming force of a huge ship, this mass of people parted as if some entity or hidden spirit were plunging into them as a wedge.

Looking down, I realized that this woman whom I had been ensnared into coitus with had emancipated herself from me and was nowhere to be found. I was standing there, alone, and with my erect manhood exposed and protruding into the air.

Raising my head back towards the door, I saw the figure, yet I didn’t see it. It was that figure. The same eerie, shadowy figure that had been pursuing me through all my night visions. The figure was there but I couldn’t describe it. I could only see it as long as my eyes were rested on it but no description of this figure would remain etched in my memory. If I looked, I could recognize it, but if I turned my head I would retain no description of it.

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Yet, it stood there. It was menacing and dangerous. I knew this figure was bent on my destruction and that it was dedicated to the task of terminating my existence. Within me was no idea why I knew this to be true, yet I was given over to this reasoning. This figure was mine enemy and unless I fled, it would be my predator.

Looking back over my shoulder, I saw another red cloth like the one I had entered into. With no hesitation, I started to run towards this door.

Before I become fully engaged in my flight, I slipped on the damp wood and crashed violently to the sweaty floor, landing nearly flat on my anterior and viciously crushing my rapidly weakening erection between my being and the ground.

After a momentary pause, a searing pain convoluted in my bosom and knifed itself like a sword through my entire body, abruptly parching my mouth and forcing the median of my back to resonate with pain.

Staggering to my feet, I forced my penis into my pants and stumbled towards the door. I could feel this figure coming towards me and knew that if I did not get to the door within seconds, it would take me. In the corners of my eyes, I could see the silent masses gathered on both sides of my path staring blankly at my escape through expressionless coal faces.

After what seemed like an infinitude, I reached the door and, snatching the red cloth back aside, I fell headfirst into a dark alley. Landing in a pool of stale water and mud, I rolled onto my back and prepared to engage in a deathly combat with

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the luminous figure that had been in my pursuit throughout this night season. To my surprise, I looked up into a ravaged red, brick wall. There was no cloth, no doorway, no entrance way. The exit from which I had just projected myself into the alley was not there. It did not exist.

Yet, I could smell the smoke, perfume, and alcohol still loitering in my nostrils and continuing to prick and sting the membranes of my nose.

Through the pain of the sudden fall and the ensuing trauma, my manhood was still yet tingling from the tantalizing opiate of the woman’s moist interior. Yet, I wondered if this was all truly happening or if I were simply going insane.

Cautiously sitting up in the pool of mud and foul water, I quickly stuck one hand down my pants and rubbed my member and then retracted my hand and whiffed it.

The unmistakable scent of a woman’s aroused fertility rushed at me like a unleashed hellion even before the hand reached my face.

Something was very real and undeniably authentic about this happening, yet something was also very unreal and mystical about it. Where did the cloth go? In fact, where did the doorway go?

Standing up in the narrow alleyway, I looked down towards one end. It appeared to lead flush into the side of another building. With the exception of a few beams from a single overhanging streetlight at the very end of this alley, the entire way was darkened. Yet, from these beams I could see that I was between two very tall ravaged brick structures. At the very top of these buildings, there were some very small clouded windows.

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Other than these, there were no doors or other openings. From one of these windows snaked a black fire escape made out of what appeared to be very thin metal. A few light beams streaked down the alley, danced on the fire escape, and reflected off of what appeared to be wetness on it.

Looking up, I gazed upon a starless and blank black sky. There was nothing there, literally nothing, only blackness. There were no clouds and no moon above. It was an oblivion, a devouring abyss of complete and utter blackness that seemed to fall upon this entire scene like some kind of ominous, gargantuan blanket.

Turning around, I looked at the other end of the alley. Once again, the only light came from a single overhanging streetlight at the very end.

Like the first alley, this one appeared to also lead flush into another red brick building.

I began walking towards the end of this alley. I had no idea what lied ahead.

Then, I awoke

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It was on the fifth day of the tenth month of the year when I entered the third chapter and sixth verse of my descent. The day was a cool fall day and the earth was covered with an ever-growing layer of brown, orange, yellow, and reddish leaves. This day had started out overcast, but by midnoon, a few hazy rays of sunlight had broken through the barriers of the gray skies and were scattering themselves across the area like leaves brown in the autumn wind. A calming breeze had descended from the north and laid a peaceful aura on the city and the surrounding areas. When I drove that afternoon, I drove with my windows open and felt this calming aura enter my automobile and relax me. It was not much later that afternoon when I first noticed that the light from the upper windows navigated through the bars and shined down like long, narrow flashlights into the drab visitation room. Like a Russian ballerina, the light pensively danced across heavily nicked but shiny wooden tabletops. As it were a translucent python, the light slithered up from the waxed speckled burgundy tile floor and wrapped itself around the legs of the old grey metal chairs. Not yet satisfied, this light then crawled up the painfully plain crimson brick walls as it were a colony of long, slithering opaque leeches, grating against the jutted, jagged, and antagonistic brick surfaces, seeping mistily into each mundane crack and crevice and then gathering its energy and ricocheting off, across the room, and onto the back of LazarusBuddha’s soft, charcoal colored dashiki that he had meticulously hand fashioned from a pair of state issued prison fatigues.

Seemingly oblivious to the blanket of light resting in his nether, Lazarus-Buddha pondered, rubbed his chin with his finely wrinkled hand and then slowly moved his bishop. Watching his moves, I could see the ambient light glimmering from the tiny grey hairs curling on Lazarus-Buddha’s knuckles. Two paces up. Lazarus101

Buddha’s face was intent. His deep eyes focused intently on the chessboard spread before us. Lazarus-Buddha and I were two of about six people in this vast, quiet state penitentiary visitation room.

An older forlorn prison guard stood unemotionally at one end of the room, looking around with bored resignation seemingly screaming from his long, thick jowled face.

Another younger guard sat at the other end, slouched in an ancient executive chair, reading a very dated yellowing issue of Time magazine and flipping the pages with a sigh before flippantly throwing it half opened a few feet away and onto one of the empty tables. “So, how were things this month?”, I asked Lazarus-Buddha as I contemplated my next move.

Lazarus-Buddha was an interesting figure. An inmate doing three hundred and thirty five years in the Kansas state penitentiary, he didn’t look like the type of hideous person capable of some repugnant and gruesome crime of violence. Then again, most of the men imprisoned here didn’t. All the others around LazarusBuddha called him by the name listed on his birth certificate : Knox Edward Wellington. However, I knew that he was Lazarus-Buddha. This revelation had come to me in the second chapter of the descent. I think it was the fourth for fifth verse. One night, I was in a dark alley behind a bar taking a piss when one of the anointed ones confronted me. Of course, I didn’t see him. No one ever saw the anointed ones. Human eyes could not behold them. However, I clearly heard him instruct me that within a few days I would meet Lazarus-Buddha. He would be one who had metaphorically risen from the dead and was now emancipated from the captivity of the European colonialists. I was to never address him by the name Lazarus-Buddha, but to call him by the name he was commonly known by : Knox.

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I was to never mention my knowledge of his true identity as one above rank even of the anointed ones. It would bring great peril unto him, myself, and others of the descent. A few days later, just as the anointed one told me, a friend invited me to take part in the “Friends of Inmates” program. Of course, I took part. I knew that the anointed one had called me to this task and I would not fail.

Now, it was several months later and as part of the “Friends of Inmates” program, I had been here enough times to know that the men behind these bars were not hardly the animalistic savages and unconscienced brutes that most unknowing and uninformed people assumed them to be. Most of them seemed, or tried to seem, like regular people who just once in their life, had made a serious or not so serious decision borne of poor judgement. Lazarus-Buddha himself was about 55 years old, 5’10” and lean. Even though he was clearly defined by society as a black person, Lazarus-Buddha had finely chisled Arabic looking features which initially lead me to believe there was definitely some lower European or Middle Eastern imbedded in his family tree. Lazarus-Buddha’s grey peppered black hair was very thick and curly, but he kept it usually neatly tucked under one of those black or beige African skull caps. His mustache, goatee, and eyebrows were also sprinkled with light grey and so Lazarus-Buddha had a look of elegant distinction – even in this mundane environment. Sitting there, in his neatly pressed attire, LazarusBuddha looked like he could be some kind of elder statesmen in this place.

“It’s been a good month…I’ve been blessed”, Lazarus-Buddha replied peacefully and with a strong deliberation in his somewhat hushed voice. He was a peaceful man. A strong man. And a deliberate man. “Any writing this month?” I inquired as I decided on a move to prolong this game of chess that I knew I would eventually lose. I moved my knight. Two up and one over. On the left side of the chessboard.

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Lazarus-Buddha would soundly beat me, as usual, but I would make him work for it this time.

“I wrote a few poems. The inkjet printer in the library ran out of ink so I wasn’t able print them out. But, when I get them printed, I’ll get them to you.” He added with a courteous nod.

“Oh yes.” I said, remembering something and reaching deep into my bag I had brought with me. “This is for you…” I handed him a shiny unopened double CD of the Northern Detroit Mass Choir. I had bought it for him on my way home from Mother Africa’s house a week or so earlier. Lazarus-Buddha loved gospel music.

He found it uplifting and inspiring. So did I. I was raised on it. Lazarus-Buddha took the CD, looked it over, smiled, nodded, and carefully sat it down by the chessboard.

“Thank you, Robert.” Lazarus-Buddha said as he gently moved his pawn.

Lazarus-Buddha and I had interesting conversations on the Saturday afternoons.

A lot of them, of course, were on the great spiritual issues that defined our time and purpose. Of course, Lazarus-Buddha was a spiritual man, even while entrapped in this fleshly state. Sometimes, I would bring him books on theology and religious philosophy from the public library and he would read them and give them back. Lazarus-Buddha was particularly fond of Paul Tillich and Ronald and Reinuld Neibeur. I didn’t quite understand why. Lazarus-Buddha knew everything they knew and more. His knowledge was infinite, even though we disguised it well.

We talked on world events, sociology, psychology. You name it. We talked on it.

Of course, we never talked on the descent or his true identity and purpose. It was

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an unspoken acknowledgement that the movement must not be sacrificed by careless conversation.

And, sometimes, we talked about Lazarus-Buddha’s fleshly manifestation.

Lazarus-Buddha, as Knox, grew up in a small town in Louisiana. Never knowing whom his father or mother was, he was shuttled among relatives and foster homes.

In fact, he was born in a house and never had a birth certificate made. At age 14, he lied about his age and somehow managed to get into the US Army and eventually into Vietnam. There, he learned to kill without conscience and survive without food in the thick, dewy jungles of Cambodia. Over there, Lazarus-Buddha managed to pick up a few well deserved medals and even some shrapnel in his abdomen. Lazarus-Buddha never did say much about what happened in his life after he left the military. For some reason, that was an area of his existence he would just talk past, as if it didn’t happen. Lazarus-Buddha never mentioned about being married or having children. In fact, it seemed he avoided that topic, too. I guessed that, being a spiritual being and stuck in a place like this prison, facing an earthly sentence of 335 years at the minimum, a person would probably not want to talk about the joys of family life. They would be irrelevant issues. “Checkmate”, said Lazarus-Buddha. Once again, he nailed me. He was good with chess. In fact, he once ran some kind of chess competition in here.

I wonder what the hell Lazarus-Buddha was thinking when he killed those people.

That stuff didn’t make any sense at all, especially for a man as bright and intelligent as he was. I remember someone mentioning some kind of combat syndrome with flashbacks and stuff. I wondered if the kind of crazy thoughts that ran through his mind at the time were anything like the ones running through mine.

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“You make me sick” I chuckled “As I began resetting my pieces for another game”.

I usually came to visit Lazarus-Buddha on the second Saturday of the month. As part of the program, we only had to come once a month and spend an hour, but sometimes I spent the entire day with Lazarus-Buddha. Once, when LazarusBuddha was undergoing some testing for cancer, I came up three Saturdays in a row. I didn’t mind. Despite what Lazarus-Buddha had done to end up in here, I felt he was a good brother. I initially came as an inspiration to him, but, knowing his purpose, he was an inspiration to me.

“So, my brother” Lazarus-Buddha began “Have you found your queen yet? The mother of your children? The grandmother of your grandchildren?” “Well, I did meet someone…..” I replied. In this program, we were advised to be hesitant about sharing with the inmates details of our personal lives. Even though they screened the inmates carefully, and they had impeccable records as model inmates – they could be deeply manipulative. However, I felt it was harmless to share with Lazarus-Buddha generic details of what I did for a living, my family background, etc. It wasn’t like he was getting out of here anytime soon and could go postal on me.

“So..” as Lazarus-Buddha moved his pawn to begin the game “tell me about this divine, effervescent sister whom you have chosen to include in your company”.

“Hmmmm, well. She’s a nice person, very intelligent, studious, peaceful…” “Can she cook, my brother? After a long hard day earning your meat by the sweat of your brow, can this woman fulfill your famished appetite and replenish you?”

“Cook?”

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“Yes, my brother..cook!. If this woman is going to be the mother of your children, she must be able to cook. She must be able to cook healthy food that will sustain your flesh.”.

“Mother of my children? You starting to sound like a Muslim, Knox!” I laughed “You been in here too long!”

I remembered seeing Lazarus-Buddha in one of my dreams once.

I knew it was Lazarus-Buddha, then again, I didn’t know for sure if it was him.

It was like I was looking at some huge crimson landscape with bright orange and red streaks running vertically across it like the horizon was on fire.

A huge brown cross that looked like it was made out of some kind clay was protruding from the red clay earth.

Lazarus-Buddha was impaled on that cross by some kind of translucent instruments.

He had an eerie, crooked mouth grin on his face.

There were no nails, no rope. Just instruments of light. Translucent light.

I remembered trudging up the thick, shin deep, red mud to Lazarus-Buddha and reaching up to him, and being greeted by a thick, murky mass of clotted and convulated blood landing across my face.

After I wiped it away, I looked up and Lazarus-Buddha was gone.

The cross was empty.

I blinked my eyes, and the cross too was gone.

I turned around to walk away.

Then, I woke up.

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“Yes, Robert, I been in here way too long! However, I have accepted that fact. I am at peace with it. It is no longer an issue with me.” LazarusBuddha said as he sighed and looked panoramically around the nearly empty visitation room “and I plan to live it out as long as I can. What else can I do?”

“True.” I sighed and moved my pawn. Lazarus-Buddha had no choice where he was going to live. That was for sure.

“So, what does this woman do? Nurse, teacher, writer, lawyer? Or does she spend her days sitting at the side of a lurid pond thinking of you and your futures together?”

“She’s a nurse.” I said with a laugh. Sometimes, Lazarus-Buddha had a way of embellishing everything he said.

“Nurse?” Lazarus-Buddha nodded as he moved another piece “Hmm…registered?

Is that what she wants to be all her life? Is that her final destination?

Or does she have another purpose?”

“In all honesty, Knox” I went on “I really don’t know. It’s sort of like she’s holding back. I mean we have a great time together and stuff but it’s like she won’t open up.”

“Are you sleeping with her, my brother?” Lazarus-Buddha inquired.

“Well………...” I raised my head and looked through Lazarus-Buddha’s nearly round spectacles into his bright brownish-orange eyes. “When will brothers learn.

Today, folks have sex way too early in relationships. It clouds their thinking.

They confuse the person with their passion and sexual desire with their voice of inner reason.” Lazarus-Buddha added from his repository of folk wisdom. I nodded even though I disagreed with him. “..A true sister is a well of secrets and hidden treasures that a brother only discovers through the course of a lifetime 108

together.” Lazarus-Buddha added “..If you can only see the surface of her heart but have full trust in what lies beneath, you’ve met a true sister”. “That’s deep.” I responded as I waited for Lazarus-Buddha to make his first move.

“That’s truth. The truth is the very definition of what we commonly call deep.”

Lazarus-Buddha moved his pawn.

The game began.

We played in silence.

Checkmate. This time, Lazarus-Buddha nailed me in 14 moves. Either he was getting better or I was getting worse at this game.

“How are your studies coming?” I asked Lazarus-Buddha. He had finished a Bachelor’s degree in prison and was working on a Master’s degree in sociology.

“Very well, my brother. Very well. As you already know, the curricula, books, and instruction are heavily tainted and biased towards reflecting the perverse perspectives of the status quo. However, even in the midst of these manifestations of great error, I am able to find and derive kernels of truth.” Lazarus-Buddha added, running his fingers through his collar as if to loosen and already loosened collar. Looking towards one of the doors, I saw one of the members of the descent standing in the doorway. At first, I couldn’t make out the face because of a beam of light shining towards my face. After moving my head down a bit and squinting, I could see that it was W.E.B. Dubois. He was an eminent member of the Anointed Ones and was rarely seen outside of the deepest corridors of the kingdom. I had read all of his writings and the Anointed Ones had instructed me to commit as much of his work to memory as I could. I had only seen Dubois once before. In one of my night journeys, I saw him get into a very virulent and combative exchange with Sally Hemmings. It was early morning and they were standing on a 109

long beach covered with skulls of the original ones and rolled up five dollar bills.

Despite the fact that they fought for hours, I couldn’t recall what the argument was about. However, Sally did run off crying, tripping over the skulls and gashing her face before vanishing down the beach. I hadn’t seen her since. From what the Anointed Ones shared with me of Dubois, tact was not always his strong point even thought he always spoke of truth. I felt sorry for Sally. Some members of the Anointed Ones were very harsh with her at times. In opinion, the things they seemed to be angry about weren’t really her fault. Then again, I’m sure they knew much more about the situation than I did.

Dubois eyes met mine for a moment and then he slowly placed one hand over his eyes, as if he were playing hide-and-seek with someone. He then placed his other hand over his privates as if he were trying to protect him genitals from something or someone. For a few moments, he stood like this.

A statement came to my mind. It was one that an Anointed One had told me some time earlier.

“Essence exchanged but unseen is surely death.” I still didn’t know what it meant.

Maybe one day, I would. I looked at Lazarus-Buddha, knowing that he knew of Dubois presence in the room. However, Lazarus-Buddha said nothing. He was just holding up some chess pieces and examining them as if he were looking for signs of wear and tear. I assumed that he was waiting for the proper moment to mention Dubois presence here.

When I turned back to Dubois, he was gone. The doorway was empty again. I figured that, in the fullness of the descent, it would become clear to me what Dubois was trying to tell me.

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I stretched my arms out and looked around. The visitation room was now empty except for Lazarus-Buddha and myself. Sometimes, it was like this. Other times, it would be packed to the brim. Especially as we neared a holiday like Easter or Christmas. In fact, on the Saturday before Easter, you couldn’t find an empty table in this visitation room and the prison would open the recreation room for model prisoners and their families to use with minimal supervision.

The sun was now setting rapidly, the last piercing rays of sunlight were steely beams of translucence balancing between the tops of the high windows, across the visitation room, and onto the far wall. No one had bothered to turn on the dim yellow lights yet, so the room had a real soft ambient feel, an almost surrealistic feel to it. For a brief moment, it was dead quiet. I couldn’t even perceive the sound of Lazarus-Buddha tenderly packing the hand carved chess pieces neatly back into the red velvet lined box he stored them in. Both tired guards were now sitting lazily. One had his feet kicked up on a chair. The other had on some headphones and was just looking about, nodding to some phantom beat.

Lazarus-Buddha slowly raised himself up, took a long drink of water, returned, and sat down crossing his legs. “I like it when the hall is like this. The peacefulness and tranquility is reflective of what I hope to experience on day, once I leave here.”, he said as he closed the tiny brass latch on his box of chess pieces.

For a brief moment, I thought he was going to speak on the movement. But, he didn’t and I understood why.

“It is nice..” I added.

In a little while, I was going to have to start my trek back home.

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Chapter 4 I staggered into what appeared to be an old dingy barbershop that was open way after hours. With the exception of a single plain lamp sitting in the middle of a card table, the shop was completely darkened. Around this card table, there was a group of well dressed older black men playing cards and passing around a single, half empty, bottle of what might have been some old whiskey. Other than the sounds of cards hitting the table or the bottle being set down, it was totally silent.

Not one of them initially seemed to notice me enter as I pushed slightly opened door and tumbled into one of the rickety wooden seats that waiting patrons sat on.

I waited for someone to turn around with alarm or anger and inquire as to the nature of my arrival there at this late hour. However, that simply did not take place.

One well dressed tan skinned man, with a thick ring of black hair around an otherwise bald head, looked at me over his round spectacles and simply nodded.

Then, he brushed his goatee with one finger and turned back to his card game.

Looking back through the glass into the darkened street, I saw no sign of the entity that had been pursuing me all these nights, nor or anyone else for that matter. The streets were dormant and totally lifeless. As I leaned towards the glass and gazed up and down these empty streets, I noticed there wasn’t so much as a single piece of paper blowing in the streets. They were immaculately cleaned.

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In fact, there weren’t any cars either, parked or moving. No mailboxes, no streetlamps.

Turning back to the men playing cards, I noticed one very large man who had his entire back to me. From the back, I could tell he was wearing a pair of dark brown pinstriped slacks with a white dress shirt. His sleeves were neatly rolled up to reveal massive, hairy, sinewy sandy colored forearms. As he moved one arm, I could see his sinews move and the light refract and reflect from the shiny gold jeweled watch that adorned his wrist.

A glimmer from waistband of his slacks drew my attention and revealed to me that this large man had a big chrome razor tucked into his waist. I could see the curved handle protrude out as if he had intentionally positioned it for easy access. With one quick motion, he could reach down, snatch out this razor and open it up for whatever purpose.

For some reason, my eyes were fixated on this man and his gleaming razor. His lumpy back was wide and I couldn’t see around it to have any idea of what he was holding in his hands.. I tried to look away but I couldn’t. Yet, I was afraid he would feel my eyes tearing into his back and he would explode into a fury of rampant anger but for some odd reason, I couldn’t turn my head. I tried, but I couldn’t even bow my head. For several minutes, I was invisibly forced to stare at the back of this odd but menacing man.

Finally, I was able to turn my head and look across the room to an empty row of barber chairs superimposed against counters filled with large grimy glass jars of 113

solvent, grease, foams, and trimming tools. Against the wall were large, cracked and yellowing mirrors. On these mirrors, worn and tattered overlapping photographs of busty nude women were crudely taped..

I could feel the tissue between my toes burning in my shoes. I slipped my shoes off.

My socks were soaking wet from my flight and the stress of this ordeal. So, I took my socks off and flexed my toes. Raising one leg up and across my lap, I began to scratch between my toes with my nails. It was soothing and I could feel the tender, moist flesh flaking off under my fingernails.

Soon, I felt a shadow fall over me. Looking up, it was the widebacked man who was playing cards a moment earlier. He was standing there, his massive arm drawn back, his blade open and gleaming as if he were prepared to slash my throat. I noticed blood stains on the front of his brown tie and shirt.

Looking back over at the table, I nearly vomited at what I saw. The other three men were cocked back in their chairs, their heads leaned back and their throats were viciously slashed . Thick rivers of bright crimson blood were running profusely down the fronts of their shirts.

Their eyes were frozen open. Almost artistically, like faraway stars twinkling in the deepest midnight, their dormant pupils glimmered and reflected the dim yellow light of that single lamp on the table.

Though clearly dead, their hands were still firmly grasping their playing cards, cigarettes, and wine glasses. It was as if they were some kind of grotesque black mannequins, designed to stun and shock those who viewed them.

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Slowly, I turned my head, prepared to face this wide backed man, but now, he was gone. There was nothing. Not even a single drop of blood on the floor. For a brief second I was relieved.

I heard a creaking noise. In the far corner of the ding shop, I saw a battered wooden door opening, leading into a dark downward staircase. From my seat, I could see faint glimmers and rays of blue and purple light emanating from wherever this staircase led.

I knew I had to go down these stairs. I had no choice.

For a second, I thought about the wide backed man with the razor. I never recalled seeing his face.

I entered the fourth chapter and twenty second verse of my descent on the twelth day of the tenth month of the year. It was a quiet evening. Very quiet. It had been a sunny, moderate day and the night was likewise moderate. As I drove by a nearby park, I saw young children frolicking in the play area and young lovers walking hand in hand slowly on the trail, trying to capture the sights and smells from what may be one of the last few warm nights left in the year. Once home, I slid off my snakeskin church shoes and let them fall to the oak hardwood floor. They landed on the scattered ruins of the Sunday paper. For a moment, I contemplated picking it all up. Forget it. I would do it later on.

I was dog tired. Mainly because I had been in church nearly all day long.

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For some reason, today I felt like going to everything. First, there was Sunday School, then a long morning service followed by dinner with a friend and his family on the Plaza. Apparently, they had some kind of squabble earlier in the day. The somewhat tense conversation was punctuated by a few random barbs thrown by the wife about the husband’s failure to remember to pay the utility bill.

After a leisurely drive looking at homes that were too expensive but very nice, I went to the afternoon service and then to the Bible study at in the multipurpose center.

Of course, I found time to slip away and kill about half of a bottle of gin in between afternoon service and Bible study. We hung around for the evening service, this was the one that was recorded for television. I sat in the back, just in case I got thirsty again. Afterwards, I spent about an hour of socialization in front of the church. Finally, I was at home. If today was a day of rest, I couldn’t tell it.

After undoing my tie and unbuttoning my vest. I reached for my remote control.

With the sound off, I flipped from channel to channel. As usual, there was nothing on.

I fumbled in the side of my chair and found the remote control for the stereo.

Turning it on, I discovered that I had a jazz CD already inserted.

It began playing.

The sound of a single haunting saxophone began to fill the apartment. It crawled along the floor, up the walls, across the ceiling, back down again and then permeated my ears. It was soothing and calming. I wanted it to make me sleepy, but it wouldn’t.

Tonight, my body seemed to be crying out for alcohol and painkillers. At first, I felt no pain, just an urge for pills and drink. However, the more my body cried 116

out, the more I began to feel sharp pains in my lower back, my left knee, my shoulder, and my head. Sometimes, I wondered if this pain really existed. Then again, did it really matter.

Did any of this stuff exist?

But, I was really considering stopping this behavior. On the one hand, I had read of people who got addicted to painkiller and alcohol. I’d even read about some people whom had been killed by it. But, on the other hand, I knew that I wasn’t an addictive type of person. There was nothing that I couldn’t walk away from. I couldn’t name one thing in my life that I felt I could do without. Not even sex.

Some brothers needed a woman, if for nothing more than sexual release. Not me.

Not at all. I enjoyed the release but I sure as hell didn’t need it. Leaning back in my chair, I closed my eyes, stretched and popped my tired toes. For a brief second, I thought I heard something like a large metal gate creak and then slam shut. I sat up and opened my eyes. As usual, the television was on with the sound on mute and the only light in the apartment was creeping in from a single lamp in the bedroom.

It was those doing sounds again Mama and Daddy. Aunt Juanita and Uncle James. Even though they had all been gone for years, sometimes I could hear their voices as clear as if they were standing next to me. I’m just tired. I wasn’t fighting it tonight. Too damn tired, too damn exhausted from a day in church and running around. So, I got up, went into the kitchen, and crumbled a few pills in the bottom of a cocktail glass. I added some scotch whiskey and some cola. Then, I drank it all down in one swig.

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In a few moments, my mind would begin to relax and my body would start to shut down. I would feel good again. My pain would go away. I would go to sleep.

Probably right here on the couch.

I started to call Mother Africa. But, I chose to sleep instead.

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Chapter 6 The corridor was long, dark and damp like a sewer. It was dimly illuminated by a single, blue utility light that hung about midway down the corridor. Each side of the corridor was lined with doorways I felt myself being pulled down this corridor by the Anointed Ones. It was going to be very important to learn the lessons waiting for me here and They were determined that I learned the lessons. This dim blue light ricocheted sharply off the walls, doors, and dark tile floor. These walls and doors were slick and dark like they were covered with some type of thick, glossy paint. The floors were similar. They were covered with slick, dark, clean tiles.

At the far end of the hallway, I could see a single, ominous door. From where I stood, it looked like it was made out of iron or steel and riveted together. It appeared to me to be a very secure door, like the kind of a door used in a nuclear power plant or someplace like that. In silence, I began to slowly walk down this hallway. I could feel the tile underneath my feet. It was cold, but soothing in a strange way. In a way, the floor felt like it was moving. It felt like some kind of liquid vinyl floor that actually sunk in around my feet when I walked on it.

Very soon, I came upon the first door.

As I passed by the first door on my right, my head turned and looked inside. The room was completely empty except for a long, nude, black figure laying sideways on one of those lush and elegant, royal looking sofas. The face was looking curiously at me as if I was some kind of alien visitor.

I felt my body stop. While my torso continued to face down the hallway, I felt my head turn slowly, all the way, to gaze fully at this strange figure.

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This was a female, that was clear. It wasn’t that I could see any time of female genitalia, but rather her very essence breathed femininity. Yet, her body was long, jet black, muscular, and almost silky looking. Her skin had a very dark turquoiselike glimmer to it, capturing and shimmering off the light from the hallway.

But, there was something about her face that was markedly different. It was almost catlike as if this woman was some kind of amalgamation between human and feline. Yet, it didn’t quite look catlike. There were no whiskers or anything like that.

There was just something in the wide, oval shaped eyes and big deep pupils that made me think of cats. Yet, at the same time this face had a look that made me think of Africa. The thick jutted exotic lips and nose screamed of the motherland.

Maybe I was in some kind of African royal palace. I just didn’t know. Her hair was long, thick, straight. It flowed down like a river, over her shoulders, off the couch and into a pile on the floor. At the very end of each strand were some kind of silver, round trinkets, like the kinds little girls wear. She moved her head and her hair rippled into waves silently like an ocean of blackness.

For a moment, I was frozen as I stood there looking at her. She was sexy and sensual, yet menacing. There was something deliciously tempting, yet terribly damning about this woman. I wanted to ravish her but somehow I knew that to pursue her would be a huge mistake. Looking down at the floor around the couch she was on, I realized that actually there was no floor. The couch this woman was on was simply levitating in and on the open air. Beneath it was an abyss of blackness. Slowly, this woman raised a single arm and pointed towards the end of the hallway.

My head turned back towards the ominous door at the end of the hallway and my feet began to move again.

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As I passed each room in this hallway, I would briefly peer in to see seething orgies of twisted, convoluted black bodies. Their writhing of thee maze of their slick and oily bodies gathered and reflected the dark blue light from the hallway.

It was clear to me that they were involved in some kind of intense erotic activity, but I couldn’t exactly point out exactly what. In fact, it was hard to tell where one person ended and the other person began. These masses of thick, black arms, legs, and torsos seemed to come together as one creation and yet move apart as separate entities.

Eventually, I reached the end of the hall. I was now face to face with the ominous metal door.

Momentarily, I pondered whether I should open it or not. In this moment of contemplation, I realized that I hadn’t seen a single face in all the rooms I had just passed by. Faceless and twisted orgies of arms, legs, and bodies was all I had seen.

I placed my hand on the doorknob.

The Anointed Ones were calling me.

I entered the sixth chapter and fourteenth verse of my descent in the middle of October as I was lying on a park bench with my pants unzipped and my phallus out. My body was sweaty and tense and my mind was struggling to remain focused on my eternal task of the descent while weighing the temporal concerns that I had to contend with until I met my appointed task.

Mother Africa was replenishing my essence on the hard seat of a badly warped old wooden bench deep within the confines of the city park. It was an October 121

Tuesday night, just before midnight. I had already decided that I wasn’t going into work the next day. Work was becoming more and more of an irrelevant concept, now that the day of the enlightenment was nearing.

I was laying on my back feeling the full weight of Mother Africa as she straddled me. The bench that I was laying on was very narrow and, at first, I had a difficult time balancing Mother Africa on top of me. Finally, she leaned forward and grabbed the sides of the bench. It gave her balance and traction as she moved her hips on top of me. It also placed her breasts within close proximity to my mouth, allowing me to nurse from her repositories of wisdom and intellect.

In this cool night air, Mother Africa wore nothing but a long grey trenchcoat and some low healed black shoes. Despite the coolness, her body was streaming with salty, tangy sweat. It rolled down from her shoulders, dripped off her nipples and landed on my willing tongue.

Tonight, Mother Africa didn’t even bring a purse, she just dropped her keys in her coat pocket. I could hear them rattle against each other and make a jingling as her body moved and thrust in the open night air.

As we lay there, replenishing one another, the spiritual significance of this act began to unravel in my ever-expanding mind. When the original man was formed, long before the evolution of the European Colonialists, they had no need for clothing or shelter. Their perfect bodies could replenish themselves and each other

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in the warm and open air of the Kush Valley. There was no shame, no disgrace, and no dishonor in this. It was natural and necessary.

Now, the minds of the descendents of the original man were so corrupted and infiltrated by the lies of our European enemies, that we had rejected the very activities which defined our essence. It was obvious by our dress. Everyday that I went to work, I viewed men in slacks, ties, and collared shirts with no idea that this was only a temporal adornment until we returned to the true essence of dress. I saw women with pressed, permed, and abused hair with no comprehension that, in imitating the appearance of the European Colonialists, they were rejecting their own heritage and background.

At moments like this, I wanted to call Mother Africa by her true title!

Rather than cry out “Mya”, I wanted so badly to call her “Mother Africa”.

However, I knew that the enemy was watching and so, we could speak only in cryptic and mythical terms. Our conversation must be that to not arouse the suspicion of the infiltrators, traitors, and enemies that surrounded us daily. Even in a secluded placed like this secret enclave in the park, there may be surveillance devices and monitoring equipment planted at all ends.

This night was an unseasonably warm fall night. For an October, this warmness was quite refreshing. I could smell the autumn leaves all around us and faintly hear the cars on the fairway a few hundred yards away. We were quite a ways from the streets and the parking lots. If someone came towards us, we’d surely hear them and have plenty of time to get our clothing together.

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As usual Mother Africa’s wide hips were grinding voraciously, her garden flowing juices all over me, and her long inquisitive fingers dipping in between her garden, her mouth, my mouth, and sometimes even the orifice which spewed waste. I was quickly discovering that Mother Africa had a thing about fingers and places like this. I understood. Her entire body was a righteous organism and must be explored by those who wished to ascend to the calling. The continent of her body must be fully embraced, accepted, and digested. To leave out one part of her body would be to reject a part of one’s self. I accepted this and opened myself willingly for her to impart herself unto me.

Afterwards, Mother Africa collapsed on top of me and we laid there for a long, long time.

We laid in the silence and I could feel her breast beating against my neck. I could feel the pulsating of the Congo and the hunting call of the Tinkaru reverberating from her chest into me. I nearly fell asleep to it.

About thirty minutes later, Mother Africa and I were sitting in Saw’s, a nice twenty four hour diner located in the midtown area. Saw’s had this fifties diner feel to it, with the curved leather seats, black-red-white décor, and row of stools facing the kitchen.

Late at night, Saw’s attracted an eclectic crowd including a cast of characters straight from Kansas City’s sexual underworld. It wasn’t uncommon to see an entire booth of cross dressing business men or hardcore butch lesbians consorting 124

with some factory workers fresh from laboring through a graveyard shift. There was always something to see at Saw’s.

After giving our breakfast orders to an overworked, busty waitress. Mother Africa and I sat silently in a booth waiting for our orders to arrive. Mother Africa was still completely naked except for wearing a trench coat and some high heeled shoes. In fact, when we first entered, I think some men thought she was a prostitute. They looked her up and down and actually seemed surprised when we took a booth. In Saw’s how could anyone be surprised? Then again, they probably figured that prostitutes don’t usually go to breakfast with their clients.

Two booths down from us, a couple of homosexual black men wearing whiteface makeup were cuddling and moving their noses over each other like stray dogs in heat. They were slim men and wearing tuxedos and derby hats. Maybe they were from some kind of production. Looking over at me suggestively, one of the men was sliding his tongue in and out of the other man’s ear.

Sitting at the stools were a group of burly, tired men who worked at the telephone company. Lord knows what they had been fixing that night. Their grey coveralls and boots were covered with some kind of foul-looking, black, murky grime with green streaks in it. Silently, they sipped on coffee and dined on scrambled eggs, toast, and sausage.

In a far corner, I saw what looked like to be some kind of well dressed Hispanic or Latino man. He looked clean. Real clean. He had on a sharp pressed all-white suit 125

with a matching feathered top hat. He was simply rubbing his chin, reading the morning paper, and sipping on some tea. He looked up and for a brief second, his tired eyes met mine. He nodded, and then went back to his reading.

Mother Africa and I talked for a few hours. I was finding out more about her every time we talked. She had three siblings that lived in the city.

They were all married and had children. Mother Africa’s father was living in Texas with his fourth wife and Mother Africa’s mother had moved back to North Carolina, where she was from. Other than the man she had lived with, Mother Africa had never had a single steady lover. This was not surprising to me. The rivers of Mother Africa must replenish many lands.

Mother Africa was starting to get tired. Her eyes were getting red. “So, Robert, what do you dream about?” Mother Africa’s eyes suddenly perked up and she sat back in the booth. I could tell that she had been thinking about this for some time.

Still, I wondered how she knew about my dreams.

“What do I mean?”

“What do I mean? Well, you kick, you thrash, you act like you’re running from something, you mumble. In fact, you’ve rolled out of the bed a few times and fell on the floor. Man, I’m glad I got a queen size bed or I wouldn’t be able to sleep with you.” Mother Africa said, first laughing and then dropping her voice to a hushed tone. She stirred her coffee and took a sip.

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I contemplated my next words. Sometimes, it wasn’t easy to speak of the descent in cryptic terms.

“I don’t know, just a lot of real crazy shit that goes across my mind. People chasing me and shit like that. You know. Well, I don’t mean that you ‘know’. But, I hope you understand what I mean by bad and troubling dreams.” I responded, looking at my coffee.

I knew that Mother Africa knew all the minute details of my night travails, however, she was feigning ignorance so as to not blow her cover. We had to be mindful of the fact that we were being observed at all times.

Our relationship had to look as normal and inconspicuous as possible, so as to not arouse the suspicion and ire of those who were working for our destruction and the destruction of the nations of men.

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t dream like that. I once read where someone said that if the eyes are the windows to the soul, then our dreams are the front doors. I read that in a magazine or something like that. So, Mr. Robert, if I looked into the front doors of your soul, what would I see? I’m curious.” Mother Africa replied, pulling her trench coat a little tighter so as to not show too much cleavage. For a brief second, she seemed uncomfortable, as if she were afraid that people passing by could see that she was naked under her coat.

“I’m not sure what you’d see in the front doors of my soul. I mean, I’m on the inside looking out. Not sure how it would appear on the outside looking in.

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Probably completely different from the way it appears to me. What do you think you would see if you looked inside the front doors of my soul?”

“For some reason, I think that you have a good soul, an old soul. You’re a good person. You try to treat other people the way you want to be treated. You don’t judge others by things that are irrelevant or purely surface. I can appreciate that.

You live a lot in the past, and that’s not always a bad thing. I think you have direction, but you just haven’t found it yet.”

“Interesting, so, Mya, how do you gather all of that from the little time we’ve known each other? I’m not disagreeing with you, just wondering what makes you feel that way.”

Mother Africa just shrugged, widening her eyes for a second.

I continued.

“Well, I don’t know Mya. I mean, I’ve had real crazy dreams since I was a child, it’s like it’s a series or something. Like they are leading me somewhere, taking me on some kind of voyage. I just don’t know. It’s real strange.” I slowly inhaled, hearing the wind hiss between my pursed lips and tongue.

As we sat in silence for a moment, I listened for Mother Africa’s response. By describing my night journeys with the Anointed Ones as “crazy dreams”, I wanted to see if she felt we were in a safe enough environment to discuss things of the descent.

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She sat there for a few minutes and looked into her coffee with a look of introspection on her face. Finally, she inhaled deeply and looked back at me.

“Robert, can I ask you a question?” ”Go ahead.”

“What happened to your parents? I know that you mentioned they were dead but you never told me what happened. You are still pretty young for both your parents to have passed.” ”Suicide.”

A look of sudden shock and surprised crossed Mother Africa’s face.

“What? Did you….say….say….suicide?”

“Yes, suicide. My parents killed themselves. Actually, my father killed my mother and himself.” ”Wha?...Robert that’s horrible. I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about it.”

Mother Africa said, her eyes darting nervously between my hands, my face, her hands, and her coffee. “We can talk about it. It’s ok.”

Mother Africa focused her eyes on mine and so I continued. “Well, it was my first year in college and I was away from home and my parents sat in the garage and my father turned the car on and they died like that. They died from carbon monoxide poisoning. My younger sister found them the next day. He, I mean they, didn’t leave a note or anything.”

“Was…was there a reason? I mean, why…why did he do it? I mean, I’m not trying to blame your father…that’s not what I mean…I just mean what happened…that’s all.” Mother Africa said, seeming somewhat confused. “Ummm…I don’t really know, no one does. I mean, we thought he may have been depressed because we 129

all had grown up and left the house. No one really knows. To be honest, the police felt that it was my mother went along with it. It wasn’t like she was forced. A willing participant.” ”Wha? That’s different. I mean, if I’m asking too many questions, just let me know. But, why would they think that?” ”Just something about the way they were positioned, to be honest, I don’t really know myself. I didn’t want to talk or think about it, so I never engaged in too many discussions over it. Maybe one day, I’ll read over the reports on it.”

The waitress came with our breakfast and Mother Africa put her lips to fingers as if to tell me to be silent while the waitress was there. After the waitress left, she began speaking again. “So, do you think these dreams you have are connected to your parents’ suicide?”

“I don’t know, I’ve always had crazy dreams. As far back as I can remember.” ”What about the drinking? You do a lot of drinking. Have you always done that?” ”I didn’t start drinking until just a few years ago.” ”How did that start?” ”Well, I just felt like drinking one night so I got up and got some wine. I sort of worked up from there. Coolers, beer, whiskey, etc. Now you got the story. I tried beer but didn’t like it.” ”I don’t like beer either.”

“So, Robert, I must ask. What are you intentions regarding me?”

“Intentions? What do you mean?” ”Yes, intentions. Why are you with me? Is it is just the sex? Is it more than sex?

Do you see me in your future? What draws you to me besides my big ass?”

“Well, I like the fact that you are honest and well spoken. You call your own shots and make your own rules. You are honest about things that you have experienced 130

and you are not caught up in some kind of pity-party. You’re fun to be around.

Uplifting and encouraging. That’s about all I can think of.”

“Are you sure? I mean about that being all you can think of.”

“Well, if I think of any more, I’ll make sure I tell you.” We sat there and finished our breakfast in silence. I ate nearly all of my food, but Mother Africa only ate a small portion of hers. When she was done, she leaned back in the booth and leaned her head against the wall. I could have asked Mother Africa what her intentions were for me, simply to disguise our true conversation, but I opted not to. I already knew that I must pass through her gates in order to find my true purpose and fulfillment. By passing through her, I would be walking through my legacy and thus into my future.

Even though we both knew this to be true, I sometimes wished we could verbalize it. I wished that, in bed, I could lay on Mother Africa’s bosom and she could speak unto me of the glories that were to come in my existence and the beauties of the descent. I wished that she could tell me of the glories that reigned within her veins before the arrival of the European Colonialists and the glories that would reign again once they had been eradicated and destroyed.

Most of all, I wish I could lay on her breast and she could tell me of the great purpose I had in the descent and the special purpose for which I was chosen. I could use the emotional support. Being a warrior in the descent was a lonely task and, unlike others, sometimes I needed a lot of emotional support. My mystically blind upraising and childhood sheltered from the depths of true conscious thinking hadn’t really prepared me for this task, not directly anyway. However, the anointed ones had told me to beware these feelings. Some warriors, weakened in morale, had broken down and spoken of the descent publicly. The consequences were less 131

than desirable. Those guilty of betraying the confidences of the Anointed Ones risked facing institutionalization, ostracization, and in some rare cases – execution.

Mother Africa was leaning over in the booth. She was asleep. I got up from my side of the booth and slid in next to her, and gently shifted her head onto my shoulders.

Mother Africa was tired and slept on my shoulders until sunrise.

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Chapter 8 As soon as I opened the ominous metal door, I found myself standing in a vast room. It was large, like a gymnasium or fieldhouse. My attention was immediately drawn to a short and portly white man standing quietly in the corner.

He was wearing one of those tropical looking, off white seersucker suits with a matching hat. This attire made me think he was some kind of sugarcane or plantation czar from Cuba, Panama, South America or someplace. Leaning on a warped bamboo cane, he seemed nonchalant but he was clearly in charge. A half smoked cigar protruded from his lips, sending up tiny wisps of smoke, and his eyes were focused intently on the activity in the center of the room.

Slowly I turned my head to see that this entire room was surrounded with a ring of totally nude, muscular dark skinned black men. Around the neck of each one was a rusty iron shackle attached to a chain that hung down to the floor. These men were clearly slaves, even though I the chains that were attached to their necks hung loosely on the floor. They weren’t bound together or constrained to the floor, yet they were bound and under some kind of bondage. I could sense that.

I couldn’t help but notice that each man had a long and pronounced thick black phallus that dropped halfway down their thighs. There was something ominous, yet comforting about the breadth and length of their manhood. It stirred feelings of pride within me to know that these men, fellow fruit of the vine of Mother Africa, were so robust in their masculinity. I knew that, myself, my phallus was nothing like theirs in terms of size and vitality. Of course, I knew this was due to the emasculating influences of the European Colonialists in my family tree. I still held

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hope, however, that in the final descent, my phallus would be restored to it’s rightful size and state.

These men seemed to be unconcerned about their state of undress. There was no nervousness or self-consciousness emanating from these men. In fact, they were simply staring forward, their dark black pupils swimming in pools of bright, almost hypnotic pearly white. The whiteness of their eyes actually seemed to glow, as if they were under a blacklight. With their perfectly black skin shining as if it had just been covered with oil, these men stood like noble tribal soldiers of the Akurba or Cairoa tribes awaiting some kind of commands. They were perfectly immobile and their bodies were totally still. Their eyes didn’t blink, their faces didn’t twitch.

Statues carved from marble or stone could not have stood as still as them men.

In a way, however, these men were also somehow menacing. They reminded me of the man with the fried fish that passed me by in an earlier night vision. Just their presence alone was somewhat intimidating. I’m not sure what it was about them but I suspected it was the sheer power that emanated from them. These men may possibly hold within the untapped resources of Mother Africa. That would explain their pure black skin. Of course, this power had great potential for my annihilation as well as my descent.

Yet, there was some kind of a peaceful and tranquil aura about them. Their presence was soothing and engaging. It made me feel safe and protected. If the European Colonialists ever launched a final offensive to destroy the remnants of Mother Africa, these men could be counted on to protect and fight for us.

Like the statutes of saints in a Catholic church, these men were almost stoic and saintly as they stood there. At this moment, the Anointed Ones revealed to me that these men were once some kind of holy warriors on a deeply intimate mission.

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After spending some time studying these men, I looked towards the center of the room. A single dim yellow floodlight hung high from the ceiling and beamed down on what appeared to be another dark, muscular black man crouched precariously on top of an old wooden table. This man was resting uncomfortably on his knees and forearms. His head were down and his hands wrapped around the back of it as if he were a disobedient soul praying for forgiveness from an angry God. His thick muscular ass was poised up and propped near the edge of the table as if it were being prepared for something.

Momentarily, a faint glimmer from the shadowy rafters caught my eye. I turned up.

There about four, fair-skinned black men, in crisp black tuxedos, sitting high on a beam with their legs dangling over. Like myself, they were looking around at the mandingos that ringed this room. As I looked closer, I noticed that these four men were holding shiny brass musical instruments that rested between their legs. One had a trumpet, another a saxophone, one held a guitar, and the other held what looked like a large string bass. Despite it’s immense size, he held string bass comfortably by the neck. Oddly, other than looking down, these four men were totally immobile.

I turned my attention back to the men on the floor with me. For a long time they just stood as if they were preparing for some kind of action. Finally the white man in the corner raised his cane and pointed at one of these nude black men. Calmly, the man left his space, walked with an almost mechanical deliberation over to the old wooden table, his phallus rising up and stiffening as he walked, and abruptly thrust his penis into the man who was crouched on it.

I staggered back in shock at this development. I hadn’t expected this and it caught me completely off guard. Looking forward as if he were oblivious to his own 135

actions, this man was pumping, thrusting and pounding into the other man with an almost savage ferocity. To my surprise, the man who was on the receiving end of this horrific violation seemed unconscious of what was being done to his own body.

His didn’t jerk, flinch, or even jolt. I didn’t understand it. Just the thought of another man’s penis, especially one as long and thick as this man here, entering me made my back crawl with anticipations of pain and rectal torment.

I wanted to turn away and run but I knew I couldn’t go back. I began to look around the room to see if there were some outlet, but I saw none. I saw no doors or windows. This room appeared to be sealed from all outside influences, like some kind of incubus. I realized that, unless I found someway to extricate myself from this room, I would be next. I would end up on that table and violated. This would be my fate, unless I could leave this room.

Overwhelmed, I dropped to my knees at this thought, my eyes never leaving this atrocity being committed in front of me. In my very sight, this man was being violated in the most vile and emasculatory fashion, yet no one of these other men so much as blinked. Even though they looked identical to him and appeared to somehow be his comrades, they did nothing to interfere with this action and protect this man.

Then, something happened. It was something very disturbing, but yet making complete sense of this madness.

To my amazement, I watched as the skin of these two men began to change in pigmentation and tone. From a glistening pure black, it slowly became a dull dark brown, like that of maple syrup. Soon, from this dark brown, their skin slowly became a mild chestnut color, and then a light caramel color. I watched as the

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purity of Mother Africa’s essence seemed to drain from their very genes and chromosomes, vanishing into the flurry of this emasculation.

Soon, these two men were of the same complexion and hue as the white man in the corner. After noticing this, I turned and looked at him. The white man’s face was still stoic and immobile. His eyes were still yet focused demonically on this sight in the middle of the room while the cigar is his mouth continued to emanate small wisps of smoke. It was obvious that this was not shocking to him in the least, in fact his nonchalant demeanor indicated that he may have very well regarded this as action as something routine and common.

Finally, after several minutes and with a flurry of several hard thrusts, the victimizer appeared to finish. He didn’t jerk, twitch, or make any of the facial expressions that I would expect from a man who was relieving himself sexually into someone else. He just stopped moving and stepped back while his phallus dropped limply down between his legs. By this time, his skin and the skin of the man he had penetrated were both completely white and their facial features appeared to be no longer as broad and jutting as they had been at the beginning of this travesty. In fact, I couldn’t discern if they had any facial features at this point. In a way, they both seemed like wispy spiritual entities that had formed themselves into the vague shapes of men. Calmly, he walked back to his original spot and assumed his original position.

The white man in the corner pointed to another black man in the group. This man did the same as the first. He left his spot, lined up behind the man on the table, and thrust his penis viciously into him. As he pounded into this man, his skin began to also drain of it’s color, just like the first man.

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This time, I dropped my head. I didn’t want to see it. It was too much, even for me.

The Anointed Ones had given me strong lessons before, but this one was almost overwhelming.

Looking around, I knew I had to leave this place, but I still didn’t see any doors or exits. I turned completely around, hoping to find the doorway I had entered in, but the door that I had entered in from was no longer there. The wall behind me was completely sealed, as were all walls in this place. I was trapped here. I was a captive. Looking at the white man in charge, I noticed a faint glimmer of light coming from somewhere behind him. Apparently, there was some kind of a doorway or escape there. If I could get to that doorway, I could possibly find a way of escape. But, in order to do so, I would have to navigate myself behind this ring of black mandingos without arousing their suspicion and ending up on violated on that table. I realized that I had no choice. Slowly and creepily, I began to ease myself around the perimeter of the room and towards the faint glimmer of the light behind the white man in charge. All I saw was this faint shard of light. I knew that in it was escape and deliverance. However, at the same time, I had no idea what I would find when I got there.

Before I began making my way towards the shard of light, I turned my attention back up to the shadowy rafters and the four men who wear holding musical instruments. They were still sitting there on a beam with their legs dangling.

However they didn’t seem to notice that they were now stripped naked and their musical instruments were gone.

Crouching down, so as not to arouse suspicion and ire, I made my way slowly around the perimeter of the room. When I reached the white man, I saw that the

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shard of light was coming from what appeared to be a slightly ajar door. Looking closer, I saw that what I saw was a door was actually a crack in the wall.

Standing up straight, I gazed at the light emanating from this crack in the wall.

Something about it was soothing and alluring, yet disturbing and threatening.

Something about this light drew me towards it yet pushed me away at the same time. There was something about this light that spoke of my deliverance yet screamed of my destruction.

The crack wasn’t large enough to accommodate my body, so stepping into it was not an option. However, it was enlarging.

Turning back towards the room, I saw that it was now empty. Everyone was gone.

The ring of mandingos were no longer there. The white man whom I had crept to within a few feet of was no longer there. Even the table of violations was gone. The room was empty.

Looking up into the rafters, I saw the nude bodies of the four musicians swinging lazily from nooses. Clearly, they had been lynched while I wasn’t looking.

Like the lynched black man I had seen in the old photograph and the four murdered men in the barbershop, their eyes were still open and gazing into space. The light reflected off of their lifeless pupils.

It reminded of something I had seen in a night journey once. In this particular night journey, I was walking across the bottom of the ocean, amidst the corpses of the 139

original ones that had been thrown overboard. Their eyes were open and gazing into space. The ambient light from the moon above penetrated the waters of the ocean and reflected off their lifeless pupils.

The crack in the wall was now large enough to accommodate my entire body.

I moved forward and stepped into it.

The next time I visited Lazarus-Buddha, his body was clearly sick. He had refused cancer surgery and chemotherapy and had chosen to simply put his fate in the hands of the Anointed Ones. That was Lazarus-Buddha. A man of faith. Even though we were unable to discuss things of the descent, I knew that his earthly decisions were based on his faith in the descent.

It was another tranquil Saturday afternoon in the nearly empty prison visitation room. Lazarus-Buddha and I were sitting in the soft ambient light talking about nothing in particular. We had only played one game of chess today. For some reason, Lazarus-Buddha didn’t feel like playing chess too much today. He looked tired and I understood. Also, LazarusBuddha didn’t feel well at all and he had a lot of things on his mind.

Chess isn’t a game for those who can’t concentrate. That was one of the first things that Lazarus-Buddha had taught me.

“So, my brother, how are things going with you and Miss Mya?” ”Fine. They are going pretty well. We spend a lot of time together.”

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“Very well. Have you decided to do the honorable thing yet?” ”Honorable thing.

What’s that, Lazarus-Buddha? ”Well, you’ve already made her your wife in the biblical sense. When are you going to do it in the legal sense?” ”Legal sense? You mean marriage. Lazarus-Buddha, brother, I ain’t ready to be marrying anyone right now! I still have plenty of things to do.” ”Too much player in you? That’s such a disrespectful term. I would hope that you are not engaging in gross fornication and whoredoms. The Bible says that whoremongers shall not inherit the kingdom of God.” “Damn, Lazarus-Buddha. What’s up? Why you blasting on me today? I understand your opinion and all, but don’t you think you’re coming on too strong with all of that?”

“Robert, I’m sorry. Not trying to preach at you my brother. I’ve just been there. I know the temptation that comes with an attractive sister and unbridled male passions.” ”I’m sure. But sometimes you sound some condemnatory and judgmental. I mean, not to clown you, but a brother in your position…” “Shouldn’t sit in judgement of others? I agree. Yes, I murdered people. I broke the fifth commandment. That was the man I once was. Note..once. But, I’m no longer a murderer. I sought forgiveness and I found it.” “Okay, Lazarus-Buddha. I feel you. Can we talk about something else? This feels like church and I’m sort of saving that until tomorrow morning.” “Sure Robert. We can talk about something else.” Silence.

“So, Lazarus-Buddha, what did the doctors say? Did they give you any diagnosis?” ”The doctors told me I have anywhere from six weeks to three months. In their opinion, the demon of cancer has spread into my lymphatic system and will soon take over all of my major organs. It’s okay with me, Robert. I’m at peace.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

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“Yes, my brother. At peace. I’ve been at peace a long time. There’s no sense in fighting it. As the saying goes ‘Your arms too short to box with God’. I’m not boxing. I’m not fighting. I just want to rest.” I want to rest too. I’m so tired.

“I’m not trying to stress you. But are you sure you’re all right? I mean, terminal cancer is a serious thing. It’s like the end of it all.” “Robert, it’s not like I’m never afraid but I don’t think I have fear. Yes, I’m afraid. I’m afraid of dying in my sleep without a chance to say goodbye to those who I care for. I’m afraid that the people I have harmed will never be able to forgive me for the bad choices I made. I’m afraid that no one will ever remember me, that I will just vanish into the landscape of souls that were once. But, I feel I have no fear. I can handle whatever comes next. I’ve handled this place for all this time.” “Do you still write? Do you still do poetry? I know you got a lot going on these days.” ”Yes, I still write. Even more so now. I have a lot to put down, a lot of feelings and thoughts and expressions that I hope others will one day read. Now, Robert, can I ask you a favor?” ”Yes, Lazarus-Buddha, what is that?”

“My belongings. Do right by them.” ”what do you mean ‘do right by them’?” ”You know what I mean.” I knew what he meant.

“Yes, Lazarus-Buddha, I’ll do the right thing by your belongings.” There was a long pause.

“Lazarus-Buddha, why in God’s name, are you refusing surgery or chemotherapy?

I know it would be painful for awhile, but at least there is a good chance that you can survive this thing. I mean, why the hell aren’t you doing it?”

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“My brother, sometimes we have to embrace the inevitable. In my case, it’s death behind these bars which, in itself, is also death. What do I have to live for in here?

I appreciate your visits but that’s just once or twice a month. Beyond that, there’s nothing in here but a bunch of broken men with nothing to live for. I can’t go through an entire life in this place. Not like that.”

“You don’t have a life sentence. You have a thirty five year sentence. I know that’s a long time but it’s not the end of the world.”

I remember the time The anointed ones Filled my room With the glowing lights Of the torches Of Liberia And they said “House niggers Wear suits and ties Sports jerseys They drive in Nice automobiles And live in plush Suburban homes Field niggers Wear Prison fatigues And drink Of the vine 143

Of Ikaru” Then They left “Thirty five years, to me, is life. I enter this place at twenty seven and leave when I am sixty three. What kind of life is that? My best years were spent locked away in a prison, behind bars, unable to enjoy the prime of my life. Thirty five years is worse than a life sentence. A life sentence takes your entire life from you, plain and simple. Thirty five years strips away all the good part, the meat, the sweet part of life and then throws you back a hollowed core of what might have been. Thirty five years is designed to gut you out and then put you on display to the world as a broken shell of a human being. It’s worse than life.” “Lazarus-Buddha, I never thought of it like that.” “Being out here, to you, I’m sure that you wouldn’t really understand that. You still have optimism and the hope of good things. I have optimism and hope, but not in the things of this world.” “So, you think that dying will be the answer? That it will solve all your problems?” ”Honestly? Yes. If the written word is true, and I believe that it is – there is a hope of better things on the other side.” “I understand you Lazarus-Buddha, I feel you on that.” Silence.

“So, Lazarus-Buddha, how are you feeling? I’m just curious.”

“Well, Robert, right now I just feel week some days. Some days I don’t feel like eating. There’s no pain or anything but I can tell that I’m not totally well. The other day, I felt nauseated just smelling some coffee in the cafeteria. It will get worse in time, the doctors have told me that.” “Are you ready for it to get worse?

All the pain and stuff that’s going to come along with it?”

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“Yes, my brother. I’m totally ready”.

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Chapter 9 After leaving the scene of gross violations, I found myself what appeared to be a tiny storefront church.

Inside, were numerous rows of rickety wooden chairs facing the front. Creeping into the back, I slid down into one of these chairs and looked then looked forward.

At the front of this church, on the floor, was a large crowd of numerous individuals down on their knees. They were swaying and grinding their bodies back and forth as they were worshipping some kind of primitive deity. Their moanings and groanings poured from their lips and filled the room like the sound of an orchestra filling a concert hall..

Standing In front of them was a tall and stately black man adorned in a long black garment. Methodically, he walked back and forth in front of the kneeling mass, holding in his hands a large, thick black book that was adorned with an ornate golden trim.

Sometimes, this man would hold the book open in front of him and appear to read from it’s pages, pausing periodically while the kneeling mass silently formulated their lips as if to chant “amen”. His lips would purse as if he were elongating his enunciation and, at other times, he would arch his back as if he were shouting some words with such force that it appeared he would fall back from the sheer expungement of energy.

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His long black garment looked something like a cross between a preacher’s robe and a ladies dress, but in a way it was quite different. It was too broad in the shoulders to be a dress, but still tapered around the waist like a dress.

Nevertheless, at the bottom of this lengthy garment, I could see his pant leg and then his large black shiny shoes.

This man strutted and stalked back and forth constantly talking and shouting, stopping at times to raise his hands, sometimes putting one hand on his hip and leaning forward as if bowing to something unseen. Of course, I couldn’t hear a word he was saying. All my night journeys were done in silence. However, the expressions on his face and the movement of his lips let me know that he was talking on some topic of great and fervent interest.

Periodically, he would stop in front of one of the kneeling human effigies and then quickly and forcefully tap the top of their head with the palm of his hand. Some, when touched, would appear scream and shriek loudly, shaking their hands and fingers with violent force. Others would rack with sudden wavelike convulsions as if their bodies had been suddenly overtaken against their will. Still others would briefly rise to their feet, literally spin around like the dancers I had seen in the cabaret, raising their hands high in the air and momentarily dancing with ecstasy.

Some, when touched, would pass out, falling back onto the floor, sometimes fiercely enough to send a deep and riveting vibration across the warped hardwood floors, and descending into a state of momentary unconscious euphoria. A few seconds later, they would appear to ascend from that very same euphoric state, rise back to their knees, and return to their chanting.

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The words of a preacher I once heard came to my mind. “the chains of oppression shall not bind us” “the chains of freedom shall release us” I looked up and behind the kneeling mass and the man in the black robe. On the wall behind him was a large and crudely painted illustration of a young, bearded white man with dazzling golden hair standing in what appeared to be a large and peaceful green pasture spread out under a brilliant blue sky. This white man had a shining circular halo around his head and was clothed in a long white garment. In his delicate and unscathed hands, he held what appeared to be a very young lamb.

Looking above this man, I saw the crude painting continued into what appeared to be an impression of the heavens. On large billowy clouds rested angels, some playing harps and others looking down. They were all well plump, with expressions of amusement and wonder on their faces. Unlike the people in this church, all these angels were white with blond hair and sparkling blue eyes.

Looking back down, I noticed that the preacher had stopped his preaching.

He and the mass of people gathered at the front were now sitting still. They filled the front rows of this church. The preacher himself was sitting on a single chair in the front and center of the church.

Everyone was facing forward and their bodies were completely still. Just like the mandingos in the previous night journey, there was no movement or action. Like them, these people were as still as if they had been carved from granite or stone.

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For a long time, I sat there, not knowing what to do next. Unlike some of my other night journeys, this one didn’t feel threatening or dangerous. I could relax here for awhile. So, for a long time I sat there in silence.

I sat there for a very, very long time.

Then, I arose to my feet and began walking towards the front of the church. For some unknown reason, I wanted to see the faces of these people.

As I walked forward, I felt increasing resistance against my legs and feet. Looking down, I saw that the cracked and stained wooden floor below had dissolved into a myriad of cracked and yellowed skeletal remains, used crack vials and broken glass pipes, empty liquor bottles, and cheap tarnished jewelry. This myriad was thick, abrasive, and heavy and it made my progress difficult. I could feel the sharp edges and broken glass tearing at my feet and legs.

Still, I pressed forward, even as the myriad rose up past my knees. Soon, I was forced to push myself forward, as if I were waist high in a pool of water. I moved my arms in a swimming motion and projected myself forward off the heels of my feet. With each movement forward, the myriad seemed to become thicker and more resistant. I felt my strength waning and began to wonder if I would make it.

Just before I reached the first occupied pews, I was impressed to look back at the entrance. So, I did. Standing along the back wall were four individuals whom I recognized from the currency of the European Colonialists that I carried in my 149

wallet. I knew their faces very well and, even though I despised them, I cherished the green images of them that I used in the process of commerce. These individuals were Abraham Lincoln, Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, and Andrew Jackson.

They were clothed in their burgundy and scarlet colonial type clothing with ruffled Edwardian collars and sleeves. Lincoln, Jefferson, and Washington each held a large, shining machete in each hand while Jackson held a large rake. They were clearly prepared to embark upon a huge massacre right here in this church. I knew then that I must reach the worshippers immediately, to warn them.

Looking over in the corner, I saw what appeared to be Benjamin Franklin. He was wearing a pair of tattered blue overalls and smoking what may have been some kind of long, hand rolled cigarette. The very expression on his face indicated that, even though he was here to observe these events, he was clearly disinterested.

Nonchalantly, he took a long, deep drag and blew it into the air.

It was very important that I now reach these worshippers so that I could remind them of the great calamity that was soon to befall them. With all my force, I pushed myself forward until I reached the very front of the church. I stopped.

Turning around, I looked upon the faces, or what I expected to be the faces, of these worshippers. However, these people had no features. To my surprise, they had no noses, mouths, eyes, or ears. Like the smooth, uninterrupted surfaces of eggs, the faces of these individuals were smooth and seamless. It was shocking, but soothing.

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It was at this time, that I first became aware of their clothing. The men were all wearing crisp black suits with velvety black shirts and shiny black ties while the women were dressed in what looked like dull black nun’s habits. It was strange dress.

Despite the fact that they had no facial features and didn’t quite look human, I tried feverishly to warn these people of the impending danger. Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson, and Jackson were starting to move towards the front, the myriad of bones, bottles, and vials opening up in front of them like the sea opening up before an oncoming liner or battleship.

I ran along from featureless entity to featureless entity, shaking them, jolting them, even striking some in order to get their attention. However, they didn’t budge and their heads remained turned towards the painting on the wall.

I shook one man and the top hat he was wearing slid off his head and fell to the ground. I staggered back as I noticed what appeared to be a large hole bored into the top of his skull. From it, a single ray of light shot up and towards the dingy tile ceiling.

Calmly, this man reached down, picked up his hat, and put it back on.

There was nothing more I could do. The four armed individuals were bearing down on them and I could do nothing to save them. It was destiny for these people to die.

In fact, they were already dead.

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I turned to the front and knelt in a corner, cowering up tightly like a disobedient child fearing harsh punishment. I curled up like the violated man did in the previous night journey. Resting on my knees and forearms, I covered up my ears with my hands.

Soon, I could feel the floor shake and rumble as the carnage began. I could hear bodies striking the floor and gusts of wind from the swinging of the machetes.

I wanted to turn around and view this massacre, but I was afraid to do so. My hope was that the four aggressors would not notice me and that I would be able to kneel here undetected until they finished their work and left. At the same time, I couldn’t help but feel that there was something in this carnage for met to see. There was something in this travesty that would have irreplaceable value in my descent.

I felt something moist and warm against my legs and arms. Looking down, I saw that I was crouched in a pool of shiny, thick blood. A few broken crack vials and a bracelet washed up against my knees. I wanted to knock it away, but was still fearful of being detected.

Soon, the shaking and vibrations ended. The carnage was over.

For a long time, I knelt there. When I finally stood up and turned around, I was back in the bedroom of my apartment. However, it was neat and orderly, something I couldn’t remember it being for a long, long time.

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There were bright colorful lights shining in from my living room. It appeared some time of party or celebration was going on.

I knew that the Anointed Ones were calling to go in there.

It was on a Thursday night that Mother Africa and I went to an old abandoned warehouse in the West Bottoms. She had told me that this was a private club that she wanted to show me that met down there. Mother Africa had mentioned to me that this was a place where she had learned to be free with her essence and her sexuality. I wondered if her explanation was a cryptic way of saying that this way was a portal into the deepest vestiges of the descent.

After work that day, Mother Africa and I went to an afternoon movie on the Plaza.

The movie that we saw was some kind of action-adventure production with a lot of chaos and carnage, but very little food for thought. After the movie, we went to dinner at an Italian restaurant and then we merged our essence at Mother Africa’s house. Afterwards, we lay there for a long time without talking. The only sound was some classical music playing in Mother Africa’s living room.

Now, it was about ten p.m.. I had already decided that I wasn’t going into work the next day.

The bottoms were lifeless and the streets empty as I rode silently with Mother Africa to this clandestine club. Once in awhile, we would pass a lonely eighteenwheeler as it made it’s way to the highway above and out of Kansas City.

It had been several years since I had been in the bottoms, and I couldn’t remember ever going to the bottoms at night. However, I did find something eerily enchanting and comforting about the endless parade of empty and decaying warehouses and loading docks that we passed. Once upon a time, this place was 153

the bustling and busy epicenter of Kansas City’s commerce market. I had read of a time when these bottoms were filled with stockyards. Herds of cattle and pigs were slaughtered here and prime cuts of meat were sent from her all the way to the East Coast. In fact, at one point, Kansas City was known for it’s meat markets and stockyards. That was a long time ago and I remembered my grandfather’s brother telling me about those days.

As I thought about this, I wondered if Mother Africa had this in mind when she decided to bring me here. For some strange reason, seeing a once populous and essential area reduced to decaying and insignificant ruins made me wonder if the mission of the Anointed Ones transcended peoples of color and applied to all disenfranchised peoples. I wondered how and why my mind made that connection, but I was sure that one day – I would know. Soon, Mother Africa and I arrived at a very small, inconspicuous looking building very close to the water purification plant. It’s battered brick façade seemed eerily familiar, as if I had seen it before.

There was no sign or title on this building. Just the address number; 1141. Even though there were several other cars parked outside, I saw no evidence of activity in the windows. There was no reflections of lights, blinkings, or other signs of habitation. Once inside, I would discover that the windows had been painted black to keep all light from entering. Mother Africa had a key. She opened the door and I followed her inside. I was hoping that I may be meeting the Anointed Ones face to face here or would be inducted into one of the higher orders of the descent. As a result, I felt myself sweating with anticipation as we made our way up a long, narrow staircase into a large open room. In a way, I didn’t know what to make of it all. I did have my fears and apprehensions. If I had failed in my appointed task somewhere along the line, this may be a place of final and vindictive judgement.

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Who knew what horrors would await one who had failed to reach the appointed task of the Anointed Ones?

I tried to ease my nervousness by focusing on other things. However, that was difficult. School was tough that week. It was the first full week that I had attended work in several months. I usually missed at least one to two days of work a week, due to fatigue resulting from my night journeys. However, this week, I had went to work every single day and was feeling the effects. Being surrounded by legions of individuals trapped in darkness can be very detrimental to one’s spiritual essence.

Each morning this week, I had crumbled a few painkillers, mixed it with cold medicine, and poured this combination into my coffee thermos before I left for work. One day, I added a few shots of vodka. It took a little of the edge off in the mornings. However, by the afternoons, I was feeling anxious again.

As we entered the room, I could smell the faint stench from the water purification plant a few blocks away mingle with the sugary aroma of a pastry factory that was about a quarter of a mile away. They came together in an almost nauseating mix that seemed to gently tingle my nostrils. Once inside, Mother Africa and I sat down in a small, stuffy ampitheatre styled room looking at large shower type enclosure that was situated in the center of the room.

In this enclosure, under a flooding blacklight, a man and woman were taking a long, sensuous shower together. Their lean, chocolate bodies ground and merged against each other under the creepy luminescence that flowed from the light above, into the booth and out unto us. The water that flowed down was illuminated by the blacklight and took on a glowing radiant white appearance. It cascaded onto their bodies and then appeared to trickle down their dark bodies like trickles of hot lava flowing in the darkness of the night.

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The black light illuminated each trickle and stream, making the bodies of these two people look like some kind of geographic maps with glowing white streams, rivers, and tributaries enhanced for our viewing pleasure. Sitting here, I wondered if this was some kind of symbolic lesson about the descent. I wondered if these bodies merging together, and under the flood of water, were symbolic of descendents of the original ones merging together under the nourishing waters of Mother Africa. For a moment, I also wondered if this was symbolic of the contamination of the European Colonialists spreading from one person to another.

Sometimes, the lessons of the Anointed Ones had multiple interpretations and meanings. Three was something great to learn here, I just needed to focus and let it come unto me.

Mother Africa sat next to me, slowly rubbing her hand between her legs as she crossed and uncrossed them. I could hear and sense her body writhing and squirming in the chair. Soon, she reached over and grabbed my hand and placed it under her skirt and between her legs. She was hot and moist. Her life giving streams were agitated.

For a moment, I slowly and reluctantly turned my eyes away from this hypnotic scene and upon our surroundings. Mother Africa, myself, and about forty other individuals were seated in old wooden chairs on some small metal risers that surrounded and looked down on the couple in the shower. Other than the single flooding black light that shined down on the couple, there was no other light in the room.

I heard very muted voices and rustling in the shadows, but I saw no movement there. Maybe, there was no one there. I looked at the faces that I could see. In this darkness, all I could see were visually possessed countenances of individuals 156

engrossed and affixed on the scene before them. The remnants of dim black light sharply bounced from the shower and off their sweaty cheeks and foreheads, seeping into their eyes and shimmering off tinkling pupils superimposed against glowing white retinas.

Before long, the shower scene turned into copulation as the couple began having sex under the glowing white fluid. As their bodies merged and pulsated into one another, the shimmering water continued to trickle down their black flesh like cream luminescence cascading down sheets of black velvet. This shimmering water accentuated and exploded onto the curves of lean, muscular breasts, arms, thighs, buttocks, and legs. It mingled with their salty sweat and genteel funk and then finally dripped down into the crude floor drain that lay beneath them.. I heard a noise to my left and I turned all the way back. There was a white man masturbating a few seats down on the row behind ours. Bent over, with his face affixed on the shower, his erect member was in his hand and his eyes slightly rolled back in their sockets. He looked almost demonic in his focus. I turned back to Mother Africa to see if she were looking at this. Like the rest, Mother Africa’s eyes were still tacked onto the shower.

I turned back to the man. He wasn’t there. There was nothing but an empty chair.

I thought I heard a scream. Like a banshee crying in the wilderness. I looked around. However, no one moved or reacted. I closed my eyes. All I heard was the heavy breathing of aroused patrons and the steady pour of the shower.

Slowly, I opened my eyes. Soon, I felt Mother Africa’s hand reach over to grab my privates.

A few minutes later, The couple finished their sexual encounter and quietly walked out from under the shower and left the room. For several minutes, there was 157

silence. I could hear the heavy breathing of aroused men and women behind and around me.

Suddenly, Mother Africa got up, taking my hand with her. Letting myself go, I let my body rise up to meet her. Gingerly, we walked down the unsteady risers to the shower.

I knew immediately where we was going. Mother Africa was already into this. I could sense that she was not just here as a spectator, she was also here as a participant. In a way, I wasn’t sure I was ready for this. But, I knew that I must follow the leadings of Mother Africa. Standing outside of the shower and without a sound, Mother Africa began to undress herself. Kicking off her heels first, she unzipped her brown leather skirt and let it fall to the floor. She had on no panties.

The sweet aroma of her innards needed must be free so that it could fragrance the earth. Mother Africa pulled her sweater over the top of her head, tonight she didn’t wear a bra either. Her breasts, designed to nurse the earth must not be constrained.

Within moments, she was totally nude.

Watching her, I stood there fully clothed. For a second, I turned back and looked into the crowd. Their eyes were focused and intent. Mother Africa knelt down, reached up, and began unbuttoning my shirt. Once she had unfastened it and tossed it to the floor, she undid my pants. My slacks fit loose these days. I wasn’t eating very much or very often. Nearly effortlessly, I stepped forward and out of my pants. Once nude, Mother Africa and I stepped into the shower. The water was warm and soothing and immediately made me nearly forget that I was totally naked in front of a crowd of complete strangers. It was relaxing and, at the same time, invigorating.

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Soon, I felt Mother Africa behind me, rubbing my back with soap, washing my backside, and running her long, silky tongue up and down my legs and in between my buttocks. She would wash my area of my body, lick it, and then wash it some more. Mother Africa turned me around, took my member into her mouth while her arms were wrapped around me, her hands washing the backs of my legs.

Soon, it was my turn. I washed Mother Africa from head to toe, slowly lathering her breasts and her bottom. Excited, Mother Africa moaned and writhed, even at this most elementary contact. Mother Africa was really very comfortable with this. It was pretty obvious she had done this before.

After fifteen or so minutes of washing, Mother Africa pushed me down on my back, mounted me, and we began having sex. As she pulsated, grinded, and thrust herself into me I laid back feeling the warm mist from the shower descend on our bodies. In my haze, I saw glistening pools of tears well up in Mother Africa’s eyes, merge with the moisture streaming down on her, and then trickle down her face and onto me. Somewhere The tribal chieftan is dying His long, thin, ashy body Consumed by the parasites Of mortality And the Termites Of long lost horizons He is laying there His face ripped with waves 159

Of tribulation and His palms tough And leathery From years Of weary labor Gripping the last vapors Of vanishing existence Slowly He becomes No more A single Spirit Wanders aimlessly Through the Lonely abject Village Looking In vain for The rising however All the souls Have since Departed For a brief moment, I turned towards the crowd. They were still frozen, their eyes still affixed on this scene.

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Then I noticed him. Again.

The man I had seen masturbating earlier was standing behind the crowd, near the door. He was now standing up and I could see that he had on some kind of long overcoat. His hands were in his pockets. Maybe he was masturbating again. I couldn’t tell for sure. For a brief moment, his eyes locked on mine. I thought that I recognized him from one of my night journeys. Quickly, he turned around and moved towards the empty doorway as Mother Africa put her wet palm on the side of my face and began turning me back towards her. As I turned, I heard the scream of the dying hyena again. This time it was not as loud.

Turning my head too look back at Mother Africa, she was arched back and I could see under her chin and up into her nostrils. Glowing white water was still streaming from her hair, down her face, and dripping onto my body. Her breathing was shallow, her ocean was getting restless, tighter, and crying out for the assimilation.

She grabbed my hand and placed it gingerly on her lower abdomen, I could feel it throbbing and contracting. She was near orgasm.

Soon, we merged our essence.

I looked back towards the door. The man in the trenchcoat was gone. In fact, I only saw about ten people in the chairs looking at us. I hadn’t noticed anyone leave, hadn’t heard any shuffling of feet. However, there were far less than I remembered being here a few minutes ago. Mother Africa and I got up, still dripping wet, pulled on our clothes, and left.

A little over an hour later, we were sitting in Saw’s, eating some scrambled eggs and bacon.

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“Did you like it?” I didn’t say anything.

“What’s wrong? Wasn’t that fun? I liked it.”

“I know you liked it. You’ve done that before, haven’t you?” ”Yes, I’ve done it before. I hope that’s not a problem. Is it?”

“No, it’s not a problem.” ”So, why are you so quiet? What’s wrong?” ”How in the hell did you find out about that place? I didn’t know they did stuff like that here in Kansas City. I mean, that’s some wild stuff.”

“A friend of mine. She introduced me.” ”A woman? Damn, was it like that?” ”Kind of…” ”Kind of? What the hell does that mean? So, you a lesbian or what?” ”I wouldn’t call myself a lesbian. I have made love to a woman before.

But, I wouldn’t call myself a lesbian.” ”Oh damn. Now that’s deep. So, umm, is there anything else that I should know?” ”Should know? I mean, if it don’t involve you am I under some obligation to tell you?”

“Mother Africa, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to sound confrontational or anything. I just have to get used to stuff like this. It’s not like I’ve done any of the exhibitionist stuff before.” “It’s ok..I was a little uneasy the first time I did it too.” “Really? So, what was your first time like?” ”My friend Renita and I…” ”Renita the woman who screws married men?” ”Yep, that Renita..” ”Go ahead. Sorry for interrupting.”

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“Anywayyyyy, Renita and I went down there. Actually, she took me down there and we sat there and watched and then she asked me if I wanted to try it…and I did.” ”Damn. So, like, well, what was it like?”

“What do you mean?” ”Making love to another woman…what was that like?” ”Oh, that…well, it’s different than with a man…”

“Duh…” ”Shut up…Anyway, women are softer, a little more attentive, slower…it has it’s advantages. A woman knows what another woman likes. You know what one man told me? He told me that gay men give better blow jobs that straight women.”

“Oh, lawd….that’s crazy….So, which one do you prefer?” ”Depends on how I feel. Sometimes, I want to feel a woman. Sometimes I want to feel you.” ”Hmmm, just me? Are there any other men?” ”Not right now. Do you want me to get some other men?”

“Uhhhh, I think I’ll pass. Not into that stuff.” “I’m not talking about for you. I’m talking about for me. Do you want me to make love to other men? You can watch or tape it or something. Some men like that stuff.” ”I don’t think I want to get into that. I might get jealous and go off or something.” ”I doubt that.” ”Doubt what?” ”That you would get jealous. Maybe possessive, but not jealous.” ”What’s the difference.” ”Ummmm…possessive means you want it all to yourself. Jealous means you get angry when someone else has it.” ”Ok, big difference. I just don’t see it.” “So, Robert, am I too much for you? Honestly? I know I am very inquisitive and 163

exploratative concerning my sexuality. There’s not too much that I haven’t done or won’t do. If it’s too much for you, we can tone it down. I like your company and all, but I don’t want you to do anything you are not really interested in.” ”Naw, it’s ok. I need to try something new. The same old stuff isn’t working for me anyway.”

“That’s the way I felt a few years ago. Sitting at home all the time, trying to be chaste and stuff. And, I just got tired of it all. There’s a whole world of stuff out there and the only reason people don’t explore it is because of something someone else told them. Who is another person to tell me what makes me feel good? I woke up and realized that I can do what I want with my body, when I want, and with who I want.” ”Damn, sounds like some liberation stuff. So, were you like one of those don’t give it up sisters before or something?” ”Naw, I’ve always had sex.

But, I just wasn’t getting enough of it or the right type. Trying to be a respectable person. Respectability starts inside. A woman can keep her legs closed like a vise and it don’t mean that men are going to respect her.”

“Agreed. Same with nice guy men. A man can be Mr. Nice guy all he wants but it don’t mean that folks are gonna respect you anymore for it. You just gotta step out and get your own stuff. Do the world.” ”That’s right. Do the world. I got to that point.”

“So, besides Renita, do any of your other friends know about all this stuff you’re into?”

“A few. Some know, some don’t. Hell, they may all know. Personally, I don’t care. If they don’t like it, they can catch a doing bus and go to hell.” ”Damn. Sounds like it makes you mad or something.” “Not mad, but I just don’t believe in letting other people call the shots in your life. You have your life to 164

live. It’s not a dress rehearsal. And women are bad about letting other people call the shots in their lives.” “Yeah, I can see that. Sexism, racism, all that stuff.” ”I don’t know about racism. Women of all races have the same problem with feeling like they have to live up to someone else’s ideas of what a woman should be. To make it worse, it’s men who have their idea what a woman should be.” ”Interesting.” ”Truth.”

Upon entering my living room, I was nearly blinded by the blackness that illuminated this room. Once my vision adjusted, my eyes were immediately drawn to a large, wooden birthing chair in the middle of the room. This chair was of dark wood, tall, and covered with intricate carvings. Mother Africa was in the chair, totally nude, her belly ready to give birth, and in great pain.

Mother Africa’s head was leaning back, her eyes rolled up in their sockets so that all I could see was their whiteness. She was gripping the arms of the birthing chair with so much force that I thought they would surely shatter in her hands. A torrent of tears mixed with sheets of sweat ran down her face and body. Her breasts and stomach were quivering.

Soon, her water burst, sending a torrent of blood mixed with thick, gellike water rushing across the floor. It covered every square inch of the living room and cascaded into the rest of the apartment. Looking down, I saw this water rush

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around my feet as if I were standing in a stream. Looking even closer, I saw pennies, nickels, dimes, and glass pipes rushing by in the water.

Mother Africa was in deep pain, her mouth opened in a long grimace. I wanted to help her, but I could not move. My feet were implanted as if I had been affixed to the floor. I tried to kneel down so that I could crawl to her, but my legs would not bend. I wanted to assist Mother Africa, I wanted to be there, but I couldn’t do anything but stand and watch.

Soon, the head of the first child appeared. It was black like Mother Africa and somewhat difficult to discern against her flesh. But, it was a head, wiggling, turning, and making it’s way out. It was followed by a small black neck, shoulders, arms, torso, and then legs. The firsfruits of Mother Africa fell to the floor and stood up.

Her first child didn’t look like a newborn. In fact, he looked like someone at least two or three years old. Standing up, he stretched his arms and slowly opened his eyes. First he looked around the apartment in wonder, then he began turning around and around, soon he was spinning around and around and waving his small black arms in the air. He spun like a little girl on an elementary school playground. He was free, liberated, and basking in his freedom.

My attention went back up to Mother Africa. Her stomach and breasts had deflated as if someone had let air out of them. She no longer looked as if she had been carrying a child. In fact, now she looked the way that I knew her.

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Suddenly, without any warning, she reached down, snatched her child and ate him in one swift motion. Within a second or two, he went from spinning on the floor to vanishing into Mother Africa’s mouth. I stood there in shock and awe, not knowing what to make of this.

Turning back around to the bedroom, I saw Lazarus-Buddha sitting on my bed with his chessboard out. He was sitting up the pieces as if we were going to play a game of chess. Lazarus-Buddha lifted his head up and his eyes met mine. They twinkled.

Then, reaching down, he picked the King up from his side of the chessboard and threw it by me into the living room.

Turning my head to see where this chesspiece was headed, I saw that Mother Africa was ready to give birth again. Her breasts and belly were full and ready to explode. Mother Africa’s water broke again. This time it was bloody red. It washed across the floor and I watched it. This time, as the water washed across my feet, I looked down and saw that it was clear. There was no pennies, nickels, dimes, or quarters in it.

She gave birth again, this time to a child that was lighter than the one before.

Again, the child came out somewhat grown and danced on the floor.

And, again, Mother Africa reached down with one motion, grabbed the child, and ate it.

I turned around and looked in the bedroom. Lazarus-Buddha was gone, but the chessboard was still there. It was empty. All the pieces were gone.

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Mother Africa gave birth again and again. Each time her water broke, thick red blood cascaded across the floor. Upon birth, each child was lighter than the one before. Each time, the child came out and began dancing on the floor. And, each time, Mother Africa reached down with one arm, grabbed the child and swallowed it whole.

Finally, she stopped and looked at me. A tear was running down her face.

Mother Africa’s garden opened up and a sea of bullets flowed out. They were small, silver bullets in black shell casings. These bullets filled the floor and rose up to my ankles. I wanted to reach down and pick one up, but I couldn’t move.

Eventually, I woke up.

It was a Tuesday morning and I decided to call in sick again. I knew that I had exceeded my allocated ten days of sick leave for the school year, but I didn’t care.

I didn’t feel like going in today. It was becoming more and more difficult to find the motivation to go into work everyday. I did acknowledge that an earthly job was necessary, in this dispensation, to pay for simple necessities such as food and shelter. But, as time went on, I felt more and more like I needed to rest during the day and prepare for the journeys of my night visions. Eventually, I wouldn’t need an earthly job anymore, so in a way it just didn’t matter. But, in another way, a mistake could put me into a position where I needed to find new sources of income and thus cast unneeded difficulty on my journey.

Another difficulty with my job was the sheer contempt and disregard I was beginning to feel for those whom I worked with. In my classroom, in the staff 168

lounge, during lunch supervision duty, and during faculty meetings, I was constantly surrounded by those whose minds were given over to the errors of the Europeans. They spoke of such irrelevant and wasteful concepts as paying bills, contract negotiations, and seeking more education in the corrupt universities of the land. It was disheartening to hear so many descendents of the original man to have no comprehension of their true identity, worth and purpose, and the finale of all things that was surely to come.

I did suspect that some were more knowledgeable of the truth than they let on to be. Once, I walked in on Joshua Abbot, a mathematics teacher as he was looking into a book on black history. Even though he stated that he was simply trying to find some evidence that Africans had a part in the creation of today’s mathematical system, I almost could sense that he may had been speaking with the anointed ones before I entered the lounge. Especially since he had some coffee in the microwave oven. The anointed ones could be accessed easier if they rode in on the waves of the microwave. I had discovered that at home. I asked Joshua if he had heard of the anointed ones and he simply shook his head and returned to his reading. At first, I was a bit disturbed and felt some degree of rejection. Later, that evening, as I spoke with Emmitt Till in my apartment, Emmitt told me that it was possible that Joshua was new to consciousness and was not sure who he could trust. In time, Emmitt reassured me, I would be able to speak to Joshua openly and freely of the descent.

One days like this, when I felt a bit discouraged in my essence, I sometimes felt prone to the lies of the Europeans. Once, on a day that I had stayed home, I made the mistake of watching a television program on mental illness and felt almost as if they were talking about me. They discussed individuals who communicated with 169

beings that others could not see and did not acknowledge. For a long time after the program had ended, I felt as if I fit into the category of the individuals they were discussing. They even had the audacity to claim that high levels of alcohol consumption could fuel this phenomemon which they called an illness.

However, right there in my living room, I fell to my knees and cried to the Anointed Ones and they comforted me. They reassured me that what I had seen was nothing more than lies of the Europeans who sought to consume the remnants of the original man unto themselves. I was instructed to cleanse myself by pouring several bottles of pure grain alcohol over my head and let it run down my body. I did this and felt better. This day, however, for a long time, I didn’t know if I could feel better. I just didn’t feel well. It was one of those days. Laying in bed, snugly curled under a pile of sheets and blankets, I longed for a drink and even some pills.

I needed some of the sacred fluid to enter my body, strengthen my mind, and give me some immunity from the battery of lies and deceit which bombarded my mind on a constant basis.

However, I knew I was out of alcohol and I wasn’t even sure I had any pills left.

The last time I asked my sister to get some from her job for me, she told me that I needed to get a prescription. Apparently, there had been some medicinal thefts on her job and all the nurses were being watched carefully.

If I wanted some drink, which I felt that I needed, I would have to face the sun. I dreaded that. I didn’t want to go out, but my body was already feeling jittery and it wasn’t quite nine in the morning. The phone rang about four times, I let the answering machine pick it up. “Mr. Smith, this is Henry Taylor from Madison High School. I hope that you are feeling better. I was looking over my records and 170

noticed that you have missed numerous days this school year for illness. Theres a few other issues we need to discuss also. When you get a chance, please come into my office. We need to talk. Thanks.”

Finally, I just got up. Looking in the bathroom cabinet, I found a half empty bottle of Nyquil and some Aleve. I drank the Nyquil and followed it with about eight of the Aleves. It wouldn’t do much, but it might hold me until I could get to the liquor store.

It had now been months since I had cleaned my apartment and it looked like it. I was glad Mother Africa had not insisted on coming over, because I would have been really embarrassed if she did. I was basically living out of a laundry basket, washing the same piles of clothes and wearing them over and over again.

My trash can was filled with emptied liquor bottles, fast food boxes, and emptied cold medication canisters.

Staggering into the living room, I looked at the sofa. There was a pile of late due notices on it. I had the money to pay my bills, I just hadn’t bothered to write the checks out. I picked up the pile and just set it on the coffee table. I would get to them later..eventually. Sitting down, I just looked out the window for a long, long time. I wondered how Lazarus-Buddha was doing. I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks.

He wasn’t one to write or call. I would go to see him Saturday afternoon. I thought about Mother Africa. We’d been messing around for a few months now. I still didn’t really know anything about her. For a second, I felt like I could hear someone standing next to me, breathing on me. It was like I could feel the presence an invisible, weightless hand resting on my shoulder. I just closed my eyes. I didn’t want to deal with it.

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I needed alcohol.

The night journey took me to a small village, somewhere in Mother Africa. It was filled with huts and wells and pens of chickens and large mounds of fresh strange fruit. The roads were smooth, though dusty. The sun beamed down, through the limbs of the trees and painted relaxing silhouettes across the backs of the huts and onto the roads.

I walked through this village in it’s tranquility and enjoyed it. Considering the night journeys I had been one, I felt that maybe this one was a well-deserved vacation.

Stopping at a tree, I saw a large collection of perfectly round, hand carved masks.

They were made from some dark wood and had markings of white paint. The eyes and mouth were rectangular and the nose was one triangle. Around the perimeter of each mask were strange markings.

I took one mask down and placed it on my face. The eyes, nose, and mouth fit snugly on top of mine. I could see clearly and breathe clearly.

Looking down at my side, I saw that I was completely nude except for a belt with hooks. I hooked the mask to my belt.

Walking further along, I saw a pile of some strange looking fruit. It was dark green, like an unripe banana. Yet, it was shaped like a pear. I picked one up and bit into it. I couldn’t taste anything, yet I felt the fruit go into my belly. I bit again and 172

again, never tasting but yet feeling the fruit go into my stomach. When I looked at the fruit, there were no bite marks. It was still whole. I sat it back on the pile.

Soon, I reached the end of the town. There was a long road leading over a hill and into some strange place. I stood there for a moment and debated whether I should go down this road. From where I stood, I could see there were no trees overshadowing this road, making it probably blazing hot. I decided not to go.

Turning back to the town, I saw that everything was still in place, yet there were no people. It was then that I looked up, high up, and saw that all the residents of this town had been lynched. Their bodies were swinging lazily from the trees. Their eyes were open and their black flesh glistening as if they had been covered with oil.

Men and women, young and old, they were all dead.

It was then that I remembered the green fruit on the tree. It hung lazily, like the residents of this town.

Looking down, I then realized that my stomach was beginning to violently expand and widen like Mother Africa’s did in an earlier night journey. My stomach began to slowly churn and internally revolt as if something were growing restless and angry inside it. I began to feel as if I were gagging and couldn’t breathe. My esophagus began to constrict and tighten as if I were about to vomit. I could feel sweat running down my brow and my legs weaken. My vision began to weaken and my bowels began to loosen.

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Looking high up in the trees, I gazed upon the murdered residents of this town.

Their bodies were still swinging, their eyes were still open. They were still very much dead.

This time, I forced myself to wake up.

I had wet the bed.

The next time, I saw Lazarus-Buddha, he looked kind of faint and weak. He was getting sicker. That was obvious. As usual, Lazarus-Buddha was neat and his appearance flawless. But, his cheeks were starting to look bony and his skin was losing some of his suppleness. He shuffled in, sat down with what looked like some effort, and opened up his chess kit.

Silently, he set up the pieces.

I made the first move. Pawn, one up. “So, Robert….How are things outside these four walls?”

“Their going ok.” ”You’re losing weight. Dieting? Working out? Pumping iron?”

“Lack of appetite. Just don’t feel like eating.”

“I see. Lovesick? Sick of love? A woman doing this to you?” ”Naw, Lazarus-Buddha, I don’t think it’s that.” “Well, unless it’s good. It’s bad. You’re a young man. Take care of yourself. Then again, even if you take care of yourself, it’s no guarantee.” ”That’s true Lazarus-Buddha. A person can do all the right things and still get hit by lightning.”

“Yes. Yes. Life is unfair but the creator is still good.”

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“You believe that?” ”You know I do. In fact, it goes beyond belief. I breathe it.” ”Breathe it? That’s a new one. I’ve never heard it put like that before.”

Somewhere A negro electric Is screaming Of sacrificial monkeys Steaming Herbal teas And smoking pipes Filled with The sweet savour Of lost African spirits Emanating from the Graveyards and cemetaries Of souls lost During the great reconstruction But found After the great war Consumed with The burning cross And lynched for No other purpose Than the Simple purpose Alone

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The negro electric rises And Spreads his wings Over The westernization Of lost Black pigmentation Contaminated with The perverse fantasies Of European Dominations Still yet Tasting The Chocolate fantasies lost Within the belly Of the psychotic Tribal chieftan I hear these screams Of the negro electric Late at night When emmitt till And Medger evers Are playing their next To last Hand

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(marcus garvey served the drinks) while sally hemmings and kizzie turn tricks in the next room I breathe The negro electric Yet I breathe not Of him For the negro electric Is no more “Well, dying and accepting of one’s fate often let’s us see a new perspective on things. We can find a way to put things in order.” “Yeah. I’ve been around people who were dying. I’ve noticed that they often seem to see things in a different light than they did before.” “Then again, it depends on how they died. I’ve killed people and they died saying the same things they were before I killed them.” “Well, I surely don’t know anything about that. I haven’t had the experience of killing anyone.” ”Maybe you have, you just don’t know it.” ”What? Lazarus-Buddha, you aight?”

“You know, murder is not just a physical concept. It can be a spiritual and emotional one. You can kill a person with the things you do to their psyche. You can kill yourself by not believing in yourself.” ”True. True. I think a lot of people do that. They kill themselves by not believing in themselves.”

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”I’m sure that is the case for most people. Their lose touch with their essence, they lose sight of what is good, they fail to define their purpose. And then, they die.

They are no more.” “You know, Lazarus-Buddha, I feel that way sometimes.” ”I know.” ”How do you know that?”

“Your vibe, your aura. I know you’re not at peace. You have things that you need to rectify within yourself. You’re searching for a way to rectify these things. You want to embrace your pain but you are afraid of your pain. But, you know that we cannot accept inner healing unless we accept the wounds that require healing.”

“Brother Knox, You talking truth today. I agree. I can just listen cause I know I got things going on that I need to deal with.” ”How’s work? You don’t talk about teaching like you used to. Do you still teach?” ”I’m still employed as a teacher. I’ve missed a lot of days lately.” ”Sick? Naw, you weren’t sick. You’re too young and robust to be sick. Why did you miss those days?” “Just didn’t feel like going in.” ”Oh, I see. That happens. The question is why it happens.” “I don’t know why it happens. I just don’t feel like going in half the time.” ”So, you just call in?” ”Yep, we got an automated system.” ”Ok, I see. The cowards way out. Say it to a computer..right?” ”Yeah, coward’s way out. It keeps you from having to wake people up at four or five in the morning too.” “How’s that female friend?” ”She’s fine.” ”Still tasting of her fruits without the benefit of marriage?” ”Ummm” “I already knew the answer.”

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“Why did you ask?” ”Just to see if you were courageous enough to say it without hesitating.” ”Lazarus-Buddha, are you mad or something?” ”Somewhat. I do have some anger within me.” ”Man, it just seems like you getting sort of confrontational with me. The whole cowards and courage thing…” ”Well, you know me. I’m sort of blunt when I shouldn’t be. I apologize.

I’m still learning the dull the edge on some of my comments.” ”Apology accepted. So, Lazarus-Buddha, what did the doctor say?” ”A month, maybe two.” ”Wow. How do you feel about that?” ”I’m fine with it. Life goes on for me. Whether it’s in this body or not.” ”I hear you. I think there’s something beyond this world, I’m just not sure what it is or how to get there.” ”Honestly, I’m not sure either. I do think that a willing spirit will find itself in a good place in the end.”

“That’s a good way to look at it. At least you’re not all dogmatic like some people.”

“Someone once said ‘Dogmatism is nothing more than a religious label on tyrannical behavior.’” ”Interesting. Who wrote that?” ”I did.”

The house was clearly abandoned and had been abandoned for some time. Thin rays of light cut through the boarded up windows, creating lines on the trash covered floor. In the corner were piles of debris, rat feces, and old newspapers.

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In spots where trash didn’t cover the floor, it was clearly deteriorating. There were large holes on the floor. Looking down into one, I could see into the basement. It was flooded with stagnant water. The body of a drowned rat was floating amidst trash cans, beer bottles, and pieces of wood.

Above, the ceiling was sagging as if it were about to cave in. The pockmarked ceiling tiles were warped and buckling and deeply stained. A chandelier was partially detached from the ceiling and about to crash to the floor.

I walked to the doorway and peered into the next room. Amidst trash, dirt, and remnants of half-consumed meals, a man lay curled up in a fetal position on the floor. A broken board over a window cast a single ray of light down the length of his frail looking body.

This was sleeping soundly, covered in what appeared to be layers and layers of clothes underneath a pair of tattered jeans and a faded field jacket. He was clutching a pad of paper in his hands and I could see a pencil poking out of his chest pocket.

I went down and sat next to him. His skin was dark and ashy, his hair was short and had ringworms in two or three places, and his fingernails were yellow, chipped, and crooked.

Reaching down, I gently picked up his head and placed it on my lap. I began to brush his head slowly and tenderly. He didn’t move nor budge. I wasn’t disturbing him or forcing him out of his sleep.

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I knew this man, but I didn’t know from where. I knew him intimately, yet I was soon to know him. He was a part of me, yet he was not yet a part of me. There was something drawing me to this man, yet, I felt that, in holding him that I was holding myself.

He reminded me of a man that I passed nearly everyday on the way home from work. Standing at the intersection, he would beg for money. I quit giving him money years ago. Still, he would come up to my car everyday and ask. I wouldn’t look at him. I refused to make eye contact. I would look forward, down, away. I would even act as if I were talking on my cell phone. I didn’t want to look into his eyes. I was afraid to.

This man, whose head was on my lap, was reminding me of that man. In some strange way, I felt as if this man, the man at the intersection, and myself were all the same person. There was something bonding us together, even though I didn’t want to even look in his eyes.

I wanted to see his face, so I shook him. He didn’t budge. Still, he didn’t move. I shook him harder. I moved his head. I lifted up his arm and shook it. Still, he didn’t move, nor leave his slumber. Finally, I suddenly slid back, letting his head hit the floor.

It was then that I realized that he was dead.

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For a long time, I sat there. I felt my eyes welling up. For some reason, I felt as if I had killed this man. And, for some reason, I felt that I deserved to die.

It was a very long time before this night journey ended.

It was three a.m.

It wasn’t a good night. I was sick.

Earlier, I had some visitors that were not particularly welcome, nor wanted. It was a misguided cousin of mine and his equally misguided wife. They arrived without any notice, knocking on my door feverishly and standing there briskly rubbing their hands in the cold. Richard, my cousin was a part time pastor and his wife Wilhema assisted him in his ministry. They ran a storefront church down on the west end of Independence Avenue and assisted many homeless people and transients in finding warm rooms and shelters on cold nights like this one. I used to go to their church on occasion, but after some time, the Anointed Ones had told me to stop going there and visit other places in search of truth. The doctrine that Richard was teaching was not of the truth, but rather the thinly disguised convoluted lies of the European Colonialists. From the blond haired, blue eyed messianic image which adorned the stained glass windows that filtered the bright sunlight on hot summer mornings through Richard’s false teachings that all pigmentations of man would one day abide in peace and safety, Richard’s word was without truth, conviction, power, and purpose.

Once, I had mentioned the Anointed Ones to Richard and he looked at me as if he were confused and perplexed. We were in his pastoral study after morning service and, after I had mentioned this, he sat there for a long time, just looking forward and moving his lips in silence. Later, he told me that he was praying before 182

engaging me in conversation. “What do you mean by the ‘Anointed Ones’?”

Richard inquired I realized that this seeming ignorance was more than likely another test of my strength of character. I decided to respond by quoting the Anointed Ones directly, as I remembered them speaking to me when I was initially informed of my destiny.

“As you already know, my cousin, they are those of the original man who have not been contaminated by the lies and contaminated blood of the European Colonialists. They escaped the holocaust of the Middle Passage by fleeing deep into the caves of Karaa and Kiog-Junga. From these, they ascended unto the high places where they were anointed of the spirit of Mother Africa. Now, they hold all truth in their hands and guide those worthy of the descent, such as myself, unto the final day of complete and total assumption into the gates of truth and wholeness.”

Richard sat there for a long time, scratching his thin mustache. He took a deep breath and then responded.

“I’ve never seen anything like that in the Bible. I am a man of God and I base my messages on the Bible itself. What you are saying is not true doctrine. I’ve read the Bible from Genesis to Revelation and I’ve seen nothing of Karaa and Kiog-Junga or about any Anointed Ones rising to Mother Africa. I don’t know where you are getting this, but you need to be careful. What you are saying is bordering on blasphemy.” Richard replied curtly, almost as if he were offended.

At this point, I wasn’t sure if Richard was testing me or if he was truly unknowing.

I decided to assume that he was an infidel and address him as such.

“You don’t see it because you don’t look. The truth of the Anointed Ones is all around us. Ever since they revealed themselves unto me in the form of an empty vodka bottle, I have followed them and listened to their guidance. Richard, I wish 183

you no harm and you are the fruit of Mother Africa just as I am, however, I must warn you of your great error and the great error in which you are leading those who follow you.” I finished. Throughout my last statement, Richard just shook his head and looked at me as if I had some kind of problem. Finally, when I was done he began mentioning something about mental illness and seeking some kind of help. Realizing that he was still in darkness, I just walked out.

That was several months ago. I hadn’t seen Richard since. For a long time, I wondered if maybe I was just being tested. This was a time in which I had felt I was justified in speaking plainly of the descent. A man, such as my cousin, who speaks for the spiritual realm would hopefully not be afraid of the constant surveillance of the European Colonialists. By the same token, maybe I was speaking out of place and that was the reason for his seeming lack of cooperation.

I wasn’t sure. In any event, Richard and his wife had now arrived at my door. I gladly let them in. As soon as they were seated, Sally Hemmings also arrived, walking in through the wall and standing quietly in the corner. She was totally nude and, across her abdomen, I could see the stretch marks from many births.

While Richard and his wife uttered some foolish babble about my mental state and whether or not I could take care of myself, Sally was in the corner crying hysterically and going on and on about how sorry she was for all the trouble she had caused. I wasn’t sure what she was talking about. However, I assumed that she had offended the Anointed Ones in some way. It was a very stressful forty five minutes. I was standing there trying to give my full attention to Richard and his wife, even though I disagreed with what they were saying. I still wasn’t sure if this were simply a test or if they were truly darkened and had no idea of the great warfare we were engaged in. On the other hand, Sally’s constant crying and 184

wailing in the corner kept getting my attention and I would turn to her and ask her to quiet down.

Sally was beginning to get so loud that she was drowning out Richards and his wife. Soon, a stream of blood began running down between her legs. When this stream reached the floor, it turned into a pile of two dollar bills and nickels. I had seen something like this before. Once, I had dropped a bottle of vodka and watched as it grew into a mighty vine, right there in my living room. I ran to the hardware store to get an axe so that I could cut it down before it destroyed my entire apartment and the entire apartment building. However, by the time I got back, the vine was gone. The anointed ones, in their mercy, must had come down and eliminated it. “Can you go to my bedroom and get a sheet and cover up Sally?” I asked Richard’s wife.

“Sally who?” Richard and his wife looked around my apartment as if they didn’t see her.

I pointed to Sally in the corner.

“I know you see her. She’s nude and the blood running from her legs is turning into two dollar bills and shiny nickels. I would get her a sheet, but I’m trying to respectful and not stare at her. I think it would be more appropriate if a woman covered her up. Besides, I’m also listening to Richard and want to give full attention to what he is saying. So, Wilhema, can you get Sally a sheet?” I finally said in moment of frustration.

Richard and Sally looked at each other for a long time. “Is she saying anything, Robert?” Richard asked gently, as if he were speaking to a small child.

“She keeps saying that she’s sorry for all the trouble she caused.”

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“What trouble?” ”She’s not saying, but we all know what trouble it is.”

“I don’t know what trouble it is.”

“Yes, you do. But, I understand if you are not comfortable saying it in this open forum. The European Colonialists are here also and I know that they have cameras and microphones focused on every square inch of my apartment. They are particularly intimidated by me because they know that one day I am destined to achieve a high level in the descent.” “Did the ‘Anointed Ones’ tell you that?”

“Yes, they did. It was the Anointed Ones who first told me of all this. I am forever in gratitude to them or else I would wander forever in the darkness of this present age, cut off from Mother African and my ancestry in the original man. I understand if you must act ignorant of these things, Richard. Because of the surveillance and all. However, I look for the fullness of time when we can speak openly and freely of this. In the meantime, can Wilhema get a sheet and cover up Sally?” Wilhema looked at Richard, nodded and then went into my bedroom to get a sheet. She was in there a long time during which Richard and I looked at each other in silence. Sally was in the corner and the pile of shiny nickels and two dollar bills at her feet began to rise past her shins and was near her knees.

“So, Robert, have you ever sought any help?” Asked Richard “Yes.” ”What type?”

“Nightly, in fact hourly, I pray unto the Anointed Ones for guidance as I wage this war. It is only by their power and omniscience that I can stand in this final day. I really do not want to fall victim to the European Colonialists and so I look unto the Anointed Ones constantly for staying power and deliverance.”

“Have you sought any other kind of help?”

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“Like what? If there are other types, I want to hear of them. A person cannot be over-equipped in this great warfare.” “Robert, I’m talking about counseling, possibly medication. Your behavior and thoughts are not normal, nor healthy.

You’re seeing things that don’t exist and listening to voices that are not there.” I realized that I was being tested. I drew up a chair and pulled up close to Richard.

After looking around to make sure that no members of the European Colonialist or their intelligence forces had materialized in my apartment, I leaned forward and close to Richard. I dropped my voice to just above a hush.

“Richard, I understand you’re testing me to see if I’m following the counsel of the Anointed Ones. However, I am seeking their counsel on a daily, even hourly basis and I’m partaking of the medication as they prescribed. In fact, as soon as you leave, I’m going to the liquor store to purchase another case of medication.”

Richard shook his head as his wife entered from the bedroom. She had a sheet in her hands and a funny look on her face, almost a look or relief. She took the sheet over to corner where I pointed her and laid it down. I expected her to wrap the sheet around Sally but I figured she may have felt she was not worthy and just laid it down, hoping that Sally would wrap herself in it. She came back over and sat down next to Richard. “I called some help.” She whispered in Richard’s ear, loud enough for me to hear.

Realizing that Wilhelma had been in the bedroom for so long because she was calling on the Anointed Ones, I thanked her profusely for calling on divine guidance in these perilous times. “You’re welcome.” Wilhema answered with a faint smile on her face.

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“Richard, can we pray while we wait for help to arrive?” asked Robert. Without a word, I got up from my chair, lifted my face unto the heavens and opened my hands to receive the blessings of the Anointed Ones.

“Oh Anointed Ones, I thank thee for guiding me Into the light of Mother Africa And shielding me From the evil devices Of the European Colonialists They are snakes And buzzards Evil predators Who feed on the flesh Of the children of the original man And of the branches of mother africa But you, oh anointed ones Have appointed me Unto this task To teach the masses Of your ways” When I finished, I looked at Richard and his wife. They sat there with stunned looks on their faces. It must have been the first time they had seen someone call on the Anointed Ones with so much power and conviction. I could understand their awe. Once, I was in the city park in the wee hours of the morning and saw a tree uproot itself, kneel down, and call on the Anointed Ones for power and guidance.

Even today, months later, I shuddered at the sheer enormity of what I had seen.

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We sat in silence. Sally was still wailing and I put my hands over my ears to block her out. Even though pain was something I confronted on a daily basis, it was emotionally taxing to hear it expressed.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. It was a police officer and some paramedics. They claimed to have a call of a person possibly needing transport to a mental health facility. Richard and his wife said that I was the person.

I was asked questions and requested to give my consent for transport. I refused.

The Anointed Ones had not told me to do this. Richard and his wife spent several minutes trying to convince me that leaving with these people was the right thing to do. They told me that the Anointed Ones and Sally Hemmings would want me to do this, but I knew they were lying. Within the core of my being, I realized that they had been feigning knowledge of the descent and were actually working for the European Colonialists.

I was very disappointed in Richard and Wilhema. I had cherished dreams of the three of us working together in the new age after the final descent had taken place.

It may still happen, but first they had to extricate themselves from the bundle of lies into which they had been consumed.

Finally, I let Richard and Wilhema, the police officers and paramedics know, in no uncertain terms, that I was fully aware that they were pawns of the European Colonialists and the resistance of truth. They listened silently while I let them know that, unless they opened their hearts and minds to the riches of Mother 189

Africa, they would be facing damnation of the final day of the descent. I told them that, if they chose to make their way sure in this battle, they must do so in discretion and wisdom because they were being watched at all turns. Then, I asked them to leave. I did this for their sakes, so they could ponder these kernels of truth and make the final decision for their final destiny.

When the paramedics and police officers left, so did Richard and his wife. Sally Hemmings left too, taking the pile of shining nickels and two dollar bills with her.

At least she cleaned up the blood from the carpet. I appreciated that about her. She didn’t mind cleaning up after herself. Some of my visitors were very sloppy.

Harriet Tubman had left muddy footprints on my bathroom floor one time after visiting. However, while I went into the kitchen and drew some mop water, the Anointed Ones had sent someone to wipe them up. I thanked them for their mercies and consideration.

After they left, I laid down for a few hours but I couldn’t sleep. My mind was tired from tonight’s excitement but for some reason it would not relax enough to sleep.

So, I laid there for a long time and listened to the sounds of Congo drums beating somewhere in the distance.

Now, it was three a.m.

I was at the twenty four hour drugstore vainly searching for something to help me sleep. I didn’t have anymore painkillers at home and my sister, the nurse, wouldn’t steal anymore for me. She had a houseful of kids and couldn’t afford to put her job 190

at risk anymore for me. I understood that. I needed to fight the demons of the European Colonialists on my own strength and resources.

The vast drugstore was empty, save a few clerks, a weary pharmacist, and myself.

The large white fluorescent lights that lined the ceilings seemed to flood the entire store with a brightness that was nearly unbearable. My eyes were already tender and I could feel them swelling as I staggered along the aisles trying to find some concoction to help me rest. I was balancing a thin, blue plastic shopping basket and I had a few bottles of sleeping pills, aspirin with sleep aids, night time cold medicine, and even a few boxes of herbal tea in it. I had no idea if any of this would work for me, since I was used to much stronger stuff. Still I piled it in. I needed to sleep, I needed to rest. At the checkout, a pimply faced teenage boy looked at my face briefly as if he were fighting back some kind of shock and disgust. Obviously keeping his head down, he nervously rang me up, quickly dropping my items into a thin plastic bag and then shakily handing it to me. I gave him a twenty dollar bill.

He didn’t even say thank you. Just turned his back and walked away. once I passed a woman On a busy street This woman looked as if She were on something yet In her desolate eyes I could hear the vain screaming 191

And agonized pleadings Of a broken woman Who’s only living child Had just been Torn from her resisting arms To be sent away Far away To another home Another place with Another master This woman that I saw She opened her mouth And spoke I couldn’t hear her words But I could see her words And in her words I saw The brokenness Of an unfulfilled dream Unrealized Yet idealized I saw A dream Who’s time 192

Would never come For there was no Time For a dream Like that This woman that I saw She touched my hand As she passed And in her touch I could smell The burning flesh Of a man condemned For thinking too much And talking too proudly Yet unknowing of the reason Why he was burning As I walked on I briefly looked back And in her departure I could taste the Resolution of a woman Sitting on bench Waiting for the executioner’s axe But taking time To carve the names 193

Of her children Not yet conceived But yet received Into the wooden bench To which she was chained.

After this woman Vanished from my sight I turned into the liquor store And bought something more To drink

I left the store and sat in the car. Opening a bottle of water, I began washing down handfuls of sleeping pills, aspirins, and half a bottle of thick, bitter cold medicine.

Feeling something warm and salty on my upper lips, I pulled open the mirror and looked at my face.

My eyes were bloodshot, red and sagging. My lips were dry, cracked, and bleeding. From my nose, a stream of thick yellow mucus mixed with blood and pus was running down my face, around my lips, into my goatee, and off my chin.

Looking further down, I saw that it had trickled down the entire length of my trench coat. I closed the mirror and wiped my face with my coat sleeve.

This warfare was taking it’s toll.

I swallowed another handful of pills and drank some more cold medicine. For a long time, I sat in my car, waiting for the effects of these medications to begin taking hold. Tomorrow, I wasn’t going to work.

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It was the middle of December when I entered the ninth chapter of the descent.

Even though the sky had been overcast all day long, no snow had fallen. It was coming soon, however. The heavens were angry and ominous and soon to burst forth.

Mother Africa and I had been together all day long. She was shopping for a new winter wardrobe and I was just accompanying her. She had bought several thick dark woolen dresses, luscious suede skirts, soft leather boots, a few long cashmere coats and even some matching hats for wardrobe. All together, Mother Africa had surrendered over a thousand dollars back into colonialistic ones. To all outside viewers, this was what was called a shopping spree. Of course, I knew that Mother Africa was simply making sure she remained active in the system of commerce, lest she arouse the suspicion of those who were monitoring the land in an effort the isolate and destroy those of the descent.

Afterward, neither Mother Africa nor I felt like going home. We decided to spend the night in a seedy hotel somewhere, gorging ourselves on pizza and soda until our bellies were ready to burst. And, we did just that. We rented a room on the seventeenth floor of an old brick building right at the corner of 39th and main.

Even though it was a high crime area and the building was clearly archaic, the small rooms inside were actually quite clean and nice. Apparently, the entire building had been rehabbed and modernized in the near past.

We our room walked around the corner and bought several large pizzas and a two large bottles of soda at a gritty diner. For what seemed like hours, we reveled in Mother Africa’s new clothing purchases by feasting on food and drank. We 195

celebrated. Of course, not one word of her true purpose was spoken. The enemies of the descent were always watching. We had to be careful.

As the night wore on, we laid all her new clothing out onto the bed and rolled in them over and over again as if we were beasts trying to impart our scent onto the fabric and then back onto ourselves. Then, we merged our bodies as we lay atop these clothes, our merged flesh swimming in a sea of vivid leathers, soft cottons, warm wools, luscious silks, and velvety cashmeres. For a long time afterwards, we lay there, our hearts beating and pounding profusely from the converging of ourselves that had just taken place.

Later in the evening, we walked around the corner to the liquor store and purchased several cases of cheap wine. Leaving my driver’s license as collateral, we borrowed a dolly from the store owner so that we could cart these cases to our hotel room. Laughing and giggling, Mother African and I pushed this cart down the street, past amazed onlookers, into the hotel and past a stunned desk attendant and up to our room. While I returned the dolly, Mother Africa opened all the bottles and poured them into the bathtub. Under a red light bulb, Mother Africa and I bathed in a luscious bath of sweet intoxicating red wine, washing each other’s bodies, merging ourselves in the wine, and drinking of it’s essence.

For a long time, we lay there in the tub, our bodies prostate against each other. The sweet aroma of the wine, mixed with the perfumed scent of Mother Africa entered and lingered within my nose. It lifted my thoughts and senses up to a higher level from which I could look out over the eminent domain where the original man ruled. As I felt the beat of Mother Africa’s heart against mine, my spirit could the roar of the lion and the swiftness of the gazelle as it moved through the foliage. I

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heard the war cry of the Isiku and the screams of the baboons as they swung high in the trees.

It was during this time that I felt again the sheer profundity of Mother Africa’s wisdom. Our seemingly erotic frolicking in a bath of wine was a symbolic rendering of the final resolution of all things. Mother Africa, the sea across which our forefathers had been stolen and spirited away, and those of the descent would one day be merged together for eternity. The homeland, the middle passage, and this strange land called America would one day become one entity bound by the declarations of the anointed ones, the fullness of the times, and the final realization of the descent. With my head on Mother Africa’s breast, I felt overwhelmed by all of this and I wept. She put her arm around me and held me as I felt the unutterable and inexpressionable thoughts of my growing consciousness rise up within me and burst forth in the person of tears flowing from my eyes. Mother Africa kept asking me what was wrong and if I was ok. She even told me that sometimes she was very concerned about me and wondered if I needed some help. As usual, she was beyond the wisest of the wise and the smartest of the smart. By disguising her spiritual utterances in the common language of the land, she could communicate thoughts of the grand oracles unto me without exposing them unto the European Colonialists. One day, one day soon, I would be able to understand all that Mother Africa was communicating unto me. I couldn’t wait for that day. It would be a grand and glorious one. Until then, I would have to be patient and learn of Mother Africa, the Anointed Ones, and the Elders. I would also have to stay on my toes and avoid all influences of the European Colonialists.

They were at every turn.

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It was now well after midnight. Mother Africa was asleep and it was late. From the living room window, I could look down and see the prostitutes, homeless, and mentally ill all converging on the corner of 39th. City buses stopped here twenty four hours a day and there was an all night convenience store situated on one corner. Diagonal from the convenience store was a gay club and some kind of weird looking theatre house. In the streetlight, various figures were emerging from these places, mixing in amongst each other and then vanishing into the darkness of the city streets.

It was after two a.m., and I was sitting in the window scratching my head and looking out onto the fire escape and down onto the street. Mother Africa was still in bed, fast asleep. I thought that I heard her snoring, but I wasn’t quite sure. I, myself, couldn’t sleep. These days, I barely slept anymore. My metabolism seemed to be stuck in some kind of weird mode, regardless of what I did to turn it down. Nearly all the time, I felt very, very tired but not tired enough to sleep for anything longer than a few hours.

A few days before, I had stumbled into the barbershop and my barber discreetly told me to start putting oil in my hair. No one had ever had to tell me to oil my scalp before. According to him, my follicles were drying out, he said and I was starting to lose some hair. He asked me if I was on some kind of medicine or chemotherapy. I told him no. For some reason, he just didn’t seem convinced.

I hadn’t been to the store to get any hair oil yet and so now my scalp felt very itchy and like old paper. I had just spent ten or so minutes scratching it but that only provided momentary relief. As soon as I would quit scratching, it would start itching. If I scratched too much, I started to bleed.

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I looked at my hand and plucked a bloody clump of tight, nappy hairs from beneath my fingernails. I forced myself to quit scratching. I was only succeeding in tearing my scalp open.

I got up and poked my head in the bedroom. Mother Africa was still fast asleep.

She was curled up with a wad of sheets tightly wound between her legs. She was comfortable. This was nothing new. Restless, I went into the kitchen and quietly looked around in the refrigerator. There was leftover pizza from our feast earlier.

I didn’t want any so I closed the door.

I needed to eat something. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten a real meal. I sustained myself on snacking here and there. But, I just didn’t feel hungry.

A few minutes later I found myself, sloppily dressed wandering down Main Street.

To walk outside and feel the breeze against my face felt good. The crisp night air thrust itself into my nostrils and briefly invigorated me. The sound of cars rushing by punctuated by an occasional smoke-belching city bus, was loud and robust and it shook the very sidewalk that I was walking on.

As I made my way past the crowd at the bus stop, various individuals spoke to me.

They all wanted something, mostly money. Downtown was rife with beggars, especially at night. The vast majority were scammers, lazy, or mental cases.

“Man, can I borrow some money.” ”I’m a veteran and I don’t have a job.”

“Hello sir. You look like a nice person. I’m diabetic and if I don’t get my medicine I’ll die. I need some money to get my medicine.”

“I need bus fare. Please help me.”

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I ignored them all. Some looked sincere. Others were obviously frauds. I didn’t have any money for any of them so I simply kept walking. I was going someplace.

For a brief moment, I looked across the street. Schwerner, Goodman, and Chaney were standing under a streetlamp on an empty corner, handing out flyers on faded paper to cockroaches and rats that passed by. This time, they weren’t covered in caked on mud and blood. In fact, they looked quite sharp in their black slacks, white shirts, black ties, and shiny black shoes.

I bowed my head and didn’t acknowledge them. I wasn’t sure why, but I was hoping they hadn’t seen me.

I had no idea where I was walking or why. I hadn’t bothered to tell Mother Africa where I was going. If they woke up, they might even get angry. But I just didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be anywhere these days. Rooms, walls, and buildings were all equally imprisoning to me. I couldn’t stay in one place. I had to keep moving, keep going. As I walked, I began to feel a stream of warm, thick bloody mucus seep from my nose and slither down from my face. It rolled across my lips, putting a salty taste on the tip of my tongue. This was happening more frequently now.

On the days that I was actually at work, it would sometimes start in the middle of a class session and I would have to leave the room and blow my nose. I don’t know what caused it. I didn’t want to go to a doctor. I refused to go to a doctor. I didn’t trust them. Kansas City wasn’t too far from Tuskegee. Inside, I was hoping that it was just a bad head cold or sinus infection. Stopping at one of those free newspaper boxes, I grabbed a free periodical. Tearing a large piece from the first page, I blew my nose hard into it. Pulling it back, I saw that it was dripping with blood and mucus. This wasn’t going to work. I just stopped walking altogether, 200

aimed my head down, and blew my nose as hard as I could. In the dim streetlight, I could see the large dark splatter pattern my discharge left on the sidewalk below. I felt better. I kept walking.

As I went further, the streets became darker and less and less inhabited. The nightclubs, strip joints, tattoo parlors and other fringe enterprises that lined the street eventually became old decaying, apartment buildings and finally vacant and boarded over storefronts. I had been walking for nearly an hour when I found myself on a completely empty street, surrounded by vacant lots with waist high weeds and the remains of a few dilapidated old row houses. Down the block, distance, I could see a few unlit buildings. They looked like they may have been abandoned apartments. Even further in the distance, I could see the lights of downtown Kansas City. They had a dim rose colored aura to them. A single car passed by me on the dormant, lonely street . It slowed down and then briefly stopped. It was a police officer. He shined an menacing flashlight my way and stared at me as if I had done something iniquitous, and then he kept going.

Walking at night is not against the law.

I kept walking.

Finally, I came upon the remains of what was once a city bus stop. The enclosed plastic booth was still there, punctuated with large holes and covered with graffiti, filled with trash, and lined with a half broken passenger bench. I went over to the bench, dusted it off with my sleeve, and laid down. I was feeling tired. My feet were starting to throb. My toes were burning.

I knew that I needed to go back to the hotel. Mother Africa could wake up at anytime. However, before beginning my journey back, I just wanted to rest for a few minutes.

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I took off my jacket, balled it up and laid it under my head. Then, I closed my eyes . Maybe, I could get just a little sleep. Just a little bit. My body was begging for rest. Even warriors of the descent got tired.

Sometimes I thought about my Younger sister Carmelita When we were about Eight years old Around Christmastime We got up late at night While our parents slept And we crept downstairs To play under the Christmas tree And look upon the wonder Of the bright Colorful Twinkling lights Carmelita went over by the Glowing fireplace I sat down on the stairs And watched She danced 202

Like a tiny black Cinderella Spinning Bowing Kicking her legs up And Swinging her arms Carmelita’s flannel nightgown was Floating on the air As if it were A delicate Cloud Embracing An angel But Carmelita soon got too close to the fire And her nightgown That floated on the air Burst into sudden flames The flames ran up the sides Of her body And circled her head And set her hair 203

Into an inferno Carmelita’s wide Gap tooth smile Turned into a sudden frown and She screamed and I ran into my room And hid Under my covers I knew she’d be back I knew It would be ok I remember laying there Shaking and Wetting my bed Hearing my parents And my older sister Frantically screaming Crying and Praying

I remember Laying in bed 204

And hearing Sirens And then Strange voices downstairs Firemen Policemen Relatives neighbors I laid there until the next day No one came and woke me up When morning came I went downstairs My older sister and i Ate breakfast All alone My older sister said nothing About Carmelita In fact She said nothing At all Carmelita died A week later 205

At some hospital In texas My sister and i Were staying with relatives At the time I never told my parents That I was there And saw it When Carmelita’s flannel nightgown Burst into Flames Then again They never asked But They did cry a lot And things Were never the same

I woke up as the sun began to rise, and I staggered back to the hotel. Mother Africa was still asleep and I laid down on the couch.

I didn’t go to work that day. I didn’t even bother to call in.

The spirit 206

Of lost black souls ascended from The depths Of the brick sidewalk like A thin vapor Rising from the luscious sands Of the sudan At night And then slowly Moving across the plains and Infiltrating the very pores Of the lost oasis From which he came I saw a man Rise from these sands And partake of this spirit He was Tall Stately Distinguished and When he opened his mouth My soul heard The gentle notes of John coltrane Played on the tore back Of medger evers 207

And reverberating from the broken neck of slaves yet lynched but not yet lynched for their departure had not yet been consumated Yet somehow This sound Distilled itself from the contaminated pigmentation Of the lost and banished souls Of unborn black men I listened to these notes And they spoke of Something Primitive And Co-existent That Cried of Louisiana sugar Plantations And slow baked apples 208

Mingled with The bitter taste Of the blood of slaves Whose lifeless bodies And vacated souls Were once Cast upon the floor Of the Mississippi Only to rise When the tides fell Washing the kingdoms away

I cried at these notes Their arrangement Broke something within me And I listened for more But there were no more Yet There was more However I could not yet here more I succumbed To these notes Toppled

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Swayed and fell to my knees with My soul screaming For the deliverance Of the tribal chieftan But he was not yet here I then lifted great handfuls Of hot Sudanese sand Into my mouth and It tasted like honey Yet It felt like The dew From the lush jungles Of the congo Where the gorillas scream When the moon turns to blood And the stars Fall from The sky Struggling to my feet 210

I felt a spirit pass by A large spirit A huge spirit A spirit that cried of Polarized gene pools And hereditary contaminations Dipped within the Steaming pools Of cultural assimilation It brushed against me And knocked That last handful of sand From my mouth And back to the earth] Where it turned into A shining pool Of melted glass Reflecting The destiny Of my soul Standing above me This spirit This great spirit Held within his arms The conceptualization 211

Of my consciousness And he balanced it Like a hourglass Filled with the sands Of imminency Finally, He lay it down In front of me Within me Beyond me Yet within my reach And I watched the sands Pour down The time soon expired The era soon ended The end of the age had come And we Were still not yet delivered One night Lazarus-Buddha came to visit me. We sat in my living room and had a lengthy conversation about things I could speak of but could no longer remember.

It was late when Lazarus-Buddha arrived, well past midnight. Walking through my furniture, he stood above me as I lay upon the couch. Gazing upon him, I could see through him and to the other side of my living room. It was then that I really 212

needed to clean up. My place looked like hell. However, the descent would be complete soon and appearances would be irrelevant concepts.

We went to my bedroom and watched Mother Africa lay there sleeping in my bed.

I had no idea how she got there. As far as I knew, Mother Africa didn’t have a key to my place. But, she must have had one because she had gotten in and went to sleep in my bed. Then again, Mother Africa didn’t need keys. She ruled over all.

She looked angelic and I wondered how she enjoyed sleeping in my bed. It wasn’t very comfortable. I hadn’t washed the sheets in weeks and so I just had a blanket laying on top of the mattress. The mattress smelled damp and mildewy. When I did sleep, I seemed to sweat a lot. It was a few hours later when Lazarus-Buddha left. He must have taken Mother Africa with him. When I got up from the couch and went to bed, I saw that she was gone too.

I couldn’t remember what Lazarus-Buddha told me, but I felt it. I will be glad when Lazarus-Buddha visits me again.

The day after Lazarus-Buddha came to visit me, I went to the penitentiary and found that he had achieved physical translation a few days before. Apparently, the cancer which he had suffered in the body had triggered some kind of deadly infection that had quickly spread throughout his body. He entered the infirmary in the morning with fatigue and shortness of breath and had translated before afternoon had arrived. Per his request, there was no funeral or even a memorial service. LazarusBuddha had asked that his body be donated to some black medical college down in Alabama. As a result, there was nothing physical left of LazarusBuddha, save his precious chess set. I asked the visitor’s liaison if I could have the chess set, but she told me that it had been lost. She was lying and I knew 213

it. It was a nice set, I knew someone had stolen it. The enemies of the movement had it in their possession and were, no doubt, poring over each piece seeking details of the movements to come in future days. However, I knew they would find none. Lazarus-Buddha was diligent and far brighter than the strongest of the European Colonialists. For every move they had, Lazarus-Buddha had a plethora of countermoves. For every evil and wicked strategy they sought to implement, Lazarus-Buddha had countless methods of defense and counterattack. They could steal his chess set, it would do them no good. May the curses of Mother Africa fall on their scheming, worthless, and degenerate minds! With feelings of consolation, I remembered that I still had some polaroids that Lazarus-Buddha and I had taken together over the last few months. I would put these on the wall of my apartment so they would be a greeting when he came to visit me again. I smiled at the thought, maybe when the anointed ones or some of the elders came to visit in the night, I could seek pictures of them to adorn my walls. This would encourage and strengthen me in the difficult days that surely lied ahead. I would miss the physical manifestation of Lazarus-Buddha but I had been prepared for his translation. I knew he was prepared for this transition. In a way, I felt relieved. I don’t know why. But, I just felt relieved in a way.

I took the long way driving home from the penitentiary.

I once saw A dirty Fair haired White woman With A dirty 214

Nappy haired Black man With A fat Dirty Belly and Her belly was ripe And Tender and soon to burst forth With the ripe mulatto fruit Of a woman who Lusting for that Which her heritage Had attempted to Destroy In her and Who spread her legs Across the forbidden precipice Only to find out Why the caged bird Long ago Quit singing 215

She didn’t Overcome He simply Came over

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It was a few days before Christmas when Mother Africa subjected me to a test of my loyalty, wisdom, and discretion.

The place where this test took place was referred to under the title of the “Truman Mental Health Center”. Mother Africa brought me here in the early hours of a Tuesday morning after I had opened myself to her and spoke of things of the descent.

When I spoke of these things, she looked at me intently and then asked me if I was serious. Of course, I answered in the affirmative. I knew she was testing me. I also knew that we were being watched. This was nothing new. Since birth, my phone had been tapped and cameras had been installed in all the places where I had lived.

They had been watching me, and others of the descent, from the time of our conception. This was not surprising. They feared us and the high ranking we would achieve after the descent had escalated and the breakdown in the social order had been confirmed.

In any event, Mother Africa dressed me, drove me here, and walked me up to the desk in this place.

I was wearing one of her plush red bathrobes and matching slippers.

Earlier that day, the anointed ones had told me to disrobe and remain disrobed until one of the ninety seven elders had communicated unto me that it was time to 217

get dressed. At first, Mother Africa seemed amused by this. We even merged our bodies in the later afternoon. But, as time went on, she seemed perturbed, then disturbed, and finally she began to ask questions.

When we left the house, I resisted wearing this robe and wanted to remain undressed but Mother Africa assured me that the anointed ones would not be angry at me for wearing it.

While those of the descent feared no devices of the European Colonialists, we must also be prudent.

After arriving here, I nodded yes to all questions and willfully signed all consent forms. Mother Africa had brought my wallet and she gave them my driver’s license and insurance card.

My submission was not due to lack of questions, but of discretion. Now was not the time for questions, but rather to observe and prepare for the testing that would come in this place.

After Mother Africa brought me to this testing place, I didn’t see her for about three days. She brought me on a Monday and I didn’t see her again until Friday. I missed her.

In the mornings, we had breakfast and then an hour or two to ourselves. I spent most of my time watching television in a large room with about ten other people.

The television was usually tuned to cartoons, talk shows, or sports. It didn’t seem 218

to make a difference what it was tuned to. Most of us in there seemed to be half asleep anyway. Some seemed to be fully awake physically, but their glassy eyes told me that their minds were far, far away. I assumed that they, like myself, had been called by the Anointed Ones to battle and were busy fortifying their minds.

In the late morning and early afternoon, we sat in on various sessions on topics such as handling stress, clinical depression, substance abuse, and one session where we just talked.

These talking sessions were very enlightening, even though I didn’t say much. One descendent of the original ones stated that she was a housewife and a new mother.

She stated that she had come to the testing center because having a child had drained so much of her essence that she wasn’t sure if she could go on. One portly white man was an attorney and he kept saying how tired he was. Another individual claimed to be a teacher in the district, even though I had never seen him.

According to him, this was his third visit to the testing center. Still, another individual, from the Eastern ones, was a college student. She spoke of the stress of her home life and feeling that she would disappoint her parents.

Like a lonely saxophone (or something) It wailed within me 219

screamin g in the not-so-empty darkness of my soul but still yet illuminating the darkness that the illumination created so I tried to feed it with with the meats of my assimilations But it stayed hungry I once even Tried to starve it within the cages of revolutions and upheavals 220

But instead I found Myself starving And My bones Cried powdery Tears of stale Sidewalk chalk So finally I Just closed my eyes And pretended I couldn’t hear it

now I think That I’m mute

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I didn’t say very much in these sessions, my attention was focused on observing those around me and taking in what they had to say. Their stories were all very interesting to me, and in one sense I could see that they had a lot going on in their lives. In another sense, I remembered that our earthly lives are simply shells that disguised our battles for or against the Descent. Therefore, their statements and confessions had to be deeply scrutinized for the hidden meaning and symbolisms they were passing from one to another.

I was denied the nectar of enlightenment in this place and it made things difficult at first. Alcohol, the substance that the Anointed Ones used as vehicle for enlightenment, was forbidden here and I would be ejected from this testing center if I brought any here.

For the first few days, this denial made sleep difficult. I would lay in bed for hours, replaying various events and journeys in my mind. Usually, I dozed off around two or three in the morning, well after everyone else. When I did sleep, I would experience no night journeys.

After the third day, the nurses gave me some pills at bedtime. These pills helped me to sleep and rest. However, my night journeys stopped. After the second night without a night journey under the auspices of the Anointed Ones, I realized that these pills were a part of the testing process. My mind was being fortified to reflect and assimilate what I had learned in previous journeys.

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So, each night, I would lay in bed and attempt to recollect previous night journeys.

I would retrace my steps and activities and pray to the Anointed Ones that they would reveal to me what each one of them meant.

Once When I searched for The root Of my Consciousness And my fruit Of my Destiny I found it Chained to a Cement filled Barrel at The bottom of The great stream Even though I couldn’t swim I dived into the Cold waters And swam up to This barrel

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(Even though I couldn’t Swim) When I opened the barrel I looked within I saw a mirror And a hammer I took the hammer And tried To break the mirror But it Wouldn’t break Instead The hammer broke I ran out of air So I came back up Still without The root Of my consciousness And the fruit Of my destiny

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I started to go Back down And try again But instead I went home And took A long Long nap

As I entered my second week here, I didn’t hear the Anointed Ones speaking to me. Therefore, I was careful to not speak of the descent in explicit terms to anyone. Even though I was asked some very probing questions, I was diligent in not sacrificing the cause to which I had been called. I was asked repeatedly if I saw or heard entities that no one else saw or heard. I answered “no” each time. I was asked repeatedly if I sometimes felt voices in my head telling me what to do. Once again, I answered “no” each time. When I was asked why I was here, I replied that Mother Africa had brought me here because she felt that I needed rest. After several sessions where I was asked these questions over and over again, I wasn’t asked anymore. I had passed that test. I was confident that the Anointed Ones could trust me to not speak of their existence and communications unless they had instructed me to do so.

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It was during my second week in the testing center when I met LazarusBuddha again. This time, he came in the manifestation of a twenty something year old Haitian man who was sleeping in a room two doors down from mine. This manifestation looked nothing like the first manifestation of Lazarus-Buddha. This time, his skin was very dark, his hair short and nappy, his lips and nose were broad and wide, his teeth were heavily chipped and dark like wood, and his skin was heavily pockmarked. It was an ingenious disguise. A disguise this slick could throw off even the smartest of the European Colonialists. And, the European Colonialists were quite smart.

This time Lazarus-Buddha didn’t say much at all, simply spending most of his time gazing out the window of his room onto the snowed in courtyard below. For the first several days, as I passed his room, this was all I saw him do. However, once the anointed ones revealed to me in the night seasons that this was LazarusBuddha, I entered his room and sat on the chair next to him.

His room was empty and he brought nothing with him except for a few sets of clothes, a hairbrush, and bar of soap. He had no books, radio, or even a pad and paper. It was quiet and the lights were off. The only illumination was the blueishwhite hue that radiated in from the snow outside and filled his room.

I felt the I spoke to him in hushed tones, as to not arouse unnecessary suspicion and ire.

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Upon leaving the testing facility, I stayed with Mother Africa.

A few weeks before, Mother Africa had spoken with me about moving in with her.

She felt that I didn’t need to live alone and should be with someone. Of course, I was obedient to all she had to say. It was very possible that the place of my ultimate descent would be her home. In fact, that would be only fitting. At times, I wondered if her home, and in particular her bed, were the portal through which the Anointed Ones would make their entrance at the end of all things.

I gave her my keys and the number of my landlord and she said she would take care of the rest. A few days later, she remarked that my apartment was filthy, even though I only had a few belongings. Mother Africa said something about cockroaches seething in and out of a trash can in the kitchen and breeding underneath the toilet stool. I never paid attention to the cockroaches. I wasn’t sure of their purpose but I felt that they were either organic surveillance devices of the European Colonialists or the Anointed Ones had sent them to keep me company.

Therefore, I made no attempts to interefere with their activities, even when they crawled into my bed or got into my clothes. I just shook them out and continued in my way.

Finally, she came back and told me that I had been moved and upon leaving the testing facility, I could stay with her. Mother Africa seemed happy about it but also troubled in a way. She even mentioned wondering if it were the right thing. Of course, she knew fully whether it was the right thing or not. She was just gauging my perception and testing my resolve. I appreciated that about Mother Africa. She 227

was always looking out for my good and strengthening me for the final descent.

Then again, that’s her essence. All that is good emanates from Mother Africa and all that is evil emanates from the European Colonialists.

“I really don’t know why I’m doing this shit…I told myself that I would not get caught up with another needy and damaged black man but here is my stupid ass again, about to make the same stupid mistake. It’s bad enough I had to bring you to the nut house wearing my bathrobe and slippers…I’m surprised you weren’t wearing my bra and panties too…Now, I’m about to move your crazy ass in with me…I must be one of those stupid bitches they talk about on television…just can’t deal with a good man, can’t handle a good brother…always have to take on these fucked up mental case Negroes and end up getting fucked up in the end…I know that’s how it’s going to end up. I’m going to get fucked up in the end…I always do. ..Why didn’t I learn my lesson before….I must be the stupidest bitch in the world for falling for this shit a second time….I just can’t believe that I’m doing this bullshit all over again…Damn, I’m stupid…”

As Mother Africa packed my bags, I said nothing. I just sat there and listened to her. I knew that, in time, I would understand the true meaning of her cryptic statements. Now, however, was time to listen and place these words to my memory so that in the great day of understanding, they would come to remembrance.

“Are you ready to go yet? This place is starting to make me nervous and these fools up in here just look crazy.”

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“Are you hungry? I know hospital food isn’t very good. That’s probably why so many people die in the hospital. When I was in the hospital, the food sucked. Want to stop and get something to eat?”

We stopped at a small barbeque joint on the far south end of Prospect Avenue. It was a long, dark building. Years ago, I had come here for some ribs well after midnight.

Mother Africa ordered a turkey on bread, I did the same. I I don’t know the exact moment that I got tired. All I really know that it was late one Saturday night.

Earlier that evening, Mother Africa had went to a small club in the Westport area called “Chicago”. It was no special occasion. Chicago was just holding a dance for middle aged folks so they could get dressed, go out, and dance to some r&b from the sixties, seventies, and early eighties. I had heard about these dances, but I had never been.

Mother Africa wore a short black, strapless dress and I wore a black suit that she had picked out for me. We looked very nice and received a lot of compliments. We even took a picture together, standing under an arch.

Afterwards, we went to an Italian restaurant downtown for dinner. It was the one where they owners kept pictures of all the mob bosses on the wall. Mother Africa and I shared a large bowl of some very tasty spaghetti.

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Afterwards, we went for a drive around the city and then stopped at a small motel on the far south end of Troost Avenue. Here, we mingled our juices and shared our essence with one another.

Now, it was around two in the morning. Outside, I could still hear people walking by, arguing and fighting. In the next room, I could hear the sounds of rough sex over the noise of a television playing a pornographic movie. In this room, I could hear Mother Africa snoring.

In this moment, I realized that I was tired.

I was truly tired.

Very tired.

For a long time, I sat nude and slouched in a half-broken wooden chair watching Mother Africa’s foot protrude from the pile of sheets and I thought about my tiredness. Like the winds of winter sweeping across a frigid lake, onto the shore, and through the thickest of clothing and deep into my bones, this tiredness moved out from within me, sweeping across the desolate plains of my consciousness and slashed deep back into my very essence and spirit. This tiredness came from me, yet it attacked me.

It was a painful tiredness, the kind of tiredness that makes it painful to just move, think, and breathe. Yet, it was a refreshing tiredness that seemed to awaken and bridle some anger within in me.

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In this one, unannounced moment, I realized that I was tired of feeling that my subsistence was a constant, eternal battle between dual lives, dual consciousnesses, dual existences borne of two separate realities that fed on each other while feeding on themselves.

I was tired of feeling like I was some kind of being that was somehow detached from myself, yet an embryo within myself, and still drawing life of myself. I was tired of being sentenced to a grim reality of judging the voices resonating in my physical existence and the realities borne of my physical realm by the voices in my inner existence and the realities of my inner realm.

Suddenly, I jumped to my feet at this very revelation. Back and forth, I paced across the constraints of this motel room, contemplating these things. I couldn’t sit down, I couldn’t stay still. No, I had to stand, and pace across this place as if I were a cougar or lion pacing to the prey. This prey, this pain and fatigue, had to be confronted and consumed.

I pointed at the air, shouting the invisible entities that I knew had followed me here. I was tired of their instruction, orders, and regulations. I was tired of the cloak of secrecy and in my mind, I shouted this tiredness at them.

I remembered that the Anointed Ones had told me that I had a greater purpose in this existence. At the time, I had embraced this thought. No one had ever told me or even hinted that I had a purpose beyond simply living, breathing, and eventually 231

dying. The thought of a greater purpose had created in me a purpose and destiny that I was lacking before.

Yet, in fact, I was now tired of my so-called greater purpose. To me, this purpose was the freedom from bondage that it was proposed to be. Rather, I was just another manifestation of the same bondage. For my skin color and lineage to require me to ascribe to some greater purpose was just as much a captivity and slavery as the captivity and slavery which gave rise to the need for a greater purpose. Why did my blackness have to create for me a matrix and rubric for living? Why could not my foundation for existence be based merely on the fact that I am human?

Of course, I could blame the European Colonialists for this. But, were the Anointed Ones without blame also? For it was under their instruction and orders that I had learned to look at life through an examining eye and not an accepting one. It was under the tutelage of the Anointed Ones that I had stepped out from the linearity of living and into the redundancy of living death. The Anointed Ones had told me that my life was for a higher purpose. Yet, does purpose of life contradict and cancel out the existence of life itself?

I sat down in the old wooden chair for a moment, but I couldn’t remain there. I sprung to my feet and bolted into the restroom. Looking at myself in the mirror, I noticed that my nostrils were flaring wildly, my sagging eyes were red and fiery, and a thick dribble of yellow saliva was oozing down from the side of my mouth. I shook my head violently and this dribble flung off onto the wall.

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I wished that wall had been my greater purpose. For, in this moment, I despised that purpose, I hated that purpose, I wanted to slay that purpose. I wanted the purpose to be dead.

Storming out of the bathroom for a moment, I looked around the dormant motel suite. I started to sit down, then sprung back to my feet. I refused to sit. The Anointed Ones wanted me to sit, to be subservient. However, I refused to be so.

They did not create me, they were descendents of the original ones just as I was.

They did not rule me, nor did they guide me.

I would not sit for them.

I stormed back into the restroom and looked at the jello-like dribble of saliva on the wall. Feeling some congestion building in my sinus, I placed a finger over one nostril and then I blew out of the other one as fiercely as I could. A large mass of bloody mucus spewed from my nostril like water spewing from a whale and splattered across the wall. I watched this red, pink, and yellow mass trickle down the faded beige wall and then I blew my nose again and again until my sinus was empty. But, I wasn’t yet finished.

Covering the other nostril, I did same thing. Again, a large mass of bloody mucus splattered onto the wall. This time, I blew again and again until it hurt to breathe.

Feeling the last of the congestion loosen up and run down my throat, I heaved up a large amount of mucus-saliva and spat it onto the wall.

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Standing there like an artist viewing a just finished canvas, I looked with satisfaction at the masterpiece of contempt that I had created on this wall. I knew, within, that it was more than a wall. This wall was the way through which the Anointed Ones would enter. Now, they would have to wallow through my mucus and saliva and waste if they wanted to meet with me again. That’s how I felt about them and their so-called purpose.

I stormed back into the bedroom. Mother Africa had shifted under the sheets. Yet, she was still asleep. I went back into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror, just looking into my hate-filled eyes.

Still, I wondered, could I be angry at the Anointed Ones at all? Without the European Colonialists, would the Anointed Ones even have a reason for existence?

It was true that the mission of the Anointed Ones was to destroy the European Colonialists. But, had not the Colonialists themselves created the need for this mission, thus creating the mission itself?

And yet, I wondered if hate has an origin, or does it just be? And what was selfhate? Was there truly such a thing? Can a person truly hate themselves? Was not self hate simply hate directed at something which abides in ourselves but is still not of ourselves?

Storming back into the bedroom a second time, I fell to my knees and opened my arms and clenched my hands in anger. I wanted to violently strangle, viciously kill, and somehow destroy this entity so bad that I could just feel this urge rising with me. Yet, I was still trying to decipher the identity of this entity that I hated so 234

much. The rage was real, the hate was real, the fatigue that fed the hate was real.

But, the object of the rage, hate, and source of fatigue was still somehow elusive. I needed it to be known, to be made manifest, to be made real. To not just be thought, but to be seen and heard.

In this moment, I hated the Anointed Ones. I knew that I hated them. They had not escaped the wrath of my hate. In fact, they may be the most hated of all. I hated the fact that they dwelt within me and had risen up and made themselves known. I wished that I had never known of their existence. Right now, in this moment, I hated the fact that I had ever met them and I hated the fact that they even existed. I hated the conditions that gave rise to their existence and the fact that they used these conditions to justify their existence.

In my innards, I felt this hate violently marinating and festering. It gurgled and seethed and simmered within me as if it some food that was destined to feed and sustain me. And, in this madness of hate, I wondered if this blackness was not as much the source of my hate as it was the target of my hate. I wondered if the beast within, awakened by the Anointed Ones, was the beast which they despised and were committed to destroying?

Now sweating profusely, I suddenly leapt to my feet and dashed towards the dresser, stopping and taking a long swig from an nearly empty bottle of vodka that Mother Africa had purchased. I felt the vodka searing my raw tissues as it burned it’s down my throat and creating an acidic pool in the pit of my stomach. Moaning as I doubled over, I gritted my teeth and held my breath in order to subdue this 235

pain. As I stay doubled over, I could feel a mass of flatulence wad up in my bowels and then force itself out with a burst of loud wind. Immediately, I could smell the stench of it. I breathed deeply and took in my own refuse and expungement.

For several minutes, I closed my eyes. Yet, when I opened them, the hate was still there. And, I was still very, very tired.

It felt that my hate was evolving. This hate that I felt now was not a hate borne of wounded feelings or slight. No, this hate was born of a feeling as of being one who was not quite one. This hatred was borne of the feeling of being as an unborn child who was destined to be gestated apart from the umbilical cord and so came into this world already detached from the mother to whom he was ascribed to. It was the hate of this detached child who, upon birth, was neither nursed nor nurtured but rather thrown viciously to the wolves then reclaimed upon reaching adulthood and paraded before the world as an example of unbridled human savagery.

And, it seethed. Yes, this hate seethed. It seethed without sound and without sight.

It seethed in a way that could possibly only be seen and heard by the blind and the deaf. I knew that this hate had been seething for all time, from before I met the Anointed Ones and they had awakened it within me, it seethed. Now, it was bursting forth.

Now awakened, this feeling of hatred that rose up in me was that of the lost man that was, in fact, conceived lost, thus born lost, and that was lost before there 236

existed something called lost. The lost man defined what it meant to be lost and was, in fact, the living definition of loss. Without loss, the man did not exist for it was not a man. It was a lost man. I knew this lost man. I knew him very well. He was here, yet he was not. And, I wondered where this man truly was.

Then, this man of loss appeared. Before he even entered, I knew immediately who it was. It was Habuk in the flesh. I saw him coming silently through the wall as if he felt his very presence would alter my revelations. I looked at Habuk. I was not surprised that Habuk looked exactly the way the Anointed Ones had described him to me. Just as they said, he was tall, muscular, jet black, and with a thick, black, phallus that hung nearly to the floor.

Habuk slowly walked up to me, looking me straight in my eyes the entire time. I dropped my head and I looked down at my body. My body was nothing like his and it never would be. Habuk’s skin was shiny jet black while mine was a brown color. Habuk’s wide chest was thick and squared and sinewy. My chest was round and sagging. Habuk’s abdomen was flat and ribbed. My abdomen protruded, was sprinkled with lumps of cellulite, and hung down. Habuk’s phallus was long, thick and dropped lazily like some kind of thick black python. My phallus was short, contracted, and poked out like the head of a turtle poking out from underneath it’s shell.

Habuk was not of me and I was not of Habuk. Whether it was by nature or by history, it didn’t matter. Regardless of any commonalities in the respective routes by which we had come, Habuk and I still had had nothing in common. Nothing at 237

all. I couldn’t follow or try to dicate my existence based on Habuk’s. His consciousness could not be mine, nor could it dicate mine. My essence and spirit could not be rooted in Habuk’s, nor would it ever be.

I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Habuk was gone. Yet, the hate remained. I was now exhausted and sat on the edge of the bed. Mother Africa was still asleep or either feigning sleep. Maybe she had left her body was observing my revolt. I didn’t care anymore. As far as I was concerned, if the Anointed Ones had brought her to me, they could take her with them when they left.

He searched The floor of the great Sea He was searching For It but Finding only The rotting bones (Still yet shackled) Of those Defiant ones once cast Asunder then He searched The land From where They came 238

Once again Yet But not yet Searching for it And in His searchings Finding only What was once it But Was still Not yet it For The time Was not yet He Then searched Between His legs Hoping Seeking probing descending In the vain hope That the lost anticipations Would not totally Consume him But still it was not there only shame lived in this place 239

So he took The journal of His searchings And formed a noose And hung himself He was Thirty seven But That piece of paper Said He was fourteen The hate remained. It continued to swirl about in my mind, like an ominous typhoon swirling in the great ocean. I could feel it drawing on my energy like a typhoon draws water from around it. The hate was getting stronger and more defiant.

I hated the fact that while I wore the clothing, talked the talk, and followed the customs of my physical existence, I was intimately detached from it. I was never a 240

true resident of this world and this consciousness in which I lived. My residency was in something else, something beyond, something unseen and unheard. My residency was in a place that no one knew of but me, yet I truly didn’t know it myself. I could never truly know it for it’s image in me had been defaced years and years ago. Yet, this residency was my comfort and my torment at the same time.

With one hand, it handed me the sweet fruits of affirmation and with the other hand it threw at me the bitter fruits of rejection. I accepted the fruit of both hands with willingness. For, it was what I knew.

It was this hate that pushed and prodded me to continue in the way of the descent when there was no way to go in. It was this hate that drove me to commit the faces, words, and action of others to memory. It was this hate that made me want to eventually triumph and see them destroyed and cast under my feet. And this, created fatigue.

And my fatigue became the field upon which my hate blossomed. I needed the hate to cope with my fatigue, yet it was this hate which created my fatigue. My tiredness was here, it wasn’t going anywhere.

I hated the fact that I was slave to a position where I had to descend in order to ascend, that I had to go below and beneath those whom I felt were oppressing me and become what they expected me to be so that I could ascribe to what I actually was. They would refuse to co-exist with me on their level, resist me from ascending to above their level, yet embrace me if I descended below their level. It was from this perspective below that I was considered equal, yet an inferior equal.

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For, to be equal would mean to share our respective consciousness yet our respective consciousnesses were formed of experiences too far separated to be share anything.

Most of all, I hated the fact that I truly knew that the Anointed Ones, the European Colonialists, and the Descent did not, in one sense, exist. Yet, in another sense, they existed because I needed them to exist. Their existence created and enlivened my existence. Without them, I had no consciousness and meaning and purpose.

Yet, with them, the consciousness, meaning, and purpose that I had was so far detached from reality that it was as if it did not exist.

And now, at this moment, I wanted nothing to do with the Anointed Ones. The consciousness they awakened in me brought me nothing but trouble and pain.

I was no longer concerned about failing the descent, rather I wanted to reject the descent altogether. I wanted to refuse definition and accept nothingness. To be defined stripped me of my autonomy. Yet, to assume nothingness stripped me of my existence.

And, I wondered, which one did I prefer?

Most of all, I was tired.

I looked at Mother Africa’s foot protruding from the sheets.

At this moment, as far as I was concerned, Mother Africa was dead.

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Long die Mother Africa.

Bitch.

Omega As I began walking down the still busy street, I could hear cars slowing down and shocked people shouting and talking at me from their open windows. I could hear the rude honking of car horns and the stunned gasps of stunned individuals that I passed by on the gritty sidewalks.

I just kept walking, closed my eyes, and kept thinking about her delicate, small, tan foot protruding lifelessly from the ruffled pile of white satin sheets.

It was a few dimly city blocks later when I finally reached a municipal bus stop. It was fairly busy, even though it was the wee hours of the morning. For some reason, I stopped and stood here, expecting wholeheartedly to catch the next available bus and ride infinitely somewhere, eternally anywhere, it didn’t matter.

The small and fatigued crowd of late night workers, transients, illegal aliens, and midnight travelers gathered tiredly at the this bus stop began focusing and fixating their prurient attention on me long before I arrived. I saw and felt their eyes crawling on my flesh as soon as they saw me emerge from the streetlights down the block.

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By the time I got to the bench, they had nervously cleared away as if they plainly expected me to launch into some kind of typhoon-like explosion of animalistic fury. One sloppily young man wearing a loud portable stereo nearly tripped over a wide crack in the gritty sidewalk as he blindly backed away from me. A portly woman, clearly of Hispanic descent actually left her bulging grocery bags on the splintered wooden seat and hastily nustled her two wide-eyed young children against her breast. An older, angry looking, brown skinned man in a yellow construction hat began reaching deep into his pocket as if he were intently fishing for a knife, gun, or razor. For a moment, I looked at them and then, instead of taking a seat on the bench, I walked over to the bus sign itself and stood against it.

I began looking down the street, waiting for the bus.

A sputtering car full loud and boisterous of teenagers slowed up and stopped right in front of me. They hung out the open windows, leering rudely at me and spewing ephithets and profanities from their virulent lips. Finally, one of the produced what appeared to be a disposable camera and flashed off several rounds before another one threw an empty beer bottle at my legs and they sped off. The bottle simply grazed my legs and didn’t harm me.

As I stood here, amidst the white glaring headlights, blasting car horns, and constant murmuring coming from the distanced crowd of bus patrons who were now piled against a vacant storefront behind me, I wondered what I had done to fail the anointed ones, the elders, and the leaders of the descent. Mother Africa’s outburst had done far more than hurt my earthly feelings and fleshly sensibilities.

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It had clarified in my suspecting mind that I had proven myself unworthy of the sacred task for which I had been called. Mother Africa’s refusal to allow me to address her by her true title and only by her earthly name of Mya had made me realize something that I had suspected for a long time. Somewhere along the work of my descent, I had erred deeply and was now rejected and damned.

Standing there, I wondered what the future held for my soul. Would I be simply be left as wounded and dying prey for the European Colonialists? Or, would I vanish into the untold abyss of those who had never yet existed and thus be wiped from the annals of destiny?

I looked up and into the streetlight and wondered if my brown flesh would begin to lighten and lose it’s pigmentation as a result of my damning failure. Would all traces of the original ones and my lineage from Mother Africa be stripped from me because of my total unworthiness? Would I be left a colorless, formless carcass of spirit wandering in vain across the desolation of the land?

As I thought, I felt the salty tears of my pain leave my eyes, run down my cheeks, over and between my lips. In my agonies, my eyes opened up like satiated clouds that could hold no more and the fluids of my anguish poured freely down my face.

I dropped to the pavement on my knees and lifted up my hands and eyes unto the anointed ones and I cried out..

Oh, Anointed Ones And the elders of the original peoples 245

The deliverers of all flesh Those who rise in the purified blood from the veins of Mother Africa And descend Into the firstfruits of the Tigris I have failed thee In this descent Which was graciously Assigned unto me I have failed to meet my anointed task I have failed to be What I was called unto And now, I must suffer the punishment Fit for the worst Of the European colonialists I must become like them And one of them And be consumed by them And be their prey And take unto myself Their ways 246

And their appearances And their being And their essence I shall vanish Into the vast ocean Of their forbidden tongues And their tortured habitations And their profane thoughts And their darkened plans The very poisons Of their damned existence Shall be engraved upon My lost mind And I shall remember The original ways No more I shall be forever cut off From Mother Africa And her hallowed ways And the original ones who sprang from her womb shall speak my name in scorn anointed ones 247

I ask your final mercies On my undeserving Existence I bowed my head and broke into virulent, uncontrollable, and wracking sobs, expecting to be transformed into one of the European Colonialists and for their prey. Everything that had been revealed to me in the descent, would be vanquished from my mind and I would be assimilated into their beings and would exist no more. Maybe, one day, someone would read of me or of someone like me that once existed. But, for myself, I would exist no more.

It became silent.

A single hand rested on my shoulder. A familiar and known hand. A soft and tender hand. It was a hand that I had once held, a hand that once held mine in return. It was a hand that had once caressed my chest and had dug deeply into my back. It was a hand that once dipped it’s fingers, dripping with the intoxicating nectars of the sweetened womb, into my mouth. It was a hand that had brushed my hair, wiped tears from my eyes, and had provided me with guidance.

I opened my eyes and looked up. It was Mother Africa. She was standing, in the flesh, her luscious land wrapped in a single sheet. Her delicate feet and shins were bare and, as I looked through her translucence, I could see specks and streaks of still-glistening blood on the sidewalk that she had left behind. “Mother Africa must had run down here.”, I thought.

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I looked deep into her eyes. For several minutes, she just stood there silently, looking troubled and concerned. The eyes of unbridled anger that I had seen just a while earlier, were now replaced with the embracing eyes of caring and sorrow.

From these eyes of caring and sorrow, slow streams of thick tears were running down her face. I was sure that she was prepared to destroy me completely, to blot my pathetic soul from existence for having failed the armies of the descent and having proven myself unworthy of it’s sacred oracles. Even Mother Africa must feel some degree of sadness when forced to remove all traces of her essence from those who had fallen in their quest to reach the standards set before them.

Mother Africa opened the sheet wide and stepped towards me. I peered into the opened sheet at her wide, luscious, nude body. This was the plush body of riches and splendor which had once birthed me, watched me drown in the seas of slavery and oppression, and found me again at Vite’s art opening, then nourished me, tested me, and was now forced to damn me for my failings.

I rested my head against her soft abdomen one last time and felt the slow heartbeat of the birthplace of destiny for what would be the final instance. She gently rested her hand on top of my head and I heard and felt her throw the sheet around me and cover us both with it. I prepared myself for the end. This was it. I would now be punished with extinction from the annals of the descent and destroyed completely.

There was no sense fighting it. This was the moment, I would just let myself go.

But, still I pleaded.

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With my eyes closed and tears running down my cheeks, I heard my mouth mumbling apologies over and over again. At the same time, I felt Mother Africa kneel down, embrace me and raise myself up with her.

“Robert, open your eyes.” She said.

I paused before opening my eyes. Maybe, in her mercies, she had made my punishment painless and without agonies. Maybe I had been destroyed, damned into the existence of the European Colonialists and would open my eyes to a world of moral hellishness and tortures of the consciousness. To my surprise, upon opening my eyes, I found myself looking straight into Mother Africa’s face.

“Who am I?” Mother Africa slowly asked. Her face still looked troubled, sad, disturbed. Tears still ran down her cheeks.

I felt some momentary relief wash over my battered mind. It was possible that I was being tested one last time. Maybe this was my last opportunity at spiritual redemption. I had failed somewhere before, I did not know where, but was now possibly being given one chance at salvation.

But, what did I say? If I called her by the name “Mya”, maybe the anointed ones would feel that I had fallen into doubt about the truth of all things and had now adopted the errors of the European Colonialists. Yet, if I said “Mother Africa”, especially in this public setting and in front of this crowd, I may be guilty of betraying the untold oracles of the descent and fail.

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Something flashed across my mind. I remembered that once, when an anointed one spoke to me through the person of an unplugged microwave oven, she told met that indecision was one of the character flaws of the European Colonialists and was a major factor in their lighter skin pigmentation. It reflected a lack of dependence on the wisdom of the oracles and guidance of the anointed ones. To be decisive, even if the wrong decision was made, was better than being indecisive. I had to make a decision.

I made my choice and closed my eyes. I then opened my mouth and let the fruit of my resolve issue from my lips.

“Mother Africa…

You are Mother Africa.

From your mind flows the streams of all pure knowledge and wisdom.

You are Mother Africa.

From your soul ascends the fragrance of all true consciousness and identity.

You are Mother Africa.

From the fruit of your womb, all people, tongues, and nations have risen.

You are Mother Africa.

From your blackness, all colors and all pigments have radiated.

You are Mother Africa.

It is from you that the world and all that is in it has ascended and it is unto you that those who seek and find eternal realization shall descend.”

It felt noble and virtuous to say these words of final affirmation and realization.

Just saying the declarations and feeling them leave me, purified me as they rose from my essence and floated into the open air. These words trickled from my lips 251

like sparkling fresh waters flowing from a purified spring in the lush gardens of Kush. The vapor of these utterances rose wistfully from my willing lips like the delicate fragrance of the black Violets of the Congo. They descended from my surrendered tongue like the spirits of elders after having walked to an fro on the earth.

Praying that I had made the right decision, I opened my eyes to Mother Africa’s still tear drenched face.

For a second, I was troubled, not knowing if I had chose wrongly. Mother Africa’s penetrating glare felt as if it were cutting to the very core of my inner being and distinguishing whether the intents of my heart were consistent with the words of my lips.

For Within The infinite reaches Of my skin And my skin Alone He dwelt He dwelt Living In the hope Of rising And The hope 252

Of walking upright And The hope Of breathing without caution Yet He dwelt Unable To be anything More than Dormant nor anything Less than Dead I watched him Rise Slowly and carefully Within me And I watched him Creep slowly As one frightened To the periphery Of my skin And 253

I watched him Peer Outside the womb Of his captivity then He fought And he Struggled And then Tears of thick heavy blood trickled Down his face Yet He could not Escape Nor Could he exist Without escaping While From without My skin His completion lie

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Waiting for him And still waiting If only He could Reach it But He couldn’t

Then, as I looked in Mother Africa’s face, I saw her reddened eyes widen up and her stream of tears finally stop flowing. The troubled look that had implanted itself on her face gradually vanished into a gaze of perfect peace and unadulterated fulfillment. The pained grimace that I had seen on mouth since she appeared her at the bus stop vaporized into a smile, though weak. Her lips stopped moving and my ears opened up.

I heard the words come from her frozen face.

“I am Mother Africa.”

I could feel these divine words of sustenance lift from her lips and rise unto the highest of the heavens, swirling around the diamond encrusted feet of the anointed ones and across the abundant and plentiful supper table of the highest elders of the descent. They rolled like booming thunder across the tops of the clouds that 255

covered the motherland and descended in very pores of the deepest and darkest caverns of the Congo itself. Moving at the speed of unfettered infinity, Mother Africa’s words of declaration crossed the eons of the original existence, shattering and rocking the very foundations of the European Colonialists, and then entering nucleus of my consciousness and letting me that the epoch had come of which the Anointed Ones had told me.

My descent was complete. I had met Mother Africa in her fullness and glory. We now could speak heart to heart, face to face, without having to dilute our speech out of discretion or cautiousness. From my first encounter with the Anointed Ones, as they spoke to me through the person of an empty bottle of vodka, this was the time that I had waited for. I was now complete in my destiny and no longer had to fear the devices or wrath of the European Colonialists that surrounded us and would continue to surround us.

Opening arms and stretching them as far as I could around Mother Africa, I felt her warmness against my flesh. Our lips met. The journey home was nearly complete.

Turning sideways, Mother Africa drew the sheet in tightly around our tired, clammy bodies, carefully wrapping the ends of the sheets around her hands so that it wouldn’t fall down and letting it’s tightness press us together.

Momentarily looking back into the dim shadows of the streetlight, I saw the unknowing crowd of bus gatherers gazing, with dropped jaws, in stunned amazement. They were completely silent, their eyes focused on this glorious event.

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Maybe, even in their deeply poisoned mental state, they had some vague realization of the true eternal enormity of what they were witnessing. This experience was something of which they would tell their children and their children’s children. It would be passed down the annals of time until time was no more and would give them hope and sustenance until the eternal day when all of mankind would reach the fullness of the descent as I had done.

Together, Mother Africa and I began walking back to the motel room.

We walked back slowly.

Very slowly.

Her feet never touched the earth.

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