Emperor of Gondwanaland (38 page)

Banga dug into his food like a starving man. Rufus tried to recall the last time he had seen anyone deal so savagely with a meal. Real hunger was rare nowadays—at least on the Dark Continent. More delicately, Rufus cut up his monkey livers, waiting for the other man to broach his reasons for wanting to converse.

After demolishing a good portion of his meal, Banga slurped noisily from his cup, half draining it. Abruptly he fixed Rufus with a piercing look and demanded, “Why are the Americans letting us in now, after six decades of isolationism and a self-imposed virtual quarantine?”

Taken aback, Rufus could only parrot the standard editorial stance of
The Lusakan Daily Gleaner
and other conservative papers of its ilk.

“Why, they’ve finally repented of their harsh and inhuman treatment of our ancestors—”

Banga’s sardonic laughter filled the room, causing the few other diners to swivel and look.

“I don’t see what’s so funny—” began Rufus, who hated being the center of a public display.

Still guffawing, Banga held up his Egyptian cotton napkin like a surrender flag, as if to say, “No more witticisms, I give up!” Finally, he ran out of energy. Wiping his eyes, the automobile magnate said, “Oh, please forgive me, Professor Sexwale. It’s just that you and others of your class are so predictable. Having read your books, I had hoped the glint of independent thinking I discerned might manifest itself in your conversation. I was laughing more at the inevitable disappointment of my own foolishness than at your prosaic blindness.”

Pleased that Banga had actually read his books and insulted at being called blind, Rufus could only equivocate in his own defense. “I don’t feel that attributing the actions of a person—even a white person—to an underlying sense of repentance or exculpation should be arbitrarily— That is, I realize international affairs seldom proceed from a basis of charity or altruism—”

“Seldom! Try never!” Banga picked up his fork and pointed it at Rufus. “Did the British leave South Africa and Rhodesia and the Sudan out of altruism? Did the Portuguese leave Angola and Mozambique out of compassion? Did the French leave West Africa out of charity? Did the Belgians leave the Congo out of the goodness of their hearts? Did the Italians leave Libya after some divine revelation of their wickedness? Of course not! They left because we kicked their butts out! And because they faced a very distracting war at home.”

“What of the role of Gandhi and his nonviolent methods? Surely that amounts to awakening the oppressor’s conscience and letting his better self take over—”

“That little South African lawyer was as nonviolent as a crocodile! When I think of how he dealt with intertribal rivalries—! No, he wielded supernatural power, that’s all that differentiated him from Garvey. Did you ever meet the man? No? Well, I did. I was only five. It was 1950, and Garvey had sent his vice president to negotiate an end to the steelworkers’ strike in Bulawayo. My father was the union leader. He had a closed-door meeting with Gandhi and came out gray as a ghost. I remember Gandhi making a speech to the press afterward, about how the fabric of society required both warp and weft, and how the cutting of any thread could unravel the whole piece. When he made a snipping motion with his fingers, my father fainted dead away. Now, there was power for you!”

Rufus had no rejoinder. Banga continued.

“No, if the Americans are suddenly opening up their country to us—even in a limited way—you can rest assured self-interest lies at the heart of it.”

“Oh, come now. What could a powerful country like the United States want from us?”

Banga regarded Rufus incredulously. “Professor, you truly are living in the past. You hark back to the era of the Great Return, when the United States sat at the top of the heap and Africa was an undeveloped morass of poverty and sickness. I must inform you now the tables are turned. The Americans are desperate for our help.”

“Ridiculous! I could see if they had been devastated by the Hitlerian war as Europe and Russia were. There, Pan-Africa was indeed able to extend a helping hand to clean up the aftermath and rebuild. Even Lenin, proud as he was, took our aid in the end, though he had to execute argumentative comrades like Stalin first. But America never suffered such depredations. Even the loss of their own colonies, Hawaii and the Philippines, during the Japanese Expansion, was not enough to lure them out of their secure shell. No, our old homeland has gone from strength to strength, I’m sure.”

“Now you’re talking through your hat. How can you know anything about the current state of America, given the Old Glory Curtain?”

“How can
you
?”

Banga narrowed his eyes. “I have my sources. A trickle of information slips out. Industrial spies, who also report on cultural matters. My government contacts back home also pass on certain information.”

Rufus dismissed the assertion. “I can’t give credence to such a wild tale.”

“What an Uncle Sam you are, professor!”

Rufus stood, radiating dignity. “I know you intend that epithet as an insult, but I take it as a compliment. I shall always honor the country of our diaspora, however shabbily they once treated us.”

Banga stood also. “Are you an African, professor, or not?”

Airily waving the question aside, Rufus responded, “Who among us is a true African these days, Mr. Johnson? Extensive interbreeding over three generations—which you should know all about—has diluted all the pure bloodlines of antiquity. As for attitude and culture, look around you. We’re all as much American as African these days.”

Banga nodded wisely. “You have me there, professor. I can only add that perhaps we are more American than the Americans, if that word still means what it used to.”

With this cryptic remark, Banga bowed and made his exit, leopard tail dragging on the parquet floor.

Rufus sat and finished his meal, trying to convince himself he had triumphed.

But, leaving the dining room, he found himself still pondering Banga’s closing sally.

Was Pan-Africa the true heir to the ideals and freedoms of old, pre-Exclusionary America?

Born in a revolution nearly identical to that of 1776, the Dark Continent’s constitution and government were modeled exclusively on the that of the U.S. system. Her borders were open to immigrants and refugees of all stripes: Europeans who fled the Hitlerian conflagration of 1939-1948; Chinese and Indochinese and Malaysians on the run from Japanese; even some nervous Australians (true, the complexion of the vast land was 90 percent black, but so had early America been overwhelmingly white, and the blacks were just as heterogeneous as had been America’s assorted ethnic whites). Pan-Africa’s booming economy was relentlessly capitalistic and individualistic, and English had emerged as the lingua franca. Religious freedom embraced animists, Muslims, and Christians alike.

Professor Sexwale had always viewed Pan-Africa as America’s little brother, a child constantly striving to emulate its elder. Suddenly to imagine the relationship reversed was highly disorienting.

With a deliberate shrug, Rufus dismissed the notion and returned to his cabin to pack.

After his bags and typewriter were dealt with, Rufus succumbed to a short nap to make up for his uneasy night. He wanted to be fresh and alert for the historic moment of their arrival.

Dreams of Banga Johnson fornicating with a lively, willing, and suitably proportioned Statue of Liberty troubled the professor’s sleep until the moment they were mercifully shattered by a mighty blast of the
Chicago Bluesman’s
whistle.

Hastily donning his jacket and dress sandals and leaving his bags for the liner’s stewards to attend to, Rufus hurried outside.

The vessel was well into the Narrows of Upper New York Bay, almost at the northern point of Staten Island. Buildings reared on the Jersey and Brooklyn shores (surprisingly, they were rather unassuming, decrepit, and ugly buildings; Rufus supposed most post- Exclusionary construction had been concentrated on Manhattan). Excited passengers continued to rush toward the prow like a river of ink, as if to gain an extra foot or two in their inevitable progress to the soil of their ancestors, and they blocked Rufus’s forward view.

“Professor! Up here!”

Turning toward the source of the hail, Rufus saw Captain Owole de Klerk.

Owole was a three quarters Hottentot. In his elaborate formal uniform (First President Garvey had been inordinately fond of ornate regalia for himself and his lieutenants), he stood approximately four foot seven. Despite his short stature, he was a vibrant man who inspired confidence and admiration.

Accepting the captain’s invitation, Rufus ascended a steel staircase and soon found himself on the bridge, enjoying its excellent view.

Below, Rufus was grateful to note, his fellow passengers had abandoned their barbaric finery of the night before in favor of civilized garments.

There were four classes of passengers, each with a distinct style. Businessmen and traders such as Banga wore mainly various colorful skirts and soft hand-tooled leather vests, and carried the ceremonial fly-whisks currently in fashion. Rufus’s academic fellows were clothed in conservative trousers and jackets, mostly in various combinations of red, green, and yellow. The diplomats wore their incredibly elaborate Garvey-inspired uniforms, including plume-crested hats. Finally, the simple tourists—generally speaking, well-off middle-class families with an interest in discovering their Amero-African roots—wore whatever was fashionable in either Paris, London, Luanda, or Cairo.

All in all, an eclectic assemblage betokening a healthily diverse nation.

A sudden concerted gasp from the crowd caused Rufus to raise his eyes.

The Statue of Liberty had come into view.

Headless, spattered with faded paint, and garlanded with a noose made from a ship’s hawser, the Statue seemed to crouch in shame beneath the blue August skies. Her up-raised arm, jaggedly truncated and blackened by an apparent explosion, gaped like her neck, open to the elements. Her hand and torch, flame downward, lay below, embedded in the soil beyond the base’s perimeter.

As the condition of the monument sank into the souls of the crowd—Rufus had a momentary flash of horror picturing a similar fate somehow befalling the half-sized Negro-featured replica that stood offshore from Monrovia—an angry murmur began to rise.

“I had better give my little lecture now,” said Captain Owole calmly, picking up a microphone and depressing its button. His voice boomed out across the ship.

“Attention, people. This is your captain speaking. I want to offer some information and advice before we dock, and remind you of some salient facts.

“I folly comprehend the depth of your feelings at the sacrilege and devastation you currently witness.

“Although I myself have seen hitherto-classified photos of Miss Liberty, I too was unprepared for the actual sight. Please remember the destruction you are viewing is over fifty years old. The current United States government disavows the actions of its predecessors and has promised to repair the damage once their resources allow.

“This brings me to what we can expect from the current leaders and citizens of the United States. It is not generally known—and the details of what is known are hazy—but for many years the popularity and influence of the Klan has been fading.

“Without internal enemies, they gradually became vitiated and relatively powerless. A recent purge—somewhat bloody, I’m afraid—has removed them from federal positions, although parts of the country remain firmly in their grip. Needless to say, we shall not be visiting these regions.

“In fact, our itinerary will be somewhat rigidly controlled by our hosts. Until relations are normalized and the sight of a Negro is once again no longer an oddity on these shores, we must be protected from unwanted attentions—harmful or benign.

“Finally, I wish to remind you that each and every one of us will be on constant display as we go about our business and pleasures. And each one of us will be regarded—fairly or unfairly—as a representative of our whole race and nation. It is up to each of us to do nothing that could discredit or dishonor our Negritude. We must show the Americans our best natures, and convince them we have put our differences behind us and are extending a hand of friendship.

“Please bear all this in mind, and thank you for listening.”

Replacing the mike, Captain de Klerk turned to Rufus.

“Well, what do you think, professor?”

Rufus’s head spun. He had just received more new information about his chosen field of study than in the past ten years. “‘Think’? About what?”

“You’re the expert on America. Will they reciprocate our friendly overtures? Or are they planning to take us for all we’re worth, then discard us, as they did our ancestors?”

“Right now, captain, I haven’t the slightest idea. For all I know, we could be heading straight into a cannibal’s pot.”

Laughing, Captain Owole clapped Rufus on the back as high as the short man could reach. “I hardly think a mythical metaphor casting our hosts as anthropophagists would be welcome, professor. Best to keep such flights of fancy to yourself. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to bring us in.”

Leaving the bridge, Rufus joined the crowd on deck.

A pair of old tugboats, their smokestacks rusty, put out from the Battery. Slowly, slowly, the massive Black Star liner decreased her speed, allowing the tugs to match vectors and nudge her. Crewmen tossed lines down from the Pan-African ship. At the appearance down below of the first American white faces yet seen, a friendly roar of acclamation rose spontaneously from the assembled Africans. The white sailors appeared uneasy and embarrassed and, after securing the ropes, quickly disappeared back inside their cabins.