The Black-German in Afrika Experience
It’s a funny thing to learn about your own people from something a white man has written. Like everyone in the world knows what it is to be truly African, except you. Like it’s a damn conspiracy. Still, it was important to at least display a yearning to connect with the motherland especially if it only cost 24,99.
So here she was standing in line, clutching her identity in the form of The traditional African art of Zimbabwe by Henrik Ellert as though it were a shield. Whoever the no doubt, blonde haired blue eyed Henrik Ellert was, he was going to bring her closer to Zimbabwe without the usual teeth-sucking and declarations of, “Ah — You don’t know your own culture? Uri musalad iwe!” that she had grown accustomed to hearing from aunties, uncles and cousins.
The books were a diplomatic envoy, a go-between for her, asking her people questions she wasn’t allowed to ask, and relaying back the information in hushed white whispers, without any singing tones, meant only for European ears. It was like eavesdropping on a group of people watching one of those National Geographic programmes with the British man talking about “The lion in his natural habitat”. There you are hiding behind the couch trying to get a glimpse of the footage because you’re a lion too and you’re trying to see your “natural habitat” without drawing too much attention to yourself.
So she was buying culture just like everybody else, hoping somehow it would mean something. And there on the shelf Henrik Ellert would find his new home, with all the others — the ancestors would be appalled.
Jerome would be pleased though, he loved whenever she embraced her africanness — he loved her blackness, as if you could fuck yourself darker. Mama didn’t understand her shacking up with a guy like him with his working class accent and his past troubles with the law, a man with no money, no education and no culture. But there’s something sexy about being an underdog and Penny thought his confused German — American accent was cute and she liked that he lived life on his own terms, besides, he was turning his life around. Working with troubled kids; making a difference and all that. As for culture, there’s no culture richer and more vibrant than the culture of the here and now, of real people living real lives instead of holding on to an ideal that never was.
She couldn’t say whether it was love that she felt for him or if it was just the feeling of not being a disappointment to someone. He always seemed to be surprised, pleasantly, by the things she would say and do; there was never any hate in his playful teasings, even when he laughed at her all she felt was warm embrace. The first time he had asked her out it had thrown her off, “Penny? Penelope Chitsanga?” his smiling steel voice had cut through the distance of the phone.
“Yes, who am I speaking to?” she had answered curtly.
“Girl, you sound like a fancy white woman on the phone.” The accusation would have stung if she hadn’t heard it before.
“Yes, well I would still like to know who I’m speaking to.”
The warm bass of his laughter had filled her ear, “No offence girl, I just meant your voice is so elegant-sounding” — no answer, just awkward silence, then — “it’s Jerome” — still nothing, “we met a couple of weeks ago, you did the graphics for our youth theatre posters?”
“Oh…oh yes, sorry. You sound like a bank robber on the phone,” she muttered dryly. “I didn’t recognize you.” More laughter from him and her defences were down. That’s how he always got her, with that laugh that had nothing to hide and even less to lose. He could take whatever she could throw at him, and she could throw a lot.
Mama was right; Jerome certainly was not her type. He was mixed-race with a gap tooth, he was muscular without even trying and he dressed like a rapper. She could have died when one of her white girlfriends had said he looked like 50 Cent! He wasn’t accomplished and he was very attainable but she liked how her hand felt small and delicate in his and she liked how easy everything was between them — it was unsettling.
She went on that first date out of mild curiosity, never intending on there being another. It felt good to know he was the one chasing her so she wasn’t really paying attention as he started to install himself into her life. She barely noticed when they went from being “a thing” to being a couple, picking out Ikea furniture together and making up codenames for people they didn’t like. She was caught off guard when people said they made a cute couple or that her “boyfriend” was cute.
She took it all, their chemistry, their ease, with a tub of salt and she saw him as a puppy that had followed her home one day and decided to stay. But, in spite of herself, when they slept together she held onto him as tightly as he did her, holding on for dear life, for comfort? Each time they called out in unison like they were on a speeding train trying to warn everyone to get out of their way. Two fatherless children, riding out the storm together. And each time afterwards she gave herself the reassurance that it wasn’t going to last. Still, it was nice lying here in the hard bed staring at the ceiling after some late afternoon ‘just because’ sex. It felt like you really had a social life at least. That was the easy part anyway, and she was prepared to give that much of herself. She wasn’t prepared to say I love you as he did so often and so casually. But she could accept it from him and he seemed content with that.
Jerome never rolled out of bed like a lazy person. He always jumped out like he’d just done his warm-ups and was ready for the main event of working out. But this particular afternoon there was an extra spring in his step. Today was “Afrikareise” planning day, at least in his mind.
“Babe, we gotta book those tickets soon.” The excited shouts were being thrown from the kitchen, ruining her afterglow as she remained motionless with her eyes closed on the bed. “My friend said when he went to Kenya,” interrupting himself to stuff his mouth with food, “it was only like 500 directly from Frankfurt because he booked so early”. No response from the bed. “And if we save on tickets we can do Victoria Falls and maybe go to Cape Town!” She heard the sound of the fridge door opening and slamming shut, the sound of chopping on the board and dishes clanking together, then the triumphant, “So we can get the full experience!”
“The Black-German in Afrika experience,” she muttered with a mock German accent for her ears only, rolling her eyes.
“Exactly!” the beaming face appeared at the door with a plate full of food, ignoring her sarcasm. Yes, he did have a certain charm about him. There was a momentary flicker of guilt as she earnestly did the calculations in her head. The trip was in four months so she could delay buying the tickets for maybe one more month but then she’d have to break up with him by the end of August.
Just after his birthday so she wouldn’t have to ruin that as well. Mama would be relieved and the folks back home would be none the wiser. No explanations needed. No worrying about the judgement. No embarrassing childhood stories about her. But most of all, no having to explain later about what had happened to “that coloured guy”* when it inevitably didn’t work out.
She smiled absently while, between mouthfuls of gherkin and smoked sausage, he fired off more plans for the trip of a lifetime, even as she was betraying him with her mind. Or alternatively she could just cancel the trip altogether and avoid the unpleasantness of a break up. She wouldn’t have to face the interrogations or the thinly disguised envy of her cousins back home and she wouldn’t have to try and then fail to fit in. But this was a non-alternative, really. Gogo was sick and she owed it to her to come for a visit, especially if it might be the last. The old woman would probably assume Jerome was being presented as her new grandson.
Her judgement would be swift, passed by a quick girlish glance of those tired eyes that laughed in every situation. And whatever that judgement was, it would be spot on. Simple as that. It was the only opinion that mattered and she was plotting to prevent it being passed at all. Looking around the room she noticed all the colour he had splashed onto the neat white decor of her flat. The Bob Marley LP covers hanging on the wall like paintings, the houseplants that would never survive without him, the cookbooks. All that would have to go too.
*****
The lash of the wet heat and the brightness of the summer sunshine were frenzying the crowd even before the man himself had stepped onto the stage. The messiah had returned and his name was Barack Obama; every self-respecting Black American and African in Berlin was there flooding around the Siegessäule waiting for him to speak, every dutifully liberal German was standing in solidarity with progress. The crowd was mostly salt with some sprinklings of black and brown peppercorns mixed in for good measure. Jerome took her hand in his as they pushed their way through, trying to find a better vantage point. Moses would have been impressed with the white seas that parted to allow this black and brown couple to walk easily through and get to their mountaintop.
And then the speech began. Just the right combination of charisma, sophistication and down-to-earthness flowed out of the speakers. The tiny figure ahead seemed to hold the crowd in his tiny hands with just some inspirational words and a touch of youthful humour. You could touch the euphoria in the air. Everyone seemed to be moved, their lives changed forever. Penny would have been able to hide just how unmoved she was had it not been for the cult members standing around her, no longer watching faraway Senator Obama but focusing on her instead.
Smiling encouragement, expecting to see tears of joy or to hear a cry of “amen”, Mahalia Jackson style. Kind white faces, eager to watch history unfold up close and in front of them. Urging her to feel the nighing of racism’s end, the great beast vanquished by a great politician before her very eyes. Was it her imagination or were they closing in on her? One of the followers managed to make eye contact, she was practically hugging her. She looked so much like one of her U-Bahn adversaries with their cold, objectifying stares.
Yet she was grinning generously at her, inviting dialogue, wanting to understand. What a strange sensation to be all of a sudden collectively slung onto centre-stage after a lifetime and unwritten history of living in the margins. This was not the Berlin she had come to understand. Wondering what the right facial expressions were in the presence of history, she glanced up at Jerome hoping to observe. But he was already looking down at her, his expression indecipherable until he whispered in her ear, “Are we done here?” A grateful nod was all that was needed from her and the welcoming crowd had lost two valuable guests.
They made it home in time for the late summer sunset. Sitting on the little uncomfortable balcony chairs with a four euro bottle of wine between them on the table, they watched the dying sun glowing feebly behind the TV tower in the distance. Through a window across the street below them she could see three-dimensional soldiers from the future on an oversized computer screen, a lanky boy draped over a low couch, navigating their every move with his game controller.
A few windows over from his, a cat was manically playing with a dead mouse of his own imagination, his mistress’s stockinged legs and bare feet visible as she walked in and out of the room. Their balcony was an opera box and the city around them was putting on a show. The quiet up here paired well with the wine, separating them from the beer infused chatter out on the pavement, it was only disrupted by the occasional polite honk of a horn and laughter far, far away. She didn’t have to say anything, yet she turned to him anyway.
Quietly taking his hand, she turned to him and said, “I wanted to tell you — that I…” she was weighed down by the importance of it all but she must get it out, “I love you.” There it was finally, and she almost laughed out loud at her own silliness. Jerome only spent one second of thought on this declaration, replying, “ I know” and giving her hand a peck, turned back to watch the show. Before she could punch him he burst out laughing and she was gone. The details of the trip could be determined later. For now the sun was uttering his final soliloquy before death took him. Penny took a sip of cheap wine and closed her eyes.
*Coloured in the Zimbabwean/South African context is a term used to describe people of mixed race heritage. The term does not have the racist connotations and history it does in the USA or the UK.
