BOOK SUMMARY
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1: Moonwalking to Belong: A Night of Celebration and Identity
CHAPTER 2: A Cultural Clash at the Bar: From Whiskey Shots to Belly Button Shock
CHAPTER 3: A Night of Surprises at the Bar: From Temptation to Revelations
CHAPTER 4: Dancing to the Beat of Freedom: A Night of Revelry as Michael Jackson
CHAPTER 5: Dancing Dreams and American Stardom: An Unforgettable Night
CHAPTER 6: The Night the African King of Pop Took America by Storm
CHAPTER 7: A Night of Moonwalking and Banter
CHAPTER 8: First Girlfriend: A Prickly and Ticklish Interface
CHAPTER 9: Fashion Faux Pas: A Hilarious Dinner Date
CHAPTER 10: A Bumpy Ride to Dinner: Culture Clash and Unruly Banter
CHAPTER 11: A Hilarious Encounter with American Dining Etiquette
CHAPTER 12: A Curious Conversation Over Dinner
CHAPTER 13: Cultural Clash at the Dinner Table
CHAPTER 14: Encounter with Tips and Taxi Etiquette
CHAPTER 15: Navigating Financial Challenges in Pursuit of Dreams
CHAPTER 16: Trials and Triumphs in the Dishwashing Trenches
CHAPTER 17: Surviving the Daily Grind: Life as a Restaurant Dishwasher
CHAPTER 18: Surviving the Deep Freeze: An Immigrant’s Tale
CHAPTER 19: An Unexpected American Birthday Celebration
CHAPTER 20: Booger, Dance, and Walk of Shame
CHAPTER 21: A Hilarious Encounter at the Disco
CHAPTER 22: A Night of Hilarious Pickup Fails
CHAPTER 23: A Skirmish with a woman that was a man
CHAPTER 24: A Terrifying Encounter on the Brink of Doom”
CHAPTER 25: Extraction from Clear and Present Danger
CHAPTER 26: Common Sense not the same Everywhere
CHAPTER 27: A Surprising Night Out: Unveiling the American Dream
CHAPTER 28: Cultural Practice at the Strip Club
CHAPTER 29: A Night at the Club: Bill’s Doggone Adventure
CHAPTER 30: Intersection of Sexiness, Business and Morals
CHAPTER 31: Striptease Tap and Fiasco
CHAPTER 32: Epic War of Words and Guts
CHAPTER 33: You have been Pimped: Welcome to America
CHAPTER 34: Valentine’s Day Misstep: A Lesson in Cultural Clashes
CHAPTER 35:The Intersection of Sexuality, Feminism and Manhood
CHAPTER 36: Marriage: A Thorny Debate
CHAPTER 37: Unfiltered Truths: A Journey Through Relationships and Perspectives
CHAPTER 38: Unraveling Yolanda: An Eye-Opening Conversation
CHAPTER 39: Navigating Life, Love, and Identity in America
CHAPTER 40: A Misunderstood Bromance and Unexpected Advances
CHAPTER 41: A Misguided Venture: Gays Night Out and Guys Night Out
CHAPTER 42: From Gay Club Blunder to Garage Sale Danger
CHAPTER 43: Navigating the Lightless Shadows of America
SYNOPSIS
After a turbulent start to his new life in America, Mush decides it’s time to properly integrate
himself into American life. But it will not take him long to discover that he is a world away from
his humble beginnings in a Kenyan village to the hustle and bustle of American social scene.
His first plan is to head to a nightclub and show off his Michael Jackson dance skills. But
dressed in a bow tie and tuxedo shirt, sporting a Jheri curl, he soon makes a fool of himself.
Luckily, disaster is averted when Moe, his Jordanian roommate, drags him from the club and
takes him home. On the way, the two friends argue and insult each other’s African and Middle
Eastern cultures and accents. The next day, after sleeping it off, they both apologize to each
other, leading to the beginning of a lifelong friendship.
Soon, Mush has his first American girlfriend. Yolanda is different from any girl he has met, and
there is a cultural chasm between them. Mush finds Yolanda is a “liberated” American woman,
but although they are unsuited, he decides to take her to dinner. He buys himself a blue
corduroy suit and shoes with metal plates on the soles, not realizing they are tap shoes. Yolanda
seems embarrassed by his tight outfit, but worse, unfortunately, from the get-go, she starts
turning out to be a pesky companion after she racially insults their Middle Eastern taxi driver.
At the restaurant, there is one cultural mishap after another, while Yolanda criticizes or corrects
him for everything he does. The date is a disaster. Finally, they hail a taxi, and Yolanda makes it
clear that they are not going home together. It marks the end of a nightmarish date.
But Mush has bigger problems. His money is running out, and he takes on a new dishwashing
job, risking deportation. His co-workers bully him, and it takes all of Mush’s strength not to
react. At the end of each shift, he not only collapses into bed, but his long shifts leave no time for
real sleep, so he dozes in class and asks other students for their notes. That is not all because
when the Michigan winter arrives with its freezing temperatures, Mush discovers he’s utterly
unprepared for the brutality that comes after.
By and by, an evening at Spaghetti Bender, a downtown bar, with an American classmate, Bill,
is another disaster. Upon arrival, he’s delighted to find the place filled with skimpily dressed
women. But his attempts to impress don’t go well. It’s clear from the interactions, dogged
persistence isn’t flattering in America, and another attempt ends with his face doused with beer.
Worse, on their way home, they spot a gorgeous woman walking in the opposite direction.
Mush showers her with compliments before offering her money to spend time. Alas! The
woman turns out to be a man dressed like a woman. He pulls a gun and shoves it in his face.
Shaken Mush apologizes profusely, but it doesn’t work. Out of the blue, he is saved by the
sound of a siren, which causes the attacker to flee. He suddenly realizes that he’s not streetwise,
and he becomes reclusive.
However, a few weeks later, his buddy Bill offers to take him out again to a place full of
beautiful women. At a strip club, Mush watches buxom women gyrate on poles. Drinking
overpriced beer, the two put aside their differences and cement their friendship. Having had a
few drinks, Mush becomes mesmerized by a dancer in red. Nevertheless, his moral compass
starts to be tested. He admits to Bill that he is struck by an attack on his conscience and fears
their camaraderie will lead him into more blasphemous activities. Given this, Mush announces
that he wants to leave.
Regardless of his feelings, Bill persuades him to stay and challenges Mush to put money in a
girl’s G-string. During a provocative dance, an inebriated and emboldened Mush pats the sexy
dancer on her behind. It’s a terrible mistake! Two muscled security men appear and order Mush
to drink up and get out. Bill points out that the African student knows nothing of strip club
etiquette, but the night is over. After arriving on campus and as they part for the night, Bill
announces that Mush’s “Americanization is complete.”
It’s a pivotal moment. Mush’s attempts to blend in have only created confusion thus far. He
begins to understand that he can’t fit in with everyone else. What’s most important is why he
came to America in the first place. He has to focus on working hard and earning money to
support his education.
After making up with Yolanda, there are yet more blunders and lessons. When he fails to get
her flowers on Valentine’s Day, Yolanda storms off. Bewildered, Sonya, Yolanda’s friend, advises
Mush to get red roses to soothe her anger. Mush goes to the gas station, where he finds plastic
red roses, brings them to Yolanda, and makes matters worse. Yolanda screams at him that she
never wants to see him again, and it soon becomes apparent why. Finally, Sonya reveals the
truth; Yolanda reconciled with him before Valentine’s Day to cover from her family that she has
a girlfriend named Denique and intends to come out as bisexual.
Now fully aware, Mush has flashbacks about his conspicuous conversations with Yolanda about
marriage. She believes it is a barbaric and outdated custom that leads women to become slaves
and men to become oppressors. She maintains love as transient and will never even consider
having children. It’s a bitter blow for Mush, who believes marriage should lead to the birth of a
new generation. Unwilling to become embroiled in another pointless argument, he listens in
stoned silence. The topic moves on to adoption as Yolanda’s preferred method of having
children, and she’d be happier adopting a child from Africa.
The tense discussion highlights the stark differences between family life in America and Kenya.
He accepts that he did not understand the differences between courtship rituals in America and
Africa. With this reality check, Mush reluctantly accepts it is the end of any chance of marriage
and children with Yolanda. He finally realizes all this time he was lonely and clung to Yolanda
because any hope for any future with a woman was better than none.
With his eyes now opened, Mush eventually comes to terms with the unknown and tries to
think positively—but nothing can prepare him for what will come next …
FIRST TWO CHAPTERS
CHAPTER 1: Moonwalking to Belong: A Night of Celebration and Identity
Besides touching down at the airport in Detroit and hearing the magic words, “Welcome to
America,” managing to ride out the storm till I knew how to use a computer was the
second-highest point of excitement in my new life.
On this Friday evening at the end of the school term and still riding high, I was too animated to
let the successful completion of the dreaded computer class go without any celebration. The
achievement was such a breath of fresh air because, for the most part, since coming to America,
I had been running a never-ending race to blend in to focus on my pursuit of the American
dream. And now, I was on cloud nine after finally conquering the final acid test required to
function competently and open my ways to succeed in the high-speed environment of the
wealthiest country on Earth.
Even though the class had ended many hours ago, I was still in constant rapturous excitement.
Feeling technologically plugged in, the ecstatic neurons in my brain would not let this success
get by without a celebration. This euphoric feeling meant closing my eyes and going to sleep
was going to be an impossible feat to accomplish. Much better, there were no more classes or
exams. So I decided after all the accumulated frustrations, something had to give and release the
pressure. What better way to do this than going out to let loose with a few drinks, dance my
head off, and blow the steam away?
However, the idea that initially looked so fitting posed an unexpected challenge. Through my
everyday interactions, it didn’t take me long to realize that if I stuck to my ways and didn’t act
as if I belonged, I would likely be isolated and treated as if I didn’t belong. Even though I had at
least immersed myself in American culture and technology, I still had a lot of trouble when it
came to chatting with my buddies.
Most of my friends were usually eager to chitchat or engage in a debate about their favorite
subjects, ranging from American sports to movies, television programs, and celebrities. Since I
only knew a little about these topics, I would be the odd one out. Even when I spoke with
strangers, my accent gave me away immediately.
Such a challenge told me that if I went out, I needed to blend in in order not to be singled out or
isolated. This perspective meant that to fit into what America and Americans viewed as their
real America, I had to look like one of their own. The best way to look more American was to
dance like their biggest music superstar. That was when I came to terms with the fact that while
I may not blend in by the way I spoke, I was sure I would blend in if I danced like a trendy
American, and what better way to do this than with a moonwalk?
Even after coming to this conclusion, I realized that acting and dancing like I belonged wouldn’t
do anything for me if I didn’t dress and look assimilated. If I didn’t dress up fashionably, I
would stick out like a sore thumb, and the prominence of my fashion mishap would likely rain
on my parade when celebrating to mark my technological success. Moreover, the confidence
that would come with the current fashionable outfit would give me the edge.
Considering this recognition, the only American and trendy look I knew how to put together
was that of Michael Jackson. This perception came about because I was known to impersonate
his attire during my high school years. When I left my homeland, Michael Jackson was the man
to imitate. But little did I know that America had moved on to other stars, and Jackson was a
long-faded memory. What was trendsetting in my village had been groundbreaking in America
over ten years before.
Be that as it may, I couldn’t imagine rocking the MJ look without his curly hair, especially after
stomaching subtle and overt in-your-face jokes about my large afro. I had already bought my
Jheri curl kit and its supplies, just waiting for the right moment, and now it had arrived. It took
me a while to follow the instructions, but in the end, it came out the best product of my ability.
The moment I finished with my hair and dressed, it hit me—I would not have a second chance
to impress. I decided to rehearse my choreographic moves to an exact science.
Feeling dandy and groovy, I went back to the bathroom mirror and practiced my basic
moonwalking skills, moving backward while seemingly walking forward. When I reluctantly
concluded the dry run, I had no doubt the electrifying sequence of steps had come with me
from the motherland and were ready to rock and amaze. Realizing Michael Jackson was a
perfectionist with a strict eye for detail, I looked at my reflection in the mirror again, and a
pleasant smile lifted my cheek.
When I dressed up, I couldn’t wait to paint the whole town red alone.
However, I had no car to get to and from the nightclub. I’d heard most of my friends sing its
praises, but I only had a name: C.J. Barrymore’s. I mentioned to my roommate Moe that I
wanted to go out and dance to celebrate my accomplishment. He volunteered to come and pick
me up from the club just after midnight when he got off work.
On his way out, and after changing my looks and updating my wardrobe just to fit in, I griped
to Moe, “I wonder when will this endless race to assimilate in America ever end?”
As if he was feeling the way I was, he advised, “It’s not about assimilation—it’s about doing
what you need to do to blend in, to go about your business without standing out or being
isolated.”
“I don’t get it.”
He expounded, “Assimilation means losing your identity and adopting somebody else’s, and
that means losing your heritage that makes you who you are.”
I asked, “When will it end?”
“It will end the day you no longer use American television shows to lull you to sleep because
your brain does not engage with them.”
“Is that all?”
He chuckled, “Just kidding, not really.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, if a lost American approaches you in the streets and asks you for directions, know that
you have finally blended in because most Americans will be hesitant to ask you for directions in
their country if, by just looking at you, they can tell you are an immigrant.”
He departed for work.
At around eight o’clock, after calling a taxi, I was standing outside like a greyhound in the slips,
all fired up, ready to go and get it on. Although the weather was unseasonably cold for wearing
just a waistcoat pantsuit, bow tie, white shoes, and white tuxedo shirt, all at the courtesy of my
favorite clothing store, the Salvation Army, that was neither here nor there when it came down
to pulling out all the stops, Michael-Jacksoning yours truly to the tee.
The sun started sinking into the horizon when the taxi arrived on time, and I jumped right in.
When the bemused driver stopped to drop me off at the club, he turned back and gave me the
fist pump I needed to inflate my already bloated ego.
“You must be an African Prince to wear white after Labor Day.”
I disagreed pronto, “I’m sure yesterday was not Labor Day.”
He was quick to discern I had no clue what he meant, and he expounded, “What I mean to say is
that in America, wearing white after Labor Day means you are someone who has the means to
have end-of-summer vacations. In other words, you are just showing off to people how you are
so affluent.”
He was right on point because that is the spirit I was feeling, to show off to America, and I
crooned, “You got that one right!”
He cheered me on, “You the man!”
I returned the fist pump and roared back pompously, “I’m the man!”
I did a sneak peek at the taxi meter, paid my fare, gave him a thumbs-up, and stepped out.
As darkness crept in, swallowing daylight by the second, the streetlights now shining much
brighter, I pulled my shirt sleeves halfway to my elbows, just like Michael Jackson did and
strode toward the club.
The instant I opened the double door under the many colorful and flashing entrance lights, a
beefy man appeared out of nowhere and blocked my way.
“Sir, your ID, please?”
“My who?”
“Sir, you need to show you are of legal age to enter the club.”
In my country, the legal age to enter a bar was eighteen years old, and I chastised him, “Look at
me. Do you think I’m a seventeen-year-old man?”
“Sir, actually, you have to be twenty-one to enter.”
I realized he would not let me go passed him, so I removed my state ID. He checked it and
showed me to the ticket window. I paid and entered a discotheque in America for the first time.
The first thing that took me aback was the loud music with its earth-shaking bass. Struggling to
adjust to the most delightful chest-thumping experience and dimmed, blinking lights, I looked
up and saw a well-lit bar counter stocked with various beers, wines, and liquors caught my
attention: I headed that way.
CHAPTER 2: A Cultural Clash at the Bar: From Whiskey Shots to Belly Button Shock
Halfway through my grandest entrance in America, I attracted discernible attention from a few
revelers I could see looking my way. Their smiling glimpses caused me to add a little pomposity
to my gait. Sleek and confident, my eyes swept the rest of the crowd and quickly concluded that
I was the best-dressed man in the discotheque. With all the swagger I could flaunt of the son of
the soil, I pulled out one of the bar stools and perched myself at the bar.
As soon as the busy bartender caught up filling the orders ahead of me, he asked, “What can I
get you today?”
I started to order the most high-class whiskey I had ever heard of. “Can I get a quarter of
Johnnie Walker?”
He looked lost. “A quarter of Johnnie Walker?”
“Yes. It’s the smallest bottle.”
“No, we don’t sell them in bottles.”
“Okay, just give me a full glass of Johnnie Walker.”
“Sorry, we only sell shots.”
“Shorts for who?”
“I mean shots in a glass.”
He sensed the lost look on my face as I was busy conjuring the image of shorts in a glass, then
reached back and grabbed a tiny glass.
“A shot is served in this mini tumbler.”
“No, that is a tot glass.”
“A tot?”
“Yes, a tot is a small amount of a strong alcoholic drink.”
He was hurrying to serve and didn’t care for any back and forth, “You want it straight or on the
rocks?”
Coming from a village where my grandma used a crude filtration system made of sand and
rocks, I declined.
“No, don’t put it on any rocks; just give it to me straight in a glass.”
He realized I didn’t get it. “I mean, do you want ice cubes in it?”
Thinking Ice Cube was one of the famous people that get brands named after them, like Johnnie
Walker, a grocer in Ayrshire, Scotland, who started to sell his selection of single malt whiskeys
in his store, I perked up. “Ice Cube’s? Sure, he is my favorite rapper.”
“No, not that kind of ice cube.” He leaned sideways and scooped chunks of ice into a small glass.
“This kind.”
I remembered I was given these cold chunks in a Kentucky Fried Chicken because it was hot
outside and protested lightly, “But it’s not hot outside.”
He grinned, “The ice cubes soothe the intensity of hot drinks.”
But his reasoning flew right in my face because, in my village culture, alcohol is a hot drink only
at the exact moment of distillation in the boondocks. Secondly, mixing our illegally brewed
liquor known as Chang’aa, our version of American moonshine famously referred to as “Kill me
quick,” with anything else is considered cowardly.
If truth be told, it is interpreted as a total waste of the drink and an insult to the hardworking
brewer that went through so much to claim the reputation as the one who distills the purest
form of alcohol. The hunt for high-proof liquor is so high that a drinker heading to a drinking
den will know he is heading to the right spot by the number of drunks he encounters staggering
or blacked out by the roadside or in the bushes.
Upon arrival, the brewer will pour a squat of the unadulterated drink in a glass and light a
match whose blue flame will prove it’s the real deal before they accept your order and money.
Even this authentication won’t help much because some hardcore consumers will only be
convinced once they feel the firewater spreading like wildfire in the stomach the moment they
swallow. This illustration also guarantees that the most health-conscious drinker doesn’t have to
worry about the dirty serving glass. Considering that over twenty drunkards usually share the
glass before him, the potent alcohol will kill any lingering germs.
With such consumer and distillery benchmarks amid severe poverty, the competition for having
the cheapest and most potent liquor has led some homebrewers to spike their products with
methanol, jet fuel, and embalming fluid. It’s not a surprise the intense concoction has left many
dead and the lucky ones permanently blind after taking just a sip. There have been many cases
where, after gulping the laced drink, the drunkards who had just lost their sight kept asking the
brewer why he turned the lights off when they were just getting started.
Thinking of this, I rebuffed the bartender, “No, no, no, don’t put anything in it.”
He quickly inquired, “Okay, single or double?”
Because I was alone, I said, “Single.”
He served the whiskey in a tiny glass as if it were some medicine in short supply that he needed
to ration for everyone.
I drank it at once and ordered more. After four shots, warmth bloomed through me, and soon
after, I could feel my stomach on fire. I decided to have a beer to cool it down and relax.
“Can I have a beer?”
“What kind?”
Feeling the shots blasting in my head, I flexed my muscles and boasted, “Real men drink
Guinness for power.”
Before serving me the Irish stout, he surprised me with another question, “Bottle or draft?”
Since I had no idea what draft meant, I just said, “A bottle.”
When he put the drink in front of me, I gulped it at once and ordered another shot of Johnnie
Walker. Before filling my order, he suggested, “Instead of mixing whiskey and Guinness
separately, you might as well try an Irish car bomb. I make the best. Do you want to try one?”
I wondered how the Irish Republican Army bombings had made their way into our
conversation when they fought to preserve their territorial, national, and religious identity. I
was still deliberating, but he lost me when he started to expound that it was a cocktail of
Guinness, Bailey’s Irish Cream, and whiskey. I hardly heard him because a sexy chick swiftly
stole my attention with her sizable breasts, which were barely covered by a tiny, cropped
blouse, the open front loosely tied with shoelaces. The unfastened strings left many deliberate
gaps for maximum cleavage exposure that I suspected was barely legally permissible.
She had now stepped right up next to me, and I could see three-quarters of her smooth, flat
stomach was, by any definition, out in the open. Beyond a doubt, my newest person of interest
was oozing a sexual magnetism that could have made any man stop and stare by reflex.
She hollered at the bartender, “Sex on the beach, please.”
The instant she uttered those words, it wouldn’t have taken a genius to conclude that her half
nudeness in an indecent environment signified she was more than ready for what she was
asking for.
Startled by the immediate attention I gave her, she appraised me with a quick up-and-down
look from my curly hair to my outfit. Ready to take the chance before anyone else, I shot her an
engaging grin and winked. Instead of coming closer for intimate negotiations, my gusto finesse
elicited a burst of hearty laughter as if she had seen the funniest clown.
The instant I smiled back, half a smile was still tugging at the corner of her lips like I had tickled
her with a private joke. I winked at her, and her eyes glinted with more humor. I was reluctant
to let the brief connection end. The chick, whom I’d quickly figured was a waitress from the
small tray in her hand, and the immediate attention the bartender gave her, was bobbing her
head to the beats of the music.
Feeling a wet heat of desire cascading upward, I shot her a look just as she speared me with
huge brown eyes which shone above her hot red lips. When our eyes met, I looked down to
break eye contact, but my gaze automatically locked on her snug mini skirt and the smooth
curves leading to her abdomen. Instead of seeing a protruding navel, a flat or hollowed scar left
after the umbilical cord was cut, I saw a small ring hanging on her stomach. I thought the
alcohol was already playing games with my mind, and clandestinely, I took another careful
look.
That was when, for the first time in my life, I saw a belly button pierced with what seemed to be
a very expensive piece of jewelry. I started to wonder why she’d pierced where her old mouth
used to be in her mother’s womb, but the moment I raised my head to breathe normally, I was
caught off guard again by how large her breasts were on such a small body.
MIDMOST CHAPTER
CHAPTER 21: A Hilarious Encounter at the Disco
The moment the bartender handed me my drink and I took a sip, it hit me—I was in a disco
where people who knew about current hot music went to have fun, sing along, and dance it off.
It was then I decided to show them I knew about American music to get the conversation
restarted.
I strolled back and, in a lighthearted tone, inquired, “Do you guys enjoy rap music as much as I
do?” I made one quick moonwalk, stepped back, and continued, “I think Michael Jackson is the
greatest rapper of all time.”
They gave me a floored look, and thinking I had impressed them, I continued, “He raps so well.
As a matter of fact, he can rap the same words repeatedly, but they sound so great.” I hummed
to the tune of Michael Jackson’s “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’,” then winked and beckoned
seductively.
“Help me rap it, ma ma se, sengu vusanga makusa, sengu vusanga makusa, sengu vusanga
makusa.”
I saw what I thought was a smile wiped off her face, and I thought she didn’t like the rap. I
switched to fascinate her with another, “Billie Jean,” but still, it didn’t get any traction.
I decided to switch to the real black music called rap and revealed, “Do you all know the black
dread-locked guy Snoopy the Dog?”
They didn’t answer, and I expounded, “The only American man that knows how to play the
Reggae version of Bob Marley songs.” I nodded my own self-approval and asked, “Do you
know he smokes the big illegal cigarette and starts talking while singing? I sometimes think he
is saying things to me personally.”
One of them asked, “The big question is, how did you enter our personal space just like that?”
“Unless you guys are astronauts going to the moon, there is no way anyone can enter any
space.” The comment hindered her, and I expounded, “Space is everything in the universe
beyond the top of the Earth’s atmosphere.”
They gave up on me and started to move away. Without knowing its creepy activity that alarms
a woman in America, if a man ceaselessly pursues her, I wouldn’t be left behind. My frame of
mind had not switched from my village, where persistence in hot pursuit of the lady that has
sparked your undying interest is complementary, to America, where this behavior is severely
condemned. When all is said and done, not letting go of your desired girl in my village is a
positive sign that shows you are a steady man who doesn’t give up easily. On this note, I started
to stroll along, making it look like we were friends who had been together from the get-go.
In one or two steps, I noticed the two cute missies had worn high heels that caused them to
walk like newborn calves. I started to consider if they could put a Learners (L) sign behind their
heels so that those behind them would be ready to catch any of the girls before they fell. With
this mindset, I decided to walk closer just in case one of them stumbled; I could break her nasty
fall and earn instant favor. Anyone watching us would have concluded we had a very tight
bond with each other.
Their careful stride didn’t slow down either of them. At that point, I remembered what I had
been told about American girls; they would instantly fall in love with any man who could
improvise a love song to fit the spur of the moment. In a voice that was just loud enough for the
two of them to hear, I improvised Whitney Houston’s hit song “I Have Nothing to Sing”: “Don’t
walk away from me, I have something, something, something—if I have you, you, you, you,
you.”
One of them couldn’t help it. She giggled, and I said, “Patti Labelle needs to hook up with Steve
Wonder and not just make music for themselves but make some music for the country.”
She shot me with a critical eye, and I expounded, “I mean making music for the country like all
those white cowboys in jeans with guitars and big hats do.”
Before they could respond, I thought I could gain more favor by making a real pro-black
comment. “That wanna-be black Detroit eight-mile dude M and M is giving rap music a bad
name.” I shook my head regretfully. “He is not even black, and I don’t understand why the
government allows him to act and sing black!”
One of the girls got lost in translation, shook her head, and asked her friend, “Who is M and M?”
“I believe this fool is talking about Eminem.”
I was happy I had gotten their attention and continued unabated. “You all ever heard of Whit
Knee Houston of the song I just sang for you?”
But they just stared at me wordlessly. From their body language, I could detect the duo did not
know that in my culture, dancers are named according to the dance they perform. For example,
if you did the stamping dance, you were branded as the stamper from the village name. If you
did the shaking dance, you were called the shaker from your village name.
“You mean you don’t know that beautiful bride with a quick-witted knee from Houston?” I
shook my head. “I can’t believe she is originally black?” I shot them the look of someone who
had just revealed some breaking news, the kind to qualify for a Pulitzer Prize for Best News
Award. They didn’t say a word, so I dropped some more information.
“She competes with Salindion for best-sounding love songs.”
“I have no clue who he is talking about,” one of them grumbled.
I looked at her disappointedly. “How can you not know the only American Canadian French
music star in the world that sang about a big sinking ship?”
I realized they were thinking deeper, more than what their façade was leading on.
I continued, “The two of them mashed together, Whit Knee Houston and Salindion, end up
making that vision-of-love girl Mariah Carry, because she calls herself black when all the
evidence of her skin says she looks white-skinned?”
I was still stuck on interpreting the meaning of names through the prism of my village because
if a lady was beautiful, men gave her suggestive monikers that referred to what they wanted to
do with her.
“I came to America to Marry-carry her back to the motherland.”
In return, I got two vacant stares, which led me to reveal, “I like her powerful black voice that
she sings in white tunes.” I gesticulated knowledgeably. “In fact, she sings like that because she
is a crossbreed between that witty knee from Houston and Sally Dion, the one whose Beauty
and The Beast caused The Power of Love, that left My Heart Will Go On, All by Myself. Think
Twice, That’s The Way It Is Because A New Day Has Come, so I’m alive, I’m your angel, Think
Twice as It’s All Coming Back to Me Now.”
They chuckled at once, and I thought I had finally impressed and dropped more. “Even Tupac
Shakur, just like Elvis Presley, didn’t die—we just don’t know it yet. He will be back, just like
Arnold Schwarzenegger said.”
I cleared my throat and initiated a fake Austrian accent, “I’ll be back!”
Feeling tipsy, I concocted some quick dance moves; I didn’t know what they were or how my
drunken mind invented them.
I paused momentarily and asked, “You know why they haven’t found Tupac’s killer?” I was met
with blank stares and went ahead to answer myself, “It’s because no one killed him.”
I cooked up a brief, brisk jiggle and tried to change to a more thought-provoking topic,
“American music is great; this is a good place to come and loosen up when you feel so tightened
with all the stress. Y’all think so?”
One woman’s eyes quickly filled with playful vivacity, and she turned to her friend. “He is
special.”
“For sure, he is a special needs case,” she agreed.
The comment I thought was optimistic caught me off guard because I didn’t expect them to
think I was exceptional with special needs when I was just an ordinary guy. They had now
upped the game for me, and I took more than a few seconds to think of what I would say to
look and sound very distinguished.
“Keep talking; I’m diagnosing you.”
I flashed a winning smile without knowing in America that when someone says you are special,
it means you are mentally slow, unable to function in a typical everyday environment. I thought
she meant she was examining what I said to decide if I was the perfect guy for her.
But then she caught me completely off guard. “You yap so much shit. I don’t know whether to
give you toilet paper or a breath mint.”
I acted as if I didn’t hear, and she lit a cigarette, inhaled, and emitted a ring of smoke toward the
ceiling, then blew out twin streams through her nostrils, something I had never seen a woman
do.
Since the buzz from the alcohol was driving me, I didn’t notice all the signs of weariness my
yapping and presence were causing. I thought I was flirting like a cat—lick and then scratch.
Feeling so sure of myself, I decided to pick up on the special angle she had giggled about
heartily.
“In Africa, love is skin deep, not money deep like in America.”
“See, there you go again.”
Without understanding what she meant, I asked, “Go where?”
“Talking too much shit.”
She slipped her goggles off, wiped off the condensation, and put them back on, and I saw what
passed like an oncoming grin ready to flash on her face. So, I decided to play the money angle
by turning my charm on her.
“But now I’m in America, and if I told you my banking manager also said I’m a special needs
customer because my account is so full that they want me to open another one, you wouldn’t
believe me. I can prove you wrong by proposing to you with my overloaded ATM card that is
tied down by a very complicated password.” Like I forgot a crucial detail, I added, “In fact, the
calculator doesn’t have enough digits to add and record the balance in my bank account.”
She remarked, “You are so full of yourself.”
“Just the other day, can you believe the bank asked me for a loan?”
“Africa, man, just move on. No one is interested in your dog and pony show.”
Even though the student visa card allowed a spending limit of one hundred dollars a day, it did
little to stall my braggadocio, “The only problem we may have tonight is that the ATM is afraid
of me overspending, so it gives me the exact cash I asked for, not even one cent more. But I can
go inside the bank the next day and get any amount I need.”
“You are such a snob,” she proclaimed.
Knowing a snob was an elitist person, I took it as a compliment. “I can make you be like that
Lucky Star Material Girl Madonna, take you on Holiday and Into the Groove.” I carried on, “Do
you know the Queen of Pop is Like a Virgin from right here in Michigan? But that shouldn’t
worry you because I’m crazy for You, so You Open My Heart and Justify My Love.”
She rolled her eyes for her friend’s benefit and said, “Fat chance.”
Thinking that a fat chance meant I had a big opportunity, I smiled unrestrainedly and threw my
fist in the air in a victorious manner. “Awesome!”
Looking muddle-headed, she drove in a remaining zinger. “That student banking ATM card
won’t change the fact that you are the proof we need to know the evolution of man is still going
on in Africa.”
“But I’m sure of one thing.” I got their attention and challenged, “If we walk to the ATM, and I
show you my balance, you will start apologizing for all the crude things you said to me.” I
bobbed my head knowingly and added, “Y’all will be all over me like hungry city birds on
breadcrumbs.”
She castigated, “No amount of money can change your looks.”
I did my best not to look wounded by the comment and countered, “I guess you forget ugly
means no other woman would snatch me away from you.”
“Wow, that’s news to me.”
Hearing I had given her good news, I perked up with egotistical self-confidence, but it didn’t
last five seconds.
She bombed me, “Up to this moment, I had no clue you were a purse that could be snatched
away.”
I was caught with my foot in my mouth, and she ignored me and turned to her friend, who
declared unequivocally, “Even if I had the worst itch in the world and there was no one else, I
couldn’t let him scratch it.”
Realizing I had been caught asleep at the switch, quickly falling and not getting up, I blabbered
through my retort, “Maybe I should stop drinking right now because from what I see, it’s
beginning to look like I have yet to see true beauty.”
“If you had a mirror in your house, you wouldn’t have the nerve to come to talk to us,” she
struck back with a quickness I didn’t foresee.
Her buddy feigned a look of total surprise, “Wow. I’m so shocked. I have never seen an ugly
person like you that is still alive.”
Her friend added, “If ugliness were a crime, you would get the electric chair without any trial.”
They both burst out laughing at their jokes.
“Do you know you could make a lot of money selling a costume that resembles your face during
Halloween?”
Amid the loud music, I misheard, bobbing my head in agreement, “Sure, the custom of saying
hello wins all the time.”
The other girl asked, “He is from Africa and in college, right?”
When her friend nodded, she delivered her punchline: “Can you imagine he has what passes for
an entire village’s brains?”
“It means his brains are good, but his face didn’t get the memo,” she rejoined and howled a burst
of laughter. “That is why I will call National Geographic to let them know ugly people like you
still exist.”
Her friend interjected, “Stop. Don’t do that. It won’t work.” I smiled, hoping her friend was
about to take a high road and at least say something gratuitous. My hope vanished when she
said, “Just call your Congressman and ask him to make a law where ugly people should be
required to walk by faster so that they can get out of people’s eyesight.”
More chuckles escaped their lips when the other looked at me directly, faking sincerity and then
blasting me away, “Look here. There is a book titled ‘How Not to be Ugly.’ Buy it, open it, and
keep it right in front of your face wherever you go.”
My mind started to churn for a more scalding response, but not before her friend dared, “I bet
you if you give him a blood test, you will find ugly in his blood.”
The alcohol buzz caused me to smile the comment away. “I guess you guys don’t know the
ugliest are the best lovers. So take your pick—cute face or best game.”
“No worries. I can understand being an ugly man is a curse. If you are unattractive, you shall
remain ugly. You can’t fix your look with a wig, lipstick, penciled eyelashes, or makeup. The
only thing that will save you is the money in your pocket.”
“It’s not me that hates the way I look. It’s you that hates the way you look. Look at all that
makeup, eyes, lips, face, and fake hair.” I paused enough to let it sink in and concluded, “At least
I’m not like you, that is wearing a fake face so that you can meet a real man.”
“Dude, there is the usual ugliness a man can get away with by height or shoe size.” She winked.
“If you know what I mean.” But before I could put together what she implied, she added, “Or if
that doesn’t work, the size of his wallet will do the trick.”
I interrupted, “Of course, I know I’m ugly until you find out how much money I make or have
in my bank account.”
She proceeded as if I hadn’t said anything, “You are so Third World ugly, I wouldn’t let my dog
pee on your foot.”
The putdown didn’t faze me. “You call me ugly because no man puts on makeup, polishes his
face, or gets extra eyebrows to attract females.”
She dismissed me. “There is always someone out there for everyone. For you, it’s a psychiatrist.”
“You are correct. I would need my head examined before getting involved with you.”
“Get over yourself. I can’t imagine a girl like me ever saying she likes you.”
Like I had remembered an overlooked detail, I intoned, “Oh wait, your face looks beautiful with
stuff that will be removed by Kleenex tonight. Am I right?”
“Sure, that could be true, but for now, I would prefer if you changed into a frog and hopped
away.”
I returned fire, “At least I’m not the one whose face is treated like an art project, always trying on
different colors, foundations, and shades using various brushes and liners.”
It was now getting into a wave of nasty exchanges instead of an exciting conversation with the
opposite sex.
“Out of all the ladies in here, how did he pick us out?” she asked her friend.
The companion grinned from ear to ear and imparted, “Gurl, butterflies don’t go to ugly
flowers.”
I angled an amiable grin. “I picked you guys out because there is always a winner and
runner-up in a beauty contest—that’s why I came up closer to see for myself.”
Talking to each other, they completely ignored my jab. “He is a butterfly—he smells good
perfume with his feet. That’s how he walked up to us without looking to realize he is too ugly
even to consider standing near us.”
She leaned over to her friend, “But don’t worry, gurl, such unsightly aliens won’t be coming
anymore—I will send a letter to my congressman to make it illegal for ugly foreigners like him
to come to America.”
Her buddy divulged, “I’m a plastic surgeon.”
“Really? That is so cool.”
She delivered the rest of her line. “You have such a bad case of ugliocis. Thankfully I have been
looking for a face like yours to challenge my skills because it must be turning a few stomachs.”
I disagreed, “No, my face is a head-turner.”
“Yes, like turning your head and head back where you came from. But I doubt you can do it fast
enough because the size of your head is so big it can be installed on a cow.”
She high-fived her friend, who snapped her two fingers and quipped, “You go, gurl—I bet his
reflection turns away in disgust when he looks in the mirror.”
The smoker inhaled another puff and blew it in my face. Although intoxicated, I ducked in time,
smiling at the thought of what I was about to say.
“If your lungs looked like your face, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”
She eyed me severely and snapped back, “You are a complete idiot.”
“No, not yet—some parts are still missing, like your face!”
“Good, because if you say you like my face, I will shoot myself.”
“Should I say you are a twin sister to Miss Too Ugly?” I asked.
She hissed, “Get your zoo-smelling ass out of my face. I’m sure Rosa Parks would have
forgotten about civil rights and gladly gave up her seat so that she didn’t have to sit next to your
ugly stinking face.”
“I’m surprised you can smell anything with all that smoke coming out of your nose.”
“I still say you are so zoo-ugly.”
At that point, I knew I had lost and might as well go down fighting.
“I may be ugly, but I still don’t understand why you put on so much makeup because your face
looks beautiful—it’s your personality that needs the most makeup because changing the
packaging does not change what is inside. Have you ever considered eating your makeup so
that you can look pretty from the inside too?”
Instead of getting mad, she gave me a coy smile that effectively took the sting out of my
comment.
“You are so full of shit. Get your ass out of my face.”
It was clear I was now chasing rainbows, and I jibed, “And you, get your facts straight. My ass is
not in your face.”
She removed a small mirror from her purse and started to study her face, pursing her lips in the
process, and I shot back, “Unlike you, I don’t think beauty is found in makeup on your face
because one swipe of your facial appearance and you will instantly drop from an A to a D.”
Rebuke came promptly, “You are such an idiot!”
She removed a small brush and rubbed it on her face as I gestured, “And don’t forget your
heavy makeup may attract a man’s attention, but with that foul personality, it will never attract
his heart.”
She put her brush back in her purse, snapped it shut, and advised, “Do America a huge favor,
Kunta Kinte—take your drunken ass back to the bush and drink some more filthy moonshine
from diseased roots.”
I had no clue what moonshine was, so I faked my understanding of her comment. But before I
could respond, the other girl said, “Dude, your breath stinks so bad I can read the smelly words
that come out of your mouth.”
“Don’t worry—I know if I had lots of money right now, you would not be smelling my breath
but fighting each other for my attention.”
She snapped her head in my direction. “Not in a million years!”
“I guess that means I should get away before any of you gets drunk, turns pregnant, and blames
it on me.”
Her face turned disgusted. “Take your pissy drunk ass to bathe in a sewer. You may smell a little
better.”
“Yeah, I’m drunk, but tomorrow morning I will be sober, and you all will still be ugly.”
I whooshed off without giving them a chance to hit me back.
LAST CHAPTER
CHAPTER 42: From Gay Club Blunder to Garage Sale Danger
My mind finally registered what all the lyrics I was singing along implied in the context
and atmosphere I had found myself. It was here I sniffed for the first time the pungent
odor of sweat that had filled the place along with the music and several sing-alongs. A
quick shiver of consternation took over immediately, making my whole body shake
from the rudest awakening. The joyful crowd continued to sing along, having the best
time of their lives. The boisterousness made it hard to hear the music and think
simultaneously. The rapid tension was so body-hugging I could feel my breath
squeezing itself to come and go in uneven heaves.
When my eye started darting left, right, back, and forward, scanning for the nearest exit,
was when, for the first time, I noticed that drag queen videos and movies were
continually playing on the many plasma screen TVs located throughout the club. With
heightened sense, it didn’t take long before I saw an arrow-lighted sign pointing to the
patio location. I headed that way, hoping it would lead me outside more quickly than
through the crowd.
When I stepped on the patio, other men were cuddling on comfy couches. I deduced
that this cozy space gave those tired of dancing a place to sit and chat with new and old
friends without the music or other distractions. But there was no exit.
Even though my main goal was to extricate myself from the situation without causing
another embarrassing scene, I had overlooked that I was on the second floor. With the
adrenaline rushing through my veins, I turned and came back with my eyes focused on
searching for the quickest and nearest exit. In two steps, I was countering a rowdy
atmosphere fascinated with flattery and sexiness, and it was a struggle to push my way
out of the club.
While I was halfway making my way through the excited crowd, I saw the exit sign
glowing above a door. Sooner than I blinked, I quickly squeezed through the remaining
cramped space and rushed through the exit door. In much haste, I descended, taking
two stairs at a time. Given the apparent assumption that I was there, many of my
friends would automatically conclude I must be gay. With that thought and not wanting
to be personally associated or mistaken by implication, my descending pace quickened
in a flash. When I reached the ground floor and final exit, I arched an eyebrow, saw the
lit exit sign over the final exit door, and dived out of the club.
With my mental wheels also turning in several directions at once, I scanned around to
see whether anyone who knew me had seen me. I was glad it was dark outside when I
started to head to my car speedily. Hoping for the holy spirit, I glanced at the sky for
any answers, but the velvet of the cloudless sky had grown darker. In retrospect, the
stars seemed more luminous to see my newest coming-for-America blunder. As I
speed-walked away, having the mindset of a villager where most people know about
most people and will surely tell on you, I kept glancing over my shoulder a few more
times to make sure no one I knew saw me.
When I finally turned my head and focused ahead, I started to have semantic flashbacks
of the conversations and body language. Each time one of them spoke, he crept so close
to my face that I thought he didn’t want me to miss what he was saying. Right there and
there, the topic we had discussed about minority rights came to light. The gentlemen
were talking about gay rights in the United States, while I thought they were talking
about the rights of racial minorities. With my different upbringing, I had not come to
terms with or knew anything to do with gay men and sexual diversity being a minority
right.
Even when one of them had raised his hands in surrender and said, “Seduce me, my
resistance is low; I will be crazy to offer any resistance.” I didn’t get it. My drunken
mind was too devoted to the conversation and free drinks to decode what he meant.
I missed the most precise point when the first gentleman said to the second gentleman,
“He knows about Africa.”
He winked at me and said, “Dang, a free car; when can I get one? I will marry you first
thing tomorrow morning for a bug, but it must be a convertible.”
The other gentleman corrected him, “No, I didn’t mean a free car. I meant Africa as the
continent.”
He looked surprised, “You mean I won’t get my convertible bug?”
Wrapped in a puzzled inquiry, I, too, was confused, leading me to prod further, “A bag
that converts to what?”
But he didn’t make it any easier when he said, “Or a Miata, just for the two of us.”
Feeling eclipsed by what I thought was another nebulous catchphrase in America, I
asked, “Amiata?”
I glanced his way, but he was taking another long sip, and I turned to the other
gentleman for elaboration.
“He means either a convertible Volkswagen Beetle or a Mazda Miata.”
I was baffled at how a discussion of marriage and cars could find its way into our
conversation. The explainer played it off salaciously, “He is drunk. He will soon become
a good team player. Just let him be for now.”
There and then, it appeared beyond doubt what I thought was a drunken joke. Indeed,
the guy would have married me in real life for a free car!
That’s not all. When I talked about how I could outdo the two and leave the two huffing
and puffing, I meant competing with the duo in an actual marathon. Now, I was
discovering the two gentlemen thought I was talking about some extremely extended
perversion.
The voice of one of the men rang in my head when he asked, “So you swing both
ways?”
I thought he was also asking if I hang out with whites and blacks. I boasted, “If I didn’t
swing both ways, I wouldn’t be standing shoulder to shoulder with you guys in the
good old US of A.”
“That’s right. With men like you, we will quickly be the unsilenced majority.”
The other one asked, “I don’t understand why women are more than us in number, and
yet they qualify as a minority?”
Instead of answering, I asked him, “Why do you say that?”
“Because women make up more than half of the population but have qualified for
minority status with all the benefits that come with it.”
I thought it was just a man-to-man locker room conversation about women, and I
added, “I don’t understand that either, and I’ve never thought about it that way until
you said it.”
He bobbed his head and carried on, “If America wishes for all of us to be equal, they
should start to treat everyone as an equal and stop promoting women to be the weaker
sex.”
His buddy disagreed, “That will never be possible.”
Thinking the perfect America I coveted was a melting pot of all people that assimilate
into a cohesive, great country that endeavors to treat everyone equally, I asked, “Why
not?”
“America is faced with a female jihad for equality.”
The conversation of men about women that I had misinterpreted the meaning in my
mind became crystal clear when one of them grumbled, “Women are allowed to
worship at the altar of affirmative action at the expense of real deserving minorities like
us.”
His buddy chimed in, “I hate the word minority. What the fuck, aren’t we all human
beings?”
His comment led me to agree, “Yes, that is right, we are all human beings, regardless of
any differences.”
The most definite telltale sign I had missed was when one of them said, “My ex-wife
constantly accused me of having too much girlishness in me. So, I waited when she was
away, packed all her dresses, make-up, and shoes, and left our marital home for good.”
Color began to invade my dark features when the real essence of these conversations
and revelations rang in my head and leaped into my brain. Unable to take back
everything I said, I just shook my head and turned the corner, heading to the car
parking garage. From a distance, the attendant was still alone, reading a book. Even
though the air was cool, sweat had dotted my forehead, and I didn’t want the
sweetheart who possessed an instant head-turning beauty to notice me.
Everything considered, the only images that streamed through my mind were her first
impression of me and the naughty smile that sneaked on her face when she said what
she said. In our chitchat, she had looked at me with suspicious eyes that I mistakenly
thought were eyes of shy interest in me. It was now dawning on me that the reason she
said she didn’t know me like that meant that she had thought I was gay.
When she giggled as I strode away toward the club, it didn’t imply she liked me; she
was just bemused by my off-the-wall seductive effort. Her implications had finally
crystallized, and embarrassment filtered through me. By and by, I could still hear the
hint of sentiment in her tone that I didn’t understand until it was too late.
As I approached the girl in the booth who had giggled flatteringly with me, her
demeanor had changed, and she was now eyeing me with uninterested eyes. When I
gave her subdued demeanor another quick scrutiny, the previous confidence that I had
a good chance at having a date with her had evaporated like warmth on a cold day. At
that point, I was sure no matter what I said to her, my queer bell couldn’t be unrung.
Even as I quickly avoided her and took the stairs to get to my car, the ridiculousness of
my disappointment quickly caused discomfort in my gut. Feeling the self-inflicted scars
of remorse, I inhaled a deep breath, started my car, and drove up. In the shortest time,
our eyes met in that brief, awkward instant; I paid the parking fee without wasting
another breath talking to her.
Despite the chill, sweat had coated my forehead when I turned into the street and
remained dotted until I went to bed.
The next day, after arriving at work, I dropped the bombshell about the activities at the
club. Everyone busted out, choking with laughter. They had set me up!
When the laughter couldn’t stop, the manager walked back to see what was happening
in the kitchen.
“What’s so funny back here that our restaurant guests can hear all of you laughing out
loud?”
“We have just discovered your favorite dishwasher has a queer eye.”
He eyed me skeptically and disagreed, pointing in my direction, “Not him.”
One of the cooks challenged him, “I think you better ask him because Mr. Mush was the
one who wasn’t thinking outside his buns Friday night.”
The manager’s apparent doubt was loud and clear when the man in a dirty apron
tittered and persisted, “Mush nearly put his hotdog in the wrong bun, boss.”
The gent in a design suit that always spoke with polished affectations dismissed him, “I
still don’t believe it.”
“Ask him. He was about to take one for the team right off Gayslavania Avenue.”
I finally interjected and protested, “That was not the name of the street.”
“Africa man, you wouldn’t have known because the detour was right behind you.”
The manager looked my way in askance, and that is when one of the sous chefs chimed
in, “Your elite dishwasher was involved in a love triangle that dare not speak its
Uranian name.”
The manager was still looking lost in translation.
“I mean, Mush got drunk on free alcohol and barely escaped something sneaking and
snaking him in his stupor.”
The ever-courteous man who was In charge of overseeing everyone could still not
understand what he meant.
The lampooning cook went ahead and narrated the story amid more suppressed
giggles. The manager I thought would stop everyone from making fun of me looked at
me and stewed his mind momentarily. I could see he was trying to act professionally
but struggling to suppress his amusement. He held back a laugh with a folded fist and
said, “That is so mentally hilarious, just thinking about it.”
I pretended to ignore and continue with my duties at hand, but let the truth be told, I
was struggling to suppress the sudden flash of resentment from the way they set me up.
The boss quickly read my body language, leading him to remark, “Knowing you, I’m
sure you ran so fast.”
While everyone was chuckling and struggling to calm down, the manager started to
walk back but then stopped to face my way, “I don’t know about you, Africa man, but
you could never find me in that vicinity. I’m so afraid to look gay I eat a hot dog from
the middle!”
The kitchen erupted in more laughter, and the assistant chef got the angle needed to
add his point of view. “Gee, Mush’s newest buddies have made it difficult for men to eat
a banana in public.”
Another cook shook his head regretfully and lamented, “Me too, I can’t even bring
myself to eat Hershey’s with nuts in it.” With all eyes on me, the whole kitchen was in
stitches. I tried to maintain a carefree attitude to survive the scorn of their jokes, but my
body language told a different story.
He giggled and added, “I can guarantee you a small part of Mush’s body clenched like a
boxer’s fist as soon as he was told about what kind of people had surrounded him.”
Another line of laughter burst forth.
Just as it looked like it would die down, the cook who had set me up couldn’t resist
mimicking the scene from the Forrest Gump movie when Forrest Gump ran and
realized for the first time he was good at something.
He hollered faintly but loud enough for everyone in the kitchen to hear, “Run, Forrest,
run. Run African, run, Jungle man, run one-eyed snake right behind you, run!”
Everyone in the kitchen and the servers had come to see what was causing all the
hilarious hubbubs that had led to almost everyone laughing. From all the endless
brouhaha in the kitchen, I felt like a gullible stooge. I couldn’t resist the feeling that I
was likely to make a spectacle of myself when I tried or went to places I hadn’t before.
“The world could be missing its seventh planet today.”
Happy to change the topic from me to the solar system, I asked, “Why is that?”
“The pump and grind could have destroyed Uranus.”
The seemingly dying sounds of laughter erupted again, and when it was about to die
down, he drove in the final joke, “Okay, that’s enough. Y’all hush.”
Feeling happy he had come to his senses, I smiled congenially, but it was quickly
short-lived when he drove in the final stinger.
“Mush is not gay, but his boyfriend is.”
The kitchen disintegrated into unsparing chortles of laughter. The jesting cook laughed
so hard at his joke that I could see snot running from his nose, but he managed to add,
“I bet you there was more hardwood in that club than his village.”
Sick and tired of the endless circus, and without knowing what hardwood meant in this
context, I hit back, “Only an idiot like you thinks there is hardwood in a club.”
The kitchen collapsed in crueler laughter when the busboy finally came to my defense,
“I know for sure Mush got no sugar in his tank. He is as straight as a nail that has never
met a hammer.”
Even though I didn’t understand what he meant, it sounded like he was on my side.
Unfortunately, the comment arrived too late to reverse or stop the lampooning. The
whole week I was the butt of all jokes in the kitchen. I felt so bad that I considered
quitting but needed the money.
After a short while of soul searching, I discovered why my newly found friendly
gentleman had suddenly turned hostile when I asked for a cigarette. Since the British
colonized my country, I grew up speaking British English, which has its own slang.
‘Fag’ in British slang means cigarette that is also colloquially known as fegi in Swahili, a
national language of several African countries that is also spoken by tens of millions of
people in the African Great Lakes region.
In American slang, ‘fag’ is the short form of ‘faggot,’ which is a very derogatory way to
refer to a gay person. The word fag in America is the gay N-word. In other words, it is
the equivalent of derogatory referring to a black man as a nigger, a white man as a
honkie, a Mexican a wetback, a Jew a kike, a Chinese a Ching-Chong, an Arab a
sandnigger, or a woman a bitch. This latest revelation didn’t make me feel any better
because once a word leaves your mouth, you cannot chase it back, even with the
swiftest horse.
In the meantime, I tried to accept that Americans have a ceaseless tendency to use slang
and textish language as shortcuts. But the thought didn’t last long because the devil’s
advocate in me couldn’t understand why they could get mad. After all, their habit of
shortening words is what had led to them shortening the word faggot to mean fag, a
cigarette in British culture.
But this reasoning was neither here nor there because it was becoming a wake-up call
that venturing into different cultures without adequate groundwork can be dangerous.
On such occasions, coming for America was the same as arriving on vast grasslands
saturated with hidden bombs of explosive misinterpretations. The price for cultural
ignorance could be grave. For example, the gay man could have misconstrued my fag
reference, blown his gasket, and knocked me out cold to the ground.
This recognition left me with a feeling that most of the time, when I knew or was sure to
be correct, I had, in reality, inadvertently set myself up for unintended consequences.
That is fair to conclude I was a man who was repeatedly capsizing in the waves of his
ignorance of American slang and culture and somehow got away by a whisker.
On my way to work the following Saturday morning, it became apparent it was not just
what I said that could put me at risk but what I read. I came upon a stop sign very close
to campus and saw an eye-catching, colorful poster with sizable lettering for high
visibility printed with the words, ‘Garage Sale.’
I had trouble finding a parking spot at night when I returned to school after work late
into the night and hated parking in the furthest student parking lot. Most nights, the
lots were full, and I would park illegally on the side, in a tow-away zone, handicap
parking, or staff parking lot. Although it would be 3:00 am before I went to bed, it
forced me to wake up at 6:00 am to move my car before being ticketed or towed away.
Knowing a garage is where cars are parked, I took note of the address and drove there
right away before someone beat me to it.
It was a little early when I got to the house with the car garage attached, so I just got out
and started to inspect their garage door to see if my car would fit.
A demanding voice caught me in the act, “May I help you?”
I was a little taken aback by a seller who advertised he was selling something and
provided the date and address of his house to the public, yet he sounded upset I was
there checking it out.
So, I immediately told him, “I’m here for the garage sale.”
“It doesn’t start till noon.”
“But I can just buy it now.”
“Buy the whole garage sale?”
“Yes.”
“How much is it?” Before he could answer, and detecting his suspicious looks that said I
was up to no good, I explained my urgent need.
“I’m a student at Eastern Michigan, and I park in a lot where there are too many car
break-ins.”
He looked confused, and I explained my other reason, “When I come at night, I have
nowhere to park. I would rather be sure where I park so that when I return, I open,
park, lock, and go than wake up early in the morning to move my car.”
He still eyed me with utter skepticism, “Lock what?”
“This garage.”
“This garage?”
“Yes, after buying it.”
He cocked a questioning eyebrow, “You want to buy my garage?”
I was getting upset, thinking the white man didn’t want my rickety car parking there,
“Isn’t your garage not for sale?”
It finally clicked on his part, “No, we are having a garage sale.”
Before I opened my mouth, I nearly jumped out of my skin when the garage door made
a screeching clank as it opened on its own. The woman, I suspected was his wife,
started to bring out a few marked and tagged items when he called her to the side. After
a brief consultation, she walked to me and delivered the news.
“Our garage is not for sale.”
“But I saw an advertisement for sale today,” I contested.
She was quick to detect my newness, “I hear an accent. Where are you from?”
She quickly deciphered my greenness after explaining that I’m from Africa and telling
them I recently came to America.
“You don’t know what a garage sale is?”
She didn’t need a verbal answer from my body language to know I didn’t understand.
She went on to let me know. “A garage sale is a sale of used household or personal
articles held on the seller’s premises.”
The husband stepped in and gestured at the merchandise, “We are about to sell that
stuff in this driveway starting at noon.”
I apologized for the inconvenience and departed. Down the street, it hit me how the
result of my encounter would have been different if it was a hot-headed homeowner
with a gun who thought a black man was breaking into his garage to steal the items for
sale. The dawning thought made the hair on my neck stand up. I shook my head,
exhaled thankfully, and drove to work.