“You want what?!” Yejide laughed at Folu’s request. “Small. Gold. Just on the side, not flashy,” the young man continued. “I’m serious. I need this before the concert.”
“You’re saying you want to pierce your nose?” Yejide shook her head. “How bourgeoise.”
“Aimin’ for it,” said Folu. “That’s my future audience.”
“No one will notice one way or the other,” said Yejide, heaving herself up and toddling to the kitchen where Ayana was finishing a pot of gumbo. “He wants a NOSE RING, Mama.”
“Let him get one, then,” her mother said. “If we can buy what we need, then we’re blessed. It’s not expensive. There are things we all need that cannot be bought, you know.”
“Dad won’t like it.”
“Your father once had a gold earring, Ji-Ji. It certainly caught my eye.” Ayana had omitted okra from this thick soup because Folu hated it. But there was extra parsley and extra sausage. She’d been considering Folu’s opinion for months now, Yejide thought. What about her? What about the baby?
Jamal Johnson was about to pay his first family a visit, bringing college student Morayo and legal intern Akin with him. It was all about Folu’s concert. Jamal was now teaching Jazz Ensemble, Keyboard Techniques, and Composition at Georgia State in Atlanta and giving private marimba and vibraphone lessons as well as performing in various city groups when the opportunity arose. He was in his early 60s now, and his soul-fire had been dampened by time and responsibility. So many of his students were young, gifted, and not black— a change of scene and sensibility. Some were women, too. Audiences at clubs and concerts were mostly Boomers. He was stuck in a time warp, playing old standards when he did play. He hadn’t seen Ayana in four years, though Folu had come to visit numerous times and had dropped in on his classes. It was not hard to inspire Folu. Jamal had to walk a line between encouraging him and holding his expectations at a reasonable level.
“Where are they all going to sleep, Ma?” Yejide was worried about her privacy and comfort. It was her eighth month. She had felt heavy and awkward at that goofy press conference at the Campions’ and her back had hurt when she sat in one of those folding chairs.
“Your father will take my room with Akin. Morayo will stay in Folu’s room. I’ll sleep on the couch. You stay put! No one will bother you. I know how you feel, baby, of course I do!”
Yejide was annoyed at the self-sacrificial tone in her mother’s voice, but relieved by the proposed arrangement. “Can I have a taste, Mama?”
“Hurry up then. I’m putting it away. It’s better the day after making.”
In truth, Ayana Johnson did not want to sleep on the couch. She wanted to sleep with Jamal, there was no denying it. But he might not want to sleep with her. She had no idea what his romantic situation was; he hadn’t called or written to her personally. But she’d heard from Folu that Jamal and the woman he’d left Ayana for had not been living together. After all this time, why were these feelings still alive in her? Was it because they had never officially divorced? She had been with no one else, and wondered if she were an uptight sort of woman after all, as Jamal had called her once in a moment of mutual frustration. She was at least prepared to make sure she didn’t LOOK like an uptight woman.
“Folu! I’m driving to town in a few minutes for an appointment,” Ayana called in the direction of the living room and piano sounds. Do you want to stop at a jewelry store? Or wherever you get those things? Now’s your chance!”
— Macoff
“You’re saying you want to pierce your nose?” Yejide shook her head. “How bourgeoise.”
“Aimin’ for it,” said Folu. “That’s my future audience.”
“No one will notice one way or the other,” said Yejide, heaving herself up and toddling to the kitchen where Ayana was finishing a pot of gumbo. “He wants a NOSE RING, Mama.”
“Let him get one, then,” her mother said. “If we can buy what we need, then we’re blessed. It’s not expensive. There are things we all need that cannot be bought, you know.”
“Dad won’t like it.”
“Your father once had a gold earring, Ji-Ji. It certainly caught my eye.” Ayana had omitted okra from this thick soup because Folu hated it. But there was extra parsley and extra sausage. She’d been considering Folu’s opinion for months now, Yejide thought. What about her? What about the baby?
Jamal Johnson was about to pay his first family a visit, bringing college student Morayo and legal intern Akin with him. It was all about Folu’s concert. Jamal was now teaching Jazz Ensemble, Keyboard Techniques, and Composition at Georgia State in Atlanta and giving private marimba and vibraphone lessons as well as performing in various city groups when the opportunity arose. He was in his early 60s now, and his soul-fire had been dampened by time and responsibility. So many of his students were young, gifted, and not black— a change of scene and sensibility. Some were women, too. Audiences at clubs and concerts were mostly Boomers. He was stuck in a time warp, playing old standards when he did play. He hadn’t seen Ayana in four years, though Folu had come to visit numerous times and had dropped in on his classes. It was not hard to inspire Folu. Jamal had to walk a line between encouraging him and holding his expectations at a reasonable level.
“Where are they all going to sleep, Ma?” Yejide was worried about her privacy and comfort. It was her eighth month. She had felt heavy and awkward at that goofy press conference at the Campions’ and her back had hurt when she sat in one of those folding chairs.
“Your father will take my room with Akin. Morayo will stay in Folu’s room. I’ll sleep on the couch. You stay put! No one will bother you. I know how you feel, baby, of course I do!”
Yejide was annoyed at the self-sacrificial tone in her mother’s voice, but relieved by the proposed arrangement. “Can I have a taste, Mama?”
“Hurry up then. I’m putting it away. It’s better the day after making.”
In truth, Ayana Johnson did not want to sleep on the couch. She wanted to sleep with Jamal, there was no denying it. But he might not want to sleep with her. She had no idea what his romantic situation was; he hadn’t called or written to her personally. But she’d heard from Folu that Jamal and the woman he’d left Ayana for had not been living together. After all this time, why were these feelings still alive in her? Was it because they had never officially divorced? She had been with no one else, and wondered if she were an uptight sort of woman after all, as Jamal had called her once in a moment of mutual frustration. She was at least prepared to make sure she didn’t LOOK like an uptight woman.
“Folu! I’m driving to town in a few minutes for an appointment,” Ayana called in the direction of the living room and piano sounds. Do you want to stop at a jewelry store? Or wherever you get those things? Now’s your chance!”
— Macoff
Very nice. I admit I am wanting all of these yearning couples to make thier connections. Ted and Placida, Ayana and Jamal. Staying tuned in as the clock ticks.
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