Chapter Twenty-Six
In 2018, the Nigerian rapper Falz released asong called “This Is Nigeria,” a cover of Childish Gambino’s “This Is America.” The song highlighted many of the socioeconomic issues in Nigeria. It called out corrupt leadership, SARS brutality, criminal activities of radical groups, and so much more. I remember nodding with complete understanding while Tolu and I watched the music video. But I didn’t have the same understanding of Childish Gambino’s original—“This Is America.” The lyrics and the symbolism in the video made no sense to me, even after watching several YouTubers’ thorough explanations. The harsh depiction of America in the video contradicted my image of America, what I’m now realizing was a curated image.
When I lived in Nigeria, shows like Friends, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and Gossip Girl (the original, not the remake) painted a sparkling, pristine picture of America. Along with the grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side ideology most foreigners have, America seemed like a utopia to me. But the more my stay extends, the more that pristine image is distorted by the realities of living in a town where I am a minority.
I look over my shoulder and glance at the middle-aged white man who has consistently been six feet from me since I walked into Pick-a-Book. There are other customers in the store, but he left his post at the cash register and has been stalking me under the guise of arranging books on the shelves. I know what’s happening. It’s happened before—a few weeks ago when Mom and I went to the beauty store. A saleswoman followed us as we moved through the aisles, looking for products suitable for our hair. We ignored her at first, but it became increasingly difficult. When my mom completely lost her patience, she spun around and said, “Is there a reason you have been following us around this store?”
In response, the saleswoman folded her arms and said, “Look. I don’t want any trouble.”
With one glance, she had branded us troublemakers, peace disrupters, and thieves. She only needed one fact to come to that conclusion, and so does the man who’s been trailing me for the last five minutes. There is already a book in my hand, and I intend to pay for it. Though now, I wish I’d listened to Tamara’s advice to avoid this bookstore.
Today in English class, after protesting the assigned reading material to no avail, she fell quiet for the rest of the period. I caught her in the hallway after the bell rang.
“You were right,” I told her. “This semester’s reading list should include books by African American authors. I should have said something too.”
She shook her head, but her perfectly rounded Afro stayed intact. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. Mr. Erin is small-minded and inflexible. There’s not much we can do.” She sighed, and her shoulders slumped.
“Well, I haven’t read a lot of African American literature. Would you mind recommending some?”
She smiled immediately. “Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston is one of my absolute favorites. Also, anything by Toni Morrison and James Baldwin. But for something more contemporary, I recommend Long Way Down by Jason Reynolds.”
I pulled out my phone and typed out the books and authors she motioned. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll drop by the bookstore today.”
“Yeah. Just make sure you avoid Pick-a-Book. Cute name, I know. But the manager, some balding white man with thick-framed glasses and coffee-stained teeth—is a dick. Go to Hazel’s Books instead. It’s Black-owned, and you’ll likely find all the books there, anyway.”
The ten-mile distance between my house and Hazel’s Books eliminated it as an option. Pick-a-Book was only three miles from home, on the same shopping strip as Tech and Techies. Though I now regret basing my decision on convenience. The man Tamara described is definitely the man who has been following me. He pushes his thick-framed glasses along the bridge of his nose, glances at the book in my hand, then meets my gaze.
“Are you going to pay for that?” he asks, grimacing.
I clench my jaw and grind my teeth. My heart pounds even though I haven’t physically exerted myself. This interaction is enough to get me worked up.
“We don’t tolerate shoplifting here.”
“Shoplifting?” I spit out the word, and my voice shakes with rage. “I am not a thief, but you’ve been treating me like one—following me around since I entered this store.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“And what exactly is your job?” I’m not the one who asks that question. The disembodied voice comes from behind me. When I turn around, I see Blake. He’s scowling, and for the first time since I’ve known him, his muscular physique is imposing and threatening. “Is it your job to be a dick who harasses customers?”
The store manager takes a step back but sticks to his defense. “I was just doing my job.”
“Then maybe I should give Mrs. Wallace a call and tell her about the job you’re doing at her bookstore.”
“Mrs. Wallace?” The manager’s voice quivers.
“Yeah. She’s a friend of my dad’s. They go way back.”
The manager rubs his forearm, pushing the sleeve of his plaid shirt upward. After clearing his throat several times, he turns on his heels and rushes away like a coward.
“Hey,” Blake says to me, his voice gentle. “You okay?”
I stare at the carpeted floor, unable to look at him. The worst part about incidents like these isn’t the anger that inflames my whole body or the shocking realization that people can be willfully ignorant. It’s the shame that comes after the scene ends.
I never felt ashamed of my skin until I moved to America. After every interaction like the one I just experienced or every intentional coincidence where people like me are erased, shame settles on me like dust. I feel dirty, a less shiny version of myself.
Since my move to America, “Brown Skin Girl” by Beyoncé and “Brown Skin” by India Arie have become sacred, holding more significance to me than they did before. In my head, I repeat the lyrics of the two songs like a mantra—she need an Oscar for that pretty dark skin; beautiful mahogany, you make me feel like a queen—until they polish the shame off.
“Enore.” Blake puts his hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“I just want to get out of here.” I drop the book I’m holding on the floor and walk toward the exit.
Outside, I breathe deeply. It’s the last week of September, and there’s a chill in the air. I pull up the zipper on my hoodie and wrap my arms around myself, rocking slightly.
“Hey.” Blake is beside me. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not. Shit like this used to happen to my mom all the time. It still does sometimes.”
I frown and look at him.
“My mom’s from Kenya.”
My frown deepens as I examine Blake’s flushed white skin, honey-yellow blond hair, and pale blue eyes.
“My stepmom,” he says, laughing.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. My birth mom left when I was five—something about wanting to be a singer on a cruise ship.” He rolls his eyes like he’s more annoyed at the thought of his birth mom than hurt. “Anyway, my dad met Hiari in New York City. They fell in love, and she moved to Bellwood.”
“And it was hard for her?” I ask. “Being here?”
“Well, Bellwood isn’t exactly New York City, so it took some adjusting. But not to say New York City is perfect and Bellwood is a shit town. There are a lot of good people here.”
“Yeah. I know that. I just wish my uncle had told us how things can sometimes be here—in this country.”
I think of a lifetime of more incidents, of situations where I will have to speak out—like Tamara did in class—and fight to insert myself in places where I am marginalized. I think of instances where my voice will be ignored—again, like Tamara’s—and instances where the only option will be to walk away, to leave things unchanged, and to leave narrow-minded people just as they are. It’s sickening. Terrifying.
“Maybe your uncle wanted to protect you from it somehow. Even if it was only for a little while.”
I shrug. “Yeah. Maybe.”
It’s dark now. Most of the stores on the strip are already closed. Blake and I are among the few people on the street. I pull my phone from my pocket and glance at the time: 7:30 p.m. It’s strange that a town is this quiet on a Friday night. I look at Blake, who’s watching me closely, clearly still concerned.
“Thank you,” I say. “For what you did in there.”
“It was nothing.”
“Were you looking for a book? Is that why you were there?”
“Yeah. For my little brother. His birthday’s on Sunday. But I’ll just drop by Hazel’s Books tomorrow—better selection, anyway.” He pulls a bunch of keys from his pocket and jiggles them. “Are you still up for the bonfire tonight, or would you like me to give you a ride home?”
“Yeah. I still want to go. I could use the distraction. My cousin was actually supposed to pick me up here and then take me to the bonfire.”
Yesterday, Adrian somehow convinced my mom to let me and Esosa attend a party on the beach on a Friday night. He said something about us having new experiences, then ranted about the importance of us participating in a Bellwood High tradition. As he explained, the bonfire, which always happens a week before the homecoming game, is symbolic, an act of solidarity that shows each student’s team spirit and commitment to the school. I never thought the truth—the exaggerated truth—would work on my mom. But it did.
“Well, we could just go together,” Blake says.
“Okay. Sure. I’ll text my cousin and tell him I have a ride.”
“Sounds good.”
We walk to the curb, and Blake opens the passenger door of his blue Jeep Wrangler. I step inside and fasten my seat belt.
“I have to make a stop before we head to the beach,” Blake says after starting the car. “Gotta get Zane.”
“All right.”
The ride to Tabitha’s Wardrobe is short. Zane is already standing outside the store; the streetlight shines a spotlight on him. His eyes are closed. He sways, likely to music coming from his AirPods. Tonight, he’s wearing baggy overalls over a multicolored sweater, and his dreads are in a messy topknot.
“Get in, man!” Blake shouts, sticking his head out the window. “We don’t have all night!”
After Zane’s eyes fly wide open, he crosses the street and approaches the Jeep. He’s clearly surprised to see me sitting in front, but smiles and gets in the back. “What’s up, guys?” he asks.
“Just ready to get this night started,” Blake answers.
“Wait. Before this car moves, I need to know what we’re listening to because I’ve been on an Ayra Starr binge all day, and I’m not ready for it to end.
I spin to the backseat, forgetting I’m strapped in by the seat belt. “You listen to Ayra Starr?” I can’t contain my excitement when I hear the name of my favorite Afrobeat artist.
“Of course,” Zane says. “She’s fire.”
“I know, right?”
“Who are you guys talking about?”
Zane and I turn to Blake and glare at him like he’s insane.
“What? Just asking.”
“Zane,” I say, “please enlighten him.”
“Done.” His thumb moves against his phone screen, and within seconds, “Rush” is playing on the stereo.
When Zane starts singing, effortlessly spitting the pidgin English lyrics like a true Naija boy, I lose my cool, undo my seat belt, and turn around. At first, I just watch him, completely impressed. And then I start singing, and soon, we’re in each other’s faces, screaming the lyrics.
“Okay,” Blake says, laughing. “It’s a vibe.” He turns the volume up and drives.
The music, the laughter, and the company are everything I need right now—a good memory to suppress the memory of the bookstore.