Chapter 11 Adesua Ridley
Adesua Ridley
In another life, she thought, the sweet caramels, the roasted peanuts, the fresh batch of biscuits, and the sea of friendly faces would have been her home. Her mission was to discover Harlem more and maybe, in return, more of herself.
An elderly man tipped his hat at her as she walked by. “You make sure you come back here, honey, and get you some of my new candles.”
He smiled and waved as he placed some final touches on his stall.
She was definitely tempted as the aroma of vanilla filled the air.
Adesua knew she had a weakness for shopping at the small vendors.
If she stopped now, she would return with baskets filled with jewelry, hair products, makeup, and any type of art that caught her eye.
A group of young boys started to strum up their instruments, playing smooth jazz, much to Adesua’s delight.
Adesua looked through the windows at Blumstein’s.
It made her smile to see the beauty of all the Black women looking through clothes without the underlying fear of being watched she’d had as a child.
At this point, she felt the rumble of hunger in her belly.
She stopped by a quaint café called Tilly Mae Table.
Adesua ordered a piping-hot coffee, along with pancakes, sausage, and cheese grits.
She never would have thought she would like sitting alone by herself.
But she enjoyed people-watching as she scarfed down the hotcakes with syrup dripping from her mouth.
The waitress looked at her with a smile.
“You’re eating like you haven’t eaten in days, sugar.”
Adesua covered her mouth, her smile widening.
“Every time I come to Harlem, I make it my goal to leave here full and happy,” she said shyly while she put her napkin on her lap.
The waitress waved in a playful manner. “Well, you full. Now we just gotta make sure ya happy, don’t we?”
Adesua paid the waitress and added a hefty tip that left the woman’s mouth agape.
Before she knew it, she had made it to 135th Street and was walking into the Harlem library.
She was elated at seeing the never-ending rows of books on history of Black Americans, with African culture alongside.
Adesua heard a group of young people, maybe a few years younger than herself, talking about different literary works from people such as Langston Hughes.
One boy talked about how much “The Weary Blues” resonated with him because of music being mentioned in the poem.
It made her happy to hear how deep the conversations had gotten.
She wondered about her future artworks. Would young kids discuss her art like this one day?
Maybe they would wonder what the meaning behind it was.
She stepped out of the library, heading back toward 125th Street, and passed an art exhibition.
She was surprised she hadn’t seen it before.
A small crowd of people was staring intently at each piece.
Adesua felt she shouldn’t walk in, but her feet led her through the doors before she knew it.
She found herself looking at one painting that caught her eye.
It was Harlem at night, painted in hues of purple and vibrant yellow, with people dancing happily on the street.
There was something beautiful about the simplicity of the colors.
The people were highlighted—not the buildings, not the lit-up signs from the clubs.
It was the people of Harlem who made it so special and beautiful.
She looked down, seeing the signature of Aaron Douglas.
She was euphoric at the thought that her art would one day be in rooms like this, just like his.
Adesua headed back out to the street, as she found herself too easily distracted.
As she walked by the vendors once again, she saw kids playing in the water by the fire hydrants, all screaming loudly with laughter and tears as they tussled with each other.
Little girls jumped Double Dutch as the boys next to them played stickball.
Everything was in perfect cohesion in this little paradise.
She went back to the man selling candles and got three to give to the host where Joseph had told her to meet at twelve p.m. sharp.
The writing on the wrinkled paper in her pocketbook was blurry, but she was able to make out the address: 108 West 136th Street. The Dark Tower.
The Dark Tower sounded rather daunting to her. She waved off the thought. Joseph hadn’t led her astray so far. As she walked up 136th Street near Lenox, Adesua spotted a luxurious town house and felt pleasantly surprised. The entrance had tall, grand windows that reminded her of their estate.
A slender woman with her hair perfectly pinned back arrived at the door.
“Sorry, do I know you?”
Adesua knew exactly who she was. She greeted her warmly, even though the woman was confused.
“Pleasure to meet you. I am Adesua Ridley.”
A’Lelia, a woman of age and wisdom, was adorned in long, elegant beads that shimmered in the light. She nodded without much confidence. “Very well, then.”
Adesua made her way up the steps, following the woman inside. A’Lelia stopped abruptly when she finally caught a recollection of who Adesua was. She’d heard Joseph mention her, but something now clicked.
“Oh my stars, Joseph done brought a Ridley here!” She paused a moment and smirked. “I was beginning to wonder if your kind was too good for people like us. Adesua, I am A’Lelia. A’Lelia Walker.”
Adesua embraced A’Lelia as if they were long-lost sisters, feeling a deep connection to this woman of such significance.
“Such a great pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Adesua said, feeling instant regret. Her time in the South had her calling everyone “ma’am” and “sir.” She knew some didn’t like that.
“You don’t have to call me that, love, making me feel like an old hag! As you know, no matter our age, they are so mad at our fine looks and wealth that these people can barely breathe when they walk past us.” She laughed heartily, and it echoed throughout the home.
Adesua gave a nod toward Duke Ellington when he saw her walk in.
His music filled the air, enveloping Adesua in a warm embrace.
The velvet draperies concealed almost every bit of outside light.
The chandeliers glowed softly, adding to the home’s welcoming atmosphere.
The walls were adorned with eclectic art pieces from local Harlem artists and vibrant African textiles.
A sea of honey and warm mahogany faces clinked their wineglasses, their joy and laughter drowning out the notes of Duke playing on the lovely grand piano.
Adesua’s heart raced as she found herself among Harlem’s finest. Her eyes immediately caught Zora Hurston passionately sharing her latest works with a small crowd.
Langston Hughes nodded, his attention thoroughly captivated.
Adesua couldn’t help but think of her brother Diego, and she wished he could experience this with her.
She made a mental note to invite him next time, knowing he and Zora both attended the same college.
“Well, enjoy yourself, and I am pleased to meet you. I have to get you an invite to the Harlem Debutante Ball. Now that you have found your way into our world.”
Adesua knew exactly what she meant by that.
She’d been in everyone else’s world except her own, even as a child.
Her siblings all got to experience a bit of their culture.
She’d lost her way between eating sea cucumber stew and tea eggs with Wei and dancing to old Lavani tunes with Kavita; there was nothing she could claim.
Lost in her thoughts, she saw Joseph mingling with some of their friends.
They had gotten close to her over the last few months.
Adesua still felt like she wasn’t fully a part of their crew, no matter how hard she tried.
Although she was slightly full from breakfast, eating felt better than talking to people.
She snagged some deviled eggs and sweet potato biscuits that melted in her mouth.
Her throat tightened as she coughed from scarfing the food down too quickly.
Adesua ran to the mysteriously colored, strong-smelling punch, which she figured would be better than nothing.
It didn’t help. Her cough became so loud that people started noticing the disturbance in the ambience.
“Adesua, what do you think about that?” her friend Mabel asked.
Adesua almost choked on air this time for not realizing they’d added her in. Joseph gave her a shuttered look.
“I didn’t catch what you said, Mabel,” Adesua replied.
Mabel gave a curt smile before speaking.
“About the Savoy—how they are letting everyone enjoy themselves no matter their race, and how more Black-owned businesses are coming.”
She moved her head up and down aggressively, trying to catch up and add something of value.
“Oh yes, I think it’s beautiful for Harlem. I also love how the Amsterdam News is reporting things here in Harlem that are relevant.”
One of the girls scoffed at her statement.
“You would know about the paper, wouldn’t you?”
Adesua had been keeping quiet since she and Joseph had gotten together, stepping on eggshells around his friends. But not today.
“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
The girl put her glass on the counter. She has enough liquor in her belly, Adesua thought.
“Look, we don’t have to ignore your family has been in some . . . how can I say this nicely . . . heat lately. We don’t want any corrupt business goings-on here in Harlem. That may be okay for your type of folks, but we don’t need any bad press.”