“Um, from Omaha, Nebraska, and Lansing, Michigan.”
My sisters and brothers snickered at me. Mom slowly shook her head.
“No, Malcolm. Where are your roots from, your heritage, my love?”
“Oh,” I said. “My heritage is from Africa. The kingdom of Benin, which once encompassed all the land of West Africa before the Europeans colonized it. We were known for the riches and craftsmanship of precious metals—like gold—iron, brass, and even wood and ivory. We are also known for our wisdom, intellect, and democracy.”
“Correct. You have rich African blood in your veins. Don’t you, young man?” Mom’s voice calmed. “The blood of kings and queens, inventors, farmers, and scholars. My grandparents and your great-grandparents are Yoruba from what is presently Nigeria. They sailed to the Caribbean island of Grenada as emigrants. Your great-grandparents’ daughter is my mother. My father was a Scottish man who … was wicked to my mum. Hilda, tell me about your father’s great-grandfather.”
“Papa said his name is Hajja and he was from Mali, where the Dogon tribe is from,” she said proudly. “The Dogon tribe dates back thousands of years and they are also known for their knowledge of astronomy and their superior intellect. Papa said that’s why we’re so smart.”
Mom smiled and talked more about the different countries in Africa and why it’s important to know your roots. She said that the Dogon were some of the smartest people in all humanity. Europeans were intrigued by the Dogon people because of their knowledge of the companion Sirius B star, which orbits Sirius A.
“So you see, we came from somewhere. We have an identity, a culture, a history, long before the European colonizers invaded the continent, and long before Christopher Columbus stumbled upon the Americas. Long before slavery existed. Do you understand me, children? Black people were compassionate and built thriving civilizations.”
She passed me one of my favorite books to look at. It had pictures of far-off places. Pictures of pyramids, people, lions, zebras, and turquoise oceans. Even pictures of Mansa Musa, the wealthiest man in the whole wide world, who lived in Mali and looked so much like Papa. Except he wore a turban, and Papa wore a top hat.
“Maybe I’ll go there sometime,” I said. “To Africa.”
My brothers and sisters laughed.
“How are you going to do that, silly?” Yvonne giggled.
Mom’s lips turned into a curved smile. A proud smile. “I hope you do. I hope we all do, one day.”
Hilda tended to the pot of dandelion stew on the stove. The stew was never filling but my mouth watered for it nonetheless. Mom said it had all the nutrients we needed.
Outside, the royal-blue butterflies danced among the sunflowers. I wanted to run outside, barefoot on the thick green grass, and chase after them. Add them to my collection next to our library. Then, run farther and farther. Run straight to Africa, Asia, South and Central America, and then Europe. I wanted to see the world before returning back home to America, to Michigan, to Lansing.
The front door slammed. Reginald, all wobbly legs, skin and bones, rushed into the kitchen, a knit sack hanging over his shoulder.
“Sorry I’m late!”
“I’ve been wondering what happened to you, dear,” Mom said, crossing her arms. “What do you have there?”
Reginald dumped the bag on the counter, the contents falling like bricks.
“Bread.”
Hilda took a loaf and banged it against the counter.
“You mean rocks.”
“It’ll go nice with the stew,” Mom corrected her. “Come now, let’s eat.”
Mom removed her shoes, massaging the balls of her feet while Yvonne sawed through the bread and Hilda ladled stew into our bowls.
Mom rinsed her hands before joining us as we bowed our heads in unison for prayer.
I dipped a piece of bread into the stew to soften it, and everyone else did the same.
“While you all are eating supper,” Mom said, laying her spoon on the table, “I’ll read one of these old letters from Papa.”
The table stilled, the mention of Papa casting some type of spell on us. Mom pretended not to notice as she unfolded the letter, reading it aloud:
My Dearest Wife,
I trust that all is well and prosperous at home. It is good to hear the children are doing well and learning about truth and justice for Black people of the world. It is important that they see themselves outside of the four-square-mile radius in which they live. They must see themselves as global citizens, not as minorities, and have a healthy and positive sense of who they are and of those around them.
Papa wrote about his travels to different towns where he preached about the injustices of the world. He ministered to Black folk, encouraging them to be self-sufficient and to not rely on the government, which historically had not been a friend to them. Papa was the chapter president of Marcus Garvey’s Universal Negro Improvement Association, an organization that commanded millions of followers worldwide. And folks looked up to Papa. I looked up to him most of all. Mom was right—listening to Papa’s letter brought us some comfort, reminded us to be proud of all the great work Papa had done.
“Mom,” Wesley asked in a small voice. “Why did Papa die?”
The question whipped like an ice storm around the room, freezing us solid with our spoons raised in midair.
Mom took a steady breath.
“Papa didn’t die. Papa was killed,” she said, her eyes hardening. “He was killed for his kindness. He was killed for trying to invoke change in our people, to wake them up. He was killed by ignorant men. You see, Black people all around the world endured hundreds of years of chattel slavery—they were hunted, stolen, tortured, separated from families, forbidden to read and write. There were no laws to protect us from these criminal acts, you see. And your father, he served a mighty God. He challenged us to stand up and to restore our own humanity. You must never forget that. You hear me?”
Reginald looked across the table at me, his eyes softening.
Wesley eyed the floor. “Will they … kill everyone like that?”
My veins felt heavy, weighing me down into the seat. I wanted to reach across the table, zip Wesley’s mouth shut.
Mom softly cupped the side of Wesley’s cheek, and her words came out like a soothing song.
“No, baby. They won’t kill everyone. But they will try to kill the ones who they fear will bring unity to the masses. The ones who will challenge the unlawful crimes against humanity.”
“Why does God let this happen to us?” Reginald asked.
But Mom looked directly at me. “To make us strong. To remind us of the fire within. Your papa, he was like a match, ready to set the world on fire with his light, when some just wanted to stay in the dark. He said you’re either part of the problem or part of the solution. No middle ground, one or the other. So are you going to be a light or are you going to dim your light?”
“But,” I said, “why did Papa have to be the one to die?”
Mom smiled at me. “Sometimes change requires the biggest sacrifice, my love. Your father, he lives on forever. He lives in each one of you. You can call on him whenever you need him. He is always with you.”
* * *