Somebody's Heart Is Burning by Tanya Shaffer

Your saying that I
have no right to be hurt is like my saying that you have no right to be
angry. Words.
    I put the letter in the mailbox. For the last week I’d had my eye on a new Ghanaian volunteer called MC Brown. I decided to pursue his acquaintance.

    In the hot white beams of rented floodlights, you could see steam rising off the grass. Tinny highlife music zinged and crackled through the air, a gentle, mocking xylophone underscoring the cranked-up guitars. I was at the center of a pulsing crowd, dancing with MC Brown. We were toying with each other, savoring the thrill of possibility. As we danced, I admired the compact curves of his body in Levi’s knockoffs (the label said “Leevy’s”) and African print shirt. Inches apart, without touching, we enacted a cagey sensual drama of coiling fingertips and jolting hips. I breathed deeply, taking in the sweet, acrid mix of sweat, cocoa butter, mosquito repellent, and cut grass. My bare feet kneaded the earth; my arms and legs were slick.
    We were on the expansive lawns of Legon University, one of the few places in the Accra area that you could easily confuse with the U.S. Among the manicured lawns, neatly trimmed shrubs, rows of palm trees, and geometrically shaped buildings, you might think you were on a college campus in Florida, say, or Southern California.
    Today we were celebrating the birthday of Marcus Garvey, best known as the founder of the Back-to-Africa Movement. Born in Jamaica in 1887, Marcus Garvey came to the U.S. at the age of twenty-eight and established the largest mass movement in African American history. At the height of his popularity, membership in his organization, the Universal Negro Improvement Association, numbered over a million. He believed that Africa was the spiritual home for all people of African descent, and that blacks would never achieve equality in countries where the majority of people were white. He encouraged blacks from all over the world to emigrate to Africa, with the goal of reclaiming it from European domination and establishing an independent, united Black Nation. I was one of a handful of whites attending the party, our faces spots of pink neon among the hundreds of Africans gathered for the event.
    “She’s gone, but I’m still dancing,” the singer wailed, following up with an extended riff in Twi. MC Brown was singing along, his mouth next to my ear, husky and off-key. I moved a fraction of an inch closer, condensing the force field between us. He turned his head, his lips hovered near mine—
    The music cut out. Static. The microphone squeaked. I looked at the stage and was surprised to see six people dressed in full African regalia, with draping layers of
kente
and other precious cloth. There was something incongruous about them, even beyond the formal dress. Perhaps it was the way the women stood side by side with the men, their stance at once righteous and timid. Dreadlocks emerged from beneath one of the men’s circular hats—a style I’d only seen in Ghana on a couple of Rastas selling beads at the beach—and two of the women wore glasses. I knew immediately that they were Americans.
    A small, thin young woman stepped forward and began fiddling with the microphone. Behind her, the others raised their fists in the freedom salute. She wore round, John Lennon glasses, and her skin was golden in tone. She was wrapped in a rich indigo cloth. As the squeal of the microphone died down, I removed my hands from my ears.
    “My brothers and sisters. I am speaking to you today on behalf of the African American exchange students of Legon University, who helped to organize this event.” She spoke in careful, measured phrases, as though reciting a prepared text. With a jolt, I recognized Nadhiri’s reedy voice.
Is she a student?
I wondered.
I thought she was a volunteer.
    “Marcus Garvey was not Martin Luther King,” she continued nervously. “Marcus Garvey was not Malcolm X. Marcus Garvey was a man who believed in