Somebody's Heart Is Burning by Tanya Shaffer Page A

places
of
black people,
by
black people, and
for
black people, throughout his entire life.”
    A murmur of confusion. Heavy shouts of “Order! Allow!”
    “We came to Ghana as African Americans to discover our heritage and to get to know our African brothers and sisters. It has been a moving reunion. However, in coming here tonight to celebrate the vision of our brother, the late Marcus Garvey, we are disturbed to see a violation of his principles taking place.”
    A louder buzz this time, punctuated by angry discourse in a multiplicity of languages. I was beginning to recognize the sound of the different Ghanaian tongues, and now I caught snatches of Fanti, Ewe, and Ga. Again the cries of, “Allow! Allow!” Slowly the commotion died down. I glanced sideways at Brown, who stared intently at the stage, fists clenched, jaw set in a rigid line.
    “Marcus Garvey was a black nationalist and a black separatist. That doesn’t mean he hated white people, only that he felt that blacks and whites should lead separate lives, in separate places. Therefore, in the interest of respecting the memory of the deceased, we ask that those present who are not of Black African descent please leave the premises. Thank you.”
    Nadhiri replaced the microphone in the stand, where it screeched in resistance. She joined the others in a line, and they once again raised their fists.
    Chaos. All around, fierce arguments erupted—arms gesticulated wildly, voices strained to be heard. Brown shouted at the stage in Twi. Beside me, two men leaned into each other, engaged in passionate conference.
    “They were never Ashanti,” I heard one man say, and the other nodded.
    “They are weak!”
    Onstage, the band had gathered around the group of Americans. The men strained toward each other, near blows. Nadhiri placed her hand on the shoulder of one of the American men in a calming gesture. My stomach alive, I began to make my way through to the edge of the crowd. A hand circled my wrist. It was Brown’s.
    “No,” he said. “You must stay. They must not insult you like this. I will beat them.”
    The crowd pressed in. I fought for air among the ripe bodies, the rising heat.
    “Sweetie, I have to get out.”
    “You have not to be scared,” he shouted in my ear. “The students, they are not angry with you. They are angry with these lazy, these no-good people who insult our guests.”
    Headrush. Turning in the tightening crowd, searching for an opening, I put my hands in front of me like a blind woman, pushing. The crowd thinned, and I emerged at the side of the stage beside a palm tree. A breeze picked out my sweaty body like a breath of heaven. I leaned back against the scaly bark. The microphone squealed again.
    “My brothahs! My sistahs! Order! Order!” From where I stood, I saw the partial profile of a slight, bookish-looking young man in a blue oxford shirt and dark, pressed pants. He removed the microphone from its stand. The African American students and the band members paused in their argument and turned slightly toward him.
    “Brothahs and sistahs, I am president of students at Legon University here, and I am deeply saddened by what I have just heard. I beg of our white brothahs and sistahs present that you have not taken offense.”
    Shouts of “Here! Here!” from the crowd.
    “I beg you, it is not our custom in Ghana here to tell our guests that they are not welcome. I beg you, you are welcome. Then, if there are those people at this party who must ask other people to leave, I must ask those people that they themselves might leave.”
    Cheering. Scattered applause.
    “Now, as this is a party, and the band has not yet finished playing, perhaps we may once again dance.”
    Loud cheering. The young man moved away from the microphone. There was a moment of silence, the African Americans and the band members face-to-face. Then, slowly, the drummer sat down on his stool and pulled a
djembe
between his knees; the marimba player picked up