Sun rays sneaking through an open window warm my right shoulder blade as I gaze at my reflection in a full length mirror. Loose fitting, white linen pants and a white cotton top crinkle and contort while my reflection pirouettes, turning to the left and then back to center, adjusting and tugging fabric into its proper place. With a handful of my course locks in one hand and a piece of cloth in the other, I wrap my hair into the folds of white fabric, making certain to cover the crown of my head. The children and my husband are out for the afternoon and the chaos in my home has been replaced with more than enough space to think and breathe. I almost want to stay home and enjoy being alone but something is pushing me to leave. I have to rush. It’s already 3:45 pm.; the ceremony is scheduled to begin in 15 minutes.
Keys, purse, sandals, money, I gather everything I think I need seconds before a green and white cab glides to a stop in front of my door. “Where too doll?” the driver, wearing a pair of red-rimmed, bifocal glasses, asks while peering over his shoulder. I give him the address to a small house located on the north side of Philadelphia and we drive away from my bustling block. I can tell we’re getting close to the north side so I roll down my window and tilt my head to the side, straining my ears to catch the unmistakable rhythm of solid hands pounding the head of Afro-Cuban drums. Instead all I hear is a chorus of despair; bottles breaking against pavement and babies crying, junkies hustling for their next fix, shopping cars filled with rotting food rolling across the pavement, nothing as beautiful and mystical as the sound of African music and the chants to the gods the protected my ancestors during their travel across the Atlantic.
“Is this where you’re going,” the driver asks while slowing down in front of a coco colored row house. The numbers match the address I was given, but the place seems lifeless, abandoned. I look toward the meter, glowing crimson. I’m $11 away from home, alone in an area of the city I’ve become familiar with through reports on the evening news. Did I write down the wrong address? Did they cancel and not tell anyone? No. This has to be the right place. The voice inside my head, which I’ve learned to call spirit, tells me to get out of the cab, knock on the door and leave my fear on the curb.
The first two commands come easy; but the fear sticks to my soul like chocolate on warm fingers. I’m nervous, a host of thoughts flood my mind and my stomach begins to knot as I pass the driver a hand full of crumpled bills before exiting the backseat. Heavy spices hang in the air and I can hear the faint sounds of pots hitting stove tops as I approach the front door. I ring the doorbell and strain my eyes through the wire screen, but I can’t see anyone inside.
A few seconds pass before a heavy-set woman appears in the doorway. She’s wearing a blue and white dress with a sarong decorated with seashells and starfish tied around her thick waist. She must sense my nervousness because her eyes soften as if to ask "what’s the matter baby?" "I was invited to a bembe," I blurt out, letting the tension in my throat tumble from my mouth and fall at my feet."Come in, come in," she says while stroking my shoulder. “You’re in the right place.”
Keys, purse, sandals, money, I gather everything I think I need seconds before a green and white cab glides to a stop in front of my door. “Where too doll?” the driver, wearing a pair of red-rimmed, bifocal glasses, asks while peering over his shoulder. I give him the address to a small house located on the north side of Philadelphia and we drive away from my bustling block. I can tell we’re getting close to the north side so I roll down my window and tilt my head to the side, straining my ears to catch the unmistakable rhythm of solid hands pounding the head of Afro-Cuban drums. Instead all I hear is a chorus of despair; bottles breaking against pavement and babies crying, junkies hustling for their next fix, shopping cars filled with rotting food rolling across the pavement, nothing as beautiful and mystical as the sound of African music and the chants to the gods the protected my ancestors during their travel across the Atlantic.
“Is this where you’re going,” the driver asks while slowing down in front of a coco colored row house. The numbers match the address I was given, but the place seems lifeless, abandoned. I look toward the meter, glowing crimson. I’m $11 away from home, alone in an area of the city I’ve become familiar with through reports on the evening news. Did I write down the wrong address? Did they cancel and not tell anyone? No. This has to be the right place. The voice inside my head, which I’ve learned to call spirit, tells me to get out of the cab, knock on the door and leave my fear on the curb.
The first two commands come easy; but the fear sticks to my soul like chocolate on warm fingers. I’m nervous, a host of thoughts flood my mind and my stomach begins to knot as I pass the driver a hand full of crumpled bills before exiting the backseat. Heavy spices hang in the air and I can hear the faint sounds of pots hitting stove tops as I approach the front door. I ring the doorbell and strain my eyes through the wire screen, but I can’t see anyone inside.
A few seconds pass before a heavy-set woman appears in the doorway. She’s wearing a blue and white dress with a sarong decorated with seashells and starfish tied around her thick waist. She must sense my nervousness because her eyes soften as if to ask "what’s the matter baby?" "I was invited to a bembe," I blurt out, letting the tension in my throat tumble from my mouth and fall at my feet."Come in, come in," she says while stroking my shoulder. “You’re in the right place.”
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