Authors: Eric Jerome Dickey
“My mom's not crazy about me doing it, but I guess that part of my dad is in my blood. I used to do spots at Uptown Comedy Club in ATL. Was the club MC when I was eighteen. I wish I had been old enough to be considered to play my dad when they made the movie.”
“Well, I guess you're carrying the baton and the brand for the Leonard Dubois name.”
Ericka said, “Hold on. Your father is the comedian Leonard Dubois?”
“Yes. I'm Leonard Dubois Jr. I was born after he passed.”
“Jesus. Your mother is a nurse at a doctor's office near Fox Hills Mall?”
“She was a nurse.”
“Oh, my God. Did you lose your mom too?”
He smiled. “Mom's fine. She was a nurse then, but she's a doctor now.”
“She's a doctor now? Wow. Nurse Debra Mitchell is a doctor.”
“Dr. Debra Dubois. She married my dad.”
“That's amazing. I am so happy for her.”
“She took over the same office when Dr. Faith retired. I saw Dr.
Faith yesterday. She's helping Mom with her manuscript. She's writing her memoirs, the story of her life growing up, about people who have had an impact on her life, and about her and my dad. Mom also does volunteer work with a nonprofit for battered women and children and victims of sex trafficking. She wants to sell her memoirs at some point, then let the proceeds go to help other women.”
“I met your mom and your dad when I was . . . I guess that was before you were born.”
“You look like you're under twenty. Thought you were in high school when I pulled up.”
“I'm not, but thanks. She was Debra Mitchell then. She was compassionate, like the sister I always wanted. I almost went into nursing because of her.”
“What's your name, so I can tell Mom I ran into you?”
“Ericka Stockwell. I doubt if she would remember me from over two decades ago.”
“Wow. Are you serious?”
“What was that âwow' all about?”
“She mentions you in her manuscript. I proof her pages.”
“And you're sure she said Ericka Stockwell?”
“I'm sure. I've read the chapters where she talks about meeting you and your mother.”
Ericka said, “Your mother is writing chapters about me and my mother?”
Silence moved between them.
In that awkwardness, Indigo told him they were celebrating her birthday with a California-causual get-together later on, sort of a Friday-evening happy-hour-pool-party-rug-rats-friendly affair, then invited him and any good-looking friends to stop by if he could find the time between driving around L.A. in a drop-top and breaking out in song when he saw beautiful women.
Dubois said, “It was a pleasure meeting you gorgeous, effervescent, and passionate sisters. Indigo, I hope you have a fantastic birthday with the rest of the Blackbirds.”
Indigo gave him her number and address, enamored by his charisma, and said she hoped she'd see him and a few of his friends later.
Ericka, Kwanzaa, and Destiny said nothing.
After looking back twice, he disappeared up the ramp.
Destiny cursed, ran her hand through her bleached sisterlocks, tugged hard, screamed.
Ericka asked, “What was that?”
“Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing.”
“Don't do that.”
“I lost my virginity and he lost my number.”
“The plot thickens.”
“I think that's how it went back then. Not even one phone call after it was done.”
Ericka whispered, “Hard to escape things from the past. The past never leaves.”
Destiny nodded. “Someone always shows up to remind you of the bullshit you want to forget.”
Ericka asked, “Why only one time with Dubois, Destiny?”
“Because it hurt like hell.”
“Why didn't you call him?”
“Because I left cherry stains on white sheets. It was humiliating. And the guy should call. I mean, he can call every day until he gets some no-no, but can't make one call after? Messy sheets or not, that's unforgivable.”
“You didn't put a towel down for your first time?”
“Well, it's not like I had read an instruction book.”
For a moment, they gazed up the ramp where Dubois had vanished.
Destiny pulled her helmet on, face shield up, and said, “Dubois called us Blackbirds.”
Indigo said, “Everyone who heard us sing in this echo chamber called us Blackbirds.”
Ericka asked, “Can we be Blackbirds? That wouldn't be like being a crow, would it?”
Kwanzaa said, “Blackbirds sounds like an urban sequel to a classic Hitchcock movie.”
Destiny said, “Sounds better than calling each other
W
-words,
N
-words, and
C
-words. The way we talk to and about each other
nowadays, MLK has probably rolled over in his grave so many times that if he were buried vertically, he would've drilled his way from ATL to Madagascar.”
Indigo asked, “Are you sure we don't want to call ourselves Pillow Queens?”
At the same time Destiny, Kwanzaa, and Ericka laughed and said, “
Hell
no
.”
Kwanzaa said, “Or we could go by our initials. Destiny. Indigo. Kwanzaa. Ericka.”
Destiny frowned. “DIKE? Really, Kwanzaa? I mean really?”
Again they fell out laughing.
When Ericka calmed down, she said, “Blackbirds.”
Kwanzaa nodded. “Blackbirds.”
Indigo gave two thumbs up. “Blackbirds.”
Destiny said, “Then it's settled. We're the Blackbirds.”
By early afternoon a jumper in the theme of a princess castle had been put up in the back of the fourplex. Indigo said it was for the kids when they came, but she was the first one to crawl inside. Destiny followed her. Not to be outdone, Kwanzaa climbed in and so did Ericka.
They became five-year-olds once again, jumping, bouncing, and squealing.
The kids in the neighborhood peeped over the wall, hoping to be invited over.
The jumper was for Indigo. She was still a child at heart.
The deejay arrived, a former rapper named Butter Pecan. She set up her equipment away from the pool. Music played as the Blackbirds, all in bikinis and vibrant half sarongs, arranged tables and chairs by the swimming pool. There were two large cakes from Hansen's Cakes on Fairfax in the unofficial Ethiopian district.
The caterer set up long tables with Nigerian food: shuku shuku, fruit salad, chicken skewers, coconut shrimp, rice, Nigerian pancakes, peanut soup, egusi soup, and meat pie.
Ericka, Kwanzaa, and Indigo gave Destiny their cell phones, then they gathered by the pool. Destiny took photos of them, again her three friends in their classic
Charlie's Angels
poses.
The caterer came over and offered to take a picture of all four of them.
Destiny said, “I'm fine being behind the camera.”
Balloons were all over the building, and presents were put on
another table near the pool area. About twenty people were over to swim and celebrate, just as many more on the way. Rush hour had commenced, but most had been en route and were ahead of traffic.
Indigo's straight-outta-Nigeria parents arrived neatly dressed.
Her father was Nagode Allah Abdulrahaman, his cognomen a very familiar Nigerian surname with the Hausa tribe. His family had moved to the north, but he had left Nigeria decades ago, made his way through London, then to America.
Indigo's father had grown up in the Nigerian northern state of Borno, in far-out arid lands like Ngala, Gwoza, Damboa, and Chibok. He was the ninth of twelve children.
Indigo's beautiful mother, Chimamandanata, was born in Nigeria's southern state, in Akwa Ibom, surrounded by Cross River, Rivers and Abia States, near the Atlantic, on land known to have oil reserves that were hit hard by Shell Oil activities, her birthland a more tropical area with forests in the remote areas. She was the fifth of nine children.
Indigo's father had worked hard and found the dream that had eluded most Americans. Her father was an astute businessman who lived on his mobile phone, always working a deal, his custom-made slacks and custom shoes handmade in South America speaking of his success.
He was not the stereotypical African seen in movies made by people who had never been to Africa, not the African on late-night television in front of organizations begging for American donations for underprivileged and malnourished children, kids who would never see a dime of that charity and were having their misery exploited the same way Haiti had been exploited and was yet to see any real money from the billions raised due to humanitarian efforts to help its people after earthquakes and hurricanes.
Mrs. Abdulrahaman was an attorney who had attended Obafemi Awolowo University, OAU, before coming to America and training in law once again. Every immigrant who came to America started over. Women who were lawyers from Brazil were in America cleaning homes to get by. Chimamandanata was one of the fortunate ones, one who was not afraid to work hard today for a better tomorrow. She specialized in construction, environmental, and real estate law. She was smartly
dressed, a Nigerian fashion queen, always well put-together, very chic in her tan Capri pants and lively, sleeveless top. Malaysian hair cascaded down her back, not a stitch showing. She always wore high heels, the sexiest shoes known to man, today her choice being Christian Louboutin daffodil-yellow leather pumps. With the shoes and freshly done hair, it was obvious she had no intention of swimming or getting wet.
Destiny, Kwanzaa, and Ericka greeted Indigo's family, gave them hugs.
Destiny's dad arrived next, a birthday present for Indigo in hand.
Indigo and Kwanzaa were happy to see Mr. Jones. They ran to him, sandals flapping against their feet, gave him daughterly hugs, and asked how he was doing. Destiny walked to her dad too, then playfully-yet-territorially eased the others out of the way so she could hug her old man and kiss his cheeks.
Destiny catered to her dad, even though he objected to the preferential treatment. Kwanzaa did the same with her father and bonus mom the moment they showed up. Her true mother and bonus dad wouldn't be here. She could invite only one set of parents to any gathering in order to avoid conflict.
While Indigo entertained her parents and let her mother and father playfully fight to be the one who spoiled her the most, she noticed that Ericka was in high spirits but avoiding Mr. Jones. Mr. Jones talked to everyone else, was energetic and jovial once again, but didn't give Ericka any eye contact. Ericka was usually the first of the newly crowned Blackbirds to run and give Mr. Jones a hug. She had known him since she was a child, when she used to babysit Destiny for him and his ex-wife.
Indigo shook it off, saw Kwanzaa was texting someone, and went to make sure she wasn't sending messages to Marcus Brixton because he was not invited to the family affair, but Kwanzaa hadn't invited any man to the party.
“I was hoping you invited some rich Nigerian men who knew how to be monogamous,” Kwanzaa said.
“And I was hoping you, Destiny, and Ericka had invited some hot American men who understood the value of a woman and had vowed on their ancestors' graves to be loyal as well.”
“Butter Pecan might be your type.”
“Don't make me curse you.”
“Did you really bump uglies with a girl twice and let her use a strap-on and play giddyap horsie in your no-no?”
“Fool, why don't you have the deejay announce that in front of my very religious parents and watch me get verbally beaten and disinherited from all that I am entitled to when I marry?”
“Lower my rent or I will have Butter Pecan make that announcement.”
“One girl. Two times. Two years ago. Let it go. Never mention that again.
Never
.”
“Calm down. I was joking.”
“Don't joke with me. My parents are
Nigerian
. Not American. Not from Rwanda. Not from Chad.
Nigerian
. They better not hear a whisper of what I have told you. Where they are from, homosexuality is a crime. Do you hear me? There is legislation and it is illegal for straight family members, or anyone, to be supportive. They send straight people to jail if they encourage things like I did only twice with one African girl. My only dual citizenship is American and Nigerian.”
“Okay, okay, okay. Calm down. But it's nice to know I can blackmail you if I need to.”
“So hush your face before you disgrace me.”
“I might let it go and never mention it again, if you tell me one thing.”
“What, what is it you want to know so I can have a peaceful birthday?”
“Did you use the strap-on on her too?”
“Kwanzaa, you're disgusting.”
“Did you?”
“You're the most disgusting individual I know.”
“Did you?”
“I despise you.”
“Did you?”
“
I did use the bloody thing
. She wanted me to use the bloody thing on her. Satisfied?”
“Did you like being the one in charge? Did you woman-like-a-man her like she did you? You played giddyap in her no-no, too?”
With her right hand, Indigo touched her own forehead, then the lower middle of her chest, then her left shoulder, and finally her right shoulder. Kwanzaa mocked her and did the same.
Kwanzaa said, “Destiny sure knew a lot about the lesbian terminology and lifestyle.”
“Much more than I ever will know. That is not part of my world.
I am not British.”
“I'm done talking about your shenanigans. But it was fun teasing you. You're sensitive.”
“Good, now let's talk about someone else while they can't hear us.”
“Sounds like Destiny has been seeing old boy for a while. She is as sneaky as Ericka.”
Indigo asked, “Is Ericka sneaking, creeping, and freaking with somebody too?”
“She had a mild bruise on her neck last week. Last Saturday morning. I saw it when we were Rollerblading from Manhattan Beach to the Santa Monica Pier. You didn't see it?”
“Did she? How did I miss that?”
“Her yellow ass covered it with makeup. Somebody sucked her neck bone.”
Indigo and Kwanzaa made thinking faces, hummed at the same time.
Indigo asked, “On another note, don't leave me hanging, Kwanzaa.”
“Regarding what, Chatty Cathy?”
“Well, tell me something about Hugo Boss.”
“I thought that conversation was over when we were climbing the stairs.”
“What does he drive?”
“No idea.”
“How can you not know?”
“Indigo, I do my job and let the Latinas get all giggly and rush to help the guy.”
“Kwanzaa, this is Los Angeles and it's all about what he's rocking.”
“Should be about character, not about possessions.”
“Nobody wants to date the bus stop man, not even the bus stop woman.”
“That's shallow, yet pretty accurate. L.A. is a culture of ever-growing egotistical values.”
“Brixton is an attorney. Would you have dated him if he were the garbage man?”
“I wasn't with the man because of his job.
You
date men based on their occupation.”
“I keep it real. A relationship is nothing to be played with. If you see yourself as garbage man material, go for it. I just need to know what Mr. Iced Coffee is driving so I can evaluate him. If a man in L.A. has no car, he either has no ambition or too many DUIs. Smart women must consider these things, or else we are setting ourselves up to fail. I want us to be winners.”
“If a man has no character, in my world, it doesn't matter how deep his pockets are.”
“Well, at least tell me if what matters most hangs to the left or to the right?”
“Are you mad? I didn't look between the man's legs. That's your forte.”
“Liar. We watch crotches the way men watch breasts, and we text each other pictures of naked men damn near every day, so quit lying.”
“What difference would that make?”
“I need you to forget Brixton. Man-shop. You're not engaged to that man-slut anymore.”
“Hmm, I think saying
man-slut
is as redundant as saying
man-whore
.”
“Flirt with the man in Hugo Boss. Or flirt with the garbage man next Tuesday. Up to you.”
“I don't flirt. That is not in my skill set.”
“You don't have to show a man your nipples. You can flirt and be cool with it. If he orders a Grande, give him a Venti and wink. Nobody will even notice. If he's that damn fine, flirt.”
“With all the questions, I thought you were interested in the Hugo Boss guy.”
“He sounds intriguing. But boo, you know men are like smog; they are all over L.A.”
“And they are all over you.”
“Don't hate me because I have both a vertical advantage and horizontal skills.”
“I'm not hard up to the point I need to flirt with a customer at my stupid job.”
“You hate being alone. You are not built to be alone. That's your fault.”
“I hate you as much as you despise me.”
“You love me as much as I love you and we both hate the truth.”
“Why tell the truth when lying feels so much better?”
“Exactly.”