Malawi's Sisters Read online

  He sat alone at the bar in the same place he had been every night for the past week, drinking one bourbon-on-the-rocks after another, thinking about Sherry, both hoping and worrying she would show up, afraid of what he might do with her if he let himself. With each drink, the ice hadn’t had a chance to melt before he was done with it. He swiveled his glass, watching the cubes swirl around the bottom. He figured he shouldn’t drive, and gulped down a glass of water before heading out, hoping it would help. As he walked to his car, his body was a little out of sync with his mind and he leaned on the car door for a moment trying to get his balance before getting behind the wheel. Though not certain, he didn’t believe he’d had more than on previous nights. Besides, he’d made this drive so many times for so many years, he could probably do it with his eyes closed. He’d be fine.

  He took it slow, staying at or just below the speed limit, making sure to slow down at every yellow light and not accelerate too quickly. Still, as he made a left turn onto Florida he heard the familiar woop-woop of the siren and saw the blue lights flashing behind him. He pulled over, got his paperwork ready, rolled down his window and waited. Despite his job title, despite the number of times he’d been stopped without incident, each time he still felt panic. Too many stories of black men being harassed, being killed for the slightest infraction, for simply being black. He inhaled and told himself to stay calm.

  The officer was white, not someone Malcolm recognized. He was stern, asking for license and registration. Malcolm had everything ready and handed them over, careful not to make a sudden move. Keep it slow. Keep it smooth. Breathe. Malcolm placed his hands on the wheel where the officer could see them. He read the name plate: Banks.

  The officer scanned the driver’s license and asked, “Where you headed, tonight, sir?”

  “Just on my way home.”

  “And where are you coming from?”

  Malcolm’s heart lurched. Jesus, keep it together, he thought. Watch your tone. Don’t say anything stupid. “Worked late,” he said. Normally by now he would ask why he’d been stopped, but he knew he was in the wrong and wanted to comply; he wasn’t going to trigger the officer if he could help it. The officer likely knew he was over the limit. He could probably smell the alcohol.

  “That’s a pretty long day, sir. You know it’s almost midnight.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, it’s been a long day.” A long week, he thought.

  “You didn’t stop in for a drink on the way home by any chance, did you?”

  Malcolm’s hands started shaking. “I, uh— I had a drink or two with dinner.”

  Officer Banks narrowed his eyes at him. “One drink or two, sir? Which is it?” Young and focused, suspicious, but not aggressive. Malcolm took a chance, hoping this young officer wasn’t out to prove himself to be a badass.

  “Officer, I’m Judge Malcolm Walker, with the Superior Court. I’ve had more than I should. It’s not in my nature to over drink, but I’m taking it slow. It’s been a tough week. I don’t want any problems. I’m being careful.”

  “You crossed the white line into the other lane several times, sir.”

  “I’ll be careful. I don’t have far to go to get home.”

  “One moment please.” Officer Banks returned to his patrol car and Malcolm’s entire body started to shake while he waited for what felt like an eternity. Finally he saw Officer Banks get out of his vehicle and walk back. This was when things could go horribly wrong. He could ask Malcolm to get out of the vehicle, pat him down, get angry if Malcolm said the wrong thing, feel threatened if he moved too quickly. He’d seen countless cases where a black or Hispanic man had been beaten almost unrecognizable because the officer had interpreted the man’s actions as threatening. Malcolm was well aware of his height, of his black skin. Aware of the threat he posed by simply being there. A big black man. White women crossing the street, moving their seat on the bus, squeezing their purse just a little closer to their bodies. Dismissing the intelligence behind his eyes, under his skin. Assuming violence lay in his fists. Though sometimes, just sometimes he wanted to explode, to rage, to batter and punch. But he didn’t. Instead, he used his head, he took a breath, he swallowed, smiled, nodded, shrank as much as he could to say, “I’m not a threat.”

  Officer Banks held out Malcolm’s paperwork. “Judge Walker,” he said. “I’m deeply sorry for your loss.” Malcolm’s eyes filled with tears and his chest almost caved in. The officer continued, “With respect, I’m going to follow you home, sir. I want to make sure you get there safely. Take it slow. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Malcolm took his information and dropped it on the passenger seat. He closed his eyes for a moment and pushed back this overwhelming wave of emotion. Gratitude. That’s what this was, he thought. He looked at the young officer. “You’re a good man. Thank you.” He took a deep breath, pushing back potential tears. “Thank you.”

  20

  Charlene played with her broccoli, moving it around her plate with her fork. Kenya told her to eat up.

  “Why are we going to Florida?” the girl asked.

  “We’re going to participate in a march. A march for justice.”

  “For Aunt Mowie?”

  “It’s like Trayvon Martin,” Junior said. “Black folks are getting gunned down just for being black.”

  Kenya’s chest tightened. This wasn’t something she wanted her son to think. “Well, it’s not as simple as that, really,” she said, but she wasn’t certain how to explain the complexity of race.

  “Who’s Trayvon Martin?” Charlene looked from her brother to her mother.

  “A teenager who was shot down because he was black,” Junior said with authority.

  “It’s complicated,” Kenya said. “He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Junior gave her a look she didn’t understand—contempt or bewilderment. “That’s not right,” he said. “Mr. Pierce, our sociology teacher, says he was killed because he was black.”

  Kenya took a deep breath. She hadn’t given her children “the talk.” Always putting it off, waiting for Sidney to be there to lead the discussion; hoping for a better time, as if there would ever be a better time to talk about what it means to be black in America. The topic made her uncomfortable, almost like talking about sex—it would change them; they wouldn’t be her babies anymore.

  “Trayvon Martin was walking home,” said Kenya. “That’s all, and a man shot him because he thought he was dangerous.”

  “Why was he dangerous?” asked Charlene.

  “He wasn’t dangerous,” Junior said, his voice rising, hands spreading out, punctuating his words. “That’s the point. He was just walking home, but he had a hoodie on and the man thought he was dangerous. But he wasn’t. The man was dangerous, not Trayvon.”

  “We don’t know the whole situation.” She remembered the news reports and the confusion of what happened. Wondering why a Hispanic man would shoot a teenager walking through the neighborhood. Thinking there had to be a reasonable explanation.

  “Seriously, Mom?” Junior stared at her aghast and she felt rebuked.

  “Well, yes, you’re right,” she conceded. “He was just walking through a neighborhood. Kind of like ours, really, except they had a security guard. A neighborhood watch guy, I think, who confronted the boy and they got into a fight, started to argue, and the guy said he felt threatened. And he fired his gun. And—” A sudden pain swelled in her chest, a tightness constricting her breath. Malawi wasn’t coming back. She inhaled filling her lungs as if she wouldn’t get the chance again and looked at Charlene. “You have to be careful. There’s a lot of crazy people out there. Dangerous people with guns.”

  “Like the man who killed Aunt Mowie,” Charlene said.

  “Yeah,” said Junior. “Some white man shot her because she was black.” He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. “But marching won’t do nothing. It’s a waste of time.”

  “Won’t do anything.” Kenya waited for him to repeat the
sentence correctly but instead he gulped his milk. She didn’t push it and instead asked, “Why do you say that?”

  “Because people marched for Trayvon, but it didn’t change nothing. People marched in Ferguson for Michael Brown. People protested in Baltimore for Freddie Gray. They’ve been protesting all across the country. What’s changed?”

  Flustered at her son’s maturity and knowledge of the nationwide protests, Kenya stumbled over her words. She wasn’t sure marching would make any difference this time either, but Ghana said it was important to be there. Show family unity.

  “It’s a way to show the people in charge, the politicians, that we want something done,” Kenya said. “That laws should change so people with guns can’t just shoot an unarmed person just because they feel like it.”

  Charlene’s face still looked puzzled. “So why did the man shoot Aunt Mowie? Was it really just because she was black?”

  “Yeah, that’s exactly why,” Junior said firmly, pushing his chair back from the table.

  Kenya looked at her daughter. “She just needed help with her car and went to the man’s house. He says he thought she was an intruder and that’s why he fired the gun.” She wanted to leave her daughter with some hope and said, “It could have been an accident.”

  Junior tilted his head to the side, his mouth slanted as if silently saying, “You know that’s bullshit.” She could try to hide behind the notion that people who get shot have somehow brought it on themselves because of their attitude or their lifestyle, but truth was, black people have been dying for decades simply because of their skin color, and all that had changed was the technology to capture it on video. There had been no reason to shoot Malawi. There had been no reason to shoot Trayvon, or any of the countless others, but it was easier to blame the victim and stay safe in a bubble of “it can’t happen to me because I’m good, I’m better.” She wanted to believe there was a reason beyond skin color. That America had moved forward since the sixties, but it hadn’t. Not really. Her sister’s murder was proof beyond a doubt. Nausea twined its way to her throat knowing she had blamed her sister, because of alcohol or drugs, because of bad choices. But now the slime of reality was thick on her skin.

  Kenya wanted to protect her children, wanted them to feel good about the world, to believe the color of their skin wouldn’t limit their opportunities in life. She didn’t want them to fear being shot just because they were black. But they could be. Her twelve-year-old son already knew it, and now, so did her nine-year-old daughter. She couldn’t keep her children swaddled anymore. Kenya swallowed a dry lump.

  “Honestly, yes, it was probably because she was a black stranger at his door, and he was afraid.”

  Charlene’s crumpled expression wrecked Kenya. Junior nodded as if satisfied his mother had finally spoken the truth.

  “May I be excused?” he asked. She nodded and watched him lope out, heading to his room.

  Charlene listlessly poked the broccoli with her fork. Kenya caressed her cheek. “Being black is . . .” She hesitated. “Be proud. Be smart. Be all the things you want to be. There are evil, horrible people out there, but that’s not the whole world. There is good out there, too.”

  Her daughter continued to frown at her plate.

  “You’re excused if you’ve had enough,” said Kenya, feeling defeated. Charlene responded with a quiet thank you and meandered into the den to watch cartoons before bedtime.

  21

  “This whole Black Lives Matter movement is fucked up,” Ryan said. He was lying in bed, propped up on a pillow, scrolling through the news feed on his phone. “I don’t mean any disrespect, but damn, doesn’t everyone matter?”

  “You’re missing the point.” Ghana rolled out of bed, picked up her T-shirt from the floor and slipped it over her head covering her bare chest, then looked around for her panties, finding them by the bathroom door. The orgasmic afterglow was now a doused flame. “You don’t get it. We’re not saying—”

  “We’re not saying? Who’s we?”

  She tilted her head and looked at him. He stared back at her. “Black people.”

  Ryan heaved a sigh. “I thought we weren’t going to do this.” He got out of bed on the other side and faced her, his nakedness in full view. “I thought we weren’t going to take sides like that. What happened to ‘we’re all one, we’re all human beings,’ blah, blah, fuckin’ blah?” He bent over, his head disappearing for a moment as he found his jeans and slid them on. No underwear. This usually gave Ghana a thrill. She loved that he often went commando, and when she got the chance would slip her finger between the buttons of his jeans when she was close to him, but right now she dismissed the thought and let loose a groan.

  “I can’t help it that I’m black.”

  “And I can’t help it that I’m white, but you’re acting like it’s all my fault.”

  “Well, maybe it is.” She was daring him now, pushing his buttons, wanting to see how he’d respond, this white cop who served a predominantly black community.

  In the eighteen months since they’d met, they had never had an honest discussion about race. They’d acknowledged their different backgrounds—he grew up in the Maryland suburbs, went to a mixed public school and always had black friends; she grew up in an affluent section of the District and went to a mostly white private school—but despite his exposure and acceptance of non-white communities, he didn’t fully understand what it meant to be black in America. A minority, even with money, faced perceptions and judgments white people didn’t.

  “Not you personally,” she said, “but cops. Cops act like black people are evil unless proven, without a doubt, that we’re not.”

  “Oh, Jesus fuck, Ghana, are you kidding me?” He slapped his hand to his forehead. “It wasn’t a cop who killed your sister.”

  “Maybe not, but they help create an environment that supports people like that asshole who did shoot my sister.” She knew her voice was loud. Her heart raced and her pulse throbbed in her temples like a hand tapping a stretched drum. “They make it okay for white people to harass and fear black people. To burn black churches. To shoot young men walking through a wealthy neighborhood and murder a young wo—” Her breath escaped her and she stood unable to say anything more, anger throttling her throat. Malawi had only been twenty-seven.

  Quietly, Ryan said, “I’m not the enemy, Ghana.”

  She wanted to smash something, and said, “You sure about that?” He was quiet and she said again, louder, fury running through her blood. “Are you sure?”

  “C’mon, Ghana, that’s not fair.”

  She knew he wasn’t the enemy, yet was ready to explode, to batter him with all the firepower she had surging inside her. She screamed at him, “Life’s not fair.”

  “For who?” he yelled back. “For the African American girl who thinks she’s so connected to the people, but grew up in a wealthy neighborhood with a father who’s a judge and a mother who stays at home and paints flowers all day?”

  She stared at him, heaving. “You’re an asshole.”

  He almost spat at her. “You know what? Fuck you. Fuck you and your Black Lives Fucking Matter campaign.” He stormed out of the room, his arms in the air, stretching a T-shirt over his head. She heard the front door open and slam closed.

  The room settled into a quiet calm, the air shifting, allowing her to breathe. On the bed in her T-shirt and panties, she was shaking, shocked at her outburst. He wasn’t the enemy, she thought. But someone was to blame: The political monsters who thrive off the fear and hatred within us all. Police departments across the country. The white man who held a shotgun to her sister’s chest. All of them. She wiped her palms across her wet cheeks. But it was so much bigger than all of them.

  Ghana slid on a pair of yoga pants, tied her hair back and settled at her computer, trying to focus on a client’s design project, but the chaotic emotions continued to swirl inside her.

  “He’s a cutie,” Malawi said the first time she met Ryan. He had be
en working the evening shift and stopped by Ghana’s place to say hello. They had been dating just a couple months, then. Malawi made a “wow” face behind his back so only Ghana could see. “Something about a man in uniform,” she said after he left, and giggled. Ghana had to agree.

  “I’m not sure I could be with a white guy, though,” Malawi said, “but you sure picked a hottie.”

  “A man’s a man,” Ghana said. “Doesn’t matter what color.”

  “Nuh uh,” said her little sis. “Brothers be like ‘girl, we getting it on’ and white boys be like ‘’scuse me miss, can we have sex?’ They all proper and shit.”

  “Girl, you’re crazy. That is so not true.”

  “Okay, then tell me about Ryan. Your first time. What was it like?”

  Ghana adored her sister but wasn’t about to share. Not about Ryan. Other men, maybe, but for the first time, what she shared with him was something she couldn’t talk about with others. What she shared with him was sacred. Malawi, on the other hand, talked about men like they were purses: this one was nice and big, that one was too small, this one had no depth, that one lasted forever.

  “My first time with Ryan is my business, not yours,” Ghana had said, feeling heat in her cheeks. “But I will say this, he’s the first man who can make my toes curl just by looking at me.”

  “What?” Malawi had been incredulous. “A white boy?”

  “Yeah, a white boy.”

  Then her sister had gotten serious. “Aren’t you afraid, though, that he’s only with you ’cause of your skin color? You know, like the whole jungle fever thing?”