So here we were, not slaves but indentured servants for the evening;
this time we'd been sold for $15 an hour, and once again the Makulu
big baaas was getting off cheap.
The party got under way. Each table
had been given the name of an African country, and I was assigned Ghana
and Mozambique. Ironically, or maybe not, depending on whose side of
the fence you sit on, the all-white band was playing world music.
So
here I was wandering through this palatial spread with all of these
so-called old money pricks, serving hors d'oeuvres on these silly,
tacky, phony, ugly, silver trays, with the so-called elite of East
Coast society. Everyone looked as though they were between the ages
of 45 and 70, and, following the theme of our sacred white
mother, each guest was arrayed in his best safari outfit from Abercrombie &
Fitch or Field & Stream or wherever these people shopped. The house
was full of skins of every animal on the endangered species list: zebras, cheetahs, tigers, leopards, gazelles, water buffalo. And
walking around with the food, of course, were representatives of the most
endangered species of them all, the black homo sapien male, aged 14
to 40, who've mainly all been put in wildlife reserves
Yes, the best kind of species is the one you can tame.
As I walked around and looked at these people who obviously shot their
game from air- conditioned buses, the words of Malcolm started to waft
through my head: "There were the house Negroes and the field
Negroes." And I started to wonder, Which one am I? When I first
heard that quote I thought, I don't want to be a house Negro, that
isn't radical enough, it's not grassroots enough; but field Negro,
yeah, that's who understands what the real struggle is, the real
suffering. It turns out it doesn't matter, though: in-house or
out-house, a slave is a slave. I was observing this group of
upstanding, righteous-religious folk parade around in their costumes,
and I was here to fulfill a fantasy. After all, if you can't bring
the party to Africa, bring Africa to the party.
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