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Miriam and I were settling into a nice family rhythm when one evening, a week later, the telephone rang. Miriam answered the phone. It was Susan Belink. Their conversation was far from pleasant. Almost immediately, Miriam started screaming. It was obvious that Susan was goading Miriam into an argument. I stood by as she kept screaming at my ex-lover. When she finally hung up the phone I asked what was going on.
“Fuck you, motherfucker,” replied Miriam. “Don’t fucking ask me what’s going on. You have the nerve to tell me not to see or talk to any of my ex-boyfriends and then you have the nerve to have one of those whores you used to fuck call our house and insult me? Put on your fucking coat. You are taking me to her house. I am going to beat the shit out of that white bitch.”
I replied, “Zenzi, I don’t even know how she got our number. I don’t even know hers, or where she lives. I haven’t talked to her in months.” This was a lie.
“Damn you, man,” Miriam continued. “The fucking slut game me her goddam number and fucking address. She even said she was waiting for my ass. You call that bitch and tell her never to call my house again, you hear me? You keep you stinking dogs from my door.”
Miriam dialed Susan’s number and, before the first ring, shoved the receiver in my face. “Here, you tell that bitch I’ll kill her if I ever lay my hands on her.”
With a dry mouth, I whispered to Susan, “Why are you calling my house and insulting my wife?”
“Fuck you and your wife, Hugh,” Susan said. “I was calling to congratulate you, and she goes off on me! I can cuss too, you know.”
Miriam started crying and hyperventilating. Bongi came out of her room, asking what was going on. “Go back to your fucking room,” Miriam snapped.
Susan continued, “You think you can just fuck me over and then abruptly go off and marry this bitch who ahs the nerve to insult me?”
Before I could respond, Miriam yanked the phone from my ear. “Fuck you, you white slut. I’m coming over there and beat the shit out of you.”
Before she hung up, I heard Susan scream, “Fuck you too, you black whore. I’ll be waiting for your ass.”
Miriam banged the phone and screamed, “Come on, Hughie, you’re coming with me. I want you to see what I’m going to do to all your fucking bitches who don’t want to accept that you’re my husband.”
I tried to calm her down, but Miriam had the door into the hallway elevator open and was screaming so all our neighbors could hear. “Come on, motherfucker, let’s go.”
I followed her meekly down the hallway into the elevator and out onto 97th Street. We were walking so fast, we looked like a couple of Olympic race-walkers heading down the Upper West Side.
“I am Zenzi of Makeba, Ka Qwashu,” she ranted, “We are the demolishers of anything that stands in our way. When we finish eating, we just kick the dishes away. She’ll find out who I really am today, this dirt of yours. I’m gonna beat her till she shits.”
I was walking a few strides behind Miriam, and she would occasionally yell, “Come on!” while people gawked in amazement at the great Miriam Makeba. I was thinking to myself, We’ve been married for only a week, and we’re already on our third major fight.
Miriam walked straight past the doorman and into the elevator with me on her heels. Before the man could say a word, the elevator doors closed in his face and were hurtling up to the fourth floor. Miriam went to Susan’s apartment door and began banging with both fists. “Open the door, you fucking bitch,” she screamed. “I’m gonna show you. Come on and talk that fucking shit you were talking on the phone. Come on!”
I guess Susan hadn’t expected that Miriam would come to her building. A muffled voice shot back from behind the door, “Go away. I’m calling the police.” By now the doorman and Susan’s neighbors had gathered. The doorman pleaded with Miriam to leave. She finally relented.
Walking back to our apartment, Miriam began to cry. When we got home, she became eerily quiet. All she did was play some Billie Holiday and Dinah Washington records. A mournful air descended on the house. Sitting on the living room carpet, Miriam began writing me a long letter. I went to bed with Dinah Washington and Billie Holiday still singing in the living room, “Am I Blue.”
The next morning, Miriam was still quiet. She washed, dressed, and left the house, I said goodbye to Bongi, who was leaving for school, and watched her walk to the subway from our balcony. I went to rehearsals with my band, wondering where it was all going. That afternoon, I read Miriam’s letter. She complained about her generosity and how she was always trampled on, my cruelty, her ill health, her late mother, and how she only had Bongi left as family; how everyone took advantage of her, and on and on and on. I really regretted not having leveled with Susan, but this was now water under the bridge. I braced myself to weather the storm.
When I came back from rehearsals, Miriam was cooking up a storm, playing happy songs on the phonograph and friendly as ever—as if nothing had happened. Jean joined us for supper and stayed to babysit Bongi while we went out to a movie. All was well—or at least that’s what I thought. This would become the pattern of our marriage when we were together for more than a week at a time.
When Miriam was happy, no one in the world could match her generosity, affection, sympathy, goodwill, charity, warmth, and humor. Her laughter would ring through the house, the gossip delicious and delightful, her impersonations and miming flawless, and her loving the sweetest a man could ever wish for. But when she lost her temper or was in a bad mood, she had the fury of an erupting volcano accompanied by an earthquake and a hurricane. Sweet as she can be, when Miriam is pissed off, the most advisable thing is simply to run for the hills and not come back until the storm has subsided and she is humming again, telling her funny stories and singing her happy songs.

Source: Hugh Masekela (with Michael D. Cheers). Still Grazing: The Musical Journey of Hugh Masekela. New York: Three Rivers Press, 2004. pp.163-169.


      

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