Ok...here we go....
Ujamaa (oo-jah-MAH): Collective economics
To build, maintain, and support our own stores, establishments, and businesses.
"Quit playing games with my heart... with my heart... with my heart..."
Wait a minute. Did I just walk into an African store that's rocking the sugary pop sounds of...The Backstreet Boys?
Why yes. Yes I did. And it wasn't just a song on the radio, I spotted the CD case right next to the stereo system. But then again, what did I expect? A drum trio in the corner? The Graceland dancers?
I smiled at the only woman in the shop, who was preoccupied with braiding hair and looking as if nothing could bore her more. She mouthed the words to the song and finally looked at me... with indifference. It's not an offensive indifference. Actually, it's pretty damn familiar. It's the way my grandmother would look at me if I walked into the kitchen while she was doing my sister's hair. Like... "Well?"
All that phony pleasantry crap that we have to learn in order not to startle thinner skins is sorta thrown out the window when blacks/African women approach each other. The tone is harsher. Realer. Sorta like, come on now! You know me and I know you. Do we have to play this "Can I help you?" game?
Now, I'm supposed to ask a question about something...but I'm not sure what to ask. She doesn't wait for me to figure it out. She goes on braiding and humming the intro to the next song.
"How much for double strand twists?" I ask with a smile, unaware until that very moment I wanted my hair braided.
"One hundred and thirty...with hair." she answers. OH SHIT! REALLY?! I know damn well I've seen it at uppity Neo-Soul spots in Brooklyn for five times as much. AND she's providing the hair!? Shut up!
"Well what if I provide the hair?," ...in case yours is crappy?
"One hundred." she replies. It'll take five to six hours (whoa...) and I do the math. $20 an hour. I ask where she is from and can't understand her. Knowing this, she follows up with "West Africa". I don't tell her about my DNA test thing.
"Do you have any Kwanzaa...uh..things here?" I ask.
Is she laughing at me? No. She's suppressing a laugh.
"No. Kwanzaa all sold out. Think there is a cup over there." she points her chin to a table, still smirking.
"You don't celebrate Kwanzaa, do you?" I ask. She smiles.
"I am African. I am already African. I already know that and still, I come here. You understand?"
Sorta.
A guy comes in and starts talking to her. He's dropping off a package and they exchange greetings...in FRENCH. Whoa...whoa. No Swahilli? What's this "Merci" shit?
Not only can this woman speak two languages (that I'm aware of) but she's living in a foreign country, established her own business there, and can braid hair. WELL. She's waaay ahead of the game. Got her life together like you wouldn't believe and some would just see her as "The African Lady That Braids Hair."
I promise to come back at the end of the week (because my hair can use the much needed break double-strand twists will provide) and bid her farewell.
But I didn't exactly Ujamaa. I didn't buy anything yet, I only made a promise.
Now, I said I was going to Harlem, but that's too easy and that's not my community. I don't live in Harlem. I live in The Bronx and I'm guessing that going to Harlem for "black stuff" is part of the problem. If we supported it where we lived, there'd be more...uh..."black stuff" cropping up around us.
So I decided to visit Mustafah from Senegal.
I hoof it a full train stop and a half to Target and there he is... his tables overflowing with imported products. Mostly incense, oils... the good stuff. (Not that cheap shit you find in bodegas.) The key to his business is...he never runs out of your favorites and he always puts you on to something new. The neighborhood favorite is his natural potpourri. Beautiful colored rocks fragranced with oil. Women buy it by the pound every week.
I buy two tubs of 100% Shea Butter, wish him warmth and a happy new year, and make my way home. (I'm so thankful that he still sets up shop...even in the winter. I wonder if he'll ever have his own store.)
I keep walking, see a brother out there selling $5 scarfs. Business looks slow. I want something red so I pick that up from him and give him a smile. He smiles back in surprise. I'm guessing it might be the first of the day.
I'm about to head home when I see a game store. OK. If they have Call of Duty AND the Wii Zapper...I buy. If not, I leave with nothing.
They have both. (Shit. But this isn't exactly a black-owned business, is it? Am I cheating?)
The guy that comes out the back is Middle Eastern. I don't ask from where...I just want to know one thing....and YES, he owns the place! CLOSE ENOUGH ON MY MENTAL GLOBE! I'LL TAKE IT!
Later that night...slathered with shea butter and murdering the shit out of some Nazi's...I feel pretty good. Not only is my skin silky soft, but I'm getting my hair twisted this week and getting some good use out the Wii. Not bad...not bad at all. Hmm. Wonder if she will teach me French...
What's next?! BRING IT KWANZAA!
Nia (NEE-ah): Purpose
To restore African American people to their traditional greatness. To be responsible to Those Who Came Before (our ancestors) and to Those Who Will Follow (our descendants).
...fuck.
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