Midnight and the Meaning of Love

  Beside the vertical ballerina blowup was a long rectangular shot of about 180 Japanese people. On first glance I assumed it was a school photo. On a closer look it obviously wasn’t. There were babies and toddlers and children and teens and mothers and fathers and elders. It was not a casual shot like a family gathered at a reunion or a barbeque. It was more like each of them struck a stiff pose, their clothes crisp and high-quality, someone older resting their hand on someone younger than themselves almost to keep them still and perfect also. It was outdoors with nature as the backdrop. I wondered what the event or purpose of their coming together was and why she had it posted on her wall. As I surveyed it more, there was one thing that was different from everything else. It was Chiasa’s little black face, floating in a sea of “others.” Everyone in the picture was Japanese, but only Chiasa’s face was sun-kissed. If she had a smile, it wasn’t anywhere to be found in this photo. As I looked at the other pictures she had posted, the feeling in her eyes remained the same.

  Suddenly the piano playing softened as though she had gone from playing all the keys to playing only a few at the far end of keyboard, and then just three keys and two keys and then only one. I overheard her speaking in her language. Then a man’s voice began speaking in Japanese, different from the voice of her grandfather. Then her grandfather and she thanked him repeatedly. I pictured her bowing two or three times, as they seemed to do at hellos and goodbyes, and overdo before teachers and elders. Her front door opened and closed, and she rushed up the stairs, excited.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I responded.

  “Sorry about that! If I don’t do my piano lesson—that’s the one thing that’ll make my mother show up here. So I do it.” I thought her comment was strange and sad. “It’s half an hour until sunset. Should I cook? You didn’t even eat the breakfast I made for you.” She frowned dramatically.

  “What’s this?” I asked her pointing at the rectangular shot.

  “Family photo,” she answered, turning suddenly serious.

  “What about your father?” I asked cautiously, knowing that it was too personal a question, but seriously wondering how she could have a wall plastered with photos from top to bottom but no trace of the one she talked about openly, affectionately, and constantly. She walked over and stood facing the photo wall. Then she pointed to a patch of Polaroids.

  “My father sent me this on my eighth birthday.” It was a picture of the huge globe she had seated in the center of her room. “This was when he went to Germany.” Then she moved her finger and said, “This was from ninth birthday.” I moved closer in to where she was standing and looked. It was a red Schwinn bicycle. Then she pointed to another. “And this was for my tenth birthday.” It was a karaoke machine with Chiasa standing in front of it holding a microphone. “That’s when he was stationed in Saudi Arabia.”

  As Chiasa showcased her gifts of all types, she said, “My father promised to give me whatever I ask for each year on my birthday. It’s like one wish a year that I always look forward to. There is only one thing I’m not allowed to ask for, and he didn’t make up that rule until after I asked for it.” She smiled a melancholy smile. I just looked at her. I knew she would tell me if she wanted to. “One month before my twelfth birthday I asked if he could come home on my twelfth birthday to celebrate with me. I told him that was all I wanted. He was in Afghanistan. He told me that I’m not allowed to ask for that because he is working and that he is helping so many people around the world. So it’s selfish to ask him to stop helping them and come see me. Besides,” she said, “my father says he will always come home to me at some point each year.”

  “Does he?” I asked.

  “Yep, I wait and I wait and eventually when his work is finished, he comes.” She smiled. “So aren’t you wondering what gift he gave me on my twelfth birthday instead of coming home?” She turned to me, excited. I didn’t look back to her Polaroids.

  “Probably that big piano downstairs,” I guessed. She frowned.

  “No! I hate playing the piano. My mother brought that thing. Look!” She stepped in front of the picture she had been blocking. It was a beautiful black mare standing strong in a wide open field of glistening green grass.

  “She’s beautiful,” I said staring, and I meant it.

  “I love riding her. She’s at the stables in Nagano. I go there on breaks and holidays when I’m not fighting in tournaments.” I imagined her on that horse galloping through the wide open fields at a high speed. As my mind wandered further, I snatched back the image and refocused. She was up to her sixteenth birthday now. “That’s my bike. You saw it today.” She smiled.

  “No, that’s your bike,” I said pointing to her ten-year-old gift, the red Schwinn. “This is a mean-ass racing machine for pushing the limits,” I told her, while again admiring the electric-blue color.

  “My mother hates my motorcycle. But when I ride it, I feel free,” Chiasa said.

  I knew what I was doing, collecting information on this girl who had become too close and too necessary to my life in two and a half days. I was forming a more detailed picture of Chiasa. Like usual I would take a few hours to think and feel and then I would decide to trust—or move on with my solo style.

  “Seventeen is coming up. What’s your wish?” I asked her.

  “I’m still thinking,” she said. “It might be something that is impossible for Daddy to get for me. But he’ll like that. He loves a challenge and he’ll say nothing is impossible once he decides on it.” She paused a minute. “My grandfather says you feel like my father,” she said strangely.

  “I look like him?” I asked her.

  “No, you feel like him,” she said softly. “Anyway, he’s in the military, not like a low rank. He can’t be photographed, so my pictures of him are held in my heart.”

  Carefully, I listened. “Not a low rank,” she had said. Of course not, I thought to myself. He had to be some secret service type. Probably he pushed himself up from the bottom, though. No, I refigured; his position was so top secret, even Chiasa didn’t know the truth. Or maybe she did. I knew for a fact that regular army guys and even other military types take photos. I had seen plenty—especially in the homes of customers I delivered Umma Designs clothing to. But I didn’t ask for an explanation concerning her father. How could I, when I wouldn’t answer one personal question about my own father, not to anyone other than Umma and maybe Naja or my wife?

  “Do you plan on working for the military?” I asked her.

  “Definitely not. I’m going to have my own company. I’m gonna be a mercenary,” she said solemnly. But I didn’t know that word, so I didn’t comment. I would look it up tonight.

  “Sun’s down,” Chiasa announced.

  “Let’s drink some water and split a banana. Then we’ll go out for dinner,” I told her.

  “Okay, if you want,” she agreed.

  “Have you ever seen this symbol?” I asked her, drawing the symbol for halal foods on a scrap of paper.

  She looked at it curiously, paused, and answered, “No, but I have seen this one.” She drew another symbol. Immediately I recognized it, same as my ring, the one Sensei had gifted to me. She walked away, opened her desk drawer, and placed the same ring on her finger. “I’ve seen it on you. Now you see mine on me. It is the symbol of the Secret Society of ninja trained warriors,” she said softly. Then she added, “Comrade, please take me seriously.” She bowed her head, but not her body.

  Chiasa unbraided.

  * * *

  Ebisu was where we ate dinner, a halal restaurant owned by some African Muslims from Senegal. Haki, the Kenyan who I met in Harajuku, put me up on it.

  “It depends on what you are looking for in terms of atmosphere,” Haki said. “You will find halal foods in Shin-Okubu prepared by the Pakistanis, in Shinjuku prepared by the Indians, and in Ikekuburo prepared by the Nigerians or Bangladeshis, or in Ebisu by the Senegalese. Which one do you prefer?” Then he added wit
h a smile, “And I see you are still here. Your one night in Harajuku has turned into two and this is only the beginning I am sure,” he joked.

  The Senegalese, I knew, were similar in presentation to the Sudanese, tall, blacker than black, and regal, strong men. A delegation of Senegalese had visited my father’s estate once. While I joined and sat silently watching, I heard them joke of the ways they shared and other ways they differed. One of them boasted that my father was just getting started with his “small group of only three wives.” My father told them that it was his understanding that in Islam “Allah sets limits because it is best for us.” He then added that “Yes, I have only three wives, but they are the best three women in the world, with more purpose and value than three hundred!” My father’s words may have made them curious. However, Muslim-male-style, that delegation would for certain never get to lay eyes on my father’s wives.

  Chiasa had unbraided her hair while she waited for me in Harajuku. Now it was long and thick like rope. She shook it with her fingers and wore it wild. After seeing my reaction to her “school uniform” and then the thin blouse that she tried to wear out to dinner, she knew to dress modestly. She was chilling now in a sky-blue linen dress with matching pants and blue leather sandals. She was not my woman, but I believed that when a man stands side by side with a woman, he is responsible for her in that moment. And if anyone offended her, it would be the same as if they attacked me, because she was with me. So I believe that any woman walking in public or traveling anyplace outside her home puts all the men at risk if she is immodest and nearly naked. I knew from living in America that for me to think this way was unpopular. But my faith and beliefs as well as my heart were all homegrown, in the soil tilled and built on by my father, his father, and his father’s father.

  We ate at a restaurant named Terenga. The owner, a tall, dark Senegalese wearing natural locks, greeted me with a welcoming West African smile and embrace of brotherhood. He introduced himself as Billy, a ridiculous name, I thought. I knew however, that many Muslims and people of any and all faiths in foreign lands give themselves ridiculous English names to make it easy for others to pronounce and remember. Besides, I had not told anyone my name. Of course in the telling of my true name is the name of my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather.

  So the owner was “Billy” to me, no problem.

  The warmth inside and the vibrant music and scent of spices created that feeling that separated Chiasa and me from the fact that we were in Tokyo. In fact it reminded me that I hadn’t heard any real music for three days! Now it was as though we had been transported to Dakar. The walls were all earth tones and the cooking station formed an aisle, which made two sections in the same restaurant. Whatever side you chose, you were unable to see the other. So all the customers gathered to one side, African-style. It was as though every customer had arrived at the restaurant in one same group and had known each other for weeks or months or even years. The owner and host, Billy, raised the topics of conversation and invited and stroked and pulled till everyone joined in comfortably, like one family.

  Chiasa was hungry and didn’t seem to mind that she was surrounded by about eight African men. When we arrived, they were speaking in Wolof, the main language of Senegal. They would shift into French at times. But when I ordered our food in English, Billy switched to using English, and then everyone followed.

  “So, my brother, how long have you been in Tokyo?” Billy asked me loud enough for all.

  “Three days,” I told them.

  “And already you are losing weight, welcome to Japan.” All the men laughed. “You have come now to the right place. We will give you an African man’s meal, and when you have finished, no matter where you go in Tokyo, you will be banging on Billy’s door. And most of the time Billy will be here. But sometimes, Billy go out!” he dramatized in his deep voice, like my Southern grandfather. They all laughed. I looked around. “Take it easy, brother, we are all friends here. All of us are married men,” he admitted. “But we are all missing our mommas.” They laughed some more as the cooking seasonings thickened in the air and brought a fragrance that could also fill up the belly. I eased some. They were married, and for me that is a good thing.

  “I figured out that if I didn’t cook my food myself, I couldn’t survive Japan; such stingy and tasteless little meals make a big man angry.” He performed, and I saw Chiasa smile. Billy’s show continued. “So I call Momma. Momma say, ‘Come home, son. I cook for you everything.’ Billy say, ‘Momma, I sent you much money today for our family. Japan is good for making money. So I stay.’ Momma say, ‘My son has to eat good food. I’ll send good Senegalese wife to cook for you!’ But Billy say noo … ‘Noo, Momma, don’t do dat!’ ” Now everyone is laughing. Billy turns to me and says, “Senegalese girl is good girl! But Japanese wife no like! In Senegal woman knows how to share and behave. In Japan Billy needs Japanese wife for immigration!” He hollered out the word. Two African male cooks came rushing out from the kitchen, looking startled. Meanwhile the male waiter came carrying me and Chiasa’s meal still sizzling on one large tray, same way we serve it in Sudan.

  As the comedy continued, Chiasa and I cleaned our fingers with the steaming hot washcloths we were given. I whispered “Allah” over my food and began eating with my right hand from me and Chiasa’s one tray, African style. Chiasa looked at my hand and her eyes scanned the other tables. She hesitated. She opened her handbag, pulled out a pair of chopsticks, looked at them, looked around the room, and put them back.

  “Before Billy married Japanese girl, he had to creep around Tokyo like dis …” Billy raised his more than six-foot frame on his tiptoes and began tiptoeing across his restaurant. “One day back then I am at apartment with friends. Police come on the block, I say, ‘Oh no!’ ”

  All the African men in the restaurant stopped joking, and their laughs turned to murmurs of disapproval. It seemed all around the world African men all felt the same stab and burn when the word police is spoken, even more whenever cops come around. Billy continued. “First come police. Then come immigration police. Now I am on the fire escape crouching like a tiger. But Japanese immigration is mean and patient. They wait on the block, search on the block for six hours. When finally they leave, my legs are so painful, I cannot stand, cannot walk. I tell my Japanese girlfriend, ‘Okay! We get married.’ ” Now everyone was laughing again.

  I didn’t know the particular powers of the human mind. But truthfully, my own mind was divided into at least five parts. I could hear Billy’s performance and see all his dramatic actions. He was in my fifth mind. Meanwhile, I observed Chiasa closely, considering whether or not to bring her all the way into my purpose and mission here in Japan. She was in my fourth mind. Then there was my wife, who sat in the center of my visions and made my heart move and rush and race. She was not a compromise or a convenience. She was not a plaything or an immigration decoy. She was not second to any unmarried woman I know or knew or would ever come to know. Akemi was in my third mind. The method and the fight and how to make it all happen with conflicting information and conflicting interest with a foreign tongue and on foreign land—that filled up my second mind. Then there was my Umma, my heart and my purpose. She’s always in my first mind. I needed to contact her to be sure that she was at ease and to put her mind at peace. But I was feeling a shame of a particular Sudanese kind, that I had held Akemi in my arms last night, and then let her slip away. But kidnapping and murder are capital crimes. Strategically, I knew, as Sensei had cautioned me, that Akemi needed to leave her father of her own free will, out her own front door, on her own two feet, not by climbing a tree, sliding down a back wall, crawling through a thick bush, and leaping into a back alley without any consideration. That would be no good.

  Billy’s booming voice grew extra excited. My fifth mind took over the others and I listened. “In Japan an African man needs two passports! One like this”—Billy pulled his passport from his back pocket—“and …” The restaurant door opened,
causing Billy to pause. It was two Japanese girls, coming through all smiles, carrying groceries. Billy seemed surprised, but he pulled them into the drama. “And my Japanese wife!” He walked over and hugged her. The male customers let out muted laughs and were obviously already familiar with Billy’s wife. The two Japanese girls bowed to the customers and walked over to the other side of the restaurant and disappeared. Billy continued at half the volume. “If you want to be a part of it, you need two passports. If you want to own land in Japan, you need two passports. If you want to own a business in Japan, you need two passports. This one here,” he said, holding his passport up for all to see. “And that one there.” He pointed toward the room where his wife had walked away.

  I could tell Chiasa had never tasted Senegalese food. But I could also feel that she was enjoying herself. She was reserved, and aside from her light laughter, she did not say one word to any other person in the room. I thought it was a clever position she was in. No one had to know that she was Japanese or that she spoke Japanese, unless she wanted them to. She blended in well with the Africans, because she was one. She fit in with the Japanese, because she was one. It was also interesting how she knew so much about Tokyo, its customs, its streets, it prefectures and all, but here was a place minutes from her house that she had never seen with her perfect vision. True, we were three flights up on a side street in Ebisu in the Tokyo night, but sometimes even when you know a lot about a place, there is still much to learn.

  Billy was easing into his finale. He asked the African men gathered, “My wife here asked me, who is more important to you, me or your ‘mother’? So I put the question to you, my brothers, who is number one?”