murtala muhammad airport (3)

murtala muhammad airport

september 4, 1981,

ikeja nigeria

i am stiff with apprehension. how different four
interminable days ago when apprehensive amble
now was gallivanting gait; giant steps naive &
exuberant. today i wary walk through this echoing
corridor, my eyes scouting ahead, my stomach
writhing with warning. so much noise; so many people.
immigrations, like four stations of the cross, is besieged
by arriving passengers; a mob of pressed pushing flesh
with a thousand arms, waving in the air like reeds in
the wind, waving passports & papers, beckoning,
beseeching the harried, but unhurried officers who
randomly select documents to process. no line, no
pretense of order, i stand rearward of the mob &
prepare for a long wait.
suddenly, i see my name flash, misspelled, on a makeshift
sign held by a plump, deferential black man. i wave to
him. he comes forward, introduces himself as o–-;
says everything is arranged. he takes my passport
& papers & melts into the mob. sudden anxiety

inflates a balloon in my chest when he disappears;

expands to panic in the passing moments. despairing,

desperate, i search for him among the faces clustered

near, berating myself for again being so gullible; a
stranger's affliction. but, as i mind-made-up move
to report my loss, he reappears like a sorcerer, with
an apprentice, & writing magical runes in the steaming
air, points me & the boy to the baggage claim.the balloon
in my chest deflates with a whoosh; my head swoons with
relief & i deliriously divulge to my new & trusted friend
the number of bags i have; my experience in liberia; my
apprehension of customs. he nods gravely, looks concerned,
& says nothing, except a few harsh barks in yoruba to send
the boy to get the luggage trolley and my bags.we wait for
him to return in silence. i stay the again mounting anxiety
by turning my attention to the airport throng ...

focus on that blur of chocolate & caramel faces,
with a white one or two or three marbling the mixture;
focus on the parade of lace, dutchwax & hollandaise.
the melodious strains of yoruba swell & cascade around
me in tones derivative of or acting upon a loud, lusty life
pulse.an incomprehensible english breaks in the air & is
hastily put back together again in a tonal mosaic. there
is urgency here...can be heard in the swish of expensive
cloth; in frantic calls for stewards; in the rush of shabbily
clad porters chasing down tips.there is convergence here...
people greeting each other caricature their joy in seeing
one another. some fall to the ground in abrupt, ritual
respect. dark seeming sullen faces nova into dazzling
smiles when recognized; high pitched ejaculations of
laughter waft above anonymous noise. there is sensuality
here... in the long graceful necks of slim yellow-brown girls;
in plump purple-black matrons whose george-cloth bottoms
rise & fall to prurient polyrhythms; in the eyes of comely
women of all shades of black who with a glance can assess,
entice or dismiss. & there is wealth & power... subtle
in the confident clusters of white folk, cardin casual,
smelling of st laurent & lanvin; ostentatious in the floppy
or conical-capped, gown-garbed black men with bulging
attaches,who are surrounded by sycophantic attendants
who fawn,who flutter, who fuss. i am swept up in the
fast-changing scene...

the boy returns with the baggage trolley. as he loads the
four suitcases & the large 3x5 foot locker, i tightly grip my
camera bag; can no longer contain my anxiety. it oozes
out of my pores with sweat. luggage loaded, we follow, o–-
& i, that trolley to the customs checkpoint; to the waiting
inquisition. there is no line. the boy pushes the trolley past
the customs station. i almost call out to him, but am silenced
by a throat-throttling glance from o–-. the customs man on
duty turns to speak to a policeman standing by; doesn't
acknowledge our infraction or our presence. shocked, i
looked to o–- for an explanation. he only smiles & winks.
outside, in the airport foyer, he magnanimously tips the boy
ten naira, in two five naira bills; one, he says, is for
the boy, the other is for the... mosquitoes... & he laughs

a loud belly-shaking laugh. welcome to nigeria, he says!

© Joseph McNair; 1984-2009

robert’s field (2)

robert’s field

monrovia highway

september 1, 1981.

i swallow back the bile in my throat,
suppress the body’s compulsion to
spew forth my resenting anger, to soak
the tattered back seat of this overpriced
taxi; to spray the unwashed back, neck
& ears of the driver with venomous
vomit.

i need to hit somebody.

george, my liberian host & inadvertent
tour guide, sensing my mood, prattles
nervously about the scenery. i only see
red, & remember:

deplaning.
wanting to press my lips against african
soil; feeling the tingle of one who has
passed through the looking glass. wanting
to shout “i am here! i am home!”

passing through immigrations, getting my
passport stamped, collecting my baggage
(no skycaps; no conveyor belts or revolving
luggage islands), i approach customs.

my eyes dart with exaggerated interest,
a dark young man waves, comes forward.
he is tentative. “are u mr. mcnair?”
“ i am,” i say. “the car is waiting, sir.”

“let me clear my luggage.” i am anxious to
see the world outside.
“my name is george,” he says. “my
pleasure,” i reply.

we stand exchanging pleasantries as the line
shortens. i note that the three uniformed
officers are indifferent to the arriving
passengers (it’s six a.m.). waving most of
them through.

it’s my turn. a tallish officer, thin &
phlegmatic, asks for my ticket, passport &
baggage check. asks if i have anything to
declare.

i say no & reach for my ticket.

in freeing my ticket from my breast pocket,
i dislodge three one hundred dollars bills,
& watch them, with sinking heart, float in
slow motion to the floor. i quickly retrieve
them, but everyone has seen.

george whispers, “this is not good.”

the other two customs men join the tallish
one. i can see their preceptors, a seasoned
team, now, move into well practiced
formations, execute complex sensory plays
with precision, as one.

i see myself being seen through eyes that
register images differently:

through myopic little tribal lenses that
distort, bend, break true images apart for
retinal membranes to put back together
again, upside down, & often with pieces
left out.

eyes that see me white when i
am black; that see me strange,
alien rather than familiar; that
see me rich,

& brush against me like pickpockets.
their ears, twitching with alertness,
listen but do not hear;

do not hear the universal
voice of my uncertainty
at being in an unfamiliar place;
do not hear my frustration
when i raise my voice to
make myself understood.

their ears listen, but for something else.

some trumped up tonal larceny
in the different rhythms, the
unfamiliar phrases of the
english i speak. some
imagined, inflectional
self-betrayal in my accent

giving them good cause to painstakingly
search my bags.

& their nostrils flare:

sniffing for guiltfear as
their practiced hands rummage
through my shirts, socks, &
underwear; my suits, trousers &
shoes; through my books &
mementos of a past life; through
my camera bags…

where they find cause to detain me.

“are u a reporter?” their hard mouths
hiss.?”

“why do u have so much equipment?”

“i am an amateur photographer,” i reply.
“where i go, these go with me.”

& they nod knowingly to one another.

“where is yr receipt for this equipment?”

i am ready for that question, having been
warned about my camera before i left
home. i show them. their faces fall rigid.
they consult, they confer, they conclude.
they circle me like predators.

“u are in violation of our nation’s
custom’s law, “they say, watching me like
jackals watch a tired prey.” u must pay
an import tax of twenty-five hundred u.s.
dollars only,” a formality, they say, “or
leave yr camera in our baggage room,
it will be safe, until u leave the country.”

they smile & lick their lips.

though bourgeois born, i am ghetto bred.
same rules, different jungle. i am
wounded. my naïve, idyllic pictures of the
african, of africa bleed, a stigmata.

i show my fangs & press the attack. my
mouth a beserker:

tearing into their pretense
of legality; ripping away the
dirty veil of feigned probity;
exposing their bribable greed,
their culpable corruption…

they don’t get all the words, but they get
my tone & intent. i sink my teeth into
their invidious comparing of me to them
& know their uncertainty. they withdraw
& i see another image of myself in their
eyes.

“there ain’t shit in this stinking
country worth twenty-five
hundred dollars,” i shout loud
enough for everyone to hear,
“nothing i want to see, anyway!
i’ll sit my butt in this airport
all day & all night or as long
as it takes to get the next plane
to nigeria, a country big
enough to treat a black man
with respect.”

i collect my bags & move in the direction
of the departure lobby. the red
clears. george follows but says nothing. he
looks as if he wants to run away.

i am hit suddenly with the awareness of
what i have said, what i’ve done, where i
am. the next plane to nigeria leaves in
three days. i tighten my jaws, stiffen my
spine. i’ll wait!

“excuse me, sir,” says an obsequious voice
at my back, “ please, don’t be annoyed.” i
turn, snarling, to face the smallish black
man with the look of authority.

“who the hell are u?”

“i am mr. benson, the senior customs
officer. perhaps i can be of some
assistance…”

i am told that this road to monrovia is
thirty miles long. my eyes are not yet
clear. all i have seen is the vague
graygreen of the jungle merging into the
red of my anger & the clayish soil.

the morning air is warm & tense – a
tension outside of myself & made more so
as i realize that the only people i have seen
on this road are the gaunt boy soldiers
dwarfed by man-sized ak-47’s.

& i begin to have doubts that i’ll ever use
my camera here; that the negotiated one
hundred dollar import tax was too much to
pay in a place too mean,
too fearful to film.

©Joseph McNair; 1984-2009

the circumnavigation is complete (1)

the circumnavigation is complete

the circumnavigation is complete for some
of us

the lost children finding passage
home …

dim is the memory of our leaving
save the violence of our taking.

& the pain …

the brutal tearing of birthcord,
mother & child gushing blood

she? left to bleed to death.

the child? the child taken away to have
his wound cauterized by a slaver’s brand

his scars singed upon his soul!

taken westward away; to mix sweat
& blood with mortar, to turn flesh to
mulch.

to later in another place raise on his broad
back bountiful harvests;

raise on his broad back beautiful soulless
cities, conqueringarmies & armadas,

leviathan productspawns as prodigious
as they are monstrous…for others.

yet often unable to raise his monthly rent
raise his social position, raise his children.

the circumnavigation is complete for some
of us

we have to look upon the terrible
reaping, in the land of our origins

of the fruits of our labor born of seeds
sown elsewhere.


© Joseph McNair; 1990-2009

two women blues (23)

two women blues

“in pious times 'ere priest craft did begin,

before polygamy was made a sin:

when man, on many, multiply'd his kind

ere one to one was, cursedly, confined;

when nature prompted, & no law deny'd

promiscuous use of concubine & bride”

John Dryden

i got me two women, that i love about the
same; i got me two women, that i love
about the same; one girl wants my baby,
& the other wants my name.

one girl's tall & pretty, with skin that’s
honeybrown; one girl’s tall & pretty,
with skin that’s honeybrown; when she
wraps me in her softness; makes my love
come tumblin' down.

the other is short & shapely, dark as
the summer night; said the other is short
& shapely, dark as the summer night;
when she puts lovin’ on me, i can’t
help but treat her right.

i try to treat them equal, but it’s getting
kinda tough; loving two may be too much,
but one is not enough. so it’s even days for
number one, & odd for number two, but
if u ask me on a friday, i won’t know
which one is due.

loving two women is about to get me
down; & sometimes i wonder, if i’m
enough to go around.

now both of them are jealous, in their own
peculiar way; if they ever get together
there’s gonna be hell to pay. sometimes i
get so durn confused, it’s a scandal & a
shame, when i’m holding one girl in my
arms, i call the other’s name.

loving two women is about to get me
down; & sometimes i wonder, if i’m
enough to go around.

one girl is expecting & she swears
the child is mine; & she won’t go see a
doctor, she’ll do nothing of the kind. her
mother came to visit, just of see if she was in;
said she dreamed the girl was heavy,
& the baby may be twins

loving two women is about to get me
down; sometimes i wonder, if i’m enough
to go around.

well the other speaks of marriage before
the end of year; & she’s sent word to her
village, that the family should prepare. her
baba sent a message, just the other day;
said his baby was expensive; i should come
prepared to pay.

loving two women is about to get me
down; sometimes i wonder, if big joe’s
enough to go around.

© Joseph McNair; 1990-2009

standing in the safety zone (22)

standing in the safety zone

while strolling along the highway there rose a mighty
storm...

[roberta ]martin and [thomas a.] dorsey's
gospel according to songbooks
paused me/poised me
in the same way the photograph
chilled the native amerind.

songs heard sung before bore
small semblance to sonic symbols
imprisoned in printed bars & staves
how tragic the transliteration!
where is the soul,
the color,
the true form
to imitate
to sing my turbulent
feelings into;
to bend trees or tremble sinners?
where is the light & the lightning
the shakti shock, the tonic bludgeon
to lay out or transfigure
the faithful?

i heard a voice whispering
you're standing out there alone

The small
c. [olored] m.[ethodist] e.[piscopal] church

choir, a fractious but fragile social experiment
built around one dour, middle aged & obese
but competent alto,
three other nondescript female voices
indeterminate of pitch and timbre --
sometimes alto sometimes awful,
sometimes mezzo, often messy --
whose major contribution was
their regular faithful presence
at practice,
at sunday service,
a palsied bass who sang so low
few could tell how off-key
he always was;
a u.s. army sergeant piano man
giving orders but afraid to offend;
honky left hand tonking,
spreading right hand chording,
dreaming of piano bars & juke joints,
trying with difficulty to sing & play
at the same time.

my sister faye, my twin soul
who has known music for an eternity
who has known just as long
how to shape her face into a mask
of comic censure,
the precocious twain
well met with me,
the puerile voice,
waiting to emerge
from the chorus,
from the chaos,
from the storm,
to embrace the solo,
rounding out that incompetent

but well-intentioned choir.
my inadvertant springboard
to stardom.

& then I thought of Jesus;
& there I folded my arms...

i can find no record oral or written
of a singing savior, no progressive

model coming out of nazareth
to imitate, so I took my cues from
the great ones of black gospel radio,
measuring my tones, technique
& phrasing against their recordings,
feeling freudian fear when I
likened my small vibrato,
my trivial tumescent timbre
to their larger than life instruments,
deciding quickly to be like
them rather than presume to challenge
them -- such a cutting contest was too

fearful to consider.

i started out for heaven
and stepped in the safety zone

© Joseph McNair; 1990-2009

zazzau (21)

zazzau

did zazzau really kill her hapless lovers?
did she really let them know her for just

one night; one convenient coitus – then
have them slain before daybreak? why?

to keep them from spreading tales at
common watering holes? to keep them

eternally faithful? or maybe, like the
spider, she required a corpse to feed her love.

this town, bearing her name, is thick with the

shades of lovers; strong with the aroma

of love long dead:

in adolescent girls, fair game for grade wielding

teachers & dons;

in working girls augmenting their incomes; in

plump wives resigned to streetfooted spouses.

is this, then zazzau’s boon? amorous

ghosts to animate

where love is dead;
where love has fled.

© Joseph McNair; 1990-2009

soja come (20)

soja come

soldiers perniciously
present; ominous splashes
of khaki marring nature’s
deft brushstrokes; marring
the color & texture of her
jungle landscapes, her
pastoral scenes & urban
collages.

they stand in feral
clusters at checkpoints.
their nerves & collars
frayed; their boots, brass,
& behavior unpolished.
they are brusque, bolstered
by native gin & miscellaneous
munitions.

they search your car;
demand your particulars,
& read them upside down—
then dismiss you with
contempt or detain you
if you give them cause to
think up some excuse to exact a
bride.

in the towns & villages
they invade the
drinking parlors,
sitting four to a beer
& lasciviously leer at aging
harlots too expensive for their
pockets but bought easily
with coercion.

in the evening, they go home
to their barren barracks or
to their sparse meals, battered
wives & hungry children;
where they drink more & dream,
not for war, but of greedy
politicians & fat generals
whom they might chance replace.

© Joseph McNair; 1990-2009