I'm Off To See The Wizard- Pt. 2

When last we spoke, I was preparing for a trip down the Red, Black And Green Road to see the Wizard of Blackness, so I might hand in my application for racial resignation...

I finally found the gentleman I was looking for who could help me on the next step on my journey. Brother Ahmed was a tall, handsome bespectacled fellow. He wore a flawless black suit with thin, almost invisible red and green pinstripes, and a sharp red bowtie. I could smell the buttery nutmeg goodness of the fresh bean pies in his left hand and the Kwanzaa*-like spice of the incense sticks in his right. For a moment, I was enraptured and considered abdonining my task and digging for some cash so I could sample Brother Ahmed's goods. Then I recalled Snoop Dogg's response to Don Imus' comments, and my resove returned.

Sister Toldja- Asalaam alaikum, Brother Ahmed.

Brother Ahmed- Wa-laikum salaam, sister. What can I do for you?

ST- I am looking for the, um, Red Black And Green Road. Can you help me find it?

Brother Ahmed- *Ahem*

ST- Oh, and I would also like one bean pie, some Nag Champa incense and a Final Call.

Brother Ahmed- Of course, my sister. That'll be eight dollars. Now, the Red Black And Green Road....that's gonna be kinda tricky. Are you sure you're ready?

ST- Yes, sir. I have a very important mission. I am quit....um, I want to talk to the Wizard about how we can talk about getting our brothers and sisters off the pork. Um, yeah.

Brother Ahmed- Interesting....you are a terrible liar, my sister. But, you don't have that nasty yellow tinge to your skin that swine eaters tend to have. So, I am gonna let you slide this once.

ST- *Hangs head in shame* Yes, sir.

Brother Ahmed- Now, the RBG Road is not a place you can walk to. Nor can you take a plane, train or automobile. You have to travel through another dimention of time and space. There is an older woman who lives just up this street and she can talk you through the travelling process. Go to 127 Euclid Street and knock on the door seven times, Miss Jolene will help you out.

So, off I went, nibbling on the buttery crust of my bean pie. "Wow," I thought to myself "Blackness is much cooler than I thought. Not only do we have lucious legume-based desserts, but there's a secret underground network and interdimentional travel?" I thought, once again about abdandoning my mission and just going to Miss Jolene's house to absorb her knowledge. And then, I remembered "Do The Heizman On That Hoe". And off I went.

Miss Jolene's little house stood in stark contrast to the new developments on her street. I don't know if you could still call it a 'rowhouse', since rowhouse implies that there is a group of houses in a row. Her red-brick, two story walk-up was sandwiched between the large yard of a psuedo mini-mansion on it's left and a post-modern "unique" condominium complex on the right. I literally had to fight my way through a group of real estate developers clamoring to get to Miss Jolene's door, offering hundreds of thousands of dollars for her land.

After knocking seven times, I blinked and somehow found myself on the other side of the door. A tall, regal woman in her early sixties, she was stunning. She had perfectly formed dreadlocks that hung down past her waist and her full-bodied frame was sheathed in a fetching yellow-gold frock, accented with hundreds of thin gold bangles and matching gold hoops. Miss Jolene bore a striking resemblance to one of my favorite actresses, the late Rosalind Cash. She made me, forty years her junior, look like an old-fashioned schlub. Wordlessly, she instructed me to follow her to a back room, the billowy fabric of her dress giving her the appearance of floating.

As we walked through the house (which seemed to be three times the size it appeared from the outside), I admired the pictures that adorned her walls. She had shots of people of all races who had positively contributed to humanity: Malcolm X, Che Guevera, Patrice Lumumba, John Lennon, Angela Davis, etc. There was hazy cloud of smoke that smelled of sandalwood, marked with the faint odor of cannabis. She had Nina Simone's "Ne Me Quitte Pas" playing on an old record player. I was very ready to tell this woman I wanted to move in and be her Best Friend Forever, when she finally spoke:

You want to see the Wizard. Step in to this closet. Spin around three times. Yell out "Ngawa Black Power" five times. Feel your Blackest feelings. And be prepared for your journey.

Then she gave me a grandmotherly kiss on the forehead and floated away. I paused for a moment. "Yell out Ngawa Black Power"? This sounded about as cliched as the plot of a Three's Company episode. But, I wasn't gonna tell this woman she was wrong, so I got to it.

"Ngawa Black Power! Ngawa Black Power! Ngawa Black Power! Ngawa Black Power! Ngawa Black Power!".....now, what are my Blackest feelings? How I feel when I hear James Brown's "(Say It Loud) I'm Black And I'm Proud"? How I feel when I see the police behind me as I'm driving? Is it the way I felt when I first visited the campus of an HBCU? When I heard the Rodney King verdict? The feeling I get when I see Roots? Or when I saw The White Rapper Show? When I see Black kids in school uniforms playing happily? Is is what I feel when somebody calls me 'sister', and they AREN'T panhandling? Is it the feeling inside when I hear some REAL Hip-Hop? Is it the feeling I get when I hear 50 Cent? When I taste catfish with hot sauce? When I take responsibility for the children on my block? When I......
Then, there was darkness.

To be continued........
Sister Toldja

*- "Smelling like Kwanzaa" is an inside joke between me and some of my homies. That's how one of my HU classmates describe my bouquet.