“They think we are monkeys,” the dying...

“They think we are monkeys,” the dying man beside me said.

And I, Kunta Kinte, moved as close to him as my chains would allow. The ship plunged in the waves; our people, in the darkness and stench of its belly, moaned.

“They must think so,” the man said, “in order to treat us this way.”

He had been the best mask-maker in our village, and also the best drummer, a rare accomplishment. Now his masks were gone, and the last time he had beaten his drum was to warn us when the white men attacked.

But now, in his final illness, he had received, in place of his art, the gift of prophecy. Some of his visions were comforting. A descendant of mine, he said, a man with the strange name of Alex Haley, would write a book telling the story of our fall into slavery--and our long climb out of it.

“They are afraid to see our faces,” he said, “so they make monkey masks for us to wear. We must tear them off, no matter what it costs us. We must make masks of our own that truly reflect our souls. We must make new drums and dance to them.

“Oh, the whites will be clever,” he said. By the glaze in his eyes, I could see that he once again beheld the future. “They will call us incapable of art. Then, when we make art, they will call it inferior. When we make great art, they will put it in a category by itself and call it inferior to their great art. How they will twist and turn to justify their cruelty!

“But everything we do as human beings will prove that they lie. Every work of art we create will help to break these chains. I see. . . .”

His voice grew cloudy.

“I see, in the land we are bound for, a whole month each year devoted to Black History. I see art exhibits that salute that history. In Los Angeles--where is that?--at the Baldwin Hills Crenshaw Plaza, Wednesday through Saturday, Feb. 3-7, 1993, thousands of works by 125 artists will be displayed free of charge. Names such as Samella Lewis, Richmond Barthe, John T. Biggers, Elizabeth Catlett and Jacob Lawrence. Paintings, graphics, photography, masks. . . .”

“Masks!” I said.

”. . .sculpture, batiks, ceramics, stained glass, mixed media, portrait artists and wearable art. All this is good--though I wonder at the need for such exhibits, so late in time. Does it mean that our struggle still will not be over? For information, call (213) 939-0250. What does that mean?”

I saw that the future was like a god, speaking to him in a language he could not always understand.

Then, as my friend shuddered with exhaustion, he died.

I hardly had time to straighten his body. Outside, the sea had risen. The ship’s timbers creaked, and as we slid from crest to trough it was not only the women and children who cried out in terror. I braced myself for the ordeals to come.

--M.H.