Chinelo Okparanta
Harry Sylvester Bird (novel excerpt)

Outside, the stars sprinkled the sky like grains of salt. The air smelled crisp like an open freezer, or like that gap in seasons between the Pennsylvania fall and winter. 

At Camp TV, the oily scent of the triangular snacks that looked like spanakopita drifted in the air. I grabbed a handful of them, then found a spot by two empty chairs at the edge of the Camp TV setup. The food had a kick to it, and some heat, like the swelter of a McDonald’s or Burger King spicy crispy chicken sandwich, except more. More pepper, more fire—an African twist, I supposed.

Voices rose and fell as the hosts took drink orders. The food was causing me to sweat a little. I asked for a glass of water, glancing around in search of Benson, but he was nowhere to be seen. My eyes landed on my parents just as I placed my order. It was the anarchy of Wayne’s mannerisms, like a body and a mind at war with each other, that caught my attention. He had clearly had too much to drink. Chevy sat rigidly, like a block of ice refusing to melt.

I devoured the hors d’oeuvres, especially the spanakopita, despite its heat. After some time, I decided that I was sufficiently full and that I should head back to bed and try my best to forget about what I’d just witnessed. I might, of course, have stayed if the darkest man had been there. I would have loved nothing more than to be in his presence, the way people crave to be in the presence of their heroes, the way we all crave to be in the presence of our aspirational selves. But alas, Benson was not there. All I needed now was that glass of water. I’d hardly risen from my seat when Wayne’s voice boomed, “Young lady, I said, could I have another beer?” 

There was a silence before a camp host, a bald young man, approached with a beer on a tray.

Wayne refused the server’s beer. “Young lady, I said I’d like another beer!”

The young woman whom Wayne was addressing now turned to face him. “Sir, I’ve told you before, I don’t work at the camp.”

Near her sat another young woman. They looked vaguely alike. They must have been around the same age—in their early or mid-twenties. Old enough to be the ages of any of the younger teachers in my school, say, Ms. Rice, but not old enough to be the age of Mrs. Smith, the school librarian, and certainly not old enough to be my parents’ ages.

“Where’re you from?” Wayne asked.

I shook my head in horror.

“We’re from Ghana,” the second young woman said.

“Ghana?” Wayne asked.

“Yes,” both women said at once, seeming bemused.

“Why’re you here if you’re from Africa?”

“Excuse me?” the first woman asked in what appeared to be an honestly inquisitive sort of way. For a moment, I thought that perhaps she really had not heard the question.

“I said, ‘Why’re you here if you’re from Africa?’” Wayne repeated.

“Ah, I see,” the woman said. “Probably the same reason you’re here. To see the animals, to experience the beauty of Serengeti.”

“But you’re African,” Wayne said.

“Sir, can I offer you this beer now?” the Camp Nala host asked.

“Are safaris only to be enjoyed by non-Africans?” the second Black young woman asked.

“But you can see for yourself,” Wayne said, extending his hand in an expansive way as if to show the audience to her. “You’re the only Black guests here.”

“Oh, Chale,” the first Black young woman said. “Pardon me, it must have been written somewhere in the book of life that safaris are to be enjoyed only by whites, yeah? The beauty of Africa is something to be experienced by white people alone?”

“Please, sir,” the host begged. “Take your beer.”

The first Black young woman stood up at her friend’s urging. Together they walked away from Wayne until they reached the area on the edge of the camp where I sat, cringing, my thighs so stiffly joined together that they ached. The first woman’s body seemed made of prickly things. She shook herself off as if to dislodge some pesky burs, so agitated was she by the whole incident.

“It’s all right,” the second woman was saying. “He’s drunk. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

“He knows exactly what he’s saying,” the first woman said. After a while, the first woman seemed to have calmed down and then her eyes landed on me. “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were there.”

“Yeah,” I croaked.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“I’m Esi, and this is my sister Nana-Ama,” the second one said, smiling.

“I’m Harry,” I said.

“You’re not here by yourself, are you?” Esi asked.

“No,” I said, pointing dejectedly to my parents. “Those are my folks.”

“Ah,” Nana-Ama said. “Poor thing!” she exclaimed softly, almost in a whisper.