Soul Makossa- Part Three
Malcolm knew that someday this would happen to him. Between appearing as the guitarist for Mamadou Dikhango's band, receiving payment for his services in English literacy classes for his fellow immigrants, and his ten-hours-a-day job at the cannery, something had to give. There was simply no way Malcolm could support all three jobs without his ability suffering in one of the three. He didn't really make the decision as much as his fatigued body did. After falling asleep at the cannery, the boss relieved him of his duties there.
It really didn't matter what the wolf said, his actions had already showed that he was simply too tired to continue canning food. As loathe as he was to admit it, the wolf really needed more sleep than the four hours a night he was currently getting and the boss had every reason to sack him. The payment from his jobs as an English tutor and as a musician in New York would pay more than his job as a canner. Plus, it was actually skilled work that required effort. The only problem came from the fact that his green card specifically stated that he was a menial laborer by trade. It didn't take a genius to know that playing music in dive bars and nightclubs and tutoring immigrants as to the subtleties of the English language was not strictly speaking "menial labor." He would have to find another unrewarding time-consuming third job for another four months before he could become a citizen or he would have to take the citizenship test (and the studying for that was yet another investment in his already overtaxed schedule.)
As these thoughts of joblessness and disappointment tormented Malcolm Mwebaka in his threadbare apartment, he heard a knock on the apartment's main door.
"What do you want- you aren't the health inspector?" the short-tempered rat who Malcolm had unfortunately come to know as the landlord of this filthy tenement answered, his voice as high-pitched and annoying as a car alarm.
"I'm looking for one by the name of Malcolm Mwebaka." Oh no, the Immigration and Naturalization Services had come to sweep him and take him back to his parents in Yaounde, just as things were starting to look good here in America. But wait, the other voice was deeper than the typical INS agent, a vocie that seemed so familiar. And soon, the door to Malcolm's room opened, revealing none other than- Dikhango's drummer, Amiri, a cougar whose impressive white suit and impeccable red tie served as an intriguing contrast to the room he knew found himself in. The windows were completely unusable, rendered meaningless by years of grimy build-up and God-knows-what-else. The floors were of the same drab and unforgiving concrete that the rest of the city streets were made of and Mwebaka was simply too poor to afford furniture, sleeping on a low-cost futon that the last inhabitant of the room left behind. The entire room which smelled like expired food was so cramped that it could hardly sustain one person, much less the small family of foxes that lived in the room two doors down.
"I was told that one of our band members was living in squalor but nothing could have prepared me for this. This home is absolutely hellish and as your bandmate, I must help you out." At first, this caused Mwebaka to feel upset but at the same time, the cougar was speaking the truth, This was a terrible place to live and if he had the opportunity to live someplace else, the wolf would bolt for that place in an instant.
"Don't be insulted at all, Mwebaka. If I can just have your word and signature that you are now the guitarist for this band, we'll set up much better housing for you. A chance to truly see America beyond this er- dump when we go on tour throughout the country. The old guitarist- he had to return home for the birth of his wife's child."
"What about the green card status?" The wolf already knew that changing from menial laborer to touring musician would not be acceptable in the eyes of the INS.
"You don't have to worry about a thing. We've got it all taken care of- well, we can help you out with the citizenship test. All you have to do is pass it and you can say "good-bye to that green card system for good. And more importantly, you showed something during our performances that musicians need to show- we call it "joto".
Mwebaka knew several African languages but was unaware what the word "joto" meant.
"It's a Swahili term meaning 'heat' or 'fire'. When we look at you performing there, we notice something which is 'hot' which brings life to our performances and we need more of that. That same excitement and joy of being there at our performances and actually performing on stage, we need that. We need that desperately. In fact, we would like it if you pack up your belongings and come with us." That would not be a difficult task as the only things the wolf kept with him outside of his wallet were two changes of clothes (and those he had brought with him before he left Cameroon) and a Gideon's Bible. "Take everything you own with you. I'll see to it that you are out of this dump right now."
In short time, Mwebaka found himself in the backseat of the car, which while not completely overpriced was still a great deal better than most of the rides one would expect to find in the slums of New York. "No more gunshots at night, no more homeless drunks passed out on the sidewalk, no more of any of the things which you now think of with New York. We're going to the Greenwich Village."
The wolf scanned his brain thinking of where he had heard that term before before blurting out the question "What is the Greenwich Village?". Mwebaka was just too much of a stranger to New York to know any differently.
Stopping for a red light, the cougar responded. "It's a paradise for starving artists like me and you. Everyone there is talking about ways we can radically change the way the government is screwing us over. We have artists and musicians fighting the ongoing struggle for civil rights for all God's creatures. We need people like you to join us not just for music but for so much more."
Again, Mwebaka was confounded by the cougar's words. What exactly did "so much more" mean? He pondered this as he contemplated the gradual change of scenery from homeless indigents to banners declaring messages like "Bring our Boys Home" and "Civil Rights Now". They then reached their destination- a building whose function the wolf could not yet grasp.
"This is what we call ‘The Idea Factory'. We eat, sleep, and live here as one group. It may not be a mansion in the strict sense but so long as you can be productive here, you can stay rent-free." Overwhelmed with curiosity, Mwebaka opened the door...