Urban Ambrosia

By Robert Spriggs

Urban Ambrosia is a hard-edged book with a large heart at it's core. It follows a group of primarily blue-collar characters as they navigate the challenges of Oakland life and their emotional vulnerabilities. Urban Ambrosia offers a unique perspective into an often overlooked yet diverse culture.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing Group
• Release date: Apr 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781641118750

Book preview

1

Hank Roberson glanced over his shoulder as he walked home from the corner store. His wariness had been in full force since he’d returned to his East Oakland house a month ago. Tired of the noise and violence surrounding his neighborhood, he’d rented his home to a Mexican family before moving to a small town farther north. That was over two years ago. He had a generous pension and was living comfortably. He’d come home to get closer to his grown children who lived within thirty minutes. He hadn’t talked to his eldest son much the last few years. The conversations had turned ugly and they’d mutually decided to avoid any unnecessary communication. Despite that, he felt good being back in his hometown where he’d lived most of his seventy years. Strong from years working for a local construction company, he still fancied himself a ladies man. Hell, he had most of his jet-black hair left, white teeth and his Eldorado.

Without warning, a carful of young men sped past him with hip-hop blaring: Caught the muthafucka on the five-eight-oh…

A shiver went through him. Maybe I shoulda stayed up north, he thought. He walked up his driveway past the large magnolia tree centered in his front yard then stopped to admire the new paint on his house. Light brown trimmed with lavender and white. He made his way into his backyard overgrown with weeds. He walked toward the oak tree he had planted at the rear border of his fence over thirty years ago. It was just a sapling back then. Now it stood well above nearby houses with a girth of six feet.

He sighed deeply, thinking of key events that had transpired since. He sat on the old redwood bench underneath the oak then tried to count all the women he’d been with over the years. Before he was halfway through he gave up and fell asleep in the shade.

His renters had cleaned the interior spotlessly making the move back easier. He’d placed a photo of Julia and himself on the fireplace mantel. Julia had been his one true love. He’d loved her enough to marry her but regretted his affairs during their five-year union which ended in her death from breast cancer. She bore one son and insisted they name him Hank Jr. She died when Junior was four. Junior rarely thought of his mother and had never forgiven his father for marrying a white woman. He’d learned to hate his pale-yellow complexion and the negativity it brought. High yellow, white boy with a tan and octoroon were common insults from some of his mid to-dark complexioned classmates in East Oakland public schools.

As a result of that humiliation he became increasingly introverted. He avoided social activities and parties spending most of his time alone reading and doing his homework. He became an honor student. The old insults were replaced with new ones: sellout, nerd, and lame. He resented people who thought he was smart only because he had so much white blood in him. That’s crazy, he thought. His mother had never even finished grade school. He cursed his father and imagined a life being darker complexioned. Making matters worse, he had two younger siblings from a black girlfriend of Hank’s, Nikira and Denard. Both were considerably darker which he imagined made their lives easier. By the time he turned twenty he’d dropped out of college and begun working for the county. Eight years later he converted to Islam naming himself Rafiq Amin. He began to feel some sense of relief having dropped his father’s surname. Two years after his conversion he married a Nigerian Muslim named Fatima. A graduate student in chemistry.

2

Hank called his son for the first time since moving back to Oakland.

I know we don’t ‘xactly see things the same way but I’ve never met your wife Junior.

You must be losing your mind old man. Have you forgotten what we argued about the last time we talked? I told you to never call me Junior again. My name is Rafiq. I’m thirty-five years old. That’s way too old for any man to be called Junior.

You never used to mind being called that growin’ up. Don’t you remember Barbara? Your brother and sister’s mother? She always called you that and you would just eat it up. Remember? You would run over to her and she would be ticklin’ you. You acted like you really liked being called Junior back then.

That’s when I was five. Hadn’t even started school yet. Listen. You don’t have to call me Rafiq right away but just don’t call me Junior. Okay?

I can’t do that son. ‘Junior’ is going to come out my mouth one way or the other.

If you respected me it wouldn’t! I’m done talking.

Wait. Don’t hang up. I jus’ need more time to get used to it.

More time? You’ve had five years. That should be more than enough.

Son please. Just come by for dinner on Saturday. Bring your wife and let’s just try to have a nice time. I’ll be ‘cueing some ribs and chicken.

Rafiq paused. I’ll talk to my wife. If you don’t hear from me before then we’ll be there.

Rafiq and Fatima sat in their early-nineties Honda and began the drive from their North Oakland home to East Oakland.

I don’t know why you are so worried about me meeting your fata. Many people in Lagos are not Muslim. I have not had a problem with them and most of the people here are friendly as well.

Fatima, you haven’t been here long enough to really understand how afraid most Americans are of Muslims. Besides, you haven’t had a problem here because as soon as people hear your Nigerian accent, you’re pretty much okay with most of them. You’ve seen how bad some people respond to Rashida. She’s a Muslim but a black American one. Doesn’t have an accent to protect her. Like most black Americans, she’s a descendant of slaves but Islam has given her an identity to help protect her from racism. My father never had that. Many African slave descendants undervalue themselves and my father’s no different. He never was exposed to a religion like Islam or some other Eastern philosophy that allows you to place yourself outside the self-hatred we’ve learned in the US. You’ll see when you talk to him that he’s much different than your non-Muslim elders in Nigeria. They weren’t enslaved. At least not by Europeans.

580 was backed up. They took the exit at High Street then drove south on East Fourteenth. Pulling up in front of Hank’s house, Rafiq smelled the barbecue before he rolled up his window. They walked around to the side gate where Hank was grilling what looked to be steak.

He turned toward them before they could speak. I didn’t see you standing there. How you doin’ Ju…uh, son. This must be your wife, he said as they walked the gate.

Yes. Fatima, this is my father.

Just call me Hank. I hope y’all hungry. I made some cornbread and greens then I remembered you don’t eat pork no mo’. I had thawed out some pork ribs, seasoned them and everything then somethin’ clicked in my brain. I forgot to thaw out the chicken so I just threw on these steaks. Hope that’s all right. Y’all eat beef don’t cha?

We try to stay away from beef most of the time but yeah, it’s okay, Rafiq said as they sat in patio chairs around a rosewood table.

Hank turned to Fatima. You a beautiful woman. If the rest of African women look anything like you I think I better start savin’ and make a trip over there.

She smiled broadly as she and Hank exchanged glances.

Rafiq frowned. African women aren’t like the women you’ve met dad. You’d have trouble finding easy women like the ones you used to pull out of those bars downtown.

Fatima frowned at him and kicked his leg. They sat in awkward silence before Hank got up and went into the house.

Why did you say that to him? That was just mean.

Rafiq looked at his wife’s watering eyes.

You told me you did not talk well with your fata but you are the one making trouble out of nothing and we just arrived.

I won’t have anyone disrespecting you. Especially not him.

He called me beautiful. That is all he did.

You don’t understand. Whenever my father talks to a woman, there’s always something sexual going on. That’s the way he is. I watched him for years growing up. Even with his girlfriend, Barbara, he was always trying to do whatever he could to get her into the bedroom. I think that’s why she left him after my younger brother and sister were born. She realized he never loved her or even respected her. He treated her almost as bad as he treated those street women he used to bring home.

Fatima stared at him. He brought women home when his girlfriend lived here?

A couple times when she was out but mostly after she left him.

I don’t think he meant anything sexual by calling me beautiful. Why don’t you give him a chance. Maybe he’s changed.

He hasn’t changed. He hasn’t had a steady woman in over twenty years. Why do you think that is? You see he looks good for his age. He’s a womanizer.

Shhhh, she whispered as Hank came back with a large bowl of collard greens and a pan of cornbread. He put them on the table then went back for a large pitcher of lemonade.

Y’all ready to eat?

He placed the steak plates on the table. They each added vegetables, cornbread and poured lemonade. Hank took a forkful of greens and brought it toward his mouth.

Wait a second Dad. We bless our food before we eat.

He looked at his son in surprise and slowly put the fork down on his plate. I’m sorry. I stopped prayin’ over my food years ago after your mother died. Go ahead son.

In the name of God bless this food we are about to receive. Amin.

Amen, Hank whispered as he picked his fork back up.

Fatima gazed at her father-in-law for a moment. Hank, why did you stop praying?

He gave his son a quick glance before answering. I only did it for my wife. She was from a family of religious folk. She used to tell me they prayed at every meal when she was growin’ up. She believed in Jesus and bein’ saved and all that but she hardly ever went to church after she left home. She didn’t go to church at all after we was married but she always wanted me to say a prayer before we ate. Understand, I never was a church-goin’ man but I loved my wife so I did what she wanted.

Rafiq remembered a conversation he and Hank had years ago. You told me my grandmother was a staunch Baptist. She raised you and I know she took you to church. Why didn’t Jesus ever take with you?

I never understood what it was about. Lots of folks gettin’ excited and sayin’ ‘Praise the Lord’ all the time. Seemed to me they was just lettin’ off steam. It never moved me like them. The preacher used to ask if anyone was ready to be saved and it seem like he put pressure on folks to come forward. I don’t know. I wish I could believe but I don’t. I just live day to day and do the best I can.

Rafiq suddenly felt a twinge of remorse. He remembered how Barbara had taken him to church regularly before she left Hank. He understood how his father felt because he couldn’t catch the spirit either. He looked up at Hank. You remember when I was about ten Barbara used to take me to church?

He responded. Yeah, I think I remember she took you a few times to that Baptist church she was a memba’ of up in North Oakland. She told me all you did was sit there and be quiet. Wouldn’t even sing the tunes. He chuckled, remembering he was the same way whenever he went to church.

Yeah that’s right. I just sat there and watched Barbara. She almost couldn’t control her body sometimes when she was singin’ and shoutin’. I also remember she used to read her Bible all the time. At church and at home. Rafiq smiled at Fatima. Next to you baby, Barbara is the nicest person I’ve ever met.

She gazed affectionately at him. "A person like Barbara sounds like a wonderful example of godliness. You were just destined to not be Christian.

She was wonderful. I guess I see how many of our people gravitate toward that kind of spirit. I remember the first time she took me there. The first thing I noticed were the stained-glass windows with all white angels and saints. I looked up at the altar at Jesus. He was white too. That sealed it for me right away. Nobody resembling Barbara or even me. Didn’t feel right, so I—

Hey Rafiq! a voice called from the other side of the fence. They all turned. A dark, handsome man about Rafiq’s age dressed in a multicolored shirt and a Kangol hat tilted to the left side of his head smiled broadly. Bruh, I haven’t seen you since you went Muslim. I see you still have that ol’ raggedy Honda though. You oughta break down and get you a fly ride like my 300 man.

He looked at Hank. How you doin’, Mr. Roberson? Hey, I’m sorry for interrupting your thing but I was drivin’ by and saw your son’s car and got excited.

Who the hell are you and how you know my name? He asked.

Jimmy Taylor. I know your son from school and from when I used to work downtown at the county buildin’. I live a few blocks over on Seventy-fifth. Me and Rafiq came by here a long time ago to visit but you wasn’t home. He told me he grew up here so every now and then I drive by and today I got lucky.

Hank stared at him wondering what kind of trouble he might bring. He decided to invite him in anyway. You hungry?

Yes sir, yes sir, he replied.

Come on in, then.

As Jimmy opened the gate, Rafiq whispered to Fatima, I’ve been trying to stay away from this guy ever since he stopped working downtown.

He walked over to the table and sat in the last remaining patio chair. How you doin’ man? he hollered at Rafiq. Last time I saw you was the day I got fired. Remember that? Man, that shit… He looked at Fatima then at Hank. That wasn’t right what went down that day.

You want some greens and cornbread with yo’ steak? Hank asked gruffly.

It don’t matter. Whatever you want to put on a plate I’ll be happy with it.

He turned back to Rafiq. They’d just fired Jackson a coupla’ weeks before me and he been down there for fifteen years. Never missed a day. Was always on time. Never talked back to the boss. In fact, he never talked at all. How you gonna ax a solid cat like that?

Rafiq stared at him. I thought you were going to talk about yourself. You worked with Jack in janitorial. You know why you got fired?

I got fired because somebody said they smelled alcohol on my breath after I came back from lunch. The boss called me into his office and axed me if I had been drinkin’. I told him the truth: no. I never drink at daytime unless it’s a day off. Dude didn’t even check my breath or nothin’ and you know I chew mint gum all the time. That can make your breath smell like alcohol sometime. Somebody else mightta been drinkin’ and the person who said it was me mightta smelled it on somebody who look like me.

Hank interrupted. What’s your name again?

Jimmy.

Look here Jimmy. If you wanna stay and finish your food you best tone down. You been gettin’ louder and louder eva’ since you sat in that chair.

I’m sorry sir. I get excited real easy and sometime I don’t know how loud I get. But it ain’t right sir. They got a few white boys in janitorial be comin’ in late, bein’ lazy, not doin’ they job but they never think about lettin’ them go.

Rafiq shook his head. Hey man. I believe what you’re saying but you’ve got a felony on your record that goes back before that job."

Hank rose from his chair and went into the house.

Rafiq continued. The Alameda County Parolee Job Placement Program got you that job. They did their part. You know you’re even more of target for abuse if you’ve got a record. How long did you work there? Six months? Management probably didn’t want you there in the first place so they took advantage of that.

Yeah, I get it man but it still ain’t right. Um tryin’ to do right out here makin’ an honest livin’ and that still ain’t good enough. I got another job about a year ago at Parker’s store up on Fifty-Fifth but that’s only part time. I can’t even rent my own place for that chump change. I’m livin’ with my sista’ and that ain’t hardly no fun.

Another car sped by and a brief booming bass dissipated down the street.

He continued. Rafiq, um off parole. Only been on probation for the last four years. I don’t want to mess that up but I sure am thinkin’ about slingin’ again. Suddenly he realized Fatima had been sitting in silence. He looked at Rafiq. How come you didn’t introduce me to this lady you here with? That’s about some rude shit Rafiq.

This is my wife Fatima and I would appreciate it if you stopped the profanity around her. She doesn’t deserve to be exposed to that kind of talk.

I apologize, Jimmy said smiling at her. I’m from the street. That’s just who I am.

It’s okay. I am from Nigeria and my parents sheltered me but it is not the first time I have heard the word ‘shit.’

Rafiq’s mouth gaped in surprise. He had never heard her utter a curse word. It was so completely out of character he struggled to fight back a laugh.

Jimmy rose from his chair. I got to bounce. S’pose to be meetin’ up with a partna’ of mine. Thanks for the steak sir, he said looking at Hank. He went into his pants pocket, pulled out a small sheet of paper and asked Rafiq for the pen protruding from the outline in his shirt pocket. He wrote down his phone number and handed the paper and pen to Rafiq. "I know you got a different life now bruh and I respect that but if you ever want to hook up or need me to help you with something I’ll be there. He nodded at Rafiq then turned and walked out of the gate.

That boy ain’t nothin’ but trouble, Hank mumbled to no one in particular.

Rafiq gestured with his head toward Fatima, signaling that it was time to leave. She didn’t respond.

He turned toward Hank. We’ve got to be going. I’ve got Arabic class at the mosque, and Fati—

She interrupted. I wasn’t planning on studying tonight. I thought we were going to spend the evening here.

Rafiq gave her a stern look. Baby, I told you Wednesday I have Arabic class at five every second and fourth Saturday of the month.

She did not reply and looked at her father-in-law. It has been a pleasure meeting you but please, may I use your bathroom before we leave?

Do you want me to say no? Hank smiled. Go through the kitchen and turn left. It’s the last door on the right down the hallway.

She stood and entered the house through the sliding patio door. Hank and Rafiq were silent during her brief absence.

When she returned Rafiq was standing behind his chair. Ready?

She looked at him with a sad expression.

Neither spoke as they walked toward the gate.

It’s good to see you son after all this time. Let’s get together again soon and talk some more.

Fatima said goodbye. Rafiq looked back and nodded as he closed the gate.

3

Barbara Jamison sat in the store break room looking up at the large, red digital clock glaring back at her. Her almond-shaped hazel eyes and light-brown braids contrasted against her dark-chocolate complexion. It was ten minutes before clock out. She hardly noticed. Thoughts of her late father repeatedly molesting her were never far from consciousness. She’d been ten when he started. His assaults mercifully ended with a massive heart attack two years later. She could still smell the whiskey he’d panted into her nostrils as he took his last gasp and rolled off her onto his side. Her mother knew about