The Gay Icon Classics of the World Read Free Page B

turned to embrace me. His smell was foul but my lonesome body welcomed his advances. All the anguish and all the tiredness of the long journey drained in a compassionate sexual encounter that made me almost euphoric. When it was over, Kadaru and I lay side by side. I stroked his shoulder and arm. He whispered in broken Arabic that he loved me. Although I was euphoric and feeling thankful to Kadaru, I knew he didn’t understand the significance of his words. I changed the subject. I asked him how he knew Arabic. He replied that he picked it up from the traders. He admitted that his knowledge of the language was poor but that he wanted to learn more. I didn’t know if that was an invitation to me. As he went to stroke my chest his hand fell on the scroll tucked under my covers. I felt embarrassed. My mind brought up visions of Mohammad. Kadaru opened it. He turned to poem #10 and began to read. His reading was poor. His voice hoarse. His reading broke my euphoric spell. His voice, tone, and inflections hurt me like daggers. It wasn’t Mohammad. It disturbed me. It wasn’t the context of the poem; it was him, this place, its people. It was the wrong voice and I was far away from anything that I felt comfort for or with. I needed Mohammad.
    I tore the book from his hands while he was reading. The rejection insulted him. Kadaru struck me in anger. I found myself outside his tent with all my belongings being thrown at me. I collected what I could, dressed, and started walking - without a word. I said goodbye to no one. It was nighttime but I was sure that I was heading in the correct direction towards the Nile. I was angry. I didn’t know why, but I hated everything in human existence. I hated Nubia, Egypt and all the people I had encountered until then.
    I sat quiet throughout the entire journey home. I found a river barge and sat among its load, steering at night while the sole boatsman slept. As on the journey there, I slept but little. I didn’t clean or eat. I drank only water. The lack of food made me delirious. My arrival at the port of Asyut was unwelcomed. From the threshold of our doorway, Mohammaded looked up in horror at my disheveled appearance. He hardly recognized me. I told him everything about my horrible journey. Despite my protest, he undressed me, bathed me, and put me to bed after giving me some soup. Mohammad was leaving the room with the filthy clothes from my journey as I told him that I wanted to leave Egypt. He returned with the scroll in his hands - the scroll he had given me. “Where would we go?” he replied. His answer, his soft voice, changed my mood. I realized that Mohammad had just taken care of me from the moment I entered our home, which he had never done before. I just stared in awe. In Arabic I said, “Mohammad, I love you.” With those words, I felt faint. I felt my body collapse from fatigue. I thought myself lucky that I was already lying in bed. Mohammad lay down next to me and untied the ribbon of the scroll and read me a poem. Ironically, it was poem number 10. As he read, my memories ofmy cousin Kadaru flashed before me. I turned to Mohammad’s vision next to me and his words drifted away as his soft voice put me into a much needed sleep.

Bantu's Song and the Soiled Loin Cloth: The Ivory Coast, Africa
First Printed SBC Magazine, Fall 2000
    The Mukasa tribe were known as a fierce hunting tribe throughout all of Africa. Their tall masculine frames towered over almost every man in the eastern coast region. The Mukasa hunters wore finely-woven white loincloths to distinguish them from common men. These white loincloths were the pride of the hunter, for an excellent hunter never soiled his loin cloth even during a hunt. To the Mukasa hunter, a white cloth was the mark of excellence. By the age of 15, all Mukasa sons were put through the rigorous test of manhood. Those who passed were admitted into the training necessary for the Mukasa hunting band,