The Nigger Factory (13 page)

18

MJUMBE Mandate

It was a typical early autumn day for southern Virginia. The temperature was in the mid-fifties. A breeze kicked the colored leaves closer to the curb and across the oval. The residents were dressed in sweaters and light jackets. The sun watched from a sky decorated with whipped-cream clouds that floated south with the wind.

The weather was not the reason Earl Thomas was fastening the top button on his light safari jacket. He was chilled with the prospect of being put on the spot at the meeting ahead of him. Each thump of the hollow bell in the auditorium chapel seemed to bang equally hard at the pit of his stomach.

He paused at the auditorium entrance and lit a cigarette. Ben King handed him a copy of a statement from MJUMBE and a copy of
The Sutton Statesman
which this afternoon was a one-page special that carried a picture of the five MJUMBE chieftains as they had appeared the day before. There was a larger picture of Earl himself. The two articles on the page were both editorials of a sort. One had been written by Ralph Baker. The other was signed by Victor Johnson.

The three entrances to the auditorium were being manned by King, Jonesy, and Cotton. As students or faculty entered they were handed the MJUMBE statement and
The Statesman
special edition.

‘Let's skip to the john,’ Earl said, nudging Odds.

The three men entered the lobby and cut right, crossing in front of congregating students until they reached the southern corner where they turned downstairs to the lounge area and rest rooms.

‘Bone up,’ Earl muttered once inside the lavatory. He banged the pages across the palm of his hand.

‘Gittin’ tighter,’ Odds noted, making a choking gesture. ‘Ya know what this indicates, don'choo? This sez right here, this picture, that you are down wit’ MJUMBE.’

‘Iss almos’ too hip to be anywhere near Ben King,’ Lawman said. ‘I have dug the whole damn thing an’ there's not one word about you. The whole implication stems from the picture.’

T wasn't even thinkin’ las’ night when I saw Johnson. I wuz damn sure the paper wuz gonna knock me an’ give me a free opportunity to say anything that I wanted.’

‘You still can,’ Odds snapped. ‘Shit! You didn’ call this meetin’ or the one yesterday. This ain’ rilly got nuthin’ to do wit’ you or your office.’

‘I know . . .’

‘But nuthin’. All you gotta do is say what you feel, man. You won the election. You still in a helluva good position.’

‘Say what I feel where? Here? I didn’ call this meetin’, you say? Then what gives me a right to speak?’

‘You the Man! You the Head Man! If you see the studen's headed in the wrong direction you haveta speak up!’

‘What direction do you think they're goin’ in?’

‘No direction yet.’

‘Right. But Baker's gonna play on emotions. If he directs them through this emotion they will not be ready to hear from me.’

There was a loud feedback screech from the level directly above the three men. Another man entered the washroom. Lawman signaled his companions to exit. Out in the hall at the bottom of the stairs Earl's former campaign manager grabbed the back of his safari jacket.

‘Play it by ear,’ he advised. ‘Whatever goes down you gotta be cool. Right?’

‘Right.’

On the upper level the three men took seats along the side near the middle of the student body. Ralph Baker and Abul Menka were onstage huddling. Meanwhile, two microphones were being set up and hooked into the public address system.
Victor Johnson was seated behind the two MJUMBE leaders scribbling away at a pad on his lap.

When at last the microphones were set up and the MJUMBE men were ready, Baker approached the podium with his papers. The three MJUMBE members who had been passing out the MJUMBE statement and
The Statesman
climbed the steps to the stage and took seats.

‘We are trying to give everyone time to read the paper we issued and
The Statesman
before we begin . . . Uh, for those of you just coming in there are copies of the MJUMBE paper on the tables to your right. Take one and a copy of
The Sutton Statesman.
The essence of these two pieces will be our text.’ Baker moved back into another huddle with his associates. The audience buzzed again. Earl lit a cigarette.

‘First of all I'd like to thank everyone for comin’,’ Baker said after a moment. ‘I had thought we'd lose some people to the lunch line an’ some to the dispensary who were sick to their stomachs after the things they had just heard.’ There was a muffled laughter.

‘We would like to come right to the point this afternoon. We did not like the answers that we heard from President Ogden Calhoun. His reply to our requests displayed a portion of the same tired, bullshit replies that Sutton students have been receiving from administrators for as long as there has been a Sutton. Some of these buildings that we're in lead us to believe that there has always been a Sutton.’ More laughter.

‘The question becomes, however, what we plan to do about it. Do we plan to merely laugh at our situation an’ go on pretendin’ that it doesn’ exist? Do we plan to go back through the same clogged channels of communication an’ watch our hard-earned money go down the drain? . . . These are questions that I want answers for. Will we allow Ogden Calhoun and his band of legal pirates to continue to rob us? I'm asking you?’

‘No!’ came a voice from about the fourth row. Then a chorus of ‘no's’ rang out.

‘Will we continue to sit around daily wondering what
happened to our money when the only thing that keeps us from findin’ out is Ogden Calhoun?’

‘NO!’

‘Will we continue to eat the slop dished out in the cafeteria like garbage piled into a pig's trough?’

‘NO!’

‘Will we continue to cooperate with Sutton under the present conditions with only token response from Sutton Hall's shirt an’ tie renegades?’

‘NO!’

‘The members of MJUMBE are proposing a students’ strike against Sutton University until such time as all of these basic needs that we have requested receive a positive response.’

There was an initial smattering of applause that grew and grew until it seemed to Earl that the building's foundations had been loosened. Students were whistling, clapping, and stomping their feet.

‘This student strike,’ Baker continued, ‘will call for the boycott of all classes, all conferences, lectures, coed-visitation rules, and all other university functions.

‘The end of this strike can only be caused by an administrative ‘yes’ to each an’ every demand that we submitted . . .’ There was more applause. ‘The student strike will go into effect as of now.’

One of the sisters in the first row was raising her hand. Baker nodded to her.

‘How will the students be kept informed of what happens?’

‘A Strike Communication Center will be established in the MJUMBE office on the third floor of the fraternity house. All information will be available there. We will also have brothers going from dorm to dorm distributing information at night.’

A male student asked a second question. ‘It was my impression that student body had a SGA president who was in charge of all of these types of activities. I'd like to know why he's not on the stage an’ how he feels.’

Baker flashed a quick look at Abul Menka and then scanned
the thousand people in the auditorium. ‘Earl? You wanna say somethin'?’

Earl got up stiffly, feeling the weight of the two thousand eyes that were on him. Lawman flashed him a grimace. He found himself still questioning exactly what he would say when he fully faced the audience, so he trotted down the side aisle to the stage. Baker moved away from the microphone hesitantly.

‘Salaam,’ Earl said greeting the students. ‘Brother, you are absolutely right when you refer to the SGA. I think you might be overlooking one fact however. It was pointed out yesterday, I understand, that
I
would be giving the petition to President Calhoun. I was the one who served the, pardon me, proposals, on the president. I was aware of the possibilities when I served the papers. Calhoun has made his move. It is now time for us to make ours . . . it's not so much a question of who leads. No one can lead without a following. Do we all agree that something is necessary?’

‘Yes!’

‘Do we all agree that a student strike is necessary?’

‘Yes!’

Earl nodded to Baker and trotted back down the stairs and walked quickly back through the audience to his seat, sweat forming at the edge of his face, itchy patches seeming to appear all over his body.

Just as Earl found his seat the audience erupted. Focusing on the stage Earl saw Vice-President Fenton Mercer waddling toward the microphone. The sweating, obviously upset vice-president said something to Baker who spoke into the mike.

‘Brothers and sisters, I have been asked if our vice-president, who came over since the president couldn't make it, uh, I've been asked if Mr Mercer could say a few words . . . I'm gonna leave it up to you, but I say now that the man is not here wit’ anything new to say. He is here to rationalize and philosophize, an’ bullshit. MJUMBE IS LEAVING!’

For one breathtaking instant the entire auditorium was
silent. The silence lasted long enough for Baker and the MJUMBE leaders to take two steps toward the stairs. Then, as though on signal, the huge meeting hall was turned into an echo chamber of screaming, applauding students and chairs being pulled back. The noise was so loud that no one could hear Fenton Mercer's plea for attention. The entire aggregation turned toward the exits, leaving the disturbed administrator on stage.

19

A Three-pronged Spear

‘Iz everybody in place?’ Baker asked Ben King, when the largest MJUMBE member entered the new Strike Communications Center.

‘Everythin's good,’ King said dramatically. ‘All of our enforcers is on their posts makin’ sure don’ nobody go to class. I sent a few men ovuh to the women's dorm to break the coedvisitation rule . . .’

‘I'm sure they were disappointed at their jobs,’ Baker laughed.

‘Ha! Yeh. They wuz real disappointed . . .’

‘What the faculty doin?’ Speedy Cotton asked.

‘Ain’ nobody messin’ wit’ them. It seem like they went on ovuh to their posts an’ waited fo’ alla the knowledge seekers to show up.’

‘Do they know who the enforcers are and exactly what they're there for?’

‘Hell, yeah! Wuzn't no real way to keep them from knowin’ that. We gittin’ bettuh cooperation from the studen's than I thought though.’

‘Because of the enforcers or because of the studen's?’ Baker asked.

‘A little bit a both,’ King admitted.

‘Today means nuthin’,’ Abul Menka said suddenly. The entire group turned to him where he sat in his favorite corner looking out over the campus. ‘Today people have a small dose a strike fever. They're all anxious t'be activists an’ radicals. Niggers always go in for fads like this to show everybody how goddamn militant they are. Tuhmaruh iz gonna be a better indication a whuss happ'nin’.’

‘I'm onna try it one day at a time,’ King laughed. ‘The point
iz we got the thing offa the groun'!’ King reached over with a huge grin on his coal-black face and Baker and he exchanged the African handshake.

‘An’,’ Speedy Cotton mused, ‘wit’ Thomas's help.’

That was a point that Abul Menka had been mulling over in his mind but had not brought up. There were some very puzzling things going on with Earl Thomas. Abul had agreed that a picture of Thomas in the issue of
The Statesman
might serve as an intimidating factor and keep the deposed SGA leader quiet. The indication in the meeting had not been one of intimidation. But neither had Earl appeared anxious to jump on the emotional MJUMBE bandwagon and share any of the credit for the campus political mobility.

Abul had been watching Earl all through the meeting. He had not liked what he had seen. The reason for his distaste was the lack of responses coming from a man who had been, all through his campaign for SGA office, decisively emotional, never giving an indication that in the thick of a political confrontation he would sit like the proverbial Iceman and do nothing. Abul hated niggers he couldn't figure out.

‘Abul? . . . Abul?’ Baker was calling. ‘Where you at, brother?’

‘Right here.’

‘Yeah. In the flesh you there. Where you at in the head?’

‘Right here.’

‘You got them notes ready to be typed?’

‘Guard notes?’

‘Yeah. We cleared the office down the hall an’ imported a typewriter you can use ‘til we rustle up a secretary for you.’

‘What happened to . . .’ Abul's question was cut off.

‘She said she couldn’ make it,’ Baker remarked.

Abul picked up his folder and left the meeting room. He was followed closely by Ben King.

The room adjacent to the regular MJUMBE headquarters was being prepared for business by Fred Jones who was standing with a broom in his hand in the middle of the floor
when the other two associates entered. Jonesy waved at them and continued his clean-up job.

‘What were we using this room fo’ anyway?’ King asked.

‘Lamps,’ Abul mumbled, referring to the Omega Psi Phi pledges.

‘Huh? Oh . . . Look, here's my list. We gotta have at least eight copies. One for each of us an’ one to be posted in group commander rooms. We forgot that shit ‘bout postin’ anything on the bulletin boards cause some ass would take them . . . or some administrator would.’

‘Some ass,’ Abul agreed. The MJUMBE man in the black and gold dashiki sat down at the large portable typewriter and rolled in a sheet of typing paper. King lounged in a near corner watching Jonesy sweep.

‘I wanna ask you somethin’,’ he admitted finally to Abul. ‘What'choo think come over that bastard Thomas?’

‘When?’

‘T'day. I wuz jus’ linin’ him in my sights for a good right han’ when he up an’ agreed wit’ us.’ King shook his head in wonder.

‘Y'know,’ Abul confided, ‘that might jus’ be the reason he agreed.’

King thought that over for a moment. He looked down for some sort of sign that Abul had been pulling his leg. But the man in the sunglasses continued his typing and said nothing.

The office door was locked and the shades were drawn on the first floor of Carver Hall. There were three men inside the SGA office, but none of them made any move toward answering either knocks on the door or the constantly ringing telephone.

‘Y'know in all likelihood that phone has been ringin’ fo’ good reason,’ Lawman pointed out.

‘Reason bein’ that someone somewhere was callin’ here,’ Odds quipped drily.

‘I'm talkin’ ‘bout important calls,’ Lawman said.

‘That may be why I ain’ answerin’,’ Earl sighed, running long fingers through his bushy head.

‘Ha long we gonna stay here?’ Odds asked. “Til the coast iz clear? I think the coast is gittin’ more an’ more unclear wit’ each passin’ minnit.’

‘Point,’ Lawman agreed looking quizzically at Earl.

The harried SGA president got up from the swivel chair behind his desk and poured himself a cup of the mud he had made as the result of an inexperienced attempt at instant coffee.

‘Yeah, I know. I'm s'pose to be makin’ all sortsa brilliant political moves, but everything I think of is a trap of some sort. Dig all this. If I call Calhoun an’ try to establish some sort of communication, I'm trapped. Either I confess that things are outta my hands an’ tell him who's runnin’ shit . . . that's one. Or I reenforce the deman's an’ bring an open confrontation that I can't afford. Or . . .’

‘Stop!’ Lawman ordered. ‘How can't you afford a confrontation? Personally or politically?’

‘Neither way! Politically he has the power. I mean, you can rap all you want ‘bout student power an’ alla that shit, but until the Board gits organized an’ places a clamp on that automatic boot of his . . . Wait! The Board! The Trustees!’

‘What about ‘um?’

‘They can do jus’ what I wuz talkin’ about – put a clamp on that automatic boot!’ Earl reached for the telephone.

‘Wait a minute!’ Lawman said. ‘Let's have everything together in our heads befo’ we make any moves. We been in here damn near twenny minnits. I think we agree that however much time it takes, our first move had bes’ be a good one.’ Odds nodded. ‘Now. What you gonna say to the Board? I mean, let's face it. They ain’ jus’ sittin’ ‘roun’ waitin’ for a call from you. They got specific times when they meet. Somethin’ like two big meetin's a year an’ small cluster meetin's the resta the time. What action can you get from a phone call? The Trustees are spaced all over the U.S. map . . . first, who you callin'?’

‘I'll call Miz Stoneman.’

‘Okay. Where is she?’

‘She's in D.C.’

‘All right. How long you think it'll take her to get anything together?’

‘I see yo’ point,’ Earl said a bit crestfallen. ‘It'll take hours. But it won’ take hours for her to call Calhoun!’

‘Thass exactly what you don't want her doin'! If she calls Calhoun he's gonna minimize this shit to a speck an’ try an’ keep her from doin’ anything national. The ol’ man don’ want no publicity!’

‘How long do you think it'll take Calhoun to move?’ Earl asked.

‘I can't say. For all we know he's already gettin’ walkin papers formed for a lot of us.’

‘Doubtlessly,’ Odds added.

‘Then I gotta call Miz Stoneman,’ Earl said picking up the receiver. ‘I have ta impress upon her the need for her to get in touch wit’ some people an’ have them
all
call Calhoun unless they're comin’ out here in person. Then they can call each other back an’ get a conclusion together.’

Earl dialed the operator. Lawman agreed by his silence, but he was shaking his head from side to side as though he believed it to be the wrong move.

‘I'd like an outside line,’ Earl said. ‘This is Earl Thomas.’

‘I've been ringin’ an’ ringin’ you,’ the switchboard operator said in a whining tone.

‘I jus’ got in,’ Earl lied. There was a momentary pause before he started dialing a number from an address book he located in the top drawer of his desk. There was a long period of silence.

‘Hello,’ Earl said when the phone was finally answered. There was a clear expression of relief on his face. ‘Mrs Stoneman? This is Earl Thomas of the Student Government at Sutton. Yes, ma'am. Well, I have quite a few things to tell you too . . .’

Ogden Calhoun was facing what was doubtlessly his most trying day as president of Sutton University. Not only had the past sixteen hours produced a group of demands that he had seen coming for over six months, but it had also produced a militant student faction called MJUMBE of which he had been totally unaware, a series of conferences that he had detested, and a student strike in the midst of a press conference that had seen him lose almost every ounce of restraint with a Norfolk newspaperman.

The last of the reporters had just left his office and he was leaning back in his upholstered swivel chair when the intercom buzzed.

‘Yes?’ he replied dimly.

‘Still no reply from the Student Government office,’ Miss Felch reported. ‘No response from the business office either.’

‘Keep trying the SGA office,’ Calhoun said. ‘And please bring me a cup of coffee and send out for a sandwich and some tea when you get a chance.’

‘Yes, sir,’ came the reply. ‘There's a student here to see you from the Inter-Dormitory Assistants. She says it's rather important.’

‘Send her in.’

The oaken door to the president's inner office swung noiselessly open and a young coed came in with books under her arm. She was about twenty and dressed in a short plaid skirt and white blouse, red sweater, and knee socks. Her hair was fixed in a pony-tail and wide round sunglasses were propped on her nose. Calhoun rose to greet her.

‘How are you?’ he asked with extra charm. He grasped her hand lightly and directed her to a seat.

‘I'm all right . . . I'm Allison Grimes. Do you remember me?’

‘From the Inter-Dorm meetings,’ Calhoun asserted. ‘What can I do for you, Miss Grimes. So much going on.’

‘Yes, sir. I know.’

‘Seems like everything happens at once,’ Calhoun pointed
out, waving his arms in a general gesture. He smiled and reached for his pipe and cherry blend.

‘I jus’ wanted to ask about how we, as dorm assistants, should be conducting ourselves in terms of the things that are happening,’ Miss Grimes asked nervously. She removed her sunglasses and wiped them on a handkerchief. ‘I mean, it's understood as how we take care of things under ordinary circumstances, but there are men all over my dorm an’ these aren't visiting hours an’ all of the girls are upset about their jobs and everything.’

‘I understand exactly what you mean, Miss Grimes. It's unfortunate that the students are so insistent on their points that they place other students in jeopardy. I haven't gotten all of the facts, but in military terms this would be referred to as “smoke-screen” tactics or “distracting” tactics. I think that the whole point is to place every student in some sort of trouble with the administration so that no students can be punished for their actions.’

‘But the other girl assistants and I . . .’

‘Have a job to do. But under the circumstances it would be unreasonable of me or anyone else to expect the assistants to keep up with every male and female involved in these types of activities. All I can really ask is that you try and maintain as much order as you can and wait for other instructions from Mr Bass or Miss Freeman. Is that all right?. . . just understand that we know how hard everyone is trying to do their jobs. That might also be considered on the other side of the fence in relation to administrators trying to do their jobs too.’ Calhoun finished with his best political smile.

‘All right,’ Miss Grimes said for lack of anything better to say.

‘How're the grades and schoolwork coming?’ Calhoun asked.

‘Oh fine,’ the student replied rising. ‘I'm on the list.’

‘Good!’ the president boomed. ‘I have a lot of room on that list! Ha! Ha!’

Calhoun showed the student to the door. He was no sooner seated than the intercom was buzzing again.

‘Yes?’

‘There are just an awful lot of things going on!’ Miss Felch said, irritated past any previous standards. ‘The Student Government line was busy, but now I can't get an answer. Mr Mercer wants to talk to you in private. Mr Harper wants to talk to you. Your wife has called. She'd like to have you call back. Victor Johnson wants a statement for
The Statesman.
He says he's running another special . . .’

‘Did you tell him what I . . .’

‘Yes. He said this issue would be getting your side of everything. He said he had to go to press and you weren't here for comment. All he could print was the student side.’

‘Where is Mercer?’ Calhoun asked.

‘He's in his office,’ Miss Felch replied.

‘Tell him to come up. When the food arrives please don't hesitate to bring it in.’

‘Fine.’

Calhoun was left alone then for a moment. He had been on the go constantly since sunup and he was just beginning to realize how little food and rest he had had. At the same time he thought to himself also of how quickly and authoritatively he would once have dealt with this current crisis. He had ruled the school with an iron hand. But in more ways than one the heat was being applied by the Sutton students, and the question was whether or not Ogden Calhoun's iron hand would melt.

The thought that he had already exhibited too much concern for student opinion shot the silver-haired president straight up in his chair. He was jotting down the outline for an ultimatum that he would issue when Fenton Mercer scurried breathlessly into the office.