Gloria stepped away from the front of the audience. Folks, putting on their sweaters and coats, embraced each other, a ritual which had begun since Gloria had become
the chairperson of the party the year before. Gloria’s presence had surprised many Black Panther Parties around the nation, since all parties were chaired by men.
"That was a beautiful meeting, sister. Just as beautiful as you are, a real Hatsetsup," Panikewe affirmed in his thick Jamaican accent. Gloria went for her chin.
"I don’t have a beard, do I?"
"Sister, even if you did, You’d still be beautiful."
"Thank you my brother."
"Comrade, do you need a ride home?" Adivende asked while she stuffed pencils and papers into her leather bag.
"Well, I. . .what time is it Adivende?" she asked and reached for his wrist. "Kimbano is at the apartment and was expecting us at eleven."
"It’s a quarter after now, let me drive you," he pressed. Adivende helped Gloria in her coat and they briskly went through the hall.
"Are we going for meditation at your house?" Kwesi asked, catching up to her on her right.
"Well, it looks like it," she answered smiling, exposing the gap in her teeth. They all knew that meditation was a part of why they gathered
at Gloria’s home. Discussions were actually of places, times, spaces, days,
anything they couldn’t talk about in the larger meetings. But surveillancing had already begun at her home as it had for many other party members. "But we have to keep it down to a minimum
because I have to prepare for a class I am teaching tomorrow, and we’re already late."
They reached Adivende’s 1963 beige Ford. He opened the passenger’s side first and reached in to open his side.
"Hey man, when are you going to get that damned radio fixed, bro?" Panikewe asked.
"After I get this damned door and window fixed," he said lighting up a light blue cigarette.
"What’s this stuff doing all out in the open man?"
"It’s coke," he said, "you want some?"
"I know what it is man. And no, I don’t," Panikewe
said throwing the folded foil in the glove compartment.
"You know, some Coltrane would be good, just about now," Malik said.
"Or some Elvin," Kwesi added.
"Right-on brother," Gloria agreed, "or some Davis?"
"Now you’re talking. Or some Lambert, Hendricks and Ross. And even if it was an eight track with six tracks working," Kwesi said laughing.
With much more on their minds they listened to the sound of the motor and the wind escaping through the cracked window.
"This is it," Gloria said and she released her seatbelt. They walked to her well-kept brownstone. She stopped at her mailbox and guided everyone through the narrow hall way.
"Oh, Mrs. Thompson, good evening," she said to the woman standing by her apartment in a flannel house dress. "Did you have a nice evening?"
"Oh yes, me and the birds spent one good evening talking with each other," the woman said.
But knowing that Mrs. Thompson wouldn’t quit with a short version of conversation, Gloria happily and automatically offered more. Her friends went upstairs.
"How was Good Times?"
"Oh tonight, Kid dynamite got into so much trouble that they left it ’til tomorrow." Gloria handed her door key to Malik.
"Kimbano is up there, knock first."
"I got some of that cheese today, Gloria. It’s too much for me, so I’ll cut it in half and bring it up to you tomorrow."
"That’ll be good Mrs. Thompson, and don’t forget to tell me what happens on tomorrow’s episode"
"Such a nice young lady."
Gloria went upstairs and Mrs. Thompson was still muttering about how thoughtful Gloria was.
Inside her one bedroom apartment were wooden floors and an unused fireplace. Quilts were everywhere and so were small mementos. Segments of her life resting on a white shelf, she had built.
The television was on, with channel two news and a slim brown skinned woman in a long dashiki entered from behind the wooden beaded curtain in the kitchen. "I was worried, it’s nearly twelve o’clock, people.
Your drinks are chilled," she said sipping on her glass of sliced bananas and juice.
Everyone took a turn entering the kitchen getting their drinks and carrot cake or a plate of rice, beans, sauce and soybean.
"Very good as usual," Panikewe said sitting into the old lounge chair which took up most of the room in Gloria’s living space. Kimbano smiled and nodded to him.
"Now to discuss what we are all here for." "I believe that my knowledge in firearms and armed combat just isn’t enough for this committee here," Malik said. Malik had spent time in Vietnam, returning
with numerous metals. But he thought he had to point out how significant the committee has to be. "We must think of a way to ex-tend our defense, recruiting those who have governmental knowledge."
It was in the middle of Malik’s talk that the usual imperturbableness that enveloped Gloria’s face was replaced by an immediate hardness. It was then that she saw the tip of a .38 emerging through the rift of her door.
Malik could see the beginning of anxiety wash over Gloria’s expression and her eyes intently burning fear into the back of the door. He instinctively went for his belt where he kept his pistol, but before he could pull it out,
in an impulsive mass of rapidness the door was flattened.
One Black man, two White, and one Hispanic rumbled inside. Drinks were spilled, cakes mixed with rice turmoilled with papers falling into the oriental carpet ripping from the floor.
"Hands over your head!" one of the pigs shouted.
"Down on the floor niggers," another ordered. Pressing the cold shaft of the gun against the back of Gloria’s neck and slamming his gritting irascible hand on
her contorted arm, another shouted, "You ain’t gonna do shit now. Get your fuckin’ face down, you bugged eyed piece of. . . ."
