by Terry a. O'Neal | Modern Ghana | Lifestyle
There she sat poised and proud in all her glory at the entrance of the gallery door. It was a vibrant Saturday morning in the small, charming town of Stockton, California, nestled on the west coast, just sixty-five miles of San Pablo Bay.
The African Gallery was a specialty art gift shop owned by a Ghanaian man named Peter Kwasi Baidoo, who immigrated to the states in the 1960s to start a better life for himself and his family.
Baidoo had his own story.
He was orphaned at a young age and reared by his uncle in Accra, Ghana. He grew into quite the entrepreneur after receiving his Master of Business Administration in 1972 from Seattle University.
Merck & Co. was one of the largest pharmaceutical companies in the world; so naturally, it would open doors of opportunity for him. Pharmaceuticals was the dream job that landed him in our modest little town.
A businessman by nature, he ran several enterprises in his homeland to support his village in Mampong, while achieving great success as a naturalized citizen of the United States.
Baidoo’s story does not begin or end here.
The salient details and hardships of his life—the intricacies that folks don’t often talk about remain a mystery to me. Still, what matters are the memories to which I hold dear. The unadorned things, like a stranger who traveled miles away from his homeland on a mission to follow his dreams, and the palpable impact he had on the lives he touched along the way.
I would be remise if I failed to acknowledge the rich soil from which he germinated and the long dirt paths that his weary feet roamed. The same alluring waters in all its vastness that once conspired with slave ships and their masters to carry our people to their doom, Baidoo himself had to cross over.
Thousands of miles he traveled to arrive to the states where he would one day come face-to-face with my mother, Maya Angelou, Lady Baxter, and me.
Every so often, recollections of him appear in disjointed thoughts, while others come across as untroubled as yesterday’s sun. The flared nostrils and slim spectacles that framed his round face, the distinctness of his voice, and the kindness of his spirit, suited him.
Reflections of how he held my mother in high esteem left me with wistful smiles.
Part of my soul’s joy rests in the self-defining memories of Africa he brought us.
It is because of Baidoo and my mother that I can tell this story—because of them I was given a privilege that very few people in their lifetime would ever experience.
In life, we tend to remember those who are most kind and the most cruel. Everything else in between is subject to fade from our memory over time, apart from mothers. Especially the discipline-making ones. They are the exception.
My mother, Mrs. Barbara, as folks would call her, was Liebestraum’s Dreams of Love, like a classical song that you listen to over and again, and with each replay, its airiness never fails to draw tears from your eyes. That was her.
Speaking of love, even a broken heart is charming.
It was the early 1980s. Around the time that I met her, she had traveled to my hometown to spend time with her estranged mother, Ms. Lady Baxter, whom she had a strained relationship that needed elevation.
It just so happened that arrangements were made for Angelou to hold a book signing at Baidoo’s gallery one Saturday morning.
The gallery was situated on the second floor of the plaza located at 2233 West Canal Boulevard. It was an international marketplace where people from different cultures would shop, eat, and exchange goods and services. Most importantly, it was a home away from home where people celebrated their heritage and culture and could share it with the community.
The evening before we met, I had been playing in my backyard, nestled on the corner of Eighth Street and Pock Lane, directly across from Mount Moriah Missionary Baptist Church. Mother kept her daughters enclosed within the chain linked fence that surrounded our yard, hidden amongst grape vines, black berry bushes, and pecan trees, where only she and the gospel could grab hold of us. Praise traveled through slanted square wire mesh and over the roof top, while worship whistled through the leaves of the trees, keeping us safe from the grim realities of life that lingered patiently nearby.
Before the sun would set, it was time to go inside to get washed up in time for dinner. There was always soil in between my teeth and my little toes. My steps were easily traced by the soiled footprints I left behind, to the walkway and in through the sliding glass door, where a yellow, wooden stick stood nestled in the track until the door was latched at nightfall.
Mother would scold me before washing off my feet with the hose and sending me to my room where she’d pull a copy of, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings from my bookshelf and pointed me to chapter two (pages she thought I could read), but I was only six embarking upon seven; about the age that Bailey was in Angelou’s story.
It was my mother who taught me to read and write and gave me an appreciation for my heritage and culture. She revealed my inner strength and beauty and taught me of my ancestors who tirelessly paved the way for us, African Americans, to be here in this present day.
As I continued through chapter two and I stumbled across words that I couldn’t make out, mother would read them aloud.
That evening, mother read Angelou’s poetry and even discussed the writer’s life through her biography. She was an admirer, my mother was. As a poet herself, mother was intrigued by Angelou’s stories and had hoped to steal an opportunity to share some of her poetry with the famous writer in between signing autographs and shaking hands.
See, I knew Angelou long before I was introduced to her at the African Gallery the following day. I even recognized her face from the picture on the back cover her the book. Her image was as beautiful and powerful on the cover and in her words, as it was on the day we met.
There was a newness in the air the following morning. My sisters and I were up dressed; eager to see what all the excitement was about.
The gallery was on the second floor of the Filipino Center We made it to the gallery The sun was blazing through the glass door of the gallery, and all was quiet then. Angelou arrived about an hour after my mothers and two sisters arrived.
I sauntered beside my mother as she motioned me toward Angelou who sat at the gallery entrance waiting on fans to arrive, she didn’t feel much like a stranger—I knew exactly who she was, even though I was too immature to fully comprehend the all-embracing experience beyond my seven summers. In all her grandeur, there I stood, facing her.
Her branch-like arm stretched out before me, and precious words floated from her lips like thistledown as she spoke a seven-syllable clause—not in a child-like tone, but with supreme delight in her voice. “Hello, I’m Ms. Angelou,” she said.
We exchanged an eye-to-eye gaze as she shook my hand firm and earnest, unlike any hand I had ever held before. As mature for the overzealous child I was, I returned the salutation, and a smile. As I stood before her, I didn’t realize at that moment that she was the reflection of what I would one day aspire to become.
My mother knew that I was destined to collide with greatness—the type of eminence that would shape me into a person that the world would one day deem significant. We are all merely a mosaic of beautiful things.
The resonance of the women who birthed and bred us are interwoven into our spirits and affixed to our souls—a promise that will never fade.
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