When I enter his room, two guards immediately position themselves outside the door. The tiny television's flickering light helps illuminate the dimness. The sheets' whiteness contrasts with Kenyatta's blackness, his dreadlocks spread out over the pale pillow. He rises when I sweep in and gives me a big smile. Feeling uneasy, I throw my coat on a chair and walk around the bed to hug him. I take him in my arms, almost lifting his long, frail frame off the bed, kissing his face all over--his eyes, mouth, cheeks, his neck, his ears, under his arms. His underarm! A shock of sexual delight! I love his underarm smell. So I sniff his underarm, drink it in like a woman dying of thirst. I don't even mind the rankness resulting from his days of not bathing while we harassed the prison authorities to send a doctor to examine him.
As we embrace, I'm aware of the two prison guards sitting outside the room staring in alarm and confusion. I could feel them wondering whether they should break up our intimacy. The female guard asks her male partner, "Who is she?" Ignoring their discussion, I sit and watch him. It's only then that I notice his roommate, a fellow prisoner/patient taking in the whole scene. I study Kenyatta. He looks extremely unnatural, like he's dying. Not from the tube in his penis and the hanging bloody bag collecting his urine and other fluids. Not from the tubes and needles in his arms. But from the cumulative result of being denied medical attention during the past months at Fishkill Prison and the compounded effects of twenty years of abuse and exhaustion from prison life. Still, he looks gorgeous. And mad. And crazy.
I'm concerned about his health, but I'm also angry. How dare he die now before we have a chance to be together. How dare he die now after I've spent a fortune visiting him and working on his release. Die before we have a chance to make mad love? He better not! I want to FUCK this man! He can't die! I want this man to FUCK me! He better not die! Die before we have a chance to wash dishes and cook together? Die before we have a chance to do all the things most people take for granted--but which cannot be ours until he's released from prison? I watch him. Hold one hand and feel the flesh hanging off his long fingers. We're both surprised at this turn of events. This illness. This from a man who taught exercise class in prison. Who was almost legendary for his physical abilities. "I never thought this would happen to me," he says. I watch him.
It's surreal. This is the first time I've ever seen him in a bed. It's the first time I've seen his toes (peeking from under the hospital cover) since we met on the IRT subway in Brooklyn, New York, in May 1969 and I noticed his beautiful feet in sandals. I fell in love with those feet. The things I've so often fantasized doing to and with his long toes.
I want to get physical. Close to him. In some kinda way. Any kinda way. So I fix his hair, putting his dreadlocks up in a ponytail. Dinner arrives. I stand to help him. He adds salt, pepper, sugar, and ketchup all over the food. A prison habit to spice up the bland meals. I feed him some soup. He eats little. Making faces and grimacing as he tastes the various items. We talk. I tell him folks are concerned. He wonders why he nearly has to die before folks get concerned about him. People are sick when they act like that, he says, waiting until someone is near death to act. I coax him to eat more, but he's finished. I suggest he brush his teeth and busy myself getting his toothbrush, toothpaste, and water. Another thrill for me. I've known him for nearly thirty years and this is the first time I've ever seen him brush his teeth. We talk some more, rambling conversation. He cries. I cry. I don't want to leave. I worry about his health, although we've heard St. Agnes is a good hospital. Still, this is prison. He recounts the story of the catheter. How he hollered when they came near him with that big ass tube to stick in his dick. He said even the guard was alarmed. I ask him for his medical information, but it's clear his mind isn't functioning properly. I am scared yet fascinated that this brilliant man's mind is going. Visiting time is up.
The guards stand up to watch me put on my coat and say goodbye. I tell him I'll be back. He smiles and says, "You a good womin, Safiya." I walk out of his room and down the corridor. At the Nurse's Station, I demand to see Kenyatta's nurse, all my fear and rage at the prison system in my voice. The folks at the Nurse's Station look alarmed. I probably look as crazy as Kenyatta. His nurse tells me she will talk to both of us.
The guards hesitate, since visiting time is up. But the nurse walks me back to Kenyatta's room. He's sitting up looking at us while she talks. I can see that he doesn't fully understand what's happening. "He has one kidney," she says. (He was born with one kidney.) It's badly infected. His bladder isn't working. She goes on to describe his medical regimen. He's doing better, according to the nurse. Tests are planned. She speaks professionally and reassuringly. (The next time I visit, the sergeant on duty tells me the Nurse's Station is off-limits.)
Patience, in prison