On Sunday the 16th, the biggest night of the convention, the sidewalk outside the temple was buzzing. The men wore fezzes, sharp suits, and well-oiled dress shoes, the women royal purple and peacock blue turbans over sequined shawls and high heels. They’d squeezed into passenger vans to come from Detroit, Philadelphia, D.C., and dozens of towns in between. Five of Johnson-Bey’s siblings and their spouses drove in from Hope in an RV and parked behind the temple; they slept there for five days. There were more people just waiting to get in than actually attend services on a good Friday night. They all turned their palms up and shouted “Islam, brother, Islam, sister!” as more Moors pulled up to the curb.
Inside, the stairs leading to the main room were lined with serious-looking young women and men in dark turbans and fezzes—muftis in charge of security. They offered greetings of “Islam!” to everyone who passed. The pews were packed tight; Moors crammed onto the steps and ringed the walls. One mufti walked around with a video camera; others ran cups of water to older members.
The room was hot. A hymn started up. “We’re marching, marching in America / We’re marching, marching into Mecca.” Brother R. Love-El, a former Grand Sheik of the national body (and a former Detroit cop), took the podium in a red velvet robe and leaned on a gnarled cane as he delivered his sermon. “Keep the temple doors open!” he boomed. “People aren’t gonna come till we tell them to come. Then they gonna lay down their Bibles and turn to Allah. They will learn that they are not black, Negro, colored, or Ethiopian! The streets are gonna fill up with men in turbans and fezzes! The prophet said ‘Membership will dwindle down to a handful, but keep the doors open, and I’ll drive them in!’ Oh, if they could only hear the beauty of Islam.”
Johnson-Bey stood against the wall in a creamy white suit and a red bow tie. In each arm he held one of his wide-eyed granddaughters, two of a small handful of children at the convention. Another hymn started up—”By and by, we’ll get there by and by”—and Johnson-Bey added his rich baritone to the swell of voices. It would probably be another year before the gold-painted walls of Temple No. 9 rang with so much sound.
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