GraceLand

TWENTY-ONE

The eldest guest blesses the bowl and says, “We have seen the kola, but the King’s kola must return to the King.”

History is at the heart of the ritual, marked in Igbo by the word omenala, which literally means “the way we have always done it.”

Lagos, 1983

“So we work for the Colonel?” Elvis asked.

“Dat’s right,” Redemption replied.

“I don’t like that.”

“Elvis, behave O! Dat’s why I no tell you, because I know you can act out.”

“But that guy is dangerous.”

“So you better behave.”

“What does he want us to do?”

“I told you, I no sure, but it is safe business.”

“You keep saying that, but I don’t believe anything involving that man, or his friends, can be safe. Or legal.”

“I no talk say it is legal. But is only a little illegal, you know? Like when something bend, but not too much.”

“I don’t think there is such a thing as a little illegal. It is illegal or not.”

“Haba Elvis! So you are telling me dat stealing bread from bakery to feed yourself and killing somebody is de same? Everything get degree.”

“I don’t like this, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Fine. No like am, but do am.”

Having slept late, they had only both woken up a few minutes before. They were hurriedly shoving food into their mouths as they waited to be picked up. Elvis was still a little sleepy. After his conversation with his father, he had barely fallen asleep when Redemption had come round, banging on his door. He gave Elvis ten minutes to take a hurried shower before hustling him off. They had taken several buses and were now in a part of Lagos he’d never been to. As they waited, Redemption suggested they get some food in a nearby buka.

“So how long have you worked for the Colonel?” Elvis asked.

“For long time. Even dat last deal we do …”

“The cocaine?”

“Yes, dat was him too. Now he is in a new trade.”

“I don’t know what trade can be more lucrative than drugs. Why the switch?”

“Do you know if it is airplane we are buying and selling? Enough question. Eat.”

“But it is illegal no matter what kind of trade, right?”

“Watch yourself,” Redemption warned.

Just then, they heard shouts of “Ole! Ole!” from the small market to their left. It was half hidden by a timber merchant’s sprawling compound, and Elvis hadn’t noticed it at first. A small crowd chased a man out onto the dirt road between the market and the line of bukas. Elvis got up to get a closer look, but Redemption pulled him down.

“Stay out of it,” he hissed.

The crowd had formed an angry semicircle around the man, leaving the timber yard as the only possible escape; but the mean-faced workers gathered at the gate ruled out that option. The man didn’t look to be more than twenty, though it was hard to tell, partly because his face was dirty and bloody. A tire hung from his neck like a rubber garland, and his eyes wore the look of a cornered animal.

“But I no steal anything!” he shouted. “I beg, I no want to die!”

“Shut up!”

“Ole!”

“Thief!”

“I no be thief! I came to collect my money from dat man who owes me!” the accused thief shouted, pointing at a man in the crowd.

“Which man?” someone in the crowd asked.

“Dat one. Peter.”

The man he was referring to, a short, nondescript man, shifted uncomfortably. “Who owe you? Craze man!” Peter shouted, throwing a stone at the accused thief.

It caught him on the temple, tearing a gash, and fresh blood pumped dark and thick.

“I no be thief O! Hey, God help me! My name is Jeremiah, I am a carpenter. I no be thief!”

“Shut up!” the crowd shouted.

“Is he a thief?” Elvis asked Redemption.

“Maybe.”

“Or is he a carpenter?”

“Maybe.”

“Which one?”

“Either. I don’t know and I don’t care.”

“My name is Jeremiah. My name is Jeremiah,” the man kept repeating.

The crowd had grown silent; the lack of sound, sinister, dropped over the scene like a dark presence. Jeremiah was spinning around in a circle like a broken sprocket, pleading with each face, repeating his name over and over. Instead of loosening the edge of tension by humanizing him, the mantra of his name, with every circle he spun, seemed to wind the threat of violence tighter, drawing the crowd closer in.

Elvis watched a young girl, no older than twelve, pick up a stone and throw it at Jeremiah. It struck him with a dull thud, and though she lacked the strength to break skin, the blow raised a nasty purple lump. That single action triggered the others to pick up and throw stones. The combined sound was sickening, and Jeremiah yelled in pain. There was something comically biblical, yet purely animal, about the scene.

“Why doesn’t anybody help?” Elvis’s voice cracked. This was just like the time that man had jumped into the fire and the time the youths had chased that thief in Bridge City. In both instances he did nothing. Now, again, he did nothing.

“Because dey will stone you too.”

Elvis’s question had been rhetorical, and he glared at Redemption, who went on blithely:

“Look, Elvis, dese are poor people. Poor people are hungry people, and like Bob Marley talk, a hungry man is an angry man. You get ciga?”

Elvis passed his pack. Redemption lit two, passed one to Elvis and pocketed the pack.

“Hey!” Elvis said.

“Sorry. Habit,” Redemption said, handing the pack back with a smile.

“How long can we use the excuse of poverty?”

Although Elvis had not asked anyone in particular, a man sitting across the room responded angrily, not taking his eyes off the scene outside.

“You dis man, you just come Lagos?”

“Hey! Mind your business!” Redemption shouted.

The man returned to arguing with the buka owner. She was standing in the kitchen doorway, attention divided between pots bubbling over on the wood-burning stove and the scene outside.

“He must have molest a child,” the buka owner said, voice heavy with wonder.

“If so, he for die by now. I tink he is just a common tief,” the man said.

“But he no look like tief,” she countered.

“How does tief look?”

“Not like him!” she said.

Elvis turned away from them. He watched Redemption’s face. It was clear that his attention was focused completely on the events unfolding in the street outside, even though his face wore a disinterested look. His breathing was shallow, and that intrigued Elvis.

“Where are the police when you need them?” Elvis asked, sucking smoke into his lungs.

“Dere dey are,” Redemption said, pointing to the checkpoint a few yards up the street. The policemen were watching the scene with bored expressions.

Outside, the crowd had given up throwing stones and was watching Jeremiah for signs of life. He lay on his side twitching, the tire necklace still in place. Elvis noticed that Jeremiah’s hands were tied, explaining why he couldn’t fight back. A whooping sound went through the crowd as a man ran up with a ten-gallon metal jerry can.

“What is that?” Elvis asked.

“Petrol,” Redemption replied.

“Oh.”

The crowd parted slightly to let the man with the jerry can through. He stood in front of the prone Jeremiah for a while, appearing unsure about what to do next.

“Baptize him! Baptize him!” the crowd shouted.

Moving quickly, the man unscrewed the can’s cap and doused the prone Jeremiah with the petrol. Jeremiah twitched as the petrol got into his open wounds and burned. A fat woman stepped back and Elvis caught his first good look of Jeremiah’s face. It was tired, features reflecting Jeremiah’s struggle against the inevitable resignation. The man threw the empty can to the ground and it resounded with a metallic echo. Nobody moved or spoke, not in the crowd, the buka or at the police checkpoint. Everybody was waiting for something to happen. Anything. Peter stepped forward and stood before Jeremiah, who, revived by the harsh smell of the petrol, was struggling to his knees.

“I beg, Peter. You know I no be tief. I beg.”

Peter calmly reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette lighter. He flicked it on and stepped back from Jeremiah, dropping the lighter on the tire necklace. Elvis followed the lighter’s fall. It could not have lasted more than two seconds, though it seemed to take forever. It was hard to tell which came first, the sheet of flame or the scream.

“Aah,” Redemption said in a long, drawn-out breath. “Necklace of fire.”

It sounded so sensual it made Elvis shudder.

“Every day for de tief,” the man across from them breathed.

“One day for the owner,” the buka owner completed.

They watched as the screaming, burning Jeremiah struggled to his feet and tried to break through the circle, but men who had retrieved long wooden planks from the timber yard earlier, for this exact moment, pushed him back with the long wooden fingers. The only way out was in the direction of the timber yard, and Jeremiah headed for it. From where Elvis sat, it was impossible to see his limbs; he looked like a floating sheet of flame. The men by the timber yard gate, caught off guard, yelled in alarm and scattered in every direction as Jeremiah crashed through and into the yard. He was still screaming. Within minutes, the timber yard was ablaze and the workers formed a chain, throwing buckets of water and sand at the fire, but it was too big. The mob of lynchers had melted away, as had the police.

“We should help,” Elvis said, not getting up.

“What good is dat.”

“The fire will spread.”

“Not our problem. Anyway, our ride is here,” Redemption said, walking out to a black GMC truck that had just pulled up. Elvis hesitated for a second, then followed him. The last thing he saw was the buka owner grabbing all the money from the tin that served as her till. She stuffed bills and coins down her bra and ran out the back, leaving the food still burning.

“Get in,” Redemption said, opening the back door for him.

As he climbed into the truck, Elvis was shaking. This scene had affected him more than anything else he had seen, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the cumulative effect of all the horror he had witnessed; there was only so much a soul could take. As they drove off, Elvis watched the spreading fire through the tinted glass. It was horrifying, yet strangely beautiful.

MORINGA OLEIFERA LAM.

(Igbo: Okwe-beke)

This small deciduous tree with a crooked stem, often forking near the base, has a dark grey and smooth bark. The twigs and young shoots are densely hairy, and the tree is often found in farmlands and around small-town homes. It has doubled, sometimes tripled, large leaves, and small white sweet-scented flowers and a podlike fruit.

Its leaves and the young pods are used as vegetables for soup or salad, and the kernels yield clear, sweet oil. The root and bark are used as an antiscurvy treatment. The tree is planted on graves to keep away hyenas and its branches are used in a charm against witches.

TWENTY-TWO

He then passes it to the next in line by seniority.

Yet there is a deeper philosophy to this, a connection to land and history that cannot be translated.

Lagos, 1983

They left the scene of the fire behind, merging onto a highway that cut into the edge of a cliff, the Atlantic falling off to the right, sheer rock rising to the left. Mountain goats ran across the road, timing the traffic with practiced ease. The sea was an angry crash on rocks, and the landscape seemed too barren even for birds.

Then the road dipped, still hugging the coastline, until it was at sea level and waves swept over the rock battlements to flood the road. The cliff to their left relaxed in gentle gradients, into a rolling plain of windswept grass. They turned off and headed inland, the sea grass giving way to richer, denser rain forest. The road wound between trees that had probably been there a few hundred years, and the vegetation matting between them seemed as impenetrable as a sultan’s harem.

“Where are we going?” Elvis asked.

“To collect de merchandise,” the driver said.

Elvis studied the two men up front. The driver was short, dark and thick, and he gripped the steering wheel with short, stubby fingers and small hands. He had introduced himself as Anthony, and he seemed garrulous and friendly.

The other passenger was tall and skinny, like an upright mamba, and as dark, his skin shining with a purple hue. He wore a sour expression that seemed apt given that his name was Conrad. His face was patterned with deeply cut tribal marks that would have identified his exact clan a century ago, and might have also saved him from being sold into slavery, because the scarifications would have lessened his market value — unless he ran into slavers so desperate for a trade that they wouldn’t care. He was taciturn, barely responding to their greetings, and then gruffly. The only thing the two men had in common were glittering red eyes; probably the result of some drug, Elvis decided.

“Are we going to meet the Colonel?” he asked.

“You ask too many questions. Watch yourself,” Conrad warned.

Elvis lapsed into silence, staring out the window at the increasingly rural landscape. Tall elephant grass that reminded him of his childhood and the rhino beetle hunts he went on, wading through the four-, sometimes five-foot-tall grass, peeling the reluctant armored black beetles from their perches on the tips of the grass. He and his friends would tie stiff black hair-plaiting thread, obtained from a female relative, to the beetles’ torsos, under their wings. Prodded with sticks by the boys, the beetles would take off, flying in circles controlled by the strings, whirring like small black helicopters.

As they passed the occasional small town, he saw old men and women dozing outside their huts. Dogs slept in the middle of the road, where it was warm, reluctantly getting out of the way for their truck. But Anthony never slowed down or swerved to avoid any, and he left a trail of roadkill behind them.

“Hey, Zorba!” Conrad said every time they hit one.

Elvis conjectured that Zorba was Anthony’s nickname. It probably came from the movie Zorba the Greek, with Anthony Quinn. In some way, he guessed, it made sense.

They had been driving for about four hours and dusk was settling, but just before it got really dark, they pulled up to a solitary hut. A single kerosene lantern burned from the top of a pole mounted outside. Though there was no sign of any electric lights, a generator thumped somewhere behind the hut. There was only the sound of the generator and the idle throb of their engine. Even cicadas did not sing. Anthony and Conrad got out.

“Wait here!” Conrad called over his shoulder.

Elvis and Redemption exchanged looks. Leaning forward, Redemption wound down his window and lit a cigarette, taking a deep, grateful drag.

“Give me one, man,” Elvis said.

“Dis is my last. I go fifty you,” Redemption replied.

He took a few more drags that burned the cigarette half down. Reluctantly he passed it to Elvis, who sucked greedily until he burned through to the stub.

“Dis car big O!” Redemption said looking around the back of the truck. The GMC truck had two regular rows of seats, and two benches in the back that faced each other. “I fit take it make good taxi. Carry plenty passengers one time,” he continued.

“I don’t trust those guys,” Elvis replied.

If Redemption was surprised at the non sequitur, he did not show it. “Me too,” he agreed.

Just then Anthony and Conrad came out of the hut carrying two giant plastic coolers. Grunting, they struggled to get them into the back of the truck. Turning in his seat, Elvis offered to help.

“Clever man,” Anthony replied cheerfully. “You wait until we done, den you offer.”

Elvis laughed uncomfortably. Conrad had already started walking back to the hut. He returned with six people. As they got close, Elvis saw that their hands were tied and that they were a mixed bunch of kids, boys and girls, ranging in age from about eight to sixteen. Conrad opened the back doors and they filed in silently, sitting facing each other, three to a side, on the benches, the coolers sitting on the floor between them.

While Anthony rambled on about the weather and the trouble the repeated rains were causing his father’s farm and their crops, Conrad chained the feet of their new passengers together. He was about to slam the door shut when a hard-faced man came banging out of the hut, lugging a third giant cooler.

“What’s dat?” Conrad asked. “Colonel said two cooler.”

“Dis is food and drink. It is long trip.”

“Okay. Help me load it,” Conrad said, lighting a cigarette.

The man grunted from the effort of carrying the heavy cooler by himself, shooting baleful looks at Conrad, who just watched, smoking. There wasn’t enough space to get the third cooler in on the floor, so the man sat it on top of the other two coolers already there. With any luck it would upturn and spill the food and drink everywhere, the man thought. But thinking better of it, he lifted it back down and began to move the other coolers around to see if he could fit them all in on the floor. As he was doing that, Elvis turned away from Conrad and the man and focused on Anthony. He was talking rapidly, even more so than he had on the drive up, and he seemed agitated. Elvis could hear the generator thudding away in the background and wondered why it wasn’t connected to any lights — at least, none that he could see. Perhaps it powered some other device. He was curious, but knew better than to ask Anthony or Conrad.

“Redemption, you hold your gun?” Anthony asked.

“Sure.”

“You get bullet?” Anthony pressed, loading a big revolver.

Redemption took out his automatic, pulled out the magazine and checked it. Elvis looked from one gun to the other nervously. He didn’t like guns.

“Bullet dey, thirteen rounds accounted for, sir,” Redemption said in mock military style. Both he and Anthony laughed.

“Why you dey always laugh?” Conrad asked, getting in and slamming the door.

“Easy, Connie, you too vex.”

“Go, go,” Conrad said, slapping the door of the car.

“Okay,” Anthony said, grinding gears and accelerating too fast. The truck skidded in the sand before finding a grip and heading off.

Elvis turned to look at the six passengers. None of them were moving. They wore dazed expressions and seemed unaware of their restraints.

“Who are they?” Elvis asked.

“De people you are here to escort. Anthony is driver and I am relief driver. You are de escorts.”

“Why are they chained?”

“Dey are crazy runaways from Ghana. Their papa is a big man in Rawlings gofment, so we are returning dem to their parents. Simple,” Anthony replied.

Elvis sat back. He didn’t believe a word of it, but he knew better than to ask more questions.

He stared out of the windows at the thick soup of night. It was so dark he could barely make out the shapes of trees and huts lying low like sleeping animals. They stopped at several police checkpoints. Each time, Anthony handed some money and cigarettes to a lead officer.

“Esprit de corps,” he called each time as they drove off.

“Esprit,” the officers always responded.

Elvis looked at Redemption the second time he heard the exchange.

“Army talk,” Redemption said. In minutes, he was asleep. Elvis couldn’t sleep. He was too scared. Everything was wrong, and yet he couldn’t tell exactly what. He didn’t believe they were returning the kids to their parents, but couldn’t think of anything else they might be doing with them. He sighed and looked behind him. In the gloom, he could make out that one of the kids, a young girl, was staring straight at him, eyes awake, afraid. He wanted to say something to reassure her, make her shift her gaze, but he couldn’t think of anything.

“Look, dere is a small town coming ahead. I go stop make we piss and stretch our leg,” Anthony said authoritatively.

Within ten minutes they pulled into the dusty motor park of the town that abutted the market. A crooked sign said: WELCOME TO IBARE — THE STRUNGLE CONTINUES. Elvis could see lights staggering up a hill in the distance and assumed it marked the outskirts of the town. It didn’t look that small.

“Wait here,” Anthony said to Elvis and Redemption. Turning to Conrad, he said: “Go use toilet, den when you come back Redemption dem fit go. Me, I need to call de Colonel.”

“Elvis, you be liability,” Redemption said as soon as they were on their own.

“Leave me,” Elvis said, getting out of the car.

“Where you dey go?” Redemption called after him.

“I want to buy cigarettes.”

“What of de ciga you had before?”

“I want to buy some more. Is it your money?”

“No. Good, buy all de ciga you want. Dat’s more for me.”

Elvis headed off, and Redemption became aware that the young girl in the back was sobbing.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Kemi,” the girl replied.

“Are you hungry?”

She shook her head, but he couldn’t tell if it was from sobbing or in response to his question.

“Look, you better stop crying before dey come back,” he said.

“Please don’t kill me, sir,” she sniffled.

“Who go kill you? Nobody want to kill you.”

“The other man said he is going to kill us,” she said.

“Where you learn to blow grammar like dis?”

“I am in secondary school.”

“So what are you doing with dese people?”

“They kidnapped me, sir.”

Elvis wandered back to the car.

“Sssh!” Redemption said to Kemi.

Elvis unwrapped a packet of cigarettes, lit two and passed one to Redemption.

“Whom were you talking to?”

“Dis girl, Kemi.”

“The one crying?”

Redemption nodded.

“So what is really going on?” Elvis asked.

“With what?”

“With these kids. Why are we transporting them tied up to another country?”

Redemption took a deep breath. “As I know it, de Colonel dey supply dese children to white people who want to adopt dem.”

“And why are they so silent? Are they drugged?”

Silence.

“Redemption?”

“I no go lie. Me too done begin to suspect dat story. But as you know, dey have paid us five thousand naira each.”

“When did they pay us?”

“I have your share. Don’t worry.”

“So what do you think the real deal is with these kids?”

“Well, maybe slavery.”

“Slavery? Who still buy slaves?”

“Plenty people. Dese children can become prostitute in European country or even for Far East.”

“Redemption, I don’t want anything to do with this. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because you for act like dis. Hold yourself, Elvis. Listen, I dey thirsty. Go see inside dat cooler whether beer dey dere.”

“Man, this is all shit. I don’t want any part of this.”

“Elvis! Hold yourself. It is too late now. If de oders hear you, dey can kill you. Make we just deliver dese children wherever and den wash our hands for de future. Okay?”

“No! How can it be okay?”

“Elvis, listen carefully. We dey deep inside dis shit. De best thing is to keep low until we can leave safely. Okay?”

“Okay,” Elvis grumbled.

“Now, go check dat cooler for beer.”

As Elvis opened the back door, Kemi tried to get up from her seat, but the chains held her fast. The other kids were still stoned, and Elvis wondered why she seemed unaffected by whatever drug had been given to the others.

“Please, sir, help me!” she begged.

“Shut up!” Redemption shouted at her from the far side of the truck, banging on the window. She flinched and watched Elvis with sad eyes. Avoiding her gaze, Elvis looked at the three coolers. Somehow the man who loaded them had gotten them to fit side by side, but Elvis couldn’t tell which one held the food. Even though the food had been loaded last, he had seen the man who put them in rearranging them to fit, so the cooler of food could be any of the three. It didn’t help that they were all the same color.

“Redemption, there are three coolers here. Which one?”

“How I go know? Check all three. Dere must be beer in one of dem,” Redemption replied.

Elvis muttered obscenities under his breath and reached for one of the coolers. He popped the lid, but it was so dark, he could see nothing. The contents gave off a strange rusty smell and he decided against plunging his hands blindly into it.

“You get light?” he shouted at Redemption.

“Light?”

“It is dark back here.”

“Dis is government motor, so flashlight must dey glove box,” Redemption said, opening the passenger door. The overhead light came on as Redemption opened the door, and Elvis staggered back in disgust. He tried to shout, but nothing came. Kemi, however, let out a piercing scream that had Redemption scrambling to the back. He clocked her on the side of the head with the pistol butt and she fell silent.

“What is it?” he demanded.

Elvis pointed to the cooler, face ashen, hand trembling. Redemption looked inside and recoiled. There were six human heads sitting on a pile of ice.

“Shit!” he swore, popping the covers off the other coolers. The second one held what appeared to be several organs, hearts and livers, also packed with ice. The third held bottles of beer and what looked like food. Redemption took a few steps back, noting that a small crowd was beginning to gather, drawn by Kemi’s short but loud scream. He looked for Elvis, who was heaving at the edge of the road, away from the crowd. Moving swiftly, he came up beside him.

“What is going on?” an old man asked.

“I don’t know,” Redemption replied.

“But I saw you in de car,” the old man insisted.

“Elvis, get up,” Redemption said, pulling urgently at Elvis’s arm. Looking around desperately, he saw Anthony and Conrad making their way back to the truck, clearly unaware of the excitement.

“Listen, young man,” the old man continued, tugging at Redemption’s shirt. “We hear scream. What is going on?”

“Ask dose men. It is deir car,” Redemption replied, pointing to the approaching Anthony and Conrad. Returning his attention to Elvis, he forced him upright and shook him roughly.

“Collect yourself,” he hissed. “We get to move quickly.”

“Oh my God!”

Redemption turned to the shout. It came from a young man who had gone to inspect the coolers. In his fright he had knocked one of them over, and the human heads rolled across the ground like errant fruit from a grocery bag.

“Shit!” Redemption said, dragging Elvis across the road and into the darkness of the market. They moved quickly, Redemption trailing Elvis behind him like a leashed dog. They threaded between empty stalls, followed by the angry shouts of the crowd. When he thought they had put a safe distance between them and the crowd, Redemption stopped to catch his breath and determine if they were being followed. They were not. The crowd had probably caught Anthony and Conrad and were more than likely beating them to death. Redemption thought he heard one shot, but couldn’t be sure, and then the sound of the crowd grew louder. They had no doubt killed the two men and were fanning out in search of Elvis and Redemption.

“Move!” Redemption said, pushing Elvis ahead of him.

They broke free of the market and found themselves on a side street. Redemption scanned the road. It was a residential street and everything was quiet. He passed his gun to Elvis.

“If anybody come, shoot, den run.”

“Where are you going?” Elvis asked. His wits were returning, fueled by terror.

“To find motor to steal. Wait here.”

Elvis nodded and shrank into the safety of a mango tree’s shadows. He held the gun gingerly, afraid it would go off and kill him. Shortly, he heard the sound of a car pulling up; but unsure of who was driving it, he stayed hidden.

“Elvis!”

He got up and looked. Redemption grinned at him from an old Mercedes-Benz. Elvis ran to the car and jumped in through the window, not bothering to open the door. As Redemption roared off, a barking dog chased after them.

FISH PEPPER SOUP

INGREDIENTS

Fresh fish

Fresh bonnet peppers

One fresh plum tomato

Palm oil

Uhiokiriho

Utazi

Onions

Maggi cubes

Salt

Crayfish

Akanwu

PREPARATION

You can use any kind of fish for this dish. Just make sure your fish is fresh. The best test for freshness is to put the fish in a bowl of water and watch to see if it moves. It should at the very least twitch, otherwise it is a little too old. Clean and gut the fish; this might include descaling if it is a scaly fish like tilapia.

Put the fish in a pot with a little water and put on to boil. Add all the other ingredients and leave to simmer for about twenty-five minutes. Serve in bowls with fresh basil.

This spicy dish is great for women who have just undergone labor. The heat of it, mixed with the herbs, releases healing enzymes and can even cause stubborn afterbirths to fall out. In some older members of the clan, there is still the belief that fish pepper soup, cooked with the right herbs, can endow the consumer with a fish’s abilities in water.

TWENTY-THREE

And so the kola makes its journey round the room and is seen by the eldest of all the clans.

Every time the ritual takes place, the history of all the clans present, and their connections, is enacted. This helps remembering.

Abeokuta, 1983

Elvis sighed, unwrapped a Bazooka, and read the fortune on the insert, desperately seeking words of wisdom.

“Bazooka Joe says: ‘A friend in need is always a pain.’”

That wasn’t much help, so he unwrapped another.

“Bazooka Joe says: ‘A bird in hand is worth two in the bush.’” Still not much help.

“Bazooka Joe says: ‘It is never right to do wrong.’”

Another:

“Bazooka Joe says: ‘A stitch in time saves nine.’”

Bazooka Joes were pretty big chunks of gum, and by now he could hardly move his jaw. Still, he unwrapped another.

“Bazooka Joe says: ‘Time waits for no man.’”

“Elvis, easy, you go get lockjaw,” Redemption cautioned.

Elvis laughed and went back to looking out of the window. They had been driving since late the night before. Beyond the window, cornfields rustled in the breeze. He remembered the corn his mother grew in a small area of her garden and how their blond stalks, pregnant with seeds, brushed him teasingly as he played near them, their pollen on his arms, itching when it mixed with sweat, his shoes covered in a layer of golden dust, like sun-yellowed snow. In the distance, leafless, dried, skeletal trees held up the horizon with bleached silvery arms. Shading his eyes against the sun, Elvis looked ahead, through the windshield, absently wondering how Redemption could see to drive.

Finally running out of Bazooka Joes, and not being able to hide from it any longer, Elvis asked the question.

“What exactly happened back there?”

“I no sure, but I think dat we were trading in spare parts.”

“Spare parts? What are you talking about?”

“Spare human parts. For organ transplant.”

“What?”

“Light me one ciga and I go tell you,” Redemption said.

Elvis lit two cigarettes, passing one on. Outside, the landscape had changed to a haze of greenery. They had left the savannah and the cornfields behind and were now surrounded on either side by a dense forest. Tall palm trees and thick foliage lined the road. Elvis never ceased to be amazed by the way things changed here. Nothing happened in subtle degrees — not the weather, not the movement of time, and certainly not nature. It was impossible to see more than a couple of feet into the forest on either side, and Elvis wondered if it would be like the twilight of the forests back in Afikpo, near their house, where he went to escape his father’s anger. Once inside, it was easy to lose a bigger pursuer in the tangle of liana, ferns and other underbrush, and the darkness: not as dense as night, but a gloom far moodier, far scarier, penetrated only by the call of invisible animals and birds. Its safety was tenuous, as though it held a threat worse than a beating from his father.

“So tell me.”

Redemption took a deep breath and looked at Elvis.

“Keep your eyes on the road!”

“You sure say you want to know?”

“Just tell me.”

“American hospitals do plenty organ transplant. But dey are not always finding de parts on time to save people life. So certain people in Saudi Arabia and such a place used to buy organ parts and sell to rich white people so dey can save their children or wife or demselves.”

“They can’t do that!”

“Dis world operate different way for different people. Anyway, de rich whites buy de spare parts from de Arabs who buy from wherever dey can. Before dey used to buy only from Sudan and such a place, but de war and tings is make it hard, so dey expand de operation. People like de Colonel use their position to get human parts as you see and den freeze it. If we had cross de border yesterday, airplane for carry dose parts to Saudi hospital so dat dey can be sold.”

Elvis was silent. He stared out of the window, but kept seeing the heads in the iced cooler. He felt strange, like there were two parts of him, each watching the other, each unsure. He watched from another place as his hands trembled and his left eye twitched uncontrollably. He did not want to talk about this anymore, but somewhere he had crossed the line on that possibility.

“How much?”

“It depend on de part. Human head fetch ten thousand dollars.”

“But there is no head transplant surgery.”

Redemption laughed. “Elvis, eh! Dey can use de eyes and also something dey call stem cell. Anyway, heart is also ten thousand. De oders, like kidney, are like three to ten thousand dollars. It is big money for de Colonel.”

“So if we sell them to the Saudis at ten thousand, how much do they sell at?”

“Dat depend. If your only son dey die, how much you go pay for spare part for him?”

“Anything, I guess.”

“Dat’s right.”

They sat in silence, broken only by their breathing and Leo Sayer on the car radio, reassuring them, “You make me feel like dancing.”

Finally, Redemption said it. “You no go ask about de children we carry?”

“I was afraid to.”

“Well, as I hear, dere is too much damage to de organ as de Colonel de harvest dem. Also, not all survive de journey. So many of de parts are thrown away.”

“Oh my God!”

“Yes, dose children will arrive in Saudi alive, den, depend on de demand, dey will harvest de parts from dem. Fresh, no damage, more money for all of dem.”

“And none of the Americans ask questions about where the organs come from?”

“Like I said, if your only child dey die, you go ask question?”

“How could you get us involved, knowing all this? We are as bad as the Colonel and the Saudis.”

“No forget de whites who create de demand.”

“Them too. But how could you do this to me and claim to be my friend?”

“Firstly, I no know dat’s what dis job was. Secondly, dere are plenty people like Kansas who are also looking for money, but I choose you because you be my friend. You can be ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful! I—”

“If you want to preach, hold it. I tire,” Redemption interrupted.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

The motion of the car lulled Elvis to sleep. Beside him, Redemption chain-smoked to stay awake, the spiral of smoke blurring his vision. After several hours they came up to a small town, where Redemption slowed and pulled off by an isolated buka. Elvis woke up and looked around. They were in an industrial area, surrounded on every side by warehouses.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?” Elvis asked, stating the obvious. They had been driving all night and most of the morning, yet Lagos still seemed so far away.

“Make I ask dem inside. You want anything?”

“Anything cold, and some food,” Elvis replied.

He got out of the car and stretched. Ahead, the road unwound in a dusty ribbon. A crow called from its perch on a leafless branch, and a snake, probably a viper, basked in the noon heat on the road’s edge. He had no idea where they were. He watched a slim woman sail past balancing a load on her head that defied the frailty of her neck. Two small children followed closely, munching on sugarcane stems, while another was tied to her back by a lappa. It slept, lulled by the sway of her hips and the shade from the load.

Redemption came sauntering back to the car. He held two cold bottles of Coke and a fistful of bread. He broke off some bread and handed it to Elvis with one of the Cokes.

“Any idea where we are?”

“Near Shagamu. If we just continue straight we go meet freeway. Turn left and we go dey for Lagos in two hours.”

Elvis nodded and bit into the bread. It was hard and crumbly, but to him it tasted great. Eating quickly, he washed it down with the Coke. He tossed the bottle to the dusty ground and lit up a cigarette.

“Return de bottles,” Redemption said, snatching the cigarette from Elvis’s mouth. Empty bottles were valuable because the local Coca-Cola factory washed and reused them. To ensure they got their bottles back, the factory charged local retailers a deposit on the bottles, which could only be redeemed when the bottles were turned in. The retailers in turn passed the cost of the deposit on to consumers if they intended to leave the immediate vicinity of their shops with the drinks. The amount varied from retailer to retailer but was usually no less than the price of the drink.

With a grunt Elvis got out of the car, bent down and picked up the empty Coke bottles and walked back to the buka with them. The owner returned the deposit and he pocketed it. By the time he got back to the car, Redemption already had the engine running. Elvis slid into the passenger seat, slammed the door and, as they drove off in a cloud of dust, lit another cigarette.

They traveled in silence for a mile or so until they came across a line of pedestrians dressed in bright red and yellow clothes Elvis had only seen in Indian movies. Unlike the Hare Krishnas who were now a common sight in Lagos, or the Hindus and Sikhs who owned businesses in Nigeria, these Indian-influenced Nigerians wore outfits that mixed ideas right out of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves and costumes from a Bollywood production, complete with turbans. They had a regal look that was marred only by the sweat staining their outfits darkly, falling in streams down their faces.

“What is this? The invasion of the Raj?” Elvis asked, laughing.

“No, dese are de followers of dat new prophet, Guru Maharaji.”

“Guru who?”

“Maharaji. He is a local boy O! I hear say he used to be petty assassin. Den one day he escape on ship from de people whose child he kill and den return six years later saying he is de next prophet after Mohammed and Bahai. Say de Indian people dey crown him savior but dat he wanted to come back here just to help us. Bloody tief, I bet you he only reach Ivory Coast.”

Elvis laughed again. “These prophets, eh? How do they get people to follow them?”

“Who else dem go follow? Only prophets fit help us now, we be like de Israelites in de desert. No hope, no chance, no Moses. Who else we go follow?”

“Shit. A nation of prophets and devotees is a damned place.”

“Or a blessed one.”

Elvis snorted. Just then, one of the women caught his eye. It wasn’t just the way her bodice cupped her bosom tightly, or the way the rest of her outfit fell freely around her, swelling with each movement of her hips; not even the lone dreadlock that broke free of her turban and snaked down the side of her face. It was something else.

“Stop — stop!” he yelled at Redemption.

“I no fit, Elvis. We must reach Lagos and make plan before de Colonel find us.”

“Shit,” Elvis muttered as the line of devotees faded in the dust of their backwash. He felt sure that it was she — Efua. It made perfect sense. She was, after all, the one among them who most needed to believe; plus Aunt Felicia and even Sunday had said that they heard she was in or around Lagos. What good would stopping do? If she had wanted his help, she would have come to him. He was sure that his address was no secret back in Afikpo. Maybe he should just let her be. On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t her. After all, he hadn’t gotten a very good view. Still …

“I think we just passed my cousin Efua.”

“Here?”

“She was with the Maharaji people.”

“Aah. Maybe is for de best.”

“What?’

“Well, as you tell me, she done suffer. So maybe is for de best.”

“All her life she has been surrounded by fakes and charlatans who have not helped her. If that was her, I should go back and save her. But it’s probably not her.”

“Dis Elvis, you dey very selfish.”

“What do you mean?”

“Since I know you, you only care about yourself.”

“How can you say that, Redemption?”

“Because it is true!”

“But I want to help my cousin, do the right thing — how can that be selfish?”

“Until you see somebody dat you think is her, you never even talk of finding her. You never even think it. Now you say you want to help. Na lie. You dey want be hero, de savior of your cousin. Oh yes, I know your type. I am your type. If you can’t save yourself, den save others, abi? Dat way you can pretend to be good person.”

“I’m not following.”

“Why? It’s simple.”

Elvis was silent.

“Let’s take me. Since you have know me, what do you know about me? Nothing!” Redemption continued.

“That is not true.”

“Really? Okay, where dem born me, what be my papa name?”

“You’ve never told me.”

“I never tell you, or you never ask?”

“That doesn’t make me selfish.”

“Close your mouth before fly enter. Everything is about Elvis. I sure say you no even know your papa papa name.”

“That’s not true.”

“When it concerns you, nothing is true. Dere is a saying dat if everybody say you are smelling, better take shower before arguing. Even when you dey vex for your papa, you done ask yourself why tings be as dey are for him? You done try to understand him? Instead, you carry yourself as if nobody can understand you. Please, my friend, you are not so difficult to read.”

Elvis had no comeback, no quick retort. Redemption had never spoken to him this way, and it hurt. He kept quiet, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands. As he sucked in the smoke, he couldn’t hold back the tears that ran soundlessly down his face.

“Ah, Elvis, no ciga for me?” Redemption asked. “Just because I tell you de really truth?”

He turned to Elvis when he got no reply. Seeing the tears run down his face, he coughed and reached for the packet lying on the seat between them. He put one in his mouth and depressed the lighter on the dashboard. As he lit his cigarette from its glowing tip, he wondered if he had gone too far. Ah, what the hell, he thought, it was too late now.

In a few minutes they hit the tarred smoothness of the highway and were headed for Lagos. With any luck, Redemption thought, they would get there by lunchtime.

Sunday Oke folded the newspaper and laughed.

“What is it?” Comfort asked.

“Dis crazy government. Dey want to bulldoze dis place.”

“Which place?”

“Maroko.”

“Bulldoze?”

“Maroko.”

“Why?”

“Well, according to de paper, dey say we are a pus-ridden eyesore on de face of de nation’s capital.”

“Maroko?”

“Not only Maroko, but all de ghettos in Lagos. A simultaneous attack on de centers of poverty and crime, dat’s what dey are calling it. Dey even have a military sounding name for it — Operation Clean de Nation.”

“Maroko?”

“Stop repeating dat word like a crazy person! I say not only Maroko, but Ajegunle, Idi Oro and all de smaller ghettos under de flyovers. But phase one is Maroko.”

“When?”

“Well, according by de paper, it can happen anytime.”

“Anytime? How we go do?”

“Me? Nothing. I am not leaving dis place. We just managed to buy dese few rooms we own, and now dey want to come and destroy it. Why? So dat dey can turn dis place to beachside millionaire’s paradise? No! And den we will all move to another location and set up another ghetto. Instead of dem to address de unemployment and real cause of poverty and crime, dey want to cover it all under one pile of rubbish.”

“What of compensation? Did de paper talk of dat?”

“Yes, dey say dey will pay compensation, but dat is a pipe dream.”

“Why?”

“Dey haven’t paid de promised compensation to dose dat lost things during de war. You know how many years dat is? When do you think dey will pay us? In de meantime will we live on fresh air? I am not going anywhere.”

“But we can at least try, eh? Maybe dem go pay before de bulldoze.”

“Pay first? Dat’s like asking prostitute to pay you before sex.”

Comfort shot him a very disapproving look. “I no know about dat. But anything is possible.”

“Pipe dreams. I know I am not moving,” Sunday said. He turned to look at Comfort. She was staring off into the distance, her face furrowed in worry. Her hair was plaited, she wore no makeup and her dark skin seemed to glow. She was beautiful in spite of the toll that three children, a divorce, living with an alcoholic, running a small business, age and living in Lagos had taken. For a moment he thought he might be in love with her.

“I am not moving,” he repeated.

“Where Elvis?” Comfort asked, turning to him.

Caught off guard, he looked away shyly, before she could see what was moving in his eyes.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. I don’t know about Elvis. Dat boy has used up all my patience.”

She laughed, and the sound, sudden and uninhibited, surprised him.

“Like father, like son,” she said.

“What is dat supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I just dey wonder. Over two days now, him never reach house.”

“He will come back soon. Anyway, why are you not in the market? It is just eleven in de morning.”

“I decide to close my shop today.”

“Why?”

“Why yourself? I no fit rest or am I spoiling something for you?”

“I only asked a simple question.”

“I dey go big market today for Shagamu with Gladys dem to buy new material for sale.”

He nodded. He had never taken any real interest in what she did to earn a living, not since she had slept with someone to get him a job. Since then he had only really been interested in what he could lift from her purse to buy palm wine.

“When are you leaving?’

“In about one hour. Gladys dem go come for me. Dem dey charter taxi.”

“Hmm,” he grunted.

“What?”

He drained the already empty palm wine bottle dramatically. But if she understood what he was hinting at, she said nothing. Deciding not to leave anything to chance, he spoke up.

“A man needs a little something to line his purse, you know. In case of emergency,” he said.

“Well den, a man needs a job,” she said, getting up and walking inside to get ready.

With a curse, he threw the empty palm wine bottle into the street. It narrowly missed a man in a bad suit cruising by on a high-pitched Vespa. The bottle shattered, raining green gems everywhere.

“Ah, Mr. Oke, watch it!” the man on the Vespa shouted.

“Sorry, Mr. Moneme! How is de insurance business going?”

“Not well,” Mr. Moneme replied, the rest of what he said drowning in the whine of the Vespa.

Sunday was still muttering under his breath when the Mercedes pulled up and Elvis got out.

“Come and see me later,” Redemption called, reversing and heading back in the same direction.

Elvis waved and walked onto the veranda. His father smiled at him, and Elvis almost fell for it, until he noticed the empty cup on the bench and the thirsty way Sunday licked his lips.

“Just take,” he said, holding out a ten-naira note to his father.

ALSTONIA BOONEI DE WILD

(Apocynaceae) (Afikpo: Ukpo)

Found in the drier lowland rain forest, this small tree has brown, flaking bark, and when cut secretes white latex that is irritating to the eye. Its leaves are broad, leathery, smooth, glossy and dark green on the upper surface and bluish green on the lower. Yellowish-white flowers cluster at the end of each stem. Hanging in twos, its fruits contain numerous seeds.

Leaves, roots and bark macerated in water are applied externally to ease rheumatic pains. An infusion of the bark alone is drunk as a remedy for snakebites and arrow poison. The latex, smeared on wounds caused by Filaria worms and then bandaged with the crushed bark of the ordeal tree, is an excellent cure. Some women drink a decoction of the bark after childbirth to cause delivery of the placenta. The leaves cooked in a yam potage are an excellent way to prevent early miscarriages.

TWENTY-FOUR

But beware, this is not as easy as it seems.

It also defines being.

Lagos, 1983

Elvis emerged from his room a few hours later, awakened by his father’s shouting. Stumbling out onto the veranda, he saw Jagua Rigogo sitting in a corner, his pet python draped round his neck: a real boa, so to speak. Confidence, who also lived in the tenement, was arguing heatedly with Sunday. Confidence kept his distance from Jagua and his snake. He couldn’t stand either. He worked hard at what he did, conning people. It was, he said, his life’s work, something he had been named to do. He thought Jagua was a lazy ne’er-do-well who sponged off people’s good graces and fear of damnation. Jagua was a practicing druid and held healings and mystic consultations for people daily from his room at the end of the compound. It wasn’t much of a living, but being the landlord’s brother, he had no rent to pay — something everyone suspected was really at the bottom of Confidence’s hatred. Elvis had asked him about it once and Confidence had replied: “Is not dat. I just hate people who can’t make an honest living.”

The hatred was mutual, exacerbated by the fact that Confidence had tried to strangle Jagua’s python with a guitar string. Jagua put a curse on him as he rescued his snake. Everyone pooh-poohed Jagua’s druidic philosophy and magic spells, but night after night, for over three months, the snake would wind itself chokingly around Confidence’s neck, slowly draining the life from him, until he woke with a start, bedding wrapped tightly around his neck, to find it had all been just a dream. But neither the Gideon Bible under his pillow nor the rosary he wore like a necklace kept him safe, until he apologized.

“Please control yourselves. Dis is not boys’ club. We are here to discuss our future. Be reasonable, Confidence,” Madam Caro cut in.

Elvis looked at her. What is she doing here? he thought. She didn’t even live in the building. He noted that there were in fact several people, some he did not know, gathered around his father.

“Thank you, madam,” Sunday said, quickly wrestling control away from her.

“What is going on here?” Elvis demanded.

“Dis your child no get manners O!” Freedom, a teacher from the building next door, said. He had a high-pitched voice and effeminate ways, which included a penchant for short-sleeve shirts that bore an uncanny resemblance to women’s blouses.

“Hold it, Freedom,” Sunday said. Turning to Elvis, he said, “We are planning revolution here.”

“Revolution? For what?”

“You dey dis Lagos? Abi, you never hear dat gofment want to bu’doze Maroko?”

“This Maroko?”

“Yes,” Madam Caro said.

“Here, read de paper,” Sunday said, handing it to Elvis. As he scanned the story, Elvis heard them return to arguing.

“So how do we go on from dis point?” Freedom asked.

“Well, my view is that dey should not be allow to get away with it. We must oppose them,” Jagua replied.

“But how?” someone Elvis didn’t know asked.

“We rally de people around us. Dey do not like it either dat de authorities are trying to demolish deir town,” Sunday said.

“It is one thing to think it is wrong, but why do you think they will risk anything for you?” Elvis asked.

“Not for me, my son, but de cause.”

“What cause? Who do you think you are, Malcolm X?”

Sunday shot Elvis a withering look.

“Elvis, show some respect,” Madam Caro said.

Elvis looked away.

“De boy is right O!” Freedom said. “We need strong leader.”

“Like who? De Beggar King?” Sunday asked.

“Weren’t you just criticizing him the other night?”

“I still am.”

“Ah, de man influential O!” Madam Caro said.

Elvis stared at her in surprise. He didn’t know she even knew who the King was.

“Dese people have been treated badly by de authorities all their lives. Dey pay high taxes, get low wages, poor accommodation, no clean water,” Sunday argued.

“Okay, chief. We get de point. Dis is not election campaign. Just tell us what to do,” Confidence interrupted.

Sunday glowered at him.

“So, Elvis, you will talk to de King?” Sunday asked.

“Talk to him yourself.”

“Leave dis your stupid son, I will go and call de King,” Confidence said.

“You know where he lives?” Sunday asked.

“No, but I de see him begging near Bridge City for Ojuelegba.”

“Return quick,” Jagua said.

With Confidence gone, the men started a game of checkers to keep busy until his return. Madam Caro walked hurriedly back to her bar, glad to be able to check on her helpers, whom she was convinced were stealing from her. Elvis sat back and watched the game unfold. If he hadn’t grown up in this culture, he might have thought it strange to have walked in on the heated debate about not letting the government get away with their plans and then to see the same people who had been protesting only moments before begin a game of checkers while they waited for something to happen — in this case, the return of Confidence with the King. Yawning, he contemplated going out for a meal and a drink, but he didn’t want to miss any of the unfolding events.

Jagua, who had lost early in the round of checkers, was the first to see Confidence returning. He called out, and everyone’s attention followed his pointing finger.

“Well done, Confidence,” Sunday said as soon as Confidence and the King were within earshot.

Confidence came up onto the veranda, but the King stayed a few feet away in the middle of the street. Jagua studied the King with some distaste, even though, with his matted dreadlocks and lean face, Jagua could have been a relative.

“Where you find him?” he asked.

“Near Ojuelegba, so I tell him dat we want to talk to him about something. But he refuse to follow me until I give him some money. So you people owe me twenty naira,” Confidence replied.

“Don’t worry about dat,” Sunday said. “We are in dis together. Somebody go and call Madam Caro.”

Nobody moved, so he turned and yelled for Comfort’s son Tunji. When Tunji emerged from the dark innards of the building, Sunday sent him off at a fast trot to summon Madam Caro. “And tell her dat palm wine is needed to smooth dese talks,” Sunday added as Tunji scampered off.

The King had been silent all this while, and except for a smile in Elvis’s direction, he gave no indication that he knew who he was.

“Hello, people,” the King called. “Any chance for food?”

“Help us and den we shall see,” Sunday called.

“So how can de King help you?” he asked Sunday.

As he was about to answer, Sunday saw Madam Caro hurrying over, a small keg of palm wine in her hand. He delayed his response until she had found a seat on the veranda, then sketched out the nature of their dilemma as the King listened thoughtfully. While Sunday was explaining, someone had gone to fetch a cold soft drink and a small loaf of bread for the King. Accepting them gratefully, he proceeded to chew loudly throughout Sunday’s monologue. He finished the bread just as Sunday finished speaking.

“So what is your advice?” Sunday asked.

The King put the soft drink to his mouth and, without taking his eyes off Elvis, drained the bottle. With a satisfied sigh he put it down.

“Well, as I know, dis gofment is not easy. To put hand for deir eye is dangerous.”

“Look, we are not small children. We know de risk. Just tell us how for do,” Confidence said impatiently.

“Well, in my experience, marching with placard is de best way to start.”

“Marching where?” Jagua asked.

“Like in front of deir office. Dat is de first step,” the King replied.

“I go bring de women. We go march to local council office and tell dem our vex,” Madam Caro said, jumping in.

“We will march on de council offices on Monday. Dat gives us two days to get things set. I will lead, de men can carry placards and de women can support with singing and refreshments,” Sunday said.

Madam Caro glared at him.

“Not dat de women are less important, though, right?” Freedom cut in sarcastically.

None of the men responded.

“I can make de placards quick quick,” Confidence said, caught in the sudden optimism of the moment.

“Dere is only one problem,” Sergeant Okoro said softly.

He lived in the same building and had been silent for much of the argument. His usual gruff and aggressive demeanor was replaced by a softer, almost fearful side. Occasionally, Sergeant Okoro had been menaced on his way home from work by some of the other residents, as he was the most readily available authority figure. Once or twice he would have been very badly hurt if Sunday hadn’t intervened. Even his decision to invite him to this meeting was not popular, but Sunday knew none of the others really wanted to go against him.

“What is de problem?” Sunday asked.

“Well, as far as I know, de police dey come here tomorrow, with bu’dozer. Dere is no time for marching on Monday.”

“So what now?” Confidence asked.

“Time for step two,” the King said.

“What is step two?”

“It is dangerous. Are you sure?” the King asked.

“Look, we are not playing here,” Freedom said.

“Okay. Step two is to stop dem from entering Maroko.”

“Stop dem from entering?” Freedom asked.

“Form human barrier at all de entrance,” the King said.

“But dere are too many entrances to Maroko.” Sunday said. “We cannot block dem all.”

“But dere is only four dat a bu’dozer can use,” the King said. “Your street here, which has two entrance, and Lawanson Street, which has two.”

As the King spoke, Elvis visualized the two streets. The King was right; they were the only two streets with outside access wide enough for any kind of vehicle except a bicycle or a motorcycle. He saw them spread out across Maroko in an uneven cross — a cross that would be held down at each end by human sacrifice, if they did what the King suggested. From the sky, he imagined, the streets must look like two straps straining to keep everything inside the bulky, unwieldy square of the ghetto.

“So simple it might work,” Okoro said doubtfully.

“But what if dey decide to drive through us?” Jagua Rigogo asked the question on everyone’s mind.

“They wouldn’t, would they?” Elvis asked.

“Whatever else dey may be,” Madam Caro reassured them, “dey are human.”

“I’m not so sure,” Sunday mused, looking at Okoro, who looked away guiltily.

They quickly ran through the plan. Confidence would paint placards using slogans devised by Jagua. Sunday, Madam Caro and Confidence’s wife, Agnes, would go and talk to people to try and mobilize enough of them to attend the street blocking the next day. And the King would lead them.

“I am sorry, but I cannot,” the King said.

“Why can’t you lead? It was your idea,” Confidence asked.

“I dey leave town dis evening with my band, de Joking Jaguars. We dey go tour and we no go return for at least two weeks,” the King replied.

There was a lot of loud dissension, but the King was adamant.

“Why you no lead?” the King asked Sunday.

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” everyone agreed, all desperate to have a leader that was not them.

“All right, if it is de will of de people,” Sunday said.

On the veranda, Elvis groaned to himself. What a fake old fart, he thought. But the conversation had moved on now that a leader had been identified. It was decided that the children would join their parents on the picket line as a guarantee that the police wouldn’t stampede them. Confidence did not like it. What if one of the children got hurt? He was prepared to let his children join, but he felt he could not ask the same of the other parents. He was outvoted and Freedom was put in charge of mobilizing the local children, as he was so good with them. They were to lug old tires, broken furniture, and empty petrol drums — anything they could find — and build an effective barrier that the police could not bridge. These, the King told them, could also be ignited to create a wall of flame to further frustrate the police assault that was bound to follow their resistance.

“Build dem three by three,” the King instructed.

“Three by three?” Freedom asked.

“Three walls, three feet apart, three feet thick.”

“Dat’s three by three by three. Ju don’t know your math,” Joshua said, looking up from his calculations.

Everybody glared at him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Elvis had hung around wanting to talk his father out of leading what he was sure would be a suicide mission, but the insistent blaring of a car horn pulled his attention away from the meeting. Looking up, he saw it was Redemption, waiting for him in the Mercedes they had stolen from Ibare. As he ambled across the street, he saw that the King had beaten him to it and was talking to Redemption through the open driver’s window. As he got closer, he also noticed a soldier in full uniform sitting in the front passenger seat. It was Jimoh. The last time Elvis had seen him was the night the Colonel had almost killed him at the night club. He hesitated for a minute, but Redemption signaled him over frantically.

“Why you never come see me, Elvis?” Redemption asked as Elvis approached.

“I just woke up.”

“Dis Elvis, you are something, sleeping at a time like dis.”

The King had moved when Elvis came across, and now stood slightly to the left, watching.

“Why are you still driving this car?”

“Dat is small problem. Remember dis man?” he said, pointing at the uniformed soldier sitting next to him.

Elvis nodded. “It’s Jimoh.”

“De Colonel send him to tie up de loose ends.”

“What do you mean?”

“De Colonel send me to kill both of you,” Jimoh said.

Unconsciously, Elvis stepped back from the car. Overhearing, the King stepped forward, his hand on Elvis’s back, steadying him. Bending to look through the car window, the King spoke to Redemption.

“So what is de plan?”

“Me, I no get plan. I go dey dis town, I no fit run. In a few weeks de Colonel go forget us and everything go quench,” Redemption replied.

“But you get to live dat long first,” the King said.

“For me dat no be problem, but I worry for Elvis.”

“I fit help Elvis. My troupe dey leave town today to tour de country. He can follow me. By de time we return, everything go done cool down.”

“Dat’s good,” Redemption said. “Elvis, you dey hear?”

Elvis nodded. Redemption reached into his back pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he handed to Elvis.

“Elvis, dis na de money. You understand?”

“Yes,” Elvis replied, taking the envelope and shoving it into his back pocket.

“Chief,” Redemption said, turning to the King and handing him a handful of money. “Dis na for you.”

“Don’t insult me, Redemption. I no dey do dis for money.”

“I know. But I know as things hard for you. Take it.”

Reluctantly the King took the money and pocketed it.

“Elvis,” Redemption said.

“Redemption.”

With a hearty laugh, Redemption drove off and Elvis and the King crossed the street, headed back for the veranda.

“Listen, Elvis, we dey leave from in front of my place by six dis evening. Get your things and be ready.”

“Sure,” Elvis said. He stopped halfway across the street and turned to the bus stop.

“Where you dey go?” the King asked.

“To think.”

“My place at six. We no go wait,” he shouted after Elvis.

Elvis rode the bus down to Bar Beach. Getting off, he trekked across the sand, past the tourist beaches with pink expatriates baking slowly in the sun, past the mangy horses, the photographers with monkeys, the kebab, soft drink and food hawkers, through a coconut-palm thicket to a deserted beach. He sat, legs pulled to chin, gazing out at the ocean, watching giant waves crash against the shore. Elvis felt as if he were locked in a time warp, a suspended existence. The sea and the sky blended into one, and the background of sand, hardy grass and coconut palms sealed everything in completely, and the crashing sea became a dull throb in the background.

He chain-smoked, thinking about the children he had almost led to their deaths. He kept hearing Kemi’s voice, begging not to be killed. Watching the breeze playing through the leaves of the coconut palms, he wondered if Redemption had lied to him, if he had really known all along what the deal was. How could Redemption lead him down such a path? Now he had to flee from the Colonel, lay low for God knew how long.

It was kind of the King to offer to take him with his touring group, but things were happening here, and part of him wanted to stay and face the Colonel. Jimoh, however, had been clear: he had orders to tie up loose ends, which Redemption pointed out meant killing them. His own cowardice surprised him. He always thought when the moment came he would do the right thing. But going with the King also presented him with another opportunity to dance. The Joking Jaguars, the King’s performance troupe, was composed entirely of musicians and dancers. He missed dancing, and here was a chance to get back into it. The music would be highlife or jazz, he knew, and he probably wouldn’t get to do his Elvis impersonation, but he was still a good dancer regardless. And there would be an audience, one that had paid to see them perform. He had never had that, only bored and disgruntled passersby who felt his street performing was little more than begging, harassment even.

Elvis stubbed out his cigarette and settled back. Listening to the clack, clack of the palm fronds form a percussive background to the oboe throb of the sea, he dozed off. An hour later, he woke with a start and, standing up, dusted off the seat of his trousers. White sand, in fine glittering silicon chips, clung to him, catching the sun, turning him into a patchwork fabric of diamonds and ebony.

FRIED OKRA AND SWEET POTATO

INGREDIENTS

Sweet potatoes

Olive oil

Strips of beef

Okra (chopped)

Ose mkpi (fragrant yellow chilies)

Fresh plum tomatoes

Onions

Tomato puree

Maggi cubes

Salt

Ahunji

PREPARATION

Peel and slice the sweet potatoes thinly. Heat some olive oil. Salt the slices of sweet potato and drop into the oil when hot. Fry until crisp on the outside but soft and powdery on the inside.

Heat some oil in a wok and drop in the beef Sauté the meat for a while until brown and then add the rest of the ingredients. Fry until okra is a little brown around the edges, but still crunchy. Serving suggestion: arrange the slices of sweet potato in the shape of a flower; scoop the okra into the middle.

TWENTY-FIVE

There is peril in this, and the loss of face is not only on the young neophyte, it is on his clan, as they have not taught him well.

Igbo clans comprise close kin who settled in clusters. All rights to land and ascendancy are determined by age, with the older males taking precedence. Likewise, the clan descended from the oldest relative in the cluster takes precedence over the others.

Lagos, 1983

Joshua Bandele-Thomas was measuring the barricades at one end of the street. He stopped, muttered something and made little notes in a worn leatherbound book. Counting off ten steps, he stood away from the barrier and set up his surveyor’s tripod. He bent and trained it on the barrier. Muttering even more, he made notes again.

Sunday watched him and shook his head. Crazy bastard, he thought.

Freedom and the boys had done a pretty good job. The barricades, made of broken furniture, old car skeletons, poles, building debris and other junk, were very secure. There was no way a small vehicle could get past them, much less a bulldozer. Besides, they were three deep. He turned round and watched Freedom directing the boys building the second set of barricades at the bottom of the street, arms waving, head bobbing like a conductor putting an orchestra through its paces. The children responded, laughing at Freedom’s high-pitched squeals and commands.

Sergeant Okoro walked over to Sunday.

“What do you think?” Sunday asked him, nodding in the direction of the barriers.

“I think dey are okay. Dey won’t keep dem out for long, though. Dey will bu’doze dese barricades in ten minutes.”

“Ever de optimist. We were considering placing ourselves between de barriers and de trucks.”

“Dat will only slow dem down. You cannot stop dem.”

“I don’t think any of us are being naive enough to believe we can stop dem. We are only hoping to delay dem for a while. Until de press can make a big story about it.”

“You call press?”

“No, but we dey hope say de story will attract dem.”

“Fine, because you cannot stop dem.”

“Yes, sure,” Sunday said, walking away.

Joshua Bandele-Thomas came over and stood beside Sunday. “De measurements do not compute.”

Sunday looked at him and shook his head. Joshua, his next-door neighbor, was an eccentric who modeled himself entirely on the classic Jeeves-and-Wooster English gentleman. He wore three-piece suits whatever the weather. For years he had worked as an accounts clerk for the Upanishad Tagore Company, eking out a sedentary and pedestrian existence. But he harbored a not-so-secret ambition: he wanted to go to England and study to be a surveyor. So he scrimped and saved, allowing himself only the luxury of elocution lessons. Unfortunately, the only teacher he could afford and still save enough to go to England was an old Spaniard who had come to Nigeria in the 1920s and stayed. Joshua was quite a character with his three-piece suits, bowler hats and Spanish-accented English.

Some years before, thieves had broken into his room and stolen his life savings, which were hidden inside his mattress. That marked a turning point in Joshua’s life. Instead of the mad ranting or raving Sunday had expected, he was quite calm about it. The only apparent difference was that he ate less and spoke only when spoken to. He had been stabbed in the eye during the attack, as he fought to keep his money, and his employer had graciously paid for a glass eye. Joshua accepted the gift gratefully and went back to work at the UTC a week later. Everyone thought he was fine. In fact the neighbors were admiring and spoke complimentarily of him in his absence.

Then one day someone saw him down at the marina on Lagos Island. He was wearing his three-piece suit, but he had substituted his bowler for a hard hat. He also had a surveyor’s level mounted on a tripod. He was causing a minor traffic jam as he went about carefully surveying the area, trailing an extra-long tape behind him. Sunday had caught a bus and gone down to bring Joshua home, and when he broached the subject of the surveying, Joshua responded merrily, “Why ju ask, Mr. Oke? Ju want a survey?”

Sunday had looked at him the same then as now, sadly. Madness was a terrible thing.

“The measurements do not compute,” Joshua repeated to Sunday, popping out his glass eye casually and rubbing the irritated socket.

Sunday nodded and looked away quickly. He knew what was coming next. Joshua cleaned the glass eye by sucking on it for a few minutes and popping it back in, still wet. Sighing, he went off down the street to measure the second set of barriers.

When the barriers were ready, Freedom sat on the floor by the last one with his exhausted troop of boys. Each one held a sweating cold bottle of Coca-Cola as they laughed and horsed around. Confidence, Okoro, Sunday and some other men from the neighboring tenements lounged on the steps drinking palm wine and chatting in somber tones. There had been some worry that the neighbors would not join them in the protest. The night before, however, employing the campaign tactics that hadn’t worked for him during the elections, Sunday had gone from tenement to tenement, home to home, across Maroko, speaking to the men and women he thought would have the most influence over their neighbors. Instead of the resistance or even apathy he had expected, nearly all had responded positively and had come out in force to help construct the barricades and assist in other ways.

“Gentlemen, Confidence has prepared de placards and banners,” Sunday announced.

The men crowded round as Confidence unrolled each one. There were twenty banners in all, and the four slogans had been repeated at random. WE OWN THIS LIFE; FREEDOM; RIGHTS TO EXPRESS; NO SA CRED cows. They were all done on old, stained brown-once-white sheets donated by the local clinic located a few blocks away. The doctor who ran the clinic was of dubious qualifications, and his nurse was his wife. After watching footage of the war-crime trials in Nuremberg in the cinema, everyone referred to him as Dr. Mengele. To ensure their plan did not leak, Sunday had asked Sergeant Okoro to stay back from work — not that he did not trust him, but one could never be sure what kind of pressure could be brought to bear on a man.

The police came at seven a.m., no doubt hoping to catch the street unawares. Everyone had been awake for hours, though, waiting tensely. Unsure how many policemen there were, Freedom instructed his boys to run from barricade to barricade, setting the first line alight.

The lone police Land Rover had a fire truck and a bulldozer behind it. The fact that there were only four policemen and two firemen was a clear indication that the authorities had not expected any resistance, and they were easily repelled by the placard-carrying residents chanting behind the walls of flames.

An hour later reinforcements arrived and the fire brigade doused the first line of flames, but with a sneering laugh, Jagua Rigogo set off the second wall. He was every inch the warlock. He had two more friends from his brotherhood with him, and together they looked like they had just stepped out of The Lord of the Rings, hair falling in tangled dreadlocks that came all the way down to their waists, flailing madly as they ran from one end of the barrier to the next, setting it alight. Jagua stood with his cronies in white smocks, beards and Medusa hair looking crazy. Arms raised, staffs of office held in the classic spell-casting pose of the Brotherhood of the Golden Dawn, they screamed spells at the police like insane Merlins and Gandalfs, with a touch of Catweasel.

“Ignome gatturbe oringbe javanah!” they screamed defiantly.

His python, aroused by Jagua Rigogo’s screaming, unwound itself from his neck, raising itself into a three-foot rod of curiosity. Head cocked at the police, hovering over Jagua, it stared around. The police and fire brigade retreated from this apparition. The crowd pressed forward, all of them singing along to the Bob Marley song coming out of the sound system with the large speakers that they had borrowed from the record store down the road.

“Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights. Don’t give up de fight!”

More reinforcements arrived; and a bigger fire engine, with a bigger hose, aimed its nozzle and shot a jet of water over the barrier, right between the druids, catching Jagua square in the chest, breaking three ribs and throwing him fifteen feet back. In seconds the second wall of flame was a hissing wet mass. The police advanced, but so did all the children on the street. They draped themselves over and inside the barrier. Each child carried a candle and sang the hymn “Jesus Loves Me.” The fire engine backed off, as did the baton-wielding police. Two hours had passed and an impasse had been reached.

“Listen, you cannot stop us from doing what we have to do,” the inspector in charge of the operation called across. “You will only delay de inevitable. You are also senselessly placing yourselves at risk, not to mention dese children. Move back to your homes and I promise no one will be hurt. We will do what we have to and go.”

Nobody responded. Angry, he shouted orders at his men, and a couple disappeared to return a few minutes later with the bulldozer rumbling behind them. Sergeant Okoro, keeping well out of sight, whispered a few words to Freedom, who ran over to Sunday and whispered something to him.

Nodding, Sunday got up and raised his voice. “Hello!” he called.

The bulldozer stood idling and its engine drowned Sunday out.

“Hello!” he called again.

The police inspector signaled for the bulldozer driver to turn off its engine. “Yes?” he replied.

“Can you let us evacuate de wounded wizard?” Sunday called.

“Two men should carry him over to us. We’ll see he gets to de hospital. Is dat clear?” the inspector called back.

“Yes, sir.”

Walking back, Sunday nominated the two other wizards to carry Jagua Rigogo. As they lifted him, Sunday whispered to him and Jagua nodded painfully. As they neared the barrier, Sunday signaled Freedom. As Jagua was handed over to the police, he began waving his arms painfully about and screaming at the top of his voice.

“Dey are killing me O! Dey are killing me O! Dey are killing me O!”

While everyone’s attention was diverted to the screaming Jagua and the two other mad druids, still casting spells, Freedom vaulted over the barrier effortlessly. He crept round to the bulldozer. The driver had jumped down and joined the police and firemen surrounding Jagua. Freedom quickly cut through the rubber pipes that worked the hydraulic system of the bulldozer’s blade. By the time Jagua had been calmed down and put in the Land Rover on his way to the hospital, Freedom had finished and stood with the others, watching.

“Hey, you!” the police inspector called to Sunday.

“Yes.”

“Ask dese people to move or I will send de bulldozer in and crush your children!”

Sunday turned to Freedom, who smiled at him. Sunday then called to the children, who removed themselves from the barrier and gathered behind the now solid wall of adults.

“Move dis rubbish out of de way,” the inspector barked at the bulldozer driver.

No one moved as the huge metal dragon roared into life and rumbled slowly forward. More like a squat rhinoceros than a dragon, it hugged the ground reassuringly, although its movements were more sluggish than before. The driver’s face furrowed into a frown as he ground the gears angrily. From behind the third barrier, now burning too, the wall of men looked on. Two feet back from them stood a second wall, made up of women, humming gently, the sound swelling the men’s courage. Behind them, the children huddled, candles burning, their faces ghoulish in the fire- and candlelight.

The policemen watched them, faces hard. A fireman sauntered to the far side of the burning barrier and lit a cigarette. He exhaled softly and scratched his crotch distractedly. Yawning, he stretched, wishing he could go back home. He did not see the point of this. It would be easier to come back another day when they were not expected. That would be his plan. Besides, even if the crowd dispersed, how could they demolish the place with the people still in their homes? He glanced hopefully at the police inspector’s face, his spirits sinking at the determined look.

The bulldozer lumbered closer to the barrier. Even though it was beginning to skew slightly, some of the men looked worriedly at Sunday. But swallowing their bristly fear, they stood their ground. Sunday tried to smile reassuringly at them, but the sweat on his forehead belied it. He noted the bulldozer’s approach warily and glanced at Freedom from the corner of his eye. Freedom stood there without fear, a curious smile playing at the edge of his lips. He was either very confident or mad. Catching Sunday’s eye, Freedom flashed him a brilliant smile. Sunday decided to trust him.

Jagua Rigogo’s two druidic companions stood with dreadlocks billowing out behind them, beards working with the rigor of the spells they cast, hurling them at the bulldozer as though they were stones, or cannonballs shot from a castle wall. But the roaring metal beast would not stop, so they ran after it, beating it angrily with their wooden staves. The beast rumbled on, skewing even more. Ten minutes after it had come to life, the bulldozer stood two feet from the flaming barrier. It had only crossed twenty feet.

“Destroy dat barrier!” the police inspector shouted at the driver.

Nodding, the driver tried to engage the blade of the bulldozer. The levers groaned under his hands, but the blade only lifted half an inch before crashing down noisily. The next minute, rubber hosing under the metal behemoth ripped apart, blowing steam, hissing and twisting like angry vipers. The driver shouted at the machine and angrily began to yank all the levers in front of him. The bulldozer reacted by spinning round in widening arcs, its blade cutting swathes in the ground, ripping up the end of the barrier, scattering flames and embers everywhere. The policemen screamed and jumped back, as did a couple of men at the far side of the barrier.

With a screech, the bulldozer plowed forward, tearing a hole in the fire engine and coming to a stop amid tortured metal. Druids, driver, police and firemen lay in scattered heaps on either side, where they had dived for cover. The startled crowd had stopped singing and was staring open-mouthed at the spectacle.

“Arrest dose bastards!” the inspector yelled, coming to life and pointing at the two druids.

The policemen pounced on the two druids. Grunting from the exertion of beating them, the policemen shackled and hauled them off to the now returned Land Rover. The inspector approached the barrier and stood glowering over it at the line of men. He was stumped. Twenty years in the police force and he couldn’t dispel a simple street protest. The truth was that he had never had the heart for this part of police work, the bullish, brutish enforcing of orders from above. He sighed. His men stood behind him, waiting for orders, waiting for him to redeem this farce. He looked back at them and then turned to the barrier. Taking a big handkerchief out of his pocket, he wiped his face.

“Why are you people so stubborn?!” he called out.

Nobody replied.

“Dis is pointless. In de end, we will break through dis barrier.”

Still no one replied.

The inspector was getting really exasperated now. “Someone will get hurt! I don’t want dat to happen.”

Nobody said anything.

“Dere are children here.”

One of the men behind the barrier started giggling. One of the policemen picked it up, and soon the street was ringing with the sounds of laughter. Everyone was laughing except the inspector. Sunday was the first to notice the change in him, the tentative twitch of fingers reaching for his holstered pistol. Then it was out and pointing.

The shot silenced everyone and brought one of the laughing men down. Screams replaced the laughter and people began to panic. Confused, other policemen opened fire. People dropped to the ground, and it was unclear whether they were ducking or had been hit. Sunday stood still as people fell beside him, like rapids shooting a rock. Scanning the prone figures, he realized that only one person had been hit, but the firing hadn’t stopped. He screamed, high-pitched and unnatural. The firing stopped abruptly and everyone froze as Sunday approached the pistol-waving, wild-eyed inspector.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice soothing.

“Go on,” the inspector said, still looking at him warily.

“If you and your men stay here any longer, things are going to get a lot worse.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“What if I gave you my word dat we will pull out and let you in later?”

“When?”

“In a few days.”

The inspector began to calm down a little, the pistol steadier in his hand.

“But what guarantee do I have dat you will keep your word?”

“You’ve shot one man. One is in hospital and you have arrested two more. I don’t think we want to risk anyone else getting hurt.”

“But you don’t understand. Dere has been an incident here. Somebody will have to answer for it. Somebody has to be charged with dis. Somebody …” the inspector finished lamely.

“I understand. But you have two men under arrest, right?”

“Yes.”

“So charge dem.”

“But dey are your people. I thought sewer rats stuck together?”

Disbelief, dangerous at this stage, was beginning to creep back into the inspector’s voice.

“We will come and bail dem.”

“I don’t know.”

“Dere are children here. Why don’t you accept a tactical withdrawal? A dead child is difficult to explain.”

The inspector considered it for a while.

“But what can we charge dem with?” he asked.

“I don’t know. How about violent disorder and criminal damage?”

“To what?” the inspector argued.

“Say dat dey got in de way of de bulldozer, causing de accident.”

“But that will not hold up in court.”

“Probably not. But it won’t be your problem anymore. Dis will, though, if it gets any worse.”

The inspector deliberated silently, holstering his pistol. With a definitive tone he called his men off. Sunday looked at the bulldozer and the destroyed fire engine. Turning, he took in the burning barricade. Behind it, littering the ground sadly, were the banners and candle stubs. A bloodstained piece of crumpled tissue, broken and small, lay like a dead bird in the corner. At the other end of the street, some men and women were helping the shot man into a taxi. His left kneecap was hanging off, but at least he had not been killed. Freedom stood on a veranda, looking bewildered. Confidence sat on a stoop, head cradled between his hands, his wife making concerned passes over his head. Had it been worth it? Was any of this worth any principle? Sunday was not so sure anymore. Sighing, he walked past Freedom and Confidence into the tenement. Behind him, children were playing a new dare game: who could jump over the still-burning barricade.

ANTIDESMA MEMBRANACEUM MUELL. ARG.

(Euphorbiaceae) (Yoruba: Aroro)

This small tree is found mostly in the savannah. Its bark is pale grey and fissured and its twigs and young leaves are covered with a lot of hair. As with most herbs, the flowers are yellowish green. Small and black, the fruits occur along the base of the stalk.

A decoction of the leaves is used as a bath to prevent abortion. Mixed into stream water or seawater, milk and some Jordanian hyssop, it becomes a mystic bath to protect against witchcraft.

TWENTY-SIX

Mistakes are expected until the boy becomes a man, but still no ground is given.

An example is the town of Isu-Ama, comprised of the following clans set up by the brothers they were named after, in order of age, with Isu being the father. The clans are Isu— father; Anyim — first son; Utum — second son; and Igwe — third son.

Ijebu, 1983

The van bearing the legend JOKING JAGUARS stood shedding dust, body vibrating from the grumpy throb of its engine. Dust-encrusted musicians stood sweating in its reluctant shade, sipping on warm Cokes. A small crowd of curious children had gathered, speaking in hushed tones and pointing at the shapes lashed to the roof rack under tired green tarp.

Elvis mopped his brow with a dirty handkerchief and stared around the small town. It boasted one church, one shop with a decrepit petrol pump out front and a junior school. He didn’t know what it was called. Hell, maybe. Wherever they were, he did not speak the language. That was the problem with a country that was an amalgamation of over two hundred and fifty ethnic groups, he thought — too many bloody languages.

He walked over to a hawker and with sign language bought a bunch of ripe bananas and a measure of peanuts. Munching on a mouthful of banana and peanuts, he wondered how they found these towns. There were no road maps or signs. He looked at the musicians and tried to imagine what had kept them going all these years as they played small towns where nobody really appreciated the skill required to take years of abuse and turn it into amazingly beautiful melodies; the drain of searching yourself constantly, plumbing depths of nakedness to play that bad-ass solo that was lost on the loud-talking, drinking audience.

The King, the troupe leader, had gone off to see the local chief to get his permission to perform that evening. He also needed the local Catholic priest’s permission. Both would cost him money. With luck the gate takings would be good.

“Elvis!” one of the musicians called.

“Yes, George.”

“Is dat how your mother raise you? Not to offer your friends food?”

“My mother died when I was a child. What do you expect?” Elvis called back.

George roared with laughter. He wiped a tear and got up from the tree stump he was sitting on and strolled over to Elvis. Yanking a banana free, George peeled it halfway. He took a bite, then threw a handful of peanuts in after it.

“Why do you do it, George? Why are you a musician?” Elvis asked.

George glanced at him sideways. He wondered if Elvis was beginning to unravel at the edges. That is what the road did — ate away at the edges of your resolve until you were nothing but frayed soul fabric. From then on, there was only the music — and the sacrifices it demanded of you. At sixteen, George thought, Elvis was too young for the road. The King felt his youth would protect him. But the road always got you. Of course, he knew nothing about the fact that Elvis had the added pressure of being a fugitive from the Colonel. They had been gone for two weeks already, and George had not expected Elvis to survive the first week. Maybe he was made of sterner stuff. He liked him and secretly hoped the boy was not cursed by the muse. He was a nice kid with good moves and great potential as a dancer, though he had yet to be original. He was too young for that. George hoped this was just a phase for Elvis, that maybe he would have the chance at a normal life.

“I don’t have a choice, Elvis. When de muse calls, you obey.”

Elvis laughed. Hollow.

“I mean, we have been doing concerts for seven years now as Joking Jaguars. Almost every night we perform in a different town, under a different sky. I have not been at home for more dan six months at a stretch in all dat time. I have twelve children and a wife tired of waiting. And every night I get into costume and get up onstage and I die. I die.” George swallowed hard.

Elvis looked away, uncomfortable with this sudden intense display of emotion.

“You see, Elvis, in dis time and place, being a musician is not blessing. It is curse. Listen to my advice. Listen carefully. Do not live dis life unless it is de only thing you can be. Go out and get a nice job. Dere is a nice office job for you somewhere. Find a good wife. Look for a girl with a compassionate smile and fire in her eyes. But not de manic rage of a forest fire — look instead for de gentle glow of a hearth, a girl whose laughter makes de drudgery of life bearable. And when you bury your nose in her hair and draw a deep breath, if you are lucky, de spice of her love will infuse you with de husky scent of wood smoke, de throat tickle of curry leaves, de breathlessness of peppers and de milk burp of still-unborn babies. Draw all of dese deeply into you, until every part of you is infected by her. And if you are lucky, she will purge you of de insanity of de muse, de knife-edge beauty of seeing yourself as you are. As you really are.”

Elvis looked away into the distance, eyes following the dancing heat devils.

“The heat is too intense,” he said.

“Yes,” George replied, stepping back from the lip of the chasm. “You’d think it would burn everything bad to a crisp.”

Elvis nodded. This was all too much for him. Seeing a child hawker with a keg of cold water, he called him over. For a penny, he and George slaked their thirst. The sun had moved, and like an old woman tugging at her skirts, it dropped shadows over them. George sighed with relief. He couldn’t really stand the heat. His beard and rather corpulent disposition did not help much either.

In the shade of the rickety old van sat Ezekiel “Spectacles” Onyia. Ezekiel’s nickname did not come from wearing spectacles, but from the streak of vitiligo that ran across his eyes in a perfect spectacle shape. He was the lead guitarist and a committed musician. Zekeyspecs, as he was also known, was humming a gentle blues, plucking scales from his tired Spanish acoustic guitar. The instrument was so old and battered, it never ceased to amaze everyone how he produced such delightful music on it.

The Joking Jaguars were twenty men strong. Women were not allowed on the road trips because they obviously could not handle the strain. Or so the King said. Elvis suspected it had more to do with the fact that the King was afraid women would prove a distraction and cause rifts between the musicians.

There were several young boys, however, who sang soprano parts. They also played the female roles in the play that was always part of the performance. There were five of them, aged between nine and fifteen, and they were all nondescript, bar one. Esau, the oldest, had a certain air to him that marked him apart. He was stunningly handsome. But what really set him apart was the grace with which he carried himself. When he was dressed in full drag, he made more than a few heads turn longingly, including some of the musicians who knew he was a man. Elvis was fascinated by the conviction Esau brought to his roles. The other boys and men played women badly. There was caricature about it: a certain derision in their acting, an exaggerated femininity that was no more than a reassurance of their masculinity. Esau, on the other hand, brought a simple understanding, something of a shared commonality; nothing more.

Scanning the rest of the group, Elvis was disturbed that he could not remember most of their names. Yet they shared living, eating, cooking, sleeping, performing and even dreaming space together, daily.

There were a tuba player; George on saxophone and clarinet; the King on guitar and vocals; Zekeyspecs on lead guitar; Benson on rhythm guitar; Esau, the four other boys and Elvis on background vocals and dancing; a tall, thin guy on double bass whose nickname was Langalanga; and the others on a variety of percussion instruments from maracas and clap drums through to congas.

One of the drummers played a subtle rhythm behind Zekeyspecs. Another one tapped sharp time on an empty bottle with a rusty nail. George got up and walked over to them and began to sing in a deep, rich baritone. The four boys supplied the harmony. Elvis’s foot tapped to the music. There was a transcendence to the moment.

When they performed for an audience, the musicians played to please it. They searched in themselves for something, no matter how personal, that the audience could latch on to. But now, they sang and played what they wanted, each musician leading, then following, then leading again, until everyone had sung his piece. This was for them. No audience. Nobody. Not even for each other.

Elvis was just about to begin dancing when Esau marched into the middle of the seated musicians. Elvis sat back and watched. Esau stood stock-still for one long moment, then began to dance, his body so fluid it teased a tear from Elvis. The song came to an end abruptly, catching Esau in midstep. They broke up laughing.

Just then, the King came up. He was smiling. Elvis understood him well enough to know that they had got the permission they needed to perform that night.

Some of the musicians drove around the area campaigning, making announcements and playing music through a battery-powered amplifier. Wooden posters advertising their show in lurid colors hanging from the side of the van heightened the effect. Other musicians walked around town, stopping at bars to drink and eat, all the while displaying their instruments and talking loudly among themselves about that night’s concert. Elvis walked up to the King to ask what play they were performing that night.

“If You Bamboozle Somebody, He Will Bamboozle You,” the King replied.

Elvis nodded; he knew the play well. There were three main characters and some minor ones. The play was short, lasting only two hours, which meant that night’s audience would be small. The play’s characters were the good-time girl Owumara, played by Esau; the joker, or bob, Johnson the taxi driver, played by Elvis; and the old lady, played by the King. Different people played the other minor characters. The play itself had a simple plot with a didactic thread.

The evening’s show always started with a dance during which the band played all the popular tunes of the day. The play followed, and then there was another dance afterwards. For a big audience in a big town, the total number of songs played in one night came to about forty, not counting those played as part of the play. Most evenings began at nine p.m. and finished at four in the morning. Tonight would be different. The town and the audience were small, and Elvis figured they could get away with twenty songs, give or take.

The play itself consisted of an opening and then a scene or play proper. The opening varied between twenty minutes and an hour and consisted of a chorus, an in and a duet. The opening chorus was usually a fox-trot or a quickstep sung and danced by the main characters. Esau excelled at this. The in and the duet were both comedy sketches. The in was performed by a solo stand-up comedian, while the duet was played by two actors. It was within the opening that all of the vaudeville influences were kept. As with all traditional performances, audience participation was encouraged. This varied from applause, weeping and jeering to throwing food and money onstage. A few members of the audience usually joined the actors onstage, improvising with them.

The evening passed uneventfully, and they got away with a fivehour performance, including the dances. Tired but richer, the musicians headed for the van and the local police station. Where they could, they tried to sleep in or near one; it was the safest place for them. While the musicians bedded down on raffia mats in the station’s courtyard, the King counted up the evening’s takings, which he locked in a small metal safe.

A few of the other musicians, George included, were huddled under a neem tree, smoking beside a fire. The neem wood burned lazily, releasing a cooling eucalyptus scent. Elvis, unable to sleep, joined them. They made room for him. Langalanga, the bass player, sat with a metal saw trapped between his knees. With one hand he bent and massaged the blade. With the other he drew his bass bow across the blunt edge, causing the saw to sing: a deep belly growling hunger that rose to the shrill call of morning angels.

George passed him a cigarette and Elvis dragged deeply, blowing smoke rings before passing it back. Thinking about Redemption, the Colonel, his father and the effort to protect Maroko from destruction, he felt a sudden pang of sadness.

George noticed the expression on Elvis’s face and asked, “What is it?”

“I just realized something,” Elvis replied.

“What? Are you in love?”

“No. I just realized that it is only a small group of people who are spoiling our country. Most people just want to work hard, earn a living and find some entertainment. Yet it seems that no matter how they try, they remain poor.”

“What are you talking about?” George asked, confused. “Where did dat come from?”

“Leave him, he is making sense,” the King said, coming over to join them. He laughed deeply and slapped Elvis on the back. “De boy is becoming a man,” he said.

Elvis swallowed.

“Dat is exactly what I have been trying to tell you since I met you. De majority of our people are honest, hardworking people. But dey are at de mercy of dese army bastards and dose tiefs in the IMF, de World Bank and de U.S.,” the King said.

“But how is the World Bank responsible if we mismanage the funds they give us?”

“Funds? What funds? Let me tell you, dere are no bigger tiefs dan dose World Bank people. Let me tell you how de World Bank helps us. Say dey offer us a ten-million-dollar loan for creating potable and clean water supply to rural areas. If we accept, dis is how dey do us. First dey tell us dat we have to use de expertise of their consultants, so dey remove two million for salaries and expenses. Den dey tell us dat de consultants need equipment to work, like computer, jeeps or bulldozers, and for hotel and so on, so dey take another two million. Den dey say we cannot build new boreholes but must service existing one, so dey take another two million to buy parts. All dis money, six million of it, never leave de U.S. Den dey use two million for de project, but is not enough, so dey abandon it, and den army bosses take de remaining two million. Now we, you and I and all dese poor people, owe de World Bank ten million dollars for nothing. Dey are all tiefs and I despise dem — our people and de World Bank people!” the King ranted.

Elvis didn’t know what to say. He looked up at the sky. It was beautiful. Stars. Like so much sand.

“But why don’t we revolt and overthrow this government?” he asked finally, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“Who want to die?” George said.

“We should retire for de night,” the King said, squinting at his pocket watch in the half-light. “We leave early for Lagos. We go perform for Freedom Square tomorrow. I hear say de Colonel’s boys go dey dere. Time to send a powerful message, eh?”

Nearly everyone laughed heartily. But the King noticed Elvis’s terrified look and took him aside.

“Don’t worry, Elvis. Your matter go done clear by now.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t, but I just feel it.”

“I’m afraid. The Colonel is trying to kill me.”

“Yes, but by now him go done tire for dat.”

“You don’t know. I’m not convinced.”

“I am sorry, but we must return tomorrow. You can stay.”

“Where? Here? I don’t know anybody here. I don’t even know the language. How can I stay here?”

“Den you must return with us. No worry, I go protect you.”

Elvis spent a restless night, dreaming that the Colonel was chasing him with a large machete, slashing at him madly and only just missing.

Dawn left streaky marks across night’s face, and the men stood by the idling van, sipping gingerly on hot tea flavored with eucalyptus leaves and munching on hard cassava bread. Farmers on their way to the fields called out greetings to the men. Some congratulated them on a good performance the night before. Elvis, mind numbed from too little sleep, yawned back at them.

George stood beside him. “Tired?” he asked.

“Very.”

“Ah,” George said. “It is so, coming and going. Never staying. You realize dis is de way your life will be from now on if you continue with us.”

“Yes, very exciting.”

“Wait a few years. Den tell me if it is still exciting.”

“Why are you so pessimistic?”

“Dis life is like an itch. You scratch and scratch, until you chaff your skin to de bone. But still you itch. I’m not pessimistic, Elvis. Just tired,” George said, walking off.

MOI-MOI

INGREDIENTS

Black-eyed beans

Onions

Palm oil

Fresh chilies

Salt

Crayfish

Maggi cube

Shredded beef

Dried fish

PREPARATION

Soak the beans overnight, then wash thoroughly to remove outer skins. Put beans in a blender with the onions, palm oil, fresh chilies, salt, crayfish and Maggi cube. Add the shredded beef and bits of dried fish. Pour the contents into envelopes of tinfoil or plastic containers. Next, put four sticks at the bottom of a large, deep pot in a cross pattern and cover with water. Put the wraps or containers in the pot on top of the crossed sticks. Steam over a low fire, topping up with water from time to time, until the moi-moi has the consistency of tofu. Serve with gari soaked in milk, water and sugar.

TWENTY-SEVEN

This is a journey to manhood, to life; it cannot be easy.

The old Igbo adage is: Manhood is not achieved in a day.

Lagos, 1983

Sunday stumbled bleary-eyed out of the house, straight into a rush of people, screaming and shouting. He stood on his veranda lost in an alcoholic mist.

“Sunday! Sunday! Dey have come!” Comfort screamed, running past him and dumping a hastily packed bag in the street before dashing back inside.

It was light everywhere, but it wasn’t sunlight. The earth rumbled as though thunder shook it. Sunday glanced at his watch; it was four a.m., too early to be dawn. He opened his fly and urinated into the street, narrowly missing the bag and a small group running past with an open coffin packed tight with their belongings. He raked up some phlegm and spat with a plop into the nearby swamp.

“What’s matter, eh? What’s matter?” he mumbled, staring vacantly into the bright light.

“Sunday, you stand so? Why not help me pack before bu’dozer come knock our house down?”

“What’s matter? Which bulldozer? Are you mad?”

“De gofment send anoder bu’dozer,” she said, dropping another bag on the ground and going back for more.

“De government can go to hell!” he yelled. “I want to sleep.”

Comfort elbowed him aside and stooped to lift the stuff she had salvaged onto her head. Thank goodness the children were staying with relatives, she thought. She didn’t think she would have managed with them here.

“If you want to die, go and sleep. If not, help me carry something and let us go!” she shouted at him.

“Go where?”

He tried to focus.

“Look, Papa Elvis, bu’dozer is come. Me, I have carry my gold and expensive lappa and I no fit to carry more. Let’s go,” she said urgently as the rumbling grew louder.

A few streets away, clouds of dust and sprays of water rose as the dozers leveled everything in their path — houses, shanties, even the swamps.

“Go where?” he asked again.

She took one more look at the approaching bulldozer, stepped into the street and was swallowed by the crowd. He looked for her, but she was lost somewhere in the sea of bodies flowing past him.

“Go where?” he muttered to himself under his breath. “Dis is my land. I buy dis house, it is not dash to me. Why I go?”

The dozers rolled uncomfortably closer. The vibrations from them shook the windowpanes, dislodging a few, which fell, shattering noisily. The lights cut through the sky and the night was bright, and still Sunday stood on his veranda smiling enigmatically. A few yards away a house built of corrugated iron and cardboard crumbled with an exhausted puff, while the old generator in another exploded.

Sunday became aware of another presence on the veranda. Turning quickly, he gasped when he saw Beatrice reclining on the bench. She noted the shocked look on his face and spoke.

“Sunday, don’t be afraid.”

“Why not? You’re a ghost. Have you come to kill me?”

Beatrice smiled sweetly, and something about that smile sent shivers down his spine.

“No, I came to warn you to leave.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Den you will die.”

He turned away from her. If he ignored her, she would disappear. She was, after all, a drunken hallucination. He laughed. Madam Caro must have laced his palm wine with some narcotic. Whatever it was, it was good, and he was glad he was a regular.

“Sunday.”

He turned back to where Beatrice had been sitting. She was still there, but there was another presence too.

“You’re not really here,” he told her.

“Oh yes I am — and so is he,” she said, pointing to a leopard curled up in the shadows.

“What is dis? Did you bring a spirit leopard to kill me?”

“No. He is here on his own.”

“But what is dis?”

“I am the totem of your forefathers.”

Sunday blinked. A talking leopard, his wife’s ghost, the bulldozers: it was too much.

He turned back to the scene unfolding in front of him and saw policemen and soldiers driving people off with gun butts and leather whips. “Get out! Go! Go!” they yelled. In the distance a mother stopped in mid-flight, remembering her son trapped in her hut. She ran back for him. “Hassan! Hassan!” she screamed. The butt of a rifle chased her screams down her throat with a mouthful of teeth and blood. She crumbled to the ground and the soldier kicked her aside.

“You are going to die here, you know, unless you get out,” the leopard said.

“He’s not joking. Listen, Sunday, you still have a son to care for. Leave,” Beatrice said.

Sunday was getting worried. If Beatrice and the leopard were only hallucinations, why had they remained even when he wasn’t paying any attention?

“You are de one who will die!” he shouted.

“I am already dead,” Beatrice said. “And I think de leopard is a spirit.”

“You disappoint me, Beatrice, eh. Why must you mock me?”

Beatrice’s ghost looked hurt, her lips trembling.

“I came to you in your time of need, but if you like, I can leave.”

Sunday shouted and punched himself around the face.

“In the old days, people were close to their totems, who infused them with their own special attributes, both physical and metaphysical. Lycanthropy was not unusual in those days when the ancient laws were kept,” the leopard said.

“Go and tell your story elsewhere,” Sunday interrupted. “If you are person or spirit, I don’t know and don’t care. Both of you just leave me alone, dat’s all.”

The ’dozers were only a few yards away and policemen and soldiers were running past his house. One of the policemen spotted him slouched on his veranda in only a loincloth, looking for all intents like a man basking in the noonday sun.

“You dere!” the policeman barked.

“He has seen you. Won’t you go, or do you want to die?” the leopard asked.

“Think of Elvis,” Beatrice said.

“You dere, go now before I vex!” the policeman yelled again.

“This is the hour of your death. Go out and fight for your honor.”

“You deaf? I say move before I move you!” the policeman yelled again, advancing on Sunday, and cocking his rifle.

“Well, at least die like a man,” the leopard said with a bored yawn.

Beatrice, already fading into the shadows, watched tearfully as the ‘dozers approached. They were almost upon him and the vibrations were coming from everywhere. Grabbing a cutlass Comfort had dropped earlier, Sunday sprang with a roar at the ’dozer. The policeman let off a shout and a shot, and Sunday fell in a slump before the ’dozer, its metal threads cracking his chest like a timber box as it went straight into the wall of his home. Sunday roared, leapt out of his body and charged at the back of the policeman, his paw delivering a fatal blow to the back of the policeman’s head. With a rasping cough, Sunday disappeared into the night.

Elvis was halfway through his act when Freedom Square erupted. Soldiers spilled out of trucks flooding the area. There was a stampede. People, food, furniture — everything was trampled underfoot. The soldiers laid into everyone with tough cowhide whips, wooden batons and rifle butts, and the air was heavy with screams and shouts. As far as they were concerned, the audience was as guilty as the performers.

“My head O!”

“Yee!”

“Move!”

“Stop or I’ll shoot!”

“Bastard!”

Elvis, completely confused, was unsure how to react, not fully comprehending what was happening. He felt someone yanking at his arm. He turned. It was the King of the Beggars. He was yelling at him, but Elvis couldn’t hear any sound. The King slapped him hard.

“We get to go now,” he said while hurrying Elvis off the stage. They ducked behind an army lorry and headed for the edge of the square and the streets that snaked off it into the dark maw of the city. They had almost made it when a soldier stepped out of nowhere. He loomed large and dark, blocking off the light. Elvis saw the King disappear into the distance.

“Identify yourself!” the soldier barked.

“I … I …”

“Bloody civilians,” the soldier said, bringing his rifle butt down on the side of Elvis’s head with a resounding crack. From a great distance Elvis heard the soldier call for help to lift him into the back of a lorry.

Elvis hung from the metal bars on the window, feet dangling six inches from the floor, suspended by handcuffs. The pain was excruciating, building up in slow stages, getting worse with each passing minute.

At first all he felt was a slight ache in his shoulders, which spread until his whole body was one mass of pleasant sweet aches. After about ten minutes he felt a headache coming on, nothing serious. Twenty minutes later his arms were shaking and the pleasant aches were replaced by painful spasms as the weight of his body became unbearable.

Sweat was rolling off him in bucketfuls; his arms went numb and his fingers began to swell like loaves of bread. The rest of his body was torn by a searing-hot pain and he stretched downward, trying to bring his feet into contact with the ground. That only made it worse. Then his head exploded, and tears streaming down his face mixed with the sweat before hitting the floor in sheets of protest. His bloodshot eyes began to film over as his face became congested with blood and his tongue, swollen, protruded from the side of his mouth, forcing his teeth apart. Each pulse beat sounded a million times amplified, and he began to mumble incoherently. Pain did not describe what he felt now. Prayer followed.

After half an hour he was ready to deny his own mother. Against his will, a moan escaped his lips. Softly at first, then in a flood, he was begging, swearing, crying and sobbing. He was concerned with one thing and one thing only — stopping the pain. But then, just when he was about to slip into blissful unconsciousness, the beating began.

The inner tubing of a bicycle tire was used to flog him; it left no marks and yet stung like nothing he knew. Then a concentrated solution of Izal, an industrial disinfectant, was poured over the beaten area. This not only increased the pain, it sensitized the area for the next bout of flogging. He screamed until he lost his voice; still his throat convulsed. When his tormentors tired, they left him hanging there, dangling and limp. It went on like this every few hours for a couple of days. No questions were asked; only confessions were heard.

PORTULACA OLERACEA L.

(Potulacaceae) (Yoruba: Papasan)

An annual herb with bright yellow flowers, small and prostrate. lt has oval leaves that narrow toward the base. Uncannily like a bishop’s miter, the fruits open to reveal many warted seeds.

Crushed, the plant is applied locally to swellings and bruising and even whitlow to ease pain and promote healing. The juice, dropped into the ear or onto a sore tooth, relieves earache and toothache.

TWENTY-EIGHT

There is only one path: omenala.

For the Igbo, tradition is fluid, growing. It is an event, like the sunset, or rain, changing with every occurrence. So too, the kola ritual has changed. Christian prayers have been added, and Jesus has replaced Obasi as the central deity. But its fluid aspects resist the empiricism that is the Western way, where life is supposed to be a system of codes, like the combinations of human DNA or the Fibonacci patterns in nature. The Igbo are not reducible to a system of codes, and of meaning; this culture is always reaching for a pure lyric moment.

Lagos, 1983

The King of the Beggars edged into the police station. He had been trying to trace Elvis for four days now.

“Who dey in charge here?” he asked the policeman behind the counter.

“You go see duty sergeant.”

“Where is he?”

“He go toilet.”

“When he go return?”

“When he shit finish. Why so many questions? If you want to see duty sergeant, you must wait, dat’s all.”

The King sat down on a hard wood bench to wait, trying to block out the shouts and screams from the cells. After a four-hour wait, he saw a short, potbellied man stroll into the station, idly picking his teeth and belching intermittently.

“You,” the policeman shouted at the King. “Dat is duty sergeant,” he said, pointing to the short man.

The King went up to him and introduced himself, explaining that he was trying to locate Elvis. The duty sergeant regarded him with two dead eyes and, while belching a cloud of alcohol fumes into the King’s face, made a grunting noise.

“Well?” the King asked, suppressing the wave of nausea that rocked him at the odor from the sergeant’s mouth.

“Well what? Do I look like missing-persons computer? Please leave my office,” the sergeant said.

“I want to see my friend. He was arrested in Freedom Square four days ago,” the King insisted.

“Your friend? Who are you? Even if you be president himself, how I go know your friend?”

“Elvis Oke,” the King stated.

“Do I look de type of man to mix with your nonsensical friend?”

“Could you please check your records?”

The policeman made a big show of checking for Elvis’s name in the log book on the desk in front of him. His brow furrowed in concentration as he ran his finger down the pages. Finally after a few minutes he looked up.

“You sure dis is de station you want?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“You no sure. His name is not here.”

“What do you mean? His name is Elvis Oke and officers from dis station arrest him four days ago. I done go every other police station in dis area. It done take me four days to trace him to you. His name must be dere.”

“No curse me, you hear? Who are you? I don’t know and I don’t bloody care. If you do not hold your mouth I will arrest you.”

While he had been waiting earlier, the King had seen the names of the senior officers on duty scrawled in chalk on a blacked-out square on the facing wall. He recalled them, dropping them into the conversation to see if it would help.

“Is Inspector Johnson in?” he asked.

“He is on leave.”

“But he was with me yesterday!”

“Den go find him in your house.”

“What about Assistant Superintendent Adelabu?”

“What about him?”

“Can I see him?”

“Out.”

“So who is in?”

“Me. Duty Sergeant Okafor, and I go soon go to toilet.”

Finally frustrated, the King handed the policeman a twenty-naira note.

“Ah! Why you never perform before, sir? You are looking for your friend. Is he …?” the sergeant said, and gave an accurate description of Elvis.

“Dat is de one.”

“He was transferred to Tango City.”

“Tango City?”

“Yes. Special Military Interrogation Unit. Deir office is called Tango City.”

“Why Tango City? Where is it?”

“I don’t know. All dis question and you only give me twenty naira?”

“Can’t I bail him?”

“You cannot bail somebody who is not charged,” the policeman said simply.

“What can I do den?” the King asked, sounding broken.

The policeman stared at the King for a few minutes.

“Pray,” he said.

Elvis felt his feet touch the floor. He collapsed in a heap, unable to feel his body. No, that wasn’t quite right. He could feel his body — but as a single sheet of flaming pain. He sat awkwardly on the floor in front of a tin plate of rice and reached for the spoon, but neither arm would move. They dangled uselessly in his lap like a pair of broken wings. He had lost any sense of when his last meal had been, but the smell of the food caused saliva to fill his mouth, dribbling over even as he tried to swallow. He struggled onto his knees. The effort took a long time, causing him to gasp for air, dizzy as hell. Slowly the dizziness passed and he hunkered down and ate out of the plate like a dog; every swallow painful. Exhausted, he sank into the food.

He felt himself being lifted and dragged roughly, then strapped to a chair, the rope cutting into his wrists, knees and ankles. Someone was slapping him roughly, but the mists of unconsciousness claimed him again. He dreamed he was standing underneath a fountain. The cool spray was refreshing, yet it stung his wounds. He opened his mouth to drink and felt its ammonia burn. He woke with a jerk and heard laughter. A soldier stood in front of him, urinating into his face. Spluttering, he shook his head vehemently from side to side to get out of the way, making it pound so violently that he slipped into unconsciousness again. When he came to this time, he was hanging from his arms again. He didn’t struggle against the pain anymore. It was part of him now. It seemed like he couldn’t remember a time when it was not here. It had become essential to him. As long as he was in pain, he was still human.

“Speak,” a voice urged.

He stared. It sounded familiar, but its owner stood in the shadows.

“Stupid boy. Do you think anybody cares whether you live or die? Confess and save yourself.”

His vision cleared and he realized it was the Colonel.

“Why won’t you confess?” the Colonel asked.

Elvis opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue, the size of a thick slice of watermelon, kept getting in the way.

“Beat him some more, Jerome. He is too stubborn,” the Colonel said to someone in the shadows.

Elvis noticed for the first time that he was naked and began to struggle against his chains. He saw a stocky man stripped to the waist step out of the shadows, face heavily scarified. He smiled with a mixture of contempt and pleasure at Elvis’s squirming.

“I never touch you and you dey cry. Today I go show you pepper,” Jerome said.

He walked over to the wall and selected a koboko, the whip about four feet long. He came over to Elvis and showed him the whip.

“De Fulanis use dese on each oder to test who be man enough to marry. A hundred lashes, no sound, or else you still be boy.”

Elvis closed his eyes and tried to block out everything.

“Are you boy or man?” Jerome went on. “Because a boy no suppose to do a man’s job,” he finished and laughed loudly.

Then, whistling softly under his breath, he began rubbing a cool white paste all over Elvis’s body. It felt good, soothing almost. Jerome smiled as he noted his expression. Still smiling, he took Elvis’s penis in one hand and gently smoothed the paste over it, working it up and down. Elvis felt himself swell. Jerome laughed and massaged Elvis’s penis faster and faster. It was not long before Elvis shuddered and shot semen all over his torturer’s hand.

“So you be homo,” Jerome said, laughing breathlessly.

Tears of shame streamed down Elvis’s face.

“De thing is you dey stupid. You think say I dey rub you cream? You must be mad. Dis is chemical and it go burn like nothing you know and when I flog you, you go think say your skin dey burn.”

Already Elvis could feel the slow heat of the concoction burning through the coolness. Jerome brought the whip up and sent it snaking round Elvis’s body. He screamed and Jerome laughed and pulled the whip back, flaying a thin line of skin off. Elvis screamed again.

“Tell me who dis King of de Beggars is. We know you are one of his boys,” the Colonel urged.

“I don’t know him!” Elvis screamed.

The Colonel chuckled.

“You sound like Peter denying Jesus,” he said.

Elvis stared at the Colonel. It was clear he did not recognize him from the club that night, nor did he seem to know that Elvis had been part of the group smuggling the human parts. The beating had stopped. Jerome looked worried and the Colonel approached him and asked what was wrong. Jerome whispered something in his ear and the Colonel nodded and replied. With surprise, Elvis realized that his body was jerking in spasms, probably from the pain. Jerome rushed out and returned shortly with an Indian doctor, and together they brought Elvis down. The intelligence sector chose Indian doctors because it was assumed they had no allegiance to the tortured and so wouldn’t try to kill them, to ease the pain. The doctor felt for a pulse, a heartbeat. There didn’t seem to be any. Elvis couldn’t understand it, because he was wide awake. With a slight frown, the doctor raised a huge horse-sized syringe and stabbed an adrenaline injection straight into his heart. Elvis’s eyes slowly opened.

“Well?” he heard the Colonel asking from a distance.

“He’ll live. But he must rest now,” the doctor said.

When Elvis woke up, he was lying on a mat in a corner of the same room. He sat up slowly, his arms tingling with pins and needles as blood returned. He became aware that in the shadows to his left, Jerome and a couple of armed soldiers stood silently. The Colonel was sitting in a chair. On the floor in front of him, shackled hand and foot, was a man, whimpering.

“Can you speak now?” the Colonel asked, his manner abrupt.

Elvis was not sure if he was talking to him or to the bound man at his feet.

“Answer me when I speak,” the Colonel said.

Before either Elvis or the bound man could speak, the Colonel moved his hand almost imperceptibly and the bound man screamed. Then Elvis saw the blood. The Colonel got up and walked over to Elvis and dropped the bound man’s bloody ear on the floor in front of him.

“Dis is what happens when my questions are not answered,” he said gently. “You look young and confused, and frankly you are not de type I like to torture. I like to break people who think dey are hard. But I will cut you up if I have to. Do you understand?”

Elvis began sobbing and the Colonel rubbed his head tenderly.

“Listen, stop crying, okay? Tell me where de King is?”

“I don’t know. We were running and we got separated.”

“Okay, tell me where he lives.”

“Under the bridge.”

“Which bridge?’

“By Ojuelegba.”

The Colonel laughed. It sounded like wet rope rasping on dry wood.

“Dis one is just a child. Throw him back,” he said, walking out.

They threw Elvis out of the van before it had stopped. He hit the rough road surface and rolled painfully, coming to a stop by the base of a wooden electric pole. He used the pole to pull himself up and pulled down the blindfold. He could see the army truck speeding away in the distance.

He was on a back street that was deserted except for the corpses of hundreds of dead rats that littered the roadside. The sound of children playing carried out to him. He stood up and covered his nakedness behind cupped hands, nude except for the Fulani pouch hanging from his neck. He stole some clothes from a line and started walking. He didn’t know where he was or where he was going. He just walked. It wasn’t clear to him if he was really free or whether it was just an illusion. All day long he just walked, on and on, like a man possessed. The sun dipping on the horizon cast long shadows behind him. Cars whizzing past him blared their horns angrily as he wandered into the road. He stumbled on a rock jutting out of the ground and fell with a thud at the foot of a brazier that burned bright. The children roasting corn and pears for sale with their mother screamed in shock.

“Get up, madman!” the woman yelled. “Shut up!” she threw at her screaming children.

Elvis raised his head and tried to focus on her but saw only the leaping flames. Sitting beside the corn seller, hunched and chewing on a corncob, was an old woman who reminded him of Oye.

“I said get up — are you mad?” the corn seller shouted at him. “You are blocking my market, get up!”

She swung a firebrand at him. It crackled through the air and hit him on the leg. The burn felt good, brought him back into his body. He laughed as he got up and stumbled away into the night.

SYNSEPALUM DULCIFICUM DANIELL

(Sapotaceae) (Igbo: Udara-nwaewe)

A small tree of the rain forest, it has a green bark and elliptic leaves that are somewhat wedge-shaped. Small pink-and-brown flowers cluster around the axils of the leaves, and it has an oval, purplish fruit.

The pulp of the fruit, around the seeds, is sweet and has the lingering aftereffect of making acid substances consumed within three hours of it taste sweet.

TWENTY-NINE

There is only one history: Igbo.

But there are things that cannot be contained, even in ritual.

The Igbo have a saying: Oya bu uto ndu. That is the joy of life.

Lagos, 1983

The King marched at the head of the mob, singing in a deep baritone. Immediately behind him were the three druids. The rest of the mob was comprised of the curious, thugs looking for some trouble, market women and students. They all sang at the top of their voices as they marched on Ribadu Road, the seat of government.

“Who shall be free?” the King sang.

“Nigeria shall be free,” the crowd responded.

Like a strange pied piper, he picked up more and more people as he marched. No one had any clear idea why they were marching or where they were marching to. But that did not seem to stop them. The King, like Gandhi on his salt march, was resolute. Even the press joined the march. They had covered the Freedom Square raid, but this was much bigger.

Predictably the army soon got wind of the approaching mob and set up a barricade. The Colonel was there in person, having decided to put a stop to the irritation that the King had become. For the past few months, as the King’s media profile grew, the Colonel’s bosses brought the King up at every briefing.

The Colonel walked up to the barricade of tanks. “Who is in charge here?” he asked.

“Lieutenant Yar’adua reporting for duty, sir!”

“Listen, if you want to survive de day with your rank — when dat mob reaches here, do not open fire until I give de order. Understand?”

“Yes sir!”

“Good,” the Colonel said. He walked back to his car, a black BMW, and came back with a sniper’s rifle. He picked a spot ahead of the tanks and settled down to wait for the crowd.

They soon came around the corner, singing. The King was well ahead of the mob by at least ten yards. The Colonel was impressed by the size of the crowd that the King was able to muster. Raising the sniper scope to his eye, he held the King in a perfect cross. But then he noticed the news cameras. It would not do to have an assassination taped, especially by the BBC. It would affect foreign investments, and his bosses wouldn’t take kindly to that. The Colonel put the sniper rifle down and walked back to the tanks.

“Do you have a megaphone?”

The lieutenant nodded and passed the megaphone. The Colonel walked out front to the face the crowd.

“My fellow countrymen, I wish to assure you dat dere is no need for dis demonstration. If you disband now and return to your homes, we will forget de whole incident.”

“And if we don’t?” the King demanded.

“Nobody wants dat,” the Colonel said. He was losing patience with the whole situation, and he would soon order his men to stop the mob, cameras or no cameras.

“We get legitimate concerns. We want democracy.”

“Yes, democracy, no more army!” the mob chanted.

The Colonel took in the agitated crowd and the media and felt his rage building. He had one nerve left, and this King guy was jumping on it.

Lieutenant Yar’adua came up to him. “How do you want us to proceed, sir?”

“I’m not sure. Radio de General and ask him what he wants. Dese journalists are my main concern, otherwise I would just kill everybody here,” the Colonel said.

“Yes sir,” Lieutenant Yar’adua said, saluting and making his way back to the tank to carry out his orders.

The Colonel watched as some younger members of the crowd began to gather stones and rocks, anything that could be used as a projectile. The Colonel turned to the soldiers behind him and, identifying a sergeant, motioned for him to come over. He pointed out the troublemakers to the sergeant and asked him to have a few men armed with tear-gas launchers aimed at the edges of the crowd. They would need to keep the crowd contained in one place if they were to maintain control.

Lieutenant Yar’adua walked back to where the Colonel stood smoking a cigarette and watching members of the press creep closer.

“Sir!”

“Proceed.”

“De General said to send some men to remove de press while you talk to de Beggar King. He wants you to calm him down and remove him from dis place with minimum damage.”

The Colonel swore under his breath.

“How? By magic? Okay, take a group and begin to round up de press, starting with dose one over dere,” the Colonel said, pointing to some members of the press who had crept forward.

“Yes sir!”

“Lieutenant.”

“Sir?”

“Handle it yourself. Don’t send junior officers.”

“Yes sir!”

The Colonel turned back to the crowd. “You — come forward,” he said, pointing to the King.

“Make we meet halfway.”

“Sure,” the Colonel replied.

The two men advanced on each other. As he approached, the King felt trepidation. Something was not right here. The army never talked. He suspected the press had something to do with this sudden offer to talk, but there was something else. He had been around enough rats in his life to know their smell. Looking around, he scanned the rooftops for snipers. The Colonel walked toward the King, keeping a fake smile plastered to his face for the press. No need to appear menacing to the world, he thought. Underneath it, however, he was cursing the King, wishing he could handle this his way: walk straight up to the King, draw his Collectors’ Edition 1911 Colt.44 automatic and blow the bastard’s head right off. Better than his morning shot of gin with a coffee chaser. He cracked his neck and swallowed hard to keep his anger in.

The crowd of protestors stood watching the King and the Colonel get closer. Whatever group mind had held them together before seemed to have deserted them. They began to break up into clumps of twos and threes, drifting to buy things from the ever-present hawkers, who, sensing a possible trade, had followed them. They stood munching on fruit or cookies and downing soft drinks. The Colonel saw the crowd begin to break up and smiled. It never ceased to amaze him how quickly mobs lost focus if their leader was separated from them. He glanced at his watch. In this instance, it had taken less than two minutes. Seeing the Colonel smile and glance at his watch, the King stopped and stared around him, convinced that he was walking into a trap.

“What’s wrong?” the Colonel asked.

The King shook his head and resumed walking. This was it, he thought. Well, at least there would be television cameras to record it all. If he died now, he died a hero of the people.

Drawing closer, the King recognized the Colonel as the officer he had been searching for all this time. This was the man who had murdered his family so long ago. He was older, but it was the same sneering smile and the eyes that the King could never forget.

What happened next would be described differently later. Some would mention butterflies surrounding the King; others, cats; others still, dogs; others said eagles. Some also said that a hand reached down from heaven and handed him a sword with which to smite the unjust army.

The King reached into his dashiki and pulled out an ugly dagger. Before the Colonel could release his pistol, the King sprang and sunk his knife deep into the Colonel’s throat. The soldiers at the blockade opened fire and the bullets lifted the King bodily into the air. He soared, arms spread, before falling to the ground in a broken rumpled heap.

The crowd scattered in panic, bullets and angry soldiers chasing them. The three druids stood their ground, bullets buzzing about them like angry hornets. Tired of spells, with Jagua in the lead, they were swatting at soldiers with their magic staffs, knocking them out. The protective bubble they believed their spells wove around them broke when a soldier they missed stopped and shot them all, point blank: Jagua in the face, the other two in the chest.

Madam Caro took four bullets in her ample backside but didn’t slow down, the pestle she used to pound amala and eba at her buka held high, pounding army heads into submission. An unknown man ran toward the oncoming soldiers wielding an old Igbo sword called an akparaja. Short, wide and double-edged, it cleaved heads off with ease, littering the floor like a pineapple harvest. He took ten soldiers before running out of luck on the end of a bayonet.

The youths who had been gathering rocks and stones earlier hurled a fusillade at the soldiers, but they hit the helmets and riot body armor without doing much damage. Tear-gas canisters were fired at them. Apart from the choking smoke, the canisters of gas caught a few by surprise, tearing holes through them. Cameramen sought shelter and continued to film. The street was too narrow, and the bulk of the crowd jammed each other tight. When the shooting finally stopped, there were bodies everywhere. Conservative estimates by the press put the casualty figure at about two hundred. What no one could have guessed was that when the film of the King jumping the Colonel and stabbing him was broadcast, he would be deified, turned into a prophet, an advance guard, like John the Baptist, for the arrival of the Messiah.

Elvis felt the hot sun burn his face, and with it the first stab of a headache. He opened his eyes and glanced around him, taking in the wilderness of crumbled and derelict buildings. To his right a pole rose up out of the ground, marking the site of what used to be someone’s house, a silent sentinel, a beacon.

“Hassan! Hassan!” a woman called out in a voice hoarse from effort, but only the howling of the wind greeted her.

All around, scavengers, human and otherwise, feasted on the exposed innards of Maroko. They rummaged in the rubble as bulldozers sifted through the chaos like slow-feeding buffalo. Here some article of clothing still untorn; there a pot; over there a child’s toy with the squeaker still working. There was a lot of snorting coming from a clump of shrubs as a pack of hungry dogs fed. The hand of a corpse rose up from between the snarling dogs in a final wave.

Elvis took it in and tried to recall what had happened before he came to be there. He vaguely remembered the dreams and walking. He searched around for clues as to where he was, and then it dawned on him that he was lying in the rubble of what used to be his house. By his foot a piece of paper stuck out from under a concrete block. He could see it was torn from an almanac. It bore the legend JESUS CAN SAVE. He shut his eyes and hoped this was another dream. He opened them but it was no dream. He struggled to his feet and stood swaying while he tried to gain his balance. Where was his father? Had he slept through all the destruction? When had it happened? Where had he been? Where were Comfort and her children? Jagua? Confidence? He searched frantically for any sign of his family, and one of the human scavengers, seeing him scramble about, called out: “No worry yourself. I done search dere. Nothing dey, only dead body.”

Elvis stared at him uncomprehendingly. Corpses? Whose? Where? But the man was gone. Elvis scrambled over a final pile of rubbish and rubble and stopped short when he saw a piece of colored cloth sticking out from the mud of the swamp. He recognized his father’s lappa. He stood still for a long time before he approached it. In that time he experienced nothing. Thought nothing and felt nothing. He wondered whether he would be able to weep for his father’s death. If he was dead, that is. It was more likely that Elvis would feel relief, though.

He scrambled down the pile of rubble, half falling, half sliding, until he came to the bottom. He was brought to a halt by his father’s foot poking out at an odd angle. He clawed the debris away and exposed the body. There was a hole the size of a saucer in his chest, ribs crumbled like a cracker into lots of pieces, as if a large object had rolled over them. Sunday’s eyes were popping and his mouth was forced open into a silent laugh. Elvis’s glance took in the body of a policeman lying not far from his father’s body. It only took a minute for him to work out the general sequence that must have led up to his father’s death. What puzzled him, though, was the policeman. What had killed him? He approached the body. The entire back of the head was missing and there were claw marks all over the body. It looked like he had been mauled by some large predator. That was really strange, because there were no animals of that size anywhere near Lagos or Maroko. It certainly wasn’t the work of a ghetto rat.

Elvis sat there in the rubble and tried to figure out what had really happened. He wished his head would stop pounding for just one minute. The inside of his mouth was furred and tasted like an old slipper. It bothered him that his father was dead and all he could feel was relief. Dead. That word fell with a thud like a mango loosened from a tree.

He gazed at the bodies of his father and the policeman and then he took in the whole of Maroko. What would he do now? He had no money, and all his worldly possessions had been in their house. Whatever had survived had already been looted, and he didn’t think he could get anything back from the scavengers. He didn’t know what he was going to do about burying his father. Whatever happened, there was no way his father was going to get an elaborate funeral. No cows or dogs slaughtered to ease his passage into the next world. He had to find a way to take his father’s body back to Afikpo. He tried to wrap it in a scavenged length of cloth. He had almost succeeded when he was interrupted by the harsh bark of a voice.

“What are you doing?”

Elvis glanced up and saw the uniform of a soldier with a big shiny gun standing over him.

The uniform barked at him again: “I said, what are you doing?”

“He is my father.”

“So what? Where are you taking dis body?”

“To bury him.”

“No! Government say no dead body can leave here without clearance from HQ. You get clearance?”

“I …”

“Do you want me to arrest you?”

“But …”

“If you annoy me I will kill you and add you to your father.”

“So what happens to my father?”

“You answer soldierman with question?”

Elvis didn’t see the slap coming, but the blow knocked him over. He tasted blood.

“I’m sorry … but my father …”

“All right, since you have apologize, I can let you have de body for some money.”

“I have no money …”

“No what? Get out of here now,” the uniform said, descending on Elvis and pounding him repeatedly with his rifle butt.

Elvis stumbled away. The tears that wouldn’t come for his father streamed freely now as he felt worthless in the face of blind, unreasoning power. He could return later, when it was dark, but he knew the body would be gone.

Elvis started walking again, unable to accept his situation. One minute he had a life — not much of one, but he had one. And the next, everything fell apart. He walked for hours. He had no plans, no ideas about what to do or where he was going, he just walked. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular, but at least he was not standing still.

He kept walking until he found himself underneath one of the many dusty flyovers that littered the city. Another ghetto had been growing here for a long time, but now it just exploded as the influx from Maroko brought more life flooding into it.

All around him, everywhere, there were people: food sellers, softdrink hawkers, tire vulcanizers, small-time car mechanics, women and men lying on top of their belongings and hundreds of beggar children. Over to his left a child slept on a broken chest of drawers and another huddled in a basket once used to store yams.

Some of these children had always lived here. Others, here with their parents, had been displaced from other ghettos by Operation Clean the Nation. His eyes caught those of a young girl no more than twelve. She cut her eyes at him and, heaving her pregnant body up, walked away. He glanced at another child and saw a look of old boredom in his eyes. Elvis read the city, seeing signs not normally visible. A woman sat by the roadside begging for alms, her legs as thick as tree stumps, her arms no more than plump plantain stems clutching the air vainly. Her torso was a lump of soft dough kneaded into shapelessness and swollen by the yeast of shame which she inhaled daily. Her body was covered in ripe yellow and red sores, throbbing with the pus of decay. She sat there as if her pain had taken root.

Some distance away from her, a man stood, then sat, then stood again. Now he danced. Stopped. Shook his head and laughed and then hopped around in an odd birdlike gait. He was deep in conversation with some hallucination. It did not seem strange to Elvis that the spirit world became more visible and tangible the nearer one was to starvation. The man laughed, and as his diaphragm shook, Elvis thought he heard the man’s ribs knocking together, producing a sweet, haunting melody like the wooden xylophones of his small-town childhood.

In another spot, a young girl hawked oranges from a tray on her head. She had just got out from school and had barely had time to put down her books before snatching up the tray and heading for the streets. In a poor family everyone had to earn their keep. She sometimes let her male customers feel her firm breasts for a small fee. She marveled at the sweet stickiness she sometimes felt between her legs. She was saving up to go to secondary school.

Elvis traced patterns in the cracked and parched earth beneath his feet. There is a message in it all somewhere, he mused, a point to the chaos. But no matter how hard he tried, the meaning always seemed to be out there somewhere beyond reach, mocking him.

He found a quiet spot that didn’t seem to have a claim staked on it. Curling up, he covered himself with the torn bit of cloth he had been wrapping his father’s corpse in, and settled down to sleep.

Elvis woke up in Bridge City, feeling more than slightly confused. His stomach rumbled noisily but he was too broke to eat. He got up and stretched. He wondered what to do for money, remembering Okon telling him something about selling blood in hospitals. But which hospital? Just then he heard someone call his name. He turned round and, sure enough, there was Okon.

“I was just thinking about you.”

“Den I will indeed live long.”

They both laughed.

“What are you doing here?” Elvis asked.

“I should be asking you. I live here.”

“Since Maroko was demolished?”

“No. For months before den. You?”

“I just got here last night,” Elvis said. “But I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

Okon nodded sagely: “Words cannot be force. When dey are ready dey will come. Have you eaten yet? No? Come den.”

And over breakfast Elvis probed Okon about what he did. Whether he still sold blood for a living.

Okon laughed. “No. I stop dat long time. For a while we hijacked corpses from roadsides and even homes which we sold for organ transplants.”

Elvis shuddered. Okon noted it.

“I know how you feel,” he said. “It is bad for a man’s soul, waiting at roadside like vulture, for someone to die, so you can steal fresh corpse, but man must survive. When dey start to demand alive people, me I quit. I am not murderer. Hustler? Survivor? Yes. But definitely not a murderer.”

Elvis had stopped eating and had been studying Okon’s face.

“But your face tell me you know about dat type of thing,” Okon continued.

“And now?” Elvis asked.

For the first time he really saw Okon for what he was: a tired man. His eyes were bloodshot and rheumy and fought hard to suppress any glimpse of the soul beneath. His face was weathered dark-brown leather with fine lines all over it.

“I am caretaker.”

“Caretaker?”

“Don’t rush things, my friend — gently, gently. Watch, look, learn. If you like things, den you can join. Until den, just come here and eat. I will square de owner. Okay?” Okon said softly.

Elvis nodded.

“Why are you helping me?” he asked.

“Because nobody help me.”

Elvis looked away, suddenly guilty that he had questioned Okon’s intentions.

“Have you heard anything about the King?” Elvis asked.

“So you never hear?”

“Hear what?”

“De King done die.”

The days passed quickly, and Elvis felt he had always lived in Bridge City. Time lost all meaning in the face of that deprivation. In Bridge City the only thing to look forward to was surviving the evening and making it through the night. Elvis soon got into the swing of things with the help and guidance of Okon. He became a caretaker, guarding the young beggar children while they slept.

Bridge City was a dangerous place, and when darkness fell, it was easy to be very much alone in the crowds that milled everywhere. Hundreds of oil lamps flickered unsteadily on tables, trays, mats spread on the ground and any other surface the hawkers who flocked to Bridge City at night could find to display their wares. Yet even all that light could not penetrate the deeper shadows that hung like presences everywhere.

Young children who had been out all day begging were prime targets for the scavengers spawned by this place. They were beaten, raped, robbed and sometimes killed. So they came up with the idea of “caretakers.” The children paid one set of scavengers to protect them against the others — simple and effective. Just thinking about the degradation made Elvis’s skin crawl. He watched the children huddled on rubber sheeting exposed to the night and the vampire mosquitoes. On rainy nights they slept standing up, swaying with the wind as the rain was blown everywhere, flooding their sleeping places.

The two things Elvis missed most were books and music — not the public embrace of record-store-mounted speakers, but self-chosen music, the sound of an old record scratching the melody from its hard vinyl, or the crackle of a radio fighting static to manifest a song from the mystery of the ether. He often thought about teaching these children to dance. He didn’t expect it to save them, but it would give them something in their lives that they did not have to beg, fight for or steal.

He had come to terms with the King’s death; but he hadn’t come to terms, and probably never would, with the way the King had been deified. He was spoken of with a deeply profound reverence, and the appendage “Blessings be upon his name,” usually reserved for prophets in Islam, was being used whenever his name was invoked. A group of Rastafarians even claimed he was the Emperor Selassie, Christ himself, the Lion of Judah, returned to lead them home.

He hadn’t heard from Redemption for a while and though he asked repeatedly, nobody seemed to have heard from him.

Elvis ran into Madam Caro a week after arriving in Bridge City, where she had already set up a thriving bar. She gave him a bottle of beer on the house and expressed her condolences at his father’s death. When he asked how she knew, she explained that she had run into Comfort a few days after Maroko was razed.

“Did she find his body?” he asked.

Madam Caro nodded.

“But he was not complete. We can only hope he can still find peace on the other side.”

Elvis smiled sadly.

“And Comfort?’

“She done move to Aje. Her shop still dey Balogun side. If you want to visit her, I get de address.”

“Thank you, but no,” he said, shaking his head.

“What of Redemption? Any news?”

She said she hadn’t heard from him but that she would keep her eyes and ears open. She went off to serve another customer. Aside from her limp, she was no worse for wear.

That had been three weeks ago, and hardly a day went by without Elvis wondering if Redemption had survived the Colonel’s men, and if so, where he was. In a few weeks he had lost everyone in Lagos who meant anything to him — his father, the King, Redemption, even Comfort. He was occasionally tempted to ask Madam Caro for Comfort’s address, but always decided against it. Sunday had been the only thing they had in common and now he was dead. Elvis didn’t see the point of contacting her, but it was hard not to give in to the loneliness and feel sorry for himself.

He walked to Madam Caro’s and bought a beer. Bringing it back to where the children slept, he sat watching over them. He pulled the Fulani pouch from under his shirt, unzipped it, took out his mother’s journal and stroked the cover repeatedly. He was lucky that it had survived prison. Next to it was Aunt Felicia’s postcard. Suddenly the idea of America didn’t seem so bad. He lit a cigarette and, looking up, caught the eye of one of the kids. She smiled at him. Her eyes were round and glowed strangely. Her teeth were small, white and even, and he wondered in an abstracted way where or when these children washed. There were no bathrooms, yet their skin glowed with a lovely sheen, and apart from the odd one, they never smelled.

The girl stood up and approached him. She was wearing a loose smock and he could see through it her barely formed breasts, their nipples grazing the material. She was only about twelve, maybe thirteen, and yet when she walked she swayed with knowledge far beyond her years.

She stood before him and he stared at her transfixed. Her lips parted slightly and her tongue darted out to lick her upper lip and he followed her every movement, his tongue licking in sync. She knelt before him and the movement made her sleeve drop, exposing one of her small breasts. His eyes grew big and he fought the spell, but the wave seemed to drown him in its power. She reached out and stroked his sex, and despite himself he felt his lust swell.

She smiled and took his hand and placed it on her breast and he watched while, with no help from him, his fingers began to move, stroking her nipple. It hardened and her breathing grew shallow and hoarse and she stroked him faster and faster and suddenly he let out a strangled cry and staggered up and away from her.

“Stop! Stop!” he yelled.

She stood up, confused and a little afraid. No one stirred except for one child, who glanced in their direction for a moment before looking away, uninterested. He wondered why his body had not cringed, why he had enjoyed it, desired more.

Okon sauntered over from behind the shrubbery in the shadows, which served as a toilet. He had heard Elvis’s cry and thought he was fighting off scavengers. Now he felt irritated because he had cut himself off to come and help and felt the familiar discomfort of unfinished business.

“What’s de matter?” he asked Elvis harshly.

Elvis opened his mouth but no sound came. Speechless, he pointed to the half-naked girl.

Okon understood and laughed. “Don’t start your shit. Different laws apply here. She wants it and dat’s all dat matters,” he said.

“But she is a child,” Elvis stammered.

“You go learn. We call her Oliver Twist because she no fit to get enough. I was her first, you know — did a good job, didn’t I?”

Okon looked past Elvis to the girl, who had developed a coy and seductive manner. Elvis looked from Okon to the girl and back again, something in his gaze causing the girl to drop her eyes. Okon yanked her roughly to him, pressing her close. Although Elvis held his hands over his ears, he could still hear the sounds of their coupling, crude and lusty: her delicate whimpers and his deeper, harsher grunts. He wondered why he sat there with his hands over his ears, his sex throbbing, doing nothing. As they both staggered out into the light, Okon was adjusting his trousers. The sleeve on the girl’s dress was still down, showing her breast. Her eyes held a curious mix of satisfaction, shame and pity when she looked at Elvis.

“You must learn to enjoy more. Dese are de fringe benefits of dis job,” Okon said, reaching out to pat Elvis on the back.

Elvis shrank away from his touch. “How could you?”

“No start your shit. We are who we are because we are who we were made. No forget.”

“Yes, I’ll never forget,” Elvis said softly.

He turned round. The girl was still standing there looking at him. He reached out on impulse and pulled her sleeve up, covering her breast. She smiled, suddenly shy, and hiding her face behind her hand, she giggled.

“You be fool,” she said tenderly.

He smiled. “Yes. A fool.”

Later that evening he felt a chill come upon him. Within days he was ill, his fever raging so hard that he passed out into a place of spasms and hallucinations. When he regained consciousness, the young girl was mopping his brow and Okon was nervously smoking a cigarette. Elvis sat up and wrapped the hole-ridden lappa tighter around himself, cowering away from the thundering rain. It came down in solid sheets, and in minutes the ground under the bridge was flooded.

The beggar children slept standing up, gently swaying with the rhythm of the rain. He had been given the only dry spot there was, on top of a pile of tires, as he was the sick one. Besides, he was the gentlest caretaker, taking only what was actually offered to him and in many cases handing it back when he didn’t actually need it.

Okon looked at him. “You worry us,” he said.

“How long was I unconscious?” Elvis asked.

“Four days.”

“Four days?”

“Yes. But you are back.”

He felt the young girl arranging cardboard boxes around him to fend off the spray carried by the wind, and he looked up and his eyes met hers.

“Go and sleep,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Shh,” she said, and wiped his fevered brow.

“I’ll never leave you,” he promised her rashly. He knew somewhere in him that of all the promises ever made, that was the one most likely to be broken. What circumstance did not steal, time eroded.

“Sleep now,” she said gently.

Her fingers, like butterfly wings, cooled his brow. She then climbed up beside him and, wrapping her little body around him for warmth, she slept, and this time he was not aroused.

The rain came down in one solid, unyielding sheet. It had been like this for days now, and few had been able to leave their homes as the city flooded. Shops closed and everything had slowly ground to a halt. No cars moved, because the streets had become canals. The only people about were the beggar children, who were making a fortune by fetching buckets of clean water to housebound people.

The young girl whispered the news to Elvis. Religious leaders, Muslim and Christian, had come together to urge their followers to pray together for the rain to stop.

Across Lagos, in another slum, Comfort waded through the ankle-deep water that flooded her home. She was lucky that the flooding was minor. The new man she was living with sat in a wicker work chair with his feet on top of a stool, reading a newspaper. He stopped to bawl out that he was hungry and then went back to reading.

Dinner was served in watery silence, broken only by the occasional slosh as some undercurrent disturbed them. Tope, her youngest child, paused in her meal to watch a rat that had just swum into the room. Taking careful aim, she hit it on the nose with a lump of fufu. It shrieked in anger and swam out hurriedly, muttering under its breath about the indignities of mixing with the poor. Tope laughed so much that she dropped her small piece of meat in the water. In a flash she was down on the floor, rooting in the water for it. Her brothers, Tunji and Akin, laughed at her loss, but with a triumphant yelp she held up the piece of meat, inspecting it critically before plopping it into her mouth. Her mother regarded her with a bored stare and went back to her own food.

The storm had not eased up for days. Almost as if they were symbiotically bound, Elvis’s fever still burned. Through the film of rain, hazy and unclear, Elvis saw a young boy standing around at a public tap waiting for his bucket to fill up. The public tap was situated directly below a high-voltage power line. Picking up a thin piece of metal, the boy rapped out a tune on the metal beak of the tap, dancing in the puddles, laughing. Suddenly the girl jerked up. Eyes wide, she reached out a trembling hand and pointed. Elvis saw it too. More than four thousand volts of electricity arced from the overhead cable in a beautiful steel-blue hue, like ice reflecting the sun, and hit the upturned bicycle spoke the boy held with the grace of a cat.

There was a brief flash like a bolt of lightning and then, scarcely disturbing the heavy air, its fragrance alluding to death, a choking smell filled the nostrils as only the smell of burning flesh can. Elvis watched the boy’s body float away in the deluge, while another took his place and took the full bucket of water to whatever destination would pay for it.

Elvis shut his eyes and went back to sleep. He was woken by the smell of cigarette smoke and the slap of checker tiles on a wooden board. He sat up and stared uncomprehendingly at the sight of Redemption and Okon playing a game of checkers. He thought he might still be asleep and dreaming.

“Redemption?”

Redemption looked up, saw Elvis and sprang to his feet, scattering the checkers everywhere, the board falling to the floor with a thump.

“Elvis!” he said, giving Elvis a hug. Standing back, he pulled Elvis to his feet. “Make I see you.” Redemption continued, examining Elvis critically. “Well, you done lose weight but not too much.”

Elvis was still confused and a little lightheaded, so he sat down, leaning back against a bridge support.

“Redemption. How? When?”

“I find him,” Okon said from the floor, where he was picking up the checkers.

Just then the young girl rushed up to Elvis from where she was buying some food, with a cup of strong eucalyptus-flavored tea. He took it with a smile and sipped it slowly.

“You sleep well?”

He nodded, embarrassed by her attentions and the smile on Redemption’s face.

“How long did I sleep this time?” he asked the girl.

“Two days.”

“Two days?”

“Yes.”

The rain had stopped, though the sky was a troubled grey. Elvis realized that his fever had abated. As the young girl fussed around Elvis, Redemption was busy sending another child off to buy them beer and some more cigarettes from Madam Caro’s.

“What is your name?” Elvis asked the young girl.

“Blessing,” she replied.

He smiled. He finished the tea and watched her take the cup back. She reminded him so much of Efua, and he wondered why all the women in his life had to take care of him — even those he should have been taking care of.

Blessing came back quickly and tried to make him lie down again.

“Aren’t you losing money by staying to take care of me?” Elvis asked her.

“Sleep, you never strong,” Blessing said.

Yes, he thought, dozing off, sleep.

He woke up to someone slapping him gently.

“Redemption,” he said as his eyes focused.

“Yes, how you go sleep again. Two days sleep never do?”

Elvis yawned and sat up again, back against the same bridge support.

“Beer?”

Elvis nodded and took the offered drink from Redemption. He took a cautious sip and let out his breath in a satisfied sigh.

“I see you done better. You want food?” Redemption asked.

“No.”

“So, Okon told me of your deal here. I see dat I teach you well.”

“Whatever.”

“Elvis, your words dey cut me.”

“Sorry.”

“So, what’s making you sick?”

Elvis shrugged.

“Well, even though I am not a doctor, make I guess. Dis life you are living?”

“Ah, Redemption, no mock our life,” Okon protested.

“I hear you. But not de life I dey talk of. Na Elvis here. He is not able for dis type of living. Abi?”

Elvis nodded.

“So what do you want to do?”

Again Elvis shrugged.

“De sickness affect your tongue?” Redemption asked angrily.

“No, but I don’t have answers for you.”

“I see you never change. Always big grammar for lie.”

“I am still trying to understand what happened to you. How you managed to escape the Colonel. Why you disappeared for so long. What you are doing back here. So forgive me if I am a little tongue-tied.”

“Make I tell you what happened. After you and de King leave, de Colonel begin chase me bad, bad. People begin talk say I cheek him and him no fit to do anything about it. De Colonel vex well, well. But I manage join some traders to Cotonu in Benin Republic.”

“You left the country?”

“Yes.”

“No take am brag. Benin Republic is next door. It is not like say you go overseas,” Okon said.

“Shut up!” Redemption said.

“So when did you come back?” Elvis asked.

“When I hear three days ago say dat de King killed de Colonel. I wish dat I hear sooner. I would have been back since.”

The three of them were silent, sipping from their beers.

“Why did you agree to come back here with Okon?”

“Ah, Elvis. You get suspicious mind O!”

“Experience has taught me that you always want something.”

“Elvis, your words dey wound me because I come here with gift for you.”

“Gift?”

“Here, take my passport.”

Elvis took the proffered passport.

“What is this?”

“My gift to you. Use it to go to America, go join your auntie.”

“But I cannot — it’s your passport, Redemption.”

“Dose white people no go know de difference in de photo.”

“Why not use it yourself? Why would you give it to me?”

“Elvis, take de passport. You know I myself no go ever go America,” Redemption said.

“Why?”

“Because dis na my home. I be area boy, alaye. I no go fit for States.”

“I’m not sure I want to go, either.”

“Take it. If I was going to use it, I for done use it by now.”

“I don’t understand,” Elvis said.

“Sometime you just hold something like dat for dream. For believe. No worry, I go find anoder thing!”

“I don’t want to go!”

“It is America, Elvis! Take it. You know how many people are planning for dis and can’t get it?” Okon said.

“When did we start thinking of America as a life plan?” Elvis asked.

“When things spoil here. Don’t blame me. I no spoil am,” Okon said.

“Even during your father’s time we dey plan for abroad. Dat time it was London, now it is America,” Redemption said.

“But remember all the things the King said about America?”

“You never believe dat. It is your fear talking. America is better dan here. For you. Your type no fit survive here long,” Redemption said.

“But this country is just as good as America.”

Redemption shook his head. “Not for you. Go.”

“I promised Blessing that I would never leave her.”

“Go,” Blessing said. “Go, den you send for me.”

Elvis stared from Redemption to Okon and then to Blessing. He knew they were right, but the thought of leaving for America frightened him. Even though it had become painfully clear to him that there was no way he could survive in Lagos, there was no guarantee he would survive in America.

“Fine. I’ll go. But I am not well.”

“You well enough to travel. It is plane, you no go take leg,” Okon said.

“Okay, Elvis done leave de country,” Redemption announced with a laugh.

Elvis stood at the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of Murtala Mohammed International Airport, staring down at the runway. He wasn’t sure how to feel. On the one hand, he had the opportunity to get away from his life. On the other, he felt like he was abandoning everything that meant anything to him. Oye, Efua, his father, the King, Redemption, Okon, Blessing, even Comfort. It wasn’t like he couldn’t make it in Lagos. Plenty of people did it every day, and they lived full and happy lives. But Redemption had been right: not him. He knew that what he thought he was leaving behind wasn’t that much, and after all, his aunt Felicia was in America. No, what he was leaving had nothing to do with quantity; nor, in spite of Redemption’s protestations, did it have to do with quality. This was something else, something essential.

He sucked on his cigarette, blowing meditative smoke rings. Wiping his brow, he silently cursed the broken-down air-conditioning system. Soldiers, armed for battle, crawled everywhere like an ant infestation, and Elvis watched them nervously, still haunted by the specter of the Colonel. Putting as much distance as he could between him and them, Elvis found a row of seats in a corner. They were flush against the wall and offered a view of the entire departure lounge. The ashtray next to him was stained with tobacco-colored spit; and gum, half melted from the heat, dripped down the side like wax. He stubbed out his cigarette delicately, trying not to make contact with the ashtray.

Efua. He had tried not to think about her. Tried to pretend that the things Redemption had said to him that day when he thought he had spotted her with the Maharaji’s devotees weren’t true. But Redemption had been right. Elvis was selfish, or self-centered, or self-obsessed. Efua had been as much his victim as she was Uncle Joseph’s, even if he hadn’t raped her. Elvis had never known her, at least no more than he wanted to. Perhaps that was what Redemption had meant.

Not wanting to think about it anymore, he reached into his bag and pulled out a book, one of the only luxuries he’d allowed himself before leaving. All the naira he had left after buying three hundred dollars on the black market, and his ticket, he had given to Blessing. Thirty pieces of silver, Redemption had called it. He touched the shiny paperback cover: James Baldwin’s Going to Meet the Man. Opening it at the turned-down page that marked his place, he began to read. Jesse had just come on the lynching scene with his father. As he read, Elvis began to see a lot of parallels between himself and the description of a dying black man slowly being engulfed by flame. The man’s hands using the chains that bound him as leverage to pull himself up and out of the torture. He flinched at the part where the unnamed white man in the story cut off the lynched black man’s genitalia. He closed the book and imagined what kind of scar that would leave. It would be a thing alive that reached up to the sky in supplication, descending to root itself in the lowest chakra, our basest nature. Until the dead man became the sky, the tree, the earth and the full immeasurable sorrow of it all. He knew that scar, that pain, that shame, that degradation that no metaphor could contain, inscribing it on his body. And yet beyond that, he was that scar, carved by hate and smallness and fear onto the world’s face. He and everyone like him, until the earth was aflame with scarred black men dying in trees of fire.

A soldier came up to him. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for my plane,” Elvis said.

“Ticket?”

Elvis handed it over, even though this soldier had no legal right to do this, to demand anything of a man sitting by himself in a corner reading.

“Passport?”

Elvis obliged. The soldier inspected both documents for a long time. He passed them back to Elvis. Everything was in order, but he was clearly not satisfied.

“Staying here is suspicious,” the soldier said. “Move.”

“To where?”

“I don’t bloody care! Just move,” he insisted, poking Elvis in the chest with the ugly snout of his rifle’s barrel.

Elvis shoved the passport and ticket into his bag and got up. Under the soldier’s supervising gaze, he sauntered over to the café in the middle of the departure lounge. He bought a Coke and found an empty table. The match he dragged across the raspy box edge to light another cigarette illuminated his face as he watched the soldier move on to other victims. Reaching instinctively for the Fulani pouch around his neck, Elvis felt a momentary panic when he realized it wasn’t there. Remembering that Redemption had made him take it off, he relaxed. It was bound to attract unwelcome attention in both Nigerian and American customs. It was good advice, and he had ditched it, after transferring his mother’s Bible and journal to his bag. Reaching into the bag, he pulled out the journal and flipped through it. It had never revealed his mother to him. Never helped him understand her, or his life, or why anything had happened the way it had. What was the point? Nothing is ever resolved, he thought. It just changes.

In the manner of all garbled airport announcements, he heard his flight called and, finishing his Coke, he got up and walked toward the boarding gate. He stood in the line of passengers waiting for his name to be called. He thought about his father and felt guilt wash over him. Nearly every night, in his dreams, he saw Sunday’s ghost wandering aimlessly, searching for his house and Madam Caro’s buka, long gone under the tyrannical wheels of the bulldozers. He mused at how the King, with all his imperfections, had become the icon for freedom and spiritual truth.

“Redemption,” the airline clerk called.

Elvis, still unfamiliar with his new name, did not respond.

“Redemption!” the clerk called louder.

Elvis stepped forward and spoke.

“Yes, this is Redemption.”