Love Is Power, or Something Like That: Stories

The Shape of a Full Circle

^. 1 ^.

Dimié Abrakasa was fourteen years old. He had small ears, a long neck, and the sensitive, flexible fingers of a pickpocket. His grandmother said his skin was the color of polished camwood. His mother hated his eyes.

^. 2 ^.

The house that bore the number 197 on Adaka Boro Street was painted a sunny-sky blue. On the wall above the doorway, in drippy black paint, were written the words:

THIS HOUSE IS NOT FOR SALE

BEWARE OF 419

The street door, which was ajar because of a broken latch, opened into a corridor that smelled of kerosene smoke and rat fur. The corridor had nine doors on each side, and led into a courtyard. The courtyard served as a store, a kitchen, and a place of social gathering.

^. 3 ^.

Dimié Abrakasa entered the corridor. He walked to his apartment, the fifth door on the right, and turned the handle. Despite the gentleness of his touch, the door opened with a squeal. The heat that wafted out had the force of a chemical combustion. Dimié Abrakasa unshouldered his school backpack, then walked in and nudged the door closed with his heel. The TV was on. Méneia and Benaebi were home.

“Welcome, Dimié,” his brother and sister greeted in unison.

“Ehn,” he answered, and looked at his mother. “Afternoon, Mma.”

Daoju Anabraba lay on the bed, on her side, her face turned toward the door. From chest to knee she was wrapped in a red, black, and green wax print cloth. Her skin shone with sweat; the bedsheet — pale green, with white flowers patterned across it — was limp with dirt. An empty Gordon’s Gin bottle rested on its side on the floor beside the bed. Dimié Abrakasa waited for her to reply to his greeting, which he knew she wouldn’t, so he turned and walked to the corner to remove his school uniform.

A single electric bulb hung from the ceiling and lit the room. There was a window in the wall that faced the door, but the wooden shutters were fastened with nails. The bed was lined against this wall. At the foot of the bed stood a sturdy, antique redwood dresser; on its varnished top sat a gilt-framed photograph. Dimié Abrakasa stripped to his underpants in front of the dresser, then pulled open the bottommost drawer and rummaged in it until he found a pair of jeans and his yellow T-shirt.

Méneia and Benaebi sat cross-legged in front of the TV. The light that streamed from the screen played on their still faces. Méneia was the spitting image of her mother, except that, where Daoju Anabraba had a beauty spot on her right cheek, Méneia, in the same place, sprouted a mole that was the size and appearance of a raisin. She was four years older than Benaebi, who, at eight years old, was shedding his milk teeth. He sucked his thumb.

His sister had tried everything in her power to wean him off this habit — from soaking his hands in bitterleaf sap to coating his fingers with chicken shit — but Benaebi persisted. When he wasn’t chewing his fingernails, his thumb was thrust through the gaps in his teeth. Several fingers of his two hands were cicatrized by whitlow, and the skin of his thumbs was as pale and shrivelled as lab specimens floating in a jar of formalin.

Dimié Abrakasa moved away from the dresser, and Méneia turned to face him, but her gaze remained on the screen.

“What are we eating, Dimié?” she asked.

Dimié Abrakasa walked to the head of the bed, rested his shoulders against the wall, and said: “There’s still garri in the house, abi?”

“But no soup,” Méneia replied.

Benaebi looked up, eyes glistening. “I’m hungry,” he said, as he sucked his thumb.

“What will we eat?” Méneia asked again.

Dimié Abrakasa glanced at his mother. Her face was closed, heavy as stone. Tendrils of lank brown hair clung to her cheek and fluttered each time she breathed out. Dimié Abrakasa turned back to Méneia. “Like how much do you think we need to cook enough soup to last till tomorrow?”

“Three hundred,” Méneia said, after a quick calculation.

“With fish or meat?”

“Meat.”

“Fish is cheaper.”

“But we used fish for the last two pots of soup!”

Her older brother made no reply, and Méneia, with a sigh, said, “Okay, fish. Two hundred will be enough. Or what do you think?”

“Yes,” Dimié Abrakasa said. “I have—” he turned out his pockets, producing clumps of paper and wisps of lint and some naira notes, “—one hundred and six, seven. . I have one hundred and seventy naira. What of you?”

“I have only ten naira, Dimié.”

“Bring it. And you, Benaebi?”

“I’m hungry,” Benaebi mumbled at the TV screen.

Méneia swung her head to look at him. “Benaebi!” she snapped, “remove that hand from your mouth before I slap you! Boo-boo-boo baby! Do you have any money?”

“I have fifty naira but I’m not giving you!”

“I’ve heard. Where is it?”

“I said I’m not—”

“Will you shut up? Where’s the money?”

“I gave it to Mma this morning.”

All eyes turned to the bed. Méneia broke the silence. “H’m,” she sniffed, “that one is gone. What should we do, Dimié?”

“We have one-eighty,” Dimié Abrakasa said. He counted the notes, folded them into a wad, and stuck it in his right hip pocket. “Let me see—”

His words were cut off by a sudden, cataclysmal darkness. A power cut.

“Aw, NEPA!” Benaebi exclaimed, slapping his thigh. “Dog shit!”

“Shut up,” his sister said, “they’ll bring it back soon.” Then she added: “By God’s grace.”

Dimié Abrakasa edged round the sound of their voices. The subterranean dark, the stench of degraded alcohol, the whispering heat, had turned the room unbearable for him. He reached the door, pulled it open, emerged into the corridor. When he turned to shut the door, he met his mother’s gaze. She raised herself on one elbow, combed back her tousled hair with her fingers, and said, “Don’t even think of coming back to this house without my medicine.”

^. 4 ^.

Dimié Abrakasa stepped into the harsh light of midafternoon. On the horizon, he saw a mass of bruise-dark clouds bearing down on the sun. The air was heavy, there was no wind. Rain was approaching. Dimié Abrakasa considered shortcutting through the back streets, but he remembered the money in his pocket, so headed for the open road.

The 1.3 kilometer Ernest Ikoli Road, started in September 1970 and finished nine months later, was for many years extolled — on account of its wideness and its drainage system, its gardened roundabouts and traffic lights and cat’s-eyes lane markers — as the model Nigerian city road, the road of the bright future. Once charcoal-black, the road was now an ash-gray stream that threw off sparks where the metal of embedded bolts and bottle tops caught the sunlight. Potholes strewed the asphalt, and the concrete sidewalks were shot with cracks. The roadside drains were silted over in some places, and trash choked in others. The revving engines and horn blares of commuters, the clang-and-bang of artisans, the roar of a populace world-famous as a loudmouthed lot, beat the air. Theme music of city life.

After he passed Number II Sand Field and crossed the road to avoid an approaching pushcart piled high with yams, Dimié Abrakasa felt the urge to urinate. He stopped, looked around, moved forward a few steps, reached the mouth of the alley he’d spotted, and turned into it. The alley was in shadow. Relief from the sun’s glare heightened the pressure on his bladder, and he picked his way across the alley, holding his breath. The alley floor was dotted with shit mounds; the air stank of old urine. The windows of the story buildings that formed the sides of the alley were boarded up, and paint flakes curled off the lichened walls. A group of boys was gathered at the alley end.

Dimié Abrakasa halted, opened his fly, and ignoring the faded letters on the wall in front of him that spelled,

DO NOT UNIRATE OVERHERE ANYMORE

BY ORDER! THE LANDLORD

he splashed the wall. He arched his back and sighed in release, then shifted his foot to avoid the foaming stream. A thrill of excitement entered the boys’ voices. As he squeezed out the last drops, the boys raised a cheer — a shriek of agony rent the air. Startled, he jumped, and his fly-zipper snagged his flesh. He yelped with pain, and sucked in his breath. Then, with careful fingers, he freed himself from the grip of the zipper teeth.

Giving in to a curiosity so intense he could smell its cat breath, Dimié Abrakasa approached the boys. They made way; they absorbed him into their ranks. As he’d suspected, it was something subhuman they had ganged up on. He’d expected to see a mangy dog, or a goat lying in a pool of blood, but he found he was staring at the cowering form of a rag-draped madwoman. She was crouched on the ground in the center of the circle formed by the boys. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and her hands covered her ears. The skin of her knees was scabrous; her hands were tree-root grimy. Her hair fell on her shoulders in thick, brownish clumps, and it was sprinkled with the confetti of garbage dumps. She reeked of disease.

Dimié Abrakasa turned his gaze to the boys. He counted heads, but when he got to the twelfth, someone moved to a new position, distracting him, and he was too close to the end to bother starting over. Some boys held sticks in their hands, others clutched bricks, and a few had both. He recognized two boys as schoolmates, but every other person was a stranger.

He looked again at the madwoman. She was growling, the sound buzzed at the rim of her teeth, and she rocked on her heels. Her eyes were bloodshot with fear and yet her expression was calm. Her gaze roamed the circle — she swung her head with abrupt, birdlike motions. Dimié Abrakasa averted his gaze, then pushed through the press of bodies till he got next to Baridom, the nearer of the two boys who he knew, and reached out a hand to tap his shoulder.

“Wetin the crazewoman do?” he asked.

Baripo, the second boy, threw Dimié Abrakasa an angry glance. “She craze,” he said.

At that moment, the madwoman dropped her hands to the ground and pushed herself up. The boys, it seemed, were expecting this move: those holding sticks leaped forward and delivered blows to her head, her back, her buttocks, her legs. Shrieks of pain burst from her throat as she danced around to avoid her attackers, her movements as wild as a leaping flame. Then she sank back to her haunches.

The boys resumed their stargazing. This game was no longer play. They were drunk on high spirits. They fidgeted, impatient with the madwoman’s cowardice. Some of the boys, whoops bursting from their throats, broke the ring to make short, darting runs at the hunched form.

Someone said: “If crazewoman bite you, you go craze.” Nods and murmurs of agreement traveled the circle.

“If dog wey get rabies bite you, you go craze too,” said Baripo.

“Yes o,” Baridom agreed.

“Me, but before I craze, I go burst that dog head,” said the boy who had spoken first.

“You no go fit,” Baripo said. “Dog wey get rabies dey craze.”

“I go fit.”

“You no go fit.”

“I say I go fit!”

“I say you no fit!”

The boy said: “I go fit burst this crazewoman head. Try me!”

Silence. Then the boys’ voices rose in a chorus of cheers and jeers. “You no fit, Ériga — do am, Ériga — burst the crazewoman head!”

Ériga whirled to face Dimié Abrakasa, who was beside him. “You get stone?” Dimié Abrakasa shook his head no. Baripo asked: “You want stone?” Without waiting for a reply, Baridom held out a lump of brick. Dimié Abrakasa, who stood between Ériga and Baridom, reached for the brick, closed his fist around it, hefted it, and then flung it at the madwoman. It struck the side of her head and disintegrated in a shower of dust. She screamed, horribly. It was this explosion of mingled pain and rage — and the superhuman force with which she leaped at her attackers, blood splashing from the gash in her head — that caused the boys to break rank and flee from the alley, their yells trailing in their wake.

By the time the fear that combusted in his belly had been exhausted, Dimié Abrakasa was far from the alley, the boys, and the marketplace. He leaned against the rusting frame of an electrical pole and struggled to regain his breath. His chest heaved and fell. His hands clutched at his throat and clawed at the neck of his T-shirt, smudging the yellow. His eyes darted, searching for the pursuer who had laid grip of his imagination. Passersby slowed as they approached, shot him curious glances, and then hurried past.

^. 5 ^.

Dimié Abrakasa was back on Ernest Ikoli Road, at Railway Junction, when the rainclouds caught the sun. The world turned gray, the temperature plummeted, and gusts of wind sprang up. The wind grew stronger and flung dust into the air. A lightning flash split the gloom and a rumble of cascading boulders burst from the skies. Another flash, sulphuric in its intensity — the thunderclap was like a shredding of the heavens.

Birds crawled across the sky with panicked cries. There was a lull, everything froze in that instant; and then, with a sound like burning grass, rain fell. The raindrops had not made landfall when a bolt of blue-white lightning, like a forked tongue, streaked the sky, and one of its prongs struck a fleeing swallow. The bird stalled in midflight, then began to tumble earthward as the rain hit the ground.

Through sheets of crashing water, pedestrians sprinted for cover. Puddles formed on the sidewalks, then flowed together and rushed for the drains, which brimmed over and poured water onto the road. The road became a river. Car engines drank water, coughed out steam, and died. Both sides of the road — and the sidewalks, too — got jammed. The horn blares of motorists became one long, unbroken blast.

Dimié Abrakasa moved off the sidewalk onto the road and wove through the stalled cars. The bonnet of the Toyota Sequoia beside him was warm — the car was empty but the engine was running. The driver had alighted and rushed off to join the crowd that was gathered at the head of the traffic jam.

Dimié Abrakasa headed for the crowd and squeezed through the swarming bodies till he reached the front, where there was a large flooded pothole. The obstructed traffic was caused by a ramshackle, cattle-hauling lorry that had tried to charge across the pothole. The lorry was stuck. The lorry driver was on his knees in the tea-colored water, scooping handfuls of mud from under the lorry’s tires. Water lapped against his chest.

Like wind in the treetops, loud voices swept through the crowd, arguing. Some urged that the lorry be pushed aside, and others recommended a detour round it. Dimié Abrakasa watched, fascinated, as the crowd split into factions and yelled in each other’s faces. Two traffic wardens and a policeman stood in the crowd. One of the wardens gaped at the angry faces with his hands clasped behind his head, while the second man glared at the lorry, his features drawn into a scowl. The policeman tried to arbitrate contending views, but he was repaid for his efforts by getting sucked into a quarrel that grew so heated he had to flash his handcuffs to extricate himself.

From the edge of the crowd, someone yelled: “Thank God — the army has come!”

A column of soldiers approached at a trot, their bootheels drumming the road. The crowd parted before them, scrambling out of their path. When they arrived at the obstruction, their leader — a stocky, potbellied sergeant who bore on both cheeks the four slashes that was the mark of Egba nobility — bellowed, “Qua Shun!” The soldiers stood at attention. Each held a horsewhip in one hand and an assault rifle in the other. Twirling his whip as he turned to the crowd, the sergeant ordered, “All civilians clear the area, now! ”

The crowd dispersed. There was a flurry of banging car doors.

The traffic wardens had fled, but the policeman stood his ground. Thrusting out his chest, he walked up to the army sergeant, who turned to face him, surprise written across his face.

“Sergeant, sah!” the policeman said, saluting, “the situation on ground—”

The sergeant interrupted him. “What situation?”

The policeman, who towered over the sergeant, leaned forward with a wide smile. “The lorry responsible for this wahala. .”

“Are you a soldier?” the sergeant asked.

“No, sah, but—”

“Are you a retired soldier?”

“No, sah.” The policeman began to fidget.

“Is your wife a soldier?”

“No!”

The policeman, glancing around at the column of stonefaced soldiers when he made his reply, did not see the twist of rage on the sergeant’s face as he roared, “Bloody civilian!” and dealt the policeman a sledgehammer blow to the throat. The policeman fell to the ground, jerking as he fought to keep from swallowing his tongue. Grasping the fallen man by the collar, the sergeant slashed him across the face with his whip, then dragged him to the edge of the flooded pit, released him, and stepped back a pace. The sergeant’s face regained its humanity.

“Roll in the mud, you shit,” he said, calmly.

Trembling from fear and pain, and bleeding from the cut to his face, the policeman squeezed his eyes shut and crawled into the pool of muddy water. He lay down on his belly, bobbed for an instant, and then began to roll, the water rippling. The sergeant hung his whip round his neck and, with deliberate slowness, folded his sleeves. When he was done, he said, his voice barely above a whisper: “Out.”

The policeman scrambled out of the water on all fours, gasping for air. The sergeant turned to his men and ordered, “Clear that lorry from the road.”

The soldiers leaped into action. They beat up the lorry driver and then offloaded his cargo of cattle, which they sent galloping off with kicks to their rumps. Then they strode through the crowd, handpicking hefty men. The men pulled the lorry, and the soldiers pushed. The sergeant directed the traffic, his whip flailing as he yelled instructions. In a few minutes the cars were honking their thanks and speeding off.

The rain had stopped. Dimié Abrakasa was wet, hungry, and tired. He had been gone too long — Méneia and Benaebi would be waiting for him, maybe even now watching both ends of the street to see who would spot him first. Then his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his name. He looked up and saw a sea of cars. Dimi! he heard again, above the noise of the engines. He saw the waving hand and recognized the car — a decrepit white Peugeot 404—and then the face of his landlord, Alhaji Tajudeen. The landlord was pushing the car with one hand and controlling the steering wheel with the other. The line of cars behind him honked at his slow progress. Dimié Abrakasa ran to help him.

“Afternoon, sir,” he greeted. He moved to the back of the car. They pushed together. The car rolled faster.

“Can you push alone?” Alhaji Tajudeen asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Yes,” Dimié Abrakasa answered.

“Okay.” Alhaji Tajudeen jumped into the driver’s seat and pulled the door shut.

“Push! Push!”

Dimié Abrakasa bit his lip; his feet scrabbled on the rain-slick tarmac.

“Come on, you’re not a woman—push! ”

The exhaust backfired with a blast of thick, white smoke. The engine caught, sputtered, and sparked into life. Dimié Abrakasa, his face shining with sweat, ran toward the passenger door. He was reaching for the handle when the car swerved into the hooting, fast-flowing traffic and sped off. Dimié Abrakasa stood clutching the air. And then he scrambled off the road.

^. 6 ^.

The outdoor bar had for shade an old beach umbrella, under which stood a table and a bench. Six men sat on the bench, three stood around the table. The men held beer tankards, whiskey glasses, plastic cups. Bottles of different sizes, shapes, and colors, arranged in no particular order but with a woman’s eye for beauty, covered the table. The bar owner sat on the knee of one of her customers. The man’s hands rested in her lap, and he tilted back his head to drink from the glass she held to his lips. When the woman saw Dimié Abrakasa approaching her stall, she thrust the glass into the man’s hand, stood up, and walked forward.

“Wetin you want?” she said, as she planted herself in front of the boy. “Make you no think sey I go serve you drink o!”

The woman had a spoiled milk complexion, the reward for a lifetime regime of bleaching cream. Her knuckles were the color of healed bruises, her arms and legs were crisscrossed with thick blue veins. The deep brown of her unpainted lips made them seem sweet, coated with treacle, smudged with chocolate.

“Wetin you dey look, you no fit talk?” the woman asked angrily. She placed her hands on her hips, harassed Dimié Abrakasa with her gaze. He dropped his eyes.

One of the men on the bench gave a snort of a laugh. He called out: “Madam Glory, leave the small boy abeg.”

Madam Glory spun round and pointed her finger at him. “Hear me, and hear me well — no put your rotten mouth for this one o! I no dey serve pikin for here. If this small boy wan’ kill himself”—and here she turned to face Dimié Abrakasa, her forefinger stabbing—“make e find another person shed. No be my business Satan go use to spoil another woman pikin.” She raised her hand, sketched a halo above her head, and then snapped her thumb and middle finger at Dimié Abrakasa. “I reject it in Jesus name!”

“Ah ah, Madam Glory, you sef!” exclaimed the man who had spoken. “You know whether somebody send the boy?”

“Even still,” she said in a calmed voice. She stared at Dimié Abrakasa, her eyes sparking suspicion. “They send you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Dimié Abrakasa said.

“Who send you?”

Dimié Abrakasa was about to say the truth, that he had been sent by his mother, when his right hand, which was tugging the hem of his T-shirt, crept into his trouser pocket. He pulled back the hand, stared at Madam Glory with horror, then dug both hands into his pockets, and gasped out:

“My God!”

“What!” Madam Glory cried. “You dey make joke with me?” Goaded by the guffaws that burst from the men behind her, she bore down on Dimié Abrakasa. She caught him by the earlobe just as he turned to flee, and dragged him forward, cursing under her breath, her face stained with rage. She reached the edge of the road, released his burning ear, and with a shove to his head she ordered: “Get away from here! Useless child, mumu, I sorry for your mama! Get away!”

On the trek back to a house that loomed before him like a Golgotha, Dimié Abrakasa ransacked even the most protected corners of his memory for the missing money. Despair, at several points on his journey, almost made him break down in tears, but each time his will overcame that foolishness.

^. 7 ^.

Number II Sand Field was at the intersection of Yakubu Gowon and Adaka Boro Streets. It was one of eleven open spaces — Number IV Grass Field, Number VI Paved Field, Number VII Clay Field, Number X Sand Field, et cetera — set up all over Poteko by a past military administrator. Number II was a football pitch, with white sand instead of turf, and it was enclosed by a low concrete wall. On weekends when football matches between local clubs were staged in this arena, the wall disappeared under a swarm of spectators, but on this afternoon, as Dimié Abrakasa vaulted the wall, the field was deserted.

At one end of the field, in the space behind the goalpost, a table tennis board was set up. Three boys stood round the table, and two of them were engaged in a game. The ball flew into the net as Dimié Abrakasa drew up beside the table, and the third boy, who clutched a wad of naira notes in one hand, called out, “Park five!”

“Who dey win?” Dimié Abrakasa asked.

“Sh!” hissed the player whose turn it was to serve. He cast a furious look at Dimié Abrakasa. They recognized each other at the same instant.

“You!” Ériga exclaimed. “But how you dey? How you escape that crazewoman?”

The other player spoke. “This nah the boy you tell us about? The one wey stone the crazewoman?”

“Yes o!”

“Strong man — correct guy!” Three pairs of eyes gazed at Dimié Abrakasa with approbation. Then Ériga whirled round to face the table, and served the ball. His opponent was taken unawares: he scrambled for the ball: his bat struck it out of play.

“Game up!” the umpire announced, running to where the ball had fallen.

The second player glared at Ériga and snorted with annoyance. “Nah lie Chibuzo, I no agree — I never ready when Ériga serve the ball!” he said.

“But you no say let, Krotembo,” Ériga said. “Anybody hear am say let?”

“No,” Chibuzo said.

“But you rush me! You must replay!”

Ériga threw his bat on the table. “I don win,” he said. He strode to the umpire and held out his hand. “Give me my money.”

“No give Ériga that money o, Chibuzo,” Krotembo said. He, too, tossed his bat on the table, and began to unbutton his shirt. “You must replay or we go cancel the betting. You no strong enough to cheat me.”

The two boys drew up to each other, stood nose-to-nose, and exchanged glares. Krotembo, who was shorter, had muscles like a blacksmith’s apprentice. He raised a clenched fist, nudged Ériga in the chest. “No try me, Ériga,” he said.

Ériga stepped backward, lowered his gaze, spun round on the ball of his left foot, and ran. Krotembo barked with laughter. He turned to Chibuzo, chuckling in his throat. Then he heard the crash of glass. From the corner of his eye he saw the shadow of death bearing down on him, and he bolted.

“Why you run?” Ériga yelled after him. He stopped beside the table, strutted back and forth, panting with anger and brandishing a broken bottle. “Come and fight — if you get power!”

Krotembo watched Ériga from a safe distance. His naked chest heaved noisily. Then he touched the tip of his forefinger to his tongue and bent down to scrape the earth with it. He pointed the finger at Ériga and said, in a voice that quavered: “I swear, Ériga, anywhere I see you, anywhere I catch you—”

“Sharrap there, buffoon!”

Krotembo pressed his fist to his lips. His arm shook, his forehead bulged with veins. Then he turned around and strode off. Ériga watched the receding figure until he was sure the retreat was not a trick. He walked to the table, tossed his weapon under it, then snatched up Krotembo’s shirt from the table, wiped the sweat from his face and neck, and flung the shirt away. It sailed through the air, unfurling.

Chibuzo spoke. “Make sure you run any time you see Krotembo o — e no go forgive you. Anyhow, two of you bet one-eighty, so after I remove my cut, your money nah three-ten. Correct?”

Ériga nodded, and watched Dimié Abrakasa from the corner of his eye. Dimié Abrakasa caught his gaze, and he turned away, accepted the roll of notes from Chibuzo. After counting the money, he asked Dimié Abrakasa:

“You wan’ play me betting?”

“Never!” Dimié Abrakasa replied.

Ériga threw back his head and laughed. “No fear, I no be Atanda Musa, why you no try your luck, maybe you go beat me.” His eyes danced as he awaited a response. Then he said, “Anyway, since nobody want to play me, I don dey go.”

Dimié Abrakasa shrugged. “Me too,” he said.

As Chibuzo gathered the balls and bats, the two boys left together. They strode across the sandscape, their footsteps flopping, their progress marked by the leap-and-dance of their shadows.

At the end of Yakubu Gowon Street loomed a pink, three-story building, a hotel. The wall around it was crowned with colored glass shards, and the yard was planted with a profusion of fruit-bearing trees. Near the gate a large false almond tree grew at an abnormal angle and leaned over the wall. Its foliage formed a thick shade on the outside of the fence.

The boys reached the fence, and Ériga walked under the tree shade, turned to face the road, sank into a crouch in the bed of dead leaves, and rested his shoulders against the wall. Dimié Abrakasa followed. A gentle breeze wafted the smell of decayed fruit into their faces. A moment of silence, during which the leaf dust stirred by their arrival sailed through the air, and then Ériga touched Dimié Abrakasa’s shoulder, said, “Wetin be your name?”

“Dimié.”

“Dimi. Dimi Craze. . De Craze.” Ériga nodded, pleased with himself. “I go call you De Craze. My name nah—”

“Ériga. I know.”

Dimié Abrakasa trapped a wood ant crawling up his arm. He picked it off his skin and looked at the waving legs, the snapping pincers. He crushed it between his fingertips and wiped his hand on his jeans.

“Why you stone that crazewoman?” Ériga asked. His eyes were fixed on his companion’s hand — the long, tapered fingers, the bitten-down nails, the network of fine veins.

Dimié Abrakasa noticed the direction of his gaze, and balled a fist. “Nothing,” he replied. But the image rose in his mind of his mother sitting in bed with her knees drawn up and her hands pressed against her ears. His fist rose in the air and struck his knee twice, then he let his hand fall onto the carpet of leaves.

“You be strange person sha. De Craze,” Ériga said.

The street grew busy with schoolchildren returning from extramural classes. A group of uniformed girls was headed toward the hotel. The girls whispered to each other and darted glances at the boys; as the group filed past, the girl who walked in front turned her head to stare at Ériga, and snorted with laughter.

Ériga sprang to his feet and bounced on the balls of his feet toward the girl. The girl was tall and stocky, she had the calves of a shot-putter, her hair was shaved to bristles, and she wore the one-piece dress of a high school junior. Her sole ornament was a rubber wristband that announced her loyalty to Chelsea FC. Ériga drew up alongside her, and asked in a rude, deepened voice, “Nah who you dey laugh, woman-man?” The whole group halted and faced him. He repeated his question, and the girls, as if on signal, broke into peals of laughter. They stamped their feet and clutched their bellies and bumped against each other. Ériga’s face puckered with anger. He grabbed the wrist of the girl whom he’d addressed and twisted her arm, not too much, but enough to make her aware of his strength. “Laugh now,” he said, and pulled her forward, trod on her foot.

The girls fanned out, encircling him, buzzing like disturbed bees. He felt the movement of his hostage, but thought nothing of it, until her fist sank into his belly. He released her arm and doubled over, mewling with agony.

“Are you crying?” the girl said, as she bent over him and clasped his shoulder in playacted sympathy. “Stand up—” her words were interrupted by a snigger, “if you can.”

Gritting his teeth, Ériga straightened. The girls watched him and waited. He stood, undecided. Dimié Abrakasa stood up. “I know you,” he said, addressing the girl who’d struck Ériga. “We used to go to the same school — you remember? — Saint Ignatius.”

The girl stared at him. “You are Méneia’s elder brother?”

“Yes.”

“Ehen — so it is you! I was telling myself that I know your face.” She stepped forward, bumping Ériga with her shoulder, and thrust out her hand for a handshake. Dimié Abrakasa took it. Her grip was firm. She kept hold of his hand. “Adafor is my name. Your own is. . ah, I’ve forgotten.”

“Dimié.”

“Dimi! Yes, Dimi.” She beamed at him. “I’ve come to your house before,” her tone dropped, took on some hue, a bit of blue, “when your father died.” Then her face brightened. “What school are you attending now?”

“GCSS Boys,” Dimié Abrakasa said.

“I’m in Holy Rosary.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“You’re wearing the uniform.”

Adafor laughed, tugging at his hand as she swayed. Then she caught the smirk on Ériga’s face, and her laughter stopped. She released Dimié Abrakasa’s hand.

“This dude is your friend?” she asked.

“Yes,” Dimié Abrakasa said.

Her nostrils flared with disapproval. She opened her mouth, but shut it without a sound, then looked at Ériga. “You will fall inside my trap another day.” She turned back to Dimié Abrakasa. “Greet your sis for me.”

As the girls’ voices receded round the corner, Dimié Abrakasa asked, “How your stomach?”

“Okay,” Ériga said. He took a step forward, then pulled up sharply and burst out: “Girls!”

Dimié Abrakasa laughed. “I agree with you, troublemakers. I get one for house.”

“Forget them abeg. Hunger dey waya me — I wan’ go find food.”

At the mention of food, Dimié Abrakasa glanced over his shoulder in the direction of his street. “I have to go,” he said.

“Oh, all right,” Ériga said, and reached his hand into the waistline of his trousers. His hand emerged with a flash of blue, a Chelsea FC wristband. He slipped it around his wrist and admired the fit, then looked up and caught Dimié Abrakasa staring. He dropped his arm to his side and edged away.

“Hey!” Dimié Abrakasa called. Ériga halted.

Dimié Abrakasa recalled the moments of his meetings with Ériga: the request in the alley, the amount of the bet with Krotembo, the scuffle with Adafor. The disappearance of his money. Now it made sense. Random pieces fell together and a picture rose in his mind. Just like table tennis had served as bait for Krotembo, the baiting of the madwoman was the game that lured him into Ériga’s trap. But of course. And the dare to stone her was the bet, the gambler’s opening, the pickpocket’s ploy. For Ériga, he was sure, was a pickpocket, a master thief.

His heart pounded in his head as he stared at Ériga. He was furious, as much with himself as at Ériga, and now that he felt a kinship with Krotembo his sympathy for the outsmarted boy grew to levels almost unbearable. Ériga was shameless and hardened in his ways — he had seen ample evidence in the episode with Krotembo. Yet he hoped. Maybe Ériga would do the right thing, given a chance.

“Erm,” Dimié Abrakasa said, his voice a croak, saliva clinging to his teeth, “I fit borrow money from you?” The boys searched each other’s faces. Dimié Abrakasa dropped his eyes. “Please,” he said. “I lost my mother’s money today.”

Ériga’s tone was curt. “I no get anything to give you.”

Dimié Abrakasa nodded, and averted his face to hide the angry tears that wet his eyelashes. He turned, walked away, but after a few paces he glanced around. Ériga stood at the same spot, watching him.

“Bye-bye, De Craze,” Ériga said softly, then whirled around and quick-stepped away, his arms swinging.

^. 8 ^.

Night was seeping in from the sky’s edges when Dimié Abrakasa arrived at number 197. He met the landlord driving in. Alhaji Tajudeen stuck his head out the window and yelled, above the noise of the engine, “Wait there for me!”

Dimié Abrakasa watched the landlord park the car, wind up the windows, and lock the doors. The car panels were dented, rust-eaten. The windshield was spiderweb-cracked in the right-hand corner.

“Is your mother in?” Alhaji Tajudeen asked, twirling his car keys round his finger as he approached Dimié Abrakasa.

With a sinking feeling Dimié Abrakasa gazed into the landlord’s face. Alhaji Tajudeen had the widest nostrils he’d ever seen. They were choked with a jungle-growth of gray-brown hair, the same color as his ear tufts, which he left untrimmed even though his head was clean-shaven. There was only one reason the landlord would want to see his mother. Dimié Abrakasa nodded the affirmative to his question, and then said, “But she’s not feeling well.”

The landlord was headed for the doorway. “Is that so?” he said over his shoulder. “That’s nothing new. She hasn’t been well for one day since you people moved into my house.”

The landlord entered the corridor. Dimié Abrakasa marked his progress by the echo of his footsteps and the voices that rose in greeting at each apartment he passed. The sound of wood crashing against the wall startled him forward.

The door of their apartment was open. There was still no power: the figures in the room were outlined in shades of gloom. The landlord stood over his mother, who sat at the bed’s edge, her knees clamped together, her feet pressed on the floor. Méneia and Benaebi were huddled in the corner, beside the dresser.

“You and your children must leave my house today,” the landlord was saying in a loud, hectoring tone. “For a whole three weeks your rent has expired and till today I’m still waiting? You think I’m running a charity here? You know how many people have been asking me for this room?” He paused to draw breath. “I’m telling you, if you can’t afford to live like a human being, then live like a dog in the street. But you’re leaving my house today!”

Benaebi snuffled. Méneia covered his mouth with her hand. Daoju Anabraba shifted her feet, rubbed her thighs with her hands, sighed deeply, and spoke.

“If we can just talk in private, please, Alhaji.”

“Talk what? Talk money!”

“Okay, Alhaji. But let my children go—”

“What you mean, go where? Or don’t your children live here too? Look, woman, somebody must answer for my money today. Whether it’s your son o, or your daughter o, or you o, I don’t care. All I know is that my rent must come out today or all of you will pack out!”

“But Alhaji, why are you talking to me like this?” Daoju Anabraba caught the fold of her wrapper, which was loosening, and tucked it under her arm. With the same hand she swiped the sweat from her face, and then rose to her feet. She was taller than the landlord; his head only reached her shoulder. One step and her breasts would push into his face.

The landlord stared at her. His gaze moved down, traveling over her body, chest to foot, and back up again. He cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said, “I will respect you, if you respect yourself. But before we talk anything, do you have my money?”

“No. But if you just give me a few more days—”

The landlord sniffed with derision. “Your rent is already three weeks overdue. People are lining up for this room. I’ve heard that you don’t have a job — that you like to drink. I don’t want any drunkard in my house, and a jobless one for that matter.” He lowered his voice. “So tell me, why should I wait?”

Daoju Anabraba was silent.

“I’m waiting for your answer, Mama Dimi.”

Dimié Abrakasa tried to help his mother. “Please, Alhaji—”

“Shut up when your elders are talking,” the landlord said, without looking at him.

Footsteps approached from the direction of the courtyard, then hurried past the doorway of their apartment, and continued at a sedate tattoo out of the building. It was the only sound in the house.

The landlord sighed. “I am not a wicked man,” he said. “By Allah’s grace, I have children too. I don’t want anybody to say that I threw out a widow and her children from my house. That is why”—he paused for effect—“that is why I will give you a chance to pay the three weeks’ rent that you owe me, today.” He held Daoju Anabraba’s gaze, and licked his lips, then lowered his hand to adjust his trouser crotch, his expression pantomimic.

Daoju Anabraba got his meaning. Her eyes widened. “Ah, no, Alhaji. .”

The landlord shrugged. “We’re both adults here. The matter is in your hands.” He rubbed his palms together with a washing motion and held them out. “It’s your choice. Pay me my three weeks’ rent, today, or pack out of my house, today.”

Daoju Anabraba sank down on the bed and bent her face to the ground, her movements slow and heavy. Her hands lay in her lap; she cracked her knuckles and tugged her thumbs. Her shoulders flexed.

When she looked up at her first child and spoke, her voice was firm. “Dimié, take your brother and sister and wait outside. Close the door.”

Dimié Abrakasa did not move.

“You heard me?”

“Yes, Mma.”

“Get out!”

The children filed out of the room. In the gap between door and post, Dimié Abrakasa saw the landlord cross to the bed, and he heard him say, “Dimi is a good boy. He helped me push my car today.”

Footsteps padded up the corridor. Effusive good wishes, this time in farewell, marked the landlord’s approach. When he appeared in the doorway, he halted and blinked at the full moon that bobbed in the night sky. His face gleamed in the moonlight. He yawned, then raised a hand to wipe his brow, dropped it to rub his belly, and let it fall to his side. He did not look at the children as he trudged to his car, unlocked it, started the engine, and drove away.

In the void left behind by the car’s departure, Benaebi said, “I’m hungry.” His stomach churned loudly as he sucked his thumb.

Méneia put her hand on Dimié Abrakasa’s knee. “You spent a long time,” she said. “We waited and waited, Mma was angry. What did you get?”

Dimié Abrakasa looked away.

“What did you buy?” she asked again.

The smells and sounds of cooking floated out of the corridor. A rat moved in creeps and bounds along the front wall of the house, heading for the open door, then sensed Dimié Abrakasa’s stare and scuttled back into the shadows.

“Dimié!” Méneia cried, her voice trembling with alarm. “You got the thing for Mma, at least, didn’t you?”

“I lost the money,” Dimié Abrakasa said. He did not turn his head to see the expression on his sister’s face. He knew it by heart.

Méneia stared at her older brother without speaking. Benaebi, with a wet moan, jumped to his feet and ran into the house. His complaints, high-pitched and teary, floated through the open door. At the scrape of approaching footsteps Méneia’s grip on her brother’s knee tightened. Then she removed her hand and drew away.

“You lost what?”

Dimié Abrakasa scrambled upright. His mother stood in the doorway. Where the moonlight touched her bare shoulders, they gleamed with sweat. Her movement, as she advanced on him, was brisk, vigorous, oiled with intent.

Her shadow swept over him as she pulled up, and her foot stubbed his right big toe. Bringing her face level with his, she repeated, “You lost what?” Her breath stank of old alcohol.

The blow came out of the dark. It hurled him off balance. Then she was on him — slapping, scratching, kicking. Dimié Abrakasa fell to his knees and buried his head in his arms. He received a mule kick in the belly that tore a gasp from his throat. When she lifted a concrete slab and rushed forward, the neighbors caught hold of her. She fought against their restraint, spewing curses.

A phalanx of neighbors bore Daoju Anabraba into the house. Another group of neighbors gathered round the hunkered down form of Dimié Abrakasa. Méneia knelt beside him, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Benaebi, awestruck at the ferocity of his mother’s attack, was standing behind his brother, his hands clasped in his armpits. Mama Malachi, whose apartment was two doors down from theirs, touched Dimié Abrakasa’s shoulder. “You have done something very bad to make your ma react like so,” she said. Then she bent down, held his arms, pulled them away from his head. Someone switched on a torch and turned the light on him. His eyes were hare-caught-in-the-headlights bright. There was a speckle of blood on his lips and four flesh-white scratches on one side of his neck. As if in reaction to the light, blood welled from the wounds. Méneia caught her breath. Mama Malachi released his arms. They fell into his lap.

The neighbors drew to one side and consulted. A few words, repeated often, reached the children’s hearing: words like mother and landlord and drink. Then Mr. Mogaji of apartment one — the first door on the right — approached them.

“Do you kids have somewhere you can spend the night?”

Méneia blew her nose. Dimié Abrakasa did not stir.

Mama Malachi shouted across to them. “Talk! Do you?”

Méneia coughed to clear her throat. “My granma’s,” she said.

“Go there with your brother tonight,” Mr. Mogaji said. His torchlight played on Méneia’s face. “Don’t cry again, Méne, clean your eyes. We’ll talk to your mother in the morning. I have some spirit and cotton wool. Come and take, so you can clean Dima’s wound.”

^. 9 ^.

Granma Anabraba’s house was in a part of town notorious for its youth gangs. It used to be a good neighborhood, and the architecture was a relic of safer times — the simple, cottagelike houses, wide frontages, and alleys that opened onto bordering streets. With fear had come a stack-up of security devices. Now, house doors and windows were reinforced with metal, front yards were walled and gated, and alley ends blocked off with piled debris.

When the Abrakasa children arrived at their grandmother’s house, they had to rattle the gate for several minutes before a frail, frightened voice demanded: “What do you want?”

Méneia answered. “It’s us, Granma.”

“Méneia?”

“Yes, Granma.”

“Dimié?”

“Granma.”

“Benaebi?”

“Granma?”

“What are you children doing out so late? It’s not safe! Wait, I’m coming.”

The rattle of metal, then the front door creaked open to reveal a dark, empty entrance.

“Psst!”

“Granma?”

Their grandmother’s voice floated across to them. “Dimié, look around and check if there’s anyone near you.”

The children peered up and down the street. “There’s nobody, Granma,” Dimié Abrakasa said.

“Make sure,” her voice insisted.

Dimié Abrakasa stepped back and scanned the area. The street was deserted.

“I’m sure, Granma. No one is here.”

Granma Anabraba appeared in the doorway. She paused there a moment, as if tasting the air, then she descended the short flight of steps and crossed the distance to the gate in a canter. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she whispered as she unlocked the gate, held it open for the children to enter, then clanged it shut and locked it. “Let’s go inside, it’s not safe out here,” she said, herding them toward the doorway with raised, crucifixed arms.

After the door was bolted, Granma Anabraba bent down to increase the dying flame of the hurricane lamp that sat in the chair beside the door. She straightened up with a low groan, turned to face the children, and voiced the terror that had gripped her since she identified the noise at her gate as nothing less extraordinary than a visit from her grandchildren. “What has happened to your mother?” she asked, peering into Dimié Abrakasa’s face. In the weak light cast by the lamp, she did not notice the scratches on his neck.

“Nothing, Granma,” Dimié Abrakasa said. “It’s just that we haven’t eaten anything today and there’s no food in the house. You know our Ben when he’s hungry, he won’t let anybody rest.”

Granma Anabraba released her breath. “I was afraid!” she exclaimed. She reached out to draw her grandson to her breast, clung to him. “It’s been so long since I saw you. You’re too skinny, Dimié. Why don’t you children visit me?”

Benaebi started to explain, “Mma said we shouldn’t—” but Méneia cut him off. “Shut up, Benaebi.”

With a bitter laugh, Granma Anabraba said, “Leave him alone. He’s not saying anything I don’t already know.” She released Dimié Abrakasa and took Benaebi’s arm. “Come, my child, let me feed you.”

When Granma Anabraba called from the kitchen for the children to collect their food, Benaebi jumped up from sleep and dashed down the unlit corridor. Méneia, before following, asked Dimié Abrakasa to let her bring him his food. He dropped back into his seat in answer. As his sister’s footsteps faded, the gloom of the room washed over him, lapping against his wounds like seawater. He thought of his mother, alone in the house. She, too, hadn’t eaten all day, hadn’t gotten her drink, and she’d had to endure the landlord’s insults. At the thought of the landlord, Dimié Abrakasa moaned. The patter of footsteps broke his reverie.

Granma Anabraba placed the hurricane lamp on the center table and settled into the seat across from Dimié Abrakasa. Benaebi, ignoring his grandmother’s warning that he wait for the meal to cool, was already halfway through the food on his plate before his back had even touched his seat. It was yam pottage, one of his favorites, and it gave off billows of fragrant steam that made him pant and blow at every mouthful. Méneia handed Dimié Abrakasa his plate and sat down beside him. The scrape of cutlery filled the air.

Granma Anabraba noticed that her eldest grandchild was picking at his food. She asked, “What’s wrong, Dimié?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“But you’re not eating.”

“I’m not really that hungry.”

Benaebi belched, stood up, placed his plate on the table, took a long drink of water, and flopped back into his chair. “More?” Granma Anabraba asked, but he replied, “I want to burst.” He slapped his belly and groaned. His thumb — under the pretense of wiping the oil from his lips, then with a show of picking his teeth — crept into his mouth.

When Méneia finished, she collected the plates, including her older brother’s, which he held out to her with a shake of his head when she made to bypass it. She headed for the kitchen, taking the light with her. In the darkness, Benaebi fell asleep. His breathing beat the air.

“Tomorrow is a school day,” Granma Anabraba said. She enunciated each word as if she were talking to herself; then her voice shook itself awake. “You children have to rise extra early so you can get home before going to school. Méneia will sleep with me. You boys can sleep in your mother’s old room.”

Dimié Abrakasa stirred. “Granma?”

“Yes, Dimié?”

“I’m not sleeping here tonight. I’m going home.”

“No way!” Granma Anabraba cried, jerking forward.

“I have to go,” Dimié Abrakasa said. “Mma hasn’t eaten all day. I have to take food to her. She’s not feeling well.”

“But it’s past eleven, it’s too late to go outside. No, no!”

“Mma hasn’t eaten all day. And she’s not well.”

His tone ended the matter. Granma Anabraba hung her head. “But it’s late. And the distance—” Dimié Abrakasa cut her off. “If you give me money for okada I’ll reach home in twenty minutes.”

When Méneia returned from the kitchen Granma Anabraba turned to her in one final effort. “Your brother wants to start heading for Adaka Boro this night.”

Méneia placed the hurricane lamp on the table and adjusted the slant of its light so that it fell away from the look that was on her brother’s face. “Are you sure, Dimié?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She met her grandmother’s bewildered gaze and shook her head. Granma Anabraba dropped her arms. They fell into her lap with a clap.

“Okay, Dimié, let me pack some food for Mma,” Méneia said.

When Méneia reappeared with a plastic bag swinging in her hand, Granma Anabraba rose to meet her. She took the hurricane lamp, and, mumbling at each step about the foolishness of youth, she went into her room. When she returned, her bare feet scuffing the floor, she handed a fold of naira notes to Dimié Abrakasa. “For your transport. Plus a little something.”

“Thank you, Granma.” Dimié Abrakasa picked up the bag that Méneia had set down beside his chair. With his grandmother and sister following behind, he walked to the door.

“Hurry, it’s not safe,” Granma Anabraba said as she unlocked the door. Thrusting the keys at Méneia, she directed: “Follow him and open the gate. Remember to check before you open it, and lock it immediately after he passes.” She placed a hand, gnarled and knobby like a mandrake root, on her grandson’s shoulder blade. “Good night, my child. Greet your mother for me. Tell her. . no, don’t worry. Hurry now, hurry.” She gave him a push, and her fingernails, for an instant, dug into the wounds on his neck.

^. 10 ^.

Dimié Abrakasa arrived to find the house asleep. The front door, because of the broken latch, was never locked. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The air in the corridor throbbed with the chirring of crickets, the scrape of rat feet, the philharmonic croak-croak-croak of toads. He walked to the door of his apartment, knocked once, and listened. He put his hand on the handle and turned it. The door opened.

The apartment was thick with darkness. He reached his hand into the plastic bag and searched for the candle and box of matches he had bought on the way over. With the care of a mole in a burrow that smelled of snake, he headed for the redwood dresser. When he came up against it, he struck a match, touched the flame to the candlewick, poured melted wax onto the dresser top, and fixed the candle. The sallow, sputtering light fell on the photograph of his mother as a frocked child, perched on her father’s knee, with her mother sitting alongside. His mother’s eyes shone with the wonder of happiness. He turned around.

Daoju Anabraba sat at the head of the bed, watching him. Her arms rested on her knees; her hands dangled. Dimié Abrakasa stepped away from the dresser and moved to where he had left the bag. He drew out a stainless steel container and a bottle of colorless liquid. As the candlelight reflected off steel and glass, the bedsprings squealed. Holding out his offering, he approached the bed. His mother leaped down to meet him. She grabbed the bottle and sniffed its cap. “Dimié, my son,” she said, her voice husky with tears. She kissed him on the forehead and cheeks — wet, slobbery kisses that slicked his skin. She took the container from his hand and placed it on the bed, then uncapped the bottle and threw back her head.

“Oh my son, my first, my only child, thank you!” she sang, and wriggled her hips in an impromptu dance before straightening up to clasp him in a hug.

Late into the night, while she nibbled the food and sucked the bottle, Daoju Anabraba apologized to her son, over and over again, for the life they were living, for her failure as a mother, for killing his grandfather. Dimié Abrakasa, a veteran of these episodes, kept his silence. Her speech grew slurred and slid farther into her throat; her eyelids sank, struggled, fell. She cried in sleep, the bottle clutched to her chest. She farted, loud and continuous. When her sobs became snores, Dimié Abrakasa rose from his seat at the foot of the bed. He freed the bottle from her grasp and placed it by the wall, where her hand, in the morning, would reach for it. Then he covered her up and blew out the light.

In the morning, when Dimié Abrakasa opened his eyes, the bulb above his head was shimmering with light. He stared at it until black spots swirled in his vision; then he turned his head aside and found his mother awake. She lay on the edge of the bed, curled up like a dead pupa, her gaze fixed on his face. He greeted her but got no response. His heartbeats punched his chest and bile rushed into his throat, turning his mouth bitter. He rose from the floor and prepared to leave the house. He was spreading out his school clothes when she climbed down from the bed, downed the remains of the bottle, tossed it aside, and leaned toward him. She swayed and licked her lips — her inflammable breath washed over his face. Mother and son stared at each other. Her gaze was reptilian in its steadiness, and his eyes, luminous from despair, were the shape of a full circle. When Daoju Anabraba, a smile playing on her chapped lips, uttered the words, “I hate your eyes, my son,” he slapped her.