Outside, she heard the crackle of the fire starting. The goat meat would be ready by the time the burial service was over that afternoon. They would make pepper soup from the entrails. Kavita flushed the toilet and closed the lid, her horror washing away in a whirlpool of blue water.
When the priest arrived, the boys who had brought the casket closed it and carried it into the compound, where a grave had been dug next to Ahunna’s. They put it down on top of two lengths of rope, then stepped back as the priest began a short service. The mourners sat on rented plastic chairs, or stood behind them. Kavita listened as the priest read scripture, letting the chant of the words filter over her; she watched, numb, as he performed the consecration of the grave. They were preparing to take her child away, to weigh him down under so much soil. The grave was a red yawn in the ground; the pile of dirt next to it matched Chika’s skin. If Chika stripped down and lay in the grave, and she looked down into it, what would she see? Would he just soak into it as if he’d been made of clay all along, molded together with a little water, animated for her behalf so they could have a child only to bury him?
She looked down at her hands, at the funeral program someone had designed and printed. Probably Ekene and Mary. She almost wished she could forgive them for the church incident. The program was full of pictures of Vivek as a small boy, a baby; none of them looked like him now. It was as if whoever had selected the pictures had decided to end the timeline before Vivek had grown his hair out. Kavita didn’t know whether to be relieved that he was frozen in time this way, or annoyed that they wanted to pretend he was someone else. She had already heard comments, whispered things that floated up the stairs because no one really knew how to whisper: people asking why his hair hadn’t been cut, why his parents would allow him to be buried like that. They blamed it on Kavita, said that she was the reason Chika was allowing things like this. She wanted to be angry, but all she could muster was a bit of wonder that they could speak that way with his body still under the roof.
The young boys came forward again, four of them, and grabbed hold of the ropes stretched under the casket. Straining till their muscles shone, they started to lower the casket into the ground. Kavita heard Chika make a choked sound and she fumbled for his hand, tight and sweaty. The ropes jerked and slid as the casket was swallowed, the red earth blocking its dark grain. Once it hit the bottom, they dragged the ropes out from under it and took them away, coiling them up. Chika and Kavita got up to throw clods of soil into the grave, whispering their good-byes through their tears. Mary and Ekene followed them, then Osita and Vivek’s friends. When everyone had done their own, the boys started to shovel the earth into the grave, filling it. Kavita walked back into the house and went upstairs. Chika stayed downstairs, fielding the visitors who pressed sympathy into his hands until his fingers felt dead.
* * *
—
Osita left the others in the upstairs parlor and went to walk around downstairs. He caught the sound of his mother’s voice and followed it to the backyard, where they were wrapping small mounds of akpu with cling film and stacking them into coolers. Round black pots sat on squat metal frames with firewood shoved underneath, a nest of red and gray embers. The air was hot and fragrant, and the women were wiping their faces with handkerchiefs.
Mary looked up as her son made his way toward her. “Is everything all right?” she asked. She was wearing a green blouse with a gold wrapper tied over it.
Osita didn’t know what to say or why he had come down. He bent and hugged her instead. It took a minute of surprise before she hugged him back. “Ehn, my son,” she said. “It will be well. You hear? Don’t worry. God is taking care of it.” She patted his back. “It’s okay. Go back inside and check on your uncle.”
Osita nodded and Mary watched him leave with an overwhelming gratitude that he was alive and walking. She looked over at Vivek’s grave, the soil fresh and loose, and said a quick prayer before turning back to her work.
Twenty-two
Osita didn’t want to go with the girls to his aunt’s house to show her the photographs. He told Juju this when she called to tell him they were going that Sunday, after church.
“Osita said he’s not coming down for it,” she told the other girls, gathered in Somto’s bedroom.
Elizabeth shrugged. She was more than happy to not see Osita.
“Wait, repeat yourself,” said Somto. “He said what?”
“That he’s not coming, that we can manage it by ourselves. You know, women to women.”
“Women to women wetin? Abeg, dial his number for me. What nonsense.” Once she had him on the phone, Somto went straight to shouting. “Are you mad? Is this not your own aunty that we’re going to see? And are you not the one who said, Oh, it’s by force we must show her these pictures? My friend, you better bring yourself down here, or else I’m calling the whole thing off. Useless rat.”
Osita held the phone away from his ear. “Ah-ahn, Somto, relax! You want me to come all the way just to sit there for what, thirty minutes?”
“Didn’t you come just the other day when we all met up? Osita, I’m not playing with you. Vivek was your cousin. Aunty Kavita is your aunty. Don’t think you can escape this one.”
Olunne leaned toward the phone and chimed in, “Besides, you’re in some of the pictures, so she’s going to know you were involved. It’s better you’re there to explain yourself rather than trying to run away from it.”
“We’re not showing her those ones,” Osita said. “Juju agreed.”
“I don’t actually care. If you don’t come, your aunty will see those ones.”
Osita sighed at her blackmailing. “Oya, fine. I’ll be there.”
“Sunday at three o’clock. If we don’t see you, I will make everybody turn around.” Somto hung up without waiting to hear Osita’s reply.
Juju raised her eyebrows. “This girl, you no dey play.”
“I don’t have that boy’s time. Let’s just get this over with.”
Elizabeth was snacking noisily on a pack of Burger peanuts. “Do you think we should all tell our own parents before we tell Aunty Kavita? Since we were involved.”
Olunne shot her a look. “Are you mad? He was her son. How can we go and be exposing him to other people before his own mother finds out? Can you imagine how humiliated she would be?”
“Don’t mind Elizabeth,” said Somto. “She’s just worrying about what her parents will do if they find out about her involvement from Aunty Kavita instead of from her.” Elizabeth made a face in response.
“But you know what?” said Juju. “She might not even say anything. She might want to keep it a secret.”
“Or she might call everyone and shout at them,” countered Elizabeth.
“We’ll tell her none of our parents knew about it,” said Olunne.
Her sister looked at her. “Why are you even saying it like that? They didn’t know. It’s not like we’re lying.”
“She might think they knew—as in, how could he get away with it under their roofs, that kind of thing.”
“Come on. This is Naija. Which parents will know about something like that and not report it back to her immediately?”
The other girls nodded in agreement. What Somto said made sense. That was why they’d kept it from their parents, to protect Vivek from those who didn’t understand him. They barely understood him themselves, but they loved him, and that had been enough.
Osita met them outside the gate of Chika and Kavita’s house, where he was leaning against the fence with his hands digging into his pockets.
“Good,” said Somto. “You’re here.”
He pushed himself off the fence. “Before nko? You have the pictures?”
Juju held up the envelope in response.
“Okay, let’s go.”
“Wait,” said Olunne. “Is your uncle at home? I thought we were telling
only Aunty Kavita first.”
“He goes to the sports club every Sunday afternoon,” said Osita. “He’s started doing it again. You know he was refusing to leave the house before.”
“It’s good that he’s there,” Juju said. “My popsy said they were meeting for a drink.”
Olunne nodded in relief. It was one thing to show those pictures to Aunty Kavita, even as unstable as she’d been behaving, but it was another thing completely to show them to Uncle Chika. Who knew how an Igbo man would react at seeing pictures like that of his first and only son? It was better to meet only with his mother. It was safer that way.
* * *
—
Kavita sat them all down in the parlor without offering them anything, because they were children and they were there about Vivek and she had long since given up caring about niceties. Something in her knew that whatever they were coming to say would be a culmination of the weeks she’d spent harassing them for answers. It seeded a small anger in her. When she had told Chika they were lying, when she told their parents the children were lying, no one had believed her. Yet here they all were—even her own nephew—lined up on her sofa with their guilty faces, holding secrets behind their lips. She wanted to slap them.
The girls looked around at one another, uncertain of who should speak first. Osita was sitting apart from them in an armchair, arms folded over his stomach, looking down at the carpet. Juju felt the task should fall to her; Elizabeth and Somto would be too brash, and Olunne would be too gentle. Besides, Juju was the one holding the pictures. The envelope was hot in her hand, dragging her arm down with its weight. She rested it in her lap and turned to Kavita.
“We have something to show you,” she said. “But first I want to explain why we didn’t tell you about this before.”
“Well, Vivek told us not to,” said Somto, under her breath. They all glared at her and she raised her hands in apology, falling silent.
“We were trying to protect him,” continued Juju, “and we were also trying to protect you and Uncle Chika.”
Kavita was sitting with her back straight, perched on the edge of her seat cushion. Her eyes fell to the envelope Juju was holding and she put a hand on her chest as if she could calm her heart. “What’s inside there?” she asked.
Juju looked at the envelope. There wasn’t much point in words; the photographs would tell Kavita better than she could. She held the envelope out, her hand shaking a little. Kavita stared at it hovering in the space between them, then reached out and took it. She didn’t open it at once. How could she? You can chase the truth, but who could avoid the moment of hesitation when you wonder if you really want what you’ve been asking for? Kavita knew that what the envelope held had power, enough to scatter her, enough for them to have held together against her for so long, even in the face of a dead child, even against her grief.
She opened the flap and pulled out the photographs. The first was a picture of Vivek in pale blue traditional, a caftan that swallowed him. His eyes were lined in black. That didn’t surprise Kavita much; she’d seen him dress like that before and assumed he was mimicking the Northerners. Chika hadn’t liked it and said as much, making snide remarks at the breakfast table, but Vivek had ignored them. Chika would have said more, done more, if he wasn’t a little afraid of his son and his strangeness. Kavita scolded him later, after their son went out, telling him there was nothing wrong with a little eyeliner. “It starts with eyeliner,” Chika had said. “Where is it going to finish? I thought you were worried about his safety, but you’re just letting him walk around like that? What if someone throws a tire on him?” She dismissed his concerns and Chika stalked off, simmering impotently.
Kavita slid the top photo aside to look at the next. Juju covered her face with her hands, resting her elbows on her knees. She didn’t want to watch what was going to happen. Osita looked toward the window, at the sun entering through the perforations of the lace curtains. Somto and Olunne watched Kavita, nervousness a veil over their faces, and Elizabeth picked under her nails, trying to look indifferent.
When Kavita gasped, it was like a soft blow reverberating throughout the room. She dropped the other photos in her lap and grasped the second one with both hands, staring at it. Juju had arranged them herself, so she knew which photo Kavita was holding. It was of Vivek the first time he’d worn a dress. Juju had put it near the top because he looked so happy in it; she thought that might make it a little easier for Kavita to see, that her heart might be softened because he looked so happy. She had pulled the dress from one of Maja’s old suitcases, where Maja kept all the clothes she couldn’t fit into anymore, along with old memories of her twenties and some photographs of old boyfriends. The dress was cinched at the waist with an A-line skirt, white and navy blue stripes running from neck to hem, short crisp sleeves, darts in the chest.
Vivek had nothing to fill out those darts, but he hadn’t cared. He was spinning in the photograph, so the skirt of the dress was just a blur, like splashed water, and his hair was vague in the air. But Juju had managed to get his face in focus, and his mouth was wide open, laughing completely, his eyes squeezed shut. She had put lipstick on him, a bold red framing his teeth, and he had drawn on his eyeliner, dark on the lower lid and then a thicker line on the upper, so his eyes seemed lost in black borders.
Kavita’s hands began to shake as she stared at the picture. “What is this?” she whispered, her eyes darting up to Juju’s face and then to the others. The rest of them were looking down or away, anywhere but at her. Only Juju would meet her eyes, which were blurred with tears. “What is this?” Kavita repeated, her voice unsteady. “Why is he dressed like this?”
Juju was wracked with nerves, but she couldn’t look away from Vivek’s mother, not even long enough to draw courage from the others in the room. “He liked to dress that way,” she ventured timidly. “He didn’t want you to know—he didn’t want you or Uncle Chika to worry about him.”
“He liked to wear dresses?” Kavita dropped the photograph and picked up the rest, shock building in her face as she shuffled through them: Vivek in dresses of all kinds, sleeveless ones, short tight ones, loud printed ones, his lips painted red or pink or just glossed till they shone, his eyes always lined, sometimes with a bright splash of eyeshadow.
“My God,” she said. “He was dressing like a woman?”
“He said he was dressing like himself,” Somto interjected, her face resolute. “It made him happy, Aunty Kavita.”
Kavita looked up slowly at them. “And all of you knew about this?” They dropped their eyes. “Even you, Osita?” Her voice was frail with betrayal when she addressed him, but Osita looked at her directly, unafraid.
“He wanted it to be kept private, so we kept it private, Aunty.”
“He was sick! And you people all knew this was going on, and it didn’t occur to any of you to tell me or his father? We could have helped him!”
“He didn’t need help,” muttered Elizabeth. Olunne kicked her in the ankle.
“Excuse me?” said Kavita.
“I said he didn’t need help.” Elizabeth’s eyes were fixed and stubborn. “This made him happy, Aunty! He would have been worse without it. It was the only reason he was okay. So, no, we didn’t tell anybody. He was our friend.”
Kavita shook her head in disbelief. “No, I refuse. It must have been you girls! You dressed him up—you took advantage of him! You knew he was sick!”
Elizabeth and Somto looked like they were about to explode, but Juju stepped in gently. “It’s not like that, Aunty. Vivek said it was just a part of who he was, that he had this inside him and he wanted the opportunity to express it, so that’s all we gave him, that opportunity. I know it’s frightening to see him look so different. I was worried, too, when he told me, when he started dressing this way. But he was so happy, it really made a difference.” She smiled faintly at the memory. “I wish you could’v
e seen him. He was happier than he’d ever been since Uncle Chika brought him back. Sometimes he asked us to call him by another name; he said we could refer to him as either she or he, that he was both. I know it sounds—”
“Bas!” Kavita raised her hand for silence. “It’s enough. You people will not sit here and tell me my son wanted you to call him she. It’s . . . it’s unnatural.”
“But it’s true,” said Elizabeth. “That’s just who he was.”
“That is not who my son was!” shouted Kavita, throwing the pictures to the floor. “I don’t know what you people did to him, but that was not my son! That was not my Vivek!”
Osita felt his chest hurt but he didn’t know what to say. He was afraid that any words leaving his mouth would emerge dripping with guilt, and he was filled with nauseous relief that Juju had agreed to take out the photos of him and Vivek. Olunne was staring at Kavita with pity. Her sister, however, was furious.
“He didn’t belong to you,” Somto growled, and they all looked at her, appalled. “You keep talking as if he belonged to you, just because you were his mother, but he didn’t. He didn’t belong to anybody but himself. And the way you’re behaving now—that’s why we couldn’t tell you. That’s why he lived the last months of his life as a secret. That’s why he couldn’t trust you. You think you own him, when you didn’t know anything that was going on in his life.”
The Death of Vivek Oji Page 17