by Ben Okri
7
When he left the bungalow he wandered aimlessly in a liquid, somnambulistic haze. The streets and roads that he knew so well became strange to him. Everything he saw troubled him.
As he turned into a street the air suddenly was pungent with nightsoil smells. Then, like figures emerging from the semi-darkness of a curious nightmare, he saw them. Buckling under the weights of brimming nightsoil buckets, their faces swathed with cloths, ritualistic in their impersonality, the nightsoil men came towards him. They staggered to the waiting lorries, rested a while, went into the various compounds light and came out again weighted.
The place stank. People fled from them. People hurried. They ran, covering their noses, averting their eyes. The nightsoil men moved clumsily, their knees trembling, their backs arched. They grunted. The buckets they carried were often too full and things slithered down and took their place amongst the accumulated rubbish on the streets. There were no flies around.
Some children from a nearby house took to mocking one of the nightsoil men. He was the clumsiest of the lot. He carried a very big bucket and he staggered and weaved and made strange snorting noises. The children made fun of him in songs. When he stopped and faced them and made his strange noises to drive them away they ran to their home and disturbed the elders who were engrossed in their drinking and their arguments. After a while the children went back and tormented the nightsoil man and threw stones at him. One of the stones hit the bucket and made a hollow sound. Omovo avoided treading on it.
The nightsoil man stopped again. His eyes blazed and his neck was strong and sweat poured down his forehead. He snorted angrily and tried kicking up sand at the kids, but he staggered, cried out, steadied himself with a phenomenal and pathetic effort, and the children laughed even louder. Omovo wanted to shout at the children. But before he could, the exasperated nightsoil man brought up his free hand, in which was a short broom, then he proceeded to flick the contents of the bucket at the children. They ran, screaming and laughing in innocent wickedness. The nightsoil man followed them. The terrible load wobbled on his head.
The elders, who had been drinking, spitting, unmindful of their children’s mischief, looked up and saw the grim apparition. One of them shouted: ‘Hey, what’s wrong with you?’
‘Wetin you want?’ cried another.
The elders got up. The nightsoil man chose his moment. With the awkward and sometimes wicked dignity that comes with such labours, the nightsoil man struggled, snorted, and then deposited the bucket right in front of the elders, in admonishment for the bad training of their children. The effect was staggering.
‘Hey, carrier, are you mad, eh? You don crase?’ the elders screamed.
The nightsoil man, cricking his neck, weaving as if in a hallucination, slouched away from the incredible deposit. When the full implication of his act became clear the whole place erupted. The elders, the neighbours, the women around, screamed and howled. People fled in all directions. The elders fell over their chairs and kicked over their table of drink and kola-nuts in their extreme haste to escape the smells. There was a terrible din of outraged screams, entreaties, curses. The stench was enough to drive a whole village insane.
When the commotion died down a little a delegation, consisting of the parents of the naughty children, was sent to the man. They stood a good distance from him and begged him, in the name of the gods and the ancestors, to carry his infernal deposit from their living places. The nightsoil man stared at them, his eyes quietly contemptuous. He didn’t even bother to acknowledge their pleas. He stood very still, like a guardsman, very still and straight, his hands behind his back. The delegation drew closer and pleaded and the women knelt and appealed to his love of his mother and asked him to relent in Allah’s name, in case he was a Moslem. But nothing they said dented his impassivity.
The women went and sought and dragged out the offending children and they were flogged mercilessly in public. The rest of the delegation pressed on with their entreaties. They prayed for the nightsoil man. The eldest amongst them prayed for the nightsoil man to become wealthy, successful, to have a happy life with good health. But the nightsoil man, seemingly offended by such excessive prayer, stood away from them, surveying the whole scene with his blazing, indifferent eyes.
Then the delegation went away and, after a short conference, they came back again. They had collected some money, which they hoped would appease his anger. He looked at the amount of money they offered. It was ten Naira. With an insulted expression on his face, he turned his head away. The delegation trundled off again, conferred heatedly, and came back with the money doubled. But it was only after they had pleaded for another fifteen minutes, after they had got the children to kneel in front of him and beg his forgiveness, and after they had raised the money to thirty Naira, that he condescended to acknowledge their request. He took the money, counted the notes carefully, checking each to make sure it was genuine, and stuffed them into his back pocket. Then, cricking his neck, he went and struggled with the bucket. As he lifted it, grunting and farting noisily, he swayed, nearly dropped the whole thing, and the women screamed. But he got the weight under control. He bent down to pick up his broom. Then, with a weird dignity, he wobbled and staggered off into the night.
The stench filled the air. It would hang around the area for weeks, a relentless memento.
Having witnessed all this from a distance, Omovo went on his aimless way.
He came to a narrow lane. There were deep tyre ruts on the verge. Sweet-smelling flowers had been crushed on both sides of the lane. Suddenly whiffs of incense were strong in the air. He heard the clanging of bells and riotous singing. He wondered who had bothered to plant flowers in that god-forsaken area. He was touched with a vague serenity. As he went deeper into the lane he became aware of the trees, the bushes and the peculiar darkness. The night was a forest of signs. The lane widened. The incense grew stronger on the air. He saw a fenced off area at the laneside. There was a house in the middle of it. And all around expensive cars were parked. He heard strange drumbeats and was reminded of the ones he had heard at the beach, long before they stumbled on the girl’s body.
He suspected he was in the presence of a secret meeting place, a secret society. The meeting place looked like a ghetto church. After the fenced off area the lane ended. Beyond there was marshland and a wooden bridge. He didn’t know where the bridge led.
As he stood near the gates to the meeting place, his spirit restless and curious, he was startled by a vigorous flourish of drums and noises. Masked figures, bearing whips, burst out of the forest. Then the central Egungun, a tall figure with a terrifying mask, emerged from behind them, surrounded by a retinue of men holding ropes attached to their wayward ancestral figure. The lesser figures, whose masks didn’t have the size or the fearsomeness of the chief masquerade, began whipping one another. The talking drums pounded round them. The retinue chanted incantations. They whipped one another’s feet. They jumped, didn’t cry out, and retaliated. There was no malice in their action. They whipped one another’s backs to the accompaniment of the drums and danced towards Omovo. They danced round him, the masquerade swaying and then running in different directions and being dragged back by its retinue. They whipped the year’s evil from one another, dancing round Omovo, but they didn’t touch him. Then after they had circled him, their spirits rising, the Egungun possessed, they passed round a mask for him to wear. He refused and they danced past him, towards the ghetto. He heard women and children screaming behind him at their frightening advance.
He went towards the isolated building. The gate was open. The building stood in the midst of the surrounding forest as if it had somehow emerged from the enchantment of a forgotten fairy tale. He came to a large signboard. Nothing was painted on it. A black cross had been planted beside the signboard. The noise of singing grew louder and more discordant. He heard the deep sound of big drums and the clanking of bottles. Deep in the background he heard the strains of an accordion. He
heard screaming.
The wind blew sharply into his face, relieving the smell of incense with the wet familiarity of rotting vegetation. He listened to the cadences of nightbirds. He got to the main door of the building and saw another signboard, on which had been painted what he first thought of as Christ on the cross. But when he looked closer he saw that it was much more complex. It was a strangely beautiful painting, full of signs. It had images of birds with the wings of eagles, the faces of owls, the feet of buzzards. It had flying human beings with green eyes. It had turtles with human faces, women with the bodies of antelopes, men with yellow wings. All over the signboard there were the curious harmonies of Egyptian hieroglyphics. All these images and signs surrounded a black figure on a white cross, a figure who wasn’t Christ at all. Omovo looked at the signature of the artist and was shocked to discover that it belonged to his friend Dr Okocha. Something exploded in his mind. He was about to utter a cry of astonishment, of fear even, when he heard the intonement of the most frightening incantations from within the meeting place.
The door opened suddenly – and hit him on the chest. He reeled from the force of the door and from the instantaneous assault of the noise from within. For a moment he was stunned, confused. For a moment, as if peering into a slowed-down dream, he could see what was going on inside. Red lights flooded his eyes. He saw men in rows, making motions slowly, as if in a ritual. They were all dressed in white smocks. In front of them, standing on a triangular platform, surrounded by what can only be described as mystic fetishes, was the Master of Rituals. He was a tall man, clean shaven. His smock was of silk and he had red signs on his chest and one side of his face was covered in native chalk and antimony. Before him was a man kneeling, in the throes of possession and petition. He spread his arms out and his palms, catching the lights, looked as if they had been soaked in blood. Omovo realised suddenly that the noises were an illusion. The gathering was silent and they made their liquid motions as if in a dream.
He had barely recovered from his second shock when the Attendant of the Threshold saw him and came out. He wore a black suit, white gloves, and a black hat. He was of middle height, handsome, straight, and had powerful eyes.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Do you want to join us?’
‘Who is us?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘No.’
Silence.
‘Well?’
‘No.’
‘It’s our day of initiation.’
‘What initiation?’
‘The initiation of strangers.’
‘Initiation into what?’
‘Mysteries.’
‘What mysteries?’
‘The mysteries of death, of power.’
Silence.
‘Well? You are the first for the night.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes. And your appearance is correct. You are wearing a hat and I imagine that you are bald underneath.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I also know that you are a stranger, a sufferer, lonely.’
More silence.
‘You have to decide now. I am expected inside for the next stage of our rituals.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Then please leave.’
‘Why? Can’t I just watch?’
‘No. To watch is to commit yourself.’
‘I see.’
‘Please leave our premises now.’
‘What’s the rush?’
‘You may be holding up the next stranger.’
Omovo hesitated. The longer he stayed, considering the temptation, the more he noticed the changes the attendant’s face was undergoing. A strange expression, almost scavengery, began to take over the attendant’s features. Suddenly a strong wind blew and hit Omovo at the back of his neck like an invisible knock. The moment passed and Omovo felt curiously wide awake. He turned round and walked past the signboard, giving a last look at Dr Okocha’s painting. Then he went past the second blank signboard and out through the gate. He looked back and saw the attendant still watching him. After a moment the attendant went back in and shut the door.
Omovo went towards the bridge. His mind whirling, he smelt the vegetation. He listened to the cadences of nocturnal animals. Sweet smells of sanity touched his soul. He was overcome with the wonder of things he couldn’t see, and the fear of things he shouldn’t have seen. His mind was clear and the night, for a moment, took on a softer hue. Then something cried out in the dark.
He thought the sound came from the marshes and he went in that direction. He couldn’t see far. But he could see that the wooden bridge was broken. Its wood had been cracked and only dimly lit strands of plank were left. The marsh was inseparable from the night. Beside the broken bridge there was a bushpath. He took the path. The trilling of crickets overlaid the silence. The bushes grazed him. He tripped over a tree root. When he got up something fell through the branches of a tree. He waited. Nothing happened. The bushes and trees passed through his mind. He kicked an empty tin can. It twanged sharply. He underwent a momentary annihilation and then an intensification of feeling. Another sound extended from the dark. It sounded like a baby crying somewhere in the forest. He hurried in the direction of the cry. Then he heard other noises, the confused crackling of leaves and the footfalls of someone fleeing.
He nearly stepped on it. Whatever it was had been half wrapped up in cloth and left by the bushpath. At first, because it wriggled and moved like a strange animal, he was afraid. Then the baby’s cry rose up to him, feeble and desolate. In the space of that moment everything became clear.
He gave chase. He bounded through the undergrowth, stumbled over protruding tree roots, and nearly disappeared into a well that was at ground level by the bushpath. Laboured breathing and confused footfalls sounded just in front of him. At a curve he saw the harassed silhouette of the fleeing woman. He called to her. She looked back and then she tripped over the exposed root of a tree. When he reached her she began cursing him. She screamed at him, making wild motions with her long fingers. Then she blew her nose into one end of her wrapper and became silent. She wore an open-necked blouse. From what he could see of her she looked lean and ill. Her hair was uncombed. Her mouth jerked in ugly spasms. She sniffed, spat in his direction, blew her nose again and wiped her face. She kept looking up at him, her body convulsing. She slapped at a mosquito on her bare arm. He said nothing and stayed still.
The wind moaned softly. There was a flurry amidst the leaves and undergrowth. When the wind died down she began to speak. Her voice was rough, defiant. It kept rising to the pitch of aggression and falling into barely audible whispers. She spoke about her husband, who was an armed robber. She said she had been returning from the market one evening when she saw him dead by the side of the road with a gaping hole in his neck. She spoke of how they had no money and how his creditors came that night to seize their property. She said she had no parents, no brothers, or sisters, and what could she do in the world? Should she die because of an armed robber’s baby? Her voice dropped. There was another man, she said, who wanted to marry her, but the baby was in the way, it was a weight round her neck, she had no money to feed it, and she had lied to everyone that it wasn’t hers anyway. She said she didn’t care if the baby died and it was nearly dead anyway and she went on and on, speaking feverishly, breaking down to cry, talking as if she were replying to different voices that kept interrupting her. Then suddenly her tone changed. She began to rail against everything, and asked a long series of ‘whys’, and began to hammer her fists on the ground, as if it were a door that wouldn’t open. Then she flung herself down and tore at her clothes and pulled at her hair. A line of blood flowed down her forehead, past her eyes and mouth.
He gave her a handkerchief to wipe the blood, but she knocked his hand away. He talked gently to her, trying to soothe her, to persuade her to go an
d take up her child. The wind rose again. She shivered.
Up in the sky the moon emerged from behind a cloud and conferred a silvery haze upon the trees and bushes. In the new silence the baby’s disembodied cry came over the air, amplified by the stillness around. The woman got up, as if she had suddenly woken from a dream. She pushed past him and went stiffly towards the abandoned child.
The cry sounded again, but this time it was lonelier than ever. The woman ran with unbelievable speed through the forest. Omovo followed her. When the woman got there the bundle had fallen over on its side. A black cat stood near it and it fled when the woman snatched up the bundle and hugged it tightly to her, cradling it, dancing sadly, her face suffused with a transformed light. Then she freed the child from its wrapping and brushed away the dirt and ants that had crawled on its body and began to sing a traditional song about the hardships of the world.
Suddenly he heard her catch her breath. She held out the baby. It was utterly still. Its legs were deformed and it had a weird face and its hands dangled. She looked at Omovo with wild eyes and she opened her mouth and let out a piercing wail that resounded its terror-stricken vibrations through the forest. Then she ran off screaming into the nightspaces as if she meant to wake up the dead and all those who slept peacefully in their beds.
He knew it. He knew it so strongly that something arched within him and all kinds of voices babbled in his mind and he had a sudden vision of a bird falling and hitting the earth with a complete absence of sound. He felt exhausted. The bushes and the darkness passed through his mind. And when he broke out of the forest there was just the ghetto and the sky, clear, open, and dream-like.
Book 4
1
She walked briskly up the corridor and through the backyards into a secret passageway. When she got to her street she slowed down. The night was alive all around her. She felt outside it all, condemned by the wetness between her legs. She passed the stalls of the bean-cake sellers and the ogogoro traders. She passed the bustling hotel and the record stores blasting out the latest highlife tunes. Confused by her feeling of having been interrupted in lovemaking, she stopped beneath the eaves of the shed and rearranged her wrapper. The shadows hid her face from the street. She tried to recollect herself, to calm down her anxieties.