Nights of the Creaking Bed

by Toni Kan

  But it was a fragile reality. One that came crashing down the moment we stepped out of line or deigned to live as citizens of that world they said we belonged to. Their anger, like Jehovah’s rage kindled at the enemies of the Jews, burned against us at long intervals because, linked closely to their awe, was an incipient fear peculiar to all poor people: that sense of dread that leaves you feeling naked because you have nothing.

  One day, a neighbour unsheathed her tongue and told my mother things that made her quake. Her child had taken ill at a bad time. Doctors were on strike, which meant that government hospitals were shut. The lab diagnosed typhoid fever and the doctor at the private clinic demanded a deposit of two thousand naira.

  It was evening and as she came rushing home from the hospital, it was our door she knocked on first.

  ‘Your mama, nko?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s not back from the shop,’ I said and she sighed, a drawnout expiration of air that seemed to drain the life out of her.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, watching the tears slither down her face. ‘No worry,’ she said and turned.

  By the time my mother came in, the neighbour’s trip around the fourteen rooms in the compound had dredged up a miserly five hundred and twenty-four naira. She needed more if her child was to live.

  Then my mother came back, laden with provisions and foodstuff. The woman’s plea was desperate and when my mother said she had no money, her eyes turned to blazing coals rescued from a smithy.

  ‘My son dey for hospital. If I no carry dis money go, the boy go die. Abeg, help me.’

  ‘Mama Chisco, I have no money on me. I have just finished shopping. I have only two hundred naira left,’ my mother explained, but her words only served to fan the embers of our neighbour’s desperation.

  ‘Abeg, Mama Andrew. I take God beg you, save my pikin,’ she cried.

  ‘I can’t. I have no money, true.’

  A change came over Mama Chisco. She took a step backwards. She dabbed at her eyes and then she loosened her tongue.

  ‘Okay, make I ask you one question, wetin you go do if that man wey you dey fuck, if im wife come here come catch you, eh Mama Andy? My pikin dey die and you no wan help me, eh. Why?’ The woman wailed and crumpled to the floor.

  My mother looked across at me. Our eyes met and I could read fear and desperation and shame in hers. Then, without a single word, she walked out of the compound.

  She was gone for less than ten minutes and when she returned she gave the woman a wad of naira notes: five thousand naira in all.

  The boy survived, but his mother never forgave herself. It took them six months to raise the money but my mother refused it and for years, until we left, they took to giving me money, small change, at well-chosen intervals. They hadn’t become rich; they were merely making expiation for that sin.

  And it was from them that I learned that sometimes the verbal pains we inflict on others can scar us for life.

  My mother would have been happier if she’d been a widow. But a woman with a husband who was not there, she was more like a bat surprised by sunlight.

  When you’re fifteen and in the full grip of adolescence, your mother’s nakedness is not the best thing to behold. So when, one evening, my mother ran out of her room stark naked and screaming at the top of her lungs, I felt a stirring that leaves me flush with shame when I recollect it.

  I found her a wrapper. Then Meze and I tip-toed into her bedroom.

  Uncle John lay naked and dead, his bulk filling up the bed. He was wearing nothing, save for the condom that covered his erection like a shroud.

  We left number 56 soon after that and ever since I have felt, and continue to feel, like an alien in a foreign land: a radicle in search of its own clump of earth.

  In the building, there were too many sniggers tugging at our sleeves as we walked past, and many eyes that suddenly began to look everywhere else but at us.

  And then Uncle John’s wife came to see the woman who had fucked her husband to death.

  ‘Where’s your mother?’ she asked. ‘She’s not at home.’

  ‘So, your mother is the ashewo who fucked my husband to death?’ she asked, before I shut the door on her and the neighbours who had gathered.

  Today, Meze is married and my mother is dead. When her bed stopped creaking, her heart began to slow. I am not married, but once a week I visit a widow and act as father to her only son.

  He calls me Uncle Andy.

  The Echo of Silence

  The first thing I heard was the echo of a loud silence and then the thunder of my heartbeat as the body fell past me and landed on the floor with a loud thud.

  I gasped and dropped my briefcase as a chill spread through me. I peeped down the length of the passageway. A door was being opened, so I dragged the body in and shut the door.

  My heart was pounding as I turned the body over. The ashen face stared up at me and it was the face of my neighbour.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, and when I got no answer I checked for a pulse and found none. The man was dead.

  My neighbour! It was absurd. We didn’t even talk, except to say “hi”. So why had he chosen to die outside my door?

  I looked at him, at his ashen death mask and the hands that lay stiffly by his side and there was no doubt that he was as dead… well, a dead man.

  But the mind is a Thomas, so I bent down to check for a pulse again. There was none. The man was dead.

  I straightened up. I could have cried. I was set for work and it was almost seven. The staff bus would be at my stop in five minutes and it takes all of five minutes to get to the stop from my house. If I dallied with the corpse, I would miss the bus and I had an important presentation to make. There was no way I was going to miss that bus.

  I opened the door and peeped outside. A man and a woman were conversing down the passage. I cursed and shut the door; I was stuck with the damned corpse. But I had to go, so I picked up the dead man, dragged him across the room and laid him on the couch. I locked the door, raced down the corridor, out the door and down the lane to the street corner where the bus would pick me up.

  I was a minute early and sweating when the bus came to a stop. I jumped in and slumped onto a seat. I could feel the sweat inside my vest.

  ‘Tony, is something wrong?’ someone asked, but I made no reply. I wasn’t in a talking mood.

  ‘Abi, e don quarrel with im babe,’ Denis joked but I shut him up with a glare.

  They let me be, so I turned to the window and watched the houses and landmarks speed by. Then everything blurred, and I was back in my room with the dead man lying on my couch and pointing the way to the gallows.

  And suddenly, my senses became keener as things became clearer. I was visited with the “end is nigh” vision of a man at the stake. The milling throng, the raucous chatter: everything faded as I voyaged along the wide open avenue of my mindscape.

  I saw myself on my first day at school, yelling as my mother handed me to the teacher, her Judas kiss still wet on my cheeks. ‘It’s alright! It’s alright!’ the teacher kept saying but I only yelled louder. Then I saw myself after my first fight at school. My mouth was swollen but coloured with the bloody smile of victory as the teacher dragged me by the ear to the staff room repeating, as I stumbled beside her: ‘We don’t fight in this school. We don’t fight in this school.’ I remember the pain of her nails digging into the soft flesh of my ears. Then I was before the judge. I saw him drape the black hood over his head and I screamed.

  The driver stepped on the brakes and sent us all crashing forward.

  ‘Are you okay, Tony?’ he asked.

  I nodded, breathing hard and avoiding the curious looks my colleagues cast me as I raised a hand to wipe off the beads of sweat on my face.

  We got off the bus an hour later and I joined the others in the elevator. They were there but I didn’t see them. I didn’t hear them, either. All I saw and heard was the face of the dead man on my couch and the thunder of my
heartbeats. ‘Are you okay?’ Denis whispered in my ear and I jumped.

  ‘I’m fine, fine,’ I said, as the elevator doors yawned open and I got out. My presentation was due for ten-thirty, so I sat down at my desk and tried to go over it but I couldn’t. Images of the ashen face kept assailing me. I shut my eyes and tried to recall the psalm my mother taught me a long time ago: ‘The Lord is my shepherd.’

  But I could go no further. My memory had atrophied.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and started.

  ‘Easy! It’s just me,’ Helen said, eyeing me curiously. ‘The GM wants you.’ It wasn’t ten thirty yet, but I picked up the papers I’d prepared and walked out. Her curious and worried gaze followed me.

  ‘Your presentation has been moved to next week. We’ll have the auditor present his today,’ the GM told me.

  I sighed with relief. ‘That’s fine, sir, just fine,’ I said as I let myself out. I walked back to my desk and felt relatively calm for the first time since I got into the office.

  I put the papers back into my briefcase and was stifling a yawn when Helen entered with a policeman. My heart gave a lurch and I broke into a cold sweat as Helen led him to my desk.

  ‘Tony, this is Sergeant Gideon. He’s here to see you.’

  I felt my heartbeat cease. My rectal muscles constricted and sweat dribbled down my armpits. I swallowed and tried to talk but no words would come.

  ‘Hey, are you alright? You don’t look too well,’ Helen said, and placed a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I managed to say. ‘I have a slight headache, that’s all.’

  ‘I’ll be at my desk,’ she said, and walked away.

  I looked up at the sergeant and in that instant I felt the image of the gallows concretise from a terrible fear. I was still caught in the vision of the end when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped, as a chill ran through me.

  ‘Sure you’re alright?’ the policeman asked and I could only nod my head.

  ‘I’m here to make some enquiries about Philip Dolo,’ I heard him say and for seconds I didn’t know who Philip Dolo was. He noticed my blank stare and asked: ‘You know him, don’t you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Philip Dolo.’ Then it hit me. Philip Dolo! ‘Yeah, I know him!’ I cried.

  ‘Well, he listed you as one of his referees and I’ve come to make enquiries.’

  ‘Oh, yeah!’ I said, relief flooding back over me. I looked at the policeman and cracked a smile.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing much. We’d like you to complete these forms and send them back to force headquarters.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  He handed me the forms, said thanks and marched away.

  The feeling of relief didn’t last. I was still a wreck and I kept entering wrong figures on the spreadsheet I was working on. My mind would not stop wandering to thoughts of what lay on my couch at home and the fate that awaited me once it was discovered.

  I wished the day would speed up but it crawled like a snail, leaving slimy, nervous trails all over my body. I thought I’d go mad. I wanted to leave at about three but I changed my mind and, instead, tried to fine-tune a plan. I’d get home, wait till dark and carry him up to his own door. He could stay dead forever if he wanted to. I just didn’t want any part of it. At five, I picked up my briefcase and, not waiting for the staff bus, walked out of the premises and hailed a cab.

  I sat back and went over my plan once again. It would work. All I needed was the cover of darkness and the dead man would be back where he belonged.

  ‘Ah, dis kain go slow, sef!’ the driver exclaimed.

  I looked up to see that we were snagged in heavy traffic. ‘Why you no follow express?’ I asked, trying to control my annoyance.

  The driver mumbled something I didn’t catch, so I let him be. About thirty minutes later, we were on the move again.

  Dusk had fallen and lights had come on in the houses when he let me off. I paid him and walked briskly into the building. I walked down the dark passageway, my heart pounding. I had the key in the lock when I heard my name. I whirled round, ready to run.

  ‘Hey, what’s the problem? It’s me!’ Dave, my friend, said.

  I stared at him like I didn’t know who he was. He was my friend, my best friend, but I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t want to see anybody.

  ‘What’s the matter, Tony? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.’

  ‘I’m…em… not feeling too well,’ I stammered.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked with concern.

  ‘A headache. It started at work.’

  ‘Boy! And I came around so we could hit the town. I just got promoted.’

  He was talking but I wasn’t listening. I was wishing I could spirit him away from my door, make him disappear.

  ‘You must be feeling really bad,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we go inside and I’ll see what I can do for you?’

  ‘No!’ I screamed, startling him.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Yes. I want you to leave.’

  ‘Leave?’

  ‘Yes! Leave! Now!’

  ‘Tony,’ he called, but I shut him up.

  ‘Leave!’

  Dave stared at me like I’d gone mad. Then he smiled and said, ‘You’ll have to shoot me first, mon ami.’

  I looked at him and knew he meant it. Yet I waited for a while to see whether he’d budge. But he didn’t. So, I took a deep breath, turned the knob slowly and pushed the door open. I would have to explain everything.

  The room was in darkness. I shut the door behind Dave and switched on the light. My neighbour was sitting up on the couch with a bored look on his face.

  ‘You locked me inside,’ he said, as I took a frightened step backward. ‘You locked me inside.’ He repeated as he rose, opened the door and walked out.

  I stood there with my mouth open, staring at Dave and hearing in my head the echo of a loud silence.

  God is Listening

  My son’s cries are ringing in my ears.

  I put my hands over my ears, but I can still hear them. I put my head under the pillows but the voice is insistent. His cry is high pitched and blood curdling. His young, pink tongue touching his pink palate screams: ‘Please, please, please.’

  Last night, I finally realised what people mean when they say they have willed their hearts to turn to stone. Earlier on, I had bathed my son, creamed and powdered him, then pulled on the only new clothes he had and held him close to me, inhaling the sweet fragrance of him, letting it fill my nostrils so I would never, ever, forget what he smelled like.

  Then I started walking, my son on my back, a bag containing all I owned in this world on my left shoulder. I walked and walked, weighed down with thoughts. I walked until I started wondering whether I had missed the spot, whether some supernatural and mysterious force had led me past the place I had marked and chosen for the thing I wanted to do.

  But it wasn’t so. The spot was there ahead of me and the moment I saw it, something like lead fell on me and began to slow me down, to nudge my spirit towards re-thinking my plan.

  A passing car bathed me with light and illuminated the place I had chosen to dump my son. It was a small gate set in a wall at the back of an estate. It was the gate which drivers, nannies and domestics of different stripes used to access the estate. I knew that there was no way someone would not find him the next morning.

  My wish was that he would be found by the domestic staff of a woman who was childless and looking for a child to adopt. In fact, when my fantasies got the better of me, I would imagine myself sitting there at the gate as they found him and being offered the job of caring for him, just like in the story of Moses and his sister and mother in the bible.

  But I knew it would never happen that way. One: there was no way the rich people would use that gate. They preferred to use the big one in front where I once hung around and sold cold water. Th
at gate was bigger and allowed them to drive out in their big, shiny cars (and that’s why rich people are always fat, because they are always sitting down and being driven around). Two: Moses had a God working for him. Me, I have no one working for me. I am not even sure God, if he really exists, knows that I exist.

  When I got to the back gate, I set my bag down, released my son from my back and, cradling him, stuck my left nipple in his mouth. At first, he was too sleepy to eat, but when I kept pushing the nipple into his mouth, he started sucking.

  I liked the way he sucked as if his life depended on it. It reminded me of how Goddie used to suck on my breasts. He would suck and suck, making sloppy sounds until I would push him gently and tell him that my nipples were hurting.

  ‘When you have my son, there will be war. Because we must fight over these breasts,’ Goddie liked to say as he fondled them.

  My breasts were the things he liked best on my body, aside from my hips, which he said would give him four sons. He said my breasts were “cute and peckish” and even though I liked the way he said it, I was always too shy to ask him what he meant.

  After he had fed a while, I switched him round and put the right nipple in his mouth and while he fed, I tried not to think about Goddie because thinking about him made me happy and sad all at once.

  My son fed and fed and fell asleep, and I cradled him as the tears flowed down my face. I had planned this night for almost a year, from when he was a mere foetus growing inside me. I carried him for nine months and I nurtured and grew to love him over the course of the first three months of his life, so there was no way I could dump him outside that gate, heart of stone or not, without feeling guilt, remorse and pain.

  I wrapped him in the wrapper I had brought and placed him in the space between the gate and the fence. Then I lit two sticks of incense to chase away any animals that might come near him.

  I bent down, kissed him on the forehead, and then turned and began to walk away. That was when he started to cry without warning. At first, his cries stayed my feet for a second, but then I stifled a sob and kept walking, my ears stopped, my heart hardened.