by Chris Abani
The girls plaited their hair into wild and wonderful shapes: sensuous cornrows that disappeared on the horizon of the head, holding the promise of love; straight fingers reaching up to graze the face of the sky; bangs that fell in spiral caress around their faces, or natural locks interwoven with cowrie shells and bits of silver and gold. Aunt Felicia had invented a plait called Concorde, complete with a Concorde-shaped aircraft taxiing down the crown of the head to the nape. She and her friends swapped makeup tips, tweezed eyebrows into thin whispers, hot-combed their hair into burned flat runs or Afro blowouts that eclipsed the sun every time they walked by, suffering as they singed, pulled, tied and yanked. Shaved hair from armpits and legs fell in among giggled methods of birth control, the most popular being to drink a bottle of bitter lemon after sex.
“Kills de sperm,” Aunt Felicia said.
Elvis longed to try on their makeup and have his hair plaited. Aunt Felicia finally gave into his badgering and wove his hair into lovely cornrows. One of the other girls put lipstick on him. Giggling, and getting into the game, another pulled a minidress over his head. On Elvis, it fell nearly to the floor, like an evening gown. He stepped into a pair of Aunt Felicia’s too-big platforms and pranced about, happy, proud, chest stuck out.
Looking up, he saw his father, Sunday, coming up the path. Aunt Felicia and Oye took in Sunday’s approaching figure with alarmed gasps and then looked back at Elvis’s cornrowed hair, painted face and dress, but it was too late. Elvis had kicked off the platforms and was halfway down the steps running to meet Sunday. He thought that somehow his father would like him better with the new hairdo. Sunday had not been the same since Beatrice died and he’d lost all interest in his son, except to reprimand or punish him. Sunday stopped and squinted as Elvis approached, face changing in slow degrees from amusement to shock and finally to rage.
Elvis ran straight into the first blow, which nearly took his head clean off. As he fell, his father grabbed him with one hand, steadying him, while with the other he beat him around the head, face, buttocks, everywhere. Too shocked to react, still out of breath from his sprint, Elvis gulped for air as his father choked him. Suddenly, Oye towered beside them. Sunday glanced at the steel of her eyes and dropped Elvis like a rag. She caught him, enfolding him into her as he sobbed himself into unconsciousness.
When he came to, he was cocooned in Oye’s soothing and healing smell. His lip was cut and he couldn’t see out of one eye, but he could hear his father ranting in the backyard, giving Aunt Felicia a rough time.
“No son of mine is going to grow up as a homosexual! Do you hear me?!” he shouted at her.
Elvis could not hear her mumbled response.
“When you have your own children, you can do what you like. But Elvis is my son. Son, not daughter …”
Aunt Felicia’s voice cut him off.
“Don’t interrupt me when I am speaking—otherwise I will beat de living daylights out of you!” he screamed.
“Sunday!” Oye called.
There was silence from the backyard as Sunday stamped out front.
“Stay out of my life, witch!” he shouted at her.
In one hand, flush with his thigh, was an open razor, its metal honed to a cruel edge. Oye took in the razor with a glance and, putting Elvis down slowly, rose to her feet. Never taking her eyes from Sunday’s, she reached out and pincered her fingers into a vise around his scrotum. He screamed in pain and dropped the razor.
“Don’t you ever threaten me, laddie,” she said quietly.
“I was not threatening you,” he whispered through tears. “I only want to shave de boy’s head.”
“Fine. But if ye hurt him again …” She smiled sweetly, letting go of him.
He sighed into the floor and squatted there panting.
“Put on your slippers,” he said to Elvis between gasps.
Elvis stepped into the plastic-and-foam flip-flops. He stood, waiting for his father to tell him what to do next, his breathing fast. Picking up the razor that he had dropped, Sunday stood and led Elvis by the hand out to the back. As they left, Elvis looked pleadingly at Oye. She smiled reassuringly at him and looked away. The echo of his flip-flops slapping the cement floor filled her mind.
When they got out back, Sunday pulled up a small stool for Elvis. “Sit dere,” he said gruffly.
Elvis sat. His father walked across the yard to the kitchen in the corner and lifted the large kettle of water that was always smoldering over the slow-dying coals. Elvis watched, shifting from side to side. Next, his father pulled a metal pail across the floor and began filling it with steaming water from the kettle. It reminded Elvis of the preparations made for plucking chickens, and as soon as his father’s back was turned, Elvis got up and began to tiptoe away.
“Sit back down,” his father said without turning round.
It was the quiet way in which he said it that had Elvis bolt back to the stool and sit down. He continued to watch his father as he mixed some cold water into the hot, testing the mixture with his elbow before bringing it over.
“Now sit still so dat I don’t hurt you,” he said.
Elvis nodded. Humming under his breath, his father mixed up some shaving foam in a cup and then, with a painter’s flourish, began to apply it with a brush to Elvis’s head. Elvis, eyes closed, began to tingle all over, like when the barber’s electric clippers buzzed lightly over his scalp. Once he had applied the foam, Sunday pulled up a chair and held Elvis tightly between his knees to keep him from making any sudden moves.
When the razor made contact, it buttered through the cornrowed hair with a sandpaper rasp. The pull of it was like the rough lick of a cat’s tongue, and Elvis felt himself relaxing into his father’s body.
“Stupid child, make sure you don’t fall asleep,” his father said gently. “For your own good,” he continued under his breath. “I’m only doing dis for your own good. It’s not easy to be a man. Dese are trying times. Not easy.”
When he finished, he washed Elvis’s scalp in the leftover warm water in the pail. After drying it, he applied palm-kernel oil. When he was done, he turned Elvis around and, holding his face in his hand, spoke slowly.
“I don’t want you spending any more time on dat veranda.”
It was afternoon and the sun slam-dunked onto corrugated-iron roofing and concrete, turning the houses into ovens, despite fans doing slow waltzes on ceilings. Outside, the tarmac roads turned to treacle. The adults were at work and Elvis and his friends were playing in the orchard. Apart from Oye, dozing in her wicker chair on the veranda, her snores loud enough to keep flies from settling on her open mouth, the house and compound were deserted. Efua was staying over, as she often did, and was asleep inside, as she was feeling ill. Elvis left the others playing and headed for the outhouse, one of those bucket affairs that had to be emptied regularly. Despite the powdered disinfectant scattered after each use, it stank in the heat and was home to tomb flies as big as helicopters.
He banged out of the toilet, not seeing the man who emptied the bucket standing waiting for him. Elvis leapt back, startled. Dung men were understandably aggressive and bad tempered, and the dung man was not smiling.
“Do you have my money?” he asked Elvis through the handkerchief that muffled half of his face. Elvis nodded. They all knew where the dung man’s money was kept, because if he wasn’t paid on time, he left a stinky gift on the front step.
As he dashed for the house to get the money, Elvis noticed Uncle Joseph’s car in the drive. He got the money from its place in the top drawer of the sideboard and on his way out heard whimpering and what sounded like a strangled sob. It was coming from the room he shared with Aunt Felicia. Efua shared it with them when she stayed over. He gently eased the door open. Efua was lying on the bed, legs spread wide, while Uncle Joseph grunted away between them. Efua stared straight at him, her teeth biting her lower lip. Apart from the tears streaming down her face and the soft birdlike mews coming from somewhere in her throat, her face wa
s impassive.
Hatred and revulsion filled his nostrils and head, leaving a harsh taste on his tongue. But he felt something else too, underneath the reflex to retch. Little snakes of sensation crawled all over his body. And though he wanted to rush in and scream at Uncle Joseph, push him off and beat him to pulp, he watched instead, his breath coming in short, rapid bursts. And the saddest thing was that he knew Efua could see the lust in his eyes. He shut the door gently and left.
Later, when Uncle Joseph had gone, Elvis stole back into the room. Efua was curled up in a fetal position on the bed. In one hand she clutched a hug cloth while she sucked the thumb of the other. Tears still streamed down her face, and her left leg was trembling badly. She looked up when he came in, and he felt his gut twist.
“Elvis,” she whispered.
He sat down beside her on the bed, face averted, afraid to look at her. He felt her hand on his face, tracing his features.
“I’m sorry,” he said, tears running down his face as he turned to look at her.
She seemed surprised by his tears and reached out her hand to wipe them away. Putting the hug cloth down, she reached up and pulled him to her tiny body, all the while humming a lullaby softly under her breath.
“Sssh, it’s not your fault,” she whispered.
Elvis burst out of a crowded alley in the market straight into the arena occupied by the magicians. He was still disoriented and disturbed about what had happened to Efua the day before; otherwise he’d have known better than to come this way. The arena was packed tight with a crowd that was rippling and alive. A parked van with roof-rack-mounted loudspeakers blared out loud, garish music.
Two boys in high wigs, dark sunglasses and white long-sleeve shirts, gloves, trousers and white canvas shoes danced to the music, bodies fluid. Sweat streamed down their faces and their shirts stuck to their bodies in a wet embrace. Rings of red dust formed around their trouser cuffs, kicked up by their feet. These Ajasco dancers moved to Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog.” Watching, mesmerized, Elvis realized then what he wanted to do more than anything else.
Mouth open in wonder at the dancers’ dexterity, Elvis moved his feet along in silent learning. Clumsy, he kicked up too much red dust and got clobbered on the head by angry bystanders. Just then a dwarf broke into the circle of dancers, ringing a bell almost as tall as he was. The music came to an abrupt end with an annoying vinyl-scratching screech. Ignoring the voices raised in protest, the dwarf began announcing the next act, a magic show by the world-famous Professor Pele, whom Elvis had never heard of.
Professor Pele was dressed in red robes like a Tuareg. He was silent, and his eyes were wide and unblinking. The dwarf shouted to be heard above the crowd’s murmuring and the clang of the bell that he was still ringing.
“Today, ladies and gentle,” he began. “Today, de wonderful Professor Pele is here to show you magic-Arabian, Indian and American magic.”
For emphasis, Professor Pele threw a fireball conjured out of thin air. The crowd gasped in fear and stepped back, letting out a collective “aaah.”
“American wonder. Come and see American wonder.” The dwarf broke into the one-refrain song. “Come and see American wonder, come and see American wonder.” There was a hypnotic quality to it that soon had the crowd joining in, echoing the heady chant.
“American wonder! American wonder!”
“Okay, I’ll need someone to assist in some magic,” the dwarf said.
As one, the crowd shrank back, except for the starstruck Elvis. He found himself being herded forward against his will. Falling away like palm fronds from a sprung, once-concealed trap, the crowd left him alone in the middle of its circle with the magician and the dwarf. Riveted, eyes fixed on the arena, the crowd and even the dancers watched. Meanwhile, pickpockets, part of the magician’s crew, worked them.
Professor Pele took out a long and deadly-looking sword and with a wicked smile cut the air a few times. With a grunt and a low two-handed throw, the dwarf sent a papaw into orbit. Pele spun round, catching it in midair with his sword, slicing it in two. The crowd gasped; Elvis gulped.
The magician then ran the blade through his stomach and out the other side. There was no blood, no apparent pain. Smiling, he twirled around. Elvis began to sweat and backpedal as Professor Pele pulled the sword from his belly and advanced on him.
“Now Professor Pele go cut off dis young man head,” the dwarf announced, pointing at Elvis. “Den join it back again.”
Elvis passed out.
When he woke to slaps from Oye, he was home. He had no idea how he had got there.
“Stupid, stupid boy. Elvis, you want to kill me, eh? What were you doing with those wizards?”
“Nothing, Grandma. How did I get here?”
She slapped him again.
“How did you get here? A distant relative of your father saw you faint and brought you home. Do you know how lucky you are? I sent you to buy me kerosene, not entertain tha town. I heard tha’ after you fainted, tha magician cut off your head and put it back on again. And you say nothing. Don’t you know they can steal your soul and turn you into anything they want?”
Elvis suddenly felt cold. He wondered if this meant that he was now dead and had become a ghost or, worse, a zombie.
“If people find out, they will run away from me, Grandma. I will become like Mr. Jonah,” he said tearfully.
Jonah had been a rich rice trader, with several wives. He had been revered and admired. Then he was in a car accident and lapsed into a coma for a few days. Thinking he was dead, his family took his body from the hospital bed late at night. It was important, they said, to ensure his soul could pass over with dignity, though of course the savings on the hospital bill wouldn’t go amiss. His family was starting the funeral rites when Jonah came to and banged on the coffin, demanding to be let out.
They let him out, but everyone avoided him after that, saying he was now a demon who could only live by killing others. People walked straight past him on the road, eyes averted. He lost his business. His wives left him. Every day he got a little more invisible, until one day he just faded away completely. He could still be seen when the light was just right, sitting outside his hut sucking on an unlit pipe, muttering to himself.
“You should have thought of tha’ before you made a spectacle of yourself in front of tha whole town,” she said. “What do you want me to do? Cast a spell to make everyone forget?”
“Would you?”
She glared at him.
“Boy, don’t make me knock your head off for real,” she said. “I just hope he hasn’t initiated you into witchcraft,” she continued, forcing a disgusting unguent down his throat.
Afraid, he began mumbling prayers while she made passes over his head with eagle feathers and chalk. His prayer and her incantations interwove in the gathering dusk, calming them both.
BRYOPHYLLUM PINNATUM S. KURZ
(Crassulaceae)
The common name for this herb is “Never Die.” It has opposite trifoliate leaves, which are almost rounded, but are larger towards the apex. The flowers are greenish yellow, with a purplish tint at the base. Their arrangement is loose and sometimes drooping on the common stalk.
This plant has several medicinal uses, which are not to be confused with its ritualistic applications. These medicinal uses include compresses for abscesses or swellings. In this case the leaves are crushed and mixed with shea butter or palm oil before being applied. It can also be used on ulcers and burns. It is used as a cure-all for young children when they are ill, and is believed to draw out bad humors when rubbed all over the body.
SEVEN
When the star is early on the King’s head, the number is two. This is the number of most people. The lobes split between their heart and mind, the constant struggle.
Just like the kola nut, people have distinct lobes of energy. These determine their life plan. Four is the highest number, the King nut. The sorcerer. Three is the seer, the singer, and the shaper. Two is,
for most, the struggle to learn love.
Lagos, 1983
Elvis shaved hurriedly. He hated shaving, which was odd, considering that as a child he used to drench his chin in alcohol and mentholated spirit because he had been told it would help his facial hair grow. Having heard it worked on pubic hair too, he began to drench his crotch in it. He only stopped when the teacher reported him to his father for smelling of alcohol in school, the report coinciding with his father’s discovery of an empty bottle of White Horse whiskey—one of his best bottles. Naturally he was severely caned. At least he hadn’t had to live with the constant teasing his cousin Obed got. Not realizing exactly how pubic hair grew, Obed had taken the skin from a squirrel’s tail and stuck it, fur side out, along the length of his penis.
Now here Elvis was, struggling with razors and bumps, trying to beat the clock. He was joined in the backyard by Jagua Rigogo. (Everyone knew that Jagua Rigogo wasn’t his real name, yet no one bothered to find out what it really was.)
Jagua used to regale Elvis with stories of his astral projections to different planes of existence or, within this one, to different countries. He even claimed he had met with aliens on Venus who planned and controlled the future of the earth. His stories were peppered with mentions of arcane masters of wisdom who showed him the hidden truths of the universe. Cosmic mechanics, he called them. Then, just as swiftly, the stories would veer away from the cosmic and you would be back on earth, the story continuing seamlessly.
“India! Dat is a wonderful country. Streets paved in gold … almost as lovely as America,” he would say.