by Chris Abani
Elvis, on the other hand, loved flirting with the women. Getting up, he went into his room and returned with the record player and a clutch of records he had inherited from his mother. While the men watched, he turned the machine, with its spinning plate, on, and wound the women and the records into a frenzy of released pressure, dancing with each in turn, laughing loudly, happily. The men sniffed, silently disapproving. When his father and Benji arrived back from the bar, Elvis packed up the records and the record player.
“Ah, my son de useless dancer!” Sunday announced as he watched Elvis putting things away.
Comfort, sitting with the other women, watched silently. Elvis ignored his father and walked into his room. Moments later, he came out, dressed, and headed for Redemption’s place.
ROAST YAMS AND PALM OIL
(Igbo: Ji Ahuru Ahu Ya Manu)
INGREDIENTS
Yams
Chilies
Salt
Ahunji
Palm oil
PREPARATION
Cut the yam into square chunks, leaving the skin on. Place inside an open wood fire amidst the hot ashes. Roast until crisp on the outside and soft and well cooked on the inside. Mix the chilies, salt and chopped ahunji into the oil. Dip the yam in the sauce and eat.
This simple fare is considered the food of the poor, or those serving an intentional penance. The lattergroup comprises mostly women who have been unfaithful to their polygamous husbands. In these cases, the punishment meant they had to cook mouth-watering dishes daily for their husband and family, but themselves eat only roast yam and palm oil. The minimum penance is usually seven days; the most extreme can last several months.
EIGHT
When the star marks a fork on the King’s head, we have three. This marks the turn.
The study of the relationship of the number of lobes on a kola nut and its relationship to the petitioner is akin to numerology. The number of lobes indicates the energy pockets that the petitioner has and these in turn will determine the nature of their life walk and talents. The more lobes on the kola nut they choose, the more energy pockets they have, thus the richer and more complex their life-walk.
Afikpo, 1976
Oye stood at the bend, near the edge of the road, waiting for the postman. He showed up, on time as usual, with a handful of letters for her. They came from her many pen friends all over the world.
Sunday prowled the length of the porch watching Oye nervously. Big lorries came hurtling around the bend at incredible speeds, and he lived in fear of Oye getting crushed. He would not admit that his concern had anything to do with love, mumbling instead about the high cost of burying the old. Still, Elvis suspected it was love, like the time he cut himself on a rusty knife and got tetanus and there was the possibility of him dying. His father had ranted at him angrily, calling him a wicked and thoughtless child to play so roughly and cost him so much in hospital bills. Yet when he recovered, there was no more mention of the cost of his cure, astronomical as it must have been.
It was only a combination of luck and driving skill that kept the lorries from plowing straight into the house. Some of these lorries were coming to the nearby fish market, bringing traders from the towns. Others came from the brewery in the next town, delivering their quota of oblivion, their drivers tipsy enough to swig beer from open bottles as they drove, in clear view of police at the checkpoints dotted all over town. Others were crammed with market women screaming conversations above the bedlam of the engine, squabbling chickens, snorting goats and barking dogs in cages. Crying children were casually thrown in the direction of a breast to suckle quietly. They roared past, scattering dust and shouted greetings.
The frames of the lorries were built of timber. Elaborate motifs of flowers and climbing vines sprawled over them in vibrant colors, and their tailboards boasted murals: Hercules pulling a lion’s jaws apart, a mermaid sunning herself on a beach, King Kong swinging from the Empire State Building. Along the sides ran slogans: SLOW AND STEADY … HE WHO LIVES BY THE SWORD SHALL DIE … TO BE A MAN IS NOT A DAY’S JOB … SUFFERING AND SMILING … THE WICKED SHALL NOT PROSPER … THE YOUNG SHALL GROW.
Oye stood watching the postman’s bicycle fade into the horizon, as though she expected him to turn around at any moment and return to deliver more letters that he had somehow overlooked at the bottom of his bag. Satisfied that he was gone, Oye walked back to the house, her letters tucked carefully under her arm. When Elvis read them later, they would give off the slight scent of talcum powder.
It was summer and schools were on holiday, and Elvis was home, so she summoned him and together they made a pot of too sweet, too milky tea. While she carried the tea, he followed closely, holding the envelopes.
She couldn’t read, but trusted only Elvis to read to her. She figured he was still young enough not to be judgmental or tell too many lies. Oye had never learned how to read or write, and before Elvis was old enough, Beatrice read the letters to Oye, taking her dictated replies down in a beautiful copperplate.
Elvis enjoyed Oye’s trust. It was one of the few times when he felt needed. That sense of importance was nearly threatened when he began to come across the letters written in foreign languages. The most regular came from someone called Gretel and seemed to be in a language that could be German. When he explained the situation to Oye, she laughed heartily at his discomfort and took the letter from him.
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” she said, holding the letter between her palms.
“What are you doing?”
“Reading it.”
“How?”
“Ach, laddie, with magic of course,” she said impatiently. “When I hold it like this, I can make out what it’s about.”
“Then why don’t you read all the others like that?” he asked.
“Tha thing with magic, lad, is tha’ it always has consequences.”
She settled back into her wicker chair, Elvis seated at her feet. She sighed and took the letters from him. With practiced casualness, she flicked through them, choosing one. She ripped the envelope and shook out the letter, which she passed to Elvis.
“Read, laddie,” she said slowly.
He took the letter, smiling at the elaborate ritual she had evolved. He wondered what she did on school days; he imagined she prowled the house restlessly until he got back. Clearing his throat, he began.
“Dear Oye …”
Mr. Aggrey took the entire kids’ dance class to the cinema to watch Fred Astaire.
“See how he floats,” he explained. “If you want to be good at dis, watch as many of dese kinds of films as possible.”
“What about Elvis Presley films?” Elvis asked.
Mr. Aggrey smiled. “Elvis Presley too. And Indian films. Watch. Learn. Practice.”
Elvis took the advice to heart. Since the free movies never showed what he wanted to watch, he began to pay to get into the Indian cinema in the next town to watch Elvis Presley, Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire and nameless Indian film stars in order to study, close-up and firsthand, the moves of great dancers. He liked the female dancers too, but was afraid to ask Mr. Aggrey if he should learn their moves.
Elvis approached Oye days after the Professor Pele incident and asked her if he could learn the dance moves he had seen performed by the Ajasco dancers. She asked him to find out how much it cost, and if it was not too expensive, she would think about it. Two days later he accosted her as she was sweeping the yard.
“Three naira for each lesson,” Elvis blurted out.
“Watch yourself, boy! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What is three naira?” she asked.
“The dance lessons I told you about,” he said, launching into an impromptu routine, arms flailing wildly.
“Hey!” Oye interrupted him. “Are you blind? You canna see this broom? Or are you just going tae watch me sweep with my old bones?”
“Sorry, Granny,” he said, taking the broom. �
�Well?”
“Well, finish sweeping and we’ll talk,” she said, walking off.
Mr. Aggrey was old, with a shiny bald patch and two hedgerows of hair on either side. He was kind despite the walking stick he brought crashing down on knuckles, elbows, knees and anything else with a joint bone. He circled them as they practiced, hawk eyes watching for a missed beat or a hesitation. He was bent a little, and when he hobbled in time to the music, he looked like a large, misshapen turtle.
In addition to the children, Mr. Aggrey also taught adults the waltz and the tango. These were mostly mid-level civil servants preparing for their promotions and the anticipated social evenings that came along with them. Elvis had heard rumors that those selected for promotions were often tested for their ability to handle such social events, so Mr. Aggrey insisted they dress formally for the lessons.
Elvis often stayed back to watch them, hidden by the tall congas standing in the shadows at the back of the open yard where all the lessons were held. They reminded him of the scenes from Chinese films where monks learned martial-art moves in the courtyards of mountain temples. He thought the adults looked funny in their illfitting clothes, which ran the gamut of formal dress from tuxedos and evening gowns through to traditional lace lappas and babanrigas.
Mr. Aggrey worked them hard, tapping out the tempo on the floor with his cane and counting the moves. “Left leg shimmy, right leg shimmy, den turn, left shimmy … No, no, no, Mr. Ibe—left leg. Left leg. Left leg! What are you, Mr. Ibe, an orangutan? Is dis how you will disgrace me at some high-society ball? And you, Mrs. Ebele, dis is not Salome’s Dance of de Seven Veils. If you keep grinding your waist like dat, your partner will have an embarrassment on de dance floor. Okay, from de beginning. Left leg shimmy …”
Elvis watched every day, mentally adding the moves to the ones he already knew. He shuffled along in the shadows, unseen, knowing he would get a beating for not returning home on time after the dance lesson, but not caring.
It was Friday, and as usual, Elvis hid to watch the adult dancers instead of practicing with the other children. Mr. Aggrey waited for the adult dancers to stow their bags before speaking. Elvis observed as several of the dancers noticed twenty rickety wooden crosses leaning on the west wall of the yard. They exclaimed in alarm, and soon a murmur filled the room. None of them wanted to be part of any Satanic rites. Some even backed toward the door, whispering prayers under their breath.
Mr. Aggrey calmed them, explaining that the crosses were there to help them dance. The cross beams would provide support and straighten their backs, providing the stiffer upper-body comportment required in formal dance. With a lot of trepidation, the dancers allowed themselves to be tied to the crosses.
As he watched entranced, Elvis knew what he needed to do to reproduce the Presley hip snap, which he loved dearly, but somehow he couldn’t re-create it, as his movements were more fluid than his hero’s. The first chance he got to practice alone behind the outhouse, he decided he would lash double splints down the side of both legs from the knee down, giving the stiffness needed to get the snap going.
While he finished off the children’s lesson out front, Mr. Aggrey put on some music and left the adults alone to get used to their crucifixion. When he returned, they seemed to be quite happy, whirling around merrily. His breath caught in his throat as he realized that it had worked. They were waltzing, and gracefully. Beautiful black dancers, stapled to wooden crosses that pulled them upright and stiff like marionettes; a forest of Pinocchios, waltzing mug trees, marching like Macbeth’s mythical forest.
AERVA LANATA JUSS.
(Igbo: Okbunzu Nonu)
A straggling, hairy herb found mainly in humid regions, it has elliptic leaves covered with slight hairs and white flowers that grow on the common stalk. The leaves, eaten in soup, are great for sore throats. They induce a heat, exacerbated every time one swallows, which is where the Igbo name comes from. It means literally “to smith in one’s mouth.” The heat caused by the swallowing is likened to that produced by the bellows of the smith.
It can also be used effectively to cast a spell on someone to speak the truth, in which case an unbearable burning is produced each time the person lies. Or it is used to seal one from speaking the truth by creating the same effect, only reversed.
NINE
Three lines on the King’s head mark the turning. These people, rarer than the two, bring new things, sing new songs.
The Igbo have a very abstract mathematical system. Recent anthropological data suggests that they knew about and used π before the Creeks; that they had in fact begun to explore ideas that we now call quantum mechanics. Though there are many treatises on this, it is hard to determine what was there and what has been brought to this thesis by modern scholarship.
Lagos, 1983
The club was packed, and Elvis and Redemption had a hard time squeezing their way into the room. The band members were lounging by the bar drinking, having already set up their instruments. Loud highlife blared through the house speakers, and most of the crowd shuffled to the fast-tempoed music.
Onstage, King Pago, the house dwarf, tiny next to the instruments and microphones, danced. He whirled like a dervish, his small feet barely touching the ground. He jumped up and spun some more. Stopped. Then started a calmer, more recognizable dance. The audience cheered at this display.
A female dwarf got up onstage and began to gyrate erotically with him, their groins sending up a heat that caused them both to perspire heavily. The crowd jeered, urging them on, and they ground together, trying to outdo each other. Suddenly the woman’s boyfriend, a huge six-foot-tall motorbus conductor, broke through the crowd and, to angry boos, carried his girlfriend off the stage, tucked safely under one arm, pelvis still gyrating.
Redemption laughed and walked over to the band and was greeted familiarly. He introduced Elvis and said that he was a great dancer and that maybe they could use him. The bandleader nodded and said they would speak during the intermission, as they had to be onstage in a minute or so.
Elvis stared about him. Everything seemed brighter, better, in here. It was his second time in a nightclub. The first time, he got drunk way too soon into the evening and missed much of it. Tonight would be different, he thought. Besides, Redemption was trying to get him a job as a dancer, and he wanted nothing to jeopardize that.
Elvis sank into a mock leather seat, stiffened and cracked by sweat and abuse, and looked out at the crowd. Onstage, King Pago was a small fireball of energy, a pure elemental, like a rabid gnome. He jumped, somersaulted, cartwheeled and danced across the unstable wooden elevation of the stage. Sweat flew off him in a fine spray, anointing the worshipful crowd.
“Redemption!” Elvis shouted over the music.
Redemption turned from the girl he was chatting up. “Yes?”
“Are you sure they will hire me to dance here? I mean, the only dancer onstage is that pygmy,” Elvis said.
“Dat is not a pygmy. King Pago is a dwarf. Don’t worry, you go dance. Now let me talk to dis girl, okay?”
Elvis nodded and went back to people watching. In a corner, a fat woman crammed into a red sequined dress several sizes too small drowned in the waves of music. Her head hung limply from her neck, arms reaching for air, waving weakly. Her body was a quivering mass swaying along to the music, shedding sequins like old skin that collected in a pool of light by her feet. Makeup ran in riotous color down her face, and her mouth was open in a surprised “ooh.” The floor in the corner was not concreted over, and her heels sank into the soft earth, rooting her to the tempo.
A skinny man stood in front of her, motionless apart from the lewd movements of his twisting pelvis, which he thrust bonily out at the woman. His eyes were closed too, arms raised in adulation, a bottle of beer firmly clasped in one hand. Intermittently, he let out moans, gentle “shshsh”s and “aaaahhh”s.
The record changed, the music slowing to a gentle calypso—Harry Belafonte belting out “Kingston Town.” Ki
ng Pago slowed to a slow shuffle, and the crowd followed his lead and began to swanti.
“Elvis!”
He turned. Redemption stood on the dance floor with two women.
“You won’t dance?”
Elvis shook his head.
“Come and help me—come,” Redemption said.
Reluctantly Elvis got up. He did not want to be off dancing on the floor when the bandleader came looking for him, but he did not want to annoy Redemption. He joined the group and began to swanti. He learned the dance quickly and easily.
The swanti—or swan-tease, as he later found out—required the men to shuffle forward in a two-step hop, arms spread out to the side, palms open like ruffled wings, while the women, arms raised up, hands curved to sloping beaks, breasts pointing forward, moved back slowly by wiggling their backsides in time to a subtle two-step. When the men stopped, bobbing in place, the women moved forward, breasts teasingly brushing chests. When the men moved into them, they danced away, elongated arms dipping gracefizlly. To Elvis’s left, a couple argued. The man, not content to do the swanti, was trying to press the woman against the wall in a grind. But the woman was having none of it. The musicians began making their way back to the stage, and soon the sound of retuning instruments filled the club.