GraceLand

by Chris Abani

  Elvis shook his head and slipped into his room.

  “You have de devil’s luck,” Aunt Felicia muttered from her cot across from him. They shared a room, but she had wisely kept out of the exchange with his father. “But even de devil runs out of luck. Lucifer fell. Remember dat.”

  Elvis crawled into bed silently and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow to dream of cowboys and superheroes and naked angels who teased his lust cruelly.

  SABICEA CALYCINA BENTH.

  (Yoruba: Jiri)

  This is a slender plant found mainly in forests that exhibits creeping and climbing characteristics. The leaves are pointed at the apex and heart-shaped at the base. It has white flowers and blue-black berries.

  Ground, the leaves are applied to the limbs of young children to help them walk on their own. Crushed and added to palm wine, the leaves serve as a laxative. They can also be used on cuts and wounds. Drunk in infusion, the leaves are said to improve memory. Sometimes ginger is added for taste, and to sharpen the edge of the recollections.

  FIFTEEN

  The oldest man in the gathering must offer it to the guests.

  One does not rush into the kola-nut ritual either. There is a strict protocol to hospitality. The guest is first offered a glass of water. Next, he is presented with the nzu, or white chalk spoon. This is a large wooden spoon covered by rubbings from the ritual white chalk, or nzu, with a residual piece of the chalk left on it.

  Lagos, 1983

  Tinubu Square, nicknamed Freedom Square, was milling with people. There were the usual students, poets, musicians, actors, liberals, lecturers and plenty of hippie types. They sat in groups talking, drinking or eating. Elvis hung on the edges of these groups, looking for an opportunity to join one, all the while scanning for the King.

  Freedom Square also supported plenty of hawkers, selling everything from alcohol, kebabs, suya and cigarettes to bars of soap and decks of cards. Hovering on the fringes, hugging the shadows, were the drug dealers. They sold reefers of marijuana, amphetamines and other tablets to addicts. But the trade was conducted curiously. The buyer and the seller never faced each other. The entire transaction was carried out back-to-back, and the two parties appeared to be totally unaware of each other’s presence.

  The King of the Beggars got up onstage and began plucking reluctant chords from a battered out-of-tune guitar. The crowd grew silent as he performed a series of tone poems. He was talking about the beauty of the indigenous culture that had been abandoned for Western ways. It was essentialist, maybe even prejudiced, because the culture he spoke of was that of the Igbo, only one of nearly three hundred indigenous people in this populous country. He spoke of the ancient systems of governance that were like a loose democracy, leaning more to a socialist system, a governance based on age-grades that gathered to discuss the way forward in any crisis. This system produced a tight-knit community, where the good of the group was placed before individual stake. He spoke of the evils of capitalism that the United States of America practiced—a brand of capitalism, he said, that promoted the individual interest over the communal. It was a land of vice and depravity, infested with a perverse morality based on commercial value rather than a humanistic one. The King called for everyone to return to the traditional values and ways of being. Elvis wasn’t completely convinced, though. The King’s rather preachy sermon sounded a lot like the ideas of Obafemi Awolowo, an independence advocate from the early days of the nation. Elvis’s main problem with the King’s theories was that they didn’t account for the inherent complications he knew were native to this culture, or the American. As naive as Elvis was, he knew there was no way of going back to the “good old days,” and wondered why the King didn’t speak about how to cope with these new and confusing times. But Elvis was mesmerized by the richness of the King’s voice. It was seductive, eliciting the listener’s trust, and he soon forgot his concerns and began to believe the King was right.

  When the King finished, a nervous-looking young man in round glasses got up onstage and began to recite a speech. Though he tried to shout over the noise of the now animated crowd, Elvis could only make out snatches.

  “ … A country often becomes what its inhabitants dream for it. Much the same way that a novel shapes the writer, the people’s perspective shapes the nation, so the country becomes the thing people want to see. Every time we complain that we don’t want to be ruled by military dictatorship; but every time there is a coup, we come out in the streets to sing and dance and celebrate the replacement of one despot with another one. How long can we continue to pretend we are not responsible for this? How long …”

  Elvis lost the thread again as the King materialized beside him.

  “Good evening,” Elvis said.

  “Sshh, listen. Dis speaker is good.”

  “But I can’t hear him …”

  “Sshh!”

  Elvis strained to hear the young man over the crowd. In the distance somewhere, someone was playing a radio loudly, and he could hear Fela Kuti blowing a saxophone riff. It was an amazing thing to hear, a saxophone player in full flight. He had to really struggle to focus on the young man’s words.

  “ … Malcolm X once said America is a prison. So is this country and we are both the jailer and the inmates, imprisoning ourselves by allowing this infernal, illegal and monstrous regime of military buffoons to continue. They continue to play us like fools, buying off our allegiance with money, or with force when they cannot pay the price. I am calling for a rebellion …”

  “Let us move away,” the King said. “He is getting carried away, and de army go soon come.”

  “I thought you wanted to topple the government! So let them come.”

  “Have soldiers ever beaten you?”

  “No.”

  “Den let’s go.”

  “Okay,” Elvis said, following the King out of the square and down to the CMS motor park. “It is good because I need to talk to you anyway.”

  There was a cart selling tea, bread and fried eggs. Customers jostled for space to sit and eat on the long wooden benches set around the cart in a quadrangle. Elvis noted the mixed crowd: late-night workers, policemen, security guards on break and the homeless, including a large number of street children.

  “You wanted to talk?” the King asked as they sat down on a bench in the far corner of the motor park.

  “Yes,” Elvis replied.

  He nervously lit a cigarette and passed the pack to the King, who took one.

  “Still smoking too much,” the King said.

  “What of you?”

  “I am too old for dat to matter. You still get chance.”

  “Tea?” Elvis asked, nodding to the cart. The tea had a eucalyptus smell that carried to where they sat.

  “Okay,” the King said.

  Elvis got up and walked over to the cart. He returned a few minutes later with two mugs and a packet of animal crackers, walking slowly so as not to spill any of the scalding tea over himself. He handed the King a mug, then sat down, blowing heartily on his own. The packet of animal crackers sat unopened between them, like the questions Elvis was almost too afraid to ask.

  “So what is it?” the King asked.

  “I was talking to Redemption the other day.”

  “Uhuh?”

  “And he told me that you were his master once.”

  The King put his steaming mug down carefully between them. Picking up a twig, he began to pick his teeth with it. Elvis watched warily. There was something disturbing about it. If the King had pulled out a long blade and begun cleaning his nails with it, Elvis couldn’t have been any more afraid than he was then.

  “Did he explain?”

  “No. He said I should ask you.”

  The King laughed loudly, his manner affected and insincere.

  “Dat Redemption is a real rascal, eh? I warned you about him,” he said.

  “How were you his master?”

  “I am de King of de Beggars.”


  “But …” Elvis began. Then it clicked. “Oh!”

  “Yes. I used to use small boys to beg for me. People like dem more, you see. Me, I look after dem. Dat’s what he means.”

  Elvis let out his breath. “I see,” he said.

  “Anything else?” the King asked, dropping the twig and picking up his tea.

  “Your scar.”

  “What?”

  “How did you get that scar?”

  The King’s hand shook a little and some tea slopped over the tin mug’s side, landing on the table with a loud smack.

  “I told you. Soldiers did it.”

  “Because of a play.”

  The King did not answer.

  “Redemption tells me you had the scar even when he was a child.”

  “So?”

  Elvis was silent. The King let out his breath in a long, drawn-out sigh. Again he set the mug down, though this time he did not reach for the twig.

  “You ask questions like police,” he said.

  “I am sorry.”

  The King nodded.

  “So how did you get the scar, really?” Elvis asked.

  “Soldiers.”

  “Because of a play?”

  “No.”

  “So you lied.”

  “About de play.”

  “And the soldiers?”

  “Dey did dis to me. I used to live in de north before de war. You were not even born dat time. I work for de Public Works Department, laborer special class. Den de Hausas begin to kill us like chicken. Plenty, plenty dead body scatter everywhere like abandoned slaughterhouse.”

  “My father told me about it.”

  “Mhmm.” The King nodded. “I manage escape, heading for south, I hide inside train like dis. Just before de train cross Lokoja to safety, soldiers, Nigerian army soldiers, stop de train. Plenty of us dey hide in de train—men, woman, even childrens.

  “Anyway, de soldier commander, small boy like dis, maybe lieutenant, drag us all come down. Den he make us sing de Muslim call for prayer. Dose who cannot sing it, like myself, he call us to one side. Den he release de oders, say make dem climb inside de train and wait. De rest of us, my family included, he give shovel say make we dig trench. As we dig, I see de people on de train watching us with pity. I dig well, as a laborer special class. I begin to supervise, telling dem to dig straight and clean, thinking dis will please de officer and he will release us quick, quick.”

  The King paused to drink some tea. He was not looking at Elvis, looking away instead into the darkness of Balogun Market, as though the deserted stalls were thriving with a ghost trade only he could see. Elvis followed the King’s gaze, wondering if this was the market where Comfort had her shop.

  “When we dig finish, de young officer make us stand to attention in front of de trench for inspection. So we stand, man, woman and childrens, even my wife and childrens too. De soldiers take aim so dat we must stand and not run. Den de young officer begin walking down de line, shooting everybody one by one for head. I fear, I craze, I vex! I take my shovel and try to hit him. One soldier next to me take his bayonet and cut me like dis. I shout and fall inside de pit. Dey leave me so, to die slowly. When he done shoot everybody, de officer take out camera and begin to snap us photo. Den he send de train off and leave with his men.”

  “Oh, God,” Elvis said.

  “Yes, it is only God dat save me,” the King said. “When everybody leave, I drag myself fifteen mile to de next small town, where dey take pity on me. When I done well finish, I go join Biafran army. Every day, I try find dat young officer, but God save him.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Well, I hope you are satisfy as you drag up sleeping dogs for me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You know how to sorry, but not how not to sorry. Tanks for de tea. Greet Redemption for me,” the King said, getting up and walking away into the darkness.

  “Auntie,” Elvis said. “Long time no see.”

  If that was not quite the welcome she had envisioned after two years of absence, Felicia did not show it.

  “Elvis. You’ve grown so much,” she said.

  They were standing in front of Madam Caro’s.

  “How did you find me here?”

  “Comfort said you would be here.”

  The way she said “Comfort,” it sounded like a curse instead of his stepmother’s name.

  “So where are you staying?” he asked.

  “At a friend’s place.”

  “Oh. When did you get into town?”

  “Last night.”

  “I see. Can I buy you a drink?”

  She laughed.

  “No thank you. I just wanted to see you one more time before I leave for States,” she said.

  “That’s right. You leave, when?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Ah. How is everybody back home?”

  “They are fine.”

  “What of Efua?”

  “Nobody is sure. She left home shortly after you moved. No one has seen her since.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  “She was fighting with her father. You know she has always been strange.”

  “Strange?”

  “Yes, strange. Don’t act like you never noticed. Anyway, why don’t you come and see me at my friend’s house later tonight? I have to go and see your father now. Then visit some of my husband’s people.”

  “How is your husband?”

  “You never returned for my wedding.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “It is okay, I don’t blame you,” she said, making it quite clear from her tone that she did.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  “You’re all dressed up. Where are you off to?”

  “I’m going to a club.”

  “Listen, I will be at my friend’s place later. Here is de address,” Felicia said, handing Elvis a slip of paper.

  “Sure, sure,” he said, taking it and slipping it into his back pocket.

  “Elvis,” she said, taking hold of his hand.

  “Yes?”

  “Come later.”

  He looked from her hand to her face and nodded.

  “Good,” she said, letting go.

  “Okay.”

  They stood facing each other for a moment; then both leaned in for an awkward hug.

  “Okay, see you later,” Felicia said, turning to leave.

  Elvis returned to the table out front where he had been drinking with Okon and a few others. He missed Redemption, but he was not going looking for him.

  “Ah, Elvis, dat woman fine, well, well,” Okon said as Elvis sat down.

  “Shut up!” Elvis said.

  “Ah, sorry O, not to me make your life so,” Okon replied sulkily.

  Elvis had suddenly lost interest in the conversation and the company. Finishing his beer, he got up.

  “Elvis? Where to?” Okon asked.

  “To the club.”

  “Okay, see you later.” Okon shrugged.

  Elvis was pensive as he caught the bus to the club. First there had been the confrontations with Redemption and the King, and now Aunt Felicia had arrived, bringing memories and guilt from his past. This was turning out to be a difficult week.

  “Elvis, long time,” the doorman at the club said in greeting.

  “Alaye, how now?”

  “Fine, ma broder. Just pushing de day, you know?”

  Just then a sleek black BMW pulled up and Rohini got out, flanked by Prakash.

  “Rohini, hi,” Elvis said.

  She looked at him blankly. He was surprised. He knew he had only danced with her the one time, but there had been the walk on the beach, and they had made out.

  “Rohini,” he repeated.

  Prakash stepped up to him and Elvis stumbled back. Rohini put her hand on Prakash’s arm in restraint.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s me. Elvis.”

  “I know. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude
, but I usually keep my club business inside the club,” she said.

  “I see,” he said. “But we are right outside.”

  “So we should take it inside.”

  “Right.”

  “So are you coming in or what?” Rohini asked.

  “Ah, Elvis, I cannot allow you,” the doorman said, laying his hand gently on Elvis’s chest.

  “Alaye? What is this?”

  “Sorry, Elvis, but orders is orders. If we allow you in, de Colonel go close dis place.”

  “Even if he is with me?” Rohini asked.

  “I am sorry, madam, but orders is orders.”

  “Is the Colonel in there tonight?”

  “Elvis, I no fit let you.”

  “Well,” Rohini said with a shrug.

  “Can’t you help me?”

  Rohini looked at him for a moment; then, as if making her mind up, she said: “Wait here. I’ll see if your friend is inside.”

  Elvis nodded.

  When Rohini and Prakash had entered, Elvis approached Alaye. “Alaye, you sure you cannot allow me to enter?”

  “I done tell you, Elvis. De Colonel give me de order personally,” Alaye replied.

  “But how will he know?”

  “Ah, Elvis! De Colonel knows everything. Everything.”

  “How? Is he God?”

  “God? No. Devil? Yes. Ah, Elvis, you are funny. Don’t you see all dose black GMC truck dat just pull up and arrest people?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dose are de Colonel’s boys. He is chief of security to de head of state. He hears everything, see everything. Haba, let me tell you, he is original gangster.”

  “So his boys are everywhere?”

  “Yes. As far as I concern, you can be working for him.”

  “If I did, why would I want you to disobey him and let me in?”

  “To test me. Look, Elvis, I am sorry.”

  “He is right, you know,” Redemption said from behind him.

  Both Elvis and Alaye jumped.

  “Ah, Oga Redemption, you surprise me!” Alaye said.