GraceLand

by Chris Abani

  “Who will run the country if the army steps down, then?” Elvis asked, stuffing a large piece of yam in his mouth and chewing noisily.

  “Stop eating like a goat, lad. You have no manners,” Oye said. “Sunday, speak to your son.”

  “Do what your grandmother says, boy, unless you want a beating.”

  “Must you always threaten the lad, Sunday, eh?”

  “I thought you wanted me to talk to him?”

  “Talk. Not threaten.”

  “Ah! Women!”

  Elvis ate slowly, scrunched down in his seat, reading the back of his father’s paper.

  “If civilians take over, will that be better?” Elvis asked nobody in particular.

  Sunday Oke put down his paper, shoveled a piece of yam into his mouth, chewed contemplatively, then spoke:

  “Good children do not concern themselves with adult problems.”

  Elvis opened his mouth to speak, but Aunt Felicia got there first.

  “Elvis, time to leave if you want me to walk you to school.”

  As Elvis hurried out of the compound to join the other children streaming to school, he thought he saw Innocent lurking in the bushes outside. He looked unkempt, and even from a distance it was easy to see the blood on his clothes. Just then his father’s car nosed out of the gate, and Innocent vanished.

  Voices, disembodied and distant, floated in to Elvis, waking him. He got up and stumbled outside to pee. The moon was full, washing everything in a white fluorescence. It was bright enough to see by, and he didn’t need the safety of the storm lantern he clutched in one hand while the other directed the piss stream away. Aunt Felicia’s nurse’s uniform, left out to dry overnight, flapped on the line, triggering his fear of ghosts. He scurried inside and hid under the covers.

  The voices he heard earlier were still deep in conversation. They came from the parlor and meant his father had guests. He wondered who they were. Curiosity overcame his fear and he crept out into the dark corridor, heading as close to the curtained-off parlor door as he could. Light from the lanterns cracked through the gaps around the curtain; still, Elvis repeated the Lord’s Prayer softly to himself.

  “We will cover all de campaign costs,” one of the men said. “It will cost you nothing.”

  Another: “It is just dat you are de only one from dis town with a chance of winning. We really want a representative in de House of Assembly.”

  “You have done it before. In de first republic”: still another.

  The hand over his mouth smothered any screams, and the arm wrapped around him pinned his limbs tight. He was lifted bodily and carried down the corridor, fear locking him rigid. But Oye’s voice soothed him.

  “You shouldn’t eavesdrop on conversations tha’ dinna include you,” she said, plunking him down on his bed. “Now sleep.”

  “Come and vote for Chief Okonkwo and de People’s Party. De People’s Party is de party for de people and by de people, led by de people.”

  The election campaigns had begun in earnest, Elvis noted as the van sprouting loudspeakers drove past the house.

  “Where shall we put our mark? Next to de People’s Party! What shall we spit upon? All de other parties.”

  The song was catching, and Elvis soon found himself repeating it. He hated when that happened. With a sigh, he returned to the paper. Reading the paper had begun as part of a homework assignment from Sunday. His initial resentment with the work was balanced by his happiness that his father was spending time with him, even if it was to ask questions about what he had read. But now his pleasure was singular and he looked forward to it.

  The editorial, about one of the presidential candidates, claimed that he held the key to the Atlantic Ocean and that if provoked, he could unlock the sea and flood the whole country. Elvis laughed out loud. He thought it might be funny if the sea actually did flood the country in a couple of days. That would surely freak out the newspaper’s editor.

  “Elvis! Where is your father?” a woman asked him.

  “I don’t know,” Elvis replied, wondering who she was.

  “Elvis, do you know where your father kept de flyers for de rally?” a man asked him.

  Elvis shrugged and headed for the peace of a tree branch. Shortly after his father resigned his position as superintendent of schools and announced his plans to run for office, their home became a madhouse of thugs and media and other nondescript hangers-on, and it seemed like Elvis could never find a moment for himself. The cost of politics meant that they were swamped by hundreds of people who come by for free food and drink and to offer their support or services. Oye managed to hold a circle of sanity, though. Her reputation as a witch frightened even the vicious thugs that Uncle Joseph had hired.

  The campaigns were held during the Harmattan, which was Elvis’s favorite season. Chilly winds from the Sahara blew a fine red dust that clouded everything in a shimmering mist, making the air dry and harsh. Everyone went around with chapped lips, and in some extreme cases, cracked soles. But there were also the heady scent of dry grasslands, new discoveries, bush fires and Christmas.

  Harmattan fell between December and January, when the sun burned the cool season into a crisp before February. It was the season of rest. The harvests were over, and the next planting season would not begin until April or May, when the rains returned. It was as if everyone were on a long siesta.

  From his perch in the tree, Elvis could see clearly over the wall of the compound. The campaign truck was still visible, lurching down the potholed street to the small town square. The voice over the loudspeaker was distorted by the wind and the words were unintelligible, but loud nonetheless. He could also see a lot of adults lounging in the public square under huge umbrella trees. Well, he thought, the campaigners will have an audience.

  Some children ran after the truck, lost in the cloud of dust it scoured up. They shouted and tried to jump onto the bumpers and running boards. He waited for the sound of tears that would announce the inevitable accident. Surprisingly, there was none.

  The party truck had stopped in the square, but the group of adults seemed not to be listening. They were carrying on animated conversations or playing board games. Seeing that the commentator’s adulation for the candidates was getting them nowhere, a bunch of thugs climbed down from their perch on the roof of the truck and began to off-load heavy jute sacks from inside the truck. They then approached the nonchalant crowd.

  From what Elvis could make out, they were handing out drinks, snack packets, money, T-shirts, bags, mugs and trays, all with slogans printed on them. The square had suddenly come alive with people jostling for the gifts. He dropped from his perch and ran out of the compound. If he hurried he might get a free T-shirt with an opponent’s slogan and photograph. That was bound to piss off his father, something that brought him immense pleasure.

  By the time he got to the square, it was a melee of arms, legs and raised dust as adults shoved children aside for access to some token. All the time, the commentator was shouting over the noise, wild promises chasing the gifts: “Dis is from Chief Okonkwo, your candidate for Congress. Chief Okonkwo is an erudite son of de soil educated in de USA, and his money is uncountable. He does not want to join government for embezzling money but to dash you all money. Dis small sample will show you de riches and benefits you will enjoy by voting Chief Okonkwo for Congress.”

  Suddenly the sky was full of the sound of a helicopter. The whoomping of the big bird drowned any commentary from below and held everyone’s attention as it swirled dust into every bodily orifice. Everyone stopped fighting, standing stock-still. Who knew if it was the police—or even worse, the army? Elvis noted real fear on some faces old enough to remember the reality of helicopter gunships from the war.

  “Vote Abrake for president!”

  The voice from heaven startled everyone. Then a shower of small notes and coins fell from the hovering craft.

  “Vote Abrake for president! What did I say?!” the disembodied heavenly voice repe
ated.

  “Vote Abrake for president!” the crowd cheered in unison as they fought through the dust storm to retrieve coins and notes. There was much hair pulling, punching and swearing.

  Even the personnel from the other party abandoned their duties to fight for the money. Then just as quickly as it had come, the helicopter rose and vanished, leaving behind dust-teared eyes, torn clothes and an arena swept clean by scrabbling fingers.

  As he trudged home, pockets full of retrieved coins and sweets, a dusty T-shirt that announced OKONKWO FOR GOVERNOR clasped firmly in hand, Elvis smiled happily. His father, though contesting, was unable to afford much of a campaign team or gifts.

  Elvis did not know why his father bothered. He was bound to lose with his intimate approach of house-to-house calls where he appealed passionately to kinsmen and women who listened patiently until he finished before asking: “Yes, Sunday, dat is all well and good, but are you offering as much money as de oder candidates?”

  The forest fire had raged for days, and was still quite dangerous, threatening to spread to nearby homesteads. Elvis sat on the roof of the stillunfinished two-story house his father was building to replace their current bungalow. With Sunday’s resignation from his job to run for office, all construction had stopped on the new house, all the money diverted to his campaign. Elvis stared at the distant magnificence of the fire. These fires raged every Harmattan, set by farmers to clear the bush from land they intended to cultivate come the rains.

  Traffic was backed up on the road running through the dense forest. Flammable cargo meant trouble. Petrol tankers often exploded like bombs, scattering debris everywhere, further fueling the fires, and he could see the police turning them away. The fire brigade truck was parked helplessly while the firemen lounged about watching the fire, some crouching by burning roadside twigs to light cigarettes. This fire was too big for them to fight; they only had one truck, and besides, it was common knowledge that their water supply had been cut off for days—something to do with a broken generator at the pumping station.

  Updrafts, sparks and even volatile oils within some plants, like the oil bean tree, fanned the flames. The fire had cut them off from neighboring towns, as there was just one road in and out, so most of the campaigning had come to a halt, which for Elvis was a mixed blessing. It was a relief not to keep hearing the trucks and helicopters, but it also meant that his father and his new thugs hung close to the house.

  Hezekiah was sitting next to Elvis, watching the fire. He had brought a couple of sodas and a bag of peanuts and was happily munching away as if he had never seen one of these fires before. Elvis turned to look at him. They weren’t really friends and had only spent time together on the smoking wall after the movies. Perhaps it had been a mistake to invite him over.

  “Dis is a good time to hunt,” Hezekiah said.

  “Why?”

  “All de animals and reptiles are fleeing de fire. So just wait on de road and kill dem as dey come out. Easy.”

  Elvis imagined antelopes and deer running straight into the roads to be hit by cars. Or the grass cutters, cousins of the rabbit, roasting as they ran and reaching safety well-done. He wondered if there were people down there by the fire, collecting ready-cooked game.

  “Well, it gives a whole new meaning to fast food,” he replied, and they both laughed.

  “Peanuts?” Hezekiah asked, passing the bag.

  “Look,” Elvis replied, pointing.

  Birds, on fire, tried to fly from the flames. Little sparrows and finches ricocheted like flaming Ping-Pong balls. Lovely white egrets flapped their wings of fire, hovering like phoenixes before crashing to be consumed in a whoosh of flame. Those that escaped one part of the forest only spread the fire to another.

  “If dose things crash into a roof, dey can set de thatch on fire,” Hezekiah said.

  “My father says that the only creatures who love forest fires are kites. He says they soar above the flames and ash, razor-sharp eyes hunting for prey, swooping down on confused creatures, snatching them up to some distant height where they can eat their catch in peace.”

  “Aah.”

  “My father says they are the politicians of the forest: the only ones to profit from everyone else’s loss and pain.”

  “Ha, Elvis, dat your father is deep.”

  They sat in silence for a long time, until darkness began to creep up on them and the Christmas lights began to come on in houses. For Elvis, there was nothing as comforting at night as the gentle winking of Christmas lights in some distant window.

  “So, are you getting new clothes dis Christmas?” Hezekiah asked.

  “With this election? Not likely.”

  “But surely you people will be killing at least one or two goats.”

  “I guess so, but with all these thugs and party supporters around, I doubt I will get to eat much.”

  “Well, dere is an easy solution. You kill de goat. I’ll help you. You know de butchers always get a choice cut.”

  “Why are you so eager to help? Aren’t you killing a goat?”

  “No, we can only afford a chicken.”

  “Chickens are easy enough to kill, certainly easier than rubbernecked turkeys. Or goats,” Elvis said.

  “But as you know, de hardest thing about chickens is catching dem. Dey weave and bob like crazy, running in a straight line, den veering off to de right or left suddenly, sending everyone crashing into walls.”

  Elvis laughed. He was very familiar with chasing chickens.

  “So what do you say about de goat? Have you never killed one before?”

  “No,” Elvis said.

  “What of a chicken? At least tell me you have killed a chicken.”

  “One,” Elvis said in a voice that betrayed the freshness of the memory. Having caught the chicken, he had grasped it firmly by its wings and laid it on its side, trapping both its legs and wings underfoot, all the while following the instructions Aunt Felicia was shouting at him. Lifting its neck tenderly, he plucked a few feathers to reveal its pulsing pink neck.

  “Now comes de real test,” Aunt Felicia had said. “If your knife is sharp enough it will sink through de neck like butter, severing de head completely.”

  But that chicken did not die easily. Even when they immersed it in a pan of scalding water to ease the plucking, headless and all it sprang up and sprinted off before beating itself into an acceptance of death on a tree stump.

  “What is it?”

  Elvis told Hezekiah about his chicken.

  “Don’t feel so bad—if dey could, chickens would kill us. Dat’s de way it is.”

  “Have you killed a goat before?”

  “Many,” Hezekiah said.

  “Are they easy to kill?”

  “No. Goats are a different matter. Dey have eyes dat watch you, not letting you get away with anything. And dat bleat, so childlike. It’s not easy. But den being a man is not, abi?”

  “I don’t want to kill anything.”

  “Sometimes we have no choice.”

  FRIED YAM, PLANTAIN AND BEEF STEW

  (Igbo: Ji Egerege, Unine Ya Stew)

  INGREDIENTS

  Yam

  Plantains

  Vegetable oil

  Cubed beef

  Diced onions

  Curry powder

  Fresh bonnet peppers

  Salt

  A tin of chopped tomatoes

  Sugar

  PREPARATION

  First, peel the yam and plantains and slice them into thin slivers. Next, wash yam and plantain slivers and pat dry with paper towel. Put two dessert spoons of oil into a frying pan and bring it to heat, and then add the yam and plantain slivers. Fry until crisp. Leave to drain on a large plate with a paper towel.

  Put the beef to cook. When tender remove from flame. In a deep pot, bring two dessert spoons of vegetable oil to heat. Add the onions, curry powder, fresh bonnet peppers, salt and the tomatoes. Leave on a low flame to reduce. Put in a pinch of salt. When the tomatoe
s have reduced, put a pinch of sugar in to take away the acidity. Pour in the stock from the beef, stir in the meat and leave to cook for thirty minutes. Arrange the yam and plantain slivers in a nice pattern and drizzle the stew over it.

  SEVENTEEN

  The youngest male must carry the wooden kola bowl and show it to all of the guests in order of seniority and in order of clan.

  The youngest male brings the ornate wooden bowl with the kola nut in it. Carved in the shape of an animal, the bowl has a center dip of peppered peanut butter, which the kola nut is dipped into before eating. ln the absence of this, and sometimes even in its presence, alligator pepper is presented as well.

  Lagos, 1983

  Elvis approached the veranda, where his father sat sipping meditatively on kaikai. The local gin had herbs and roots steeped in it, and the once clear liquid had taken on a murky mud color. He stood for a while in the doorway looking at his father, trying to assess his mood. Aunt Felicia’s visit had stirred up questions that he had buried deep inside himself, and now he wanted answers.

  The street outside was busy with people hurrying past. A few threw casual greetings at Sunday. With a sigh, Elvis walked out and sat down on the low wall enclosing the veranda. It was waist-high and built of decorative cinder blocks that interlocked in a ladder pattern. Elvis hooked his heels into some of the holes to keep his balance. His position put him squarely in front of his father.