GraceLand

by Chris Abani

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  Elvis pointed to the cooler, face ashen, hand trembling. Redemption looked inside and recoiled. There were six human heads sitting on a pile of ice.

  “Shit!” he swore, popping the covers off the other coolers. The second one held what appeared to be several organs, hearts and livers, also packed with ice. The third held bottles of beer and what looked like food. Redemption took a few steps back, noting that a small crowd was beginning to gather, drawn by Kemi’s short but loud scream. He looked for Elvis, who was heaving at the edge of the road, away from the crowd. Moving swiftly, he came up beside him.

  “What is going on?” an old man asked.

  “I don’t know,” Redemption replied.

  “But I saw you in de car,” the old man insisted.

  “Elvis, get up,” Redemption said, pulling urgently at Elvis’s arm. Looking around desperately, he saw Anthony and Conrad making their way back to the truck, clearly unaware of the excitement.

  “Listen, young man,” the old man continued, tugging at Redemption’s shirt. “We hear scream. What is going on?”

  “Ask dose men. It is deir car,” Redemption replied, pointing to the approaching Anthony and Conrad. Returning his attention to Elvis, he forced him upright and shook him roughly.

  “Collect yourself,” he hissed. “We get to move quickly.”

  “Oh my God!”

  Redemption turned to the shout. It came from a young man who had gone to inspect the coolers. In his fright he had knocked one of them over, and the human heads rolled across the ground like errant fruit from a grocery bag.

  “Shit!” Redemption said, dragging Elvis across the road and into the darkness of the market. They moved quickly, Redemption trailing Elvis behind him like a leashed dog. They threaded between empty stalls, followed by the angry shouts of the crowd. When he thought they had put a safe distance between them and the crowd, Redemption stopped to catch his breath and determine if they were being followed. They were not. The crowd had probably caught Anthony and Conrad and were more than likely beating them to death. Redemption thought he heard one shot, but couldn’t be sure, and then the sound of the crowd grew louder. They had no doubt killed the two men and were fanning out in search of Elvis and Redemption.

  “Move!” Redemption said, pushing Elvis ahead of him.

  They broke free of the market and found themselves on a side street. Redemption scanned the road. It was a residential street and everything was quiet. He passed his gun to Elvis.

  “If anybody come, shoot, den run.”

  “Where are you going?” Elvis asked. His wits were returning, fueled by terror.

  “To find motor to steal. Wait here.”

  Elvis nodded and shrank into the safety of a mango tree’s shadows. He held the gun gingerly, afraid it would go off and kill him. Shortly, he heard the sound of a car pulling up; but unsure of who was driving it, he stayed hidden.

  “Elvis!”

  He got up and looked. Redemption grinned at him from an old Mercedes-Benz. Elvis ran to the car and jumped in through the window, not bothering to open the door. As Redemption roared off, a barking dog chased after them.

  FISH PEPPER SOUP

  INGREDIENTS

  Fresh fish

  Fresh bonnet peppers

  One fresh plum tomato

  Palm oil

  Uhiokiriho

  Utazi

  Onions

  Maggi cubes

  Salt

  Crayfish

  Akanwu

  PREPARATION

  You can use any kind of fish for this dish. Just make sure your fish is fresh. The best test for freshness is to put the fish in a bowl of water and watch to see if it moves. It should at the very least twitch, otherwise it is a little too old. Clean and gut the fish; this might include descaling if it is a scaly fish like tilapia.

  Put the fish in a pot with a little water and put on to boil. Add all the other ingredients and leave to simmer for about twenty-five minutes. Serve in bowls with fresh basil.

  This spicy dish is great for women who have just undergone labor. The heat of it, mixed with the herbs, releases healing enzymes and can even cause stubborn afterbirths to fall out. In some older members of the clan, there is still the belief that fish pepper soup, cooked with the right herbs, can endow the consumer with a fish’s abilities in water.

  TWENTY-THREE

  And so the kola makes its journey round the room and is seen by the eldest of all the clans.

  Every time the ritual takes place, the history of all the clans present, and their connections, is enacted. This helps remembering.

  Abeokuta, 1983

  Elvis sighed, unwrapped a Bazooka, and read the fortune on the insert, desperately seeking words of wisdom.

  “Bazooka Joe says: ‘A friend in need is always a pain.’”

  That wasn’t much help, so he unwrapped another.

  “Bazooka Joe says: ‘A bird in hand is worth two in the bush.’” Still not much help.

  “Bazooka Joe says: ‘It is never right to do wrong.’”

  Another:

  “Bazooka Joe says: ‘A stitch in time saves nine.’”

  Bazooka Joes were pretty big chunks of gum, and by now he could hardly move his jaw. Still, he unwrapped another.

  “Bazooka Joe says: ‘Time waits for no man.’”

  “Elvis, easy, you go get lockjaw,” Redemption cautioned.

  Elvis laughed and went back to looking out of the window. They had been driving since late the night before. Beyond the window, cornfields rustled in the breeze. He remembered the corn his mother grew in a small area of her garden and how their blond stalks, pregnant with seeds, brushed him teasingly as he played near them, their pollen on his arms, itching when it mixed with sweat, his shoes covered in a layer of golden dust, like sun-yellowed snow. In the distance, leafless, dried, skeletal trees held up the horizon with bleached silvery arms. Shading his eyes against the sun, Elvis looked ahead, through the windshield, absently wondering how Redemption could see to drive.

  Finally running out of Bazooka Joes, and not being able to hide from it any longer, Elvis asked the question.

  “What exactly happened back there?”

  “I no sure, but I think dat we were trading in spare parts.”

  “Spare parts? What are you talking about?”

  “Spare human parts. For organ transplant.”

  “What?”

  “Light me one ciga and I go tell you,” Redemption said.

  Elvis lit two cigarettes, passing one on. Outside, the landscape had changed to a haze of greenery. They had left the savannah and the cornfields behind and were now surrounded on either side by a dense forest. Tall palm trees and thick foliage lined the road. Elvis never ceased to be amazed by the way things changed here. Nothing happened in subtle degrees—not the weather, not the movement of time, and certainly not nature. It was impossible to see more than a couple of feet into the forest on either side, and Elvis wondered if it would be like the twilight of the forests back in Afikpo, near their house, where he went to escape his father’s anger. Once inside, it was easy to lose a bigger pursuer in the tangle of liana, ferns and other underbrush, and the darkness: not as dense as night, but a gloom far moodier, far scarier, penetrated only by the call of invisible animals and birds. Its safety was tenuous, as though it held a threat worse than a beating from his father.

  “So tell me.”

  Redemption took a deep breath and looked at Elvis.

  “Keep your eyes on the road!”

  “You sure say you want to know?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “American hospitals do plenty organ transplant. But dey are not always finding de parts on time to save people life. So certain people in Saudi Arabia and such a place used to buy organ parts and sell to rich white people so dey can save their children or wife or demselves.”

  “They can’t do that!”

  “Dis world operate different wa
y for different people. Anyway, de rich whites buy de spare parts from de Arabs who buy from wherever dey can. Before dey used to buy only from Sudan and such a place, but de war and tings is make it hard, so dey expand de operation. People like de Colonel use their position to get human parts as you see and den freeze it. If we had cross de border yesterday, airplane for carry dose parts to Saudi hospital so dat dey can be sold.”

  Elvis was silent. He stared out of the window, but kept seeing the heads in the iced cooler. He felt strange, like there were two parts of him, each watching the other, each unsure. He watched from another place as his hands trembled and his left eye twitched uncontrollably. He did not want to talk about this anymore, but somewhere he had crossed the line on that possibility.

  “How much?”

  “It depend on de part. Human head fetch ten thousand dollars.”

  “But there is no head transplant surgery.”

  Redemption laughed. “Elvis, eh! Dey can use de eyes and also something dey call stem cell. Anyway, heart is also ten thousand. De oders, like kidney, are like three to ten thousand dollars. It is big money for de Colonel.”

  “So if we sell them to the Saudis at ten thousand, how much do they sell at?”

  “Dat depend. If your only son dey die, how much you go pay for spare part for him?”

  “Anything, I guess.”

  “Dat’s right.”

  They sat in silence, broken only by their breathing and Leo Sayer on the car radio, reassuring them, “You make me feel like dancing.”

  Finally, Redemption said it. “You no go ask about de children we carry?”

  “I was afraid to.”

  “Well, as I hear, dere is too much damage to de organ as de Colonel de harvest dem. Also, not all survive de journey. So many of de parts are thrown away.”

  “Oh my God!”

  “Yes, dose children will arrive in Saudi alive, den, depend on de demand, dey will harvest de parts from dem. Fresh, no damage, more money for all of dem.”

  “And none of the Americans ask questions about where the organs come from?”

  “Like I said, if your only child dey die, you go ask question?”

  “How could you get us involved, knowing all this? We are as bad as the Colonel and the Saudis.”

  “No forget de whites who create de demand.”

  “Them too. But how could you do this to me and claim to be my friend?”

  “Firstly, I no know dat’s what dis job was. Secondly, dere are plenty people like Kansas who are also looking for money, but I choose you because you be my friend. You can be ungrateful.”

  “Ungrateful! I—”

  “If you want to preach, hold it. I tire,” Redemption interrupted.

  “Fine.”

  “Good.”

  The motion of the car lulled Elvis to sleep. Beside him, Redemption chain-smoked to stay awake, the spiral of smoke blurring his vision. After several hours they came up to a small town, where Redemption slowed and pulled off by an isolated buka. Elvis woke up and looked around. They were in an industrial area, surrounded on every side by warehouses.

  “We’re lost, aren’t we?” Elvis asked, stating the obvious. They had been driving all night and most of the morning, yet Lagos still seemed so far away.

  “Make I ask dem inside. You want anything?”

  “Anything cold, and some food,” Elvis replied.

  He got out of the car and stretched. Ahead, the road unwound in a dusty ribbon. A crow called from its perch on a leafless branch, and a snake, probably a viper, basked in the noon heat on the road’s edge. He had no idea where they were. He watched a slim woman sail past balancing a load on her head that defied the frailty of her neck. Two small children followed closely, munching on sugarcane stems, while another was tied to her back by a lappa. It slept, lulled by the sway of her hips and the shade from the load.

  Redemption came sauntering back to the car. He held two cold bottles of Coke and a fistful of bread. He broke off some bread and handed it to Elvis with one of the Cokes.

  “Any idea where we are?”

  “Near Shagamu. If we just continue straight we go meet freeway. Turn left and we go dey for Lagos in two hours.”

  Elvis nodded and bit into the bread. It was hard and crumbly, but to him it tasted great. Eating quickly, he washed it down with the Coke. He tossed the bottle to the dusty ground and lit up a cigarette.

  “Return de bottles,” Redemption said, snatching the cigarette from Elvis’s mouth. Empty bottles were valuable because the local Coca-Cola factory washed and reused them. To ensure they got their bottles back, the factory charged local retailers a deposit on the bottles, which could only be redeemed when the bottles were turned in. The retailers in turn passed the cost of the deposit on to consumers if they intended to leave the immediate vicinity of their shops with the drinks. The amount varied from retailer to retailer but was usually no less than the price of the drink.

  With a grunt Elvis got out of the car, bent down and picked up the empty Coke bottles and walked back to the buka with them. The owner returned the deposit and he pocketed it. By the time he got back to the car, Redemption already had the engine running. Elvis slid into the passenger seat, slammed the door and, as they drove off in a cloud of dust, lit another cigarette.

  They traveled in silence for a mile or so until they came across a line of pedestrians dressed in bright red and yellow clothes Elvis had only seen in Indian movies. Unlike the Hare Krishnas who were now a common sight in Lagos, or the Hindus and Sikhs who owned businesses in Nigeria, these Indian-influenced Nigerians wore outfits that mixed ideas right out of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves and costumes from a Bollywood production, complete with turbans. They had a regal look that was marred only by the sweat staining their outfits darkly, falling in streams down their faces.

  “What is this? The invasion of the Raj?” Elvis asked, laughing.

  “No, dese are de followers of dat new prophet, Guru Maharaji.”

  “Guru who?”

  “Maharaji. He is a local boy O! I hear say he used to be petty assassin. Den one day he escape on ship from de people whose child he kill and den return six years later saying he is de next prophet after Mohammed and Bahai. Say de Indian people dey crown him savior but dat he wanted to come back here just to help us. Bloody tief, I bet you he only reach Ivory Coast.”

  Elvis laughed again. “These prophets, eh? How do they get people to follow them?”

  “Who else dem go follow? Only prophets fit help us now, we be like de Israelites in de desert. No hope, no chance, no Moses. Who else we go follow?”

  “Shit. A nation of prophets and devotees is a damned place.”

  “Or a blessed one.”

  Elvis snorted. Just then, one of the women caught his eye. It wasn’t just the way her bodice cupped her bosom tightly, or the way the rest of her outfit fell freely around her, swelling with each movement of her hips; not even the lone dreadlock that broke free of her turban and snaked down the side of her face. It was something else.

  “Stop—stop!” he yelled at Redemption.

  “I no fit, Elvis. We must reach Lagos and make plan before de Colonel find us.”

  “Shit,” Elvis muttered as the line of devotees faded in the dust of their backwash. He felt sure that it was she—Efua. It made perfect sense. She was, after all, the one among them who most needed to believe; plus Aunt Felicia and even Sunday had said that they heard she was in or around Lagos. What good would stopping do? If she had wanted his help, she would have come to him. He was sure that his address was no secret back in Afikpo. Maybe he should just let her be. On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t her. After all, he hadn’t gotten a very good view. Still …

  “I think we just passed my cousin Efua.”

  “Here?”

  “She was with the Maharaji people.”

  “Aah. Maybe is for de best.”

  “What?’

  “Well, as you tell me, she done suffer. So maybe is for de best.”


  “All her life she has been surrounded by fakes and charlatans who have not helped her. If that was her, I should go back and save her. But it’s probably not her.”

  “Dis Elvis, you dey very selfish.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Since I know you, you only care about yourself.”

  “How can you say that, Redemption?”

  “Because it is true!”

  “But I want to help my cousin, do the right thing—how can that be selfish?”

  “Until you see somebody dat you think is her, you never even talk of finding her. You never even think it. Now you say you want to help. Na lie. You dey want be hero, de savior of your cousin. Oh yes, I know your type. I am your type. If you can’t save yourself, den save others, abi? Dat way you can pretend to be good person.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “Why? It’s simple.”

  Elvis was silent.

  “Let’s take me. Since you have know me, what do you know about me? Nothing!” Redemption continued.

  “That is not true.”

  “Really? Okay, where dem born me, what be my papa name?”

  “You’ve never told me.”

  “I never tell you, or you never ask?”

  “That doesn’t make me selfish.”

  “Close your mouth before fly enter. Everything is about Elvis. I sure say you no even know your papa papa name.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “When it concerns you, nothing is true. Dere is a saying dat if everybody say you are smelling, better take shower before arguing. Even when you dey vex for your papa, you done ask yourself why tings be as dey are for him? You done try to understand him? Instead, you carry yourself as if nobody can understand you. Please, my friend, you are not so difficult to read.”