by Chris Abani
Elvis had no comeback, no quick retort. Redemption had never spoken to him this way, and it hurt. He kept quiet, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands. As he sucked in the smoke, he couldn’t hold back the tears that ran soundlessly down his face.
“Ah, Elvis, no ciga for me?” Redemption asked. “Just because I tell you de really truth?”
He turned to Elvis when he got no reply. Seeing the tears run down his face, he coughed and reached for the packet lying on the seat between them. He put one in his mouth and depressed the lighter on the dashboard. As he lit his cigarette from its glowing tip, he wondered if he had gone too far. Ah, what the hell, he thought, it was too late now.
In a few minutes they hit the tarred smoothness of the highway and were headed for Lagos. With any luck, Redemption thought, they would get there by lunchtime.
Sunday Oke folded the newspaper and laughed.
“What is it?” Comfort asked.
“Dis crazy government. Dey want to bulldoze dis place.”
“Which place?”
“Maroko.”
“Bulldoze?”
“Maroko.”
“Why?”
“Well, according to de paper, dey say we are a pus-ridden eyesore on de face of de nation’s capital.”
“Maroko?”
“Not only Maroko, but all de ghettos in Lagos. A simultaneous attack on de centers of poverty and crime, dat’s what dey are calling it. Dey even have a military sounding name for it—Operation Clean de Nation.”
“Maroko?”
“Stop repeating dat word like a crazy person! I say not only Maroko, but Ajegunle, Idi Oro and all de smaller ghettos under de flyovers. But phase one is Maroko.”
“When?”
“Well, according by de paper, it can happen anytime.”
“Anytime? How we go do?”
“Me? Nothing. I am not leaving dis place. We just managed to buy dese few rooms we own, and now dey want to come and destroy it. Why? So dat dey can turn dis place to beachside millionaire’s paradise? No! And den we will all move to another location and set up another ghetto. Instead of dem to address de unemployment and real cause of poverty and crime, dey want to cover it all under one pile of rubbish.”
“What of compensation? Did de paper talk of dat?”
“Yes, dey say dey will pay compensation, but dat is a pipe dream.”
“Why?”
“Dey haven’t paid de promised compensation to dose dat lost things during de war. You know how many years dat is? When do you think dey will pay us? In de meantime will we live on fresh air? I am not going anywhere.”
“But we can at least try, eh? Maybe dem go pay before de bulldoze.”
“Pay first? Dat’s like asking prostitute to pay you before sex.”
Comfort shot him a very disapproving look. “I no know about dat. But anything is possible.”
“Pipe dreams. I know I am not moving,” Sunday said. He turned to look at Comfort. She was staring off into the distance, her face furrowed in worry. Her hair was plaited, she wore no makeup and her dark skin seemed to glow. She was beautiful in spite of the toll that three children, a divorce, living with an alcoholic, running a small business, age and living in Lagos had taken. For a moment he thought he might be in love with her.
“I am not moving,” he repeated.
“Where Elvis?” Comfort asked, turning to him.
Caught off guard, he looked away shyly, before she could see what was moving in his eyes.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing. I don’t know about Elvis. Dat boy has used up all my patience.”
She laughed, and the sound, sudden and uninhibited, surprised him.
“Like father, like son,” she said.
“What is dat supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I just dey wonder. Over two days now, him never reach house.”
“He will come back soon. Anyway, why are you not in the market? It is just eleven in de morning.”
“I decide to close my shop today.”
“Why?”
“Why yourself? I no fit rest or am I spoiling something for you?”
“I only asked a simple question.”
“I dey go big market today for Shagamu with Gladys dem to buy new material for sale.”
He nodded. He had never taken any real interest in what she did to earn a living, not since she had slept with someone to get him a job. Since then he had only really been interested in what he could lift from her purse to buy palm wine.
“When are you leaving?’
“In about one hour. Gladys dem go come for me. Dem dey charter taxi.”
“Hmm,” he grunted.
“What?”
He drained the already empty palm wine bottle dramatically. But if she understood what he was hinting at, she said nothing. Deciding not to leave anything to chance, he spoke up.
“A man needs a little something to line his purse, you know. In case of emergency,” he said.
“Well den, a man needs a job,” she said, getting up and walking inside to get ready.
With a curse, he threw the empty palm wine bottle into the street. It narrowly missed a man in a bad suit cruising by on a high-pitched Vespa. The bottle shattered, raining green gems everywhere.
“Ah, Mr. Oke, watch it!” the man on the Vespa shouted.
“Sorry, Mr. Moneme! How is de insurance business going?”
“Not well,” Mr. Moneme replied, the rest of what he said drowning in the whine of the Vespa.
Sunday was still muttering under his breath when the Mercedes pulled up and Elvis got out.
“Come and see me later,” Redemption called, reversing and heading back in the same direction.
Elvis waved and walked onto the veranda. His father smiled at him, and Elvis almost fell for it, until he noticed the empty cup on the bench and the thirsty way Sunday licked his lips.
“Just take,” he said, holding out a ten-naira note to his father.
ALSTONIA BOONEI DE WILD
(Apocynaceae) (Afikpo: Ukpo)
Found in the drier lowland rain forest, this small tree has brown, flaking bark, and when cut secretes white latex that is irritating to the eye. Its leaves are broad, leathery, smooth, glossy and dark green on the upper surface and bluish green on the lower. Yellowish-white flowers cluster at the end of each stem. Hanging in twos, its fruits contain numerous seeds.
Leaves, roots and bark macerated in water are applied externally to ease rheumatic pains. An infusion of the bark alone is drunk as a remedy for snakebites and arrow poison. The latex, smeared on wounds caused by Filaria worms and then bandaged with the crushed bark of the ordeal tree, is an excellent cure. Some women drink a decoction of the bark after childbirth to cause delivery of the placenta. The leaves cooked in a yam potage are an excellent way to prevent early miscarriages.
TWENTY-FOUR
But beware, this is not as easy as it seems.
It also defines being.
Lagos, 1983
Elvis emerged from his room a few hours later, awakened by his father’s shouting. Stumbling out onto the veranda, he saw Jagua Rigogo sitting in a corner, his pet python draped round his neck: a real boa, so to speak. Confidence, who also lived in the tenement, was arguing heatedly with Sunday. Confidence kept his distance from Jagua and his snake. He couldn’t stand either. He worked hard at what he did, conning people. It was, he said, his life’s work, something he had been named to do. He thought Jagua was a lazy ne’er-do-well who sponged off people’s good graces and fear of damnation. Jagua was a practicing druid and held healings and mystic consultations for people daily from his room at the end of the compound. It wasn’t much of a living, but being the landlord’s brother, he had no rent to pay—something everyone suspected was really at the bottom of Confidence’s hatred. Elvis had asked him about it once and Confidence had replied: “Is not dat. I just hate people who can’t make an honest living.”
The hatred was mutual, exacerbated by
the fact that Confidence had tried to strangle Jagua’s python with a guitar string. Jagua put a curse on him as he rescued his snake. Everyone pooh-poohed Jagua’s druidic philosophy and magic spells, but night after night, for over three months, the snake would wind itself chokingly around Confidence’s neck, slowly draining the life from him, until he woke with a start, bedding wrapped tightly around his neck, to find it had all been just a dream. But neither the Gideon Bible under his pillow nor the rosary he wore like a necklace kept him safe, until he apologized.
“Please control yourselves. Dis is not boys’ club. We are here to discuss our future. Be reasonable, Confidence,” Madam Caro cut in.
Elvis looked at her. What is she doing here? he thought. She didn’t even live in the building. He noted that there were in fact several people, some he did not know, gathered around his father.
“Thank you, madam,” Sunday said, quickly wrestling control away from her.
“What is going on here?” Elvis demanded.
“Dis your child no get manners O!” Freedom, a teacher from the building next door, said. He had a high-pitched voice and effeminate ways, which included a penchant for short-sleeve shirts that bore an uncanny resemblance to women’s blouses.
“Hold it, Freedom,” Sunday said. Turning to Elvis, he said, “We are planning revolution here.”
“Revolution? For what?”
“You dey dis Lagos? Abi, you never hear dat gofment want to bu’doze Maroko?”
“This Maroko?”
“Yes,” Madam Caro said.
“Here, read de paper,” Sunday said, handing it to Elvis. As he scanned the story, Elvis heard them return to arguing.
“So how do we go on from dis point?” Freedom asked.
“Well, my view is that dey should not be allow to get away with it. We must oppose them,” Jagua replied.
“But how?” someone Elvis didn’t know asked.
“We rally de people around us. Dey do not like it either dat de authorities are trying to demolish deir town,” Sunday said.
“It is one thing to think it is wrong, but why do you think they will risk anything for you?” Elvis asked.
“Not for me, my son, but de cause.”
“What cause? Who do you think you are, Malcolm X?”
Sunday shot Elvis a withering look.
“Elvis, show some respect,” Madam Caro said.
Elvis looked away.
“De boy is right O!” Freedom said. “We need strong leader.”
“Like who? De Beggar King?” Sunday asked.
“Weren’t you just criticizing him the other night?”
“I still am.”
“Ah, de man influential O!” Madam Caro said.
Elvis stared at her in surprise. He didn’t know she even knew who the King was.
“Dese people have been treated badly by de authorities all their lives. Dey pay high taxes, get low wages, poor accommodation, no clean water,” Sunday argued.
“Okay, chief. We get de point. Dis is not election campaign. Just tell us what to do,” Confidence interrupted.
Sunday glowered at him.
“So, Elvis, you will talk to de King?” Sunday asked.
“Talk to him yourself.”
“Leave dis your stupid son, I will go and call de King,” Confidence said.
“You know where he lives?” Sunday asked.
“No, but I de see him begging near Bridge City for Ojuelegba.”
“Return quick,” Jagua said.
With Confidence gone, the men started a game of checkers to keep busy until his return. Madam Caro walked hurriedly back to her bar, glad to be able to check on her helpers, whom she was convinced were stealing from her. Elvis sat back and watched the game unfold. If he hadn’t grown up in this culture, he might have thought it strange to have walked in on the heated debate about not letting the government get away with their plans and then to see the same people who had been protesting only moments before begin a game of checkers while they waited for something to happen—in this case, the return of Confidence with the King. Yawning, he contemplated going out for a meal and a drink, but he didn’t want to miss any of the unfolding events.
Jagua, who had lost early in the round of checkers, was the first to see Confidence returning. He called out, and everyone’s attention followed his pointing finger.
“Well done, Confidence,” Sunday said as soon as Confidence and the King were within earshot.
Confidence came up onto the veranda, but the King stayed a few feet away in the middle of the street. Jagua studied the King with some distaste, even though, with his matted dreadlocks and lean face, Jagua could have been a relative.
“Where you find him?” he asked.
“Near Ojuelegba, so I tell him dat we want to talk to him about something. But he refuse to follow me until I give him some money. So you people owe me twenty naira,” Confidence replied.
“Don’t worry about dat,” Sunday said. “We are in dis together. Somebody go and call Madam Caro.”
Nobody moved, so he turned and yelled for Comfort’s son Tunji. When Tunji emerged from the dark innards of the building, Sunday sent him off at a fast trot to summon Madam Caro. “And tell her dat palm wine is needed to smooth dese talks,” Sunday added as Tunji scampered off.
The King had been silent all this while, and except for a smile in Elvis’s direction, he gave no indication that he knew who he was.
“Hello, people,” the King called. “Any chance for food?”
“Help us and den we shall see,” Sunday called.
“So how can de King help you?” he asked Sunday.
As he was about to answer, Sunday saw Madam Caro hurrying over, a small keg of palm wine in her hand. He delayed his response until she had found a seat on the veranda, then sketched out the nature of their dilemma as the King listened thoughtfully. While Sunday was explaining, someone had gone to fetch a cold soft drink and a small loaf of bread for the King. Accepting them gratefully, he proceeded to chew loudly throughout Sunday’s monologue. He finished the bread just as Sunday finished speaking.
“So what is your advice?” Sunday asked.
The King put the soft drink to his mouth and, without taking his eyes off Elvis, drained the bottle. With a satisfied sigh he put it down.
“Well, as I know, dis gofment is not easy. To put hand for deir eye is dangerous.”
“Look, we are not small children. We know de risk. Just tell us how for do,” Confidence said impatiently.
“Well, in my experience, marching with placard is de best way to start.”
“Marching where?” Jagua asked.
“Like in front of deir office. Dat is de first step,” the King replied.
“I go bring de women. We go march to local council office and tell dem our vex,” Madam Caro said, jumping in.
“We will march on de council offices on Monday. Dat gives us two days to get things set. I will lead, de men can carry placards and de women can support with singing and refreshments,” Sunday said.
Madam Caro glared at him.
“Not dat de women are less important, though, right?” Freedom cut in sarcastically.
None of the men responded.
“I can make de placards quick quick,” Confidence said, caught in the sudden optimism of the moment.
“Dere is only one problem,” Sergeant Okoro said softly.
He lived in the same building and had been silent for much of the argument. His usual gruff and aggressive demeanor was replaced by a softer, almost fearful side. Occasionally, Sergeant Okoro had been menaced on his way home from work by some of the other residents, as he was the most readily available authority figure. Once or twice he would have been very badly hurt if Sunday hadn’t intervened. Even his decision to invite him to this meeting was not popular, but Sunday knew none of the others really wanted to go against him.
“What is de problem?” Sunday asked.
“Well, as far as I know, de police dey come here tomo
rrow, with bu’dozer. Dere is no time for marching on Monday.”
“So what now?” Confidence asked.
“Time for step two,” the King said.
“What is step two?”
“It is dangerous. Are you sure?” the King asked.
“Look, we are not playing here,” Freedom said.
“Okay. Step two is to stop dem from entering Maroko.”
“Stop dem from entering?” Freedom asked.
“Form human barrier at all de entrance,” the King said.
“But dere are too many entrances to Maroko.” Sunday said. “We cannot block dem all.”
“But dere is only four dat a bu’dozer can use,” the King said. “Your street here, which has two entrance, and Lawanson Street, which has two.”
As the King spoke, Elvis visualized the two streets. The King was right; they were the only two streets with outside access wide enough for any kind of vehicle except a bicycle or a motorcycle. He saw them spread out across Maroko in an uneven cross—a cross that would be held down at each end by human sacrifice, if they did what the King suggested. From the sky, he imagined, the streets must look like two straps straining to keep everything inside the bulky, unwieldy square of the ghetto.
“So simple it might work,” Okoro said doubtfully.
“But what if dey decide to drive through us?” Jagua Rigogo asked the question on everyone’s mind.
“They wouldn’t, would they?” Elvis asked.
“Whatever else dey may be,” Madam Caro reassured them, “dey are human.”
“I’m not so sure,” Sunday mused, looking at Okoro, who looked away guiltily.
They quickly ran through the plan. Confidence would paint placards using slogans devised by Jagua. Sunday, Madam Caro and Confidence’s wife, Agnes, would go and talk to people to try and mobilize enough of them to attend the street blocking the next day. And the King would lead them.
“I am sorry, but I cannot,” the King said.
“Why can’t you lead? It was your idea,” Confidence asked.
“I dey leave town dis evening with my band, de Joking Jaguars. We dey go tour and we no go return for at least two weeks,” the King replied.