by Chris Abani
“Hey, you!” the police inspector called to Sunday.
“Yes.”
“Ask dese people to move or I will send de bulldozer in and crush your children!”
Sunday turned to Freedom, who smiled at him. Sunday then called to the children, who removed themselves from the barrier and gathered behind the now solid wall of adults.
“Move dis rubbish out of de way,” the inspector barked at the bulldozer driver.
No one moved as the huge metal dragon roared into life and rumbled slowly forward. More like a squat rhinoceros than a dragon, it hugged the ground reassuringly, although its movements were more sluggish than before. The driver’s face furrowed into a frown as he ground the gears angrily. From behind the third barrier, now burning too, the wall of men looked on. Two feet back from them stood a second wall, made up of women, humming gently, the sound swelling the men’s courage. Behind them, the children huddled, candles burning, their faces ghoulish in the fire- and candlelight.
The policemen watched them, faces hard. A fireman sauntered to the far side of the burning barrier and lit a cigarette. He exhaled softly and scratched his crotch distractedly. Yawning, he stretched, wishing he could go back home. He did not see the point of this. It would be easier to come back another day when they were not expected. That would be his plan. Besides, even if the crowd dispersed, how could they demolish the place with the people still in their homes? He glanced hopefully at the police inspector’s face, his spirits sinking at the determined look.
The bulldozer lumbered closer to the barrier. Even though it was beginning to skew slightly, some of the men looked worriedly at Sunday. But swallowing their bristly fear, they stood their ground. Sunday tried to smile reassuringly at them, but the sweat on his forehead belied it. He noted the bulldozer’s approach warily and glanced at Freedom from the corner of his eye. Freedom stood there without fear, a curious smile playing at the edge of his lips. He was either very confident or mad. Catching Sunday’s eye, Freedom flashed him a brilliant smile. Sunday decided to trust him.
Jagua Rigogo’s two druidic companions stood with dreadlocks billowing out behind them, beards working with the rigor of the spells they cast, hurling them at the bulldozer as though they were stones, or cannonballs shot from a castle wall. But the roaring metal beast would not stop, so they ran after it, beating it angrily with their wooden staves. The beast rumbled on, skewing even more. Ten minutes after it had come to life, the bulldozer stood two feet from the flaming barrier. It had only crossed twenty feet.
“Destroy dat barrier!” the police inspector shouted at the driver.
Nodding, the driver tried to engage the blade of the bulldozer. The levers groaned under his hands, but the blade only lifted half an inch before crashing down noisily. The next minute, rubber hosing under the metal behemoth ripped apart, blowing steam, hissing and twisting like angry vipers. The driver shouted at the machine and angrily began to yank all the levers in front of him. The bulldozer reacted by spinning round in widening arcs, its blade cutting swathes in the ground, ripping up the end of the barrier, scattering flames and embers everywhere. The policemen screamed and jumped back, as did a couple of men at the far side of the barrier.
With a screech, the bulldozer plowed forward, tearing a hole in the fire engine and coming to a stop amid tortured metal. Druids, driver, police and firemen lay in scattered heaps on either side, where they had dived for cover. The startled crowd had stopped singing and was staring open-mouthed at the spectacle.
“Arrest dose bastards!” the inspector yelled, coming to life and pointing at the two druids.
The policemen pounced on the two druids. Grunting from the exertion of beating them, the policemen shackled and hauled them off to the now returned Land Rover. The inspector approached the barrier and stood glowering over it at the line of men. He was stumped. Twenty years in the police force and he couldn’t dispel a simple street protest. The truth was that he had never had the heart for this part of police work, the bullish, brutish enforcing of orders from above. He sighed. His men stood behind him, waiting for orders, waiting for him to redeem this farce. He looked back at them and then turned to the barrier. Taking a big handkerchief out of his pocket, he wiped his face.
“Why are you people so stubborn?!” he called out.
Nobody replied.
“Dis is pointless. In de end, we will break through dis barrier.”
Still no one replied.
The inspector was getting really exasperated now. “Someone will get hurt! I don’t want dat to happen.”
Nobody said anything.
“Dere are children here.”
One of the men behind the barrier started giggling. One of the policemen picked it up, and soon the street was ringing with the sounds of laughter. Everyone was laughing except the inspector. Sunday was the first to notice the change in him, the tentative twitch of fingers reaching for his holstered pistol. Then it was out and pointing.
The shot silenced everyone and brought one of the laughing men down. Screams replaced the laughter and people began to panic. Confused, other policemen opened fire. People dropped to the ground, and it was unclear whether they were ducking or had been hit. Sunday stood still as people fell beside him, like rapids shooting a rock. Scanning the prone figures, he realized that only one person had been hit, but the firing hadn’t stopped. He screamed, high-pitched and unnatural. The firing stopped abruptly and everyone froze as Sunday approached the pistol-waving, wild-eyed inspector.
“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice soothing.
“Go on,” the inspector said, still looking at him warily.
“If you and your men stay here any longer, things are going to get a lot worse.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“What if I gave you my word dat we will pull out and let you in later?”
“When?”
“In a few days.”
The inspector began to calm down a little, the pistol steadier in his hand.
“But what guarantee do I have dat you will keep your word?”
“You’ve shot one man. One is in hospital and you have arrested two more. I don’t think we want to risk anyone else getting hurt.”
“But you don’t understand. Dere has been an incident here. Somebody will have to answer for it. Somebody has to be charged with dis. Somebody …” the inspector finished lamely.
“I understand. But you have two men under arrest, right?”
“Yes.”
“So charge dem.”
“But dey are your people. I thought sewer rats stuck together?”
Disbelief, dangerous at this stage, was beginning to creep back into the inspector’s voice.
“We will come and bail dem.”
“I don’t know.”
“Dere are children here. Why don’t you accept a tactical withdrawal? A dead child is difficult to explain.”
The inspector considered it for a while.
“But what can we charge dem with?” he asked.
“I don’t know. How about violent disorder and criminal damage?”
“To what?” the inspector argued.
“Say dat dey got in de way of de bulldozer, causing de accident.”
“But that will not hold up in court.”
“Probably not. But it won’t be your problem anymore. Dis will, though, if it gets any worse.”
The inspector deliberated silently, holstering his pistol. With a definitive tone he called his men off. Sunday looked at the bulldozer and the destroyed fire engine. Turning, he took in the burning barricade. Behind it, littering the ground sadly, were the banners and candle stubs. A bloodstained piece of crumpled tissue, broken and small, lay like a dead bird in the corner. At the other end of the street, some men and women were helping the shot man into a taxi. His left kneecap was hanging off, but at least he had not been killed. Freedom stood on a veranda, looking bewildered. Confidence sat on a stoop, head cradled between his hands, his wife making con
cerned passes over his head. Had it been worth it? Was any of this worth any principle? Sunday was not so sure anymore. Sighing, he walked past Freedom and Confidence into the tenement. Behind him, children were playing a new dare game: who could jump over the still-burning barricade.
ANTIDESMA MEMBRANACEUM MUELL. ARG.
(Euphorbiaceae) (Yoruba: Aroro)
This small tree is found mostly in the savannah. Its bark is pale grey and fissured and its twigs and young leaves are covered with a lot of hair. As with most herbs, the flowers are yellowish green. Small and black, the fruits occur along the base of the stalk.
A decoction of the leaves is used as a bath to prevent abortion. Mixed into stream water or seawater, milk and some Jordanian hyssop, it becomes a mystic bath to protect against witchcraft.
TWENTY-SIX
Mistakes are expected until the boy becomes a man, but still no ground is given.
An example is the town of Isu-Ama, comprised of the following clans set up by the brothers they were named after, in order of age, with Isu being the father. The clans are Isu— father; Anyim—first son; Utum—second son; and Igwe—third son.
Ijebu, 1983
The van bearing the legend JOKING JAGUARS stood shedding dust, body vibrating from the grumpy throb of its engine. Dust-encrusted musicians stood sweating in its reluctant shade, sipping on warm Cokes. A small crowd of curious children had gathered, speaking in hushed tones and pointing at the shapes lashed to the roof rack under tired green tarp.
Elvis mopped his brow with a dirty handkerchief and stared around the small town. It boasted one church, one shop with a decrepit petrol pump out front and a junior school. He didn’t know what it was called. Hell, maybe. Wherever they were, he did not speak the language. That was the problem with a country that was an amalgamation of over two hundred and fifty ethnic groups, he thought—too many bloody languages.
He walked over to a hawker and with sign language bought a bunch of ripe bananas and a measure of peanuts. Munching on a mouthful of banana and peanuts, he wondered how they found these towns. There were no road maps or signs. He looked at the musicians and tried to imagine what had kept them going all these years as they played small towns where nobody really appreciated the skill required to take years of abuse and turn it into amazingly beautiful melodies; the drain of searching yourself constantly, plumbing depths of nakedness to play that bad-ass solo that was lost on the loud-talking, drinking audience.
The King, the troupe leader, had gone off to see the local chief to get his permission to perform that evening. He also needed the local Catholic priest’s permission. Both would cost him money. With luck the gate takings would be good.
“Elvis!” one of the musicians called.
“Yes, George.”
“Is dat how your mother raise you? Not to offer your friends food?”
“My mother died when I was a child. What do you expect?” Elvis called back.
George roared with laughter. He wiped a tear and got up from the tree stump he was sitting on and strolled over to Elvis. Yanking a banana free, George peeled it halfway. He took a bite, then threw a handful of peanuts in after it.
“Why do you do it, George? Why are you a musician?” Elvis asked.
George glanced at him sideways. He wondered if Elvis was beginning to unravel at the edges. That is what the road did—ate away at the edges of your resolve until you were nothing but frayed soul fabric. From then on, there was only the music—and the sacrifices it demanded of you. At sixteen, George thought, Elvis was too young for the road. The King felt his youth would protect him. But the road always got you. Of course, he knew nothing about the fact that Elvis had the added pressure of being a fugitive from the Colonel. They had been gone for two weeks already, and George had not expected Elvis to survive the first week. Maybe he was made of sterner stuff. He liked him and secretly hoped the boy was not cursed by the muse. He was a nice kid with good moves and great potential as a dancer, though he had yet to be original. He was too young for that. George hoped this was just a phase for Elvis, that maybe he would have the chance at a normal life.
“I don’t have a choice, Elvis. When de muse calls, you obey.”
Elvis laughed. Hollow.
“I mean, we have been doing concerts for seven years now as Joking Jaguars. Almost every night we perform in a different town, under a different sky. I have not been at home for more dan six months at a stretch in all dat time. I have twelve children and a wife tired of waiting. And every night I get into costume and get up onstage and I die. I die.” George swallowed hard.
Elvis looked away, uncomfortable with this sudden intense display of emotion.
“You see, Elvis, in dis time and place, being a musician is not blessing. It is curse. Listen to my advice. Listen carefully. Do not live dis life unless it is de only thing you can be. Go out and get a nice job. Dere is a nice office job for you somewhere. Find a good wife. Look for a girl with a compassionate smile and fire in her eyes. But not de manic rage of a forest fire—look instead for de gentle glow of a hearth, a girl whose laughter makes de drudgery of life bearable. And when you bury your nose in her hair and draw a deep breath, if you are lucky, de spice of her love will infuse you with de husky scent of wood smoke, de throat tickle of curry leaves, de breathlessness of peppers and de milk burp of still-unborn babies. Draw all of dese deeply into you, until every part of you is infected by her. And if you are lucky, she will purge you of de insanity of de muse, de knife-edge beauty of seeing yourself as you are. As you really are.”
Elvis looked away into the distance, eyes following the dancing heat devils.
“The heat is too intense,” he said.
“Yes,” George replied, stepping back from the lip of the chasm. “You’d think it would burn everything bad to a crisp.”
Elvis nodded. This was all too much for him. Seeing a child hawker with a keg of cold water, he called him over. For a penny, he and George slaked their thirst. The sun had moved, and like an old woman tugging at her skirts, it dropped shadows over them. George sighed with relief. He couldn’t really stand the heat. His beard and rather corpulent disposition did not help much either.
In the shade of the rickety old van sat Ezekiel “Spectacles” Onyia. Ezekiel’s nickname did not come from wearing spectacles, but from the streak of vitiligo that ran across his eyes in a perfect spectacle shape. He was the lead guitarist and a committed musician. Zekeyspecs, as he was also known, was humming a gentle blues, plucking scales from his tired Spanish acoustic guitar. The instrument was so old and battered, it never ceased to amaze everyone how he produced such delightful music on it.
The Joking Jaguars were twenty men strong. Women were not allowed on the road trips because they obviously could not handle the strain. Or so the King said. Elvis suspected it had more to do with the fact that the King was afraid women would prove a distraction and cause rifts between the musicians.
There were several young boys, however, who sang soprano parts. They also played the female roles in the play that was always part of the performance. There were five of them, aged between nine and fifteen, and they were all nondescript, bar one. Esau, the oldest, had a certain air to him that marked him apart. He was stunningly handsome. But what really set him apart was the grace with which he carried himself. When he was dressed in full drag, he made more than a few heads turn longingly, including some of the musicians who knew he was a man. Elvis was fascinated by the conviction Esau brought to his roles. The other boys and men played women badly. There was caricature about it: a certain derision in their acting, an exaggerated femininity that was no more than a reassurance of their masculinity. Esau, on the other hand, brought a simple understanding, something of a shared commonality; nothing more.
Scanning the rest of the group, Elvis was disturbed that he could not remember most of their names. Yet they shared living, eating, cooking, sleeping, performing and even dreaming space together, daily.
There were a tuba player; George
on saxophone and clarinet; the King on guitar and vocals; Zekeyspecs on lead guitar; Benson on rhythm guitar; Esau, the four other boys and Elvis on background vocals and dancing; a tall, thin guy on double bass whose nickname was Langalanga; and the others on a variety of percussion instruments from maracas and clap drums through to congas.
One of the drummers played a subtle rhythm behind Zekeyspecs. Another one tapped sharp time on an empty bottle with a rusty nail. George got up and walked over to them and began to sing in a deep, rich baritone. The four boys supplied the harmony. Elvis’s foot tapped to the music. There was a transcendence to the moment.
When they performed for an audience, the musicians played to please it. They searched in themselves for something, no matter how personal, that the audience could latch on to. But now, they sang and played what they wanted, each musician leading, then following, then leading again, until everyone had sung his piece. This was for them. No audience. Nobody. Not even for each other.
Elvis was just about to begin dancing when Esau marched into the middle of the seated musicians. Elvis sat back and watched. Esau stood stock-still for one long moment, then began to dance, his body so fluid it teased a tear from Elvis. The song came to an end abruptly, catching Esau in midstep. They broke up laughing.
Just then, the King came up. He was smiling. Elvis understood him well enough to know that they had got the permission they needed to perform that night.
Some of the musicians drove around the area campaigning, making announcements and playing music through a battery-powered amplifier. Wooden posters advertising their show in lurid colors hanging from the side of the van heightened the effect. Other musicians walked around town, stopping at bars to drink and eat, all the while displaying their instruments and talking loudly among themselves about that night’s concert. Elvis walked up to the King to ask what play they were performing that night.