by Chris Abani
He had come to terms with the King’s death; but he hadn’t come to terms, and probably never would, with the way the King had been deified. He was spoken of with a deeply profound reverence, and the appendage “Blessings be upon his name,” usually reserved for prophets in Islam, was being used whenever his name was invoked. A group of Rastafarians even claimed he was the Emperor Selassie, Christ himself, the Lion of Judah, returned to lead them home.
He hadn’t heard from Redemption for a while and though he asked repeatedly, nobody seemed to have heard from him.
Elvis ran into Madam Caro a week after arriving in Bridge City, where she had already set up a thriving bar. She gave him a bottle of beer on the house and expressed her condolences at his father’s death. When he asked how she knew, she explained that she had run into Comfort a few days after Maroko was razed.
“Did she find his body?” he asked.
Madam Caro nodded.
“But he was not complete. We can only hope he can still find peace on the other side.”
Elvis smiled sadly.
“And Comfort?’
“She done move to Aje. Her shop still dey Balogun side. If you want to visit her, I get de address.”
“Thank you, but no,” he said, shaking his head.
“What of Redemption? Any news?”
She said she hadn’t heard from him but that she would keep her eyes and ears open. She went off to serve another customer. Aside from her limp, she was no worse for wear.
That had been three weeks ago, and hardly a day went by without Elvis wondering if Redemption had survived the Colonel’s men, and if so, where he was. In a few weeks he had lost everyone in Lagos who meant anything to him—his father, the King, Redemption, even Comfort. He was occasionally tempted to ask Madam Caro for Comfort’s address, but always decided against it. Sunday had been the only thing they had in common and now he was dead. Elvis didn’t see the point of contacting her, but it was hard not to give in to the loneliness and feel sorry for himself.
He walked to Madam Caro’s and bought a beer. Bringing it back to where the children slept, he sat watching over them. He pulled the Fulani pouch from under his shirt, unzipped it, took out his mother’s journal and stroked the cover repeatedly. He was lucky that it had survived prison. Next to it was Aunt Felicia’s postcard. Suddenly the idea of America didn’t seem so bad. He lit a cigarette and, looking up, caught the eye of one of the kids. She smiled at him. Her eyes were round and glowed strangely. Her teeth were small, white and even, and he wondered in an abstracted way where or when these children washed. There were no bathrooms, yet their skin glowed with a lovely sheen, and apart from the odd one, they never smelled.
The girl stood up and approached him. She was wearing a loose smock and he could see through it her barely formed breasts, their nipples grazing the material. She was only about twelve, maybe thirteen, and yet when she walked she swayed with knowledge far beyond her years.
She stood before him and he stared at her transfixed. Her lips parted slightly and her tongue darted out to lick her upper lip and he followed her every movement, his tongue licking in sync. She knelt before him and the movement made her sleeve drop, exposing one of her small breasts. His eyes grew big and he fought the spell, but the wave seemed to drown him in its power. She reached out and stroked his sex, and despite himself he felt his lust swell.
She smiled and took his hand and placed it on her breast and he watched while, with no help from him, his fingers began to move, stroking her nipple. It hardened and her breathing grew shallow and hoarse and she stroked him faster and faster and suddenly he let out a strangled cry and staggered up and away from her.
“Stop! Stop!” he yelled.
She stood up, confused and a little afraid. No one stirred except for one child, who glanced in their direction for a moment before looking away, uninterested. He wondered why his body had not cringed, why he had enjoyed it, desired more.
Okon sauntered over from behind the shrubbery in the shadows, which served as a toilet. He had heard Elvis’s cry and thought he was fighting off scavengers. Now he felt irritated because he had cut himself off to come and help and felt the familiar discomfort of unfinished business.
“What’s de matter?” he asked Elvis harshly.
Elvis opened his mouth but no sound came. Speechless, he pointed to the half-naked girl.
Okon understood and laughed. “Don’t start your shit. Different laws apply here. She wants it and dat’s all dat matters,” he said.
“But she is a child,” Elvis stammered.
“You go learn. We call her Oliver Twist because she no fit to get enough. I was her first, you know—did a good job, didn’t I?”
Okon looked past Elvis to the girl, who had developed a coy and seductive manner. Elvis looked from Okon to the girl and back again, something in his gaze causing the girl to drop her eyes. Okon yanked her roughly to him, pressing her close. Although Elvis held his hands over his ears, he could still hear the sounds of their coupling, crude and lusty: her delicate whimpers and his deeper, harsher grunts. He wondered why he sat there with his hands over his ears, his sex throbbing, doing nothing. As they both staggered out into the light, Okon was adjusting his trousers. The sleeve on the girl’s dress was still down, showing her breast. Her eyes held a curious mix of satisfaction, shame and pity when she looked at Elvis.
“You must learn to enjoy more. Dese are de fringe benefits of dis job,” Okon said, reaching out to pat Elvis on the back.
Elvis shrank away from his touch. “How could you?”
“No start your shit. We are who we are because we are who we were made. No forget.”
“Yes, I’ll never forget,” Elvis said softly.
He turned round. The girl was still standing there looking at him. He reached out on impulse and pulled her sleeve up, covering her breast. She smiled, suddenly shy, and hiding her face behind her hand, she giggled.
“You be fool,” she said tenderly.
He smiled. “Yes. A fool.”
Later that evening he felt a chill come upon him. Within days he was ill, his fever raging so hard that he passed out into a place of spasms and hallucinations. When he regained consciousness, the young girl was mopping his brow and Okon was nervously smoking a cigarette. Elvis sat up and wrapped the hole-ridden lappa tighter around himself, cowering away from the thundering rain. It came down in solid sheets, and in minutes the ground under the bridge was flooded.
The beggar children slept standing up, gently swaying with the rhythm of the rain. He had been given the only dry spot there was, on top of a pile of tires, as he was the sick one. Besides, he was the gentlest caretaker, taking only what was actually offered to him and in many cases handing it back when he didn’t actually need it.
Okon looked at him. “You worry us,” he said.
“How long was I unconscious?” Elvis asked.
“Four days.”
“Four days?”
“Yes. But you are back.”
He felt the young girl arranging cardboard boxes around him to fend off the spray carried by the wind, and he looked up and his eyes met hers.
“Go and sleep,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Shh,” she said, and wiped his fevered brow.
“I’ll never leave you,” he promised her rashly. He knew somewhere in him that of all the promises ever made, that was the one most likely to be broken. What circumstance did not steal, time eroded.
“Sleep now,” she said gently.
Her fingers, like butterfly wings, cooled his brow. She then climbed up beside him and, wrapping her little body around him for warmth, she slept, and this time he was not aroused.
The rain came down in one solid, unyielding sheet. It had been like this for days now, and few had been able to leave their homes as the city flooded. Shops closed and everything had slowly ground to a halt. No cars moved, because the streets had become canals. The only people about were the beggar children, who were making a fortun
e by fetching buckets of clean water to housebound people.
The young girl whispered the news to Elvis. Religious leaders, Muslim and Christian, had come together to urge their followers to pray together for the rain to stop.
Across Lagos, in another slum, Comfort waded through the ankle-deep water that flooded her home. She was lucky that the flooding was minor. The new man she was living with sat in a wicker work chair with his feet on top of a stool, reading a newspaper. He stopped to bawl out that he was hungry and then went back to reading.
Dinner was served in watery silence, broken only by the occasional slosh as some undercurrent disturbed them. Tope, her youngest child, paused in her meal to watch a rat that had just swum into the room. Taking careful aim, she hit it on the nose with a lump of fufu. It shrieked in anger and swam out hurriedly, muttering under its breath about the indignities of mixing with the poor. Tope laughed so much that she dropped her small piece of meat in the water. In a flash she was down on the floor, rooting in the water for it. Her brothers, Tunji and Akin, laughed at her loss, but with a triumphant yelp she held up the piece of meat, inspecting it critically before plopping it into her mouth. Her mother regarded her with a bored stare and went back to her own food.
The storm had not eased up for days. Almost as if they were symbiotically bound, Elvis’s fever still burned. Through the film of rain, hazy and unclear, Elvis saw a young boy standing around at a public tap waiting for his bucket to fill up. The public tap was situated directly below a high-voltage power line. Picking up a thin piece of metal, the boy rapped out a tune on the metal beak of the tap, dancing in the puddles, laughing. Suddenly the girl jerked up. Eyes wide, she reached out a trembling hand and pointed. Elvis saw it too. More than four thousand volts of electricity arced from the overhead cable in a beautiful steel-blue hue, like ice reflecting the sun, and hit the upturned bicycle spoke the boy held with the grace of a cat.
There was a brief flash like a bolt of lightning and then, scarcely disturbing the heavy air, its fragrance alluding to death, a choking smell filled the nostrils as only the smell of burning flesh can. Elvis watched the boy’s body float away in the deluge, while another took his place and took the full bucket of water to whatever destination would pay for it.
Elvis shut his eyes and went back to sleep. He was woken by the smell of cigarette smoke and the slap of checker tiles on a wooden board. He sat up and stared uncomprehendingly at the sight of Redemption and Okon playing a game of checkers. He thought he might still be asleep and dreaming.
“Redemption?”
Redemption looked up, saw Elvis and sprang to his feet, scattering the checkers everywhere, the board falling to the floor with a thump.
“Elvis!” he said, giving Elvis a hug. Standing back, he pulled Elvis to his feet. “Make I see you.” Redemption continued, examining Elvis critically. “Well, you done lose weight but not too much.”
Elvis was still confused and a little lightheaded, so he sat down, leaning back against a bridge support.
“Redemption. How? When?”
“I find him,” Okon said from the floor, where he was picking up the checkers.
Just then the young girl rushed up to Elvis from where she was buying some food, with a cup of strong eucalyptus-flavored tea. He took it with a smile and sipped it slowly.
“You sleep well?”
He nodded, embarrassed by her attentions and the smile on Redemption’s face.
“How long did I sleep this time?” he asked the girl.
“Two days.”
“Two days?”
“Yes.”
The rain had stopped, though the sky was a troubled grey. Elvis realized that his fever had abated. As the young girl fussed around Elvis, Redemption was busy sending another child off to buy them beer and some more cigarettes from Madam Caro’s.
“What is your name?” Elvis asked the young girl.
“Blessing,” she replied.
He smiled. He finished the tea and watched her take the cup back. She reminded him so much of Efua, and he wondered why all the women in his life had to take care of him—even those he should have been taking care of.
Blessing came back quickly and tried to make him lie down again.
“Aren’t you losing money by staying to take care of me?” Elvis asked her.
“Sleep, you never strong,” Blessing said.
Yes, he thought, dozing off, sleep.
He woke up to someone slapping him gently.
“Redemption,” he said as his eyes focused.
“Yes, how you go sleep again. Two days sleep never do?”
Elvis yawned and sat up again, back against the same bridge support.
“Beer?”
Elvis nodded and took the offered drink from Redemption. He took a cautious sip and let out his breath in a satisfied sigh.
“I see you done better. You want food?” Redemption asked.
“No.”
“So, Okon told me of your deal here. I see dat I teach you well.”
“Whatever.”
“Elvis, your words dey cut me.”
“Sorry.”
“So, what’s making you sick?”
Elvis shrugged.
“Well, even though I am not a doctor, make I guess. Dis life you are living?”
“Ah, Redemption, no mock our life,” Okon protested.
“I hear you. But not de life I dey talk of. Na Elvis here. He is not able for dis type of living. Abi?”
Elvis nodded.
“So what do you want to do?”
Again Elvis shrugged.
“De sickness affect your tongue?” Redemption asked angrily.
“No, but I don’t have answers for you.”
“I see you never change. Always big grammar for lie.”
“I am still trying to understand what happened to you. How you managed to escape the Colonel. Why you disappeared for so long. What you are doing back here. So forgive me if I am a little tongue-tied.”
“Make I tell you what happened. After you and de King leave, de Colonel begin chase me bad, bad. People begin talk say I cheek him and him no fit to do anything about it. De Colonel vex well, well. But I manage join some traders to Cotonu in Benin Republic.”
“You left the country?”
“Yes.”
“No take am brag. Benin Republic is next door. It is not like say you go overseas,” Okon said.
“Shut up!” Redemption said.
“So when did you come back?” Elvis asked.
“When I hear three days ago say dat de King killed de Colonel. I wish dat I hear sooner. I would have been back since.”
The three of them were silent, sipping from their beers.
“Why did you agree to come back here with Okon?”
“Ah, Elvis. You get suspicious mind O!”
“Experience has taught me that you always want something.”
“Elvis, your words dey wound me because I come here with gift for you.”
“Gift?”
“Here, take my passport.”
Elvis took the proffered passport.
“What is this?”
“My gift to you. Use it to go to America, go join your auntie.”
“But I cannot—it’s your passport, Redemption.”
“Dose white people no go know de difference in de photo.”
“Why not use it yourself? Why would you give it to me?”
“Elvis, take de passport. You know I myself no go ever go America,” Redemption said.
“Why?”
“Because dis na my home. I be area boy, alaye. I no go fit for States.”
“I’m not sure I want to go, either.”
“Take it. If I was going to use it, I for done use it by now.”
“I don’t understand,” Elvis said.
“Sometime you just hold something like dat for dream. For believe. No worry, I go find anoder thing!”
“I don’t want to go!”
“It is America,
Elvis! Take it. You know how many people are planning for dis and can’t get it?” Okon said.
“When did we start thinking of America as a life plan?” Elvis asked.
“When things spoil here. Don’t blame me. I no spoil am,” Okon said.
“Even during your father’s time we dey plan for abroad. Dat time it was London, now it is America,” Redemption said.
“But remember all the things the King said about America?”
“You never believe dat. It is your fear talking. America is better dan here. For you. Your type no fit survive here long,” Redemption said.
“But this country is just as good as America.”
Redemption shook his head. “Not for you. Go.”
“I promised Blessing that I would never leave her.”
“Go,” Blessing said. “Go, den you send for me.”
Elvis stared from Redemption to Okon and then to Blessing. He knew they were right, but the thought of leaving for America frightened him. Even though it had become painfully clear to him that there was no way he could survive in Lagos, there was no guarantee he would survive in America.
“Fine. I’ll go. But I am not well.”
“You well enough to travel. It is plane, you no go take leg,” Okon said.
“Okay, Elvis done leave de country,” Redemption announced with a laugh.
Elvis stood at the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of Murtala Mohammed International Airport, staring down at the runway. He wasn’t sure how to feel. On the one hand, he had the opportunity to get away from his life. On the other, he felt like he was abandoning everything that meant anything to him. Oye, Efua, his father, the King, Redemption, Okon, Blessing, even Comfort. It wasn’t like he couldn’t make it in Lagos. Plenty of people did it every day, and they lived full and happy lives. But Redemption had been right: not him. He knew that what he thought he was leaving behind wasn’t that much, and after all, his aunt Felicia was in America. No, what he was leaving had nothing to do with quantity; nor, in spite of Redemption’s protestations, did it have to do with quality. This was something else, something essential.