This House Is Not for Sale

by E. C. Osondu

  Uncle Aya consulted oracles using divination beads made from the seeds of the African star apple. But he could also see the future when he wore a white soutane and fell into a trance and would claim to see angels who whispered the secrets of men and women into his ears. It was with the syncretic movement that he had first gotten into trouble and nearly got the Family House burned down. He claimed he could see the future. His fame had reached some young military boys who were planning a coup to overthrow the ruling military government. They had come in the dead of night to ask him if their coup was going to be successful. There had been a few attempts in the past to overthrow the military head of state, but he was said to have more than nine lives. Uncle Aya had told them to leave and come back in three days’ time and allow him time to fast, do some ablution, and consult the ancestors. When they left, he had dressed up and gone to the director of Military Intelligence to tell him that some young soldiers were planning to overthrow the head of state. The young soldiers were apprehended, because merely thinking of a coup was a punishable offense. They were tried before a military tribunal and sentenced to long jail terms. Some of their fellow soldiers had heard of the ignoble role Uncle Aya had played in the whole affair and had attempted to burn the house down one night. They were in mufti but of course they were soldiers and knew how to move about at night without being heard. The fire was put out before much damage could be done to the house. The attempt had failed and Uncle Aya had to lie really low for a while. And then one day he had bought a little pamphlet by Pastor Jonah from a pavement vendor of used books. He said it was something about the title and the man with a raised fist on the cover that had caught his attention.

  The night began with a lot of the members eating the meals they had cooked. There were to be no leftovers, since that would be such a waste because there would be no one to eat the food the next day. People invited others to come over and share their food. And then the eating was soon over and members were instructed to go and change into fresh clothes and to look neat and tidy.

  “You dress up when going before a judge. Shouldn’t you dress even better as you go to meet your God?” This was Pastor Jonah encouraging people to go and put on their best clothes.

  Soon Uncle Aya appeared wearing well-ironed black pants and a clean white shirt rolled up to his elbows. He ran and swerved through the crowd as he pointed in different directions. “Our savior e dey here?”

  “Yes, e dey,” the people screamed back while they too pointed in different directions. “Our savior e dey here?” “Yes, e dey.” Is our savior here, yes he is here.

  There had been yet another incident in Uncle Aya’s past when he was nearly killed by soldiers if not for Grandpa’s intervention. The government had declared a curfew. By this time Uncle Aya had joined another prophetic church and would routinely go to the church to pass the night. He said that 3:00 AM was when the spirit of God usually visited and that it was important to be in a holy place like the church so that the spirit wouldn’t turn back because the place it was visiting was polluted.

  On his way back from church he ran into soldiers who pointed their flashlights in his face and asked:

  “Who goes there? What is your name? Why are you out at this time? Did you not hear of the curfew?”

  “I am the man of God and I am coming back from the Lord’s errand like Angel Gabriel.”

  “Kneel down there and start crawling on your knees.”

  “I kneel for no mortal. I only kneel for my maker,” Uncle Aya replied.

  “Then prepare to meet your maker,” one of the soldiers said, and fired his gun.

  Uncle Aya raised his hand into the air and screamed, “Oh my Lord and my God, receive the soul of your servant!”

  But Uncle Aya was not dead. The soldier had shot into the air and was only having fun. The soldier was in fact drunk.

  Uncle Aya had screamed, thinking he had been shot.

  Grandfather heard the scream and assumed he had been shot and ran out, for this was happening close to the house.

  “Who are you?” one of the soldiers asked.

  “I am his father,” Grandfather said, pointing at Uncle Aya, who was by now kneeling on the ground.

  “You must be God then, because he told us his father is in heaven.”

  “Who is your commander?” Grandfather asked.

  “Why do you want to know?” the drunk soldier said, and rushed at Grandfather and hit him on the head with his Mark 4 rifle.

  “You will pay dearly for this,” Grandfather said, holding his head, which was already bleeding.

  And the soldiers looked at themselves, gathered their stuff, and fled.

  This incident happened on the first of September. On September first the next year, Grandfather developed a blinding headache. It was a headache like no other. Black cloths had to be spread on all the windows so no drop of sunlight could penetrate into the house. The headaches were soon to be known as Grandfather’s September headaches. They came every September without fail, marking the day he was hit on the head by soldiers with a gun because of Uncle Aya.

  Lightning flashed across the sky. They paused in their chorus singing. Many raised their eyes to the sky. It was going to happen, finally.

  But it didn’t. There was a little drizzle that lasted no longer than three minutes. The type of drizzle known as kerosene rain because of the way it dried up quickly like kerosene.

  As light began to erase the darkness and some of the crowd could now see each other clearly, screams began to emanate from the crowd. Uncle Aya announced that Pastor Jonah was going inside the house to seek the face of the Lord and to get answers.

  There was a shout of my bicycle here. And over there a shout of my sewing machine. And yonder a shout of my fridge. And even farther down a louder scream of my TV.

  —I have given out all my earthly property what am I going to do? How can I continue living? What am I going to tell my neighbors? The world will make me their laughingstock—

  Slowly the crowd became angry. First it was sachets of plastic water that were hauled at the house, then someone picked up a piece of stone and hauled it at one of the louvers on the window upstairs. The louver shattered. Others seemed to take a cue and began to haul objects at the house. Uncle Aya fled inside. A voice in the crowd said someone should get petrol so they could burn both the house and the lying pastor down and send the pastor to heaven to go and seek God’s face. Another stone scattered yet another windowpane.

  And then a shot rang out. Grandfather was standing on the balcony. He was holding his double-barreled gun. He fired off yet another shot into the air, and the crowd fell silent.

  “Did your pastor tell you that this was his house? Did he tell you that he built this house or that it belongs to him? Did I join you people in your madness? While you were waiting and praying for the world to end was I not in my bed sleeping? Why should you burn down my house?”

  And so the crowd began to disperse. First one person and then another. Until there was nobody left.

  ABULE

  Even those of us who were considered too young to know knew that Abule’s wife was a loose woman who went with other men. It came as no surprise then when one morning her husband took out his double-barreled rifle and began going from house to house threatening to kill all the men who had been sleeping with his wife. She was from a different part of the country. One of the stories told about her people was that it was not uncommon for a husband to entertain a visiting overnight guest with one of his wives. It was considered a gesture of genuine hospitality. If the visitor did a good job the wife would put out a bucket of water in the bathroom for him to take his bath the next morning. If he didn’t please the woman, he would have to get his own bathwater for himself the next morning.

  The woman’s name was Fanti, and she had a little shed where she sold rice and beans and stew and dodo and macaroni and pasta. People would stop over on their way to work to buy food and chat. Oftentimes by midafternoon all the food was sold. On
days that she didn’t sell all she would put the food in a cart and hawk up and down the street. She was jovial and always laughing. She let men touch her. Her husband was a retired daily paid laborer who had worked with the railways. He was a man who walked gingerly and gently, as if he was afraid to tread too hard on the earth. His house had a piazza and he would usually sit on his hammock and drink tea. He was retired and was a pensioner. He responded to the greetings of both old and young with just one phrase—’Allo dear.

  It was not long before Fanti started selling beer in her shed. She would sell food in the morning and start beer sales in the afternoon. Soon her place became a gathering point for some of the young men who lived on the street. They said she had relationships with at least three or four of the men. What was said of her was that she was the type that could never be satisfied with one man.

  It was a gray morning when the first shot rang out. Fanti’s husband, Abule, had fired that warning shot in the air. He had his shiny double-barreled gun and was walking down the street with the gun slung over his shoulders. Later people who were close to him would say they heard him muttering the words, Today is today, it will all end today.

  He stood in front of the house of one of his wife’s supposed lovers and screamed his name.

  “Come out if you call yourself a man, today is the day it will end.” Abule shouted the words out aloud as he held the gleaming rifle and raised it and pointed it at the house.

  Doors slammed shut as people went into hiding, women and children running under their beds to hide.

  “Come out or I’ll come and get you myself. You call yourself a man. Come out if you are a man,” he shouted again.

  When there was no response he walked to the door, pushed it open, and began to walk down the corridor. No one knows till today how he knew the exact door of the man who was said to be one of his wife’s lovers. He was a bricklayer. Abule kicked the door open. The lover was attempting to push the window open to escape when Abule fired off the first round. The shot got the fleeing man in the shoulder. He screamed and fell over the window into the yard. Abule brought out another bullet from the pocket of his dark brown railway-issue overalls. It was shiny, its silver head encased in a red plastic shell. He was walking round to the back of the house to the window where the man he had shot earlier lay when he changed his mind and began striding down the street to another house down the road. The house belonged to another man who was always in the wife’s store. He was an agbero, a motor park tout; he got a cut from every fare paid by travelers to the driver. He hung around the motor park calling passengers, helping them board, and collecting a commission. He was the one who had insisted that Fanti start selling beer even though she did not have the required license.

  Abule walked into the man’s house. The man was still in bed. He prodded him with the nozzle of the double barrel. The agbero man was not fully awake; he jumped up and rubbed his eyes. Abule cocked his gun and shot him in the head at close range. The man fell back on the bed. There was blood on the unpainted cement wall. Abule walked out.

  Only the sound of gunshots broke the silence of the street. All the people on the street were in hiding. There were no screams. Abule was humming a railway work song as he walked back home. His walk was jaunty and springy. He even had a little smile on his face and he licked his thin lips over and over again.

  “Come out, Fanti. I have finished your men. Now it is your turn,” he said aloud for people to hear.

  He went inside to where he kept his bullets and reloaded. He walked into Fanti’s bedroom, but she had fled. He stepped out of the house and stepped into the road. He raised his gun and released a shot into the air.

  Grandpa heard the shot and came out of the house and looked into the street from the open balcony.

  Abule was still shouting and saying that anybody who considered himself man enough should come out. He said those who were sleeping with his wife who called themselves men should come out and show themselves as brave men. He went to the backyard of his house and came out with a half can of gasoline and a box of matches. He walked to the shed where Fanti sold rice in the daytime and beer in the evenings. He half covered the mouth of the gasoline gallon with one finger as he began to spray the gasoline on the small wooden shed. When he was done spraying he struck a match and the small shed began to blaze. All the while his gun was hanging on his left shoulder. He watched the shed burn for a bit and walked back to his house in fast strides. He stood in his piazza holding his gun. Once more he shouted that anyone who considered himself a man should come outside. The doors remained locked and the street was silent. The street was still empty. Grandfather walked out of the Family House in small, slow steps. He did not walk like someone in a hurry.

  Abule, Abule, Grandfather called the name twice. Abule turned; he raised his gun and positioned it, as if about to take a shot. He looked up and noticed it was Grandfather.

  “Man of courage, the fearless lion, great warrior, the big wizard,” Abule hailed Grandfather.

  “Put down your gun and let’s talk. Let’s talk like two men. If there is any doubt that you are a man of courage I have never been among the doubters.”

  “It takes a man of courage to drive a train, that dragon that belches smoke from here to Kaura-Namoday.”

  Grandfather was only flattering Abule. Abule was not a locomotive train driver. He had joined the railways as a laborer and had retired as a lowly laborer but the inflated praise words brought a smile to Abule’s parched face.

  “Give me the gun,” Grandfather said. “Hand it over.”

  Abule looked at Grandfather and shook his head from side to side in refusal. He was suddenly transformed into a child refusing to hand over a favorite toy.

  “Give me the gun. When you hand me the gun we can talk man to man. I cannot talk with you if you are holding a gun over my head,” Grandfather said.

  Abule handed over the gun. Grandfather held the gun sideways in the middle, and as if breaking it, cracked the gun open and the two bullets popped out. He put the bullets in his pocket.

  Grandfather called out to someone in the Family House to bring over a kettle of tea. The tea was brought over and Grandfather made a cup for Abule. Abule blew into the cup and took a sip.

  “You are the only good man in this neighborhood. Since I built my house here they have always troubled me. I suffered during my time in the railways. Carrying heavy items on my bare head in the sun. Pouring gravel on the tracks. Carrying wood for repair of the tracks. I saved every penny to build this house and to marry. I could not marry from my own people because I didn’t want trouble, my people and their wahala. But they didn’t let her rest. Now my life is ruined,” Abule said, and began to cry.

  “You should not allow a woman to ruin your life,” Grandpa said. “You have killed one man. The other man is still alive, he survived. I will talk to the police. They will understand. I will help them understand. Go inside and take a bath and wear fresh clothes. I will contact the police. Don’t say a word when they get here, let me handle everything,” Grandfather said.

  That day we heard a new phrase for the first time. It was our favorite expression for many weeks. Grandpa told the police that Abule had committed a crime of passion.

  Abule was sent to jail but for only about eighteen months for manslaughter. The agbero man was not well liked in the first place. Grandpa put Abule’s house up for rent while Abule was in prison, and when Abule came out Grandfather handed over the rent money collected in his absence to him.

  “You are the only good man on this street. I have said that before and I say it again,” Abule said.

  He was thankful but he said he could no longer live on the street. He was old and tired. Being in prison had worsened things. Grandfather offered to buy the house at a ridiculously low price. Abule agreed. He handed the certificate of occupancy to Grandfather. Abule went to live in the village. Grandfather converted the house into shops facing the street and put the shops up for rent.

&nbs
p; TATA

  By the time Tata lost her third baby at birth, other people in the Family House were calling her a soul stealer. Some people said she was the one stealing the souls of her dead babies. None of the children lived longer than the seventh day. First they stopped drinking breast milk. They began to run a fever, and a few days later they started hiccupping and then died. As the body of the third child was being taken away from the Family House to be buried, people whispered among themselves.

  —Poor children, they didn’t want to live in this world on the seventh day. Instead of being christened, they are being buried on the day their naming ceremony should have taken place—

  —This is no ordinary death. All three children died before they are named—

  —The worm eating the apple is inside the apple. I think the woman must be a witch. You know with the soul stealers they don’t care once it’s your turn you have to bring your own child’s soul to be eaten because you have also partaken in the eating of other people’s children, that’s the law of the coven—

  —But what I heard is different. They say you usually have to give them the child whom you love most to show how much loyalty you have to the coven—

  —But if she really is a witch, how come she has to sacrifice all three of her children? Is she the only one in the coven?—

  —They do it according to rank and seniority. The senior soul stealers don’t have to sacrifice their own children. I hear it is also a power thing the more children you sacrifice the more power you have and the earlier you’ll attain a higher position—

  All the whisperings got to Tata’s ears. She was one of the wives in the house. She stopped the men who were carrying the body of the dead baby to the cemetery for burial.