Grandma wore her scarf most of the time.
“Do I need to wear my scarf outside the mosque?” I asked.
She looked at me and laughed. “You should do what you think is right. There is no rule here. Only the ones Alhaji makes up!”
I quickly looked around the garden. There was nobody nearby. “Alhaji must be a very a good Muslim,” I whispered, looking at the mosque.
Grandma followed the line of my eyes and laughed again. “Building your own mosque does not make you a good Muslim.” She leaned toward my face and lowered her voice. “It makes you a good builder.”
I did not have much time to worry about being Muslim. I was more worried about Ezikiel. He had been unable to eat any meat or fish since we had arrived nearly a week before, as it was all fried in groundnut oil. Every time Grandma tried to fry Ezikiel’s food in palm oil, a cloud of smoke flew in her eyes and they watered all day, until she had to give up. I sat down next to Ezikiel at every meal, to share my food with him. When it was scrambled egg and fried plantain for breakfast, he only had a quarter of his plate covered with egg, so I tipped my egg onto his plate. When dinner was rice with fried chicken, he had all of my rice. When it was fried fish soup, I gave him my pounded yam, and burned my fingers and mouth trying to eat the soup by itself. I picked him fruits from the trees: avocado, mango, pawpaw. I picked him corn and even took off the stringy bits. Ezikiel was getting thinner. Every time he ate, his mouthfuls were smaller until he was hardly eating anything at all.
Alhaji did not believe in allergies. “Nigerians do not suffer with allergies,” he said in English—Grandma had been right about everyone speaking in English; since we had arrived I had heard hardly any Izon. He pointed his finger at Ezikiel’s nose. Mama sighed. We were all sitting on the veranda, where we ate all our meals together.
“He is allergic to peanuts,” said Mama. “We had him tested twice.”
“That cannot be possible,” said Alhaji. “Nigerians do not have nut allergy. All our food is fried in groundnut oil.”
Mama sighed again. “It is true. Unfortunately.”
“It cannot be true. Look at me,” said Alhaji. He stretched his arms so high that his vest rolled up. I did not like to look directly at him, but his eyes caught mine.
“Look how fit and strong I am. Look at these legs, these arms. Strong and fit. The key is multivitamins. The key to long life. You see?”
Ezikiel and I nodded our heads quickly. Mama sighed again.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” Ezikiel said. He had tiny blisters on his lips that cracked, and his stomach made a sound like a nearby thunderstorm.
Alhaji unzipped a bag that was next to the chair. He took out a plastic case covered in flowers, and from that produced a pot of tiny turquoise tablets. He shook the bottle, put the bottle back, then closed the case. “I can even advise you which multivitamin will prevent allergy.” Alhaji’s neck skin swayed as he spoke. His skin was loose as though he had lost a layer of something underneath, something important. “Follow my health regime, and you will be as strong as Alhaji, you see? I am a pharmaceutical expert.”
“He cannot be cured,” said Mama. “We just have to avoid groundnut oil.”
“I always fry the meat first,” said Grandma, “to prevent sickness. In all Nigeria we fry meat first. Even in Lagos you must fry meat first.”
“In Lagos we fried everything in sunflower oil that I borrowed from the hotel,” said Mama. “But the sunflower oil has run out now; there’s nothing except groundnut oil here. Ezikiel will be fine having meat or fish boiled instead of fried and cooked in palm oil until I can get some more. As soon as I find a job, I’ll be able to get some. Especially if I find something in a hotel.”
Grandma shook her head. “What if there is no job? Everyone wants a hotel job. We have to fry the meat or fish first,” she said. “In groundnut oil. He will get sick if he eats meat that has not been fried.”
I could see Mama trying to smooth her face into a more relaxed one. She looked at Ezikiel and managed to smile. “Ezikiel can’t have groundnut oil. But we’ll be fine,” she said. “Even if it means no meat for a while. I have hotel experience. And if I can’t find a hotel job, at least when I’m working I’ll be able to buy some vegetable oil. There must be somewhere that sells it in Warri, even if it is expensive.”
Grandma shook her head. “We use groundnut oil for everything. And we have to fry first to kill the bacterias.”
I could feel Ezikiel next to me breathing in quickly, then out in three bursts. Grandma and Mama looked at each other over his head.
No generator! No electricity! No fridge!
Alhaji stepped forward. He ruffled Ezikiel’s hair. “Do not worry,” he said. “I will take you to the pharmacy and get you specific minerals. They will prevent allergy. I am a Qualified Petroleum Engineer, it is true. And I have applied for an important position at the oil company. But I am also considered an expert in pharmaceuticals. You see?”
He held up the plastic case covered in flowers. It looked like the case Mama used for carrying makeup. “And if the allergy does arrive, I have the perfect cure for serious illness.”
He looked around the veranda. We were all watching and waiting, except Grandma, who had her head in her hands and was groaning softly. With one hand he unzipped the cosmetic case again and pulled out something from it, and the other hand he pointed to the sky.
“Marmite,” he said, holding up the jar, “is the most effective cure for serious illness.”
Grandma groaned loudly again.
“Secret ingredient of yeast,” said Alhaji, leaning toward Ezikiel, who by then was hissing and shaking.
Even though Zafi was Ijaw, and had taught us to speak Izon, and said he would work for no money at all, Alhaji sent Zafi away. He knelt down to Mama before he left, as though she were the man and he the woman. He hugged me tightly. I could smell his breakfast.
Ezikiel was with Alhaji. He did not even come to say good-bye to Zafi.
“God be with you, Zafi,” Mama said, and gave him some naira rolled up in an elastic band.
He walked away, the driver with no car, like a tortoise with no shell.
Zafi took with him the smell of Lagos, of crispy suya and frangipani flowers.
I watched him until he disappeared, then I watched the space he disappeared from.
It was Youseff who drove us to market the following morning to buy our school clothes. Youseff lived in the boys’ quarters with his four wives and seventeen children and two more arriving soon. He ignored them all; he said there were too many to bother with. The only children I had met were Fatima and Yasmina; all Youseff’s other children ran away laughing when Ezikiel and I went near them. We sat in the car for an hour in a go-slow on Airport Road, as Youseff tutted and tutted and complained about having so many children. I missed the sound of Zafi coughing. The traffic was so slow it would have been quicker to walk. Fumes crept through the window and Ezikiel wheezed and puffed, wheezed and puffed. Car horns beeped and people shouted. Entire families balanced on top of each other swerved through the traffic on okadas, the motorbike taxis. Hawkers came running at the car with piles of goods balanced on their heads, or in trays in front of them. One boy went past repeatedly with a tray of banana ice cream. I did not dare to ask for one. When we arrived near the market, Youseff swerved the car into the side of the road next to a shop that said MODERN GARMENTS but had nothing inside except a few naked dolls shaped like women. I dropped my eyes to the ground.
Youseff waited in the car as we followed Alhaji through the market and down a road. Every so often he stopped so that Mama and Grandma could look at lace, or combs, tomatoes, dried fish. The market was the same as the Lagos markets, but the people were different. I could hear people speaking English and Izon, but there were so many other languages that I did not recognize. I could hear the singing of pidgin English, but I still had no idea what they were saying. The pidgin was so different from the pidgin Englis
h in Lagos.
We found the area with materials. Grandma stopped to look at the different lace, holding up each to her face and then Mama’s face and then my face. But she did not buy the lace.
“The school uniform,” said Alhaji in Izon, waving his hand over the colorful patterns.
School uniform!
Ezikiel was smiling and had his fist closed in front of his chest. What would our new school be like?
The woman standing behind the materials was nodding and nodding every time Grandma held up a lace. When Alhaji said “school uniform,” she suddenly stopped nodding. Her head was perfectly still when she pulled out the plain material the color of ground-dirt and began unfolding it until Grandma nodded and held up her hand. Then the market woman cut the material with the biggest pair of scissors I had ever seen and began folding it up again before wrapping it in newspaper and handing it to Grandma.
After we had bought our school cloth from the market, I thought we would be going straight back to the car. As we walked away, I wanted to ask Mama or Grandma about our new school. I had so many questions. How would we get to school? Was it a big school? Would we have lunch from home or at school? But Alhaji waved his hand for us to follow him. We walked to the side of the market and into a shop where a man with a tape measure hanging around his neck stood by the doorway as if he expected us. Ezikiel and I took turns standing on a stool while he wrapped the measure up and down and around us. And then Grandma handed the material over to the man.
“I will send the driver for it,” Alhaji said.
The tailor nodded and watched us walk out. I wondered what Youseff would think about picking up our school uniforms. Did Youseff’s too many children go to the same school? Would Fatima and Yasmina be in my class?
We did not walk back toward the car. Alhaji waved his hand again. The shop we followed him into was quiet and cool with air-conditioning. I closed my eyes and felt the air land on my skin. I took as many cool breaths as possible.
“I would like to speak urgently with brother Onogaganmue,” Alhaji said.
The counterman rolled his eyes. He was wearing a T-shirt with no sleeves. Thick hair grew from his shoulders. “Not here.” He yawned. He spoke in English. I wondered if he was Ijaw.
“I need to know the side effects and precise action of this drug.” Alhaji shook the bottle in front of the counterman’s face.
“Sir”—the counterman leaned forward and rested his head on his hands; his vest lowered enough to see that he had breasts—“you need to wait for the pharmacist. I am only the till man.” He pressed a button on the till, it beeped, and the money tray flew forward. Then he pushed it shut with the back of his hand.
I could not see Alhaji’s face from where I was standing behind him, but Ezikiel’s eyes were open wide. The cold air was tickling my throat; I wanted to cough.
“No matter,” said Alhaji after a long silence. “I will explain to you. You ought to know the pharmaceuticals you are selling. That way, if another customer enters you can be of more help. You see?”
I wondered why Alhaji asked the counterman a question when he already knew the answer.
Every so often, Alhaji turned to check that Grandma, Mama, Ezikiel, and I were still listening.
“This Robb,” he continued, undoing the top of a small pot and sticking it in front of all our noses, “is not so good. Many people use it on cuts, but I have discovered something better and more effective.” He looked around at us. We nodded at the same time, like puppets on the same string. Alhaji opened his bag and pulled something out.
“Marmite,” he said, “is the most effective in healing wounds.”
Grandma groaned again, quite loudly.
Everyone else looked down to the floor.
When I looked back up, the counterman was shrugging his hairy shoulders. “Are you going to buy those tablets?”
Alhaji did not say any words for five of Ezikiel’s breaths.
“No,” he said, at last, “I do not require these.”
On the way out of the shop, I looked back to see the counterman scratching his head and frowning.
We were nearly back at Alhaji’s when Youseff slowed the car. “Routine federal patrol,” said Alhaji. Sharp wires were stretched across the road. Three policemen were standing at the roadside, waving their arms up and down. They laughed. Youseff leaned toward Alhaji, who said something to him quietly. The car stopped. Alhaji rolled down the window. I could hear faraway clapping that reminded me of a revival Father had taken us to. Father. I tried to imagine his face. It was not clear.
Alhaji smiled as a policeman came toward us. He was as tall as Youseff and as wide as Grandma. A gun was a sleeping baby on the policeman’s back. A gun! It was the first time I had seen a rifle that close. I could not stop looking at it. Grandma looked straight ahead. She pressed on my arm until my head turned away from the gun.
“Papers,” he said in English. Alhaji opened the glove compartment and pulled out some papers, which he handed out of the window. Another policeman came over and looked at Alhaji, half closing his eyes in the bright sunlight.
“Is that Sotonye? Or should I call you Alhaji Amir now?” As the policeman spoke, Alhaji exhaled and his shoulders dropped as if he had been holding a large breath. The policeman turned to the other policeman. “This man attended my church for twenty years. A few months in the north and suddenly he is Muslim!”
I was surprised to hear that Alhaji had been Christian. I knew that Mama had grown up Christian, of course, but it had not occurred to me that Alhaji must have been Christian then. I could not imagine Alhaji without his mosque or his loudspeaker. I could not imagine Alhaji clapping at a revival. The faraway clapping was so fast, and I could not imagine Alhaji’s hands coming together quickly.
“Get out of the vehicle,” said the first policeman. Alhaji laughed and jumped out. He had to stretch his arm up to reach and pat the policeman’s shoulder. Alhaji’s head moved from the policemen to the area behind and to the sides of them. What was he looking for?
“Yes, it is me—Alhaji,” he said. “How is your family?”
The shorter policeman ignored him and looked over his papers. “You need to give a little something to help us process this,” said the large one.
“You have my papers. Really, friend, is this required?” Alhaji raised his body up toward Allah instead of bowing it away from him, which made more sense to me anyway. I was still looking out of the window at the gun, and at Alhaji, even though my eyes were staring straight ahead. Grandma and Mama were doing exactly the same. Ezikiel was staring straight at Alhaji, with his mouth open. With his hand he was pressing his pocket, probably checking for an inhaler. I wondered why Grandma did not press on Ezikiel’s arm until his head faced forward.
Even stretched up as far as he could, Alhaji looked tiny compared to the policemen. I looked at the back of Youseff’s neck. I hoped he would get out of the car and make Alhaji appear taller. But he sat still, chewing a toothpick, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were changing color.
“Give us something, or we will have to question you further”—the taller policeman waved to a windowless hut at the roadside—“at the station.”
The wooden hut was tiny. The windows were closed and the door had a piece of wood holding it shut. It must have been dark inside, and hotter than I could imagine.
Alhaji stopped laughing. “Are you crazy?” he asked. Grandma curled her little finger around my wrist and pressed, digging her nail in. The taller policeman threw Alhaji’s papers on the ground and touched the gun on his back. He waved it. My stomach dropped. I wanted to hold on to Grandma’s arm but I was scared of moving. My hands were shaking. I felt light at the back of my head, as though I were falling. I wished Father was there. Father would know what to do. He always knew what to do.
“Give us something. I am not asking.”
Alhaji looked to the shorter policeman. “Are you going to let this work colleague talk to me like
that?” Alhaji spoke quickly and out of breath, as if he had been running. The shorter policeman laughed and leaned toward Alhaji’s face. He looked in the car, making Grandma dig her fingernail further into my skin. I kept my eyes straight ahead. Even so I could feel the policeman looking at me. My skin burned. I looked at the sun, which had dropped down in front of the car. I looked straight at it until my eyes could see nothing but light.
“Does he think he is a Big Man?” The policeman spoke to us all, so loudly that Youseff’s sudden coughing could not hide the words.
Alhaji’s eyes became wide and gray. “I will be telling my friends at the Executive Club about this,” he said in a loud voice. Youseff stopped coughing. “You will be in severe trouble.”
I wondered what the Executive Club was. It sounded important.
The shorter policeman laughed first. Then the tall policeman.
The shorter policeman pushed Alhaji against the car. “How are you a Big Man?” he asked. “Only one wife and no son!” He pushed Alhaji again.
Alhaji bounced as if the car were made of sponge. Grandma dug her fingernail so far into my wrist that the skin broke. The stinging pain made me want to pull my hand away. But I did not move. I focused on trying to keep breathing. The air was hot going into my nose. I needed to cough. Tears filled my eyes, and the light world became blurry.
Grandma reached for her bag with her other hand and took out some crumpled naira notes. She passed the naira out of the window gap at the taller policeman.
The faraway clapping sounded quicker, nearer. Both policemen flicked their heads around at the same time.
The shorter policeman snatched the naira from Grandma’s hand. “At least one has sense,” he said, then passed Alhaji’s papers to Grandma. He put the money into his pocket and pushed the gun further onto his broad back. The policemen waved the car forward. Their heads were looking all around for the clapping. Alhaji rubbed his side where he was pushed against the car. He climbed into his seat and shut the door. He opened his cosmetic case and began to swallow tablets without any water. “Your superiors will hear of this,” he said, quietly, as we drove away.
Tiny Sunbirds, Far Away Page 4