by Ben Okri
ELEVEN
Contending dreams (2): god of the insects
MY SPIRIT WAS reeling from the violence of the dreams of the new nation when I found myself in what I thought was a cooling place. I found myself in the great white house of the Governor-General.
The Governor-General lay asleep in his spacious room. He was dreaming that Africa was inhabited not by human beings but by a monstrous variation of black insects. The insects hindered his complete domination of the continent. In his dream he was surrounded by a jungle where primitive drums tapped out the ritual signals of cannibalism. Deeper into the jungle he went, till he saw his daughter bound by natives in a clearing. He screamed, and his dream changed. Then he saw the black insects everywhere, gigantic in size. They had the faces of his servants and watchmen. They had horrid wings and wore big boots. The insects descended on him and he fired a shot from his double-barrelled rifle, and the air cleared. He turned over on the bed.
With the blood leaking out of the numerous places on his body where the insects had bitten him, the Governor-General then dreamt of a luxurious road over the ocean, a road that was fed from all parts of Africa. A macadam road of fine crushed diamonds and sprinkled silver and laminated topaz. A road that gave off the sweet songs of mermaids and nereids. Beneath this marvellous road there were dead children and barbarous fetishes, savage masks and broken spines, threaded veins and matted brains, decayed men and embalmed women. It was a road made from the teeth and skulls of slaves, made from their flesh and woven intestines. In the Governor-General’s dream this was a heroic and beautiful road, a milestone in the annals of human accomplishment.
There was a gigantic sign at the mouth of the road that read:
HEART OF WORLD
It was indeed a splendid road. It had been built by the natives, supervised by the Governor-General. He dreamt that on this beautiful road all Africa’s wealth, its gold and diamonds and diverse mineral resources, its food, its energies, its labours, its intelligence would be transported to his land, to enrich the lives of his people across the green ocean.
Deep in his happy sleep the Governor-General dreamt of taking the Golden Stool of the Ashante king, the thinking masks of Bamako, the storytelling rocks of Zimbabwe, the symphonic Victoria Falls, the shapely tusks of Luo elephants, the slumbering trees of immemorial forests, the languorous river Niger, the enduring pyramids of the Nile, all the deltas rich with oil, the mountains rifted with metals apocalyptic, the mines shimmering with gold, the ancestral hills of Kilimanjaro, the lexicon of African rituals, the uncharted hinterland of Africa’s unconquerable spirits. He dreamt of taking Africa’s timber-like men, their pomegranate women, their fertile sculpture, their plaintive songs, their spirit-worlds, their forest animals, their sorceries, their myths and their strong dances. He dreamt that the natives would transport all these resources tangible and intangible, on their heads, or on litters, walking on the great road, in an orderly single file, across the Atlantic Ocean, for three thousand miles. He dreamt of having all these riches transported to his land. Some of them would be locked up in air-conditioned basements, for the benefit of Africa, because Africans did not know how to make the best use of them, and because his people could protect them better. He dreamt of having them in the basement of a great museum, to be studied, and to aid, in some obscure way, the progress of the human race.
He dreamt of the great road on which all the fruits and riches of African lives would be directed towards sweetening the sleep of his good land. He did not dream of the hunger he would leave behind.
At the end of this momentous road, there was another sign, which read:
BRAVE NEW DARKNESS
An insect flew above the Governor-General’s sleeping form. It settled on his eyelid, and drew blood from his vision. The particulars of his dream changed again. In the new dream he became a luminous god who needed to drink souls and suck blood in order to regenerate the human race. He became a radiant demiurge who needed the impure to maintain his purity. He became a sun-god who had to devour the primitive in order to create paradise. The blood of the continent was the precise elixir needed to sustain his divine status in the universe of humanity. In his dream he sucked out the blood of the natives of the continent and he drank in the very soul of the continent itself. Then he spun a fine golden web which divided and enmeshed the mighty land. Then he infected the natives with his deism. He made them his worshippers. He made them want to recreate themselves in his image, and to suck the blood of their own kind, for the benefit of his divine status, and for his people across the mythic ocean.
His dreams shocked him but he made no effort to change them to something better. Those who cannot transform their bad dreams which might become real, should be rudely awoken.
The Governor-General dreamed on. And while he dreamt, the karmic dust of angels lay waiting in the universal chambers of Time.
The Governor-General’s dreams sowed misery in the realms where dreams become real. But he lived long enough to witness the first of the ambiguous harvests of the karmic dust of angels.
TWELVE
Contending dreams (3): good disguised as bad
WHEN THE INSECT had finished drawing blood from his eyelid it flew over to his lips. It was beginning to draw blood from his utterances, when the Governor-General woke up suddenly. He was drenched in sweat that he thought was blood. In his disorientation he saw the white walls covered in black insects. He fled from the house, half-naked, screaming into the night, startling me.
I found myself floating in the air of dreams, circling in the crowded spaces of the atmosphere, till a gentle breeze blew me to the old woman in the forest. She was dreaming of a new breed of human beings. The creator-god was melting down the wicked forms of existing men and women, and inventing better ones, with finer minds and a universal sense of humour. She dreamt good dreams that were disguised as bad ones. She dreamt of the chaos to come, of the short reign of colonial domination, of the fevers and the awakening spirits which would break out on the nation. She dreamt of the suffering to come which would either waken people to the necessity of determining their lives or make them dependents of world powers, diminished for ever. She dreamt of new forms of government, based on the old, open to inspiration from all over the world. She dreamt of new fictions and a new poetics, new ideas sprung from the old earth of our ancient philosophies and traditions. She dreamt many years in advance, into the new millennium, when the ambiguous gifts of karmic angels had enfeebled the former world powers and when the salvation of the earth would be in the hands of the righteous peoples of this world, unknowing custodians of the best secrets of life. She dreamt of an age of fire, when the sun had moved closer to the earth and burned through the protective atmospheres. Her dream made my spirit hot.
THIRTEEN
The angel and the shrine
I SPUN HIGHER on the currents of the dreaming land. I kept trying to get back into my body, but I found myself again in Madame Koto’s room. She had been awoken from her bad dreams by a crackling candle. Awoken into a deeper dream. She heard a heavenly voice singing an intense melody behind her. At the same moment that she looked back, and twisted her neck, she realized that she was staring into the terrifyingly beautiful eyes of a yellow angel.
Madame Koto became aware of the abnormal heat of her space. The yellow angel stared with radiant eyes at Madame Koto’s fetishes and masquerades. It stared at the great female image with red stones for eyes and reflecting sunglasses, a machete in one hand, and peacock feathers sticking out of its headdress. The blood of animals and countless libations glistened on its body. The angel gazed at this image of a secret religion.
Madame Koto was so terrified at the incandescent presence of the angel that, not knowing whether she was awake or dreaming, she cried out, and backed away in horror. But the yellow angel embraced her with its flaming wings of gold. Madame Koto turned her head away, her heart bursting into flames.
A moment later, she was alone. She was on her bed. Her body
bristled with the low crackling flames of gold ash. She slept with her head buried under the pillows, her neck twisted, weeping in silence.
FOURTEEN
Resilient ash
I SLEPT BADLY that night. My head ached with feverish afterglows.
I saw the angel hovering over our area, disturbing the spirit of the blind old man, who would later come out in yellow pustules.
The angel lingered over our street, subtly altering our dreams, planting unconquerable alternative ways deep in our souls, sprinkling resilient ash over our sleeping bodies, strewing the white powder of music and beauty in our hearts, and spreading unknown regenerative powers in our blood – so that we might survive all the suffering that was to come.
FIFTEEN
The ambush of reality
IN THE MORNING the golden glare of the sun woke us up. I noticed that Dad had changed. His spirit, about to be broken by the suffering to come, had become purer. The gold-ash staining his face from his prison experience had changed into a green furry growth. Mum too had become different. She had somehow become more fiery, and more concentrated.
In spite of the fact that the golden glare of sunlight woke us up, it wasn’t going to be a normal day. Normality had long ago fled from our lives. A new fever would now run in our veins and in our days.
As we prepared for the new day, we heard the talking drums, the loud hailers, the flourish of instruments, the clash of metal, and the piercing voice of the dawn-criers telling us that the event had arrived. Powerful nightmares and unresolved histories had accelerated time. Before we knew it the moment of the much-delayed rally was upon us. It ambushed us in the midst of our dreams.
III
BOOK SIX
ONE
Draw a deep breath for a new song
I AM A spirit-child wandering in an unhappy world. Draw a deep breath, for my new song is pitched to the wings of those birds of omen, birds that fly into new dawns, changing with their flight into the forms of future ages.
TWO
Call of the political rally
AFTER A GREAT dream often comes great chaos. The failure to follow the best dreams of our lives all the way to the sea might be one of the secret agonies of angels.
With the call of the rally another new cycle launched itself in our universe. Without knowing it we entered an era of implacable chaos. While we slept we had strayed into the groove of time where the raging heart of our problems took the form of nightmares. The nightmares came alive amongst us.
All through the afternoon of the new day Dad went round bewildered by the low green growth on his face. He was also confused by supporters of the Party of the Rich. They had overrun the streets. They were everywhere, in terrifying numbers. They poured out from the familiar houses. They materialized, from all over our area, like a previously invisible army.
They had been sleeping amongst us, seemingly innocent. And now, with the call of the rally, they thundered on the roads, singing war songs. Trucks and lorries, grinding up and down our streets, blared the party’s anthem. And crackling loud hailers urged us all to vote for the party, the only party that would guarantee stability and prosperity. We had heard those promises a thousand times before. We had heard them from thugs.
Up and down our area there were clashes between warring factions. People bolted their doors. Children were forbidden to go out. Those who had heard about the troubles in advance had fled to their villages. Very few of the people we knew stayed to witness the violence of the new season. But Dad, spoiling for a fight that would redefine him, went about the place denouncing the party, calling them cowards and bullies for using threats to compel people to vote for them.
It was a day of noises. Drums and trumpets fuelled the energies of party vigilantes. Gangs of thick-necked men ran everywhere with flags in their hands and political banners that spoke of victory in advance. The road was exhausted that day with all the footfalls, all the thudding and pounding. Crowds of women, wearing the matching dresses of the party, poured up the street, gathering supporters, singing party songs. We heard rumours that the rival party, the Party of the Poor, was staging a rally of its own nearby. We saw vanloads of fierce-eyed policemen and soldiers in battle fatigues. They came to control the events, to manage the crowds, and to combat any opposing factions. They came with guns and whips, batons and tear gas.
In the afternoon, as we sat in the room, listening to the noises of terror all around, Dad said:
‘The strangest things will happen today.’
We were silent, listening to the hundreds of footsteps pouring in one direction. We listened to the organized chanting of marketwomen, to the fury of party henchmen and street-runners.
Dad said none of us should attend the rally. He sat in his chair, his muscles straining his shirt, his eyes shut. The green growth was clear on his face. He kept working his jaws, trying to contain his insurgent energies, sweating. Mum was silent. Flies buzzed in the room. It was a little dark. As I sat there, watching Dad, something came in through the door like a luminous breeze. After a while I heard a voice, in an enchanted whisper, say:
‘The rainbows are coming.’
It was Ade, my dead friend. I looked around the room but couldn’t see him.
‘The six-headed spirit has been asking after you,’ he said, with sublime mischief in his voice.
‘Why?’
‘Why what, Azaro?’ asked Mum.
‘Because you owe him something,’ replied Ade.
‘Lie!’
‘I’ve never lied to you, my son,’ said Mum.
‘You’re going to see my father today,’ came Ade, obliquely.
‘Where?’
‘On stage.’
‘Performing?’
‘No.’
‘Doing what then?’
Mum towered over me.
‘Breaking the planks.’
‘Why?’
‘Azaro, what’s wrong with you? Are you talking to yourself again?’
‘No.’
‘Yes,’ Ade said, in delight, trying to confuse me.
‘Why?’ I asked again.
‘Why what?’
‘Why will your father be breaking the planks?’
Mum gently placed her hand on my cheek. Dad turned his huge head towards me.
‘So that the birds can escape,’ Ade replied, eventually.
‘Escape to where?’
‘Shut up, Azaro,’ growled Dad.
‘To the sky, to the stars, where they belong.’
I was silent.
‘But your father will see blood today.’
‘No, he won’t,’ I said.
‘Yes, he will,’ Ade said.
Mum lifted me up and turned me round in the air.
‘If you’re going to talk like that – GO AWAY!’ I shouted.
Mum lowered me, held me tight and began whispering sweet words in my right ear.
‘Go away!’ I cried. ‘Go away.’
Mum held me tight, whispering gentle words, surrounding me with warmth. After a while I sensed in the new silence that the spirit of my friend was gone. But I listened hard, waiting to see if he would speak again. I shut my eyes, deep in my listening. I heard a distant wind raging over the trees. I heard all the political noises and all the cries. And then I heard fourteen feet, moving against the direction of the single-minded crowd, coming towards our house.
‘People are coming here!’ I cried.
‘What people?’ asked Dad.
‘Women,’ I said.
‘What women?’
Then I heard that sweet impish voice again.
‘Women who will vanish,’ Ade whispered to me.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
Mum put me down, went to the door, looked out, and saw nothing.
‘Azaro is talking rubbish,’ she said.
I waited for the footsteps; I waited for Ade’s elusive spirit-child voice. We sat in silence. I ached from all the buffeting in my sleep. I felt bruised all over, but
there were no signs of bruising.
Ade didn’t speak any more. My feet yearned to wander. The songs of the road were calling me. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. After a moment, the Photographer came in, with his lizard-like head and suspicious eyes. He was carrying his camera and his black bag of photographic equipment.
‘Why is everyone quiet in here?’ he asked. ‘And why is the room so dark, eh?’
No one said anything to him.
‘The world is full of strangers today,’ he said. ‘I saw them bringing truck-loads of supporters. I think there is going to be war, eh?’
Dad stared at him darkly. Mum offered him beer. He drank contemplatively. The silence lasted till we heard footsteps outside our door. Then in came the rowdy voices of the seven women who had followed Mum on her campaign to free Dad from prison. As if we had seen them only a moment ago, they entered our room without knocking. They were arguing noisily. They had come to ask Mum’s support for one of their husbands who was a trade unionist and who had been imprisoned for taking part in a strike against the government. Dad listened in silence, without moving. The Photographer perked up instantly, offering to go with them and publicize their new campaign.