Butterfly Fish

by Irenosen Okojie

  Butterfly Fish

  By

  Irenosen Okojie

  First published in this edition in Great Britain 2015 by

  Jacaranda Books Art Music Ltd

  5 Achilles Road

  London NW6 1DZ

  www.jacarandabooksartmusic.co.uk

  Copyright © 2015 Irenosen Okojie

  The right of Irenosen Okojie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Hardback ISBN: 978 1 909762 06 0

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978 1 909762 26 8

  eISBN: 978 1 909762 14 5

  Typeset in the UK in Adobe Caslon by Regent Typesetting

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  To my favourite usual suspects; mum, dad, Amen, Ota and Iredia, thank you so much for everything.

  Big love, always.

  Contents

  Part 1 Modern London, London 1970s & 19th Century Benin

  View

  In The Beginning

  Fish Out Of Water

  Full Stops and Heartbeats

  Simultaneous Equations

  The Advantage of Nmebe Soup

  Will

  Monkey Dey Work Bamboo Dey Chop

  Condition Make Crayfish Bend

  Wahala Don Wear Shoe

  Vicarious through Fuchsia

  Chewing Sticks

  Queenie, London 1970

  Random

  Cunning Man Die, Cunning Man Bury Am

  Gifts

  Queenie London 1970: London Nah Wah

  Ogoro Must Jump

  Drawing Tables

  Queenie London 1970: Gift Mouth

  Fist Of Drum

  Say Anon

  Part 2 Modern London, Lagos 1950s & 19th Century Benin

  Tandem

  Crying Fins

  Journal Entry December 12th 1955 Peter Lowon

  Able Bodied Thirsts

  Pupa: Stage 2

  Peter Lowon Journal Entry February 14th 1956

  Throw For Loop

  Braid in The Hat

  Footnote Parables

  Peter Lowon Journal entry March 20th 1956

  Two-Legged Race, Three Legged Stool

  Pendulum

  Talking Heads

  The Shape Of Traps

  Light Shade

  Peter Lowon, Journal entry October 1956

  Discombobulated Herd

  Applique for Beginners

  Peter Lowon, Journal Entry May 1961

  Rider Rendered Blue

  Part 3 Modern London & Lagos 1950s

  Scene

  Glass Feet Stoned

  Peter Lowon Journal Entry, July 1964

  Who

  Faces

  Light Spinning

  Periodic Elements

  Peter Lowon Journal entry July 1964

  Intermission

  Boat

  Chorus

  Semi Circle

  Incision

  Chesapeake

  Keyholes

  Fallow

  Circles

  Tracks

  Seeds

  Home

  Queenie 1980’s: Born

  Queenie 1980s: Dice Eyes

  Session

  Echo, Belly and the Rubik’s Cube

  Peter Lowon Journal Entry July 1964

  Benin

  Clay

  Part 1

  Modern London,

  London 1970s

  &

  19th Century Benin

  The Yeah Yeah Yeah Blueprint

  View

  A green palm wine bottle rolled on the wet London Street. Its movements were audible gasps made of glass. It didn’t matter how the bottle had arrived at its location under the curious yellow gaze of the lamppost or whether the messenger had been a postman delivering for both God and the dancing devil. The image unfurling inside the bottle shimmering like moonlight trapped in glass mattered. Lick the edges of the picture presented and you could taste the sour, sweet traces of palm wine and trap your tongue in a different time; 19th century Benin, Nigeria.

  A court was on display. An emerald-eyed man and a young woman attired in traditional Nigerian cloth were before a more ostentatiously dressed committee who bore glum expressions. The woman’s head was bowed and she clutched a pink beaded bracelet, rubbing it repeatedly between thumb and forefinger. The man spoke in a calm, measured tone, his fate already hardened inside the Adams’ apples in the room. An arm was raised, heads snapped up. Then the image in the bottle spun like a revolving door. Dust swirled, and a bushy path emerged. The man and woman were being led by soldiers who could perform the nifty trick of building distances between bodies in close proximity. The heat was thick and intense. Fallen branches lining the twisting path cracked loudly. Buzzing mosquitoes were winged witnesses. Reluctant to draw blood they formed a black net above the bobbing heads.

  Out of the dark London night a teenager being chased by two raucous friends, leaning for breath under the lamppost noticed the green glass glinting in the grey light. Slightly unsteady on his feet the boy swiped the bottle up and threw it against the wall, watching it smash. He yelped as the contents spilled out, an amorphous mass, images flickering like ancient film reel. The boy’s pupils were swimming in beer and he was uncertain of the picture before him as the scene dragged itself up the pavement, with bits of glass embedded in its outline. The bottom half of the bottle lay shattered on the ground. The scene continued to evolve, fragments of moonshine gleamed between puffs of red dust. Small movements fractured then reassembled as it hauled onwards stopping outside the chipped, wooden door of a quietly dark flat where only the sound of the trembling shrubbery flanking the recycle bin passed through the keyhole. It spun slowly on the thick, straw-coloured welcome mat. Inside the flat the young woman tossing in her sleep remained unaware of her breath clouding the surroundings, of turning her head towards two paths lined with coloured, broken glass, of the tiny people from the palm wine bottle pleading against her thumping heartbeat.

  In The Beginning

  The first time I met Mrs Harris, she’d told me she was certain that Buddy, her garden statue Buddha, had been eating her roses. Although, she’d added, there may have been a slim chance the fat, sepia-coloured cat of a neighbour was the one skulking around fighting her roses, who in turn offered only their blooms in scented, decorative peace offerings. Mrs Harris was my new next-door neighbour. A slight woman who chatted enthusiastically about all kinds of subjects, she lived alone and dressed like a hippy. Snow white hair hung past her shoulders in an unruly mess, shrouding her heavily lined face. A chicken pox mark on her left cheek looked like a teardrop. Her green eyes rippled with laughter and mischief.

  That morning, she stood at my doorstep, hair slightly damp, clutching a small dark blue container with the word “tea” peeling off at the corners. She smelled of an odd combination of cigarettes and baked bread. “It’s Buddy,” she said. “He’s gone missing.” The sky swirled a moody grey. Along the street, the sound of doors shutting heralded the morning rush hour.

  “Again?” I asked.

  Her eyes narrowed into slits. “Can
I come in?

  I nodded reluctantly, stepping aside to allow entry. We moved down the wood floor hallway, the smell of damp clothes heavy in the air, past my messy sitting room with the previous evening’s Chinese takeaway containers stacked on the floor, a large black and white picture of Jimi Hendrix blowing smoke into the lens commanding one wall. My mother’s bright throw was slung deliberately over the blue sofa smothering past indiscretions. We entered the kitchen.

  “Isn’t this the fifth time?” I asked. I wasn’t in the mood for visitors.

  I watched her make herself comfortable at the worn wooden table an old traveller man with blackened teeth had sold me. I felt sluggish and depressed but I took the blue container from her and added bags of tea before handing it back. Three knives drying in the sink gleamed invitingly, old watermarks arched on their silver blades. Buddy had gone missing for days on several occasions. Each time, he was returned safely to a different spot in Mrs Harris’s garden.

  I wasn’t certain if Buddy really did go off wandering -maybe it was a cruel trick played by bored kids on the street- or if Mrs Harris, a lonely, eccentric elderly woman engineered the whole thing just for some attention. There was genuine anger in her voice as she remarked, “I’m fed up of this happening! If I catch the little worm responsible God help them.”

  “Hey, you didn’t see anything did you?”

  I was slow to respond, putting the shiny kettle on and setting aside two cups with teabags, strings dangling down the side. “Can’t say I’ve been following Buddy’s movements.” I answered in an effort to make light of the situation.

  She laughed then, full bodied and warm. “I suppose I sound a little crazy to you. But you know, from where he was Buddy could see clear across several gardens. He was probably exposed to things he shouldn’t have been seeing.” This was said with such sincerity, my gaze lingered on her face but it was met with what appeared to be genuine candour. The pipes began to interrupt. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack., as though someone was throwing stones against them.

  “Oh God! You too! “Mrs Harris announced, groaning. “My pipes have been noisy all morning and now Buddy’s vanished. Not a good start to the day!”

  Sudden concern clouded her features. “Are you okay?” Your energy seems a little off.” The kettle blew warm breaths at the ceiling. It hissed and the red light at the bottom flicked off. I filled both cups, handed one over. “Oh you know, okay. Getting on with things, actually you caught me in the middle of something. I was running a bath.” The sweet scent of blackcurrant filled the air. Both teas were a rich plum hue that darkened our tongues as if with our individual anxieties.

  “You should have said dear, I don’t want to impose. I’ll finish my tea and be off, just thought you might have seen something, kids climbing the fence maybe.” She took another gulp, closed her eyes. “Oh that’s good, tea’s nice dear.”

  “Yes it is.” I answered. “Maybe Buddy’s gone off on a tea tasting tour of all the exotic flavours he can get his hands on.”

  “Maybe,” she said wryly.

  “Lucky Buddy.” I took a sip, felt a strong undercurrent of something dark that made my limbs become heavy. I longed to be left on my own. The knives and sink had blended into one silvery entity, dripping small figures with expressions of distress and bladed mouths. Each drop reverberated in my head. I imagined Buddy in the garden commanded by something unknown, leading other garden statues astray up the highway, wearing a blushing pink azalea as an eye patch.

  Mrs Harris gulped some more tea, interrupting my reverie. “You don’t like to spend much time in your garden?” she asked.

  “Never really gave it much thought.” My dressing gown knot began to uncurl. I tied it back tightly.

  “Ahh, I thought so. I can tell by the state it’s in. Gardening’s good for the soul.” She motioned at her head. “It’s a great stress reliever connecting with the soil like that. I can teach you sometime if you like? It’s simple enough.” She offered with an easy smile.

  “Thank you, that’s kind.”

  “I’ll tell you a secret.” She leaned in conspiratorially, “sometimes, I play classical music to my fruit and vegetable plants in the garden. It helps them grow you see!”

  I smiled at the notion, the element of surprise, saw her apples ripening, patches of red spreading around the sweetness of fruit skin to the swelling strains of Samuel Coleridge-Taylor’s violins and Chopin’s piano.

  “That’s genius,” I remarked appreciatively. “I’ll remember that.”

  She tossed back the remnants of her tea and stood. “I’ll leave you to it. Oh! Before I forget, I brought these for you.” From her pocket she dug out a small bag of nuts, tied at the neck with a red ribbon. “They’re Brazilian,” she continued. “Lovely robust spicy flavour; let me know what you think!”

  “Will do.” I waved her goodbye at the door as she breezed out.

  After she left I began washing up and as I opened the cupboard, slowly stacking the clean cups there it was, my mother’s favourite mug, its handle jutting out, a hand-painted mint leaf curved across its white body. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to get rid of it. Seeing it brought back images of mum swept in by the wind, a winter chill behind her, reaching for that mug, filling it with tea and regaling me with stories of her day. It’s funny how the very things that once irritated you about a person were the things you missed most when they were gone. Like phone calls held together by an invisible current, or rummaging through markets because we were two creased people who needed steam ironing. Lately I tried to fill the silences with… anything.

  Abruptly, a wave of fatigue swept over me. The thought of facing the day stripped any strength I had left. The stack of unopened letters I’d let build up on top of the DVD cabinet, upstairs the pile of dirty clothes overflowing from the laundry basket, the new battery I still needed to buy for the car, the call to the electricity company to stop them cutting me off. All the mundane dots we connect to keep going.

  When I stood it was in slow motion. I was weightless; I didn’t feel my feet touch the first step or know when I had made it to the top. I remember opening the bathroom cabinet and inside seeing the razor that had called me by my name.

  I ran myself a bath longing for the peace the water held out for me. Lying there I watched an insect circle the light bulb on the ceiling and envied its frenetic flight. For years I’d been fed on incongruous things; smudges on windows washed away by rain, static from the TV, white lines just before traffic lights, wilting in shaky, packed train carriages. On the need to hold my loneliness, watch it change shape yet essentially stay the same. I felt woozy, faint. In the tepid water my grip on things slipped. The small, silvery, distressed figures I’d seen earlier in the kitchen offered their limbs to the dropped, bloody razor as the frantic black eyes of the dice spun.

  At the hospital, I drifted in and out of consciousness a lot. One time, I caught sight of my blood eating into the bandages tightly wrapped around my wrists. When awake, I felt drowsy and dazed, unhinged. I saw myself at the end of a distant tunnel, vaguely aware of the things floating inside it. Of the glare of sunlight filtering through oppressively small windows, the blandness of the ward’s cream walls, the chattering between patients and visitors, terrible food distributed on wooden trays and the squeaky wheeled contraptions delivering them crying against a resigned floor.

  Other things lost their definition. I barely recalled swallowing tablets for the white, fabricated river lining my stomach. Nurses blended into one in those first few days. Strangely, I fixated on the staff with watches clipped onto the breast of their uniforms. Those compact keepers of time made me appreciate the beauty of small things and sometimes if I looked closely enough, the hands stopped or the Roman numerals disappeared. This gave the impression that somewhere a slate was being wiped clean.

  One evening Mrs Harris came to see me, She sat at the foot of my bed concern inhabiting her face. She was clad in a red tartan coat, black corduroy trousers and a thick, woolly bl
ue jumper. Her white hair was pale moonlight in the room. She picked at a thread on her jumper. “Will you be alright?” she asked in a paper-thin voice. Her green eyes were kind, non-judgmental. I was grateful for this. I cleared my throat, suddenly parched. “I don’t know.” I answered, words slow in my mouth, tongue half asleep, heavy with the realization I’d ended up in hospital.

  She leaned forward in the chair, clasped her hands together. “Is there anything you’d like me to do?” There was an odd tone in her voice. Not impatience or reproach but curiosity. Her pink lips were slightly upturned as though about to smile. I was drugged up and a little confused. Somebody dancing a life affirming ritual in the ward aisle could have appeared sinister to me. Hot shame burned into my bones. “… I don’t think so”. What should I have said? That I just wanted the horrible feeling to end. That I’d been walking around with this weird sense of doom for a while, having heart palpitations, anxiety attacks, not sleeping very well?

  She nodded gravely, stood and edged closer to the bed. I looked at the lines in her face wondering about the secrets they held.

  “Things happen dear, don’t feel embarrassed. Sometimes, all it takes is that extra thing for life to unravel, a small push on top of everything else.” She responded candidly, peered at me as though seeing me through a foggy window.

  “Thank you for what you did.” I held her gaze. “If you hadn’t had come back…”

  “It’s alright, my ring had dropped off somewhere.” She raised her finger in support. When you didn’t answer the door, I got worried.”

  We sat awkwardly in the moment, waiting for the noise of my crash landing to fill the silence.

  Mrs Harris made several visits. She was light and colour from the world outside. She entertained me with interesting news stories, gesturing dramatically as she talked. She brought vanilla cheesecake, avocadoes “to fatten you up!” A 1970s copy of Time magazine with a feature on Ella Fitzgerald, old magazines from The Petrie Museum on Egyptology, a packet of bright, lusciously rendered Iranian playing cards bought from a car boot sale and swathed in plastic bags several slim bottles of green ginger wine.