Butterfly Fish

by Irenosen Okojie

  Eventually it became who could outperform the other and this created a litany of rivalries like tiny stones in Odion’s eye. Ogiso did not know his place. One day they argued, worse than ever before. But this argument did not come from thin air. It had been sniffing at them for years, waiting for the scent of distrust and resentment to line their dealings the way soft silk lined the inside of a decadent outfit. Fuelled by anger and full of simmering resentments Ogiso left the kingdom but vowed to return one day to reclaim what he insisted was also rightfully his. He was warned to never return again.

  Ogiso was found in the town of Epoma, amongst a plethora of like-minded bandits, caught in his bed, in that sweet induced state between being half asleep, half awake. They brought him to the palace in heavy, hard chains that cut into his wrist. Oba Odion fought with the burden that landed his way. He sought out his council for advice and they insisted Ogiso be tried; if found guilty, nothing less than death should be his punishment or the Oba would look like a weak king. Strangely, Ogiso did not plead for Oba Odion’s mercy. He accepted his fate, switching between whistling merrily and laughing hysterically. Four days after he arrived at the palace he was tried, and found guilty of scheming to overthrow the king by every single member of the council. All fourteen of them.

  Ogiso’s last words were to insist Oba Odion have the courage to personally tell his mother what he had done to her son. Oba Odion did show a mercy of sorts; instead of being beheaded, Ogiso was hung. He was taken to a spot deep within the heart of a near forest. When his neck snapped and his feet spasmed next to the trunk of a bewildered ebony tree, a crushing pain exploded in Ogiso’s mother’s head and shot all the way down to her toes at the same moment. After she was told the news of her son’s death, she was unable to move the right side of her body. It was paralysed by despair and loss. From that day onwards until she passed, Ogiso’s mother would slur from the far left corner of her mouth every morning the mantra that Oba Odion should receive a fate worse than his father before him. Her daily ritual was done, without fail.

  Craftsman Ere was called to one of the king’s chambers on an afternoon when the sun was intent on punishing the inhabitants of Benin. It was so hot that a person could be tempted to walk around naked had it not been for social etiquette. People were gulping pails of water as if Benin had turned into a desert overnight. Little children waded into the shallow ends of rivers to cool down and older ones splashed their faces enthusiastically. Ere met the Oba standing next to the wide square window that overlooked the main courtyard in the palace. There were intricately designed, plump, dark brown cushions on the floor. Throws in hues of amber, gold and maroon covered the circular, tall chairs made from the finest teak wood. A large, straw coloured mat trimmed with red beads lay on the ground. The high ceiling was golden and copper plaques showing old battles decorated the walls. The room had a subdued glow, as if it was waiting for a soldier from a plaque to come to life, pull the ceiling off and let it combust with light.

  “Oba, you called for me?” Craftsman Ere said, bowing his head. Oba Odion faced him squarely, unlocking his hands from behind his upright back.

  “I want you to make a brass head in Ogiso’s likeness for my collection.”

  Craftsman Ere sprang back, startled. “Surely you cannot be serious Oba?”

  The Oba’s face crumpled, “Do I look like a jester? Explain yourself!”

  “Oba, I know it is tradition to often make pieces in honour of your conquests but I think in this case you should make an exception.”

  The Oba stroked his chin as though it had suddenly grown a beard. “Why make an exception this time? Ogiso was an enemy, who showed no regret for his actions.”

  “Oba, he was your friend, and like a brother to you before.”

  Oba Odion raised his hand abruptly. “Have you forgotten who stands before you?”

  “No Oba, I feel this is not right, my concern is for you. It is asking for trouble.”

  “Ere, I will be the judge of what or who is trouble. Never question my authority again, or you and your family will find yourselves thrown out of the palace. It is only because of the great work you’ve done that I am sparing you.”

  Craftsman Ere, being a man who knew when he was beaten, gave up and held his tongue from arguing any further.

  “I expect this to be a wonderful example of your skill, Ere and remember as much in Ogiso’s likeness as possible.”

  Craftsman Ere nodded and only the pulse in the side of his neck fluttered. It was his final sentence of protest.

  The next day Craftsman Ere began to work on producing the brass head. He recalled every feature of Ogiso’s. He set about sharpening his tools and choosing the best brass the palace stocked. First Ere made a wax model of Ogiso which was framed over a clay core. When he finished the model, he painstakingly applied the clay over the wax, almost tenderly, pausing now and again to admire the lines of the figure. Ere started to detail the dead warrior: the flared nose, wide forehead and tribal markings. He was so saddened by the death of this man, he barely realised he’d made a small tear of betrayal at the corner of the model’s eye.

  That night, the tear fell then evaporated into the air. The next day, the children of the kingdom began to change. Filled with an overwhelming sadness, they ran to the rivers’ edges crying quietly into the waters. They gathered around trees holding long, dark cloths, circling the trunks and communicating in a silent language only they understood. They clustered at the palace windows grabbing and squeezing their throats violently, feet jerking uncontrollably while they tried to be still. For four nights, the children did not sleep. They wandered the kingdom with bloodshot eyes cloaked in a heavy, melancholy silence. At night they sat in the king’s garden, crying into the soil. When their mothers found them, they removed tiny brass tears from the corners of their eyes. They held their children’s brass tears over fires, watching them melt into the lines of their palms.

  For the next stage, Ere proceeded to heat, then melt Ogiso’s model, pouring it into a mould. Later, after the clay hardened, he began to chip and cast the image. When the brass head was finished, the children became themselves again, though there was no ceremony to honour the completion, no celebration of the return of the children’s laughter, no music that ignited the switch of hips no thunderous applause. Instead it was presented on an evening when a hushed silence fell on Benin. And the clouds coughed raindrops that dampened not just the land but the spirit of people.

  Once the rain passed Benin looked like a kingdom that had risen from under water and was drying itself off. Craftsman Ere had worked long hours to ensure the head was finished on time. He had joked with his wife that you could fill a large metal bowl with the amount of sweat he had produced over this task. Ere was convinced he had been watched. There was no proof of this except there was occasionally a whoosh of air that threw dust in the doorway of his workroom followed by the sound of rapid steps in the distance. When he had relayed these fears to his wife, she promptly squashed them with a lashing from her mouth, and warned him not to embarrass their family with tales based on hot air.

  When Oba Odion finally first saw the brass head, he studied it hard for so long without a word that Craftsman Ere was forced to ask, “Oba is it to your satisfaction?” The Oba touched it tentatively, as if afraid his hand would be snapped off.

  “It is too much like Ogiso, as if he is standing here before me!”

  Craftsman Ere shifted his weight from one leg to the other along with his patience. “But Oba, that is what you asked me to do. I did as you instructed.”

  “I did as you instructed,” Oba mimicked him. “Don’t you have a mind of your own? ‘In his likeness’ does not mean I want it in his exact image.”

  Craftsman Ere gritted his teeth; a braver man would have slapped the Oba. He saw himself doing so in his head, a slap for every day he had spent producing this artefact now met with scorn. Instead he said, “Oba what would you have me do? Surely you cannot expect me to make another one?”


  “No, you will not have to make another head,” Oba Odion said, but it sounded hollow, as if the words were coming from far away and not him.

  “Besides,” he added, “I am now sick of the sight of you Ere.”

  “I only did my best Oba, after all, this was what you asked for,” Craftsman Ere grumbled, feeling deeply insulted that the Oba had not complimented his skill and hard work. Stupid king! Just then a fly swept in encouraged by the heat and noise. It buzzed around perusing the Oba’s chamber as if deciding if it was good enough to languish in. It finally settled on a tiny crack in the wall that looked like it was a scar healing.

  “Will it be displayed with the other pieces Oba?” He watched as Oba Odion tried to kill the fly and failed. It laughed at him before rising to the ceiling for a celebratory jig.

  “I have not decided where it will go yet, when I have Ere you will know.”

  “Thank you Oba.”

  “You can go.”

  “Yes Oba,” he said, bowing again on his way out.

  Oba Odion thought long and hard about what to do with the brass head. He admitted the truth to himself only, which was that Craftsman Ere had been right, the brass head had an unsettling power about it. It was a little disturbing to see it finished, as if it would come to life the minute he turned his back. At night, he began to sweat thinking of the head. His heart rate increased whenever he passed it, a feeling of suffocation overtook his body. He couldn’t breathe looking at it. Oba Odion gave the brass head to Adesua and lied to her that it was in honour of their marriage, although this had never been the case by an Oba. She accepted it gratefully and when he handed it to her, it was the first time he had seen her smile in days, as if it had slipped from someone’s face and fallen onto hers. Word spread around the palace that the Oba was showing favour to his new young bride and upon hearing this the other wives seethed like boiling pots.

  Deep in a forest another body dangled from a tired tree. Dead for months, it too had sweltered in the heat. Oozing a rotten stench that stirred sated barks and crinkled the faces of leaves, stinging bush wilted and poisonous nettle shuddered, as the toes of the hanging frame trembled one last time, Ogiso left his body at last to find a new home.

  Vicarious through Fuchsia

  I threw on clothes and hopped on a few trains to Harlesden, to Williams and Co. Solicitors. The scent of curry goat and hot rotis wafting from the Caribbean takeaway meant I didn’t have to glance at the clock to know it was nearly lunchtime. Inside the building, Pauline the gatekeeper was typing swiftly on her PC and barking orders into a telephone handset. She winked before waving me through with a wiggle of her multi-tasking fingers. Mervyn was at the fax machine yanking documents out and scrunching them into paper missiles before flinging them into a wastebasket.

  “Hey,” I mumbled in greeting.

  He turned to face me. “Go inside nuh.”

  On his desk, a mug of steaming coffee rested dangerously near the edge. An atlas sat right next to a new photograph of Mervyn and his two sons in a boat in Jamaica. They were holding large crabs that looked as though they’d crawl over their heads and eat their expressions. Big smiles were plastered on their faces. Behind them the water was like a big, rippling blue sky.

  I studied his extensive library; Fly Fishing for Beginners and How Not to Kill Your Wife on Holiday held my attention among the heavy bound volumes of Law. He walked in whistling, more papers tucked under his left arm and clutching a bag of sweets in his right hand. He dumped them unceremoniously on the desk.

  “So wha’appen, answering machine brok’ up again?” He pointed to the bag and I popped a chewy cola bottle in my mouth.

  “Naw, I hardly check it.”

  “You’ve come for the diary,” he said.

  “How did you know that?”

  “Because I know you.” He stroked a finger over his lip and took a quick sip of coffee.

  “You haven’t read it have you?” I leaned forward in the chair watching for any deceptive body language.

  “Nope, I’ll admit I’m curious though.”

  “I don’t know why my mother didn’t give it to me years ago.”

  “Me neither but about three months before she died she came to see me.”

  “So?”

  “Well she was behaving odd like, agitated.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “Nah man, I told her to chill out, she was still young with plenty of time but she was insistent about the will, so I obliged.”

  He jangled some keys in his trousers before using it to unlock the bottom drawer. Took out the worn, black leather bound book and handed it over.

  “Thanks.” It felt warm against my hand and I bent to rest my ear on the cover as if it would speak. I plunged my finger in, flicked to a random page.

  I said, “I wonder what a handwriting expert could tell me about him from this?”

  “Somehow I don’t think you’ll need that,” he replied, stuffing three cola bottles in his mouth.

  Throughout most of the train journey back I clutched the journal tightly. It looked remarkably ordinary and was light to carry with a slightly stale smell. Besides some thumb indentations it was still in good condition. At some point I noticed the name Peter Lowon scrawled haphazardly inside the cover and the date beside the name read 1950. A black and white photograph slipped out. In it three black men wearing army uniforms sat around a tiny wooden table filled with beer bottles. A curvy woman sat in the lap of one man who appeared to be laughing at something the man opposite him was doing. It was the third gentleman who caught my attention. He was sat slightly apart from the others. There was a handkerchief tucked in his breast pocket. He watched the other two with an expression that can only be described as disdainful. I flipped the photograph over and printed on the back was Ijoma’s bar, Lagos. I thought about starting to read the journal on the District line from Mile End but when an arguing couple stepped inside my carriage, it was a reminder to save my reading for another time. I played with the idea of who these men were. How they were linked to my mother, if at all. When I got to my final stop, I let out a sigh of relief and felt deflated as if my body was a deployed airbag.

  Chewing Sticks

  A near-sated Benin now gorged on fat sunrays producing warm belches of air-spun dust that tethered to the tips of body hairs and coated the fingernails of its inhabitants. Adesua stood on the brink of being a little pleased. A sweeter alternative place to the misery she had experienced, not full happiness but a small portion she could be persuaded to dive into. This was because the Oba had handed over a peace offering that chipped somewhat at her newly erected barricade of a hard heart.

  Adesua had never seen anything like the brass head. It was so beautiful and so well polished that had it been possible to see her reflection in it, she would have found that an interference and attempted to wipe her image away just to continue admiring it. The proud expression captured on its face was disturbingly life-like and inspired the viewer to want to stand to attention. Adesua felt the sculpted face was the face of a true king, but of course did not say this to the Oba. Instead, she genuflected gracefully and thanked him for his consideration.

  Oba Odion in return forgetting his motivation for disposing of the object preened at her obvious pleasure. She was certain if he could have patted himself on the back he would have. He made a show of slapping his chest and announcing to her, let nobody say the Oba neglected his wives. He was so loud she was sure even the servants who kept their ears hovering near the ground at all times had already heard and digested the news and by the next day, would have repeated it to each other amidst their morning tasks while swapping complaints and gnawing on chewing sticks. Adesua did not complain when the Oba insisted he had court matters to see to, she caught the look of relief on his face, although, even that did not detract from the new prize in her possession.

  Oba Odion had eight wives. Eight wives who lined their chambers every morning like the curious bottles of perfume a Portugue
se ally had brought for him several seasons ago. Eight lives he attempted to delicately shelter depending on his mood. His platoon of women were there to bear his children and prop up his pride even when their hands were bruised and left wanting. Of course the Oba did not love all of his wives. This was a task he was convinced most men would fail at even if they tried, so he did not pretend to try. Sometimes he imagined himself cut into eight slices served on a different platter for each wife to swallow. They were an unlikely bunch, each one different to the next, like colourful seashells thrown into a sandpit of the palace rather than coughed up freely on the banks of the sea.

  Omotole was his third and favourite wife and the smartest of all, with dark beady eyes that pulled you into their depths. His fourth wife Ekere was always sickly and each season the palace fretted whether she would see the beginning of the next. She had an angular jutting face and looked like thin brown skin poured over walking bones. At night she clutched her youngest child to her side as if she would draw strength from his soft smooth fleshed youth. Filo the fifth wife wore her sadness on her wrists like haphazard bracelets that wounded her skin. Her womb had apologetically born three dead babies, and on days when the air was thick with disdain for all who resided in the royal enclave, she could be found wandering the grounds harassing whoever she encountered to return her children. When the Oba had important guests visiting, she was kept hidden as if she were dirt sullying the Oba’s name.

  The sixth wife Remitan was known to stretch the truth as though it was a large ball of string. Most people in the palace believed every other word she uttered was a lie. Her hair was the envy of many. Full and long, it was the colour of a raven’s wing; it spiralled down her back in a tumbling curly mass. Sometimes she would be spotted leaning against the palace walls and joked that it was the weight of carrying so much good hair that caused her to pause for breath. The seventh wife Ono was feisty and held the moral heart of the group. The first two wives Kemi and Ore were busy bodies. They were opposite in every way except for their love of rumours and gossiping with each other.