Butterfly Fish

by Irenosen Okojie

  Throw For Loop

  Filo was gradually turning to stone before the dismissive eyes of the palace, after their words that had been knives to her skin, driving her to check her body for cuts, had finished their assault. Her skin began to thicken into impenetrable layers of shame and loss. Now the laughter behind her back bounced off and the pitiful glances slipped through her fingers like tiny grains of sand. She still mourned the loss of her children, child after child and suffered all the heartbreak that came with it. She resented the role she occupied in the palace of the damaged, troubled wife. Even the Oba had completely lost interest. Then Omotole had become pregnant, and she could not find it within herself to pretend to be happy. Her blood ran cold in the punishing heat for no reason, and the other wives looked at her as if questioning why she could not pull happiness from inside herself and dangle it before them. It was selfish of her not to share in their joy. But when she thought of this all she saw was her gunk-filled hand, drenched in slime clutching the remains of her battered womb. So her heart had hardened, lodged within her chest, a fortress trapped within a fortress.

  Meanwhile Oba Odion refused to step in. He did nothing to help his forgotten wife. He caught distorted, miniature reflections of himself in her black pupils and believed it to be an attempt to suck him in. So he would skulk away, his face in a scowl, mouth disapprovingly grim. Filo’s anger grew. It was then that Filo realised waiting for one person to breathe life into you with guilt-soaked breath could break you, just a little, each day.

  So when the brass head called her, she was unable to resist its slow, rolling whisper. Soft yet insistent, it had fondled her lobes before slipping inside her eardrums, saying her name softly, repeatedly. She carried it as though it had always belonged to her. The weight of it had rested comfortably between her thin arms, and she had hopped daintily to her quarters, ignoring the sandstorm brewing between her toes.

  Inside the disarray of her chamber, the heat emanating from the brass head singed her rough fingers. She accidentally dropped it on her foot. That act jarred her into thinking; now I am even stealing. It was only when Adesua came to see her that the humming inside stopped. She thought she would resent Adesua for coming to take back what belonged to her but she didn’t. She could not have imagined she would welcome the company of another wife, but Adesua’s presence had calmed her. Somehow, silently a common ground was discovered. Yet behind her raised knees, something inside her locked. The birds could have told her when it had happened because they were waiting, hoping their soft-feathered breasts would muffle the sound when it surely came. When it did, the birds had flown away, and Filo decided to stop crumbling beneath her desperation.

  Nestled within a room in the shoulder of the palace, Sully stood behind Oba Odion who was slumped in his chair. You could almost taste the Oba’s sweat in the room and the terracotta walls, punished long enough, could have been shrinking within themselves. Since the Oba had appointed Sully as his personal guard a funny, unexpected thing happened. Oba Odion began to confide in him, his tongue loosened by a well of stories and incidents. Sully was an attentive listener, and he ahhed and tutted when required to do so. If his face began to crumple, he would stop himself and smooth his expression down.

  When the Oba started talking of his wives, he found himself genuinely riveted by the Oba’s tales and how different each wife sounded. And eventually, when the Oba mentioned Adesua’s name, Sully felt his face flush, his pulse dance against his temple. He lifted the Oba gingerly and rested his back against the seat properly. The Oba let slip that he did not trust his council, and that they in return simply tolerated him. Sully glanced through the window; the afternoon light was now dimming slowly, changing into the more seductive, burnished glow of evening. He could hear the chatter of hens and imagined them pecking at each other, charging around in delicious freedom sniffing each other’s backsides. There was an orangey tint to the sky. Oba Odion’s mumbling in his stupor drew Sully’s gaze back. There was a crack in the ground in the back corner of the room, and he wondered what secrets of the palace had slid inside it. Voices travelled through the apartment blocks and the surrounding area, Oba Odion spluttered, the coughing racked his body. Sully patted the Oba’s back and offered him his hand; Oba Odion stuck his hand out limply in response. The Oba’s hand turned into a piece of thread, and all Sully had to do was hold on to the tip while it continued to unravel.

  Soon after that, while attempting to deposit the Oba in his quarters as discreetly as possible, he saw Adesua. Ironically Sully was steadily carrying the Oba, an arm thrown behind his neck and across his shoulder, when he caught the flash of a green, patterned cloth. She was standing beside the tall, sturdy worn pillar watching her husband as though he was a stranger. And she did not rush forward to flounder after him. She rubbed her neck, sighing and throwing an irritated look, as if she wanted them to disappear from view. A little servant girl approached Adesua and genuflected. The girl smiled as Adesua picked her up. Keen to get the Oba to his quarters, Sully continued to lead him gingerly through small clusters of people who wore embarrassed expressions and chuckled under their breaths.

  Sully dumped the Oba unceremoniously in his chamber, barely flinching as he hit his mat with a thud. The Oba giggled and pointed, “I like you, good man,” before slouching back onto the floor. Sully fumed, the Oba’s indignity taunted him. Is this what you came here for? It said. He could only crouch down and watch, in response, patience simmering under his skin. He contemplated throwing water over him but this was the king, an Oba who was trying to dilute the fervour of something nipping away at him. He could feel dust and grainy bits between his toes. There were grainy bits inside him; they needed to be smoothed away. Deep down he knew only one thing could do it. His face twisted at himself and his surroundings. A guava sat on the mantle beside him, plump and beckoning. He reached for it, took a chunk out, but he couldn’t taste it.

  Braid in The Hat

  It happened accidentally. Not that you could follow somebody by accident but Sully had not planned it. He had been scouting for trails out of the kingdom; one because he enjoyed it and two, it was always better to be prepared. He was mentally mapping his latest route which began from the back of the soldiers’ quarters, then wound behind the long, dusty new road which had delivered him to the palace gates that fateful day. He was chewing kola nuts, savouring their slightly bitter taste when he spotted a familiar looking, slender young woman darting past, wrapper hiked up and what looked like a broken wooden spear in her hand.

  Quick on her feet, she turned occasionally to look around. He paused behind an Iroko tree, recognising the king’s youngest wife. Good grief, he thought. What on earth is that creature up to? How had she managed to slip out of the palace unnoticed and more importantly, how did she do so with that spear in her possession? He chuckled at the thought, waiting for some distance between them before emerging to pursue her discreetly. She headed in the direction of the river, humming to herself, elated at the feeling of freedom. Dust tongues of quiet Gods stilled. Footsteps of hidden creatures with stones in their mouths rustled crinkled leaves. The heat was punishing. Sully’s skin had browned somewhat since arriving in Benin but it still burned now and again.

  As he watched Adesua weaving between trees, he spotted the tell tale signs on his chest, a patch that looked like a small red sky crawling up his skin. Damned heat, he murmured. Thank goodness he had worn his large brimmed brown hat. The mosquitoes liked to feed on him too but he had managed to resolve that problem somewhat in his living quarters, having put up grey netting all around to keep the little buggers out. He had adapted to his surroundings. The way he always did. He could never really blend in but he had picked up some of the customs and habits of the kingdom that endeared him a little to some people.

  In the mornings, he walked around with a chewing stick dangling from the corner of his mouth, he had fashioned a piece of orange traditional cloth the king’s tailor had given him into a handkerchief which he tucked into his
shirt pocket. He ate their delicious food with gusto and quietly observed the kingdom with a keen eye as people continued to gossip about the white man who had charmed his way into the palace. He had found himself coming to this particular river several times because it was out of the way. Hidden behind a wall of forest, an untrained eye could easily pass it without realising what was there. So she liked it there too, he thought, warmed by the idea.

  At the river, he loitered behind a stack of rocks. She was knee deep in the water, spear in hand, head bent in concentration before lunging at movements below the surface. He watched a few more of her spirited, unsuccessful attempts. Charmed, he uncurled his lean body. Slowly approaching, he whistled. “Why that’s the best fishing technique I’ve seen in Africa.”

  Adesua dropped the spear. She had been concentrating so deeply, she barely heard him coming. Either that or he was good at catching people off guard.

  “Oh. It is you. Should you not be following my husband around?” she spat.

  “Shouldn’t you?” he asked, giving her an amused look. “You must be the least enamoured bride I have come across.”

  To her horror, he took off his boots and began to roll his trousers up, exposing tanned well-defined bow legs lightly covered with fine brown hairs.

  “No, what are you doing?” She held the spear up, aiming it at his moving chest.

  “Easy,” he chuckled, barely breaking stride. “You’re not going to use that thing on me are you?” The water felt cool on his limbs. If she had not been there, he would have stripped and taken a dip naked. The devilish part of him almost suggested it. Barely a hair’s breadth away, he wrapped his hand around hers, gently prying the spear out of it. “I’m your husband’s guest. Do you not think you could bring yourself to be more hospitable than aiming a weapon at me?”

  He thought he saw a flicker of shame in her expression but it vanished quickly. The water rippled, mouths of fish glimmered seductively below and the afternoon light threatened to bend things to its will. The air between them crackled. He could almost hear the flutter in her long, elegant neck. He knew that flutter could catch things; a bright neon fish scale, the frayed thread on the inside of his trousers, the cut on his jaw he had given himself shaving with his pocket knife three days earlier. He knew if he ran his finger over that flutter the skin would be soft, the shape unpredictable, that he would remember the contours days later.

  The catapult in his left pocket was firing a series of jagged objects at an entrance Adesua did not know she had.

  “Why do you wear that annoying hat?” She asked suddenly, breaking the tension.

  “Oh, this offensive thing?” He answered, giving a half smile and pointing at it. “To protect me from the kingdom’s curses.”

  “You are mocking me!” she exclaimed, wiping a trickle of water from her forehead.

  “Come here.” He instructed. “I want to show you something.” He grabbed hold of her hand. She jerked it back, a scowl on her face. “How dare you? I am one of the Oba’s brides. You show no respect. I could report you to the Oba for that, have you flogged, made an example of.”

  A tight expression appeared on his face, as if he was considering throttling her. He laughed instead, taking her hand again. “Come and I’ll help you catch a fish,” he said softly.

  He led her to the bank where the water gently lapped at scattered stones. They sat down. He took the hat off, turning it in his hands. “You see this hat? I negotiated with a Chinaman on a ship for it, gave him my pipe in return. Was compelled to at the time, couldn’t understand why.”

  He placed the hat on her head, tugging it down firmly. “There. You look like a modern young woman. What a picture.”

  She put her hand on her head uncertainly and her lips curved realising it provided shade.

  “See?” Sully continued. “Not so bad after all.”

  She touched a braid poking out, rubbing the kinky hair that had somehow partially unravelled. “Why are you in Benin?” she asked, slapping away the fly she had one eye on, listening to the soft trickle of water, the gentle crackling of the surrounding bush. He turned foreign, cool green eyes at her. “Why is anybody in Benin? I’m a man of adventure. My travels led me here. I have to tell you, that hat looks much better on you than it did on the Chinaman, beautifully turned out fellow that he was. He looked like an Emperor, gave me opium too. I never did ask him how he got the hat.”

  Adesua did not know who a “Chinaman” was or what “turned out” meant or what “opium” was. Some kind of seasoning for food maybe? She did not ask for fear of appearing ignorant. She knew this shifty stranger would add it to his arsenal of weapons, using it against her when she least expected. She took those funny sayings to be yet more unusual things from this strange man with the crooked smile and unsettling ways.

  Later when they caught the silvery fish, Adesua was struck by how quick Sully was, striking with the spear while she was still trying to follow its movements. He made her hold it down on the riverbank. It felt cool and smooth, a watery distance shrunk in its gaze. He tied it with some string. “For the palace cook! When you eat this tonight, you’ll remember our time here,” he said, holding it up.

  On the way back, she kept the hat on to stay cool, following his lead, his easy manner. He whistled, occasionally peppering their silence with bits of information about the forest’s inhabitants; ladybirds, lizards, snakes, throwing curious, loaded looks her way. A molten heat began to spread through her body. She could hear each sound fully, intensely; his long strides eating through the ground, her damp wrapper dripping into the earth, watering the heads of creatures underneath, her breath lined with unspoken things. She watched the curve of the fish’s mouth, remembered it bucking against the stones, struggling to breathe and at that moment, imagining it turning blind in one eye from the brightness of the light. She returned his hat just before they snuck back into the palace separately, their chests expanding with the weight of new secrets.

  And all the way back to her quarters, she thought about her treacherous braid coming undone in the wide-brimmed brown hat.

  Adesua responded to the call at night. It winged its way across the palace grounds and she sat up restless. Listening, she succumbed to it. It rumbled its intentions and she only paused to gather fragments of her resolve with a scented cloth laced with coconut oil. She followed the call. She counted out her steps to the rhythm of it, as it skirted along the empty trail that led to the main palace. She was so light; if someone laughed it would surely carry her away. She went on past the high iron gates abandoned by distracted guards and rounded the backside of the servant quarters brimming with people. Past the servant quarters, the call tested her, she came to a threshold, a low wall, and beyond it in the near distance was a small, familiar building surrounded by shrubbery. She could make out the outline of a man, and the building behind him was glowing amber approval. She could hear her breaths and the faint thrum of hundreds of caterpillars hatching out of their cocoons and she was crushing them with each step towards Sully’s quarters, leaving a trail of squashed, meshed, butterflies spilling colours.

  Sully was waiting for her. The sky seemed wider, open with longing, the stars twitching in their ceiling. In that sweet darkness, with only the elegy of the grasshoppers nudging them on, in the clammy anticipation of the night air, she wilted as Sully’s face close to hers, naked with intent, seemed to block all that surrounded her. Somewhere on the palace roof her caution plunged down. She ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair, holding his head to the rise and fall of her chest. In the dark, his green eyes seemed bewitching, calming. His beard was rough on her skin. He kissed a trail down her firm stomach, then further down still, till his head was buried between her legs. His tongue softened the bud there. Then he caressed her belly button, running his tongue back up, murmuring her name in slow seductive chants. He held both breasts, chuckling; he named them.

  Behind the curtain of a mist that made the palace dewy, as though it were floating in a giant
watermark freshly wet, two ghosts peered through. The blurry figures of Oba Odion’s father Oba Anuje and his hanged childhood friend Ogiso were keeping busy, spinning a curse so potent, it whipped through the grounds gathering momentum and snatching solace from its unwitting bearers.

  Made up of bitter punishments, things left unsaid and repercussions that couldn’t be undone, it continued to spin an invisible web over the walls. Between pillars and under the noses of the palace inhabitants, this was a curse that would travel on the back of time, out-shadow shadows and lie in wait at corners where really good fortunes rounded.

  The two ghosts stilled their fading fingers and admired their handiwork. Now, there was a fine colourless film sticking to the palace that only they could see. Sometimes, they forgot what they were; there were holes where their hearts used to be. If you looked through them it would turn your eyes bloodshot with scraggly thin lines darting across it. Red lightening in eyeballs, they began to whistle, a charming melody sounding both familiar and new. When dawn came, some people would wake up whistling it too, not knowing why. When the palace was like that, in that silence, it was beautiful. And there were things you could see in that light; like the servant girl who wouldn’t live past twenty seasons, the small boy who couldn’t stop chewing his thumb, he didn’t know it but one day it would just fall off. And the dwarf court entertainer who couldn’t stop dreaming of a certain councilman’s wife. The ghosts stopped their whistling and paused, after they had cast words that would rain down woes, they savoured the moment because it was a joyous thing! The mist was starting to disappear. They listened to the snoring of the sleeping palace, yet to yawn out its share of crusty, smelly morning breath. And strangely, there was a comfort in that.

  Footnote Parables

  In Harlesden people milled about. It was a spring day and cocoa buttered brown skinned beauties were out in all their bare-limbed glory, ready to lure willing victims with the promise of their sweetness. I felt under dressed in my scuffed Converse trainers, ripped faded jeans and Betty Boo t-shirt. My head was full with revelations, family secrets that were severed fingers lying on my carpet crooking their way towards me.