He arrived home to see their small, apartment had been swept, and the terracotta walls darkened by night made his eyes swim a little. He was a success, a member of the Oba’s council, residing in the palace with a wife and two children. He had truly arrived, and he imagined the tiny village he came from just shy of Onisha hailing him. The dancing and music leading a trail all the way back to his family’s hut. So engrossed was he in that image he nearly tripped over a chipped dark wooden chair they usually left in the corner of the back room. The apartment smelled of the homely mixture of cooked goat meat and Ewe’s ambition. As he stopped to listen to them he could hear the reassuring breathing of his children caught in sleep, their young chests rhythmically rising and falling. Finally, he took off his beaded adornment and crept in to sleep beside the broad, fleshy frame of his wife who murmured a little in response. He tried to sleep but found himself tossing and turning, till his wife frustrated by it said, “Ah, ah what is it?” So the secret entered her ears.
“Tell the council Ewe,” she humphed.
“You know what the punishment is for such a thing?”
“Tell them.”
And he ran his excited tongue over his dry mouth.
Amidst these events in the palace, Filo remained surprisingly calm. As if the shrieking Harmattan-like wind inside her that had pulled her furiously back and forth suddenly stopped. She thought it funny that the slow destruction happening around her created an opposite effect within her. And she began to run towards her thoughts instead of away from them. Just outside her narrow chamber doorway, if you stood on your toes you could see the Oba’s back room window staring the horizon down. Every time she looked, somehow it seemed further and further away. She had allowed a thought so delicious to leave her head and sit in her mouth that she no longer felt guilty carrying it with her. And it was this: she was glad Oba Odion was suffering. Through her hair falling out, the blood from the main palace roof and the stream of bad luck that had plagued the palace it was clear that he knew. He knew why these terrible things were happening but couldn’t show his face. The Gods would disapprove but she was happy the Oba was being handed the fate she believed he deserved.
It was a clear, slow-burning day when it happened. Filo’s skin felt sticky and no amount of water wetting her dry throat was enough. She was tentatively tending to the group of fowl that hung outside their back yard, throwing grains of corn to them and watching them pick at it. At the same time thinking of the street vendors that lined the roads on market day, whistling through their teeth and shoving handfuls of material, native jewellery and spicy food wrapped in broad green leaves your way. But then a curious thing happened, a seminal occurrence. Filo softened, her body had stopped turning to stone. She dropped the corn, haphazard yellow mouthfuls scattered as if to be replanted.
The fowl, her only interested audience, sensing the importance of the moment began to cluck, as she started a sure, confident retreat. She took nothing; she turned to do the walk towards the main palace where the gates were waiting. People were milling about within pockets of the grounds and she passed some guards laughing at words hanging between them. They nodded at her and she did not stop. She walked out of the palace gates and didn’t look back. She threw the spare gate key she had stolen from a guard into the river, imagining water creatures using it to unlock a town beneath their tremors. And she kept going because beyond her, that body and that life, the rivers and the land, another world beckoned. Winking just behind the edges of broken clouds, she imagined people filled with so much light, it would be blinding, and a place where the shame of this life was not smothering the next.
Applique for Beginners
Reading my grandfather’s diary felt like I was on a canoe, in the sea. I didn’t even know if I liked who I think he was, or if I knew enough about him to patchwork quilt his personality together. He was just fragments colouring white paper. When someone does a terrible thing, a thing that continues to have repercussions, it’s hard not to judge. It is difficult not to stick a label on their box that says damaged, carry this side up. It is hard not to be reminded that you are alone and that maybe, a puppet master made these strings for you long before you were born.
Tomorrow, in households across the city, door hinges will creak emphatically as the air sweeps failures and successes of the day. Fathers will tuck their children into bed and smile knowing that one day this moment too will change, mutate into a different version because you can’t protect your children forever. And somewhere, a moth begins its day by laughing at me.
Peter Lowon, Journal Entry May 1961
My daughter Queen is now five years old; she is like her mother in the sense that she is all-seeing. I have heard people say this and it is true for me too; the day she was born was the happiest day of my life. Everything else paled in comparison to her toothless grin, her pointed nose that is a replica of mine and her first attempts at walking. I named her Queen because the first time I held her perfect little body, she opened her bow shaped mouth and crooked her tiny finger at me as though she were a royal and smiled. So I call her Queenie and her mother calls her Queeeeeenie! Because most of the time she is shouting her name.
Queenie is a fearless child. She sticks her hands inside holes in the ground, touches everything, attempts to catch lizards with her bare hands and talks to the flea ridden stray dog down our street that begs for food. Sometimes, she angles her head to the side when you are talking to her, as if she’s questioning the validity of what you’re saying. On my trips home, after the gate has squeaked and announced my arrival, she runs as fast as her feet can carry her, clutching my uniform clad legs. “Daddy you’re home! What did you bring for me?” Queenie does not stop asking questions, in fact Felicia has joked that she is considering taping Queenie’s mouth for at least two hours a day. Daddy what is rainbow? Why do people call you Lieutenant Colonel? Is fried dodo banana? Why do they put pepper in suya? Doesn’t the man selling corn on the road with no shoes have a daddy to buy him shoes? Daddy why? Daddy, daddy, daddy.
Yesterday she told me she drew an eye on a tree. When I asked her why she looked at me as if I was an imbecile and said “so the tree can see, shhh don’t tell mummy!” Now the mango tree with one eye is our secret.
Life is good, the General kept his word and I have advanced to a higher rank. We moved to a bigger house in Lagos. It is white and Queenie thinks it is made of sugar cubes. We have a mayguard at the front named Nosa but Queenie calls him No sir No sah! When I carry her on my shoulders and she giggles, I forget who I am, what I’ve done.
Now, the brass head sits in a glass cabinet, right on the top shelf, looking down on everyone who enters the parlour. It is safe from Queenie’s hands. It used to be on the first shelf, but once Queenie picked it up and played with it, tossing it around carelessly. Felicia was furious; she smacked Queenie’s hand and warned her it wasn’t a toy. I couldn’t help thinking that it had began to weave its pattern of trouble. I wanted to get rid of it then. But if I disposed of it I knew I would have to tell Felicia the real reason why, and I couldn’t do that, not yet, not after all this time. So I let it be, and I say nothing when Felicia polishes it as if it is made from the finest gold. I swallow my irritation when guests point at it curiously. I look the other way when my mother requests I get her something similar.
When I am away, Felicia tells me she spends her days keeping our household ticking over and running after Queenie. We have several people in our employment including Nosa the mayguard, a houseboy and housegirl, the driver and one of Felicia’s girl cousins Eunice who also helps around the house. She loves her daughter but I know she is bored, unfulfilled. Sometimes when I ask how her day is she says what do you want me to tell you when I have nothing of substance to say? She wants to get a job, maybe working in a bank or something along those lines. I refuse to allow her to do this. Deep down I know she still wants to go to university, even now, perhaps to study law or medicine. We fight over this, arguments that shake our bedroom and leave t
he door shuddering. If I allow her to follow her whims people will say my wife is the master in my house, that my trousers fit her nicely. This resentment festers between us, gathering in mass till I worry one day it will push me out of our bed. I know my wife has grown to love me over the years but sometimes, unguarded, I catch a scheming expression on her face. I tell her I will give her money to run her own store selling bobas, shoes and handbags. I tell her this as if it isn’t a consolation prize.
Earlier today I came into my parlour whistling to find we had a guest. He had his back to me but something about the sloppy, hunched way he sat seemed familiar. My heart raced and Felicia’s laughter seemed slightly tuned out, like a bad radio frequency. She stood upon seeing me, “Peter you are finally home, how long does it take to buy ice cream for Queen? Honestly that girl has you eating out of her hands, little madam.” She looked to our guest and smiled; he now turned and stood awkwardly with a cane that had been leaning against the chair, confirming my suspicions. “British gentleman, long time, you are living well my friend.” Emmanuel stuck his hand out; I dropped the container of ice cream on the table. There was a wet patch of melted ice on the left side of my shirt. My fingers were cool. I shook his hand.
I had not seen Emmanuel for years; I’d heard he got discharged from the army some time back but never bothered to find him. I did not want to rake over old ground. I hugged him, the last thing I wanted to do. A chill settled inside me.
Felicia laughed, informing me that Emmanuel had been telling stories about what army boys get up to! “To think I thought I knew you all this time Peter!” My wife said. “It is nice to see an old friend of Peter’s. These days, it’s all army generals and rich oil contractors.” This was her last comment before picking up the ice cream and walking out. I felt a buzzing in my head as Emmanuel lifted his glass of juice and swigged. Angrily, I asked him what he was doing at my house? He laid his cane down carefully. He then had the nerve to say he was disappointed I never came to see him after what we went through! That I should never have abandoned my friends like that.
“We killed a man.” I spat this at him. It was the first time I had said it out loud, and somehow saying it confirmed I could never really get away from it. I could dodge and side-step but how long for? Not when the memory grows legs, not when part of it hobbles into your living room joking with your wife, holding a cane. Too close.
Emmanuel was bitter; he accused me of benefitting more than any of them. I remember his exact words. “I don’t have friends in high places like you Peter. Do you know what it is to drain a man’s life with your bare hands? To wait for his body to become completely still? No, of course you don’t, you only watched from the sidelines yet reaped all the rewards. I’ve never known why the General took such a liking to you. I heard him say I like the way that Peter conducts himself, with class! You never did him any extra special favours did you?”
I was confused by this statement. When I pressed him, he laughed. “Peter you’re smart but at times miss what is right in front of you. You mean you don’t know about the General? You never heard about his taste for young army boys? It is a well-kept secret.”
My head spun with this revelation. I swallowed the anger working its way up my throat and slowly, silently counted to ten. I managed to probe him about his leg. Apparently, armed robbers came to his house one night, held him and his girlfriend at gunpoint. Stupidly, he resisted a little. They shot him in the knee and took everything. We had come to the heart of the matter at that point so I asked him what he wanted.
“Peter, I’m in trouble, you know I wouldn’t ask but… I need some money.”
I gave him the money. In hindsight I shouldn’t have. He will only come back for more like a leech. He may surprise me and not do so, but people rarely do. In truth, I would have done anything to get rid of him. He wobbled unsteadily out of my house, a broken man. Afterwards, I ran to the downstairs toilet and vomited, and it smelled bad to me, as though the stench had been building for years. In the kitchen I wanted to destroy whatever I could. I smashed plates, bottles, cups and glasses, scattering the place. I drowned out the noise and Felicia’s wet, wild marble brown eyes rolling in their sockets. It was Queenie who stopped me, she ran into the kitchen barefoot, dripping vanilla ice cream onto clear, broken pieces of glass. Then, this evening the questions: what is wrong with you Peter? Should I not have let him in? We were inside our bedroom, where the blue wall still looked freshly painted; the double bed with its large wood headboard had matching blue and white pillowcases, sheets and a cover. The ceiling fan turned continuously; I had thrown my clothes on the floor and was reaching inside the wardrobe in my underwear. Felicia didn’t look a day older than the day we met, just more polished. As bored as she was, our life so far had been good to her. She stood with her hands on her hips; the gold head wrap was unravelling itself as if my silence earlier had offended it. “No, you did the right thing, he wanted money.”
“That’s not all though Peter.”
“I told you what happened!”
“No, you told me your version of what happened, I am your wife. Why do you still keep things from me? Since we were married, all this time, there is something. Something between us and I can’t take it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about; can I have some peace in my own house?”
“You want peace? Fine but I’m fed up of being stuck here while you’re away playing General says! I get excited when guests come because I can talk to them, I can talk to other people more than I talk to my husband! I want to do something with my life.”
“Who the hell is stopping you? You think this house; these nice things were waiting for you? I paid the price while you do nothing! The driver can take you wherever you want to go. What do you think I pay him for? I will replace the things in the kitchen.”
“It was never about the bloody things in the kitchen.” She screamed, slamming the door, so much harder than a woman that slight should have been able to.
I found Queenie on the wooden swing at the back of the compound; she was pulling at the rope handles and kicking her legs up half-heartedly. I walked up carrying juicy cuts of pineapple; her favourite fruit for now, it changes weekly. For a while we didn’t say anything as I pushed her, containing the force of the swing with a steady hand. This I could handle.
“Daddy, why are you mad?” She broke the silence. “Have I done something?”
“No, not you Queenie. Do you know I control the weather?” I said, starting one of my tales she loved and I knew would make her laugh. Sure enough, a small smile came. “How do you make the weather daddy?”
“Well, in the morning if I am in a good mood, I rub my hands together, say a secret chant and make sunshine. Now I can’t tell you what the chant is otherwise it wouldn’t be mine see?”
“Ok, how do you make rain?” She asked, “Do you use the same chant or say it backwards?”
“No, I use a different chant because water gives life, it makes things grow and can erode things. It is everything. And I don’t rub my hands, I call upon the clouds, I need their help and cannot do it without them.”
“What if the clouds are angry with you or you have an argument with them? Can you do it without them then? What if they’re sleeping and they want to be alone sometimes, like mummy?”
“I try not to anger them, I respect them because you know the elements have great power Queenie, and they can control things without us being aware of it.” She scratched her newly braided hair that lay in slim, single plaits. She wriggled her mouth and face like she was trying to loosen the tightness in her scalp. I handed her a pineapple slice, watched as she took a bite.
“Daddy? Once I was mad, I ripped my doll’s head off.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I put it back though. Daddy, you don’t really control the weather do you.” She said this, as if she’d been indulging me all along, like she was the parent and I the child.
Rider Rendered Blue
Wh
en the oyibo men from Portugal arrived for a short visit the council wore their gleeful expressions openly and proudly. These visitors had come to the palace court as emissaries of the King of Portugal. They had heard elaborate tales of the Benin kingdom and its Empire. How it stretched beyond the whole of Idu land, into the lands of the Mahin, Ilaje, Dahomey and further still. It was Benin’s imperial might and trade routes that interested them. The palace welcomed them with a warm reception and they in return wanted to give a Portuguese education to the Benin royal household. They intrigued people, with their pale skin and strange language. And they were slighter than Benin men, whose broad, sturdy shoulders were built for the demands of the land. People joked that the Portuguese would not cope in the harsh, glaring heat, but they surprised people. Even telling the council that sometimes they struggled with hot weather where they were from. They were told the Oba was too sick to personally receive visitors.
If these men noticed anything strange they kept it to themselves. After all, how could they distinguish what was the custom and what wasn’t? They were in a fascinating, foreign world, everything appeared odd and interesting to them. They wanted to see it all, and the council showed them, flourishing as impressive hosts. The palace staff found themselves working constantly. Cooking and cleaning, repeatedly preening for show but they were happy to have a distraction from all that had been happening. The soldiers from the Oba’s army had been instructed to cease looking for Filo. After all, she was a wife Oba Odion had never wanted and she was long gone.
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