Initially I said no. No warning bells went off. For a while I heard nothing, and then more phone calls, he became persistent, falling just short of harassment. It was after the call from his father, a friend of the President that I agreed to see him, sweeping aside my worry. I met him on neutral ground, in an eatery with the smell of meat pies and baked bread in the air. The place had fewer people than chairs, and the walls were a pale yellow as though they had turned sickly from all the stale conversations. It was deliberately low key.
Okafor was younger than I expected, an Ibo in his mid-to-late twenties. He was a very handsome man, 6’2in tall with a practiced braggadocio and an air of wealth. I hated him on sight. He had on cream pressed linen trousers, brown sandals with his toes peeking out and a multi coloured shirt. Tucked in his shirt pocket was a pair of dark sunglasses; a cigarette dangled from his mouth. He waved me over on arrival, his lean, sculpted face breaking into a smile, pumping my hand warmly as though I was a long lost friend, his features drawn into a kind of welcome. He had a neat trick of smiling without any warmth appearing only to have moved his lips. Okafor jumped from one comment to another as though they were hot coals, touching on traffic on the way in, why I’d chosen this particular place to meet, offering me a cigarette then smiling ruefully and asking if a woman had anything to do with my decision after informing him I’d quit years ago. He had a dynamic energy, even doing simple things like patting his shirt pocket for his wallet before fishing it out from a green satchel that slumped against the leg of his chair. I tried to steady my shaky hands under the table, tried to control the heat spreading through my bloodstream. I felt naked, vulnerable. Why had I agreed to do this? This was a bad idea. I should never have folded under the pressure. I drummed my fingers on the table, nerves jangling. I must admit I embraced the small relief when Okafor stood abruptly to grab two malt drinks from the fridge at the side, before handing it to the woman at the counter who opened them with a gleaming silver opener.
For a moment, I pictured Okafor holding that opener, scraping my insides with it. He set our drinks down, folded his rangy body in the seat opposite me. The questions came quickly. What made a man like me join the army since I did not strike him as the army type? Why had I had such a quick progression up the ranks? How come everybody he spoke to about me divulged the same things? Good, fair, proud hardworking family man. Nothing to the contrary, as though I’d carefully presented the same image to everyone? I smiled when he said this. Inside I thought, don’t let this parasite see you crack! Stay calm Peter, stay calm. I adjusted myself, pulled my body upright, something I find myself doing in an uncomfortable situation. Okafor had grabbed a worn, small writing pad and a broken pen that had seen better days. “Sir I’m interested in true portrayals,” he said. “Fair ones, despite what assumptions you may have about me being a spoiled, rich boy. This is not play for me. I am not amusing myself till the next thing comes along.”
I gave him some carefully rehearsed responses, trying to read his expressions as he scribbled away. I told him that the structure and discipline of the army had appealed to me from adolescence, the idea of a shared experience, camaraderie, protecting your country. All lies of course. I had nothing but my own self interest in mind but you cannot deliver this kernel of truth to a stranger without true context which cannot be conveyed in a mere interview to a journalist of all people! I was ambitious I said. I made the right connections, wanted to do well. After all, I had a family to provide for. Okafor tapped his pen on the pad, looking up. “You know, I like you Mr Lowon but I’m still trying not to hold it against you that you’ve been so difficult regarding this interview. Do you have something to hide?” He leaned forward when he said this, holding my gaze, searching it. I took a sip from my Supermalt, welcoming the coolness of the liquid, hoping it would dampen the rising heat inside me. That sly bastard Okafor actually smiled at that point, a slow, loaded smile. I pointed out that if I’d had anything to conceal, I would never have agreed to the interview. I was a very busy man after all, a General in demand, advising on all kinds of military matters. A newspaper interview was hardly at the top of my list of priorities. Okafor continued to dig, restless in his seat, throwing a leg out, sinking back then springing forward when some small detail caught his attention, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. Then he asked me if I had any regrets? Hah! Did this man take me for a fool? Asking me to walk into a potential land mine. I confessed I wasn’t always the best son, that my father and I had had a tricky relationship, full of tenseness and misunderstanding. He hadn’t been an openly affectionate father, in fact he was awkward expressing emotions. I never knew if he loved me but he was happy I joined the army, pleased about the discipline it instilled in me.
Okafor then says he’d like to tell me a story.
“Of course” I respond, happy to take a break, to pause and gather my thoughts, to drink more Supermalt.
Some months back, Okafor was at a party, a good one as parties go. Nice looking women, plenty of people, the usual. But there was this man in bad shape with a damaged leg, most people were ignoring him but Okafor went to help. The man rambled while Okafor held his arm, taking him outside for some air. He asked what Okafor did for a living. Okafor told him. Then the man said he had unbelievable stories to tell.
Doom twisted inside me as Okafor continued with his tale. The man said he used to be in the army, his name was Emmanuel. He talked about his friends Peter Lowon, Obi and the General. He revealed things, secrets some very powerful people want to stop coming out.
I felt my top lip trembling, I hadn’t heard from Emmanuel for almost a year when he suddenly stopped asking me for money. Okafor informed me that Emmanuel had died four weeks earlier, he had been in serious trouble, owed some dangerous people a lot of money. His girlfriend called the police after finding him in their apartment with a bullet wound in his head. At first I couldn’t move, Okafor’s voice seemed to be fading and I was busy chastising myself for my arrogance, my presumptions.
All these months Ben Okafor had been sitting, waiting on this golden egg to hatch.
“That night sir, did you know the soldier you killed had been General Akhatar’s lover?”
I shook my head. The seductive Ben Okafor was scribbling almost furiously. Then, he paused and studied me. He didn’t explain why he believed the ramblings of a drunken man. I felt my cheeks swelling with denials. I knew this day would come, all these years of quiet fear, of waiting, of regret. I swallowed my protests, knowing if they were released, they would die on the tips of impatient, surrounding knives.
Who
In my living room I watched Anon drown old pictures in her blue river. Images I didn’t recognise, unfurling against the wet mouth of a tide; shots of a woman tying her wrapper running down a dusty road, a man cowering before a gulf in his floor, dead babies in the womb turning. Then footsteps outside caught my interest. I looked through the window, spotted Mrs Harris throwing away a large, black bin bag. The dented shapes in it spoke. The green wheelie bin squeaked as the bag landed. She looked different. Her long, lace black dress with a bulbous skirt spun as she moved, its hem whispering against her ankles. Slouchy, burgundy boots, round wire-rimmed spectacles and a black beret topped off the outfit. Her hair cascaded like a silvery waterfall down her back.
I grabbed my camera from the side table and snapped away. She stood still for a few moments, staring at something out of the frame. She sighed and my curtains trembled as though her breath had blown them. The wheelie bins were then adjusted till they were level. For a brief moment, I felt guilty watching her pale hands on the handles. She was only doing an ordinary task on an ordinary day. Mrs Harris threw her shoulders back and went inside. She emerged a few minutes later holding a long, wooden cane. Its handle curved in the shape of an umbrella’s. Her back was hunched, head bent. Her walk altered by a slight limp; her face bore a pained expression. I watched till she was out of my line of vision and Anon had eased her grip on my chest.
In the evening, a light
shower of rain fell as I made my way down from the local DVD rental shop. It was after 8pm. Traffic had eased and cars drove by bearing shrunken snapshots in their side mirrors. I’d rented The Big Lebowski. I loved the idea of an ordinary character landing in an extraordinary situation. The rain began to fall more heavily and I counted some of its disciples. I tugged my coat hood over my head. Mrs Harris was standing at the traffic lights across the road, face illuminated by its flickering colours. Gone were the pained expression and her walking stick. She’d also changed clothes. Instead she now wore flowery red trousers, grey plimsolls and a dark, blue raincoat. Her hair was tamed in a loose bun and she clutched a white, plastic bag straining with the weight it carried. I waited for her to cross the lights and reach my side of the road. As she approached, she whistled, wet tendrils of hair stuck to the side of her face.
“My fellow water baby! How is the world according to Joy?” she enquired, smiling.
“Erm ok,” I answered, resisting the urge to launch into full confessional mode. “I’m ordering takeaway and having a night of film watching. What have you been up to?”
She held her bag up as we quickened the pace. “Costume shopping!” A bus sped past splashing us.
“For a costume party? I’ve never been to one. What’s the outfit?”
“Can’t tell you, it’s a surprise! You’ve never been to a costume party? Quite the experience my dear! You’ll have to come, cancel whatever you’re doing this Saturday.”
“I don’t have a costume though.”
She fished her key out as we drew closer to our patch of houses. “Try the old vintage store on the high street, a veritable treasure trove! If you get stuck I’d be happy to lend you something.”
“Thanks but-,” my expression wrinkled. As if she’d guessed my response she warned, “I won’t have no for an answer, have some fun for a change.”
God! I thought, she must see me as a miserable human being. It dawned on me that for some strange reason, what she thought of me mattered. I had no idea how that had happened. Despite my best efforts the small bag of DVD rentals was damp. I held it tighter. “Okay but don’t abandon me there. I hate it when someone invites you to a party and then ignores you for most of it.”
“The worst that can happen is you’ll be forced to interact with other people.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “Even mad butterflies are social creatures!” She winked, hand fluttering to the side of her right leg.
“Are you ok?” I reached to steady her as she rubbed.
“It’s fine, an old accident. It troubles me occasionally dear that’s all.”
I noticed a loose thread at the wrist of the white jumper peeking beneath her raincoat, imagined secrets clinging to frayed wrists.
“Here,” I offered, “I’ll take that.” I grabbed her bag. We’d arrived at her doorstep and she stuck the key in the lock. “Come in and take some macaroni cheese away with you.” I trailed behind her respectfully wiping my shoes on the mat with “home” printed across it. She flicked the lights on. “It’s an old family recipe, you can have it for lunch tomorrow. Tell me what you think!”
In the living room I looked up at the light. A tiny Anon sat in the bulb. She pointed to the side table where a copy of the day’s Evening Standard was flicked open to the property section. Doodles of forlorn looking stick men in various stages of distress sat in the margins. Drawn in red ink, they seemed to be calling to each other across the page. In the top, right corner, a smudged coffee stain was a canon ball rolling towards them. I glanced up and Anon had gone. The bulb flickered, as though she left her laughter to tangle with the light. Mrs Harris emerged, carrying a brown oven dish bearing tin foil as a makeshift cover. “Here, tuck into that tomorrow. You’ll sleep like a newborn.” The light continued to sputter. “I’ll have to change that,” she added, bending to untie the laces of her plimsolls. Heat from the bowl spread through my fingers and the smell of macaroni beneath a melted, golden cheese topping made my stomach rumble. I raised a hand by way of goodbye but back turned, Mrs Harris was already heading to her kitchen, whistling that odd, unrecognisable tune.
Later that night, I woke with vague strains of the tune running through my head. The sound of light rain hitting the windowpanes was comforting. I noticed the light in Mrs Harris’s garden was on illuminating the drops of rain on my window. Looking out I watched discreetly as she dug a hole then buried a multi-coloured cloth bag. I wondered what secret had to be hidden inside damp soil. Perhaps only Buddy the Buddha knew, watching bearing mouthfuls of water. After she wandered in, I made myself a mug of hot chocolate, unsettled by my growing fascination with her. And by Anon’s greed, not only invading my space but also creeping into Mrs Harris’s too. Outside, the street lamps cowered as a gust of wind howled.
Faces
In the week of the costume party I photographed Mrs Harris in several guises. Anon told me to do it. She danced around the room wearing the brass head, whispering instructions, waving arms the weight of silk. Each morning, I listened for the sound of Mrs Harris’s front door clicking open. Camera poised on the table, I’d lunge forward fully aware of the small window of time and take pictures. I shot the woman I knew in warm, earthy tones. I captured her face reassembling itself. I shot her dressed out of character in a dull, brown tweed skirt suit, hair restrained in a severe bun. On another occasion, she looked demure and sorrowful, swathed in an ill-fitting knee length black dress. As if she was attending a funeral. Only the hat she wore would raise eyebrows, it was a Phillip Treacy inspired, peacock-shaped number dotted with bits of gold in its netting. Another time she wore a red kilt, a short black tux jacket and sturdy, black heels. In that instance, I ran down to intercept her, pretending to be on my way to the shop.
“Hey, you look colourful today, off somewhere nice?” I enquired, slightly self conscious of still being in my pyjamas.
She bowed dramatically. “Thank you dear. I’m spending some time with my brother. He’s taking me on a surprise afternoon outing.”
Casually I said, “Oh, this must be the brother you mentioned briefly. I always see you as an only child for some reason.”
“It depends how you define the term brother,” she muttered. A leaflet distributor clutching a stash of flyers hurried past.
“Your leg seems better,” I noted. “Niggling injuries are horrible.”
“It comes and goes dear! Lots of people manage with terrible afflictions, things you couldn’t imagine. If ever I start to pity myself, I think of the Elephant Man.”
“Oh, ok.” I waved her off. “Have a good time.”
“See you on the other side.” She said breezily, hurrying on.
On the night of the party, Mrs Harris and I got ready at my house, listening to The Smiths blaring from the radio. We smoked spliffs and I felt high on camaraderie and possibilities. Our faces were painted like skulls, with drawn-on extended crooked smiles that were sinister no matter the angle of light. We wore “his” and “hers” skeleton costumes with me in androgynous mode and Mrs Harris encased in a corseted dress. Long, black capes floated from our backs. Our heads were decorated in crowns of dead flowers, made from rose petals, geraniums and old wires.
In the streets we encountered bursts of traffic. People swelled in and out of pubs, cramped restaurants and Weatherspoons! Mrs Harris took a swig from the small bottle of Captain Morgan rum tucked inside the pocket of her cape then tugged me along. “The guy throwing this party, Otto, got most of his front teeth knocked out from a gambling debt. Try not to stare when you meet him.” She advised. I nodded as we weaved our way past curious glances. We crossed a bridge that reeked of piss and alcohol, where a homeless guy holding a stick appeared like the gatekeeper and asked for my cape. We walked on. The distant, neon lights inside us threatened to become embodied.
Eventually, we reached a moody looking Victorian house with a shabby hedge. A few red bricks were stacked in the corner of the sidewalk. Music boomed and silhouettes jostled in the hazy gaze of the windows.
We rang the bell. After a short wait Otto answered dressed as a pirate, sporting a patch over one eye. His exposed eye twinkling was the colour of a dark blue sapphire. “Greetings!” he announced with flourish, throwing his arms open.
We were ushered in, our coats taken and swallowed into the warmth. Mrs Harris introduced us as we weaved through the packed hallway. It was difficult not to stare at the row of missing front teeth in Otto’s mouth. It made his smile look dubious. Already high, I wanted to ask how much money he’d owed and whether the heavy handlers kept the teeth. The atmosphere felt tunnel-like. Oddly shaped rooms wound off in different directions and high ceilings drew close, and then receded. Alcohol and ash permeated conversations. Bodies in costumes were mutated rats bouncing under low lights.
In the kitchen, a makeshift bar constituting several bottles stacked on the countertop beckoned. A woman sang a deep-throated blues as Mrs Harris made me a gin and tonic.
“How was the outing with your brother?” I asked, shouting over the noise.
She leaned closer, handed me a full glass. “What?”
“Your brother!”
“Oh! It was anti-climatic.” Her brow furrowed in irritation. I swallowed a gulp of drink. Too much gin and not enough tonic. “How so?”
“He took me to some pretentious play in Convent Garden. The kind of thing you’d see scraping the bottom of the barrel at the Edinburgh Festival. We argued over money, my inheritance to be precise, which he still won’t give me.” She grabbed cubes of ice from a bucket and threw them in her glass so aggressively, whisky sloshed down the side. I leaned back into the counter. “How is that possible? Is he your blood brother?”
“No, my father remarried you see. The woman already had a child, Bryn. To make matters worse, my father legally adopted him. I wasn’t the easiest of children. Anyway, when he died, he instructed my share of the inheritance to be given to me at Bryn’s discretion. And of course, he hasn’t, claiming I’m mad and irresponsible.”
Butterfly Fish Page 22