by Okey Ndibe
The youngster smiled in delight. “I’ll own a big house. Bigger than this one.”
“Idiot!” cursed Chief Iba’s prim servant. “Get out, now, now! You will never come here to watch TV.”
“I mean as big as this one,” the youngster corrected himself.
Iba’s servant was unforgiving. “First, let your father build a mud house with raffia roofs before you start talking,” he berated.
“He’s a child,” Ike said. “Tell me more,” he goaded.
The youngster fell silent.
Ike caught another youngster gazing at him. The kid was shirtless, his bulgy stomach accentuated by a swollen belly button. “You, what’s your name?”
For an instant, the lad stiffened and looked away.
“I’m talking to you.”
“Me?” said the youngster. Then he answered, “Ogii.”
“What’s your favorite food?”
Ogii smiled, his hands coyly covering his belly button. “Did you bring home pizza?” he asked. “I like pizza.”
“Which type do you like to eat?”
“I’ve never tasted it, but it’s on TV. If I become a big man, that’s what I’ll eat.”
“I don’t like pizza,” Ike said.
Ogii looked aghast. “Everybody in America likes pizza. On TV, everybody eats it. They eat it and smile.”
“Watch, Jordan just killed them!” shouted the Hilfiger boy. “I knew he was angry!”
Ike joined everybody to look at the replay of Jordan’s dribble, elevation, and thundering dunk.
“I will be like Jordan,” Ogii cooed.
Everybody laughed. Ike waved good-bye. Then he followed the escort out to the wide, high-ceilinged living room of the main house. The air was scented, a bit too heavily, with a floral essence. The air conditioner purred, wafting a chilled air. An ebony grand piano was set to the right of the room. Two bleached-blue davenports were placed side by side. Black leather sofas and embroidered ottomans were arranged in two sitting areas set off on opposite ends of the oblong room. Three chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The marble floor had a waxy shine. A huge entertainment unit held a flat-screen plasma TV and other gadgets. Figurines cast in plaster dotted the room. Ike was drawn to six framed paintings signed by four Nigerian artists whose names he didn’t recognize. Two of the paintings depicted nude women, one black, the other white, one big-waisted with generous, droopy breasts, the other tall and thin, her slight breasts accentuated by dark, prominent nipples. The other paintings were abstract works dominated by whorl-like patterns or sturdy strokes. He went from canvas to canvas, gazing intensely until overcome by repulsion. Each painting seemed distinguished by a certain extravagance, an excessive avidity of color, as if commissioned by a man who traded subtlety of touch for a touch of gaudiness. Dismayed by the overwrought paintings, he wandered toward a giant rosary with fist-sized emerald beads staked around a large crucifix. On the floor, next to the beads, was a life-size photograph of Tony Iba in the habit of a knight, complete with plumed visors and a sword at his right shoulder. Heftier than Ike could have imagined him, Iba wore a blue sash across his neck with the words KNIGHT OF SAINT LUMUMBA. Then there was a photograph of Iba’s family taken in a studio, his wife to his left, leaning into him, bearing a sad, reluctant smile, their two daughters standing on either side of their parents, their son stooped in the middle.
In the center of the room, recessed into a wall, was a fireplace. Ike gazed at it, unable to fathom the mystery of it. After a while, he shrugged and looked away.
A home like Iba’s could easily belong in one of the tony quarters of the Bronx or in the more affluent sectors of Westchester County—anywhere, better still, where money counted more than taste. As he gazed at Iba’s picture, Ike had the feeling that he was being watched from behind. He turned sharply and saw Iba’s face, fleshy, with exuberant eyes.
“Tony Curtis!” Ike shouted.
“American Yankee!” Iba retorted.
Ike raised a hand, but Iba rounded him in an embrace. The servant watched from a respectful distance, eyes alight.
“How long since you arrived?” Iba asked.
“In Utonki or here?”
“Here.”
“Thirty, thirty-five minutes.”
Iba looked at the servant with anger. Fear swept away the smile that hovered on the man’s face. “I was going to offer him something to drink, sir,” he said, “but he was busy looking at the paintings.”
Ike confirmed the account. Iba beamed at him. “You’ve visualized my paintings?” He affected a weary countenance. “Each is cost me a bundle.”
“They’re colorful,” Ike offered.
“Yes, yes,” Iba said, “they’re spectaculous, indeed.”
“Very spectacular. Yes.”
Iba put on a mask of despair. “But I shouldn’t be throwing away so much hard-boiled money into such luxuriations. Where will I find money to eat?”
“You don’t seem in danger of starving,” Ike said. “A man with this kind of house—did I say house? A man who owns this kind of mansion won’t ever have trouble looking for food.” He turned to his left, then to the right, indicating a sweep of the house.
Iba glowed. “My brother, let us titrate all the praise to God. He created the bottom and the top—and he architected this humble house.”
“Humble house? This is—it’s a bona fide palace! A veritable palace fit for a king.”
“Ike the grammarian man!” shouted Iba, impressed by the sound of Ike’s words.
“I mean every word.”
“We conjugate all the glory to God almighty. He tumbles down blessings to my arena. That’s why I’ve made it a point of fundamental principle to take care of poor people. This efidice contains a room where poor people watch TV. Even in my absent, the facility is available unto them.”
“I saw the poor people’s TV room,” Ike said. “They were watching a basketball game.”
Ike strode to the piano. “A beautiful grand,” he said. He struck several keys, then drew his fingers across them. A berserk clangor issued forth. Casting a quizzical look at his host, he asked, “How often do you play it?”
“Me, play?” He chortled. “Am I a white man?”
“I guess your children play?”
“Well, you have to probe from my wife.”
“Is she home?”
“Missus? No! She and my childs habitate far, far away. In London.”
“You’re alone in this big house, then?” Ike asked.
“Yes o, my brother. I am quartered here, sufferating alone. My missus and childs say the heat is three much here. So therefore they navigated abroad to London where God blows AC inside the air. My own is to sufferate for them to enjoy.”
“I’m sure you’re not complaining. You’re a virtual bachelor. And if I know you—”
Iba winked and brought a finger to his lips, playfully hushing Ike. “Please, my brother, don’t revelation my secret o.” He motioned in the servant’s direction. “Simeon likes missus three much. In fact, four much! He is her real husband; I am only a borrowee of her. Whenever she lands here, she always donates fine, fine designer shirts to Simeon. As for me, nothing! So Simeon can carelessly navigate my secrecies to her earlobes. And she will vex and somersault me inside pepper soup!”
He and Ike laughed. Then, turning to the piano, Ike said, “It looks—definitely expensive.”
“All gratifications to the owner of the sky and the earth,” Iba remarked. “The moment I saw the piano in a Famous Homes catalog, I convicted myself to purchase it.”
Iba’s teeth gleamed, radiating pride. “Now, I have to be a fantastic hostage by tabulating a drink in front of you.” He pointed to a small bar. Ike saw a tall rack studded with wine and liquor bottles. “Just announce your likes and dislikes to Simeon. For your informations, we also have a variation of beers in the refrigerator.”
“I’d like to use the bathroom first,” Ike said.
“Simeon, herald our distin
guished guest to bathroom,” Iba bellowed.
“This way, sir,” said the servant.
Ike was astonished by the bathroom’s width and golden flourish. The faucet, magazine rack, towel-holder, bathtub and sauna were all gold-plated. He cast a sidelong glance at the jet of his pee streaming into the bowl with an unerring aim. “I’ll make my money,” he mumbled to himself, “and my bathroom will be better than this.” He blew three breaths on the mirror. Across the spread of vapor, he scrawled GOD SNATCHER. He leered at the script and then smudged it. He ran fingers lightly over his ragged stubble, sticking out a tongue as if taunting the mirror.
He froze, imagining Iba or his servant watching him from a remote monitor. Iba was just the kind of man to orchestrate such a gimmick. The fear passed quickly. He did not usually linger before a mirror; but something about the mammoth size of this one drew out the imp in him.
He leaned forward and inspected his face. His eyes were slightly puffed, ringed by vague brown lines. He turned sideways and gave himself over to self-admiration. He was lean and flat-stomached, a contrast to Iba’s paunchy heft.
Washing his hands, he made weirder faces at the mirror. A basket near the basin counter was stocked with a variety of cologne and perfume bottles. He removed the cover from three of them. His nostrils approved the scent marked Givenchy Pour Homme eau de toilette. He sprayed it on his neck and shirt, then unlocked the door.
To his surprise Iba lay on a sofa, his shod feet dangling to the side. Deep, snoring breaths escaped from his recumbent body.
“Don’t worry, oga will wake up in five minutes,” Simeon assured him. “What do I get you to drink, sir? We have spirits, red and white wine, juices, and minerals. We have assorted beer. We also have palm wine.”
“Nothing for now,” Ike said, waving him away. He too craved sleep, but as he lowered himself onto the soft sofa, Iba awakened.
“My main man from America!” he shouted, as if he’d been alert all along. “You look sharp—what’s your secrecy?”
“Yankee magic,” Ike said.
Iba roared with laughter. “American Yankee!” he cried, stamping his feet on the marble floor. When Ike rose to go, his host walked him to the door. Then, giving a parting handshake, Iba slid five hundred-dollar bills in Ike’s palm.
Ike stared at the cash, somewhat uneasy.
“What’s this?” he asked, his voice surprisingly calm.
Iba’s face bore a self-satisfied smile. “Your share.”
“My share? Of what?”
“Dividends of democracy! Almightiful God is using me as a classified retributor. Even though you are located in Yankeeland, still yet you’re one of my royal constituencies. Therefore you deserve to reception your own dividend.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Two days later, Ike’s sister, Nkiru, arrived from Onitsha. Her sad eyes and acne-ravaged face startled him. Only three years Ike’s senior, she could have passed for ten. Her hair, plaited in stylish rows, was speckled with rushes of gray. She had the surliness of one whose former beauty had been scarred and spoiled by suffering.
Nkiru had married early, just shy of twenty, and had given birth to six children but lost the last one at birth. As she herself told it in one of her rambling e-mails to Ike, she came close to dying as well.
Her life was hard. A petty trader, she owned a roadside kiosk in Fegge, one of the slums of Onitsha. Her ware included cigarettes, chewing gums, bar soaps, a variety of mints, sachets of sugar and salt, canned sardines, roasted groundnut, and shots of kai-kai, the locally brewed gin. Her kai-kai, which she got from a supplier in Asaba, the town split from Onitsha by the great river, had the reputation among her clients as the most potent in all of Fegge. When the men drank it, the gin lacerated their tongues and walloped the gut—which was exactly how the aficionados wanted it.
Nkiru’s husband was a police sergeant who invested his meager salary—and his more ample takings in bribe—in gambling, beer, and marijuana. With a husband given to such recklessness, Nkiru was saddled with fending for herself and the children. She went at the task adroitly, but the pittance from the stall could only be stretched so far. Inevitably she turned to her brother for assistance.
No week had passed since he’d given her his e-mail address when she did not send multiple e-mails detailing her woes, her hapless condition. From time to time, he sent money via Western Union but never as much as she asked for. Her tirades and pleas exhausted him, and, woeful as her marriage was, he could neither forget nor forgive the obnoxious stubbornness with which she had made the choice to enter it. He remembered their parents’ outrage on discovering that Nkiru had started dating the police officer, then a constable, the year she finished secondary school. Their mother had locked the door and dealt her a merciless flogging. Then Nkiru had been forbidden ever to see the man. The next day, they eloped. She reemerged several weeks later, obstinate as ever, to announce that she was pregnant. Their parents, devout Catholics then, could contemplate neither an abortion nor the shame of their only daughter having a child out of wedlock. Yet, to compound matters, the officer had accused her of sneaking about with other lovers, even naming names. In the end, it was only after her child, a son, was born that he came around and married her.
Nkiru’s rebelliousness had brought shame on the family and led her to a grim life. She sacrificed her university education to hitch up with Reuben the officer.
FOR THE TWO DAYS before Nkiru arrived in Utonki, Ike’s mother had hardly spoken to him. She muttered monosyllabically. When he greeted her, she whispered a low, inaudible response. When their paths crossed, she mumbled. She used Nkiru’s daughter, Alice, as a conduit to send him any messages that were unavoidable. His meals were couriered by Alice. Once, when Alice was away running an errand, his mother brought his food. She placed the plates on a table next to his bed—and then, walking backward, made a languid motion of the hand.
Ike knew that his visits to Osuakwu and Nne had cut his mother deeper than the sharpest knife. When around him, she wore a dazed look and walked in a flatfooted, plodding manner. He was worried but not sorry.
He wanted the rift mended, and he’d hoped that Nkiru would serve as an agent of reconciliation, but he was clear on one point: he would never capitulate. He would never negotiate away his right to visit Osuakwu and Nne as often as he pleased.
When the fuss of pleasantries had worn off and he had sat down with his sister to talk, Ike rushed to make a point he considered of fundamental import.
“I’m going to be blunt, Nkiru,” he began, like a pugilist issuing fair warning before unleashing a killer punch. “I’m angry with you.”
Nkiru sprang to her feet as if stung by a bee. Ever the fighter, she pounded her chest. “You, angry? What do you mean?” She placed clenched knuckles on her waist and glared down at Ike.
“Sit down,” he said, his voice calm.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” she shouted. “You’re not my husband. And I’m older than you.” She sat down, her eyes blazing.
Ike met her glare. “You knew all along that Mama had thrown herself into the deceptive hands of Pastor Uka. You knew Uka had filled her head with crap, but you said nothing. You should have warned her about the man. You should have told her that he was a scam artist trading on her fears and sorrows. Then the situation would not have got out of hand. Instead, it’s absolutely awful. Today, does Mama talk to Father’s only brother? You know the answer is—no! Does she talk to Father’s mother? No, too! To her, they’re devils in human skin. They’re wizard and witch. She has accused them of killing her husband—and of plotting to kill you and me.”
“That’s why you’re angry?” she asked, as she drew her face away and muttered under her breath.
“You should not have let these things happen,” he said, attempting a conciliatory tone. “Now it’s up to you and me to open Mama’s eyes. It’s our duty to reconcile her with Osuakwu and Nne.”
For what seemed a full minute, Nkiru glared at him. Twic
e she opened her lips to talk, but no words came out. Her lips twitched. She found her voice just as he started to speak further.
“These people killed our father,” she said, “and you want Mama to sit down and eat with them?” She paused and momentarily regarded him with eyes that were less angry than sad and confounded. Then she continued: “Ike, you’re old enough to know what’s right from what’s wrong. Mama has told me everything, how you brought her to shame by insulting a man of God.”
“A man of scams!” he shouted.
Her expression took on a stern aspect, but her voice remained even. “Let me tell you, Ike. When Mama’s pastor told you not to visit these evil people, you should have listened.”
Ike felt himself temporarily immobilized. “You too,” he said at last. “You too are part of this nonsense. You’re superstitious. You’re willing to believe any crap. You believe that Nne and Osuakwu conspired to kill Father.”
“You’ve gone through university, Ike,” she said, her tone drained of heat, “but some things are not taught in school. There is evil in the world. The answer, my brother, is to cover yourself with the blood of Jesus. When you went to see Osuakwu and Nne, did you not drink?”
Ike nodded his affirmation.
A look of alarm wreathed her face. “Did you eat?”
He affirmed again.
“Please, o, please,” she said, slapping her palms in an urgent, hysterical gesture. She loosened her wrapper and retied it as market women do just before they fight. “Come with me immediately,” she begged, her body shivering with anxiety. “You’ve eaten devilish food and drank satanic drink. Let’s go, my brother. Let’s go and see Pastor Uka. I know you insulted him, but I’ll fall on the ground and beg him for you. As a man of God he’ll forgive you for every insult. In fact, he’s forgiven you already—trust me. He needs to pray to release you from all bondage. Please, let us go.”
Loathing filled his chest to bursting. “You—you’re mad!” he cried. He stood and stormed off. Yanking at the door, he turned and announced, “I’m going to see Osuakwu now. Then I’ll visit Nne before coming home. Don’t bother to leave me food; I’ll return filled.”