by Okey Ndibe
“Yes, can I help you?” the man said.
Ike took three steps toward the counter. “You remember me?” he asked. Then, noting a frown on Gruels’s face, realized he’d said the wrong first words. A fire, a pressure, assailed his groin, but he knew it was out of the question to interject an inquiry for the toilet at that point in time.
“I’ve met you?” Gruels said, raising his eyebrows.
“Yes, I came two—three weeks ago.”
“Here?”
Ike nodded.
“Well, I talk to an awful lot of people. I can’t help forgetting a few faces now and then. Anyway, how can I help you?”
“It’s this,” Ike stuttered, lifting up the bundle. He heard the door to the gallery open, the crunch of shoes announcing an entrant. His bladder threatened to burst with pressure. “I brought this.”
Gruels frowned up again, eyes narrowed to small quizzical squints. “And what exactly is this?” He spoke hesitantly, each word momentarily imprisoned in his mouth, rolled around, before being uttered.
“It’s a god. We spoke about it. A god of war.” The words welled from an icy pit within him. He was surprised that his throat ferried words at all, for each word left a bruise as it thawed and tore out of him. “It’s called Ngene.”
Gruels scratched the side of his face with an expression of agitated lack of interest. For a moment, he sized Ike up.
“It’s a war deity,” Ike said again, filling the silence.
“A war deity,” Gruels echoed dubiously. “From where?”
“Utonki.”
“Otoonki,” he sneered, deliberately massacring the pronunciation. “Where’s that?”
“Nigeria. Southeastern Nigeria.”
Gruels hissed. Ike felt a violent pulse in his groin, then the private shame of a rogue drip of pee.
A few moments passed in utter silence. Then Gruels straightened and walked toward Ike.
“Another African god,” he said, then tightened his jaw. He wistfully shook his head from side to side. “Don’t know that I’m interested in another African god.” Ike was riveted by a sleek of sweat that ran from his armpit down the side of his body. He pressed his right arm against his body and let his shirt mop up the sweat. Gruels’s voice sounded peremptory: “Unwrap it—let’s see.”
Ike moved with haste. His shaky hands ripped the newsprint until the bare statue was revealed. He held it up. A vaporous whiff slapped his face. His nose itched, and he shuddered with a sneezing spell. Gruels approached to look but suddenly flinched, frozen in his tracks.
“Wow! Stinky!” he exclaimed, covering his nose. He colored and let out three massive sneezes. “Where again did you get this?” he asked, between eruptions.
“Utonki. My hometown.”
“This mother fumes!” he said. He held Ike in a suspicious stare. Ike felt hope yield place to fear. What if the man spurned the deity? What if he ended up stuck with Ngene—what would he do with it?
“Before I even talk to you, I need some documentation. Some literature about the deity.”
“I’ve got two,” Ike said brightly, thankful for the booklets by Manfredi and Okwudili Okeke.
“For this kind of product,” Gruels said, “I’d require three—three documents that authenticate the god.”
“I brought two,” Ike said again.
“Forget it, then. Two just won’t cut it.”
“It’s an authentic god,” Ike swore.
Gruels gave him a look that said, Take your word for it?
“Trust me,” Ike continued, his tone more assertive. “You’ll find several items on the Internet. Lots of pieces, even photographs. Just Google it. Ngene is spelled N-G-E-N-E. Utonki: U-T-O-N-K-I.”
Gruels’s cell phone began to ring, a chirpy tone. He pressed the phone against his ear and turned away. He said a warm “Hello!” followed by a litany of yeses, and then broke into deep laughter.
Left alone, Ike felt the grind of pressure in his groin begging to be relieved. Asking Gruels for the use of his bathroom, Ike conjectured, could prove a big mistake. Yet the pressure became fiery, nearing an unbearable stage.
His skin crawled with the touch of something like blown breath, moist and hot. A spasm racked his body. A single thought pressed on his mind, of grief-stricken gods.
The gods are bawling tears, he thought, as something as vague as the smell of tears tickled his nostrils.
“Why are you crying?” Gruels asked, intruding on Ike’s reverie.
Ike felt alarmed by the wetness streaking down his face.
“Are you okay?” Gruels pursued, fixing him with a confused look.
With the back of his right hand Ike swiped off the tears. Then he gave a wan, embarrassed smile.
“Anything the matter?” Gruels persisted.
Ike touched his face.
“Fine, then,” said the gallery owner, scratching at his jaw. “We better make this snappy. As a principle, I pay no attention to Internet stuff, but I’m willing to make an exception. I’d rather trust my sense of smell—and your stuff has a distinctive stink. Let’s see what you got.”
Ike stood the deity on the ground and pulled out the folded booklets. Gruels unfurled the first one, Manfredi’s, and then put on a pair of glasses that hung from a Velcro rope around his neck. He flipped through the pages, less reading than skimming. He opened Okeke’s booklet and went through it in the same cursory fashion. Turning the last page, Gruels leaned against a shelf and gave Ike a sidelong glance. He raised his head, biting his lower lip, a man lost in thought.
“How much?” he asked. His terse tone revealed a man whose habit was to get quickly to the bottom of things.
Confused, Ike grunted, “Huh?”
“What are you asking? Give me a figure.”
The abruptness knocked Ike off balance. He didn’t do well under such pressure.
“It depends on you,” he said. The moment the words passed his lips, he sensed their imprudence.
“Depends on me?” Gruels asked, scratching at his chin in that same irritated way. Then he looked agitatedly at his wristwatch. “You leave it up to me, I pay little for this. Or nothing.” He swept an arm in the deity’s direction. “Frankly, I’m not looking to add to my African inventory. Not at this time. African gods are no longer profitable. So, how much?”
“It’s a powerful war deity. In olden days, it helped my people in their battles. No deity equaled its power. No warriors stood up to my ancestors. None. We—they—crushed all their enemies. This deity was responsible. All neighboring armies feared Ngene. It was—”
Gruels dashed up, interrupting Ike. At proximity, Ike felt dwarfed. A palpable tension sneaked into the space between them. Ike’s groin burned with a bursting pressure. It worsened his fear, his dread of coming helplessly under another man’s physical and emotional power. Gruels gripped him by the shoulder, he saw the profusion of hair on the man’s arm, smelled the man’s cologne. The gallery owner’s gentle shakes belied the man’s discomfiting stare.
“I don’t take to a priest preaching to me about his god’s great prowess. I’m not going to fall in love with Nagini—or whatever it is you call it. I’m a businessman.” He paused, his grip tightening. With a stronger shake, he said, “Give me a damn figure—and let’s save each other’s time. If I like your price, I buy. Otherwise, I’ll shake your hand and wish you luck selling it elsewhere.”
“It’s you I want to sell to,” Ike said, and immediately rued his tactlessness, the impression of being willing to abandon other options.
“Then give me your fucking asking price.”
Ike’s groin pulsed with pressure. Two hundred thousand dollars? Two hundred eighty thousand? Four hundred fifty thousand? Each figure received its due of fleeting consideration before he fled from it, wary of selling short. He would be ecstatic with five hundred thousand—half a million. But what if he could get more? Obstinately, he said, “Give me an idea.”
Gruels glowered at him, then said, “You’re reall
y wasting my time. Really.”
“Okay, three hundred and fifty,” Ike proposed.
“Three hundred and fifty what?”
“Thousand.”
Gruels looked at him askance, then burst out in laughter.
“Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars for an African god? What year do you think this is? You’ve got to be kidding!”
Ike remained oddly calm, collected, unfazed by the tone of derision.
“I told you to make an offer,” he said, his tone slightly accusing. In his mind he radically scaled back his expectation. Maybe Gruels would offer something in the region of two hundred fifty thousand.
Gruels pulled at Ike’s shirt. “Come this way,” he said.
They rounded a corner and faced an area with a pile of small and tall showcases, some of them with two or more statues. For a moment, they stood in silence. Ike squirmed, muscles tensed to rein in the pressure in his groin. Still silent, Gruels began to pace back and forth, his eyes roaming, looking at the deities in the vitrines as if he were seeing them for the first time. The statues seemed to follow his restless movement, staring back, films of dust visible in the hollows of their eyes. The stink seemed ranker.
“You’re looking at my inventory of African gods,” Gruels said at length, spreading his arm. “You can see there’s hardly any room on the shelves. You know why?” He fixed Ike with hard, searing eyes. Ike looked away, irritated. “African gods are no longer in vogue, that’s why. Three, four years ago, they were all the rage. Even two years ago, they were still doing decent business. Every serious collector had to have three, four, five African gods. They flew off the shelf. Then things—tastes—changed. This is like any other business—it’s prone to shifts in tastes. It just happens that African gods don’t excite collectors as they once did. That could change tomorrow, but I’m looking at today—and it’s not pretty.”
Again, Gruels made a sweep of the hand as he spoke. “See? My entire African inventory’s been on sale going on three years, yet it remains slow-moving.” He pointed to an oblong statue: “That’s a Wolof god of fertility. It’s been marked down by eighty percent—and it’s still here. This one, a Bambara water goddess. Six years ago, it would have fetched half a million—easy. Now, take a look at the price tag. A mere eight thousand five, yet no buyers.” He touched a toothy statue. “This, a Fanti god. Been on the shelf for four years.” He touched another one, a scrawny-chested figure with shriveled scrotum and an erect phallus. “A Tiv god. Five, six years ago, collectors would have paid a handsome sum for it. Today, there are no takers, even though it’s going for five thousand.” He led Ike to a showcase at the end of the wall that held a rectangular object, a cornucopia of animal skeletons, bird beaks, straw ropes, chiseled bark, twigs, and raffia. “It’s a ritual totem used in funerals of warriors. Four years ago, I sold one for close to two hundred thousand. This one’s marked for eighteen thousand. No buyers.” He thrust a finger at a case that contained a wiry, spear-like figure. “That’s a Ligbi god of revelers—a deity I personally like. But guess what? Nobody’s looking at it.” Gazing up at a tall case with three sections, he said, “That one—on the top row, second from the right—it’s an Akan warrior god. I discounted it, first fifty percent, then seventy-five, but it’s still on the shelf. And it’s been on sale going on two years. Here, this oval-faced statue is a Luba patron god of clairvoyants and sorcerers. There’s a Malinke earth goddess, there’s a Baoule god of fire, and there’s a Shona mermaid.” He placed a right hand on the showcases as he named each statue. “This is from Togo—an Ewe guardian of magic.” He caressed the glass that held a mask with the flat horns of a buffalo, a hyena’s ears, and a crocodile’s huge jaws. “This is a Senufo funeral mask. Used to be I couldn’t get one in before somebody bought it. Not anymore.” He moved on to another, a statue that was half human, half beast. “This is a Chi Wara deity of farming. I once asked a hundred and eighty grand for one. Can you see the sale price? Twelve thousand—yet nothing doing.” He glided to another set of showcases. “Look at this one, an Efik rain god; this, an Urhobo canoe to heaven; this, Shango, the Yoruba god of thunder; this, a Fon earth goddess. Look, I’ve got inventory from all over Africa—the Kongo, Bamana, Bembe, Baga, Xhosa, Yaka, Dogon—you name it. I wish they did as well as they used to. I’ve offered huge discounts, but collectors simply aren’t interested. African deities are no longer in vogue.”
Gruels paused, entwined his hands, and set a rueful, faraway look on the lineup of African gods. Ike felt disheartened. A storm raged inside him, left him reeling. Some icy spear pierced deep. His flesh felt minced and sheared, as if lobs of it would fall away from the bone. He was uneasy and confused. His lips puttered, but his mind couldn’t fasten on any words.
“So what’s my point?” Gruels asked, breaking the silence. “African gods are not the inventory they used to be. They’ve gone cold. You want a great payday, then go get me an Asian god. They’re big, Asian gods are. There’s also a huge demand for Latin American gods. But African gods—they went cold several years ago, and they’re still cold. Anybody in this business knows that African deities are now at the bottom of collectors’ lists.”
Rolling off Gruels’s tongue, the word “cold” had the sting of a well-aimed punch to Ike’s gut. Cold. Cold gods!
He shifted from leg to leg. He thought about his mother lying in a hospital, broken to bits. “This is a powerful god,” he said.
“You don’t need to tell me. It has the stink of a great one—no question. Problem is, I have to look at market trends. And the odds are not in its favor.”
“It’ll sell,” Ike assured in a pitiful voice. “Trust me.”
“I can’t trade what I know for your trust. You can afford to be sentimental—it’s your ancestral deity, after all. But I’m not in the sentiment business. I buy and sell gods, period. Go to Asia and get me a god—any god—and I’ll make you a great offer for it. Or to Latin America. That’s what collectors are looking for. This one just isn’t it.”
Gruels shrugged, then stared at Ike with an attitude of shrewd distance. The air conditioner purred, punctuating the silence. Ike’s legs were cramping up. He asked, “So how much?”
“Am I offering?”
Ike nodded.
“A thousand bucks.”
Ike cringed and let out a puff of breath. His right leg buckled, and he had to grab the edge of a showcase to keep from reeling.
“It doesn’t even cover my flight ticket,” he said in a carping tone, his voice quaky. He knew his sister would be calling later that day, tomorrow at the latest, asking for a transfer of twenty-five hundred dollars for their mother’s hospital care.
“A thousand bucks is about right,” Gruels said in a flat, unyielding tone.
“My flight ticket cost fifteen hundred dollars,” Ike said. “I then had to travel to my hometown. I spent more than a week there. Each day cost me a lot of money. On my way back, I was stopped by customs at the airport in Lagos. They nearly seized the god. I gave them eight hundred dollars to let me go. If they’d caught me, I would have been in big trouble. Years in jail. I would have been finished.” He glanced up at Gruels. As their eyes met, Ike swallowed hard. Then he continued: “It’s a powerful god, trust me. I’m sure it’s worth good money.”
“I’m the dealer here,” Gruels said sharply. “I know something about the value of stock.” The door creaked open, the sharp blast of a car horn and other street clatter slipped in. Ike and Gruels turned toward the door at the same time. A young petite woman with wavy blond hair loped in. Gruels brightened. “Amanda, thank God you’re back.” He glanced at his watch again, and turned to Ike. “I’m afraid I’ve got to run. Running behind for a meeting.” He scrutinized Ike’s face. “Listen, here’s a deal. I give you fifteen hundred. Take it or leave it—but it’d be a mistake to say no. Trust me, it’s a darn great deal. It’s on the generous side of the ballpark, I assure you. You don’t believe me, try other galleries. Or—this is another option. Lea
ve the item on consignment. Tell me what you’d like to ask for it. I sell, I take my commission—twenty percent—and you get the rest.” He angled his face closer to Ike’s. “Matter of fact, it sounds perfect. Fair?”
“But I need money now,” Ike said with artless candor.
“Up to you, then. I’m happy to write you a check right away. Fifteen hundred. Or you put it on consignment. Your choice.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Ike made his way up the stairs to his apartment and jiggled the key in the lock. He twisted the cold, oily doorknob and prepared to walk in. A waft of rank air arrested him. It seemed to leap at his nostrils, this stench, fierce as a wounded beast on its second—more ferocious—wind.
He stood pat, unnerved, framed against the door that was still partially ajar. Staggered by the stink, he held his breath for as long as he could manage and then exhaled sharply. Moved by curiosity, he sniffed the air. Immediately, the spiteful smell saturated his lungs. Something like an icy lump tumbled down into the pit of his stomach.
His thoughts ran to disinfectants, one of those things he should have stocked up on but never remembered to—until a pressing, repellent need arose. It would take a powerful disinfectant to dislodge this foe, to shoo off the feculence.
There was nothing to do about the reek for now, he decided, insuperable as it was. It was more urgent to search out some still, refreshing place where his ravaged spirits and fatigued body could start their recuperation.
He collapsed onto the couch. A raw pain seared through him, and his bones creaked with sadness. In his head a swarm of emotions, a mangrove seeded with a riot of thoughts that thrashed this way and that. Idea after idea teased him, flirtatious, each as elusive and capricious as a streaking meteor, incandescent one moment, erased the next. And like the meteor, each idea’s combustion was doomed to peter out.
Amid the buffet of unformed thoughts, Ike felt enveloped by an eerie blankness. His mind was not cluttered but strangely arid. He was on the cusp of abjection.