Foreign Gods, Inc.

by Okey Ndibe

  He fished the check from his pocket. One edge of it pinched between two fingers, he gazed at it. On the subway, riding home, he’d had one hand in the pocket of his pants. The check was clasped in the palm of that hand. He’d clawed, folded, twirled, and rolled the check. His restless fingers had left the check creased and frayed, wrinkled and unsightly. Toward the check was now directed a full measure of his disgust.

  In a snap, he recalled the sum of all he’d suffered. The heartbreak he’d inflicted. Osuakwu stirring the morning with his wails. His mother mauled, lying in a hospital unattended, perhaps even breathing her last that very moment. The paltry sum scrawled in Mark Gruels’s oddly feeble hand.

  Ike felt an urge to tear up the check. Shred it and throw its pieces up in the air. He gaped at the check until, powerless before a sweeping urge, he broke into laughter. He shook so much that his fingers parted. The check glided to the floor.

  He slapped his hands as if to remove some invisible stain. He began to make a hasty sign of the cross, but stopped halfway. Lifting his legs onto the couch, he rested his head on the leathery arm. Then he shut his eyes.

  ONCE AGAIN, THE FLOOD came. This time, there was no heraldry. One moment, he was safe; he luxuriated in a bed of plumes. The next instant, he was immersed in a flood. It churned and tugged and tumbled. Underneath the rage, it was airless. Afraid of asphyxiation, he lifted his head for air. Bobbing along the surface was the statue of Ngene. It gazed at him, seemed amused. Disconcerted, he ducked under. The stream’s howl deafened him. The maddening siren belched from a vortex.

  He clambered awake, his pounding heart reverberating in his ears. With his left cuff he swiped a streak of saliva that dribbled down one part of his cheek. A sticky substance smeared his cuff. From habit, he brought the cuff to his nostrils, then turned sharply from the rotten, sickening stink. His neck was sweaty, the collar of his shirt sodden. Gripping a fold of his shirt, he used it to dab at his neck. Then he became aware of the phone’s impatient ring. He reached out for it, stretching himself from the couch.

  “This is a call from A and M Rental Management. Please hold for the next available agent.”

  He banged the phone down. It began to ring almost immediately. Let it ring, he thought. Last night he’d disconnected the voice mail. A sly sinister smile formed on his face.

  He placed both hands against his chest and felt every chug of the ferocious beast inside him.

  His eyes remained drowsy from interrupted sleep. Yet, the moment he shut his eyes the image of Ngene appeared. Reclining against the wall at the very spot where he’d left it for several days, it looked grotesquely emaciated. There was a terrifying indeterminacy about its visage. It seemed to be weeping and laughing all at once.

  IKE UZONDU NO LONGER counted time in days, only in the swarm of maggots, the buzz of flies, and depth of the stench. What went on in the streets no longer touched him. The clamor from Cadilla’s had taken on a muted, faraway quality. He sat and stared at the spot where he had stood the statue before he took it away to Foreign Gods, Inc. He stared at the decayed chicken and cuts of beef he had left on the floor to feed the deity that was no longer there, even though its stink remained. He gaped at the maggots that crawled in and out of the decayed food, at their soft, squiggly bodies that seemed drunk from the beer and gin he had spattered on the floor as well.

  His phone had rung innumerable times—Usman Wai, his sister, the rental office, Jonathan, strangers—but he had not picked up.

  Today, whatever the day was, he knew there were more maggots than ever, more flies flying their egg-laying sorties, a stronger stench infusing the air in the room. He knew that tomorrow, whenever it arrived, there would be even more maggots, a greater clatter of flies, a deeper reach of the smell.

  He couldn’t tell what would come next, then next. There was the business of feeding the maggots, hosting the flies, inhaling what the air gave. The maggots and flies were not enough. He was now chief priest to Ngene. And a chief priest should know what he had to do. He was going to buy another ticket and take Ngene back to Utonki.

  He picked up his phone and dialed.

  Mark Gruels’s unmistakable voice answered.

  “I sold you a god recently,” he said, unsure how many days or weeks or months ago because he now counted time in the swarm of maggots.

  “Yes, Ngene,” Gruels said, his pronunciation perfect. “You were here about two weeks ago. I can’t forget that accent, buddy.”

  “I haven’t cashed your check. I need my deity back.”

  There was a burst of laughter, then a pause. “That’s ridiculous. The thing’s sold.”

  “I want it back,” Ike said. “I’ll bring back the check.”

  “It’s gone,” Gruels said. “Gone two days after I bought it. A Japanese guy snatched it up.”

  “We have to get it back. It must return to its shrine—or trouble continues.”

  “What do you mean trouble continues? Are you threatening me?”

  “No, but I—we—need to take it back.”

  Gruels fell silent for a moment, as if to think. Ike’s hope rose.

  “Listen, this is an odd call. A buyer sometimes decides to return stuff—for any number of reasons. But you don’t sell stuff and then ask the buyer to return it. I bought that deity. You can’t ask me to hand it back to you—any more than I can ask the man who bought from me. Besides, the guy who took it wasn’t really a collector, just happened to stroll in. And he was flying out that night, I believe. Back to Japan.”

  “You must have his address. I have to have it back.”

  “No, I don’t. No, you don’t. You don’t sell stuff and then ask for it back. That’s not business; that’s some crazy children’s game. Even if I knew the buyer’s address—which I don’t—I don’t play that game.”

  Ike saw three flies land atop a mound of maggots that wiggled over a greenish, rotted piece of chicken. He winced. “Please,” he said in a choked voice, “check for the man’s address.”

  “Are you for real?” Gruels said. “I don’t keep a bank of my customers’ addresses.”

  “He must have left credit card records,” Ike said.

  “As a matter of fact, he didn’t. He paid cash.” After a pause, his tone impatient, Gruels asked, “Why are we even holding this conversation? Where’s this leading?”

  “I need the deity back. Maggots are crawling all over here.”

  “Maggots? This is crazy. What have maggots got to do with anything?”

  “It has to go back to Utonki.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Its new home is somewhere in Japan. You should be proud that a deity that once lived in your village has traveled to Asia.”

  “Please,” Ike said, like a child asking for candy.

  “Listen,” Gruels said. “I’m going to make you a deal because the deity you sold me happened to be a class act—as far as my African inventory goes. By the way, did you know that Ngene farted storms from its rump? We sprayed perfume on it every day—and it still stank up the store. It has character, an audacious personality—I grant you that. So, here’s the deal. I paid you what, fifteen hundred dollars, right.”

  “I haven’t cashed it,” Ike said.

  “I’ve never done this, but you brought me a great god—and I like your accent and all. So let’s say I throw in another thousand bucks.”

  “I want Ngene back,” Ike said. A clump of maggots toppled from the edge of a stripped chicken bone. He gasped. “I don’t want the—” He swallowed the rest of his words, startled by the sound of voices outside his door, followed by four sharp knocks. The phone clicked and then died in his hand.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  IN WRITING THIS BOOK, I benefited from the kindness, encouragement and goodwill of numerous friends, relatives, colleagues, students, publishers, and acquaintances. Many simply listened to my incessant stories. Their attentiveness made the solitude bearable and lightened the occasional sense of lonesomeness.

  My deepest affection belongs
to Sheri. I still marvel at my incredible luck, how I crashed your birthday party and stole you away! To my siblings John, J.C., Ifeoma, and Ogii: How extraordinary to be the children of “C” and “E.” Fond regards to Doris Fafunwa and her late husband, Aliu Babatunde Fafunwa, for the gift of a magnificent wife; and also to Lola Jackson (sister-in-law), Tunde Fafunwa and Tani Fafunwa (brothers-in-law). I’m in awe of Huguette Njemanze-Fafunwa’s insatiable appetite for books, and by Ifeoma Obianwu-Fafunwa’s amazing creative flair.

  The best thing that happened to this novel was its landing in the lap of Soho Press. I’m indebted to E.C. Osondu, a fine writer and genial spirit, for pointing me in Soho’s direction. My editor, Mark Doten, proved a writer’s dream. His grace, persistence, and attuned instincts guided me through the maze of revisions. Paul Oliver and his publicity/marketing team exude such palpable passion. And to Bronwen Hruska, the publisher at Soho, I say—Daalu! Kudos to the marketing staff at Random House for getting this book in the hands of readers.

  I celebrate Wole Soyinka for his peerless generosity. Chinua Achebe, John Edgar Wideman, Ngugi wa Thiong’o, Ekwueme Michael Thelwell, and Kofi Awoonor have taught me much about life and literature. I hail Stephen Clingman, a patient guide. Michael Archer and Joel Whitney published an early excerpt on guernicamag.com. Several readers enriched this novel with their incisive critiques: Ma Phebean Ogundipe (whose textbook sparked my fascination with the English language), Karen Fritsche, Olu Oguibe, Kitty Axelson, Paul Nnodim, Nina Ryan, Nitor Egbarin, Holly Williams, Scott Myers, Rudolf Okonkwo, and Willie Nwokoye (a co-explorer of language and rites).

  I salute Okey and Hadiza Anueyiagu, for their love for my family and me; Ikhide Ikheloa, for all the hell he raises because he believes that literature matters; Okezie Nwoka, for his bristling intelligence; Obiora Udechukwu, Odogwu nwoke! I’ve been sustained by many friends and relatives: Ian Mayo-Smith and Krishna Sondhi, Vijay Prashad, Nana Becky Clarke, Greg and Deirdre Falla and my Greene family, David and Chinwe Iloanya, Victor Manfredi, Sowore Omoyele, Okwy Okeke, Chenjerai Hove, Chika Okeke-Agulu, Cyril Obi, Abioseh Porter, Chuks Odikpo, William Wallis, Michael Peel, Kaye Whiteman, C. Don Adinuba, Bayo Okelana, Niyi Osundare, Victor Ehikhamenor, Chika Ezeanya, Bankole Olayebi, E.C. Ejiogu, Okwui Enwezor, Obiwu Iwuanyanwu, Nduka Otiono, Ndaeyo Uko, Mukoma Ngugi, Richard Dowden, Chika Unigwe, James Nagenda, Onyekachi Wambu, Maik Nwosu, and Paul Ezigbo.

  I thank Reverends Damian Eze, Richard Fineo, and Efeturi Ojakaminor for the constancy of their prayers. I’m grateful to my former colleagues at Simon’s Rock College and Trinity College and my colleagues in Africana Studies at Brown—for making me feel at home.