by Ben Okri
Mum did not nod. She stared grimly at the twitching candle.
‘It doesn’t matter if you answer or not. I have said what I have to say. If you have ears, listen. If you want to be my tenant, when the election comes you will go and vote for my party man.’
He paused.
‘It’s simple. All you have to do is press ink next to his name. A simple matter. My party will bring good roads and electricity and water supply. And remember this: we have people at the polling station who will be watching you. We will know who you vote for. Whether you vote for our man or not we will win anyway. But if you don’t vote for him there will be trouble. You might as well begin to look for another place now and see if you can find another landlord as good as me. Tell this to your husband. I don’t have time to come back. And send me my rent latest tomorrow morning. That’s all.’
He was now standing behind Dad’s chair. He had finished his speech. His back was to us and he seemed to be waiting for a response. There was only silence. And the spitting candle. The three men looked like statues. They looked like dead men. I could barely see the whites of their eyes.
‘God knows,’ the landlord continued, ‘that I want the best for my tenants. But the tenant that doesn’t want a good thing should go. There’s power and there’s power: anyone who looks for my trouble will get enough trouble for life. I am a peaceful man but the person who spoils my peace will find that I am a LION. I am an ELEPHANT. My THUNDER will strike them. And on top of that I will send my boys to beat them up!’
He was now at the window. He put the kola-nut back into his pocket. He brought out a white handkerchief and wiped his face. Then he turned to face Mum directly. We were all concentrating on him. Except Mum. She went on staring into the candle-flame as if she saw in it a new kind of destiny.
The landlord opened his mouth to speak when a gentle wind came into the room and turned into a dark figure, towering but bowed. And with the figure came a reminder of the nightsoil van. The figure was Dad and the landlord slowly shut his mouth.
The three men crowded away from Dad, away from the wall, and regrouped in stances of half-fight next to the cupboard. Suddenly the room seemed cramped and Dad made it worse by shutting the door. The upward illumination of the candle-light caught his face as well, and made him look like a man undergoing a terrible martyrdom. His cheekbones were highlighted, his eyes sunken, and his head was stark. He looked baffled. He stood in front of the door and stared at every one of us, turning to face each one of us directly. His neck seemed stiff. He somehow gave the feeling that he had lost the connection between what he saw and what he understood. He gave the impression that he had been bashed on the head and that his centre had been dislocated. He looked confused, as if he had entered the wrong room and had no idea how to get out again.
‘Dad!’ I cried.
He looked at me without comprehension. It was only after a while that we became aware of the stench in the room.
Suddenly one of the three men made a noise, as of holding back bile. Then he rushed to the window and spat out. The landlord spat on the floor, stepped on it, and twisted his foot as though he were crushing out a cigarette. Another of the men went behind Dad and opened the door. Moths, midges, and flying ants came in, and mosquitoes whined in the silence. The moth circled the candle and I felt that time had moved backwards and was trapped there.
Dad went towards Mum and sat heavily on the bed. There was shame on his face. Shame, humiliation, and defiance. The landlord, unable to come out with what he had been about to say, moved towards the door. His sense of drama had deserted him. He seemed to have sensed a new kind of menace in Dad. I sensed it too. He said:
‘Your wife will tell you what I had to say.’
He hurried out of the room without repeating his demand for the rent. His henchmen ran out behind him, casting their last looks at Dad.
We sat in the room suffused by the bewildering odour. It was as though an unpleasant vent had burst under our floor. We sat without moving, without speaking, till one of the moths got its wings burnt and extinguished the candle. In the darkness I felt for the matches on the table. Then I heard Mum say, with great unhappy tenderness:
‘My husband, what has happened to you?’
When I lit the candle Mum’s arms were around Dad’s neck. She held him tight, her face in his hair. Then, becoming aware of the light, she disentangled herself from him, and unloosened his shoes. Dad did not move. She pulled off his shoes and gave them to me, saying:
‘Your father has stepped on something. Go and wash the shoes inside the bathroom. Don’t do it by the well.’
I took the shoes and went out. The wind blew through the passage, lifting dust into my eyes. The wind was cool; it smelt of trees and the night, of bushes and aromatic herbs scenting the air. It also smelt of kerosine and candle-smoke, but it did not have the curious odour in our room. At the backyard I borrowed one of the tenants’ lamps, fetched some water, got some useless newspaper and bits of wood. I looked at Dad’s shoes and there was nothing unusual on them. They did not smell badly, except of sweat and hard-working feet. But I washed the shoes anyway and washed my hands and went back in.
Dad was now sitting on his chair. Mum was asking him if everything was all right. I was certain he hadn’t said a word all the time I had been out. Mum looked distressed, as if his secret anguish was eating away at her. When I put the shoes down in the corner, Dad brought an envelope from his pocket and gave it to Mum. She opened it, brought out some pound notes, and looked at him in astonishment. He said:
‘It’s the rent.’
Mum was so overcome with emotion that she knelt at his feet and held his thighs and said over and over again:
‘Thank you, thank you, my brave husband.’
She said it with such proud sadness she made me feel that those who suffer are strangers to this world. Dad did not acknowledge her, nor did he show any sign of emotion, but his face was so strange I was sure he was feeling much more than he was able to express.
After a while Mum made Dad some food. He went and had a long bath. He came back with only his towel round his waist. He sent me to go and buy him a small bottle of Hausa perfume.
I walked a long way up our street, towards the main road, before I came upon a cluster of Hausa night traders who sold Indian incense, beads, perfumes, and charms. I bought a cheap bottle of perfume and ran back. Dad had changed clothes. He applied great quantities of the perfume to himself and thoroughly stank out the room with its crude ingredients. We washed our hands and ate in silence.
After we ate Mum went and soaked Dad’s clothes in disinfectant and hid the bucket deep in the backyard. Dad stayed up, sitting in his chair. He did not drink and did not smoke. He was very sober. He looked like he would never recover from the shock of a certain kind of self-knowledge. Mum sat up with him. They were silent for a long time. Then as I fell asleep I heard Mum ask, as though she were prepared to accept the possibility:
‘You didn’t kill someone, did you?’
I opened my eyes. Dad shook his head. They were both silent. Mum lit a mosquito coil. I shut my eyes again.
Later that night there was a knock on the door. It was the photographer. He sneaked in hurriedly. Dad opened his eyes and said:
‘Ah, photographer, it’s you.’
‘Yes, it’s me.’
‘Sleep well.’
‘And you, sir.’
The photographer lay down with me on the mat. He showed me a little round, transparent bottle. It had a yellow powder inside.
‘This,’ he said, ‘is the most powerful rat poison in the world. Tomorrow, if I return early, we will finish off those rats once and for all.’
He kept it among his things. I blew out the candle. We floated in the darkness and the dreadful perfume of the heated room.
4
FOR MANY DAYS Dad remained sullen. We got used to the perfume. He offered no explanation. And it was only when he was told of what the landlord had said that he re
covered his spirit. He said even if they killed him he wouldn’t vote for the landlord’s party. He went around the compound saying this. Some of the neighbours nodded when he made his declaration. Mum warned him that the landlord had spies in the compound.
‘Let them spy,’ Dad said, ‘but I won’t vote for that useless party.’
‘I know, but don’t tell them.’
‘Why not? Am I a coward?’
‘No.’
‘Then I must say what I believe.’
‘But you heard what the landlord said.’
‘Let the landlord drop dead!’
‘Lower your voice.’
‘Why?’
‘Spies.’
‘Let the spies drop dead too!’
‘I am afraid for us.’
‘There is nothing to fear.’
‘But I am afraid.’
‘What right has the landlord to bully us, to tell us who to vote for, eh? Is he God? Even God can’t tell us who to vote for. Don’t be afraid. We may be poor, but we are not slaves.’
‘Where are we going to find another room?’
‘Our destiny will provide.’
And so it continued. Sparked off by his own defiance, Dad began to speak of himself as the only one who would not vote for the landlord’s party. All over our area party-supporters became more violent. They went around in groups terrorising everyone. We heard stories of people who were sacked from their jobs because they were on the wrong side of politics. Mum grew afraid of the market and didn’t go as regularly as she wanted. Money became short. Mum had to reduce our food.
We saw the photographer only late at night. On some nights I waited for him to knock but he didn’t. When I saw him he began to speak of leaving the area. He went on taking his unusual pictures and a few more appeared in the papers. Whenever he was seen people gathered around him. He had become something of a legend. For the period he stayed with us he tried to turn the corner where Dad kept his shoes into a dark-room, with no success, because Mum, paranoid of spiders’ webs, kept sweeping and cleaning and exposing light to all dark places.
One night some men came to our compound to ask about the photographer. They claimed to be journalists. They said they’d heard he was staying with tenants in the compound. The tenants denied it, but they began to keep watch. At night we saw strange men leaning against the burnt van, staring at our house. When I told the photographer about it he became scared and we did not see him for many days.
Madame Koto appeared at our room during that period. She appeared out of the air, startling me. Mum was in, but Dad hadn’t returned. I was so startled that before I could run she grabbed me and said:
‘You are a bad boy.’
‘Why?’
‘Running away from your elders.’
She gave me some money.
‘Why have you been running away from me, eh? What did I do to you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Why did you throw away my juju?’
‘Nothing.’
Mum laughed. Madame Koto let me go. She sat on the bed, beside Mum. She was as fat as ever, plump as a mighty fruit, but her face had become a little bit more frightening than I remembered. She did not have her white beads round her neck. Her face was darker; her eyes, shaded with eye-pencil, made her look mysterious. The quantity of wrappers round her increased her volume. The two women talked in low tones. I drew closer to listen. Madame Koto gave Mum a packet whose contents I never discovered. Then she turned to me and said:
‘I want you to come back. Your mother agrees. Since you stopped coming the bar has been empty.’
‘I will discuss it with your father,’ Mum added.
They went on talking. I went and played at the housefront. When Madame Koto was leaving she called me.
‘I am going now,’ she said, ‘but tomorrow I want you to come and attract customers to the bar, you hear?’
I nodded.
‘I will prepare you special peppersoup with plenty of meat.’
Then she waddled off into the darkness.
Dad returned exhausted that night. Mum did not discuss anything with him. The photographer did not turn up. The rats went on eating.
5
MADAME KOTO’S BAR had changed. She had put up a new signboard. The signboard had a painting of a large-breasted mermaid serving drinks and steaming peppersoup. There were multicoloured plastic trailings at the doorway. Swishing aside the curtain strips, I went in. The door was now blue. It was dark and cool inside. The benches were shorter. The tables had plastic coverings. As if she anticipated more trouble and more customers she had begun to install a counter at the far end of the bar, across from the backyard door. The walls were cobalt. It felt more peaceful in the bar. I went to the backyard and saw a little girl washing plates and spoons. She stared at me suspiciously.
‘Where is Madame Koto?’
She didn’t reply.
‘Can’t you talk?’
Still the girl didn’t say anything. I went to Madame Koto’s room and knocked. She didn’t seem to be in. So I went back into the bar and sat near the earthenware pot. Flies buzzed in the serenity of the place. The little girl came in and remained at the threshold of the door, the curtain strips covering her face. She watched me. She had a long sad face and big eyes. She had little scarifications on her cheeks. She was too sad and too passive to be beautiful. She went on staring at me and I got irritated.
‘Why are you looking at me, eh?’
She stayed mute. Then she went to the backyard and carried on with her washing of plates and cutlery.
Throughout the afternoon no one came to drink and I did not see Madame Koto. I slept on the bench and woke up suddenly. It was quiet. There was a kerosine lamp on the table. I felt I had materialised in some underwater kingdom. I searched for the girl and could not find her. When I got back Madame Koto was in the bar with a carpenter.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked, shouting above the carpenter’s hammering.
‘I went to look for the girl.’
‘Which girl?’
‘The girl who was washing the plates.’
She stared at me as if I had turned into a fish, or as if I had gone mad.
‘What plates?’
‘The plates in the backyard.’
She went out and looked and came back shouting.
‘Something is wrong with you,’ she said.
I went to the backyard and saw the plates and cutlery piled in a heap. They were all unwashed. A cauldron of peppersoup bubbled away on the firegrate near the heap.
‘Go and wash the plates,’ she bellowed, ‘before I get angry with you.’
I was reluctant, but I went. I fetched water from the well, sat on the stool, and washed the plates and cutlery. The fire, heating my face and drying my eyes, made me dizzy with its curiously fragrant woodsmoke. I listened to the carpenter hammering and the firewood crackling. I got very dizzy from breathing in the smoke and from the blast of the heat so that I started to sway and the evening began to turn. The peppersoup spilled over in green bubbles and poured over the firewood and the little girl came and lifted off the hot lid of the cauldron with her bare hands. Then she stirred the soup with a long wooden ladle which had the shape of a human palm at the serving end.
‘Get away from here!’ I cried.
When she brought out the ladle the serving end was missing. The wooden hand had become part of the soup.
‘Look what you’ve done!’ I shouted.
She threw away what was left of the ladle and went off in a sulk. Soon she returned with a long and large bone. She stirred the soup with it and the bone dissolved.
‘If you don’t go away I will beat you,’ I threatened.
She lifted the lid back on the cauldron and crouched near the grate and stared into the fire. She put out her hands, as if to warm them, and then she threw two white cowries into the flames. The firewood cried out, popping and crackling, and a thick indigo smoke filled the air and engulfed the gi
rl and when the smoke cleared I saw her melting. First her outstretched hands melted into the air and then her shoulders and then her body. Her head remained on the ground and her big sad eyes went on staring at me impassively till she dissolved altogether. I screamed and everything went white. I fell towards the fire. When I came round I was on the floor, my back on the ground. My shirt was soaked. Madame Koto stood above me.
‘What’s wrong with you, eh?’
‘I saw the girl again.’
‘What girl?’
‘The one who was washing the plates.’
‘Get up!’
I got up. I felt very strange, as if I too were dissolving. I sat on the stool. There was only the froth of soup which had spilled over where the girl’s head had been.
‘Where did you see her?’
‘There,’ I said, pointing to the froth.
‘There’s nothing there.’
‘She was here!’ I insisted.
‘Go inside. Don’t bother to wash the plates. Go and drink some water.’
I went in and drank some water and sat on a bench. The carpenter’s hammering gave me a terrible headache. Each time he lifted the hammer in the air I felt it was coming down on my head. I went to the barfront and sat on the sand. I watched people go past. No one came into the bar. No one even looked at it. Darkness drifted slowly over the forest. The air became cooler. Birds circled the trees. Insects thronged the evening. No one noticed the bar because it was more noticeable. I felt on the edge of reality. Madame Koto’s bar seemed like a strange fairyland in the real world, a fairy-land that no one could see.
I began to throw stones at her signboard. And then I threw stones at the blue door and the multicoloured plastic strips of curtain. Madame Koto came out and said:
‘Who is throwing stones?’
‘It’s the girl,’ I replied.
‘Where is she?’
‘She ran away.’
Madame Koto gave me a wicked stare, fingered her white beads, and went back to her washing. I stayed at the front and watched the darkness flow from the forest and gradually engulf the rest of the world. In the distance an owl hooted. A bird piped continuously. The darkness awakened the sounds of the forest. As I sat at the barfront, the sand hot beneath me, I saw a man going past with a little girl. The man saw me, looked at the signboard, and came towards the bar. With him was the same little girl who had melted away. I ran into the bar and hid behind the earthenware pot. The carpenter had almost finished his day’s work and was hammering the last few nails into the wood of the counter.