Africa39

by Wole Soyinka

  Maire, on the other hand, had an impressive collection of Mills & Boon’s hidden in the utility room cupboard so Meg decided to make a study of human relationships from these probably flawed texts. At sixteen, her own experience was non-existent. Reading them from behind the covers of books about hobbits, Meg was seen to make an exceptionally slow journey to Mordor that wet May. She had inhaled several of the purple-covered Mills & Boon’s and had substantially improved her education. Though she possibly learned all the wrong things from those books. They placed an unnecessary emphasis on tall strangers with imperfect social skills.

  Lethargic from her late night reading about gasping virgins and commanding men, Meg took to walking in the afternoons, climbing wobbly looking dry stone walls. And she would find a soft grassy spot, buffering the damp with a fleece. Or, if it was really wet, she would sit at a window and watch.

  ‘It’s only weather,’ her mother said, misunderstanding.

  Catriona underestimated weather. Because there was something frightening about the Irish countryside in the late spring. Things grew too eagerly. It would seem mild and idyllic, new life emerging after a sleeping winter. But after intermittent sunshine and extended damp, the budding trees and flowers flourished, the growth unchecked. Briars tendrilled towards Meg, catching at her clothes and pulling her into a damp slug-ridden undergrowth. The smell of fresh, that reek of new life, assaulted her sinuses. Even when it was dry, the leaves budded on trees at an alarming rate; if she fixed her eyes on them, Meg was sure she could see them actually growing. That May at Kiln House, it seemed that the countryside was quietly hysterical.

  The Clearys arrived just before the end of May. Most visitors stayed only a night, stopping on their way between two points. The house was never a destination in itself, only an interruption on the way to somewhere else. This puzzled Meg because the house did not appear to be the mid-point to anywhere. It felt tucked away, hidden and obscure. Years later, she found out that it was no more than five minutes from a busy arterial road – one of those narrow, winding country roads with a speed limit of one hundred kilometres an hour.

  Mr and Mrs Cleary came for a week, as they had every year since their honeymoon ten years ago. There was not a spot like it, Mr Cleary announced in his great big voice, his thick accent putting strange shadows on the words. He was not wrong: it was a pretty place with a stream at the bottom of the garden, a wood nearby. There was a puzzle of meadows that opened up into each other, all of them carpeted with buttercups and dandelions. The whitethorn was in full bloom and as Meg looked across the fields, it was like bridal bouquets strewn as far as the eye could see.

  Mrs Cleary was a broad, strong woman. They were farmers straight out of a story book. She was nearly six foot and he was taller; they were both muscled and weather worn. Her only vanity was her hair, a pale dirty colour, which she wore down to her waist, stretching out across a white cotton shirt with a pretty lace trim. Afterwards, Meg remembered that trim because it softened Mrs Cleary’s blunt features and stubby fingers.

  The couple went out walking or cycling together in the mornings and in the afternoons Mr Cleary would either disappear to a neighbouring farm or to the village pub. Mrs Cleary would join Catriona and Maire in the kitchen and garden or, if the weather was fine, go out walking by herself.

  Mr Cleary, for all his booming comments about ten wonderful years, seemed to pay a lot of attention to Catriona. Meg reluctantly conceded that her mother was not a bad looking woman. Her mud-brown hair had been disguised as blonde for as long as Meg could remember and it suited her. With large green eyes, freckled skin and a neat mouth she was utterly unlike Meg. While Damien resembled Catriona, Meg was more like their father and strangers frequently didn’t realise that Catriona was even related to Meg.

  When Catriona walked upstairs with a pile of clean bedding, her hair bobbing in a pony tail, Mr Cleary would swoop down beside her and lift the load. If she was down in the garden weeding those un­­­bridled beds, he would be at her side holding a small spade. Meg did not like it. A large man, he exaggerated her petite blondeness. It made her seem younger, more vulnerable. It reminded Meg of those books in the utility cupboard.

  The afternoon walks seemed to suit the ever-serene Mrs Cleary. She always returned with her hair pleasantly whipped about and her rosy cheeks glowing. Unfazed by most things, Mrs Cleary would sit in the kitchen, shelling peas and peeling earth-stained spuds while Catriona and Maire muttered in the corner like a pair of witches.

  On the Clearys’ last day, Meg was in the mood for a medical romance, a bit of doctor love, so she took one of the blue books from the utility room. Walking through the woods, she came to a meadow on the other side. That meadow lead into another field, and she continued until she was three fields deep. She was about to sling down her canvas bag, when she heard a sound. It was an animal noise, and she rather fancied herself an animal lover.

  It came from a field beyond a small path. She heard the noise again, a kind of pained harrumph, as she climbed the gate and lowered herself into a small patch expecting to see a horse or cow. Instead, after turning a corner, Meg faced an incomprehensible display of molten limbs. There were several pale, hairy legs, and she was sure she remembered red socks, or perhaps she added that later. She must have seen the vision from the side, because she remembered a dangling breast held – no, cupped would be the more correct terminology – by one hand as it fed a large nipple into the mouth below. It was as if the two people there had melted into each other.

  It was so very different from what she had studied in the purple books. There seemed to be fewer pants and sighs and much more grunting. Surely it was not meant to be painful? The books had said nothing about that and Catriona had always encouraged Meg to avert her eyes during the wet bits in films. Meg stepped closer.

  In her aunt’s books it always seemed a graceful, transcendent experience that was communicated through ready euphemisms like ‘he entered her’ and his ‘manhood’. What she saw that day, the huge angry red penis and matching socks, the rutting in the fields, was dismayingly different to what Meg had imagined. Mrs Cleary was on top, her breasts swinging, her love handles gripped by the man beneath who used them to push her back and forth. Meg watched the full white bottom bounce, and found it simultaneously terrifying and strangely alluring. It was fleshy, earthy farmer sex. Meg wondered if Mills & Boon had thought about a brown cover range that featured copulating farmers in flower meadows.

  There were loud shrieks and then Mrs Cleary fell face forwards. Slumped down, Mrs Cleary slowly turned her head and saw Meg standing there. She leapt up with alacrity, revealing all of her voluptuous curves. Her untrimmed lady garden. Meg had not realised that it could grow so wild. She was transfixed by the magnificence of that bush. It looked out at her like a small furry animal disturbed from its nap. Mrs Cleary stood before Meg, her chest heaving, hair spilling down her shoulders. Only after considering his penis and the socks, did Meg realise that her uncle John stood naked in the field. She knew too well that he was a compulsive giver: a sweetie, a few coins, a little shag in the flower meadow.

  Mrs Cleary was breathing heavily. She grabbed her cotton shirt, the one with the lace trim, and covered herself. Uncle John, on the other hand, just stood there. It was interesting to see that moment of deflation; it was another thing that the books had not prepared Meg for. The other side of it all. Distracted by Uncle John’s waning manhood, it took her too many seconds to realise that they were very, very angry.

  Meg turned and ran. She disappeared through the fields, through the woods and into a meadow on the other side. Finding a spot behind a rock, Meg hid. She stayed there for a long while, her heart beating. She had lost all interest in her book. Instead, she sat and reflected on the details of what she had just witnessed.

  Eventually, exhausted, she fell asleep. Several hours must have passed. When Meg awoke, it was to find herself paralysed. She opened her eyes, but the rest of her body refused to move. She could feel the plasti
c mountain jutting into her bum. She tried to shift position, but her body would not obey. Then she realised that she was held down by Mrs Cleary. One hand pressed down on Meg’s chest and the other clamped her mouth. Meg thought she would receive a stern warning about spying on people having extramarital sex. How she should avert her eyes when her elders and betters were cavorting, but Mrs Cleary didn’t say anything.

  Meg tried to get up but Mrs Cleary pressed harder. She watched Mrs Cleary’s face, as calm as when she shelled peas, her hand closed over Meg’s mouth. Meg could taste hand lotion, a light flower fragrance, and her own fear. The hand grew heavy and pinched against the thumb to cover her nose. Meg struggled, but she could not break Mrs Cleary’s hold. It was a different kind of intimacy to the one she had witnessed earlier. In that moment, Meg absorbed the details of Mrs Cleary’s face: the large mole flecking her lip and the nose pinpricked by blackheads. Green eyes like a murky lake.

  Meg was sure that this was the end. She thought of her father, of his concentration as he changed that flat tyre, unaware that his time was up. Both hands taking worn rubber down. But there it was again, that flash of earthy sex. The socks on bare naked legs. The lace and cotton blouse awkwardly gathered at Mrs Cleary’s chest. The fury on her face. The plastic mountain jabbed deeper into Meg’s rump.

  When she found herself again, the sky had changed. The field was a play of light and shadows. Shards of pale sunlight peered out from behind indigo clouds. Meg had been dreaming of her father again. She had slept deeply and, now ravenous, she was filled with nervous energy.

  At Kiln House, they were having dinner in the kitchen. Uncle John was at his usual place at the head of the table while Mrs Cleary spooned spuds into her mouth. A bottle of wine was open and Mr Cleary topped up Catriona’s glass. Her cheeks were flushed and she laughed, low and rusty as if it hadn’t been used in too long. Meg felt like an intruder. They hardly seemed to notice her, apart from a vague ‘Ah, there you are’ as Maire passed a floury explosion of potatoes with ham and veg.

  It was the Cleary’s last night at Kiln House and spirits were high. Meg lagged a course behind: the others ate their ice-cream and apple tart while she hacked at the pink meat. Maire lavishly spread all vegetables with butter and sugar, happily diluting their nutritional value. Damien appeared, and disappeared, while Meg sat at the table intent on the pile of food on her plate.

  ‘Oh, go on, let her have a bit. Like the French.’ And next thing Mr Cleary had poured red wine into a tumbler and placed it before Meg.

  ‘I can tell you a few things about the French,’ her mother’s voice did not sound like her own. Catriona looked at Meg and finished the sentence in Irish. Her words were swallowed by her glass, and she did not see Mr Cleary shift that bit closer.

  ‘What’s this? You on a diet?’ Maire cleared the half-eaten plate, making Meg conscious of her rounded arms, the tops of her thighs that spread and touched. She hadn’t finished eating. She was still hungry.

  They seemed to forget to give her only a small bit of diluted wine. Her glass was topped up once by Mr Cleary and another time by Uncle John, who still didn’t look her in the eye. Catriona was telling stories that had them shrieking like banshees. Her eyes gleamed, her skin glistened and her hair was spun gold down her back. Mrs Cleary smiled, but it was an almost polite concession: go on, have your fun.

  Maire placed down a bowl of butterscotch ice-cream where Meg’s plate had been. She didn’t like ice-cream. Hungry, she ate a few mouthfuls and drank it down with wine. She was beginning to feel detached from herself. She looked down at her hands, amazed that they were hers. She checked again, and there they were. Slightly above her legs, fingers sticking out as if on guard. It made Meg feel panicky, as if she were trapped inside her body. Something had loosened and wanted to get out but it was trapped, like a fly buzzing against a window. She couldn’t bear the cackling and loud stories, each one trying to outdo the other. The language switched from English to Irish – the Clearys didn’t speak it – and back to English again. The wine flowed and Maire disappeared into the utility room to get a bottle she had been saving. Mr Cleary and Catriona seemed awfully close. Meg couldn’t stand it any longer.

  ‘I need—’ Meg was unsteady on her feet. Mr Cleary half rose. He eyed her like she was a skittish pony, uncertain what damage she might do.

  ‘I think it’s a bug,’ Meg said. She stood for a moment, all attention on her. Even Mrs Cleary finally fixed those cold piggy eyes on her. Meg’s heart thudded and she could feel the beating of black wings.

  ‘I found it!’ Maire sang from the next room. Cheers from the table and Meg was forgotten. Uncle John got up and fetched his fiddle from the sideboard. At the door, she turned and looked at the tableau before her: Uncle John tuning his fiddle in the corner. He was just a few metres away from Mrs Cleary. But it was unmistakeable, like a big stain. Even though not touching, their bodies angled towards each other. Their eyes sought each other out, stared, then dropped as if too hot. How had she not noticed before? A willed blindness, the others did not see.

  ‘I saw you,’ Meg said quietly and Mrs Cleary looked in her direction. But it seemed Meg was invisible: Mrs Cleary heard the voice but couldn’t see Meg. With a stony gaze, she looked just over Meg’s shoulder, as if transfixed by a blot on the wall.

  The others continued with their wine. Their voices grew louder, echoing the wings beating inside Meg’s head. The crows and ravens were coming for her. Uncle John was tuning loudly and the sharp fiddle scratches grated. Meg’s words were lost in all that racket. But she wanted Mrs Cleary to know. More than the romp in the field, it was the hand over her mouth and nose. She wanted Mrs Cleary to know that she knew what she was capable of. So Meg raised her voice and squared towards her, saying loudly: ‘I know what you are.’

  Just then, Uncle John stopped his infernal tuning. Maire stood at the door holding her special bottle. The pressure of those meaty hands, the taste of it on her mouth.

  She said it one more time: ‘I know what you are.’

  Then she left the room, went upstairs and fell upon her bed. As she hit the mattress, she realised that the plastic mountain was no longer in her pocket. After everything, it was the loss of the key ring that made her want to cry. For her mother, who was saddest when she laughed out loud. For her father, who should have been there, who would have found a way to make it funny. For Maire who was so tight and pinched that she had squeezed John all the way out. But Meg didn’t cry. She lay upon the bed and waited for the darkness to complete and the old hag to come again.

  Acknowledgements

  The publishers would like to thank: the judges, Elechi Amadi, Osonye Tess Onwueme and Margaret Busby; the thirty-nine authors; the translators; the editor, Ellah Wakatama Allfrey; Binyavanga Wainaini for research on the longlist; and all those, including Cristina Fuentes, Jásminka Romanos, Peter Florence, Anna Simpson, Imogen Corke and Becky Alexander, who have contributed to making an ambitious vision a concrete reality. They also gratefully acknowledge the following original publishers of the pieces listed below (pieces not listed have been taken from as yet unpublished works):

  ‘The Shivering’ extracted from the story collection The Thing Around Your Neck by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Copyright © 2009 Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. For the UK and Commonwealth: reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. For Canada: reprinted by permission of Alfred A. Knopf Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, a Penguin Random House Company. For the USA: reprinted by permission of The Wylie Agency. All rights reserved.

  ‘The Banana Eater’ by Monica Arac de Nyeko was first published in AGNI online, 2010 (https://www.bu.edu/agni/fiction/africa/arac-de-nyeko.html).

  Extract from All Our Names by Dinaw Mengestu. Copyright © 2014 Dinaw Mengestu, reproduced by permission of Hodder and Stoughton Ltd.

  Extract from The Wayfarer’s Daughter by Chibundu Onuzo (forthcoming Faber and Faber Ltd, 2016), Copyright © Chibundu Onuzo, 2014, used by permission of Faber and
Faber Ltd.

  Penguin, London, for Taiye Selasi, from Ghana Must Go (Viking, 2013). Copyright © Taiye Selasi, 2013, for World (exc. Canada and the USA); from Ghana Must Go by Taiye Selasi, copyright © 2013 by Taiye Selasi. Used by permission of The Penguin Press, a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC; Andrew Wylie Agency, for Taiye Selasi Ghana Must Go (Hamish Hamilton, 2013) © 2013, Taiye Selasi, for Canada. All rights reserved.

  Notes on the Authors

  Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie was born and raised in Nigeria. Her work has been translated into thirty languages and has appeared in various publications including the Financial Times, Granta, the New Yorker and Zoetrope. She is the author of the novels Purple Hibiscus, which won the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize; Half of a Yellow Sun, which won the Orange Prize, was a National Book Critics Circle Award Finalist and a New York Times Notable Book; and the story collection The Thing Around Your Neck. Her latest novel, Americanah, was published in 2013 and has received awards including the National Book Critics Circle Award for Fiction and the Chicago Tribune Heartland Prize for Fiction and was named one of the New York Times Ten Best Books of the Year. A recipient of a MacArthur Foundation Fellowship, she divides her time between the United States and Nigeria.

  Monica Arac de Nyeko is from Uganda. She won the Caine Prize for African writing in 2007 for ‘Jambula Tree’. She is working on a novel.

  Rotimi Babatunde’s fiction and poetry has been published internationally. He is a winner of the Meridian Tragic Love Story Competition organised by the BBC World Service and was awarded the Cyprian Ekwensi Prize for Short Stories by the Abuja Writers’ Forum. His story ‘Bombay’s Republic’ was awarded the 2012 Caine Prize for African Writing. His plays have been broadcast on the BBC World Service and produced by theatres including the Young Vic in London, the Halcyon Theatre in Chicago and Sweden’s Riksteatern, among others. He lives in Ibadan, Nigeria.