Arrows of Rain

by Okey Ndibe

  Over dinner, the old man recounted the incident. He told of the callow young man’s penchant for rebuking teachers in the presence of their pupils, and recalled how surprised the puppy was when Pa Ata punched him. “Are you aware you have just assaulted a representative of His Majesty, the King?” the boy had cried. In response, Pa Ata tackled him to the ground and proceeded to pummel his imperial person with more punches. We laughed over the story, but the consequences for Pa Ata had been serious. He was arrested within an hour. For the next two years, in detention, he was not permitted to see his family.

  Was it this experience that had soured him towards the English, accounting for his insistence that Britain was responsible for Madia’s problems, past, present and future?

  After dinner we sat pouring ourselves tea from a pot. Pa Ata said, “Reuben told me you’re writing something on corruption.”

  “Yes. And I hear you’re an expert.”

  He shook with laughter. “Well, I hope he told you my expertise is in the theory, not the practice. But I once attended Reuben’s party and shook hands with some of the most corrupt people in this country. It was like being in a den of thieves.”

  “Father!” cried the minister in mock reproach. “Your own son’s house, a den of thieves?” Smiling, he rose from the table.

  Pa Ata grinned. “You didn’t hear me suggest you’re one of them. But you must also be mindful of the saying about the company one keeps.” He winked at me as Reuben left the room. Then he asked, seriously, “Why do you think we have such pervasive corruption in our country?”

  “I’ve often asked myself that. I wish I knew a simple answer.”

  “But do you not sometimes think it might be in the nature of our people? That we are born with itchy fingers?” Pa Ata’s gaze was penetrating, daring me to lie.

  “In moments of great despair, yes I have thought it,” I con­fessed. “You hear all these stories about ministers using public funds to buy cars for their mistresses. Or acquiring European castles for themselves. How can you not think it? You go to any village and you’re shocked by the squalid life there. The dust roads. Hospitals that have neither drugs nor doctors. The polluted stream water the people drink. The lack of electricity. Then, as you’re trying to come to grips with a reality that seems to belong in the Middle Ages, up comes a Rolls Royce carrying some minister to remind you that you’re not in the sixteenth century after all but in the twentieth. Then you’re faced with the pathetic irony of the villagers lining up to hail the nabob in the Royce—the very man who’s plundered their country. When you see things like that, how can you help despairing?”

  Pa Ata said, “You have spoken quite well about what one’s eyes see in this country—though it’s even worse than you think, believe me. Do you know why I asked you the question?”

  I waited in silence; the old man continued.

  “I asked because some of the things I read in our newspapers enrage me. Some of your colleagues talk the foolish language of the whiteman. I actually read a columnist who argued that we are born thieves, there’s nothing we can do about it. And I ask, this thieving, when did it become part of our blood? In the old days, before the whiteman came and stood our world on its head, no man who was given something to hold in trust for the community would dare steal from it to serve himself. But today what do we see? Exactly what you described. I say, let’s look at it and ask ourselves what has changed. There are two major things, if you think hard about it. One has to do with what white administrators did in the colonies. They stole, that was their main work. They were officially licensed to pilfer our treasures in the name of their monarch. They taught our present leaders all the tactics of stealing. The only difference is that the whiteman stole for his country, our people steal for their pocket. That is one.”

  I tried to interject with a question.

  “Wait, let me finish,” he said. “The other thing—which is more dangerous—is that whitemen came here and threw together all kinds of odds and ends and called it a nation. None of us was ever asked if we wanted to belong to this new nation, or on what condition. We were all simply herded together into this huge compost, then misnamed a nation. We slowly began to forget how our ancestors had husbanded their souls before the whiteman arrived.

  “Today, we’re a people out of touch with our ancestors, a people who belong neither to the sky nor to the earth. So let me complete your picture of what goes on in our villages. The man in the Rolls Royce flaunts his loot because he believes it is his legitimate spoils. He has not stolen from those he considers his people, but from strangers. The poor people singing his praises don’t believe that he has robbed or disinherited them. They admire him because he has made his way in the territory left to us by the whites and has won his fortune.”

  “Isn’t it a sign of weakness, after several years of independence, to continue to blame the whiteman for the mess we’re in?” I protested.

  “If somebody deserves blame, you should blame them for a thousand years if you so wish. But, yes, you have a point.” He paused, as though thinking what the point he had just conceded was. Then he continued.

  “I shudder at the behavior of our so-called leaders. It’s hard to believe these were the same leaders who asked us to drop to the dirt and fight the whiteman. Peasants and workers alike answered the call. Then, when the whiteman left, what did these leaders do? They took the owner’s corner in the pleasure cars abandoned by the whiteman. They ran into the mansions the British left behind and barricaded themselves there. Then they began to remind us that we were not one people, after all; that we are Hausa or Yoruba or Igbo or Ibibio or Kanuri or Nupe or Edo or Efik or Fufulde or Tiv. Like the British they discovered they could rule if they divided the ruled.

  “We began to fight among ourselves. They laughed and began to eat and drink. At Reuben’s party you see ministers from different ethnic groups. But you never hear them exchange one harsh word among themselves. Why? They are united by their bellies, that’s all.

  “Is that what we all fought for? So that a few of us can eat and have swollen bellies while the rest of us go to sleep with hunger ringing in our stomachs?” He looked at me, the skin beneath his eyes sagged with sadness.

  “Can anything be done?” I asked.

  He sighed. “Yes. First, we must ask ourselves, what is the identity of this space called Madia? Why does our present bear no marks of our past? What is the meaning of our history? These questions can only lead us to one truth, namely that we live in a bastard nation. Then we must decide what to do with this illegitimate offspring. I know this will sound radical to you, but the first step is to turn it into a completely different nation. Not by means of violence but symbolically, through our constitution. We must be ready to say two things. One, that any section of this country is free to leave. Two, that other people not now within our nation can become part of us. That’s the only way of making our nation a living organism, one that can grow and contract.”

  “I’m afraid such a transformation would be impossible to achieve.”

  “Oh no,” he replied calmly. “It could be done. Reuben must invite you to dinner again before I leave. I’ll make it all clear to you.” He looked at his watch. “I must retire now. Reuben’s party will soon start, and I’m in no mood to shake the hands of thieves tonight.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Several evenings a week, I would leave work and head straight for Good Life. Amidst the din of music, the spectacle of possessed dancers, the spirals of cigarette smoke, the clatter of beer bottles, the sight of men and women raising wine- or spirit-filled glasses to their sad faces, Iyese and I snuggled inside the shell of our private desires and despairs. We drank and joked and rubbed thighs as well as sides and exchanged pecks, arousing each other’s ancient hungers in a variety of subtle as well as brazen ways.

  Some nights Iyese became tipsy and melancholy, and let slip some morsel of truth about her past
. Occasionally she began to sob quietly. From time to time her demons seized her more violently and I took her outside into the cool air and held her in a strong embrace while she wet my shirt with the storm of her pain.

  Whenever I got drunk and grew bold I slipped my hand under the table and sought out Iyese’s thighs. She would let my hand wander for a while, then she would remove it from the warm place it had found, put it on the table and softly slap it, purring “Bad boy, bad boy.” Depending on how drunk she felt I was, she would either invite me to sleep at her flat—“But you must promise not to try any hanky panky”—or plead with me to take a taxi home.

  The editor of the Daily Monitor at the time was a fellow named Austine Pepe. He had begun his career at the Star, Madia’s oldest newspaper, in the years preceding independence when most of the paper’s senior editorial staff were British and he was a lone bright native. He had been much beholden to his Anglo­ Saxon mentors at the paper. They in turn had looked upon his industriousness as proof of the smaller blessings of the colonial enterprise.

  As independence approached, and it became necessary to train the native talent who would take over and run many institutions, Austine Pepe was sent to Fleet Street to learn the secrets of British newspapering. He spent nine months of studious apprenticeship in England. On his return he was appointed deputy to a Bob Owen, the Star’s last British editor. It fell to Owen to let Pepe into the finer tricks of the trade.

  The English labor was not wasted. Pepe the editor held himself and all who worked for him uncompromisingly to British standards. At editorial meetings (often without much provocation) he would brandish a copy of Owen’s parting testimonial, which stated that Pepe was “as good an editor as any to be found in Britain.” After reading it aloud he would hold up the piece of paper and pronounce the moral: “Bloody hell! We all know how difficult it is to impress the English. This letter attests to my qualification to edit the British Times or Guardian or Telegraph. So, when I talk, I know what I’m talking about, for God’s sake!” Pepe’s sharpest rebuke to a shoddy reporter was to thunder, “Bloody hell! No British reporter would give this kind of copy to his editor!”

  But Pepe was not stiff like the English, nor did he prefer tea to a good beer. Outside his job there was hardly anything British about him. He was a small man who seemed to jump when he walked, as if to stretch his body. He sported a goatee streaked with grey that made him look like a wise village troubadour.

  In his easy moments, on the odd day when everything went well, when he was not on edge about deadlines or sloppy reports, he liked to tell ribald jokes, gently stroking his beard. I liked him.

  At first when I approached him with the idea of publishing a profile of Iyese, he was dubious. The Monitor was not a bawdy tabloid, he said. But I told him that this prostitute moved in powerful circles. For proof, I said that she was Peter Stramulous’s mistress. His eyes lit up, half in excitement, half in doubt. He thought about it for a moment, then said, “Bloody hell! I’ll assign you the feature. On speculation.” Meaning that he would decide whether to publish or not upon reviewing the report I turned in.

  That evening I went to Iyese’s flat. I wanted to give her the news, share a drink or two with her and, with any luck, get a good blood-warming kiss and cuddle. She was not at home so I went to the Good Life in search of her.

  I saw her sharing a table with Power Steve, a burly wrestler with rippling muscles and a ruthless reputation, and two other muscle-bound men. From a darkened spot I watched them, painfully conscious of my own smallness. Was I to turn around and go home, accepting defeat? Or could I bravely walk up to the table, beguile the musclemen with my charms and run off with the prize? The first option was shameful, the second dangerous. In the end I decided to advance, but to do so cautiously, giving myself room to make a quick retreat if things began to go wrong.

  Luck: I saw Violet, pressing past me to join a table of excited beer-guzzlers one of whom had called out to her. I touched her on the shoulder and she wheeled around.

  “Wey Ashiki?” she asked, recognizing me.

  “He’s caught up in a meeting,” I lied.

  “Ah, that man. Na so so meeting him do.”

  “Our work involves a lot of meetings.”

  Her voice mellowed. “I sorry for him sister wey come die. Ooh, na devil work. Proper devil work.”

  I nodded my concurrence. “Do you want to dance?” I hoped that Iyese would see us on the dance floor and perhaps approach me.

  While we danced, Violet made lively conversation that I neither heard (for the volume of the music) nor cared for. My attention was fixed on the table where Iyese was carrying on with the musclemen. She laughed wildly and leaned against Power Steve. Then she rubbed the wrestler’s shaved head. Her jocularity aroused a dark resentment within me. I couldn’t help imagining her in a menage a trois with the three men, and the thought drove me to bursting point. Violet and I had danced to four songs and Iyese had not done anything to acknowledge me, even though I was certain that she had seen us.

  What did it mean? The previous night I had spent a long time with her, drinking, talking, doing little silly things. Did it mean nothing that she had trusted me enough to tell me what her real name was? Or that she let me stroke her thighs and hold her while she cried? Was I, after everything, just another man to her?

  Anger turned my legs to lead. When the fifth song began I thanked Violet for dancing with me, but told her I needed to go outside for fresh air. She asked me to buy her a drink. I bought her a glass of cheap brandy, then waded through the crowd of tables and chairs and sweaty bodies, past the table where Iyese sat, towards the exit.

  The cool air washed over me. I drew in a deep draught, hoping to soothe some of the pain that I was suffering. Somebody came up behind me. I turned around and faced—Power Steve!

  “Emilia said you should wait for her.” His voice was oddly soft. Iyese floated out moments later, her dress shimmering in the darkness.

  “You look like an angel,” I said, enclosing her in an embrace.

  “You look like a traitor,” she replied, gently pushing me off. “Bloody two-timer! Ashiki told you Violet is good in bed and now you want to taste for yourself.”

  Relieved to see her jealous, I decided to press my advantage. “How about you? I saw you with the wrestlers.”

  “Huh. They are not my type. Besides, if I had anything going on with them, why would I send Power Steve with a message for you?”

  “Perhaps you told him I was your cousin or something.”

  “I don’t lie like journalists!” she said, sharply.

  I was tempted to say something to the effect that I didn’t flirt with whoever bought me a beer, but restrained myself. Instead, I said, “Now you sound like Violet.”

  “If you dislike Violet that much, why did you dance with her for so long?”

  “To attract your attention.”

  “Couldn’t you come to the table and talk to me?”

  “With the wrestlers there? I’m not looking to be killed.”

  “Coward! . . . Anyway, let’s go and dance.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t want one of your wrestler boyfriends to break my legs.”

  “Don’t be silly!” She made to walk off in anger. I held her back.

  I told her that my editor wanted to read her story. After agreeing on a date for the interview, she kissed me, her lips cold. We parted: she, back to the bar; I, to the solitude of my quarters.

  That night, I dreamt of a much younger Iyese, a simulacrum of the black-and-white photograph I had seen in her flat, and it was raining, and she was out under the downpour, and she was crying, like the orphan in the fable, and I was recording the symphony of her sadness.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Each evening, when the sun goes west to rest and darkness falls, many people yield to the body�
�s sweet summons to sleep. But for prostitutes sunset is the time of awakening and the call to work.

  “Why are prostitutes drawn to the night?” It seemed an obvious first question.

  Iyese had taken time off work that night in order to tell me her story. We were seated on the carpeted floor of her flat, each with a tumbler filled with Guinness stout. Iyese had also bought herself a packet of Jay Menthol, touted in newspaper advertisements as a cigarette made with “the modern woman” in mind. She lit one and drew strongly, considering her answer. My tape recorder whirred lazily, capturing the silence. A mosquito laced my ear. As I searched for it Iyese began to speak.

  “Because the night gives us cover from prying eyes. Besides, our customers seem more comfortable at night. We are more shadowy then. They don’t have to see us clearly. They can think of us as creatures of pleasure, creatures of the night, belonging to a different category from other women. They can’t handle seeing us any other way. They’re scared to see that we’re the same as their wives, their daughters, their sisters. If they saw that their manhoods would shrivel up. That’s why they prefer to meet us at night, in dark rooms.”

  “A moment ago, you said prostitutes don’t wish to be seen, either.”

  “Yes, because we would always be seen with the eyes of prejudice, as the lowest of the low.”

  “But as shadows, don’t you always come out the loser?”

  “Loser? No. Have you never wondered why prostitutes use false names?”

  “I was getting to that. Why?”

  She laughed. “It’s a sort of revenge. If men pretend we’re mere shadows, then there’s no use giving them our real names. It’s our way of saying that the whole situation is false—that they, too, are unreal. It also signals to them that they are unworthy of trust. We don’t let them know our real names, and when we have sex with them we don’t let them touch our real bodies. A prostitute carries two spirits within her. With one she goes out into the night. With the other she lives a normal life. A false name keeps our two spirits apart. If we didn’t keep them separate, we might go mad.”