Prince of Monkeys

by Nnamdi Ehirim

  If the Afrika Shrine was truly the temple where the Afrobeat faithful gathered, then Thursdays were the acknowledged days of worship. By sunset that Thursday, Fela had already begun dispersing his tunes through speakers mounted at the corners of the auditorium, which pulled people of all ages from blocks beyond. With our elbows, we paddled through the sea of the devout that had filled up every crevice between the banks of concrete buildings lining the path to the Afrika Shrine. And just as the legend of Akara-Ogun preached, beyond the forest of a thousand daemons lay gifts of peace and fortune, both of which the Afrika Shrine espoused in abundance.

  My friends were still trying to come to terms with all I had revealed to them the last time we were gathered at my house. After the others had cleaned up Zeenat’s vomit and calmed my fidgeting, I had begun an hourlong soliloquy without any further urging, telling the story of my initiation and all else I knew from the very beginning, except, of course, the parts that were to be always kept secret from the uninitiated. I had hoped deeply for some sort of reaction, any at all. The fact that I had kept so much from them for so long was a cold betrayal of trust, but somehow, I had expected that the precarious nature of my secret would make its discovery more palatable. The silence they all replied with, which resonated on their forlorn faces, hacked fiercely at my serenity. But at the Shrine, all the opinions found their misplaced voices.

  Pastor’s son bombarded me with questions. “So, your family has been practicing some coded kind of witchcraft since forever? If it’s not witchcraft, then what’s the difference?”

  “Calm down, church boy,” Atonye replied on my behalf. “It’s pseudo-witchcraft, something less terrible. They never sucked blood by day or flew the sky by night, at least according to his version of the story. Besides, if our ancestors were as uptight as you are, they never would have given Christianity and Islam the chance to defeat our traditional religions.”

  “You can’t even compare Christianity with these folks,” said Pastor’s son. “We’re peaceful; they’re always shedding blood for one reason or another. The Islam folks call it jihad, and the pseudo-witchcraft folks call it sacrifices.”

  “Nah, there’s no such thing as religious tolerance. You Christians are pseudo-peaceful,” Atonye said. “Every religion openly desires dominance. They’re all just very diplomatic in their approach.”

  “But that’s not a bad thing,” added Mendaus. Before then, he’d seemed less concerned with the conversation and more engrossed in watching Atonye spar with Pastor’s son. “Ambition is necessary for progress, and there really isn’t any point in demanding followers if you don’t have a progressive cause. Hating other religions because they aren’t tolerant is just mis-yarns.”

  Pastor’s son realized he was outnumbered and so surrendered to defeat for the time being, living to fight another day. He was never the sharpest blade on the farm, but he was the type that would keep chopping at a tree once a day until he brought the whole forest crashing down.

  Zeenat had not said a word all night. Her emotions were like pigments on a palette, and it did not help that I was an inexperienced painter. I was learning the hard way that the behavior of pigments existed not in absolutes but in relativity. Zeenat’s behavior had no set rules; she could appear as an iroko trunk in the wind in certain circumstances, and as fickle as ixora petals in others. It was impossible to determine from her silence if she was brewing contempt or breaking into pieces.

  The argument diffused soon enough into loud melodies from the speakers that reverberated from my head to all parts of my body, which was triggered into a lethargic version of disco frenzy. Fela crooned, “Look how they slap our face for Africa.”

  And his singing dancers chanted “Dem go gbam-gbam” while clapping to imitate the slapping sound.

  “Balewa carry right side dey beat them,” Fela continued. “Gowon and Obasanjo carry left side dey beat them. Shagari beat us for our heads. Buhari and Idiagbon beat us for yansh. Babaginda beat us for our necks.”

  The crowd cheered as he continued naming past leaders whom Mendaus constantly badgered for their alleged barter of Nigeria’s future to the capitalist forces of the Western world, reincarnations of our tribal chiefs from the slave-trade era who sold out in the same manner centuries ago. Of course, Mendaus’s voice was the loudest around me, the veins of his neck pulsating as he screamed along with the lyrics amid intermittent puffs of smoke.

  I noticed Zeenat heading for the exit, which was also the entrance, and I pursued her. She noticed me trying to catch my breath in her trail just a few paces outside the auditorium.

  “Why didn’t you ever mention it?” she asked after I had gone speechless for about a minute while staring at her feet, her crossed arms, everywhere but her eyes. “Was it fear that held you back? Or shame?”

  “What difference does it make? Whichever it was, you still wouldn’t trust me,” I replied.

  “No fault in your assumptions. But if it’s shame, it means you didn’t believe in us—Mendaus, Pastor’s son, and me. And if it’s fear, it means you didn’t believe in yourself. I want to know which it is.”

  I lied: “I was never ashamed or afraid of talking about it.” Then I spiked the sweet lie with a little of the bitter truth. “I never spoke about it because somehow I wished there would be nothing to speak about. I wished I could ignore it away, and talking about it to anyone else would have spoiled all of that.” She still looked terribly unconvinced. “Kind of like those children at the beach who close their eyes and stand still instead of running when a masquerade chases after them, as if in failing to recognize its presence, they can be somehow unaffected by it.”

  “You’re a fool, Ihechi, and you say a lot of rubbish. How can I pray so much for a Rick Blaine or a Jay Gatsby and end up with your numbskull?”

  “Rick Blaine was ugly! But what do I know? You said it right, I’m a numbskull.”

  “You’re not a numbskull for thinking Rick Blaine is ugly; you’re a numbskull because you don’t understand that I pray for Rick Blaine and Jay Gatsby because what I really want is for someone to love me without shame or fear.” She started giggling, but I was unsure whether to join in. I tried to kiss her forehead, but she tiptoed backward, and when I tried to hold her hand, she retreated farther. “But it’s all right. I’m also a fool for being so wishful with my prayers. We’re just birds of the same foolish feather flocking together.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I think your feathers are beautiful.”

  “Because I said we’re birds of the same feather? Never mind, I came out so I could go piss. Go and get some more smoke and be back here to take me inside, like the gentleman Gatsby would.” I knew Rick Blaine from Casablanca, one of her favorite films, but I still had not figured out the Jay Gatsby character she was referring to, and I was not ready to ruffle her feathers, however foolish and beautiful we agreed they were.

  I watched her walk away before I embarked on my errand. There was still a crowd on the street. People in clusters, standing and smoking, seated and playing draught, idle and out of place. Within a minute I had sighted and approached a vanity vendor. A few heads turned as we bickered over prices but were quickly recaptured by the previous jailer of their attention. I had already paid for and collected the smoke but was waiting on my change when I noticed two men in an altercation farther down the road. One man’s trousers were jacked up by the belt by the other, who was half-wrestling and half-bargaining his way out of a public embarrassment. It looked very similar to the incidents of military men manhandling civilians that we’d all witnessed from the safety of bus windows while returning from our escapades. A few more men gathered, and the altercation escalated into a stick-and-fist melee. I had just turned to the realization that my smoke vendor had run off with my change when I heard the first gunshots. Torches of fire began lighting up the far end of the street, pushing the entire crowd in a stampede toward the Afrika Shrine, and anybody not already intoxicated by smoke or alcohol was fueled by fear. Then I felt
a sudden jab to my left side. Instinctively, I spun on the balls of my feet and held on to the weapon before it could be withdrawn. It had neither the solid mass nor the sharpness necessary to cause any serious damage, and it was not until I saw the pitiful face attached to it that I realized the error of my judgment and let go of the stranger’s straying arm. I wiped off the beads of sweat that had gathered on my eyebrow with my forefinger and continued moving forward.

  I tried returning to the rendezvous point Zeenat had set with me. I turned the corner, away from the crowded street, and onto the dark dirt road. I slowed my pace. There were five men in uniform about a dozen paces away from me. I fluttered my eyelids in disbelief. The sight was as familiar as it was unwanted; these uniforms meant military men, and military men meant trouble.

  I tried to remain calm and slowly retraced my steps; fretting never saved a life. But unfortunately, no one else shared my opinion; the entrance to the auditorium was already crammed with people fleeing the sounds of gunfire, creating a confluence of terror on the streets. More torches lit up, not just flaming sticks but cars and vanity vendors’ wooden marts. More gunshots sounded, and the only audible word amid the screaming was “Soldiers!” I searched the crowd for Zeenat, Mendaus, Pastor’s son, Atonye, or any familiar face. Alone in the crowd, I surged through the riot, pillars of smoke towering overhead and bloodied soil underfoot, thrusting forward to evade the desperate grasp of death reaching out for me.

  It was possible that my mother had not noticed that Atonye had fiddled with her òrisà statuettes and replaced them in different spots. It was also very possible that she’d never noticed the darkened patch on the rug in front of the studio where Zeenat had vomited. And even if she had noticed, she never whispered a word. But when I had stumbled into the house just before midnight, sweaty and out of breath, she hooted and tooted for an explanation.

  “Ihechi, these people you’re running around with, do they share the same values you do? Do they believe in Ifá?”

  “Mummy, this has nothing to do with Ifá. These are the same friends I’ve had for years, and I haven’t changed since.”

  “What rubbish, change? Listen to yourself. You’ve started talking back at me when I’m talking to you, abi? They are the ones who will change you. It’s already happening, and you’re too stupid to see it. Your father was right, how wouldn’t you come home smelling of smoke every day? You’re listening to Bob Marley and going for Fela concerts, abi?” She had started out yelling, but her voice was now whittling into a teary tone.

  “Fela and Bob Marley are not the reasons why the world burns, they are the reasons it doesn’t burn to the ground.”

  “Well, go ahead, fools meet fools at the burial of a fool,” she said with an air of finality, then walked out of the room.

  The next morning, from my bedroom window, I saw Pastor’s son trek past my house to the street vendors, and the tensed knot that had lodged in my throat through the night dissolved. He was safe. The newspapers had carried news of the military’s siege on an anti-government gathering at the Afrika Shrine the previous night. Soldiers had contained the situation peacefully, despite the riot triggered by the anti-government anarchists on their arrival. The article had reported about a dozen injured victims but no casualties. My mother spat anonymous curses in the name of Esu as she read the headlines and declared my house arrest.

  I did not move from my bedroom window for the rest of the day, hoping to see Zeenat or Mendaus and quell the last of my fears. And about midday, Mendaus’s lonesome figure appeared on the dirt road’s horizon. He was still wearing his clothes from the previous day. He did not grin, as he usually did when he approached my house and sighted me by the window. And when I gestured to him that I could not make it out, his features showed no reaction. He scribbled a note with a pencil and paper he withdrew from his pocket and lodged it in the narrow space at the side of my gate. I was on my way before he was finished writing, but by the time I got to the gate, he was gone. I opened the note. My eyes widened, my knees buckled, and my heart jerked in my chest as the words dissolved into the blackness of my mind.

  . . . Mr. Thomas found her body this morning in the gutter. Don’t come over. I won’t be home. I’ll be here same time tomorrow . . .

  I sat in the living room all day, on the very same chair where Zeenat and I had cuddled the last time she was at my house. I did not cry. I refused to believe. I just stayed still, with my eyes shut, like the children at the beach whenever the masquerades came chasing. But the masquerades refused to go away. They taunted me with masks that bore different faces of Zeenat: her laugh, her pitiful eyes when she teased me into kissing her for the first time, the way she looked at me just before we separated in front of the auditorium the day before. Once again, my mother hooted and tooted without any reward, so she left me alone in the living room and didn’t return until nine o’clock, when she put on the television for the NTA news.

  “Today a series of reprisal riots occurred around Lagos, protesting what the rioters referred to as the massacre of innocent and peaceful civilians at the Afrika Shrine yesterday.”

  I looked up at the television. The reporter’s face bore no emotion. During my life, I’d heard very little of death: He had moved around me often enough, but in quiet and subtle motions, so I never really knew till he was gone. This time he had stared me in the face, spared my life, and killed me in another way—and, as he had always done, left it to others to testify of his exploits.

  “Civil rights groups and activists have spoken out against the siege and have pledged to make investigations to ascertain the severity of the allegations. Our efforts to contact the Lagos state government were futile. NTA news has live footage from the protest in front of the Afrika Shrine.”

  The video took a few minutes to start playing. A mob of men and women, adults and children, suited up and bare-chested, screaming obscenities and carrying placards, filled the entire screen. At the mountain of madness were chants of “We no go ’gree oh! We no go ’gree! Give us democracy, we no go ’gree!”

  The next scene showed a gawky young man ahead of the crowd, his back to the camera to incite the mob.

  “Our fathers, though once belittled, were given the responsibility to serve with heart and might, to defend our freedom, and to chart our route back to paradise. Our fathers, though once noble, were corrupted by power. They took to power ad hoc, shed blood ad nauseam, and plundered our coffers ad infinitum. Our fathers, though once our hope, became our fear. Fear, necessary to fuel their power over the zoo, once their jail, now their kingdom. Our fathers, though once the jailed, died as jailers. We, once heirs of paradise, live by choice as monkeys in a zoo. Monkeys, so described to signify inferiority and zoos, so described to signify poverty, war, and corruption. However, the only difference between our kind and the kind on the other side of the fence is resolve. Resolve necessary for a few to find a route, which, often trod, will become a footpath for all, to paradise. We, once victims of circumstance, should become protagonists of our own fate. So the labors of our heroes past shall not be in vain. And we, once princes of monkeys, shall die kings among men in paradise.”

  The mob broke into raucous noise, and it took a while for order to return. It was then that the gawky young man turned to face the camera, and I realized it had been Mendaus on the television all along. I looked at my mother from the corners of my eyes and watched for any reaction, shifting closer and closer to the edge of my seat. Mendaus continued in his insidious rage.

  “Misplaced patriotism and the lies of our fathers, military and civilian, should not dissuade us from our purpose. If our fathers have no belief in liberty or value for integrity, can they tell us how to live honest and free? Take off your blindfolds and say to those doctors and professors, major generals and comrades—thank you for independence! Thank you for the ports of the coast and the crude oil of the Niger Delta! But a new kingdom has been born, and we shall rule for ourselves, not as princes of monkeys but as kings among men. And n
o puppet master in Paris or Moscow, in London or Washington, will sway our resolve. We shall beat our chests like gallant warriors and chant, ‘The crown is our birthright, and the whole world could never wrestle it away.’”

  “You’re not going to be any part of this madness,” my mother said with an outburst. I turned toward her and noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Nigeria does not need heroes. Nigeria needs Ifá. Those who think Nigeria needs heroes should bring up their children to be heroes. They shouldn’t steal my child.”

  I tried to think of an argument, something thoughtful and intelligent and perfectly suited for the moment, as Mendaus would, but before I could speak, she had smothered me in an embrace.

  “Pack your things, Ihechi,” she said. “You’re leaving Lagos first thing tomorrow.”

  Part 2

  1992

  The season of rains was at its peak. Consequently, my journey to Enugu from Lagos was scheduled to be a tedious ten-hour foray across seven states. We set out just before daybreak. The transition of scenery in my window kept me aware of the journey’s progression; more than anything else, it cured the banality of the trip, from the loud bus radio to the other passengers’ nonstop chatter. Once we left the bus terminal, all I could see was high-rising sport utility vehicles and the high-rising buildings of Ikorodu Road. A few minutes later, the high-rise vehicles were substituted with sedans and motorcycles, and the high-rise buildings became duplexes and the occasional bungalow. I knew we had left the city center and were on its outskirts when the bungalows became a more permanent sighting and possessed prominent aesthetic differences from the others. The emulsion-coated cement walls of the city center were now mud or redbrick walls. Eventually, my windowpane was a continuous yarn of rich forestry knitted to the sky at the horizon by undulating green hills, cradling me to sleep.