Chris Abani - GraceLand

“Sunday!” Oye called.

There was silence from the backyard as Sunday stamped out front.

“Stay out of my life, witch!” he shouted at her.

In one hand, flush with his thigh, was an open razor, its metal honed to a cruel edge. Oye took in the razor with a glance and, putting Elvis down slowly, rose to her feet. Never taking her eyes from Sunday’s, she reached out and pincered her fingers into a vise around his scrotum. He screamed in pain and dropped the razor.

“Don’t you ever threaten me, laddie,” she said quietly.

“I was not threatening you,” he whispered through tears. “I only want to shave de boy’s head.”

“Fine. But if ye hurt him again …” She smiled sweetly, letting go of him.

He sighed into the floor and squatted there panting.

“Put on your slippers,” he said to Elvis between gasps.

Elvis stepped into the plastic-and-foam flip-flops. He stood, waiting for his father to tell him what to do next, his breathing fast. Picking up the razor that he had dropped, Sunday stood and led Elvis by the hand out to the back. As they left, Elvis looked pleadingly at Oye. She smiled reassuringly at him and looked away. The echo of his flip-flops slapping the cement floor filled her mind.

When they got out back, Sunday pulled up a small stool for Elvis. “Sit dere,” he said gruffly.

Elvis sat. His father walked across the yard to the kitchen in the corner and lifted the large kettle of water that was always smoldering over the slow-dying coals. Elvis watched, shifting from side to side. Next, his father pulled a metal pail across the floor and began filling it with steaming water from the kettle. It reminded Elvis of the preparations made for plucking chickens, and as soon as his father’s back was turned, Elvis got up and began to tiptoe away.

“Sit back down,” his father said without turning round.

It was the quiet way in which he said it that had Elvis bolt back to the stool and sit down. He continued to watch his father as he mixed some cold water into the hot, testing the mixture with his elbow before bringing it over.

“Now sit still so dat I don’t hurt you,” he said.

Elvis nodded. Humming under his breath, his father mixed up some shaving foam in a cup and then, with a painter’s flourish, began to apply it with a brush to Elvis’s head. Elvis, eyes closed, began to tingle all over, like when the barber’s electric clippers buzzed lightly over his scalp. Once he had applied the foam, Sunday pulled up a chair and held Elvis tightly between his knees to keep him from making any sudden moves.

When the razor made contact, it buttered through the cornrowed hair with a sandpaper rasp. The pull of it was like the rough lick of a cat’s tongue, and Elvis felt himself relaxing into his father’s body.

“Stupid child, make sure you don’t fall asleep,” his father said gently. “For your own good,” he continued under his breath. “I’m only doing dis for your own good. It’s not easy to be a man. Dese are trying times. Not easy.”

When he finished, he washed Elvis’s scalp in the leftover warm water in the pail. After drying it, he applied palm-kernel oil. When he was done, he turned Elvis around and, holding his face in his hand, spoke slowly.

“I don’t want you spending any more time on dat veranda.”

It was afternoon and the sun slam-dunked onto corrugated-iron roofing and concrete, turning the houses into ovens, despite fans doing slow waltzes on ceilings. Outside, the tarmac roads turned to treacle. The adults were at work and Elvis and his friends were playing in the orchard. Apart from Oye, dozing in her wicker chair on the veranda, her snores loud enough to keep flies from settling on her open mouth, the house and compound were deserted. Efua was staying over, as she often did, and was asleep inside, as she was feeling ill. Elvis left the others playing and headed for the outhouse, one of those bucket affairs that had to be emptied regularly. Despite the powdered disinfectant scattered after each use, it stank in the heat and was home to tomb flies as big as helicopters.

He banged out of the toilet, not seeing the man who emptied the bucket standing waiting for him. Elvis leapt back, startled. Dung men were understandably aggressive and bad tempered, and the dung man was not smiling.

“Do you have my money?” he asked Elvis through the handkerchief that muffled half of his face. Elvis nodded. They all knew where the dung man’s money was kept, because if he wasn’t paid on time, he left a stinky gift on the front step.

As he dashed for the house to get the money, Elvis noticed Uncle Joseph’s car in the drive. He got the money from its place in the top drawer of the sideboard and on his way out heard whimpering and what sounded like a strangled sob. It was coming from the room he shared with Aunt Felicia. Efua shared it with them when she stayed over. He gently eased the door open. Efua was lying on the bed, legs spread wide, while Uncle Joseph grunted away between them. Efua stared straight at him, her teeth biting her lower lip. Apart from the tears streaming down her face and the soft birdlike mews coming from somewhere in her throat, her face was impassive.

Hatred and revulsion filled his nostrils and head, leaving a harsh taste on his tongue. But he felt something else too, underneath the reflex to retch. Little snakes of sensation crawled all over his body. And though he wanted to rush in and scream at Uncle Joseph, push him off and beat him to pulp, he watched instead, his breath coming in short, rapid bursts. And the saddest thing was that he knew Efua could see the lust in his eyes. He shut the door gently and left.

Later, when Uncle Joseph had gone, Elvis stole back into the room. Efua was curled up in a fetal position on the bed. In one hand she clutched a hug cloth while she sucked the thumb of the other. Tears still streamed down her face, and her left leg was trembling badly. She looked up when he came in, and he felt his gut twist.

“Elvis,” she whispered.

He sat down beside her on the bed, face averted, afraid to look at her. He felt her hand on his face, tracing his features.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tears running down his face as he turned to look at her.

She seemed surprised by his tears and reached out her hand to wipe them away. Putting the hug cloth down, she reached up and pulled him to her tiny body, all the while humming a lullaby softly under her breath.

“Sssh, it’s not your fault,” she whispered.

Elvis burst out of a crowded alley in the market straight into the arena occupied by the magicians. He was still disoriented and disturbed about what had happened to Efua the day before; otherwise he’d have known better than to come this way. The arena was packed tight with a crowd that was rippling and alive. A parked van with roof-rack-mounted loudspeakers blared out loud, garish music.

Two boys in high wigs, dark sunglasses and white long-sleeve shirts, gloves, trousers and white canvas shoes danced to the music, bodies fluid. Sweat streamed down their faces and their shirts stuck to their bodies in a wet embrace. Rings of red dust formed around their trouser cuffs, kicked up by their feet. These Ajasco dancers moved to Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog.” Watching, mesmerized, Elvis realized then what he wanted to do more than anything else.

Mouth open in wonder at the dancers’ dexterity, Elvis moved his feet along in silent learning. Clumsy, he kicked up too much red dust and got clobbered on the head by angry bystanders. Just then a dwarf broke into the circle of dancers, ringing a bell almost as tall as he was. The music came to an abrupt end with an annoying vinyl-scratching screech. Ignoring the voices raised in protest, the dwarf began announcing the next act, a magic show by the world-famous Professor Pele, whom Elvis had never heard of.