Chris Abani - GraceLand

Professor Pele was dressed in red robes like a Tuareg. He was silent, and his eyes were wide and unblinking. The dwarf shouted to be heard above the crowd’s murmuring and the clang of the bell that he was still ringing.

“Today, ladies and gentle,” he began. “Today, de wonderful Professor Pele is here to show you magic-Arabian, Indian and American magic.”

For emphasis, Professor Pele threw a fireball conjured out of thin air. The crowd gasped in fear and stepped back, letting out a collective “aaah.”

“American wonder. Come and see American wonder.” The dwarf broke into the one-refrain song. “Come and see American wonder, come and see American wonder.” There was a hypnotic quality to it that soon had the crowd joining in, echoing the heady chant.

“American wonder! American wonder!”

“Okay, I’ll need someone to assist in some magic,” the dwarf said.

As one, the crowd shrank back, except for the starstruck Elvis. He found himself being herded forward against his will. Falling away like palm fronds from a sprung, once-concealed trap, the crowd left him alone in the middle of its circle with the magician and the dwarf. Riveted, eyes fixed on the arena, the crowd and even the dancers watched. Meanwhile, pickpockets, part of the magician’s crew, worked them.

Professor Pele took out a long and deadly-looking sword and with a wicked smile cut the air a few times. With a grunt and a low two-handed throw, the dwarf sent a papaw into orbit. Pele spun round, catching it in midair with his sword, slicing it in two. The crowd gasped; Elvis gulped.

The magician then ran the blade through his stomach and out the other side. There was no blood, no apparent pain. Smiling, he twirled around. Elvis began to sweat and backpedal as Professor Pele pulled the sword from his belly and advanced on him.

“Now Professor Pele go cut off dis young man head,” the dwarf announced, pointing at Elvis. “Den join it back again.”

Elvis passed out.

When he woke to slaps from Oye, he was home. He had no idea how he had got there.

“Stupid, stupid boy. Elvis, you want to kill me, eh? What were you doing with those wizards?”

“Nothing, Grandma. How did I get here?”

She slapped him again.

“How did you get here? A distant relative of your father saw you faint and brought you home. Do you know how lucky you are? I sent you to buy me kerosene, not entertain tha town. I heard tha’ after you fainted, tha magician cut off your head and put it back on again. And you say nothing. Don’t you know they can steal your soul and turn you into anything they want?”

Elvis suddenly felt cold. He wondered if this meant that he was now dead and had become a ghost or, worse, a zombie.

“If people find out, they will run away from me, Grandma. I will become like Mr. Jonah,” he said tearfully.

Jonah had been a rich rice trader, with several wives. He had been revered and admired. Then he was in a car accident and lapsed into a coma for a few days. Thinking he was dead, his family took his body from the hospital bed late at night. It was important, they said, to ensure his soul could pass over with dignity, though of course the savings on the hospital bill wouldn’t go amiss. His family was starting the funeral rites when Jonah came to and banged on the coffin, demanding to be let out.

They let him out, but everyone avoided him after that, saying he was now a demon who could only live by killing others. People walked straight past him on the road, eyes averted. He lost his business. His wives left him. Every day he got a little more invisible, until one day he just faded away completely. He could still be seen when the light was just right, sitting outside his hut sucking on an unlit pipe, muttering to himself.

“You should have thought of tha’ before you made a spectacle of yourself in front of tha whole town,” she said. “What do you want me to do? Cast a spell to make everyone forget?”

“Would you?”

She glared at him.

“Boy, don’t make me knock your head off for real,” she said. “I just hope he hasn’t initiated you into witchcraft,” she continued, forcing a disgusting unguent down his throat.

Afraid, he began mumbling prayers while she made passes over his head with eagle feathers and chalk. His prayer and her incantations interwove in the gathering dusk, calming them both.

BRYOPHYLLUM PINNATUM S. KURZ

(Crassulaceae)

The common name for this herb is “Never Die.” It has opposite trifoliate leaves, which are almost rounded, but are larger towards the apex. The flowers are greenish yellow, with a purplish tint at the base. Their arrangement is loose and sometimes drooping on the common stalk.

This plant has several medicinal uses, which are not to be confused with its ritualistic applications. These medicinal uses include compresses for abscesses or swellings. In this case the leaves are crushed and mixed with shea butter or palm oil before being applied. It can also be used on ulcers and burns. It is used as a cure-all for young children when they are ill, and is believed to draw out bad humors when rubbed all over the body.

When the star is early on the King’s head, the number is two. This is the number of most people. The lobes split between their heart and mind, the constant struggle.

Just like the kola nut, people have distinct lobes of energy. These determine their life plan. Four is the highest number, the King nut. The sorcerer. Three is the seer, the singer, and the shaper. Two is, for most, the struggle to learn love.

Lagos, 1983

Elvis shaved hurriedly. He hated shaving, which was odd, considering that as a child he used to drench his chin in alcohol and mentholated spirit because he had been told it would help his facial hair grow. Having heard it worked on pubic hair too, he began to drench his crotch in it. He only stopped when the teacher reported him to his father for smelling of alcohol in school, the report coinciding with his father’s discovery of an empty bottle of White Horse whiskey — one of his best bottles. Naturally he was severely caned. At least he hadn’t had to live with the constant teasing his cousin Obed got. Not realizing exactly how pubic hair grew, Obed had taken the skin from a squirrel’s tail and stuck it, fur side out, along the length of his penis.

Now here Elvis was, struggling with razors and bumps, trying to beat the clock. He was joined in the backyard by Jagua Rigogo. (Everyone knew that Jagua Rigogo wasn’t his real name, yet no one bothered to find out what it really was.)

Jagua used to regale Elvis with stories of his astral projections to different planes of existence or, within this one, to different countries. He even claimed he had met with aliens on Venus who planned and controlled the future of the earth. His stories were peppered with mentions of arcane masters of wisdom who showed him the hidden truths of the universe. Cosmic mechanics, he called them. Then, just as swiftly, the stories would veer away from the cosmic and you would be back on earth, the story continuing seamlessly.

“India! Dat is a wonderful country. Streets paved in gold … almost as lovely as America,” he would say.

Elvis would nod, inhaling Jagua’s strange incense smell, half scared, half amazed.

“But you were just on Venus a minute ago,” he would interject.

“Yes, but astral travel is not encumbered by time and space, you know. De arcane masters or cosmic mechanics who taught me dis were H. G. Wells and his brother, Orson.”

“Do aliens even speak our language?”

“Ha, ha, ha. Funny child. Of course not, but I speak deir language, just like I speak de language of angels. Anyway, where was I?”