Chris Abani - GraceLand

“So how are you, Rohini?” Elvis asked.

“I’m fine, although life is pretty boring for me at the moment.”

“Oh? Why?”

“I am fighting with my father.”

“I know all about that,” he said with a short laugh.

She smiled. “Really?”

“Yes. Tell me about your father. I mean, why do you fight?”

“You are getting awfully personal for a person hired to dance,” she said.

“I am sorry. This is my first time. I meant no offense.”

She looked at him in the dim light. He seemed genuine enough, so she told him about herself.

Rohini had been educated at Oxford and graduated at twenty with a first in classical studies. Returning to Lagos, she had spurned every suitor her father had lined up for marriage. Running short of men, he pressed her to return to India to be married off. She refused, defying him in a gentle but firm assertion of her independence. She turned down the offered post as company finance manager, opting instead to take a job teaching comparative philosophy at the University of Ibadan. In deference to her mother’s tearful pleas, she lived at home, even though that meant a two-hour commute each way. She also allowed her father to hire Prakash to protect her from the unbridled and scurrilous advances of the native blacks.

“My father is very disapproving, and cares only for money. As he says, ‘Vot else I can du? A cock crows; me? I make money.”

They both laughed, and Prakash looked on disapprovingly. Remembering the money Redemption had slipped him earlier, Elvis said: “Can I buy you a drink?”

“I think you have got it wrong,” Rohini said, leading him back to her table. “It is I who buy the drinks. What can I get you?”

“Beer, please,” he said.

She nodded and whispered to Prakash, who grabbed a passing waiter.

“Are you all right, Elvis?” she asked. “You look a little uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine.” Beaming, he turned to Prakash, taking in his sour countenance. “Don’t you ever smile?”

“Smiling is for prostitutes and fools,” Prakash said.

“Captain on deck!” Redemption shouted, getting up and snapping to mock attention as Elvis walked into the buka.

“Oh, shut up, you,” Elvis said, suddenly self-conscious.

“According to my watch”—Redemption began consulting it with a flourish—“it is now four a.m. Reliable sources — dat is, me — tell me dat de club closed at two a.m. So, Mr. Presley, where did you take Ms. Rohini, you hound dog? Beach motel? No, dat is too cheap, too visible. Eko Palace Hotel?”

“We went for a walk on Bar Beach.”

“Bar Beach? Walk?” Redemption sounded confused. Then his expression relaxed into a smile. “You dirty dog. De old beach fuck.”

“No, we just walked by the sea.”

Redemption shrugged. “Her choice, you know. But tell me how much you made.”

“One hundred and fifty naira,” Elvis said, counting it and handing Redemption a twenty.

“Ah, no now, Elvis. Not twenty — forty.”

With a sigh, Elvis handed over another twenty.

“Now, buy me breakfast and tell me all about it,” Redemption said, stuffing the notes into his back pocket and sitting down. Tired speakers leaning in the corner belted out Donna Summer’s “Spring Affair.”

“There is nothing to tell. She is a very nice girl, and we talked.”

“About?”

“About her father and how hard he is making it for her to be her own woman.”

Redemption took a sip from the lukewarm tea in front of him. He began to speak but thought better of it when the waiter brought over a plate of eggs, fried meat, fried plantains and bread. Yanking off a piece of bread and digging a pocket in it, Redemption filled it with eggs and fried meat. He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. When he looked at Elvis, the concern was clear on his face.

“Listen, tell me what you think dis thing you are doing is?”

“What thing?”

“Dis gig I got for you at Sonny’s? Listen, dese women are way out of your reach. You are dere to keep dem entertained, no more, no less. You have to move from woman to woman. You are disposable and dey will never care about you. Dey will go on to marry rich foreigners like demselves. And if for any reason she liked you, and you hurt her, well, I think you saw Prakash? De best you can hope for is to make a decent living while things last and maybe get in a good fuck or two — for which you must charge extra.”

Elvis put down his cup of tea.

“Where is all this coming from? I just took her for a walk along the beach. I know how to play this game, okay?”

“If you say so.”

“I do. But listen, Redemption, I need more work, though. This escort work does not seem like regular work to me.”

“Hah, Elvis, you are a true Igbo man.”

“I need this, Redemption.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll look into things.”

“Elvis!”

Standing in front of the buka was the King of the Beggars, Caesar.

“Who is dat bastard?” Redemption asked, clearly irritated.

“My friend Caesar,” Elvis replied, motioning for Caesar to join them.

“You have strange friends,” Redemption said, finishing off his tea and standing up. Stuffing a piece of meat in his mouth, he made to leave. “Me, I like only regular guys like me. See you later.”

Caesar and Redemption inspected each other as they passed at the door. Caesar nodded; Redemption spat and looked away.

“Your friend is not very nice,” Caesar said, sitting down.

“We all have our faults. I’ll talk to him later,” Elvis replied. “Breakfast?”

“What is bothering you?” Caesar asked Elvis.

“What makes you think anything is bothering me?”

“Because.”

“Because?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I have a bit of an ethical dilemma.”

“Easy now, Elvis. Not so much big words, eh?”

Elvis laughed, and as the King of the Beggars finished the breakfast Redemption had left over, Elvis filled him in on his new gig and the reasons why he needed to earn money fast, ending with his conflict over the right thing to do.

“Listen to dis story,” Caesar began.

“Oh, please, not another story. Why can’t anyone in this place just give it to you straight?”

“Because de straight road is a liar. Now listen. My broder built a birdcage when I was small. One week, he is building de cage, every day, eh? Den he take two whole days of careful stalking with bait and weaver trap to catch de bird for de cage. I remember dat bird, yellow like dis, eh? Every day I watch dat cage, dat bird, eh? Every day.

“Den one day, rain just fall finish and de air dey heavy with de smell of fresh wet earth and spilled kerosene. I sit dey watch. My spirit move me. My head just begin wild. What would happen if …? Why should de bird be trapped? Could it speak?

“It’s like my broder know something is up, because he come dere and watch me as I watch de bird. Den my mother’s call my broder away. ‘Don’t touch de cage,’ he warn. I nodded.

“But as soon as he go, my hand was on de cage and suddenly de weaver was in de air. It beat its wings against my face and was gone. I was surprise to hear myself laughing. I was free and I stood in de small rain dat began to fall again. I was powerful, aaah.”

“Then what?” Elvis asked impatiently.

“De slap caught me square across de lips, drawing blood, and I start to cry in de rain. ‘I told you not to touch de cage!’ my broder shout.”

“So what is the moral?”

“Why must you mock, eh? It is simple. Choose whether you are me, de bird or my broder. Only you can choose.”

OIL BEAN SEED SALAD

(Igbo: Ugba)

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