Chris Abani - GraceLand

“So that is how I got my name,” Elvis said.

Oye gave him a stern look.

“You know tha’. Act yer age, lad, not yer shoe size. Enough of tha’ story, time you went inside and ate your supper. You must have your homework ready before your father comes home or else it will be another night of carrying on. Now go.”

Elvis got up reluctantly and left, but not before he poured the shelled seeds carefully into Oye’s bowl. He wrapped the newspaper around the shells and took them to throw in the compost heap out back.

EMILIA SONCHIFOLIA DC

(Asteraceae) (Igbo: Nti-Ele)

This is a straggling herb common to open places in the forest or farmland, and frequently at roadsides. Its leaves are irregularly lobed and triangular in shape, resembling the ears of an antelope, which accounts for its Igbo name. These leaves are arranged alternately along the stem, with small pink flowers.

Medicinally, the leaves are eaten cooked in soup or added fresh to a salad to ease fevers. When the fresh leaves are rubbed and squeezed, they produce a green liquid which, when dropped into the eyes, eases soreness, cataracts and generally improves vision and clarity of sight.

Four lines on the King’s head mark the destination; the moment of royalty, the full crown. This star, spread like a child’s smile or the reaching of four fingers, is rare.

The four-lobed kola nut is the King nut. Rare, it is always a good omen. Four, in Igbo cosmology, is the number of completion, of dominion over the physical universe. It is also the number of energy pockets that true sorcerers and sorceresses need to perform their sacred duty.

Lagos, 1983

Elvis stared at the mound of grey powder. It wasn’t white — at least not in the way he had expected cocaine to be. He rubbed a little between his fingers. It felt coarse, not smooth like icing sugar, the way he had imagined it.

“Careful,” Redemption warned. “Dat is big money.”

“Sorry,” Elvis mumbled, brushing the grainy stuff from his fingers back onto the pile. “Redemption, this is serious business. It is—”

“I know what it is. Are you in or out?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your trouble too much. Every time I see you, you say ‘Hook me up with some money deal.’ Den when I do, you say you don’t know.”

“But—”

“Anyway, it is not you I blame, you see?” Redemption interrupted. “I blame myself for involving a boy in a man’s work.”

Elvis heaved a sigh and took a swig from his beer.

“This is dangerous, we could go to prison for this.”

“In dis country you can go to prison if some soldier does not like you. At least with dis you can make some money.”

Elvis drank some more. He seemed to be sweating inordinately, and his throat felt unusually dry. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and then ran his wet hand over his trouser leg.

“Haba, Elvis!” Redemption exploded. “It is not like I am asking you to hawk dis stuff, okay? I am just asking you to help me wrap it. Ten naira per wrap — now are you in or out?”

Elvis picked up the sample wrap. It was about an inch and a half long and as thick. He could probably wrap a few hundred in a night, and at ten naira per wrap, it came to a lot of money.

“I’m in.”

“Good. Now see how I do it. You take dis small spoon and you measure one — not full, okay? Den you empty it into de fingers of dis glove. One by one, one by one. Dat is one spoonful per finger. Okay, see?”

Elvis watched Redemption measure and deposit five spoonfuls into the five fingers of the glove.

“Next you cut it like dis, one inch above the powder, and only one at a time. Den you tie each packet closed, tight, tight like dis. Make sure you finish one packet before you cut de next, okay?”

Elvis nodded as Redemption tied a series of knots that would have made Baden-Powell happy to know that his work in bringing the Boy Scouts to Africa had not been wasted.

“Den you take each tied packet and roll it like dis, hitting it with dis small hammer like dis, so dat de powder is packed tight, okay? Den you put it inside dis condom like dis and tie it closed, cut, and again use de hammer like dis, see? Den you put it inside dis small plastic bag like so, den again use de hammer, see? Den take dis black electrician’s tape, cut it like dis and wrap it around and around and around at least twelve times, see? Den use the hammer again, see?”

Elvis could hardly believe it; the packet looked like a small pellet, no bigger than the sample. Redemption bounced it a few times on the coffee table.

“See? It is strong. Next you put de five packets inside de fingers of another glove and cut and tie, den it is ready. You see dat de glove is de kind used by doctor? Dat’s because it is strong but light, you see?”

Elvis picked up the five packets that Redemption had made in what seemed like ten minutes.

“You work fast.”

“And good,” Redemption said. “Don’t worry, you go learn quick. See, Elvis, dis is new business for me, and if it go well and I get plenty job, den you don’t have to work in dat club again, eh? When we go to de club we go go as rich men.”

Elvis rolled the packets contemplatively between his palms as though he were a psychic trying to guess at their contents.

“Okay,” he sighed, and hunched over the coffee table. He reached for a glove and began to make packets like Redemption. It was slow and tedious work and he felt himself getting lightheaded. Noticing the glazed expression beginning to drop over Elvis’s face, Redemption sent him out for some fresh air and to buy beer.

They worked all night long, and by the time the city was waking up they had finished the last of the powder in the bowl. In a small black leather bag were the tied packets. By Elvis’s count there were at least five hundred. He had not worked as fast as Redemption and had made only about one hundred and fifty of them. Without saying anything, Redemption took a wad of money from his pocket and counted out fifteen hundred naira. He secured the money with a rubber band and handed it to Elvis, who took it and sat there in a daze, weighing the money in his hand. He had never made this much money for less than a month’s work. Now, in one night, here it was.

“Next time I go deduct money as per my cut, but dis time is beginner’s dash,” Redemption said.

Elvis nodded and sat back.

“Put dat money away.”

Without a word, Elvis shoved the wad into his pocket. He lit a cigarette and stared at the naked lightbulb in the ceiling. Insects were buzzing around it even though it was losing its power in the face of the sun stabbing its way through the slats of the window louvers.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You can ask, I might not answer.”

“How do the people who own the cocaine know that you won’t fill the packets with sugar and keep the real stuff for yourself?”

“Elvis? What is dis? Don’t go getting funny ideas,” Redemption replied sternly.

“Me? What do I know about cocaine? But why do they trust you?”

“So you are saying I am a thief?”

Elvis laughed. “Of course not. Just wondering.”

“Listen, Elvis, don’t wonder. Don’t even joke about dis. Dese people, dey can kill you like dis.” Redemption snapped his fingers for emphasis. “Dey don’t have to trust me. Dey know I know what will happen if I cheat dem. So please don’t even joke about it.”

Elvis smoked in silence, while Redemption sat staring into space. Finding a sudden spurt of energy, Redemption stood up. He cracked his knuckles, complaining about how sore the work made his hands. Picking up the bag, he headed for the door. He stopped when Elvis did not seem to be moving.