Chris Abani - GraceLand

As Elvis made to move off, the trader stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Where you dey go?”

“You said the item is not for sale, so I am going.”

“You mean dis one? Haba, I thought you meant de oder. Come, come, I will give you special price.”

“No.”

“Are you not my customer? Okay, pay fifty naira.”

“Fifty? Is it made of gold? I can’t pay more than ten.”

“Ah! Is dis pricing or daylight robbery? Even de person who make it does not sell for ten. Den me I have overhead, eh. Okay, pay forty.”

“Twenty.”

“Thirty, last price.”

“Twenty-five.”

“Thirty.”

“Twenty-five.”

“No.”

“Okay,” Elvis said walking off.

Again the trader pulled him back. He was already wrapping the clothes, a smile on his face.

“You dis oga, you can haggle pass Egyptians O!” he said as he folded the twenty-five naira into his pocket and handed Elvis the wrapped clothes.

Moving on, Elvis soon spotted a nice pair of shoes to go with the clothes and bought those. He then made his way back to the open-air stalls and bought some groceries for the house. Satisfied, he headed off to the bus stop and caught the bus home, stopping at Madam Caro’s for a beer.

The King of the Beggars counted the money again. The amount had not changed from his last count: one hundred naira.

“Where from dis money, eh, Elvis? Where from?”

“Do you not want the money?” Elvis asked, and reached for the pile.

The King swatted his hand away.

“Easy. I just ask where it is from.”

“None of your business, but don’t worry. No one died for it.”

Elvis lit a cigarette, drawing the harsh, cheap tobacco deep before exhaling.

“Dat cigarette you are smoking like you are drinking water will kill you. You just quench one five minutes ago,” the King complained. He put the money away.

“Please don’t nag.”

“Respect my age, eh, Elvis? Respect my age,” the King said.

“I’m sorry,” Elvis muttered, stamping out the cigarette.

“So tell me where dis money from.”

“I told you, Redemption and I have a job.”

“Dat your friend Redemption, he appear dishonest to me,” the King warned.

“No more than you are.”

The comment, meant as a barb, only made Caesar throw his head back and laugh heartily. “Den you must be criminal mastermind if we are all your friend,” he said.

In spite of his growing irritation, Elvis laughed.

“How long have you been a beggar?”

“Long time.”

“And before?”

“I was … Look, my young friend, de past is in de past, tomorrow is all we can hope, eh? Leave all about dat. Give me one cigarette.”

“I thought you didn’t smoke.”

“Why? Because I say it is bad? I tink de money you give me is bad, but I take it. You see, Elvis, life is funny thing. Now give me de cigarette.”

Elvis passed the King a cigarette and held a light for him. The King sucked greedily at the other end, and the stick was soon burning. Lighting another one for himself, Elvis leaned back and watched life unraveling in the ghetto settlement under the bridge. He and the King were sitting on the pedestrian path of the freeway bridge, legs dangling over Bridge City below while, behind them, traffic roared past. It wasn’t the wisest place to be, but the King liked to sit there and gaze down at his subjects, his domain. Absently, Elvis tried to add up all the ghettos in the city. There were Maroko, where he lived; Aje, where Redemption lived; Mile Two; parts of Mushin and Idi Oro and several other unnamed settlements under other bridges like this one scattered across Lagos. All in all, he thought, there were over ten. Throwing his still-smoking stub over the edge of the bridge, he checked his watch and swore softly.

“I have to go now.”

“To your job with your friend?”

“One of them, anyway.”

“Be careful. When a car hits a dog, its puppy is never far behind.”

Elvis laughed.

“Again with the stories,” he said, and headed for home.

“Elvis,” Comfort began as soon as he walked in. “Help me carry dis box of cloth to my shop.”

She had a shop somewhere across town. He had never been there and had no idea why she would suddenly ask him to do this. It wasn’t the chore itself; it was the fact that she had seemed determined to keep that part of her life totally separate from home.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m in a hurry.”

“Is dat Elvis?” Sunday called out. Without waiting for a reply, he came to the veranda, where Elvis stood talking to Comfort. “Where have you been, my friend? You treat dis house as a hotel, but let me tell you, it is not a hotel.”

Elvis stared at him, unsure where his father was going with this line of logic. Deciding the easiest way out would be to apologize, he did.

“I’m sorry.”

Sunday grunted. Comfort had ignored the exchange, choosing to spend her time trying to recruit one of the unemployed men in the building to carry the box for a small fee.

Elvis entered his room, remerged shortly after with a towel and headed for the backyard. He washed, changed into his new clothes and shoes and headed over to the nightclub on Victoria Island. Perhaps Rohini would be there again tonight, he thought. He hoped so.

Redemption was waiting for him at the door of the club. He touched Elvis’s clothes. “Nice threads.”

“Thanks, man,” Elvis replied, pulling out some money to pay the cover charge.

Redemption stopped him.

“You work here now, so you no longer pay de cover. But you should buy de gate man some beer now and den,” he said.

Elvis nodded and followed Redemption into the bar. The same band was set up and playing a cover of Nigeria’s most popular song, “Sweet Mother,” by Prince Nico Mbaga. Released in the seventies, it was still on the charts. Elvis glanced at his watch. They were on early. They usually didn’t come on for another hour. As he pushed across the crowded floor to the bar, he realized why. There were several highranking army officers, in full uniform, sitting in the corner, drinking and talking. The band was probably playing for them. Beer in hand, Elvis made his way to the back of the room where the foreign patrons sat. He did not see Rohini, but within minutes Redemption approached him and led him to where an overweight Lebanese woman sat, cooling herself with a hand-held electric fan. She regarded Elvis with hungry eyes, then waved Redemption away.

“Sit,” she said in voice that could crack gravel.

Wiping the sweat from his palms, Elvis sat.

Dancing with his Lebanese client was a little difficult for Elvis, as she seemed to completely enfold him. His face was pressed so close to her sweaty cheek he could smell the funk from her unwashed hair. Her hands were kneading his buttocks with all the expertise of a master baker, her groin rubbing against his hungrily.

“Are you okay, lover?” she breathed at him.

The smell of alcohol was nearly overwhelming, and her bear grip around his ribs made breathing awkward. From a distance, it looked like she was a huge ape devouring him.

“I’m fine,” he managed with difficulty.

The band was playing Jimmy Cliff’s “Many Rivers to Cross,” and he focused on the words, singing under his breath, trying to take himself away, at least in his head.

“‘I’ve got many rivers to cross, but I still cannot find my way over …,’” he crooned almost inaudibly. Thinking he was singing for her, his client kneaded his back and buttocks even harder and swung him around. Just then, one of the heavily medaled soldiers danced their way, and Elvis bumped into him.

“I’m sorry,” Elvis mumbled as his client swung him around in the opposite direction.