Chris Abani - GraceLand

“What is dis?” Sunday demanded.

“A son can’t buy his own father a drink?”

“Since when?”

Elvis did not reply. Instead he reached for his father’s empty glass tankard. He filled it and passed it to him without saying a word. Blowing specks of tree sediment off, Sunday took a deep draught and sighed happily.

“It is fresh,” he said, surprised.

“I bought it straight from the tapper an hour ago,” Elvis replied, lighting a cigarette.

“Must you?” Sunday asked, nodding toward the cigarette.

“I must.”

Sunday emptied his tankard and filled it up again. Without a word he passed it to Elvis, who took it, blew the head off and took a deep drink. The alcohol tasted cool and sweet, like a yeast drink. He could see how easy it was to become hooked on this wine.

He remembered how, when he was a child, his father would send him to buy wine fresh from the tappers. He would scamper into the forest of palm trees, the money clutched tightly in his sweating palm, feeling important. He would watch the wine tappers climb trees three, sometimes four stories high with nothing more than a creaky vine harness, to fill their gallon jugs from clay pots tied to the trees’ jugulars, where they collected the wine slowly. It was a dangerous job, and when the tappers fell, as they invariably did, they sometimes died.

Waiting at the bottom of the trees with his jug, Elvis would watch the tappers come down, choosing whom to buy from by playing rock, paper, scissors with himself. Having chosen, he would give them the money and wait for them to fill up his jug from theirs. But they would always pour a little wine into the drinking gourds they carried tied to their waistbands first.

“Drink, little man, otherwise you will sour our market,” they would say.

At first he resisted, because the wine made him feel queasy, but his father explained that the tappers believed that if their first customer did not drink some of the wine, they would not be able to sell it and it would go sour. With time, Elvis found the wine easier to tolerate, until it became enjoyable, and a part of the errand that he looked forward to.

“What are you thinking about?” Sunday asked.

Elvis told him and Sunday laughed.

“Finish your drink. I want de cup,” he said.

Elvis drained the tankard and shook the dregs out onto the ground with one fluid snapping motion. He passed the empty tankard to his father and lit up another cigarette.

“Dere was a time you respected me enough to not smoke in my presence,” Sunday said.

“Feared.”

“What?”

“Feared, not respected. I was afraid you would beat me. I never really learned to respect you.”

“You think I can’t beat you now?”

“Please, don’t start,” Elvis said.

Sunday emptied the contents of his tankard and the keg onto the swamp. Elvis watched him impassively, drawing deeply on his cigarette.

“I cannot drink de drink of a man who does not respect me.”

“Your loss,” Elvis said

“Why are you even here?”

“I live here.”

“No, I mean, why are you here, now, with me, de wine, why?”

“Your wife asked me to speak to you. To be a son to you.”

“Your mother spoke to you?”

Elvis laughed at the hope in his father’s voice. “No. Comfort, your wife.”

Sunday did not speak. He looked at the puddle of wine as though he regretted spilling it.

“She said she was afraid you were drinking yourself to death,” Elvis continued. “To be with my mother.”

Sunday still said nothing, though Elvis noticed his hands were trembling — whether from anger or something else, he couldn’t tell.

“Talk to me,” Elvis said. “Dad,” he added, almost as an afterthought. It was the first time he had referred to his father as Dad. Ever.

If Sunday noticed, he showed no sign. “Talk to you? Talk to you?! Who do you think you are? Do you think you are a man now, because you have begun to earn some money? Do you think dat is what being a man is? Talk to you. Why? You never listen. You have never listened. All your life I have told you things dat will help you find your way in dis world and you did de exact opposite. You don’t listen. I have tried for you, Elvis. But now I am tired. Tired, you hear?! I wash my hands of you, like Pilate. Before I used to think it was your fault, dat you were just hardheaded. But now I don’t blame you. Everything for us fell apart when your mother died. I blame de death dat took her. Talk to you? How could you understand my pain? My shame? Do you think dis is who Sunday Oke is? Wanted to be? Do you think dis is how I planned my life? Get out of here, stupid, arrogant child. De day I talk to you is de day death claims me. Get lost! Go!”

Elvis sat silently through Sunday’s tirade, flinching at each word. He had spent so much time hating his father that he had forgotten how easy it was to be hurt by him. Standing up, he walked to the edge of the veranda and flicked the stub of his cigarette into the darkness.

“I will go,” he said. His voice scared him. It sounded final. Empty and final.

Sunday said nothing. He simply turned his chair around so that he had his back to Elvis.

“I will go,” Elvis said again. This time his voice had died to a whisper.

He took a few steps forward to where Sunday sat. Gently he laid his hand on the wooden backrest of the chair, the tips of his fingers, like an undecided breeze, barely grazing his father’s shoulder. His tears surprised him. Wiping his face furiously, he walked into his room and closed the door behind him. As he leaned against it, he heard his father’s chair scrape around.

“So where are we going exactly?” Elvis asked.

“You need an alternative to de world dat Redemption is showing you,” the King replied.

“That doesn’t answer my question. Besides, you don’t know the world Redemption shows me.”

“Well, dis one is different, and better.”

“But where is it? We have been walking for over an hour,” Elvis said.

“De new Rex cinema.”

Elvis stopped mid-stride.

“The cinema?”

“Yes, de new Rex. It is nice O! Air condition, cushioned seat. Very nice.”

“I have not been to the cinema in years, but even given that, I don’t think it qualifies as an alternative world. I know all about the cinema. Believe me.”

“You speak too much English for a high-school dropout,” the King said. “Well, Mr. Know-It-All, how many European film have you seen?”

“They make films in Europe?”

“See how you foolish? I learn about dis from one man dat use to teach us night school one time. He say dat film with subtitle will help us learn good English. Anyway, follow me. Dis film will open your eye.”

“What is it called?”

“Love Film , by one Yugoslavian like dat.”

“Not the type, the name.”

“Love Film.”

“Well, I only see action films,” Elvis sneered.

The King of the Beggars set off at a fast trot.

“Den consider dis a new education,” he threw over his shoulder at Elvis, who was struggling to keep up.

“How can you educate me?!” Elvis muttered under his breath.

“I heard dat!”

It was useless arguing further. It was clear the King had his heart set on it, and he could see the theater’s neon sign ahead. It might be fun, Elvis thought. He hadn’t been to a film since he arrived in Lagos. There never seemed to be any time or spare money.

“Two ticket for Love Film ,” the King said, counting out dirty one-naira notes.

“Let me get this,” Elvis said, pulling out a handful of crisp notes.

“No,” the King said, pushing Elvis’s money away firmly.

“Listen, one of you pay me!” the ticket seller said.