Chris Abani - GraceLand

“So what does that mean?” Elvis asked. His was voice tight and his eyes were tearing from the harsh liquor.

“In dis place, it used to be dat all you had was your name — before dis new madness with money started. De measure of a man was his name. It will be again. It took me years of pain, suffering and hard work to build a name people could respect. My father was a houseboy to de white priests. We were nobody. To de whites we were their servant’s children, mini-servants. To de traditional world, we were white people’s slaves, a curse, so we were disinherited of land, clan, everything. I built our name up with honor until it became a force to be reckoned with. I have never had much money, but I had a name dat opened doors. A name people spoke with respect.”

“He was killed for a name?”

“No! He was killed because he was a threat to all we had. De only inheritance I had to give you was a name of honor. His actions were muddying de only thing of value we had to give you.”

“So he was killed for a name.”

“No! He was killed for honor.”

“What kind of honor does that? Kills its own?”

“Can’t you understand? I did dis out of love for you.”

“So now you did this for me?” Elvis asked.

Sunday took a deep breath and a gulp of the gin almost simultaneously. He didn’t respond.

“That is why your backers pulled out of your campaign. That’s why you drink, to drown your conscience. I used to think that it was my mother’s death that pushed you over the edge. But this was part of it too. I’m sorry for you,” Elvis said.

Sunday put down the gin bottle.

“Don’t be sorry for me, be sorry for yourself. Do you know why we have a lot of deformed children begging? Because their parents know dey have no future. So at birth, before de child knows pain, dey deform it because it increases its earning power as a beggar. Do you see de love? All dey have to give de child is its deformity. All I have to give you is my name, your name, Elvis Oke. And when I die, it will continue to help you build something for your children. Dat’s why I don’t want you to be a dancer. It will spoil your name.”

“What are you talking about? Your name is associated with failure. Where is the honor in that? How can I carry this name knowing that it belongs to murderers and rapists?”

“Dis was not murder! Dis was a mercy killing. It was only a matter of time before de police caught Godfrey in some crime and executed him publicly. Dat would have killed all of us.”

“I could forgive you if I tried, you know. But Uncle Joseph? This was his son. First he rapes his daughter, then he has his son murdered?”

“Why do you insist on dis rape story?”

“You think I made that up? That Efua made it up?”

“She is a harlot, you know. Here in Lagos. I have seen her.”

“Liar!”

“And you can’t know for sure dat what you think you saw dat time was Joseph raping his daughter. Maybe you were confused.”

Elvis finally had to accept that his father would never believe that Joseph was capable of rape. Or maybe he didn’t want to. He had somehow deluded himself into believing that murdering Godfrey was an act of honor. He had not even considered the effect it would have on Innocent, who had to carry out the crime. This was all shit, all shit. Isn’t that what Redemption always said?

“He raped her.”

“You can’t know for sure, unless it happened to you,” Sunday said. His tone was conciliatory, as though he was subconsciously begging Elvis for it not to be true.

“He raped me too,” Elvis said, surprised at how calm he sounded as the memory of that day in the chapel came rushing back with a pain so fresh, he instinctively clenched his buttocks against it. But whatever had held him up all this time collapsed in the face of his admission, and his tears were followed by body-shaking sobs. He cried, loud and hard, mouth open, snot running down his nose. Sunday stared at Elvis, mouth open, searching for the possibility of a lie. But there was none. The sound, when it came from him, was nothing Elvis recognized. It was a howl. All animal, all death. It propelled Elvis off the veranda. This was not the comfort he wanted, needed. He could deal with all his father’s anger, but not this. He stumbled down the street to the bus stop, ignoring the curious stares of passersby, wiping furiously at his face with his sleeve. As he walked, he realized, the only way out of this life was Redemption.

“Redemption! Redemption!” Elvis called, banging wildly on Redemption’s door. The room was dark and there was no answer.

“He done move,” one of the neighbors said, opening a door. “Now stop de knocking, eh? I cannot hear myself thinking.”

Shit, Elvis thought. Of course Redemption had moved, to Maroko, where he had just come from. In the confusion of the confrontation with his father, he had fled by instinct to this place where he had always felt safe.

“Elvis?”

He spun around. Redemption was standing in the doorway to Kansas’s room. “Why you dey find me here? You know I moved.”

“I forgot.”

“What is it?”

“Can we talk?”

“Is dat Elvis? Elvis, come and join us, we are eating,” Kansas called from inside the room.

Elvis crossed the courtyard in seconds. Redemption stood aside to let him in.

“Dere is beer in de fridge. Help yourself, den wash your hands and join us,” Kansas said.

Elvis opened the miniature fridge and helped himself to a Gulder.

“Isn’t this the stuff that blows up in your face if you smoke while drinking it?” he asked, popping the top.

“Dat is plain rumor,” Kansas said.

Elvis sat down on one corner of the love seat. Redemption occupied the other. Kansas sat on the bed facing them. On the coffee table between them was a meal of fufu and egusi sauce. Redemption and Kansas were working up a sweat eating. To their left, too big for the compact room, was a television set. They were watching a video on it.

“Ah, Elvis. Wash your hand, de food is going fast,” Redemption said.

“Thanks, but I am not hungry.”

“Dis food sweet, man. My girlfriend cook it,” Kansas said.

“Thank you, but I am fine,” Elvis insisted. “What are you guys watching?”

“Dirty Harry . Dat man is too bad. Real Actor.”

Elvis nodded and sipped at his beer. He really wanted to talk to Redemption alone.

“Hey, that’s John Wayne!” he said, excitedly pointing to Clint Eastwood. He knew fully well it wasn’t, but he wanted to be part of the conversation, defaulting to the ignorance he expected of the other two.

“John Wayne? You dey mad. Dat is Actor. John Wayne is not in movies anymore,” Kansas said.

“But … what?” Elvis said, sounding confused.

“Is okay, Elvis,” Redemption explained. “Things change, you know. Now dere is only Bad Guy and Actor. No more John Wayne.”

“Why?”

“Because de type of movies done change. Dat’s all. Now let us watch de movie in peace.”

Elvis lapsed into silence, drinking several bottles of beer as he watched images flicker across the screen. The color needed adjusting, and everything had a garish red tint to it that made him nauseous after a while.

“Do you have ciga?” he asked Redemption.

Redemption passed a packet of Marlboros to him.

“This is not my brand,” Elvis said, looking disdainfully at the pack.

“Okay, give my ciga back.”

“You don’t have any Benson & Hedges?”

“Give me my ciga back,” Redemption repeated.

“Easy,” Elvis said, taking one and lighting it before passing it back.

“Take it easy. Gulder is strong beer, don’t drink too much.”

“Humph.”

Elvis had no recollection of falling asleep, but woke groggily as Redemption shook him roughly.