Chris Abani - GraceLand

“Wake up. Dis is not your house. I told you to easy on de beer. Wake up, we have to go.”

Elvis yawned and stretched. He sat up and wiped drool from his mouth.

“Where is Kansas?”

“He go pick his girlfriend. Come on, we have to go before he return.”

Standing up, Elvis noted that the place had been tidied since he fell asleep. The empty beer bottles were gone, as were the remnants of the meal. Kansas had even changed the sheets.

“Boy, you guys work fast,” he said.

Redemption smiled.

“It is Kansas, my broder! De tings a woman can make you do is wonderful.”

Elvis laughed. They staggered out of the room, the latch locking home behind them. Elvis felt a moment of panic and checked under his shirt for his Fulani pouch. It was still there, he noted, opening it. As were his mother’s journal and a copy of The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran, one of his favorite books.

“I hope he has not forgotten his keys,” Elvis said.

Something about the comment struck them both as funny and they fell about laughing.

“Dat will be one angry broder if dat is so,” Redemption gasped.

“Am I still drunk?” Elvis asked, swaying dangerously.

“No. It’s de ground dat is moving,” Redemption said, laughing.

“So how are we getting home?” Elvis asked.

“I bring machine. I go ride.”

“Which kind of machine? Ha, Redemption! Are you in any condition to ride?”

“How you go know de difference, drunk as you be?”

Elvis giggled. “I guess you are right.”

They approached a burly black motorcycle. Redemption straddled it and kicked the stand up. He swayed for a moment, then found his balance.

“Okay, Elvis, climb aboard. Maroko straight,” he said.

“Are you sure you can operate this?” Elvis slurred, as he settled into the passenger seat, arms firmly wrapped around Redemption’s midsection.

“Hey, Elvis, are you homo? Release me small,” Redemption said.

Elvis relaxed his grip.

“Sorry, I am holding on for my life,” he said.

“Ha! Elvis. Relax, you know I am Easy Rider,” Redemption said, revving up and releasing the clutch. The bike shot off at an incredible speed, swaying from side to side.

“Easy!” Elvis shouted.

“One-way trip to heaven!” Redemption shouted back.

They roared down the Isolo freeway, weaving between cars like a bobbin threading yarn, barely managing to stay upright.

“Whose bike is this?” Elvis yelled over the roar of wind and traffic.

“Dis machine? It belongs to de new people I am doing business with,” Redemption yelled back.

“Hey, slow down. That is a police checkpoint ahead. You don’t want them to open fire,” Elvis said, pointing ahead to the makeshift barricade of oil drums and car tires that sat in the middle of the freeway like a pimple. Redemption ignored him, clutched down, revved up and cut across four lanes of traffic to an exit.

“Redemption!”

“Easy, Elvis. Dis is not States. Dey have no car to chase us.”

“Just don’t kill us.”

“Relax, you fear more dan woman. Listen, punk, do you feel lucky?”

“What?”

“Well, do you?”

“Stop speaking in riddles. Just stop, it will only cost us a couple of bucks in bribes to get past.”

“Number one, we no wear helmet. Number two, I don’t have de papers for dis machine. Number three, I no get license. Plus I hold gun in my pocket. Dat is too much bribe dan I can afford. I no fit to pay!” Redemption shouted as they gunned up the exit ramp and made a sharp right.

“Gun?! Gun!?”

“No dey shout ‘gun’ like dat. People can hear.”

They made a left and were soon traveling down a dirt road skirting the lagoon.

“Where are we?”

“Near Mile 2. One more left and we go dey back on de freeway.”

As they bumped over the road at high speed, a tall column of dust kicked up by the tires chased after them. To their right, the water was a black presence, reflecting the moon. In the distance, Elvis could make out small fishing canoes bobbing on the swell, the lanterns burning in their prows dancing like fireflies.

“Yeee!”

Redemption’s shout was the last thing Elvis heard before the bike skidded out from under them and they were free-falling. They came to a stop about twenty feet down the road. Behind them, the motorcycle’s engine roared for a while, the tires spinning in the air, before spluttering to a stop. The single headlight burned through the silent dark.

“Elvis?”

Silence.

“Elvis?”

“Shit, I think I am dead.”

“No, my friend. Wounded, but not dead. Are you okay? Complete?”

Elvis got into a sitting position. Redemption was already standing up. He lit two cigarettes and passed one to Elvis. Elvis accepted the cigarette and took a deep drag; then, pulling himself slowly to his feet, he checked for broken bones. He was fine aside from a few bruises and a torn shirt.

“How are you?” Redemption asked.

“Apart from some bruises, I am fine. You?”

“Man no die, man no rotten.”

Elvis laughed. It felt good.

“What happened?”

“Who knows? Too much drink, bad road, witchcraft. Choose one.”

“Do you realize we could have died?”

“But we didn’t. So dis is an omen dat we will both live long,” Redemption said, walking back to the prone bike. As he righted it, Elvis called out:

“Be careful of spilled fuel with that cigarette.”

“Shut up, my friend. Dis is not a movie,” Redemption said, climbing back onto the bike and kicking the throttle. After a few abortive attempts, the bike came alive.

“Excellent. Not even a scratch. Dis is good omen. Okay, Elvis, all aboard.”

Elvis hesitated.

“You want to spend de night here?”

“Shit,” Elvis muttered, climbing on the back.

As they left, he was glad to notice that Redemption had cut back on the speed.

“So why did you come to see me? You must have been upset to forget I moved.”

“Is that deal you offered me still open?” Elvis asked.

“Yes. And after dis accident, I am confident for both of us. It will go well. Trust me.”

Elvis’s reply was swallowed up by the wind as they gained the freeway and Redemption opened the throttle.

SPIGELIA ANTHELMIA L.

(Yoruba: Ewe Aran)

As in most herbs, this is common to abandoned farmlands and clearings in the forest. It is a small erect herb with a rounded smooth stem. Its leaves are oval and broad at the base, tapering to a fine point at the apex. It has pale pink flowers with dark stripes and its fruits are small, round, warty and two-lobed.

The plant is boiled and drunk to expel worms. Its fresh leaves are considered especially poisonous to domestic animals and can cause their death in two to three hours. An overdose of the extract of the leaves is capable of killing a human. In the past witches used it to exact revenge on their enemies either by mixing it in with the feed of domestic animals or by pouring a large dose of the decoction into a soup or drink.

This is the first step. This is the way it is done.

The protocol is followed strictly.

Afikpo, 1980

Invariably the talk turned to sex. Obed and Titus had seen blue movies, and although they didn’t understand much, they tried to convey what they had seen to the others.

Titus, in hallowed silence, told of how a woman took a man’s penis in her mouth and sucked out his soul while he yelled in pain. The others were not convinced at first, but he insisted he had seen it, white and lacy, dripping from her mouth. Elvis, in Obiechena’s Biology for Beginners, had read differently, but he knew better than to be a nerd by arguing. Besides, Obed was suggesting that they experiment on each other. Elvis wasn’t sure why, but this was something that he wanted to do, so he wasn’t as vocal as the others in his protests.