Chris Abani - GraceLand

“Them too. But how could you do this to me and claim to be my friend?”

“Firstly, I no know dat’s what dis job was. Secondly, dere are plenty people like Kansas who are also looking for money, but I choose you because you be my friend. You can be ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful! I—”

“If you want to preach, hold it. I tire,” Redemption interrupted.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

The motion of the car lulled Elvis to sleep. Beside him, Redemption chain-smoked to stay awake, the spiral of smoke blurring his vision. After several hours they came up to a small town, where Redemption slowed and pulled off by an isolated buka. Elvis woke up and looked around. They were in an industrial area, surrounded on every side by warehouses.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?” Elvis asked, stating the obvious. They had been driving all night and most of the morning, yet Lagos still seemed so far away.

“Make I ask dem inside. You want anything?”

“Anything cold, and some food,” Elvis replied.

He got out of the car and stretched. Ahead, the road unwound in a dusty ribbon. A crow called from its perch on a leafless branch, and a snake, probably a viper, basked in the noon heat on the road’s edge. He had no idea where they were. He watched a slim woman sail past balancing a load on her head that defied the frailty of her neck. Two small children followed closely, munching on sugarcane stems, while another was tied to her back by a lappa. It slept, lulled by the sway of her hips and the shade from the load.

Redemption came sauntering back to the car. He held two cold bottles of Coke and a fistful of bread. He broke off some bread and handed it to Elvis with one of the Cokes.

“Any idea where we are?”

“Near Shagamu. If we just continue straight we go meet freeway. Turn left and we go dey for Lagos in two hours.”

Elvis nodded and bit into the bread. It was hard and crumbly, but to him it tasted great. Eating quickly, he washed it down with the Coke. He tossed the bottle to the dusty ground and lit up a cigarette.

“Return de bottles,” Redemption said, snatching the cigarette from Elvis’s mouth. Empty bottles were valuable because the local Coca-Cola factory washed and reused them. To ensure they got their bottles back, the factory charged local retailers a deposit on the bottles, which could only be redeemed when the bottles were turned in. The retailers in turn passed the cost of the deposit on to consumers if they intended to leave the immediate vicinity of their shops with the drinks. The amount varied from retailer to retailer but was usually no less than the price of the drink.

With a grunt Elvis got out of the car, bent down and picked up the empty Coke bottles and walked back to the buka with them. The owner returned the deposit and he pocketed it. By the time he got back to the car, Redemption already had the engine running. Elvis slid into the passenger seat, slammed the door and, as they drove off in a cloud of dust, lit another cigarette.

They traveled in silence for a mile or so until they came across a line of pedestrians dressed in bright red and yellow clothes Elvis had only seen in Indian movies. Unlike the Hare Krishnas who were now a common sight in Lagos, or the Hindus and Sikhs who owned businesses in Nigeria, these Indian-influenced Nigerians wore outfits that mixed ideas right out of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves and costumes from a Bollywood production, complete with turbans. They had a regal look that was marred only by the sweat staining their outfits darkly, falling in streams down their faces.

“What is this? The invasion of the Raj?” Elvis asked, laughing.

“No, dese are de followers of dat new prophet, Guru Maharaji.”

“Guru who?”

“Maharaji. He is a local boy O! I hear say he used to be petty assassin. Den one day he escape on ship from de people whose child he kill and den return six years later saying he is de next prophet after Mohammed and Bahai. Say de Indian people dey crown him savior but dat he wanted to come back here just to help us. Bloody tief, I bet you he only reach Ivory Coast.”

Elvis laughed again. “These prophets, eh? How do they get people to follow them?”

“Who else dem go follow? Only prophets fit help us now, we be like de Israelites in de desert. No hope, no chance, no Moses. Who else we go follow?”

“Shit. A nation of prophets and devotees is a damned place.”

“Or a blessed one.”

Elvis snorted. Just then, one of the women caught his eye. It wasn’t just the way her bodice cupped her bosom tightly, or the way the rest of her outfit fell freely around her, swelling with each movement of her hips; not even the lone dreadlock that broke free of her turban and snaked down the side of her face. It was something else.

“Stop — stop!” he yelled at Redemption.

“I no fit, Elvis. We must reach Lagos and make plan before de Colonel find us.”

“Shit,” Elvis muttered as the line of devotees faded in the dust of their backwash. He felt sure that it was she — Efua. It made perfect sense. She was, after all, the one among them who most needed to believe; plus Aunt Felicia and even Sunday had said that they heard she was in or around Lagos. What good would stopping do? If she had wanted his help, she would have come to him. He was sure that his address was no secret back in Afikpo. Maybe he should just let her be. On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t her. After all, he hadn’t gotten a very good view. Still …

“I think we just passed my cousin Efua.”

“Here?”

“She was with the Maharaji people.”

“Aah. Maybe is for de best.”

“What?’

“Well, as you tell me, she done suffer. So maybe is for de best.”

“All her life she has been surrounded by fakes and charlatans who have not helped her. If that was her, I should go back and save her. But it’s probably not her.”

“Dis Elvis, you dey very selfish.”

“What do you mean?”

“Since I know you, you only care about yourself.”

“How can you say that, Redemption?”

“Because it is true!”

“But I want to help my cousin, do the right thing — how can that be selfish?”

“Until you see somebody dat you think is her, you never even talk of finding her. You never even think it. Now you say you want to help. Na lie. You dey want be hero, de savior of your cousin. Oh yes, I know your type. I am your type. If you can’t save yourself, den save others, abi? Dat way you can pretend to be good person.”

“I’m not following.”

“Why? It’s simple.”

Elvis was silent.

“Let’s take me. Since you have know me, what do you know about me? Nothing!” Redemption continued.

“That is not true.”

“Really? Okay, where dem born me, what be my papa name?”

“You’ve never told me.”

“I never tell you, or you never ask?”

“That doesn’t make me selfish.”

“Close your mouth before fly enter. Everything is about Elvis. I sure say you no even know your papa papa name.”

“That’s not true.”

“When it concerns you, nothing is true. Dere is a saying dat if everybody say you are smelling, better take shower before arguing. Even when you dey vex for your papa, you done ask yourself why tings be as dey are for him? You done try to understand him? Instead, you carry yourself as if nobody can understand you. Please, my friend, you are not so difficult to read.”

Elvis had no comeback, no quick retort. Redemption had never spoken to him this way, and it hurt. He kept quiet, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands. As he sucked in the smoke, he couldn’t hold back the tears that ran soundlessly down his face.

“Ah, Elvis, no ciga for me?” Redemption asked. “Just because I tell you de really truth?”