Chris Abani - GraceLand

He turned to Elvis when he got no reply. Seeing the tears run down his face, he coughed and reached for the packet lying on the seat between them. He put one in his mouth and depressed the lighter on the dashboard. As he lit his cigarette from its glowing tip, he wondered if he had gone too far. Ah, what the hell, he thought, it was too late now.

In a few minutes they hit the tarred smoothness of the highway and were headed for Lagos. With any luck, Redemption thought, they would get there by lunchtime.

Sunday Oke folded the newspaper and laughed.

“What is it?” Comfort asked.

“Dis crazy government. Dey want to bulldoze dis place.”

“Which place?”

“Maroko.”

“Bulldoze?”

“Maroko.”

“Why?”

“Well, according to de paper, dey say we are a pus-ridden eyesore on de face of de nation’s capital.”

“Maroko?”

“Not only Maroko, but all de ghettos in Lagos. A simultaneous attack on de centers of poverty and crime, dat’s what dey are calling it. Dey even have a military sounding name for it — Operation Clean de Nation.”

“Maroko?”

“Stop repeating dat word like a crazy person! I say not only Maroko, but Ajegunle, Idi Oro and all de smaller ghettos under de flyovers. But phase one is Maroko.”

“When?”

“Well, according by de paper, it can happen anytime.”

“Anytime? How we go do?”

“Me? Nothing. I am not leaving dis place. We just managed to buy dese few rooms we own, and now dey want to come and destroy it. Why? So dat dey can turn dis place to beachside millionaire’s paradise? No! And den we will all move to another location and set up another ghetto. Instead of dem to address de unemployment and real cause of poverty and crime, dey want to cover it all under one pile of rubbish.”

“What of compensation? Did de paper talk of dat?”

“Yes, dey say dey will pay compensation, but dat is a pipe dream.”

“Why?”

“Dey haven’t paid de promised compensation to dose dat lost things during de war. You know how many years dat is? When do you think dey will pay us? In de meantime will we live on fresh air? I am not going anywhere.”

“But we can at least try, eh? Maybe dem go pay before de bulldoze.”

“Pay first? Dat’s like asking prostitute to pay you before sex.”

Comfort shot him a very disapproving look. “I no know about dat. But anything is possible.”

“Pipe dreams. I know I am not moving,” Sunday said. He turned to look at Comfort. She was staring off into the distance, her face furrowed in worry. Her hair was plaited, she wore no makeup and her dark skin seemed to glow. She was beautiful in spite of the toll that three children, a divorce, living with an alcoholic, running a small business, age and living in Lagos had taken. For a moment he thought he might be in love with her.

“I am not moving,” he repeated.

“Where Elvis?” Comfort asked, turning to him.

Caught off guard, he looked away shyly, before she could see what was moving in his eyes.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. I don’t know about Elvis. Dat boy has used up all my patience.”

She laughed, and the sound, sudden and uninhibited, surprised him.

“Like father, like son,” she said.

“What is dat supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I just dey wonder. Over two days now, him never reach house.”

“He will come back soon. Anyway, why are you not in the market? It is just eleven in de morning.”

“I decide to close my shop today.”

“Why?”

“Why yourself? I no fit rest or am I spoiling something for you?”

“I only asked a simple question.”

“I dey go big market today for Shagamu with Gladys dem to buy new material for sale.”

He nodded. He had never taken any real interest in what she did to earn a living, not since she had slept with someone to get him a job. Since then he had only really been interested in what he could lift from her purse to buy palm wine.

“When are you leaving?’

“In about one hour. Gladys dem go come for me. Dem dey charter taxi.”

“Hmm,” he grunted.

“What?”

He drained the already empty palm wine bottle dramatically. But if she understood what he was hinting at, she said nothing. Deciding not to leave anything to chance, he spoke up.

“A man needs a little something to line his purse, you know. In case of emergency,” he said.

“Well den, a man needs a job,” she said, getting up and walking inside to get ready.

With a curse, he threw the empty palm wine bottle into the street. It narrowly missed a man in a bad suit cruising by on a high-pitched Vespa. The bottle shattered, raining green gems everywhere.

“Ah, Mr. Oke, watch it!” the man on the Vespa shouted.

“Sorry, Mr. Moneme! How is de insurance business going?”

“Not well,” Mr. Moneme replied, the rest of what he said drowning in the whine of the Vespa.

Sunday was still muttering under his breath when the Mercedes pulled up and Elvis got out.

“Come and see me later,” Redemption called, reversing and heading back in the same direction.

Elvis waved and walked onto the veranda. His father smiled at him, and Elvis almost fell for it, until he noticed the empty cup on the bench and the thirsty way Sunday licked his lips.

“Just take,” he said, holding out a ten-naira note to his father.

ALSTONIA BOONEI DE WILD

(Apocynaceae) (Afikpo: Ukpo)

Found in the drier lowland rain forest, this small tree has brown, flaking bark, and when cut secretes white latex that is irritating to the eye. Its leaves are broad, leathery, smooth, glossy and dark green on the upper surface and bluish green on the lower. Yellowish-white flowers cluster at the end of each stem. Hanging in twos, its fruits contain numerous seeds.

Leaves, roots and bark macerated in water are applied externally to ease rheumatic pains. An infusion of the bark alone is drunk as a remedy for snakebites and arrow poison. The latex, smeared on wounds caused by Filaria worms and then bandaged with the crushed bark of the ordeal tree, is an excellent cure. Some women drink a decoction of the bark after childbirth to cause delivery of the placenta. The leaves cooked in a yam potage are an excellent way to prevent early miscarriages.

But beware, this is not as easy as it seems.

It also defines being.

Lagos, 1983

Elvis emerged from his room a few hours later, awakened by his father’s shouting. Stumbling out onto the veranda, he saw Jagua Rigogo sitting in a corner, his pet python draped round his neck: a real boa, so to speak. Confidence, who also lived in the tenement, was arguing heatedly with Sunday. Confidence kept his distance from Jagua and his snake. He couldn’t stand either. He worked hard at what he did, conning people. It was, he said, his life’s work, something he had been named to do. He thought Jagua was a lazy ne’er-do-well who sponged off people’s good graces and fear of damnation. Jagua was a practicing druid and held healings and mystic consultations for people daily from his room at the end of the compound. It wasn’t much of a living, but being the landlord’s brother, he had no rent to pay — something everyone suspected was really at the bottom of Confidence’s hatred. Elvis had asked him about it once and Confidence had replied: “Is not dat. I just hate people who can’t make an honest living.”

The hatred was mutual, exacerbated by the fact that Confidence had tried to strangle Jagua’s python with a guitar string. Jagua put a curse on him as he rescued his snake. Everyone pooh-poohed Jagua’s druidic philosophy and magic spells, but night after night, for over three months, the snake would wind itself chokingly around Confidence’s neck, slowly draining the life from him, until he woke with a start, bedding wrapped tightly around his neck, to find it had all been just a dream. But neither the Gideon Bible under his pillow nor the rosary he wore like a necklace kept him safe, until he apologized.