Chris Abani - GraceLand

“Arrest dose bastards!” the inspector yelled, coming to life and pointing at the two druids.

The policemen pounced on the two druids. Grunting from the exertion of beating them, the policemen shackled and hauled them off to the now returned Land Rover. The inspector approached the barrier and stood glowering over it at the line of men. He was stumped. Twenty years in the police force and he couldn’t dispel a simple street protest. The truth was that he had never had the heart for this part of police work, the bullish, brutish enforcing of orders from above. He sighed. His men stood behind him, waiting for orders, waiting for him to redeem this farce. He looked back at them and then turned to the barrier. Taking a big handkerchief out of his pocket, he wiped his face.

“Why are you people so stubborn?!” he called out.

Nobody replied.

“Dis is pointless. In de end, we will break through dis barrier.”

Still no one replied.

The inspector was getting really exasperated now. “Someone will get hurt! I don’t want dat to happen.”

Nobody said anything.

“Dere are children here.”

One of the men behind the barrier started giggling. One of the policemen picked it up, and soon the street was ringing with the sounds of laughter. Everyone was laughing except the inspector. Sunday was the first to notice the change in him, the tentative twitch of fingers reaching for his holstered pistol. Then it was out and pointing.

The shot silenced everyone and brought one of the laughing men down. Screams replaced the laughter and people began to panic. Confused, other policemen opened fire. People dropped to the ground, and it was unclear whether they were ducking or had been hit. Sunday stood still as people fell beside him, like rapids shooting a rock. Scanning the prone figures, he realized that only one person had been hit, but the firing hadn’t stopped. He screamed, high-pitched and unnatural. The firing stopped abruptly and everyone froze as Sunday approached the pistol-waving, wild-eyed inspector.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice soothing.

“Go on,” the inspector said, still looking at him warily.

“If you and your men stay here any longer, things are going to get a lot worse.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“What if I gave you my word dat we will pull out and let you in later?”

“When?”

“In a few days.”

The inspector began to calm down a little, the pistol steadier in his hand.

“But what guarantee do I have dat you will keep your word?”

“You’ve shot one man. One is in hospital and you have arrested two more. I don’t think we want to risk anyone else getting hurt.”

“But you don’t understand. Dere has been an incident here. Somebody will have to answer for it. Somebody has to be charged with dis. Somebody …” the inspector finished lamely.

“I understand. But you have two men under arrest, right?”

“Yes.”

“So charge dem.”

“But dey are your people. I thought sewer rats stuck together?”

Disbelief, dangerous at this stage, was beginning to creep back into the inspector’s voice.

“We will come and bail dem.”

“I don’t know.”

“Dere are children here. Why don’t you accept a tactical withdrawal? A dead child is difficult to explain.”

The inspector considered it for a while.

“But what can we charge dem with?” he asked.

“I don’t know. How about violent disorder and criminal damage?”

“To what?” the inspector argued.

“Say dat dey got in de way of de bulldozer, causing de accident.”

“But that will not hold up in court.”

“Probably not. But it won’t be your problem anymore. Dis will, though, if it gets any worse.”

The inspector deliberated silently, holstering his pistol. With a definitive tone he called his men off. Sunday looked at the bulldozer and the destroyed fire engine. Turning, he took in the burning barricade. Behind it, littering the ground sadly, were the banners and candle stubs. A bloodstained piece of crumpled tissue, broken and small, lay like a dead bird in the corner. At the other end of the street, some men and women were helping the shot man into a taxi. His left kneecap was hanging off, but at least he had not been killed. Freedom stood on a veranda, looking bewildered. Confidence sat on a stoop, head cradled between his hands, his wife making concerned passes over his head. Had it been worth it? Was any of this worth any principle? Sunday was not so sure anymore. Sighing, he walked past Freedom and Confidence into the tenement. Behind him, children were playing a new dare game: who could jump over the still-burning barricade.

ANTIDESMA MEMBRANACEUM MUELL. ARG.

(Euphorbiaceae) (Yoruba: Aroro)

This small tree is found mostly in the savannah. Its bark is pale grey and fissured and its twigs and young leaves are covered with a lot of hair. As with most herbs, the flowers are yellowish green. Small and black, the fruits occur along the base of the stalk.

A decoction of the leaves is used as a bath to prevent abortion. Mixed into stream water or seawater, milk and some Jordanian hyssop, it becomes a mystic bath to protect against witchcraft.

Mistakes are expected until the boy becomes a man, but still no ground is given.

An example is the town of Isu-Ama, comprised of the following clans set up by the brothers they were named after, in order of age, with Isu being the father. The clans are Isu— father; Anyim — first son; Utum — second son; and Igwe — third son.

Ijebu, 1983

The van bearing the legend JOKING JAGUARS stood shedding dust, body vibrating from the grumpy throb of its engine. Dust-encrusted musicians stood sweating in its reluctant shade, sipping on warm Cokes. A small crowd of curious children had gathered, speaking in hushed tones and pointing at the shapes lashed to the roof rack under tired green tarp.

Elvis mopped his brow with a dirty handkerchief and stared around the small town. It boasted one church, one shop with a decrepit petrol pump out front and a junior school. He didn’t know what it was called. Hell, maybe. Wherever they were, he did not speak the language. That was the problem with a country that was an amalgamation of over two hundred and fifty ethnic groups, he thought — too many bloody languages.

He walked over to a hawker and with sign language bought a bunch of ripe bananas and a measure of peanuts. Munching on a mouthful of banana and peanuts, he wondered how they found these towns. There were no road maps or signs. He looked at the musicians and tried to imagine what had kept them going all these years as they played small towns where nobody really appreciated the skill required to take years of abuse and turn it into amazingly beautiful melodies; the drain of searching yourself constantly, plumbing depths of nakedness to play that bad-ass solo that was lost on the loud-talking, drinking audience.

The King, the troupe leader, had gone off to see the local chief to get his permission to perform that evening. He also needed the local Catholic priest’s permission. Both would cost him money. With luck the gate takings would be good.

“Elvis!” one of the musicians called.

“Yes, George.”

“Is dat how your mother raise you? Not to offer your friends food?”

“My mother died when I was a child. What do you expect?” Elvis called back.

George roared with laughter. He wiped a tear and got up from the tree stump he was sitting on and strolled over to Elvis. Yanking a banana free, George peeled it halfway. He took a bite, then threw a handful of peanuts in after it.