Chris Abani - GraceLand

At first all he felt was a slight ache in his shoulders, which spread until his whole body was one mass of pleasant sweet aches. After about ten minutes he felt a headache coming on, nothing serious. Twenty minutes later his arms were shaking and the pleasant aches were replaced by painful spasms as the weight of his body became unbearable.

Sweat was rolling off him in bucketfuls; his arms went numb and his fingers began to swell like loaves of bread. The rest of his body was torn by a searing-hot pain and he stretched downward, trying to bring his feet into contact with the ground. That only made it worse. Then his head exploded, and tears streaming down his face mixed with the sweat before hitting the floor in sheets of protest. His bloodshot eyes began to film over as his face became congested with blood and his tongue, swollen, protruded from the side of his mouth, forcing his teeth apart. Each pulse beat sounded a million times amplified, and he began to mumble incoherently. Pain did not describe what he felt now. Prayer followed.

After half an hour he was ready to deny his own mother. Against his will, a moan escaped his lips. Softly at first, then in a flood, he was begging, swearing, crying and sobbing. He was concerned with one thing and one thing only — stopping the pain. But then, just when he was about to slip into blissful unconsciousness, the beating began.

The inner tubing of a bicycle tire was used to flog him; it left no marks and yet stung like nothing he knew. Then a concentrated solution of Izal, an industrial disinfectant, was poured over the beaten area. This not only increased the pain, it sensitized the area for the next bout of flogging. He screamed until he lost his voice; still his throat convulsed. When his tormentors tired, they left him hanging there, dangling and limp. It went on like this every few hours for a couple of days. No questions were asked; only confessions were heard.

PORTULACA OLERACEA L.

(Potulacaceae) (Yoruba: Papasan)

An annual herb with bright yellow flowers, small and prostrate. lt has oval leaves that narrow toward the base. Uncannily like a bishop’s miter, the fruits open to reveal many warted seeds.

Crushed, the plant is applied locally to swellings and bruising and even whitlow to ease pain and promote healing. The juice, dropped into the ear or onto a sore tooth, relieves earache and toothache.

There is only one path: omenala.

For the Igbo, tradition is fluid, growing. It is an event, like the sunset, or rain, changing with every occurrence. So too, the kola ritual has changed. Christian prayers have been added, and Jesus has replaced Obasi as the central deity. But its fluid aspects resist the empiricism that is the Western way, where life is supposed to be a system of codes, like the combinations of human DNA or the Fibonacci patterns in nature. The Igbo are not reducible to a system of codes, and of meaning; this culture is always reaching for a pure lyric moment.

Lagos, 1983

The King of the Beggars edged into the police station. He had been trying to trace Elvis for four days now.

“Who dey in charge here?” he asked the policeman behind the counter.

“You go see duty sergeant.”

“Where is he?”

“He go toilet.”

“When he go return?”

“When he shit finish. Why so many questions? If you want to see duty sergeant, you must wait, dat’s all.”

The King sat down on a hard wood bench to wait, trying to block out the shouts and screams from the cells. After a four-hour wait, he saw a short, potbellied man stroll into the station, idly picking his teeth and belching intermittently.

“You,” the policeman shouted at the King. “Dat is duty sergeant,” he said, pointing to the short man.

The King went up to him and introduced himself, explaining that he was trying to locate Elvis. The duty sergeant regarded him with two dead eyes and, while belching a cloud of alcohol fumes into the King’s face, made a grunting noise.

“Well?” the King asked, suppressing the wave of nausea that rocked him at the odor from the sergeant’s mouth.

“Well what? Do I look like missing-persons computer? Please leave my office,” the sergeant said.

“I want to see my friend. He was arrested in Freedom Square four days ago,” the King insisted.

“Your friend? Who are you? Even if you be president himself, how I go know your friend?”

“Elvis Oke,” the King stated.

“Do I look de type of man to mix with your nonsensical friend?”

“Could you please check your records?”

The policeman made a big show of checking for Elvis’s name in the log book on the desk in front of him. His brow furrowed in concentration as he ran his finger down the pages. Finally after a few minutes he looked up.

“You sure dis is de station you want?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“You no sure. His name is not here.”

“What do you mean? His name is Elvis Oke and officers from dis station arrest him four days ago. I done go every other police station in dis area. It done take me four days to trace him to you. His name must be dere.”

“No curse me, you hear? Who are you? I don’t know and I don’t bloody care. If you do not hold your mouth I will arrest you.”

While he had been waiting earlier, the King had seen the names of the senior officers on duty scrawled in chalk on a blacked-out square on the facing wall. He recalled them, dropping them into the conversation to see if it would help.

“Is Inspector Johnson in?” he asked.

“He is on leave.”

“But he was with me yesterday!”

“Den go find him in your house.”

“What about Assistant Superintendent Adelabu?”

“What about him?”

“Can I see him?”

“Out.”

“So who is in?”

“Me. Duty Sergeant Okafor, and I go soon go to toilet.”

Finally frustrated, the King handed the policeman a twenty-naira note.

“Ah! Why you never perform before, sir? You are looking for your friend. Is he …?” the sergeant said, and gave an accurate description of Elvis.

“Dat is de one.”

“He was transferred to Tango City.”

“Tango City?”

“Yes. Special Military Interrogation Unit. Deir office is called Tango City.”

“Why Tango City? Where is it?”

“I don’t know. All dis question and you only give me twenty naira?”

“Can’t I bail him?”

“You cannot bail somebody who is not charged,” the policeman said simply.

“What can I do den?” the King asked, sounding broken.

The policeman stared at the King for a few minutes.

“Pray,” he said.

Elvis felt his feet touch the floor. He collapsed in a heap, unable to feel his body. No, that wasn’t quite right. He could feel his body — but as a single sheet of flaming pain. He sat awkwardly on the floor in front of a tin plate of rice and reached for the spoon, but neither arm would move. They dangled uselessly in his lap like a pair of broken wings. He had lost any sense of when his last meal had been, but the smell of the food caused saliva to fill his mouth, dribbling over even as he tried to swallow. He struggled onto his knees. The effort took a long time, causing him to gasp for air, dizzy as hell. Slowly the dizziness passed and he hunkered down and ate out of the plate like a dog; every swallow painful. Exhausted, he sank into the food.

He felt himself being lifted and dragged roughly, then strapped to a chair, the rope cutting into his wrists, knees and ankles. Someone was slapping him roughly, but the mists of unconsciousness claimed him again. He dreamed he was standing underneath a fountain. The cool spray was refreshing, yet it stung his wounds. He opened his mouth to drink and felt its ammonia burn. He woke with a jerk and heard laughter. A soldier stood in front of him, urinating into his face. Spluttering, he shook his head vehemently from side to side to get out of the way, making it pound so violently that he slipped into unconsciousness again. When he came to this time, he was hanging from his arms again. He didn’t struggle against the pain anymore. It was part of him now. It seemed like he couldn’t remember a time when it was not here. It had become essential to him. As long as he was in pain, he was still human.