Ben Okri - The Famished Road

‘Stop!’

Everyone froze as if in an enchantment. Then slowly they turned to see who had spoken with such power. The wind calmed down. The voices had stopped. Most of the motions in the tent ceased. And then the tall man in a white suit who had been waitingfor Dad stepped out fromtheexpectant crowd.

‘LEAVE HIM TO ME,’ he said in his thin ghostly voice. ‘I will thrash this BlackTygerwithoutevenstainingmy whitesuit.’

The blind old man played a strain on his instrument.

‘Ah, lovely, a fight!’ he said.

And before we could register what exactly was happening the man in white struck Dad in the face and sent him reeling. Dad fell on to a table. He didn’t move for fifteen seconds. No one saw the jab that did the damage. The celebrants, awoken from their enchantment, clapped. The old man played a tune. The beggars shuffled and crawled out of the tent. The beggar girl stayed crouched on the ground. Someone poured water on Dad. He jumped up quickly, looked around, and kept blinking.

‘Where am I?’ he wondered out loud.The celebrants burst out laughing. Dad staggered around. Then he fell. He got up again and reached for a cup of palm-wine and drank it down. I went over to him.

‘What areyou doinghere?’ heasked severely.

‘The man in white hit you.’

‘A white man?’

‘No. Him.’ I pointed.

Dad went all over the place, drinking all the cups of wine he could find. Then he shook his head to clear away the thick cobwebs, howled a war cry, and rushed over to the man in white. Before Dad could do anything the man unleashed a whiplash of a punch. Dad crumpled into a heap. He writhed and twisted on the ground like a lacerated worm. I rushed over to him again.

‘Let’s go home,’ I said.

‘Why?’ he yelled.

‘Theman is beatingyou.’

‘What man?’ I was taken aback. Dad seemed to be in an unreal land, a mythical land. He didn’t seemto know what was happeningto him. His facehad broken out in two monstrous purple bruises as if under the chastisement of an invisible sorcerer. I couldn’t see his right eye. I never knew that a jab could inflict such punishment, such disfigurement, or such disorientation. Dad’s eyes were dazed, slightly crossed, and his lips kept moving. I leant over to hear what he was saying.

‘This is an excellent party,’ hesaid weakly, slurringhis words.

‘Let’s go.’

‘I’menjoyingthis dance,’ hesaid. ‘You’renot dancing.’

‘What am I doing then?’ ‘Losing a fight.’

‘Fight? Black Tyger? Lose a fight? Never!’

He got up, weaved, staggered, and fell on the beggar girl. He stayed down for a while. The music started. The man in white dusted his hands. Madame Koto took an immediate interest in him and sent intermediaries to make enquiries about him. Party chiefs, power merchants and warlords, always seekingnew additions to their ranks of warriors and hired protectors, sent their men to ask who he worked for and if he would enter their services. Thugs surrounded him, asking who he was, where he came from, offeringaspecialplacein their organisation. Theprostitutes and thelow-life courtesans also took a great interest in him. The praise-singers invented names and fabulous deeds for him. The beggar girl, bleeding from her mouth and nose, got out from under Dad. As she got up I noticed that her bad eye was open. It was yellowish and tinged with blue. Sheshook Dad. Thecelebrants jeered. Dad sat up, holdinghis head. When he saw the beggar girl he smiled leeringly, grabbed her, and began to embrace her. The beggar girl freed herself from his punch-drunk embrace. Dad’s face had taken on the softness of an abandoned lover and any moment it seemed he would burst into a grotesque and sentimental love song.

‘My wife, where are you going?’ he asked of the beggar girl. The girl got up and brushed the sand from her hair. Her back was a mess of flesh and torn cloth. Her hair fell from her head as if it were a wig dissolving back to its original constituents.

‘A magician!’ the blind old man said, and played his harmonica.Dad stood up. The girl backed away. Dad followed her.‘Let’s go!’ I cried.‘After I’m married,’ he said, wobbling.

Then he stopped, looked around, and noticed everyone staring at him with amused smiles on their faces. He noticed the man in white and looked at him as if for the first time. He looked at the green moths and the midges and the multicoloured lights and the chaos of overturned tables and trampled food and at the dimensions of the tent. Then he said:

‘I thought I was dreaming.’‘You’re not,’ I said.‘I thought I was in the Land of the Fighting Ghosts.’‘He is a Fighting Ghost.’‘You mean I wasn’t dreaming?’‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re losing a fight.’‘You’re drunk,’ said the blind old man.‘Punch-drunk,’ said one of the thugs. Dad touched his face. He winced.‘So they were real blows?’‘Yes,’ I said.‘Who did it?’

‘The man in white.’

Suddenly, with his curious ability to reach into deep places in his spirit, a ferocious energy swirled around Dad.

‘Hurry, go and call Sami, the betting-man,’ Dad said, awakening. ‘We will make money from this and build the beggars a school.’

I rushed out and, with Ade, went to fetch Sami. When I got back Dad had taken off his shirt, and was shadow-boxing, working up a sweat. He seemed wide awake now. Methodically, he shook his head, did some press-ups, and practised the most amazing exercises. He creaked his joints, limbered up, stretched his muscles, did his special movements, breathed deeply, swelled up, and let out howls of energy. He was very impressive. The crowd watched him disdainfully. Only the inhabitants of the area, who had now ventured into the tent in the wake of the commotion, called out his fighting name and cheered him on. The blind old man was seated on his wheelchair, his harmonica in one hand, a fried piece of antelope meat in the other. Occasionally he kicked his feet in the air and like an over-excited child would say:

‘A prize fight! Very good. Where is the betting-man?’

The man in white, tall, lean, with an air of extraordinary detachment, a small head and pinpoint eyes, stood on one leg. He was very still. His eyes were positively reptilean.Hewasvery disturbingtolookat.Noonelookedathimforvery long.

Sami arrived with his bucket and his small army of protectors. He went round taking bets. The odds were against Dad. One of the politicians brought out a great wad of pound notes and said:

‘I have heard too much about that Black Tyger. He is a buffoon. From today I rename him the Black Rat.’

There were bursts of laughter and guffaws all around. Celebrants laughed themselves into contortions. The politician made the odds very low against Dad. Everyone was excited about the outcome. Sami, sweating, went from group to group, from person to person, jotting down their names and their odds and collecting their money in the bucket. Soon another bucket was needed. All the women, the prostitutes, the low-life courtesans, the casual onlookers, brought out their money. Sami sent for more protection. His entire compound turned up, armed with clubs and dane guns. When he had finished, he was drenched in sweat. He was drenched in the horror of his utter financial ruin, instant and complete liquidation, total poverty and homelessness. Hewent over to Dad. Pleadingreverently, moppinghis brow, hesaid:

‘If you win this one you can build a university.’

‘A school for beggars,’ Dad said, correcting him.

‘Whatever you like. Just win, you hear? Or I will be a poor man. My children will starve. My wife will go mad. All my money, all the money I could borrow, all the money I don’t even have, is on this, eh. Win!’