Ben Okri - The Famished Road

‘Ah ha, so it’s you, theflyingwizard!’ heshouted triumphantly.

Ade screamed. I clubbed the old man. His helpers rained knocks on me. I threw bones and sticks at them. Then the old man, tightening his grip on Ade’s arm said, in a screeching ugly voice:

‘Let me see with your eyes!’

Thestrangest thinghappened. Adebegan to twist, to jerk, contortingin spasms. His eyes swam around their sockets till only the whites were visible. He opened his mouth, his tonguehungout, and hegasped, and madechokingnoises.Peopletriedto free Ade from the old man’s grip. I jumped on his back and he shouted.

‘Get off my back!’

‘Leave my friend alone,’ I said.

‘You’re too heavy, you spirit-child!’ he cried.

I bounced on his back, his bones digging into me. I hooked my arms round his neck and tried to strangle him, but he kept tossing. I attempted to scratch his eyes, but he bit me and threw me off with the strength of five men and I heard his neck creak and was sent flying and when I landed amongst broken tables and the mess of fruits and bean-cakes, everything had cleared. The old man stood, swaying. Ade jerked in a weird epileptic fit. The crowd had mostly gone. Madame Koto was nowhere around. Theloudspeakers hadbeenpackedaway.Theprostitutessatonfoldingchairs,glaring at us. The old man picked up his yellow glasses and played on his harmonica. His helpers led him away. I got up. The beggars, Sami and his protectors, people from the area, and Helen lifted Dad up on their shoulders as if he were a king fallen in battle and carried him out into the night. I helped Ade up. He stood, twitching, his mouth feverish. His fit had receded and he walked as if his legs were made of rubber. As we left the devastated tent the prostitutes abused us. I heard the blind old man’s dissonant harmonica in front of us in the dark. We were at the rear of the procession that bore Dad on their shoulders. He faced the stars. And, as we went the sound of the flapping tent made me look back.

The wind had risen. I realised that the party had blocked the road. The cars were leaving. The trees creaked their limbs. The anti-music of the harmonica faded into the wind, blowing eerie harmonies over the bushes. The wind’s counterpoints whistled along the electric cables. The bright yellow and blue bulbs kept going on and off. Then they stayed on. Ade said, in the voice of a cat:

‘Somethingis happening.’

The wind stopped. It swelled again. Then I saw the tent tilt sideways, and lift up in the air. It rose, it turned on its side, and the wind hurled it over the houses, its voluminous cloth flapping, its form billowing, and it blew over, turning on rooftops, and the sky cracked, two lights flashed, and rain swept down. The rain poured down, the earth swam in mud, dogs barked, the smell of burning rubber filled the air, and we heardabriefrendingcry fromMadameKoto’splace.Thenallthelightswentout.

THE DARKNESS WAS full of voices. The beggars and Sami carried Dad to the house. When we got to our room Mum was in a frenzy. They laid Dad out on the bed and covered him with a white cloth. The people were gone, but I could hear them singing low heroic melodies down the street. Dad’s mouth was twisted. There was a white scar down the side of his face. His eyes had disappeared beneath his bruises. His lips were like swollen flowers. He was in a far worse condition than in all of his fights put together. He didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to breathe. Mum kept wailing. The beggar girl lit three more candles. Sami sat on Dad’s chair. The beggars sat on the floor. I made Ade lie down on my mat. Apart from Mum, everyone was silent.

Mum rushed out, boiled water, came back, and applied warm compresses to Dad’s face. It never occurred to her that his bruises needed something cold. The beggar girl stroked his feet. No one else moved. After a while Mum rested. She looked round at all of us.

‘Get up from my husband’s chair!’ she shouted at Sami. He jumped up as if a snake had bitten him. He stood near the window. Then he came to me and whispered: ‘When he has recovered, call me. I have all the money. I will get him the best herbalist.’ Then, as if he had been caught stealing, he crept out of the room. ‘And all of you, go!’ Mum screamed, at everyone else. The beggars shuffled. The beggar girl got up, touched me on the head, making my flesh bristle, and led the others out of the room. They left silently. Ade lay down on the mat, his eyes swimming. Occasionally he twitched. He had a wan smile on his lips. I leant over him.

‘I am going to die soon,’ he said.‘Why do you say that?’‘My timehascome.My friendsarecallingme.’‘Whatfriends?’‘In the other world,’ he said. We were silent.‘And what areyou two whisperingabout, eh?’ Mumasked.‘Nothing.’‘What happened to him?’‘He’s not well.’‘What about his father?’‘I don’t know.’‘God save me,’ Mum cried.The candles went out. Mum shut the door and searched for the matches.‘This life! No rest. None. A woman suffers, a woman sweats, with no rest, no happiness.My husband,inthreefights.Godknowswhatallthisisdoingtohisbrain. This lifeis too much for me. I amgoingto hangmyself oneof thesedays,’ Mumsaid. ‘Don’t do that, Mum,’ I said. ‘Shut up,’ she said. I was silent. Deep in me old songs began to stir. Old voices from the world of spirits. Songs of seductive purity, with music perfect like light and diamonds. Ade twitched. The floor began to shake. I could hear his bones rattling. Mum lit a candle. Shesat on Dad’s chair, rockingback and forth, her eyes fixed, her faceunforgiving. I feltsad.Adesmiledstrangely again,sinkingdeeperintohisweirdepilepticecstasy.I leant over him.

‘Trouble is always coming. Maybe it’s just as well,’ he said. ‘Your story has just begun. Mine is ending. I want to go to my other home. Your mother is right; there is too much unnecessary suffering on this earth.’

His voice had taken on the timbre of an old man. Soon I recognised it. A snake wentup my spineandIcouldn’tstop shivering.Hewenton,speakinginthecracked sepulchral voice of the blind old man.

‘My time is coming. I have worn out my mother’s womb and now she can’t have any more children. Coming and going, I have seen the world, I have seen the future. TheKoran says nothingis ever finished.’

‘What will happen?’ I asked him.

Quivering, bitinghis lips tillhedrew blood, hesaid:

‘There will be the rebirth of a father. A man with seven heads will take you away. You will come back. You will stay. Before that the spirits and our ancestors will hold a great meeting to discuss the future of the world. It will be one of the most important meetings ever held. Suffering is coming. There will be wars and famine. Terrible things will happen. New diseases, hunger, the rich eating up the earth, people poisoningthesky andthewaters,peoplegoingmadinthenameofhistory,theclouds will breathe fire, the spirit of things will dry up, laughter will become strange.’

Hestopped. Therewas alongpause. Then hecontinued, frighteningme.

‘There will be changes. Coups. Soldiers everywhere. Ugliness. Blindness. And then whenpeopleleast expect it agreat transformationisgoingtotakeplaceintheworld. Suffering people will know justice and beauty. A wonderful change is coming from faraway andpeoplewillrealisethegreat meaningofstruggleandhope.Therewillbe peace. Then people will forget. Then it will all start again, getting worse, getting better.Don’t fear.Youwillalwayshavesomethingtostrugglefor,evenifitisbeauty or joy.’

He stopped again. And then his fever changed gear, his voice quivered, his eyes were calm.

‘Our country is an abiku country. Like the spirit-child, it keeps coming and going. One day it will decide to remain. It will become strong. I won’t see it.’