Ben Okri - The Famished Road

‘I will,’ Dad replied.

The other creditor said:

‘Why don’t you join the army, use your muscles, and get killed. It’s only here that you are strong.’

The landlord held up his hand to command silence. The flash went. He stiffened. The creditors shouted about their money and their wounds. They sounded like children. Dad smiled. The landlord, amid flashes, gave his verdict. He fined Dad ten pounds, a hefty fine indeed. The creditors were jubilant. The landlord said Dad should pay his debts and the fine in one week or move out of the compound. Then, with the jubilant voices claiming the air, he went on to additionally fine Dad a bottle of ogogoro for the purposes of communal reconciliation. Dad said he had no money and that he would have to buy it on credit. The women of the compound laughed. The camera flashed. The landlord, in a moment of unusual magnanimity, offered to buy the ogogoro of reconciliation. The compound people cheered his wisdom. I sneaked away from the door, went to the housefront, and played with the other children on the sand.

Not long afterwards I heard the compound voices emerge into the passage. I went to the backyard, washed my face and feet, and went to the room. Mum was bustling around as if she hadn’t been ill. Her face was a little flushed and her eyes were bright. Recovery had charged her spirit and regenerated her face. Dad sat on a chair, smoking. He looked happy. Food was spread out on the table. The wound on Dad’s head had healed, his bad hand no longer dangled.

‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

Mum rushed to me and held me to her and I breathed in her body smells. It felt as if I had been away for days, as if I had wandered off into a phase of forgetfulness.

‘My son!’ Mum cried, her eyes unusually brilliant.

Dad put out his cigarette and said:

‘You missed the compound meeting. They fined me. I got tired of waitingfor you, so I came home. Your mother is well now. The gods have answered our prayers.’

I held on to Mum. Dad continued:

‘Sit down and eat. From tomorrow, up till the time you begin school, you will go to Madame Koto’s bar. You will stay there a few minutes every day, eh.’

Inodded.Iwashedmy hands.WeatetogetherandDadkeptplyingmewithchoice bits of crayfish and chicken, while Mum carefully took out the bones from the spiky freshfish and fed me juicy morsels. The room was bright with their radiance. I felt strange. I had missed the important moment which had transformed the lights in our world.

We finished eating and I took the plates to the backyard and washed them. On my way back I passed one of the creditors that Dad had beaten up. His face was bruised, ferocious, and cowardly. When he went past he gave me a secretive knock on the head. When I got to our room my eyes were watering. Mum and Dad were sitting together on the bed. Mum looked at me and said:

‘Look, our son is cryingwith happiness.’

I smiled and the pain eased. I cleared the centre table, spread the mat, and stretched out. Dad went to his chair. The candle burned low and Mum lit another one. I watched the mystery of the flame. Mum arranged her provisions in a basin.

‘I’m going to start trading again,’ she said.

Dad smiled.

‘My wife is a serious businesswoman,’ he said.

Then he looked at me.

‘People think I will make a good boxer. A man across the street saw me when I beat up the creditors. He said he would introduce me to some trainers and managers. A good trainer. Free of charge.’

He laughed. He punched the air and rocked backwards.

‘I will be a great boxer. People say there is money in boxing.’

Hehit out at theairagain.Hebegantopunchthecandleflame,puttingitoutwith each perfect execution, and relightingit.

‘I fight fire and become fire. Anyone who fights me fights the sun.’

Helaughed again. Ikeptonwatchingthemystery oftheflame.Mummadeaweary sound. I looked and saw she wasn’t happy about Dad becoming a boxer. She was counting her small change. She said:

‘Your father used to box and wrestle in the village. They used to call him Black Tyger.Hebeat up alltheyoungmen.Oneday,beforeafight,hepunchedabighole in the wall of his father’s enemy.’

Dad laughed out loud. Mum continued.

‘Theenemy putacurseonhim.Thenpeoplewentaroundsayingthatifyourfather fought again, he would be beaten. They said he would go mad for one week. Your father stopped fighting. The villagers gave his title to someone else. But his supporters kept coming to get him to fight and win back his title as champion of the village. They all bet heavily on him. At first your father refused and then out of pride he accepted. The man, a small man, threw your father in the last round. Your father lost.’

‘But I didn’t go mad for one week. That was all village talk.’

‘But you came to the city.’

‘Yes, I came to the city.’

They both fell silent. It seemed, almost, as if they had come to hell. Mum finished counting her small change and sat on the bed. Dad sighed.

‘I haven’t seen my father in five years,’ he said.

Suddenly a rat began chewing away at something beneath the cupboard. A big fly started up, as if it had just awoken from a long sleep, and buzzed about the room. A moth rose from Dad’s boots and circled the candle flame in a descending spiral. Dad lit a cigarette and smoked meditatively. The noise of the rat increased and other rats joined in the chewing. Mum’s face twitched. Dad said:

‘Your grandfather is completely blind now. He is the head-priest of our shrine, Priest of the God of Roads. Anyone who wants a special sacrifice for their journeys, undertakings, births, funerals, whatever, goes to him. All human beings travel the same road.’

He paused. Then continued:

‘I was supposed to succeed him as priest but the elders of the village said: ‘Your son is a fighter. How can a fighter be the Priest of Roads? The god has chosen a successor outside your family. But who knows the future?” Your grandfather was very disappointed about this. He is blind now and he wears dark glasses and wanders through the village and the world without any walking stick or any help. Our old people are very powerful in spirit. They have all kinds of powers.’

His voice was very sad.

‘Weareforgettingthesepowers. Now, allthepower that peoplehaveis selfishness, money, and politics.’

The rats went on eating. The moth came too close to the candle flame, singed its wings, and fell into the wax. The smoke from its burnt wings was dense and didn’t rise high and the moth writhed in the wax and caught fire. I blew out the two flames, took the moth from the wax, and lit the candle again. Dad said:

‘The only power poor people have is their hunger.’

Mum said:

‘Those rats!’

She stretched her limbs on the bed. Dad finished with his cigarette. I got out my pillow and cover-cloth. Dad blew out the candle and I listened to the rats eating and the fly buzzing in the darkness. Dad got into bed. The springs creaked. The rats went on chewing and Dad, in the darkness, said:

‘Azaro, rats can be our friends. They can sometimes tell what is happening in the world. They are our spies. Listen to them, Azaro, and tomorrow tell me what the rats are saying.’

I listened to the rats. One of them had teeth of yellow diamonds. They didn’t seem to be saying anything and soon I heard the bed-springs creaking in their particular rhythm of other nights. The movement of the bed overcame the noise of the rats. I slept andwokeup andheardMumsighingdifferentlyandthebedshookandhumped shapes wandered about in the darkness and I slept again.

I woke suddenly and the bed still moved and soon I didn’t notice the musical creaking of the springs for I could hear beneath those sounds the shrill intensity of the rats. Just before I fell asleep again I stopped hearing the bed altogether because I suddenly realised that if I tried hard enough I could understand the language of rats. They weresaying,asthey atetheirway throughMum’ssackofgarri,thattheworldis tougher than fire or steel. I didn’t understand what they meant and I dozed off trying to get them to explain it to me. But they couldn’t understand me because, unlike us, they speak only one language.