Ben Okri - The Famished Road

The photographer chased the van, endlessly taking pictures of the thugs flexingtheir muscles, while party leaflets sailed in the air above us, words we would never read. And when the van had disappeared from our street, when the amplified voice faded into the depths of the area, we recovered slowly from our fever. The road was full of spilt milk and party leaflets. Children searched the dust for hidden coins. Mum emerged from a group of women, her face bruised, powdered milk on her hair, her blouse torn.

‘I won’t vote for them,’ said the woman with the swollen eye.

Mumsaw meand cameafter me, transferringher annoyance, and shouted:

‘Go back to bed!’

I hurried across the street. Everything swayed. A party leaflet stuck to my foot. Powdered milk tickled my nostrils. The heat grew in my ears. A headache hammered away between my eyes. I lingered at the compound-front, listening to voices comparing their experience, arguing about politics. And when I saw Mum crossing the road, I hurried off into the room. Mum brought in her basin of free milk, with a look of exhausted triumph on her face. She placed the basin on the cupboard, as if the effort shehadput intoacquiringithadsomehowmadeitquitespecial.Thenshewent to have a bath. The compound people converged in the passage and got into heated discussions about which of the two main parties was the best, which had more money, which was the friend of the poor, which had the better promises, and they went on like that, tirelessly, till the night fell slowly over the spectacle of the day.

It was quite dark when Dad returned. He looked sober and exhausted. He looked miserable and moved listlessly and his face hung down as if he would burst into tears any moment. He complained about his head, his back, his legs. He grumbled about the political thugs who were giving him trouble at the garage.

‘Inearly killedoneofthemtoday,’hesaid,witharavingexpressioninhiseyes.

Then his voice changed.

‘Too much load. My back is breaking. I must find another job. Join the army. Be a nightsoil man. But this load is getting too much for me.’

There was a brief silence. Then Mum told him about the great event of the day and showed himthemilk. Sheseemed quiteproudofhavingputup agoodfighttoobtain a basinful against all the competition.

‘Now we can have milk in our pap,’ she said.

‘Not me,’ I said.

‘You think their milk is too good for you, eh?’

Dad tasted the milk and wrinkled his face.

‘Rotten milk,’ he said. ‘Bad milk.’

And then he fell asleep in the chair, overcome with exhaustion. He had not bathed, nor had he eaten, and he stank of dried mud, cement, crayfish, and garri sacks. Mum stayed up for a while to see if he would wake; but Dad slept on, grinding his teeth, snoring. And so Mum stretched out on the mat, blew out the candle, and soon began to snore herself.

I stayed awake for a while. I was still feverish and the darkness quivered with figures moving about blindly. Just before I fell asleep I heard a noise on the cupboard and as I looked I saw something growing out of the milk. It grew very tall and white and resolved itself into a ghostly agbada. There was no one in the agbada and it took off from the powdered milk and flew around the room. Then the garment, all white, folded itself, compacted, and settled into the form of a bright indigo dragonfly. It buzzed its wings round the room and disappeared into the impenetrable darkness of a corner. My headache grew more severe. The milk and its peculiar nightgrowths were my singular memories of that Saturday when politics made its first public appearance in our lives.

SUNDAY BROUGHT us the secret faces of politics.

Dad’s relations came to visit. They came with their children, all of them stiff and shy in the good clothes they rarely wore. We didn’t have enough chairs for them and Mum had to swallow her pride and borrow chairs from our neighbours. The compound was aflame with politics. Our relations came to visit, but they also came to criticise. They attacked Dad for not visiting them, for not attending the meetings of ourtownspeople,fornot contributingtoweddingpresents,funeralarrangements,and endless financial engagements. Dad responded badly to their criticisms. He blamed them for not helping him, for not being visible during his times of crisis; and their recriminations flew back and forth, developed into terrible arguments, with everyone shouting at the top of their voices, till they all seemed more like implacable enemies than like members of an extended family.

They seemed so much against one another that I felt ashamed being in the room, witnessing it all. The wives and children of our relations avoided looking at me and then I suspected that they hated us as much as we avoided their company. After a long period of shouting one of our relations tried to change the subject by bringing up politics and the coming elections. It was the most unfortunate change of subject. Another great altercation started and burned vehemently in the small room. Dad, who supportedtheParty forthePoor,quiveredduringtheargument,unabletocontainhis rage; our relation, who supported the Party of the Rich, was very calm, almost disdainful. He had more money than Dad and lived in a part of the city that already had electricity.

The room vibrated with their differences and at times it seemed they would fall on one another and fight out the battle of ascendancies. But Mum came in with a tray of food and drinks. Dad sent for some ogogoro and kola-nuts and made a libation, praying for harmony in the extended arms of the family. Our relations ate in silence. After they had eaten, they drank in silence. Conversation had been exhausted. When the silence got too oppressive the wives of our relations went out into the passage with Mum and I heard them laughing while the men sat in the room, embarrassed by their differences.

The afternoon intensified with the heat. Voices in the compound grew louder; children played in the passage; neighbours quarrelled; our relations said they were going; Dad didn’t disguise his relief. One of the wives gave me a penny and called me a bad boy for not visiting them. Dad saw his relations off. He was away a long time. When he got back he was in quite a storm of bad temper. He raged against all relations, against all the relatives who had more money than him. He cursed their selfishness, and swore that they only came to visit to make themselves feel better in comparison with our condition. He worked himself into a tremendous verbal campaign against the Party of the Rich and in the height of his denunciation his eyes fell on the basin of powdered milk. He snatched it from the top of the cupboard and stormed out. I heard Mum pleading with him not to throw the milk away and then I heard her sigh. Dad came back with an empty basin and a wicked gleam in his eyes.

Mum sulked and Dad held her close and danced with her; she tried to push him away, but Dad clung to her, and soon she was hitting him affectionately on the back. I turned over on the bed. The fever had been retreating from me and I felt better with each hour. I heard them dancing, heard Mum’s weakening protestations, and heard Dad suggest that they go visiting. Mum liked the idea. Dad went and bathed and when he got back Mum went. It took Mum a long time to get ready and while she powdered her face and arranged the elaborate ornamented folds of her head-gear and dug out her necklaces and bangles, her wrappers and white shoes, and plaited her hair hurriedly in the mirror, Dad was already asleep on his three-legged chair. The room was very hot and patches of sweat appeared on Dad’s French suit, his only decent clothes. And when Mum was ready she was entirely transformed. All the tiredness, the overwork, the boniness of her face, the worry expressions on her forehead, had gone. Her face sparkled with freshness, lipstick, and eyeshadow. Her skin-tone had been softened with foundation and rouge. And I sawinMumsomethingoftheinnocentbeauty that must have made the village air lustrous when Dad first set eyes on her. She looked radiant and every movement scented the room with her cheap perfume. The sweat ran down her powdered face and her eyes were bright with excitement. She touched Dad and he woke up with a start, his eyes bloodshot and bulging, his jacket armpits wet through with sweat.