Luke Williams: The Echo Chamber

When all the soldiers had drunk plenty of hot drink, Mai Karfi made us quiet and took a big swig from the bottle and with the bottle still in his hand he said to the Ibo man, ‘Let me tell you a story.’ All the soldiers looked at Mai Karfi with wide eyes. We knew what this meant. So now he was telling this Ibo man a story. Well, it was not going to be a happy afternoon for the Ibo man. The Ibo man did not seem interested at all. He just went on smiling and staring. Mai Karfi said, ‘Once there was a boy called Mai Yanka.’ I had heard the story one time before. ‘One day Mai Yanka saw a sheep’s head in a butcher’s window,’ Mai Karfi said. ‘He told his father about the sheep. His father said, “Go and buy me the sheep’s head!” Mai Yanka went to the butcher and bought the sheep’s head,’ said Mai Karfi, ‘but on the way home he ate the meat and returned to his father with the skull in his hand. “What have you brought me?” his father said. “A sheep’s head,” Mai Yanka replied. “Where are the eyes?” his father said. “The sheep was blind,” Mai Yanka replied. “Where is the tongue?” his father said. “The sheep was dumb,” Mai Yanka replied. “Where are the ears?” his father said. “The sheep was deaf,” Mai Yanka replied.’

When Mai Karfi finished telling the story no one spoke for a long time. The Ibo man did not change his expression or even seem to hear at all. I could hear the insects in the grass. It was late in the afternoon but the sun was still bright. After a few minutes Mai Karfi looked at the Ibo man. He said, ‘How do you like the story?’ The Ibo man did not say anything. Mai Karfi said, ‘I must tell you something about my colleague. Stand forward.’ Mai Yanka stood forward. ‘This is Mai Yanka. Do you know what Mai Yanka means?’ The Ibo man didn’t move or make a noise. Mai Yanka stood still and watched the Ibo man for a minute, then he took a knife out from his trousers. The Ibo man did not change his expression in any way that I could see. Mai Karfi said, ‘You know, nyamiri, humans are very like animals. There is really only a small difference between an animal and a human being, especially an Ibo brute like you. You refuse to speak. But we will make you scream.’

Evie, what happened next happened very quickly. Mai Yanka stepped up to the Ibo man with his knife in his hand and stuck it into the left side of the Ibo man’s face and then into the right side, and his face burst open and blood poured from it, and when Mai Yanka stepped back he was holding the Ibo man’s eyes in his hand. What was strange was that the Ibo man did not make a sound. He was shaking and falling on the soldiers, but he did not make a noise. This made Mai Karfi angry. He said, ‘So, even now you do not speak.’ Mai Yanka threw the eyes on the runway and flipped a cigarette into his mouth and approached the Ibo man. He held his ear in his left hand and sliced it off his head. It came off just like that. Some of the soldiers were not laughing any more. When Mai Yanka sliced his right ear off I began to vomit. The next time I looked it was when two soldiers were holding his mouth open and Mai Yanka was putting his hand inside his mouth. Mai Yanka pulled out his tongue with his fingers. Evie, that tongue came out further than I knew a person’s tongue could come out of his mouth. I have never seen something so terrible as that tongue on that face with no ears and no eyes and blood pouring from it. It was just as Mai Yanka was pulling out his tongue that the Ibo man began to scream. I vomited again. When I looked the Ibo man was lying on the ground and the soldiers were beating him with their rifles. Now his face was completely gone. I did not beat him with my rifle. I just stood on that runway watching. Do you understand what I am saying? I just stood and watched them beat that Ibo man. I knew I was condemning myself for all eternity, but I just watched.

I visited Mr Rafferty today. We had arranged to meet outside the institution, by the churchyard gates, but when I arrived he wasn’t there. The air was mild but damp. The sun nowhere to be seen. Yes, the sun could be seen, I don’t want to mistake any facts, there was a tiny trace of it, a leaden spoke of sunlight basking on the cemetery lawn. I stood watching the light on the unkempt grass, wet from the early rain. It wasn’t green but a hazy dun colour, like everything else that day. It was because of the dark glasses I was wearing, I realize now. The glasses are large and rectangular. The lenses extend around my ears, covering my temples, the kind partially sighted people wear, or the very old; and it was from my neighbour, the blind old woman who says Pff instead of good morning, that I stole them.

There I stood by the churchyard gates. Everything was dim and quiet. It was Sunday, and the street was remarkably bare. Nobody seemed to have any business in town. I turned and pressed my face between the bars of the gate. I watched the trees lining the cemetery path, saw their boughs swaying in the wind, displaying the first shoots of spring. I don’t know how much time went by. I said to myself, Perhaps Mr Rafferty has forgotten our arrangement , and felt a sliding sensation, since I’d been looking forward to this visit. Did I miss my grandfather? I think rather it was because of a hope. Three weeks ago I completed my transcription of Ade’s letter. Since then I’ve been barely able to write. In the attic all is quiet. The sounds of my past are muted too. The only unceasing noise is the ringing in my ears, now nearer, now further, now filling my head. It seems to grow louder as the other sounds fall quiet. I write ‘ringing’, but it is also a hissing, roaring, buzzing, humming, fizzing, and any number of maddening sounds. Sometimes they are soft and merely annoying. At other times they are so persistently loud as to torment me. And so, frustrated by my internal clamours, I’ve been unable to concentrate on my past. Sometimes I think I should stop writing my history altogether.

When, previously, I turned to my papers — transcribing Mother’s diary, as well as Kemi Olabode’s pamphlet relating the Benin massacre, and Ade’s letter — I felt calm, a kind of happy emptiness, despite the appalling content of the stories. Copying, I was able to work for hours without pause. I forgot all noises, internal and external, past and present. No doubt they continued to sound, but I no longer heard them. It was as if a mesh of silence had fallen and enveloped me, as if the radio silence I loved as a child had invaded me once again. To cease writing in my own words and simply copy and copy and copy — that is something I would like to do. But first let me try to relate my trip to Edinburgh. Perhaps, by writing about the present, I will be able to block out its noise and finish with these stories of my past, complete my history before it is lost.

Forward.

I felt a presence behind me, turned and saw my grandfather. He was dressed in a raincoat and hat and, with his round unevenly shaved face, he looked ancient and lovely in the tawny light. I saw immediately he was in one of his restless moods. He’d dressed hurriedly. His trousers were somebody else’s, and he’d mixed up his coat buttons. At that moment every sad thought vanished from my mind. He clutched me to his chest. He gave off a pungent, earthy scent, a smell of damp wool and rotten leaves (Perry had died, and Mr Rafferty had taken over the hothouse). Then he spoke — but no sound came from his mouth. ‘Sorry,’ I said. My earplugs! If I was to communicate with him it was necessary for me to unblock my ears. I removed the cotton wool and put it in my coat pocket. I had expected, the instant of removing the plugs, the light, the full sunlight of sound, to intrude blindingly into my day. But the world was silent as before. I looked at the ground, astonished. Had I become completely deaf to the outside world? It is true that sometimes I hear little for hours on end, but I had thought this was because the attic had fallen silent. For the first time I was out of doors without my earplugs — and on the street all was quiet. Mr Rafferty’s lips continued to move. I linked my arm in his, and we set off down Mankind Street.