Irenosen Okojie - Butterfly Fish

Oba Odion did not delude himself into thinking he was a particularly wise man. In fact, as a boy he had been laughed out of several challenges set by his father Oba Anuje. Oba Anuje would create a riddle for him to solve and then summon him back later in the day when the hum of the palace had died down to a buzz trapped in his ear. The boy Odion would watch as Oba Anuje gleefully rubbed his large, dark brown, calloused hands together as he stood before his father trembling, pressing his thumbs against the other forlorn fingers desperately trying to settle himself. Telling bulbs of sweat would pop out of his armpits before sliding down his sides to languish in the flesh above his hips. Inevitably, when he failed, Oba Anuje would stroke his strong, jutting jaw and nod his head as if confirming what he already knew.

Several times when this ritual humiliation occurred, a boiling, yellow thought would conjure a heat so strong, it spread from Oba Odion’s head to every part of his body. It lit him up, and he was shrouded by this gleaming yellow aura before his father. Even then his father knew. Oba Odion could see it in the narrowing of his father’s eyes till they became black slits and the curling of his top lip. Finally, Oba Anuje would roar, “Get out of my sight.” And Odion would jump out of the protective gold light, which then shrank, to a dot in the air.

He remembered his father’s room as it was then. The circular shape of it, with its fading sickly plum-coloured walls. Sometimes he thought he heard the walls laughing at him and whispering to the bronze masks that decorated them, to the sturdy, shining brass chair with its crisscrossing pattern that left holes just big enough to stick fingers through. To the long, polished wooden stick that often lay by his father’s feet. It had smelled like new sweat and something else. A sickly sweet scent that cocooned something rotten which subtly oozed through the walls. Many times Oba Odion had tried in vain to figure out what that rotten smell was. He never did.

As if by doing so he would kill a memory possessing too many lives, the first task Odion completed when he became Oba was to have that room knocked out and rebuilt. On several occasions Oba Odion found himself making decisions based on avoiding his father’s haunting disapproval, although this revelation did not show its face at first. It was only when it began to eat up the ingredients that made up his judgement that the Oba ceased denying this truth. When he caught himself gauging how Oba Anuje would have reacted in a given circumstance and then vehemently deciding to do the opposite, it became even clearer.

So when Sully stood before him and the council, Oba Odion found himself clinging to the young man’s words, plucking them from his mouth as though they were fruits. And what words! It struck him that this stranger had what could only be described as a gift. With spit and perfect intonations he weaved his tale, rocking on the balls of his feet, talking not just with his lips but his hands, shoulders and it seemed every part of his body. Shrugging dramatically, angling his head at all sides of the room, and pointing to his bruises he informed them that he was an explorer from England who had travelled to India and around Europe, the Americas and the far corners of the East along his adventures. That he had heard so many tales of the great Benin kingdom from the Portuguese he had decided to come see for himself, bringing copper, brass bracelets and other items to trade.

Oba Odion had judged him before he even opened his mouth to speak, in the moment when their gazes held and Sully did not blink, his eye not automatically dropping down in false humility, nor cowering to their corners. The councilmen shifted in their seats, as though somebody had rubbed nettle leaves there to itch their backsides. They drew long, slow breaths that puffed out their cheeks and short, shallow ones through dry, pursed lips. They drummed their fingers and tapped their feet, throwing cynical glances for each other to catch. They shot Sully clever threats posing as questions which curled above their heads in circular patterns before wilting on contact with his skin. When a tiny, fleeting smile cracked across the Oba’s face, the councilmen noted it. Clasped hands unclasped and their coughs fell at Sully’s feet.

Talking before the Oba and his council, Sully felt the heat of their gazes. He was pleased. He did not crumble nor lose his will. At that moment, he thought of purpose and how it could con you into a different direction, lull you into a trap. He could hear the comings and goings of the palace above a bubble of gas, which roiled and gurgled in his stomach.

Booming laughter, strangled shouts, what sounded like the blade of a cutlass slicing into a coconut shell. He imagined juice spitting as it split into two. He curled his fingers into his palms to stop himself from running to the large window overlooking the grounds and sating his curiosity.

“And you say you have no family?” The question from a councilman stilled him. He turned to face the culprit.

“No sir, I have moved from place to place since coming to Africa.” This was met with a rigid “ humph .”

Beneath his chest Sully’s heart quickened and the cut on his lip began to burn as he forced a bright, deceptive smile. He wondered how long this ordeal of questioning would last, not that it worried him because challenging trials were part of life, just as long as they came to an end before you did. The Gods would see to that, but he knew that sometimes the Gods displayed a vicious humour.

The ground began to swim a little and he rubbed his right hand over both eyes to wipe the fatigue away. He felt as if his body was about to cave in on itself. So he chided himself, not here, not now . In his head, a whistling sound began to grow louder and take shape, slowly, till it became bigger swirls of white noise that blew out of his ears. He waited for Oba Odion’s ruling, as all the men did. And when it came it was this, “Welcome to Benin.”

I am not a sentimental man, but on this day, the eve of my 26 thbirthday, I Peter Lowon have joined the ranks of the Nigerian army as a second lieutenant. So, I am tasting a kind of happiness that is hard to reign in. A few of us are in Lagos staying in the house of General Akhatar. Earlier this evening, my fellow officers and I celebrated in style, having been invited to another higher-ranking officer’s house party. There, we drank Guinness and watched the women shaking their waists in that effortless way that African women do. A few of my fellow officers mocked me, joked about the way I speak and my education at the hands of British missionaries. “Ah Ah Peter! Sometimes you sound just like a white man from the BBC,” one said chuckling into the mouth of his beer bottle.

Predictably, some of the men there were also high-ranking officers and generals. You could spot who they were even out of uniform. It was there in the respectful way others hailed them, and how they carried themselves tall, crooking their fingers at the houseboys and girls in someone else’s home to demand “come come, more beer for my friend.” As though it was their right. Watching them chuckling mid conversation and absentmindedly patting the fat wads of Nigerian British pound notes in their pockets. I can tell you that power is an aphrodisiac. It is an infection difficult to describe but you know you want to catch it, you like the reception it commands. I am a man of potential. I like to keep my eyes open because you learn so much from doing so.

At the party, I exchanged jokes with my group, hemmed into a darker corner of the room as more people arrived and the noise reached the ceiling. High Life music was keeping people shimmying, and one or two had conked out indiscreetly on the floor and on chairs. Something else was playing on my mind. I was on the periphery of the exclusive club of big players! So I was looking to see who se ear to bend. The British colonial influence is still visible in Nigeria but grumblings have continued. Things are changing here, and change means opportunities. Oil production is increasing, an exodus of people are leaving the villages to rush to the cities. In Lagos you see rusty Volkswagen cars defiantly pushing along the roads, their bonnets almost bursting open with engine noise. On some streets there are children and adults with their heads tossed back gulping Coca Cola from long, elegant looking bottles.