Irenosen Okojie - Butterfly Fish

It is such a terrible thing, the death of the young.

Today I received a gift from General Akhatar, wrapped in old, yellowed newspaper. I sat on my bed looking at it for several minutes before opening it, somehow daunted by what would lay within. I removed the layers of newspaper to find a brass head in perfect condition. It is a beautiful piece, life-like with its proud, defiant expression. I am guessing that it is quite ancient, a collector’s prize. In his brief note that came with it, which amounts to two lines, the General writes that it is his favourite piece. I have no idea why he has chosen to give it to me in addition to what will be done. I know a good man would not accept this gift, but life is not so simple and I am not necessarily a bad man for taking it. I will keep this brass head because I am selfish. I want it. I will not mention it to Emmanuel and Obi. I can write a version of the truth, so I will say that for a long time I will not have to worry about money and that the terrible night binds all four of us together; me, Obi, Emmanuel and the General. I will live with myself because I can and because I have to. I cannot undo what has already been done. Still, information I would rather not know has begun to circulate through the barracks. People say that Mohamed was a good soldier, a quiet man who mostly kept to himself, that he had a pregnant girlfriend waiting for him back home. And that his mother had been reluctant for him to join the army. Things that paint a picture you try to look away from. Now more than ever I avoid going to our prayer room, though I should. I am frightened that the blue-eyed Jesus’s head will snap and roll on the floor before my feet, that I will have to be carried out of there. I will send some of my tainted money to my father. It will make him happy, the irony being if he found out where it came from, he would be disgusted. This is why I want to share some of it with him, so he can unwittingly spend my burden. People will let you down; I have been feeding on this slab of truth since childhood. As I grew, it grew. It is still excreting its blood stained bits under my fingernails.

Filo was gradually turning to stone before the dismissive eyes of the palace, after their words that had been knives to her skin, driving her to check her body for cuts, had finished their assault. Her skin began to thicken into impenetrable layers of shame and loss. Now the laughter behind her back bounced off and the pitiful glances slipped through her fingers like tiny grains of sand. She still mourned the loss of her children, child after child and suffered all the heartbreak that came with it. She resented the role she occupied in the palace of the damaged, troubled wife. Even the Oba had completely lost interest. Then Omotole had become pregnant, and she could not find it within herself to pretend to be happy. Her blood ran cold in the punishing heat for no reason, and the other wives looked at her as if questioning why she could not pull happiness from inside herself and dangle it before them. It was selfish of her not to share in their joy. But when she thought of this all she saw was her gunk-filled hand, drenched in slime clutching the remains of her battered womb. So her heart had hardened, lodged within her chest, a fortress trapped within a fortress.

Meanwhile Oba Odion refused to step in. He did nothing to help his forgotten wife. He caught distorted, miniature reflections of himself in her black pupils and believed it to be an attempt to suck him in. So he would skulk away, his face in a scowl, mouth disapprovingly grim. Filo’s anger grew. It was then that Filo realised waiting for one person to breathe life into you with guilt-soaked breath could break you, just a little, each day.

So when the brass head called her, she was unable to resist its slow, rolling whisper. Soft yet insistent, it had fondled her lobes before slipping inside her eardrums, saying her name softly, repeatedly. She carried it as though it had always belonged to her. The weight of it had rested comfortably between her thin arms, and she had hopped daintily to her quarters, ignoring the sandstorm brewing between her toes.

Inside the disarray of her chamber, the heat emanating from the brass head singed her rough fingers. She accidentally dropped it on her foot. That act jarred her into thinking; now I am even stealing . It was only when Adesua came to see her that the humming inside stopped. She thought she would resent Adesua for coming to take back what belonged to her but she didn’t. She could not have imagined she would welcome the company of another wife, but Adesua’s presence had calmed her. Somehow, silently a common ground was discovered. Yet behind her raised knees, something inside her locked. The birds could have told her when it had happened because they were waiting, hoping their soft-feathered breasts would muffle the sound when it surely came. When it did, the birds had flown away, and Filo decided to stop crumbling beneath her desperation.

Nestled within a room in the shoulder of the palace, Sully stood behind Oba Odion who was slumped in his chair. You could almost taste the Oba’s sweat in the room and the terracotta walls, punished long enough, could have been shrinking within themselves. Since the Oba had appointed Sully as his personal guard a funny, unexpected thing happened. Oba Odion began to confide in him, his tongue loosened by a well of stories and incidents. Sully was an attentive listener, and he ahhed and tutted when required to do so. If his face began to crumple, he would stop himself and smooth his expression down.

When the Oba started talking of his wives, he found himself genuinely riveted by the Oba’s tales and how different each wife sounded. And eventually, when the Oba mentioned Adesua’s name, Sully felt his face flush, his pulse dance against his temple. He lifted the Oba gingerly and rested his back against the seat properly. The Oba let slip that he did not trust his council, and that they in return simply tolerated him. Sully glanced through the window; the afternoon light was now dimming slowly, changing into the more seductive, burnished glow of evening. He could hear the chatter of hens and imagined them pecking at each other, charging around in delicious freedom sniffing each other’s backsides. There was an orangey tint to the sky. Oba Odion’s mumbling in his stupor drew Sully’s gaze back. There was a crack in the ground in the back corner of the room, and he wondered what secrets of the palace had slid inside it. Voices travelled through the apartment blocks and the surrounding area, Oba Odion spluttered, the coughing racked his body. Sully patted the Oba’s back and offered him his hand; Oba Odion stuck his hand out limply in response. The Oba’s hand turned into a piece of thread, and all Sully had to do was hold on to the tip while it continued to unravel.

Soon after that, while attempting to deposit the Oba in his quarters as discreetly as possible, he saw Adesua. Ironically Sully was steadily carrying the Oba, an arm thrown behind his neck and across his shoulder, when he caught the flash of a green, patterned cloth. She was standing beside the tall, sturdy worn pillar watching her husband as though he was a stranger. And she did not rush forward to flounder after him. She rubbed her neck, sighing and throwing an irritated look, as if she wanted them to disappear from view. A little servant girl approached Adesua and genuflected. The girl smiled as Adesua picked her up. Keen to get the Oba to his quarters, Sully continued to lead him gingerly through small clusters of people who wore embarrassed expressions and chuckled under their breaths.

Sully dumped the Oba unceremoniously in his chamber, barely flinching as he hit his mat with a thud. The Oba giggled and pointed, “I like you, good man,” before slouching back onto the floor. Sully fumed, the Oba’s indignity taunted him. Is this what you came here for? It said. He could only crouch down and watch, in response, patience simmering under his skin. He contemplated throwing water over him but this was the king, an Oba who was trying to dilute the fervour of something nipping away at him. He could feel dust and grainy bits between his toes. There were grainy bits inside him; they needed to be smoothed away. Deep down he knew only one thing could do it. His face twisted at himself and his surroundings. A guava sat on the mantle beside him, plump and beckoning. He reached for it, took a chunk out, but he couldn’t taste it.