Irenosen Okojie - Butterfly Fish

And all the way back to her quarters, she thought about her treacherous braid coming undone in the wide-brimmed brown hat.

Adesua responded to the call at night. It winged its way across the palace grounds and she sat up restless. Listening, she succumbed to it. It rumbled its intentions and she only paused to gather fragments of her resolve with a scented cloth laced with coconut oil. She followed the call. She counted out her steps to the rhythm of it, as it skirted along the empty trail that led to the main palace. She was so light; if someone laughed it would surely carry her away. She went on past the high iron gates abandoned by distracted guards and rounded the backside of the servant quarters brimming with people. Past the servant quarters, the call tested her, she came to a threshold, a low wall, and beyond it in the near distance was a small, familiar building surrounded by shrubbery. She could make out the outline of a man, and the building behind him was glowing amber approval. She could hear her breaths and the faint thrum of hundreds of caterpillars hatching out of their cocoons and she was crushing them with each step towards Sully’s quarters, leaving a trail of squashed, meshed, butterflies spilling colours.

Sully was waiting for her. The sky seemed wider, open with longing, the stars twitching in their ceiling. In that sweet darkness, with only the elegy of the grasshoppers nudging them on, in the clammy anticipation of the night air, she wilted as Sully’s face close to hers, naked with intent, seemed to block all that surrounded her. Somewhere on the palace roof her caution plunged down. She ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair, holding his head to the rise and fall of her chest. In the dark, his green eyes seemed bewitching, calming. His beard was rough on her skin. He kissed a trail down her firm stomach, then further down still, till his head was buried between her legs. His tongue softened the bud there. Then he caressed her belly button, running his tongue back up, murmuring her name in slow seductive chants. He held both breasts, chuckling; he named them.

Behind the curtain of a mist that made the palace dewy, as though it were floating in a giant watermark freshly wet, two ghosts peered through. The blurry figures of Oba Odion’s father Oba Anuje and his hanged childhood friend Ogiso were keeping busy, spinning a curse so potent, it whipped through the grounds gathering momentum and snatching solace from its unwitting bearers.

Made up of bitter punishments, things left unsaid and repercussions that couldn’t be undone, it continued to spin an invisible web over the walls. Between pillars and under the noses of the palace inhabitants, this was a curse that would travel on the back of time, out-shadow shadows and lie in wait at corners where really good fortunes rounded.

The two ghosts stilled their fading fingers and admired their handiwork. Now, there was a fine colourless film sticking to the palace that only they could see. Sometimes, they forgot what they were; there were holes where their hearts used to be. If you looked through them it would turn your eyes bloodshot with scraggly thin lines darting across it. Red lightening in eyeballs, they began to whistle, a charming melody sounding both familiar and new. When dawn came, some people would wake up whistling it too, not knowing why. When the palace was like that, in that silence, it was beautiful. And there were things you could see in that light; like the servant girl who wouldn’t live past twenty seasons, the small boy who couldn’t stop chewing his thumb, he didn’t know it but one day it would just fall off. And the dwarf court entertainer who couldn’t stop dreaming of a certain councilman’s wife. The ghosts stopped their whistling and paused, after they had cast words that would rain down woes, they savoured the moment because it was a joyous thing! The mist was starting to disappear. They listened to the snoring of the sleeping palace, yet to yawn out its share of crusty, smelly morning breath. And strangely, there was a comfort in that.

In Harlesden people milled about. It was a spring day and cocoa buttered brown skinned beauties were out in all their bare-limbed glory, ready to lure willing victims with the promise of their sweetness. I felt under dressed in my scuffed Converse trainers, ripped faded jeans and Betty Boo t-shirt. My head was full with revelations, family secrets that were severed fingers lying on my carpet crooking their way towards me.

Mervyn lived a walking distance away from his practice. On his road in full Technicolor, men sported versions of green, gold and white string vests, standing in groups outside gates catching blaring music beats. I was amazed; here were neighbours in London who spoke to each other. Mervyn’s house had cobblestone-like walls. Stunted sprigs of grass with no ambition grew in the small, concrete jungle of his front yard and the oval black gate creaked. He answered on the third knock.

“Hey princess! I’m glad you made it man.” I was swallowed into his hug and immediately picked up the smell of grilled meats.

“Can’t miss a good barbecue.”

I handed over a bottle of white wine that had been sweating in my cupboard for weeks. In the hallway, I stepped over children with missing teeth and mouths full of sweets. Armed with crayons, they huddled over drawing books. A Lover’s Rock tune was playing on the stereo. “Wha gwaan sis?” A man with a long beard dressed in an African print shirt said. He was holding a plate of curry goat and rice as if it was his last supper. I was impressed that he managed to peel his eyes off it to say hello.

“Leon, Joy,” Mervyn said by way of introduction. In the living room, more bodies were gathered on Mervyn’s cream leather sofa. People were leaning on walls chatting between bites of crisp salad and patty. There were some elders sitting at a table talking about cricket and sipping rum. I nodded respectfully as Mervyn went to the kitchen to get me a drink, rum and coke for starters. You could smell the barbecue in the garden from the living room. I knew I only had to walk out through the kitchen door and into the neat, well-kept back garden to find succulent pieces of chicken browning on the barbecue flavoured with spices. Mervyn loved his food.

I sipped the drink Mervyn gave me casually but underneath, thoughts of Peter Lowon were cooking in my brain, sizzling and spitting. I couldn’t quite get my head around the fact that my grandfather had participated in a murder, drunk or not. Maybe my family were cursed and it was just a matter of time before I got dragged down with everybody else.

Mervyn had a brand new fitted kitchen that didn’t so much wow as comfort. A warm, homely space kitted out in wooden cupboards and grey marble-like countertops. There were trays of food spread out like elaborate Japanese fans. I grabbed a plate. Jerk chicken with barbecue sauce beckoned, ackee and salt fish in a big glass bowl, steamed fish and vegetables, plain white rice, salad, rice and peas and fried plantain. I served a good portion on my plate and tucked in. It was a nice day for a gathering; Mervyn was the sort of man who never lacked company. If I stopped by at two am I could guarantee there would be strays wandering in and out of the house. I parked myself on a stool at the counter; more rum and coke was needed.

In the garden, Mervyn stood at the barbecue comfortably flipping chicken sausages and lamb burgers, affably passing his laughter around as if it were napkins. I happened upon him from the back, my shadow following his baldhead.

“You alright princess?” he turned to face me, still poking a sausage.

“Yeah, this is a nice do, great food, thanks for inviting me.” A few people bit into their hot dogs wholeheartedly.