A. Barrett - Love Is Power, or Something Like That - Stories

.6 .

The outdoor bar had for shade an old beach umbrella, under which stood a table and a bench. Six men sat on the bench, three stood around the table. The men held beer tankards, whiskey glasses, plastic cups. Bottles of different sizes, shapes, and colors, arranged in no particular order but with a woman’s eye for beauty, covered the table. The bar owner sat on the knee of one of her customers. The man’s hands rested in her lap, and he tilted back his head to drink from the glass she held to his lips. When the woman saw Dimié Abrakasa approaching her stall, she thrust the glass into the man’s hand, stood up, and walked forward.

“Wetin you want?” she said, as she planted herself in front of the boy. “Make you no think sey I go serve you drink o!”

The woman had a spoiled milk complexion, the reward for a lifetime regime of bleaching cream. Her knuckles were the color of healed bruises, her arms and legs were crisscrossed with thick blue veins. The deep brown of her unpainted lips made them seem sweet, coated with treacle, smudged with chocolate.

“Wetin you dey look, you no fit talk?” the woman asked angrily. She placed her hands on her hips, harassed Dimié Abrakasa with her gaze. He dropped his eyes.

One of the men on the bench gave a snort of a laugh. He called out: “Madam Glory, leave the small boy abeg.”

Madam Glory spun round and pointed her finger at him. “Hear me, and hear me well — no put your rotten mouth for this one o! I no dey serve pikin for here. If this small boy wan’ kill himself”—and here she turned to face Dimié Abrakasa, her forefinger stabbing—“make e find another person shed. No be my business Satan go use to spoil another woman pikin.” She raised her hand, sketched a halo above her head, and then snapped her thumb and middle finger at Dimié Abrakasa. “I reject it in Jesus name!”

“Ah ah, Madam Glory, you sef!” exclaimed the man who had spoken. “You know whether somebody send the boy?”

“Even still,” she said in a calmed voice. She stared at Dimié Abrakasa, her eyes sparking suspicion. “They send you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Dimié Abrakasa said.

“Who send you?”

Dimié Abrakasa was about to say the truth, that he had been sent by his mother, when his right hand, which was tugging the hem of his T-shirt, crept into his trouser pocket. He pulled back the hand, stared at Madam Glory with horror, then dug both hands into his pockets, and gasped out:

“ My God!”

“What!” Madam Glory cried. “You dey make joke with me?” Goaded by the guffaws that burst from the men behind her, she bore down on Dimié Abrakasa. She caught him by the earlobe just as he turned to flee, and dragged him forward, cursing under her breath, her face stained with rage. She reached the edge of the road, released his burning ear, and with a shove to his head she ordered: “Get away from here! Useless child, mumu, I sorry for your mama! Get away!”

On the trek back to a house that loomed before him like a Golgotha, Dimié Abrakasa ransacked even the most protected corners of his memory for the missing money. Despair, at several points on his journey, almost made him break down in tears, but each time his will overcame that foolishness.

.7 .

Number II Sand Field was at the intersection of Yakubu Gowon and Adaka Boro Streets. It was one of eleven open spaces — Number IV Grass Field, Number VI Paved Field, Number VII Clay Field, Number X Sand Field, et cetera — set up all over Poteko by a past military administrator. Number II was a football pitch, with white sand instead of turf, and it was enclosed by a low concrete wall. On weekends when football matches between local clubs were staged in this arena, the wall disappeared under a swarm of spectators, but on this afternoon, as Dimié Abrakasa vaulted the wall, the field was deserted.

At one end of the field, in the space behind the goalpost, a table tennis board was set up. Three boys stood round the table, and two of them were engaged in a game. The ball flew into the net as Dimié Abrakasa drew up beside the table, and the third boy, who clutched a wad of naira notes in one hand, called out, “Park five!”

“Who dey win?” Dimié Abrakasa asked.

“ Sh!” hissed the player whose turn it was to serve. He cast a furious look at Dimié Abrakasa. They recognized each other at the same instant.

“You!” Ériga exclaimed. “But how you dey? How you escape that crazewoman?”

The other player spoke. “This nah the boy you tell us about? The one wey stone the crazewoman?”

“Yes o!”

“Strong man — correct guy!” Three pairs of eyes gazed at Dimié Abrakasa with approbation. Then Ériga whirled round to face the table, and served the ball. His opponent was taken unawares: he scrambled for the ball: his bat struck it out of play.

“Game up!” the umpire announced, running to where the ball had fallen.

The second player glared at Ériga and snorted with annoyance. “Nah lie Chibuzo, I no agree — I never ready when Ériga serve the ball!” he said.

“But you no say let, Krotembo,” Ériga said. “Anybody hear am say let?”

“No,” Chibuzo said.

“But you rush me! You must replay!”

Ériga threw his bat on the table. “I don win,” he said. He strode to the umpire and held out his hand. “Give me my money.”

“No give Ériga that money o, Chibuzo,” Krotembo said. He, too, tossed his bat on the table, and began to unbutton his shirt. “You must replay or we go cancel the betting. You no strong enough to cheat me.”

The two boys drew up to each other, stood nose-to-nose, and exchanged glares. Krotembo, who was shorter, had muscles like a blacksmith’s apprentice. He raised a clenched fist, nudged Ériga in the chest. “No try me, Ériga,” he said.

Ériga stepped backward, lowered his gaze, spun round on the ball of his left foot, and ran. Krotembo barked with laughter. He turned to Chibuzo, chuckling in his throat. Then he heard the crash of glass. From the corner of his eye he saw the shadow of death bearing down on him, and he bolted.

“Why you run?” Ériga yelled after him. He stopped beside the table, strutted back and forth, panting with anger and brandishing a broken bottle. “Come and fight — if you get power!”

Krotembo watched Ériga from a safe distance. His naked chest heaved noisily. Then he touched the tip of his forefinger to his tongue and bent down to scrape the earth with it. He pointed the finger at Ériga and said, in a voice that quavered: “I swear, Ériga, anywhere I see you, anywhere I catch you—”

“Sharrap there, buffoon!”

Krotembo pressed his fist to his lips. His arm shook, his forehead bulged with veins. Then he turned around and strode off. Ériga watched the receding figure until he was sure the retreat was not a trick. He walked to the table, tossed his weapon under it, then snatched up Krotembo’s shirt from the table, wiped the sweat from his face and neck, and flung the shirt away. It sailed through the air, unfurling.

Chibuzo spoke. “Make sure you run any time you see Krotembo o — e no go forgive you. Anyhow, two of you bet one-eighty, so after I remove my cut, your money nah three-ten. Correct?”

Ériga nodded, and watched Dimié Abrakasa from the corner of his eye. Dimié Abrakasa caught his gaze, and he turned away, accepted the roll of notes from Chibuzo. After counting the money, he asked Dimié Abrakasa:

“You wan’ play me betting?”

“Never!” Dimié Abrakasa replied.

Ériga threw back his head and laughed. “No fear, I no be Atanda Musa, why you no try your luck, maybe you go beat me.” His eyes danced as he awaited a response. Then he said, “Anyway, since nobody want to play me, I don dey go.”