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

Dimié Abrakasa watched the landlord park the car, wind up the windows, and lock the doors. The car panels were dented, rust-eaten. The windshield was spiderweb-cracked in the right-hand corner.

“Is your mother in?” Alhaji Tajudeen asked, twirling his car keys round his finger as he approached Dimié Abrakasa.

With a sinking feeling Dimié Abrakasa gazed into the landlord’s face. Alhaji Tajudeen had the widest nostrils he’d ever seen. They were choked with a jungle-growth of gray-brown hair, the same color as his ear tufts, which he left untrimmed even though his head was clean-shaven. There was only one reason the landlord would want to see his mother. Dimié Abrakasa nodded the affirmative to his question, and then said, “But she’s not feeling well.”

The landlord was headed for the doorway. “Is that so?” he said over his shoulder. “That’s nothing new. She hasn’t been well for one day since you people moved into my house.”

The landlord entered the corridor. Dimié Abrakasa marked his progress by the echo of his footsteps and the voices that rose in greeting at each apartment he passed. The sound of wood crashing against the wall startled him forward.

The door of their apartment was open. There was still no power: the figures in the room were outlined in shades of gloom. The landlord stood over his mother, who sat at the bed’s edge, her knees clamped together, her feet pressed on the floor. Méneia and Benaebi were huddled in the corner, beside the dresser.

“You and your children must leave my house today,” the landlord was saying in a loud, hectoring tone. “For a whole three weeks your rent has expired and till today I’m still waiting? You think I’m running a charity here? You know how many people have been asking me for this room?” He paused to draw breath. “I’m telling you, if you can’t afford to live like a human being, then live like a dog in the street. But you’re leaving my house today!”

Benaebi snuffled. Méneia covered his mouth with her hand. Daoju Anabraba shifted her feet, rubbed her thighs with her hands, sighed deeply, and spoke.

“If we can just talk in private, please, Alhaji.”

“Talk what? Talk money!”

“Okay, Alhaji. But let my children go—”

“What you mean, go where? Or don’t your children live here too? Look, woman, somebody must answer for my money today. Whether it’s your son o, or your daughter o, or you o, I don’t care. All I know is that my rent must come out today or all of you will pack out!”

“But Alhaji, why are you talking to me like this?” Daoju Anabraba caught the fold of her wrapper, which was loosening, and tucked it under her arm. With the same hand she swiped the sweat from her face, and then rose to her feet. She was taller than the landlord; his head only reached her shoulder. One step and her breasts would push into his face.

The landlord stared at her. His gaze moved down, traveling over her body, chest to foot, and back up again. He cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said, “I will respect you, if you respect yourself. But before we talk anything, do you have my money?”

“No. But if you just give me a few more days—”

The landlord sniffed with derision. “Your rent is already three weeks overdue. People are lining up for this room. I’ve heard that you don’t have a job — that you like to drink. I don’t want any drunkard in my house, and a jobless one for that matter.” He lowered his voice. “So tell me, why should I wait?”

Daoju Anabraba was silent.

“I’m waiting for your answer, Mama Dimi.”

Dimié Abrakasa tried to help his mother. “Please, Alhaji—”

“Shut up when your elders are talking,” the landlord said, without looking at him.

Footsteps approached from the direction of the courtyard, then hurried past the doorway of their apartment, and continued at a sedate tattoo out of the building. It was the only sound in the house.

The landlord sighed. “I am not a wicked man,” he said. “By Allah’s grace, I have children too. I don’t want anybody to say that I threw out a widow and her children from my house. That is why”—he paused for effect—“that is why I will give you a chance to pay the three weeks’ rent that you owe me, today. ” He held Daoju Anabraba’s gaze, and licked his lips, then lowered his hand to adjust his trouser crotch, his expression pantomimic.

Daoju Anabraba got his meaning. Her eyes widened. “Ah, no, Alhaji. .”

The landlord shrugged. “We’re both adults here. The matter is in your hands.” He rubbed his palms together with a washing motion and held them out. “It’s your choice. Pay me my three weeks’ rent, today, or pack out of my house, today.”

Daoju Anabraba sank down on the bed and bent her face to the ground, her movements slow and heavy. Her hands lay in her lap; she cracked her knuckles and tugged her thumbs. Her shoulders flexed.

When she looked up at her first child and spoke, her voice was firm. “Dimié, take your brother and sister and wait outside. Close the door.”

Dimié Abrakasa did not move.

“You heard me?”

“Yes, Mma.”

“Get out!”

The children filed out of the room. In the gap between door and post, Dimié Abrakasa saw the landlord cross to the bed, and he heard him say, “Dimi is a good boy. He helped me push my car today.”

Footsteps padded up the corridor. Effusive good wishes, this time in farewell, marked the landlord’s approach. When he appeared in the doorway, he halted and blinked at the full moon that bobbed in the night sky. His face gleamed in the moonlight. He yawned, then raised a hand to wipe his brow, dropped it to rub his belly, and let it fall to his side. He did not look at the children as he trudged to his car, unlocked it, started the engine, and drove away.

In the void left behind by the car’s departure, Benaebi said, “I’m hungry.” His stomach churned loudly as he sucked his thumb.

Méneia put her hand on Dimié Abrakasa’s knee. “You spent a long time,” she said. “We waited and waited, Mma was angry. What did you get?”

Dimié Abrakasa looked away.

“What did you buy?” she asked again.

The smells and sounds of cooking floated out of the corridor. A rat moved in creeps and bounds along the front wall of the house, heading for the open door, then sensed Dimié Abrakasa’s stare and scuttled back into the shadows.

“Dimié!” Méneia cried, her voice trembling with alarm. “You got the thing for Mma, at least, didn’t you?”

“I lost the money,” Dimié Abrakasa said. He did not turn his head to see the expression on his sister’s face. He knew it by heart.

Méneia stared at her older brother without speaking. Benaebi, with a wet moan, jumped to his feet and ran into the house. His complaints, high-pitched and teary, floated through the open door. At the scrape of approaching footsteps Méneia’s grip on her brother’s knee tightened. Then she removed her hand and drew away.

“ You lost what?”

Dimié Abrakasa scrambled upright. His mother stood in the doorway. Where the moonlight touched her bare shoulders, they gleamed with sweat. Her movement, as she advanced on him, was brisk, vigorous, oiled with intent.

Her shadow swept over him as she pulled up, and her foot stubbed his right big toe. Bringing her face level with his, she repeated, “You lost what?” Her breath stank of old alcohol.

The blow came out of the dark. It hurled him off balance. Then she was on him — slapping, scratching, kicking. Dimié Abrakasa fell to his knees and buried his head in his arms. He received a mule kick in the belly that tore a gasp from his throat. When she lifted a concrete slab and rushed forward, the neighbors caught hold of her. She fought against their restraint, spewing curses.