Butterfly Fish (29 page)

When I am away, Felicia tells me she spends her days keeping our household ticking over and running after Queenie. We have several people in our employment including Nosa the mayguard, a houseboy and housegirl, the driver and one of Felicia's girl cousins Eunice who also helps around the house. She loves her daughter but I know she is bored, unfulfilled. Sometimes when I ask how her day is she says what do you want me to tell you when I have nothing of substance to say? She wants to get a job, maybe working in a bank or something along those lines. I refuse to allow her to do this. Deep down I know she still wants to go to university, even now, perhaps to study law or medicine. We fight over this, arguments that shake our bedroom and leave the door shuddering. If I allow her to follow her whims people will say my wife is the master in my house, that my trousers fit her nicely. This resentment festers between us, gathering in mass till I worry one day it will push me out of our bed. I know my wife has grown to love me over the years but sometimes, unguarded, I catch a
scheming expression on her face. I tell her I will give her money to run her own store selling bobas, shoes and handbags. I tell her this as if it isn't a consolation prize.

Earlier today I came into my parlour whistling to find we had a guest. He had his back to me but something about the sloppy, hunched way he sat seemed familiar. My heart raced and Felicia's laughter seemed slightly tuned out, like a bad radio frequency. She stood upon seeing me, “Peter you are finally home, how long does it take to buy ice cream for Queen? Honestly that girl has you eating out of her hands, little madam.” She looked to our guest and smiled; he now turned and stood awkwardly with a cane that had been leaning against the chair, confirming my suspicions. “British gentleman, long time, you are living well my friend.” Emmanuel stuck his hand out; I dropped the container of ice cream on the table. There was a wet patch of melted ice on the left side of my shirt. My fingers were cool. I shook his hand.

I had not seen Emmanuel for years; I'd heard he got discharged from the army some time back but never bothered to find him. I did not want to rake over old ground. I hugged him, the last thing I wanted to do. A chill settled inside me.

Felicia laughed, informing me that Emmanuel had been telling stories about what army boys get up to! “To think I thought I knew you all this time Peter!” My wife said. “It is nice to see an old friend of Peter's. These days, it's all army generals and rich oil contractors.” This was her last comment before picking up the ice cream and walking out. I felt a buzzing in my head as Emmanuel lifted his glass of juice and swigged. Angrily, I asked him what he was doing at my house? He laid his cane down carefully. He then had the nerve to say he was disappointed I never came to see him after what we went through! That I should never have abandoned my friends like that.

“We killed a man.” I spat this at him. It was the first time I had said it out loud, and somehow saying it confirmed I could never really get away from it. I could dodge and side-step but how long for? Not when the memory grows legs, not when part of it hobbles into your living room joking with your wife, holding a cane. Too close.

Emmanuel was bitter; he accused me of benefitting more than any of them. I remember his exact words. “I don't have friends in high places like you Peter. Do you know what it is to drain a man's life with your bare hands? To wait for his body to become completely still? No, of course you don't, you only watched from the sidelines yet reaped all the rewards. I've never known why the General took such a liking to you. I heard him say I like the way that Peter conducts himself, with class! You never did him any extra special favours did you?”

I was confused by this statement. When I pressed him, he laughed. “Peter you're smart but at times miss what is right in front of you. You mean you don't know about the General? You never heard about his taste for young army boys? It is a well-kept secret.”

My head spun with this revelation. I swallowed the anger working its way up my throat and slowly, silently counted to ten. I managed to probe him about his leg. Apparently, armed robbers came to his house one night, held him and his girlfriend at gunpoint. Stupidly, he resisted a little. They shot him in the knee and took everything. We had come to the heart of the matter at that point so I asked him what he wanted.

“Peter, I'm in trouble, you know I wouldn't ask but… I need some money.”

I gave him the money. In hindsight I shouldn't have. He will only come back for more like a leech. He may surprise me and not do so, but people rarely do. In truth, I would have done anything to get rid of him. He wobbled unsteadily out of my house, a broken man. Afterwards, I ran to the downstairs toilet and vomited, and it smelled bad to me, as though the stench had been building for years. In the kitchen I wanted to destroy whatever I could. I smashed plates, bottles, cups and glasses, scattering the place. I drowned out the noise and Felicia's wet, wild marble brown eyes rolling in their sockets. It was Queenie who stopped me, she ran into the kitchen barefoot, dripping vanilla ice cream onto clear, broken pieces of glass. Then, this evening the questions: what is wrong with you Peter? Should I not have let him in? We were inside our bedroom, where the blue wall still looked freshly painted; the double bed with its large wood headboard had matching blue and white pillowcases, sheets and a cover. The
ceiling fan turned continuously; I had thrown my clothes on the floor and was reaching inside the wardrobe in my underwear. Felicia didn't look a day older than the day we met, just more polished. As bored as she was, our life so far had been good to her. She stood with her hands on her hips; the gold head wrap was unravelling itself as if my silence earlier had offended it. “No, you did the right thing, he wanted money.”

“That's not all though Peter.”

“I told you what happened!”

“No, you told me your version of what happened, I am your wife. Why do you still keep things from me? Since we were married, all this time, there is something. Something between us and I can't take it.”

“I don't know what you're talking about; can I have some peace in my own house?”

“You want peace? Fine but I'm fed up of being stuck here while you're away playing General says! I get excited when guests come because I can talk to them, I can talk to other people more than I talk to my husband! I want to do something with my life.”

“Who the hell is stopping you? You think this house; these nice things were waiting for you? I paid the price while you do nothing! The driver can take you wherever you want to go. What do you think I pay him for? I will replace the things in the kitchen.”

“It was never about the bloody things in the kitchen.” She screamed, slamming the door, so much harder than a woman that slight should have been able to.

I found Queenie on the wooden swing at the back of the compound; she was pulling at the rope handles and kicking her legs up half-heartedly. I walked up carrying juicy cuts of pineapple; her favourite fruit for now, it changes weekly. For a while we didn't say anything as I pushed her, containing the force of the swing with a steady hand. This I could handle.

“Daddy, why are you mad?” She broke the silence. “Have I done something?”

“No, not you Queenie. Do you know I control the weather?” I said, starting one of my tales she loved and I knew would make her laugh. Sure enough, a small smile came. “How do you make the weather daddy?”

“Well, in the morning if I am in a good mood, I rub my hands together, say a secret chant and make sunshine. Now I can't tell you what the chant is otherwise it wouldn't be mine see?”

“Ok, how do you make rain?” She asked, “Do you use the same chant or say it backwards?”

“No, I use a different chant because water gives life, it makes things grow and can erode things. It is everything. And I don't rub my hands, I call upon the clouds, I need their help and cannot do it without them.”

“What if the clouds are angry with you or you have an argument with them? Can you do it without them then? What if they're sleeping and they want to be alone sometimes, like mummy?”

“I try not to anger them, I respect them because you know the elements have great power Queenie, and they can control things without us being aware of it.” She scratched her newly braided hair that lay in slim, single plaits. She wriggled her mouth and face like she was trying to loosen the tightness in her scalp. I handed her a pineapple slice, watched as she took a bite.

“Daddy? Once I was mad, I ripped my doll's head off.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I put it back though. Daddy, you don't really control the weather do you.” She said this, as if she'd been indulging me all along, like she was the parent and I the child.

Rider Rendered Blue

When the
oyibo
men from Portugal arrived for a short visit the council wore their gleeful expressions openly and proudly. These visitors had come to the palace court as emissaries of the King of Portugal. They had heard elaborate tales of the Benin kingdom and its Empire. How it stretched beyond the whole of Idu land, into the lands of the Mahin, Ilaje, Dahomey and further still. It was Benin's imperial might and trade routes that interested them. The palace welcomed them with a warm reception and they in return wanted to give a Portuguese education to the Benin royal household. They intrigued people, with their pale skin and strange language. And they were slighter than Benin men, whose broad, sturdy shoulders were built for the demands of the land. People joked that the Portuguese would not cope in the harsh, glaring heat, but they surprised people. Even telling the council that sometimes they struggled with hot weather where they were from. They were told the Oba was too sick to personally receive visitors.

If these men noticed anything strange they kept it to themselves. After all, how could they distinguish what was the custom and what wasn't? They were in a fascinating, foreign world, everything appeared odd and interesting to them. They wanted to see it all, and the council showed them, flourishing as impressive hosts. The palace staff found themselves working constantly. Cooking and cleaning,
repeatedly preening for show but they were happy to have a distraction from all that had been happening. The soldiers from the Oba's army had been instructed to cease looking for Filo. After all, she was a wife Oba Odion had never wanted and she was long gone.

In the evenings the court would entertain the visitors with music, and dancing while the councilmen drummed their fingers and nodded their heads along. They revelled in their supposedly mutually beneficial new alliance. Slapped backs and forced laughter drove conversations. But something escaped the council members: these Portuguese men were not just eyeing in admiration the Benin palace, its art, the Oba's collection, treasures and armoury. They were watching with a clever, concealed furtive hunger and disbelief, already stripping away what they could with the naked eye. They were given a ceremonious send off. For their final evening, a fat calf was cooked and the men ate till their bellies were full and they could barely move.

There was a vulnerability emanating off the palace that even the glow of that evening couldn't mask, as though if you drew a big enough breath and blew at it, it would split into large chunky fragments made up of red clay, betrayals and longings, revealing flawed walls intended to protect the inhabitants from everything. The councilmen had boasted to their foreign guests of the tribute system collected on behalf of the Oba. The reality was the opposite; they had been struggling to gather tributes from the surrounding areas for the last two seasons. People were having a terrible time feeding their families, farmers in particular because the harvest period had been and gone, yielding very little. The council couldn't have told their visitors this. Or that pile of rotten cocoa yams were more useful than their Oba who still sat locked away mumbling in solitude.

Instead, a careful picture of Benin had been presented, dressed up in tales of conquests, happy traditional songs and an outwardly thriving palace. On this front the council succeeded because the Portuguese, uncertain of what to expect had been flummoxed. Why the Benin were a civilised bunch! Such a sprawling palace, what
impressive, sophisticated artefacts and cultured people and of course this was true. If you caught the chuckles darting over the holes, the high-pitched voices talking over one another in excitement and the clapping, you may have thought all was well in Benin. In the palace, they forgot about their deception and began to believe in the sweetness of the image. The Portuguese left and the council congratulated themselves for days, what a coup. But they had made a fatal mistake; they had unlocked the stranger's gate and in doing so, extended a hand to unforeseen dangers. Because more European men would come, setting in motion an unstoppable, tragically disastrous, chain of events.