Graceland (11 page)
The old battery-powered record player scratched through “Heartbreak Hotel,” a stack of coins keeping the stylus from jumping through the worn grooves. Elvis nodded along, singing under his breath as he mixed the pressed powder with the talc. The lumpy powder crumbled in cakes of beige, reminding him of the henna cakes Oye ground to make the dye she used to paint designs all over her body. Satisfied with the mix, he began to apply it to his face with soft, almost sensual strokes of the sponge. As he concentrated on getting an even tone, his earlier worries slipped away. Finishing, he ran his fingertips along his cheek. Smooth, like the silk of Aunt Felicia’s stockings.
With the tip of his index finger, he applied a hint of blue to his eyes, barely noticeable, but enough to lift them off the white of his face. Admiring himself from many angles, he thought it was a shame he couldn’t wear makeup in public. That’s not true, he mentally corrected himself. He could, like the transvestites that haunted the car parks of hotels favored by rich locals and visiting whites. But like them, he would be a target of some insult, or worse, physical beatings, many of which were meted out by the police, who then took turns with their victims in the back of their vans. It was exasperating that he couldn’t appear in public looking as much like the real Elvis Presley as possible.
Drawing quickly and expertly with the black eye pencil, he outlined his eyes, the tip of the pencil dancing dangerously close to his cornea. Pulling the mascara brush free, he knocked the dried goop off before dragging it through his already dense lashes. Again he examined his hard work intently before selecting a deep red lipstick. Not satisfied with its shine, he rubbed some petroleum jelly over his lips and then smacked them. Much better, he thought.
He got up to change the record, which was dragging its stylus reluctantly and noisily across the label. He put it into its sleeve carefully and checked the sharpness of the needle by running a fingertip across it. This also cleaned the dust on the needle’s point. Selecting “Jailhouse Rock,” he blew imaginary dust off the record. He was careful as he put it on, knowing from experience that the thick, heavy vinyl would shatter like a china plate if he dropped it.
He walked back to the table and pulled the wig on, bending to look in the mirror. Elvis has entered the building, he thought, as he admired himself. This was the closest he had come so far to looking like the real Elvis, and he wished he had a camera.
Pushing back from the table, he began to dance around the room. By the time the record had come to an end, he was perspiring heavily. Not wanting the makeup to run, he sat on the bed and put on the table fan he had bought from Redemption, a recent acquisition made possible by his job at the construction site. He let his fingers linger over the buttons as the truth of this day returned to him. From the bed, he could see himself in the mirror on the desk, and he stared hard. What if he had been born white, or even just American? Would his life be any different? Stupid, he thought. If Redemption knew about this, he would say Elvis was suffering from colonial mentality. He smiled. It spread across his face in fine tendrils that grew wider as he laughed until his skin showed through. I look like a hairless panda, he thought. Without understanding why, he began to cry through the cracked face powder.
Elvis stepped out of his room onto the front veranda and looked around, rubbing his sleep-crusted eyes with a couple of knuckles. He wiped his hand down his face and realized he had slept with the makeup on. After that heavy lunch with Okon, he had napped for a couple of hours.
Across the street, in the weak shade cast by the odd tree or veranda canopy, a few women lounged like melting toffee on the stoops. They sat with bored eyes, fanning themselves with magazines, newspapers or raffia fans. One or two chewed on sugarcane stems, mandibles crunching slowly, pausing only to spit sucked-out husks into the street, peppering the black asphalt in yellow-white blobs like tired snowflakes. A couple sat plaiting hair and chatting brightly as though to dispel the heavy air. A few very young children chased a football halfheartedly across the street, upturned empty paint tins serving as goalposts.
Taking a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, Elvis shook one out and lit it, his movements slow and deliberate. He scanned the street slowly from behind hands cupped around a flaming match, knowing he too was being watched, studied even. Smoking was a rediscovered pleasure for him, a way to make the day go faster. The smoke felt harsh against the back of his throat and he coughed discreetly. He had not smoked much since he was a kid watching old movies in the motor parks.
Pitching the still-smoldering stub into the street, he walked through the house and out into the backyard, which was walled in by the low building that housed the bathrooms, toilets and kitchens. To his left stood the iron staircase that led to the upper floors. Built in the fashion of an American fire escape, it looked rickety and unsafe and was covered in a rash of rust. Several stairs had been eaten away by the rust, giving the illusion of a gap-toothed mouth. The doors to the toilets stood open, aerating in the heat, walls adorned by drowsy bluebottle flies.
With a tired sigh, he sucked in his breath and slammed into one. As he squatted, he wondered how long he could hold his breath. On one wall of the toilet, the landlord, in an attempt to clean things up years ago, had painted a mural. Faded now from years of grime and heat, the river scene, with a mermaid holding a baby in one hand and a staff of power in the other and a python draped around her neck, was still discernible. A crown hovered over her black hair, and stars gleamed in the air around her blue body. Her face, however, was scratched out. He wondered who had done that, and how they could have endured the stench long enough to do it.
Grabbing a pail of water from the water drum, he headed into the bathroom to wash. He washed his face first, watching the makeupcolored water run onto the concrete floor. The water was pleasantly hot from the sun, and he felt refreshed when he got out. He returned to the veranda and waited for the sun to set while he flicked through his mother’s journal and listened to music on the radio, absently wondering if any of the herbal remedies in the book actually worked, and if they did, why Oye hadn’t used them to cure Beatrice’s cancer.
With nightfall, the veranda became busy, as was the routine most evenings. The men were draped on the veranda while the women huddled in the corners. They were all gathering: Jagua; Sergeant Okoro; Joshua Bandele-Thomas; Abigail, Okoro’s wife; Beauty, the single primary-school teacher whom Joshua had a crush on; and Comfort. The men played checkers or argued loudly, all the time munching on some snack and drinking beer or palm wine. The women sat like shadows behind the men and seemed to use the fact that they needed the light to darn, or shell melon seeds, to justify their presence. For the most part, the men ignored them. Those brave enough to call their husbands’ attention to something were rewarded with a gruff and impatient answer, as though they were keeping the men from some important philosophical breakthrough.
Elvis, on the other hand, loved flirting with the women. Getting up, he went into his room and returned with the record player and a clutch of records he had inherited from his mother. While the men watched, he turned the machine, with its spinning plate, on, and wound the women and the records into a frenzy of released pressure, dancing with each in turn, laughing loudly, happily. The men sniffed, silently disapproving. When his father and Benji arrived back from the bar, Elvis packed up the records and the record player.
“Ah, my son de useless dancer!” Sunday announced as he watched Elvis putting things away.
Comfort, sitting with the other women, watched silently. Elvis ignored his father and walked into his room. Moments later, he came out, dressed, and headed for Redemption’s place.
ROAST YAMS AND PALM OIL
(Igbo: Ji Ahuru Ahu Ya Manu)
INGREDIENTS
Yams
Chilies
Salt
Ahunji
Palm oil
PREPARATION
Cut the yam into square chunks, leaving the skin on. Place inside an open wood fire amidst the hot ashes. Roast until crisp on the outside and soft and well cooked on the inside. Mix the chilies, salt and chopped ahunji into the oil. Dip the yam in the sauce and eat.
This simple fare is considered the food of the poor, or those serving an intentional penance. The lattergroup comprises mostly women who have been unfaithful to their polygamous husbands. In these cases, the punishment meant they had to cook mouth-watering dishes daily for their husband and family, but themselves eat only roast yam and palm oil. The minimum penance is usually seven days; the most extreme can last several months.
When the star marks a fork on the King’s head, we have three. This marks the turn.
The study of the relationship of the number of lobes on a kola nut and its relationship to the petitioner is akin to numerology. The number of lobes indicates the energy pockets that the petitioner has and these in turn will determine the nature of their life walk and talents. The more lobes on the kola nut they choose, the more energy pockets they have, thus the richer and more complex their life-walk.
Oye stood at the bend, near the edge of the road, waiting for the postman. He showed up, on time as usual, with a handful of letters for her. They came from her many pen friends all over the world.
Sunday prowled the length of the porch watching Oye nervously. Big lorries came hurtling around the bend at incredible speeds, and he lived in fear of Oye getting crushed. He would not admit that his concern had anything to do with love, mumbling instead about the high cost of burying the old. Still, Elvis suspected it was love, like the time he cut himself on a rusty knife and got tetanus and there was the possibility of him dying. His father had ranted at him angrily, calling him a wicked and thoughtless child to play so roughly and cost him so much in hospital bills. Yet when he recovered, there was no more mention of the cost of his cure, astronomical as it must have been.
It was only a combination of luck and driving skill that kept the lorries from plowing straight into the house. Some of these lorries were coming to the nearby fish market, bringing traders from the towns. Others came from the brewery in the next town, delivering their quota of oblivion, their drivers tipsy enough to swig beer from open bottles as they drove, in clear view of police at the checkpoints dotted all over town. Others were crammed with market women screaming conversations above the bedlam of the engine, squabbling chickens, snorting goats and barking dogs in cages. Crying children were casually thrown in the direction of a breast to suckle quietly. They roared past, scattering dust and shouted greetings.
The frames of the lorries were built of timber. Elaborate motifs of flowers and climbing vines sprawled over them in vibrant colors, and their tailboards boasted murals: Hercules pulling a lion’s jaws apart, a mermaid sunning herself on a beach, King Kong swinging from the Empire State Building. Along the sides ran slogans: SLOW AND STEADY … HE WHO LIVES BY THE SWORD SHALL DIE … TO BE A MAN IS NOT A DAY’S JOB … SUFFERING AND SMILING … THE WICKED SHALL NOT PROSPER … THE YOUNG SHALL GROW.
Oye stood watching the postman’s bicycle fade into the horizon, as though she expected him to turn around at any moment and return to deliver more letters that he had somehow overlooked at the bottom of his bag. Satisfied that he was gone, Oye walked back to the house, her letters tucked carefully under her arm. When Elvis read them later, they would give off the slight scent of talcum powder.
It was summer and schools were on holiday, and Elvis was home, so she summoned him and together they made a pot of too sweet, too milky tea. While she carried the tea, he followed closely, holding the envelopes.
She couldn’t read, but trusted only Elvis to read to her. She figured he was still young enough not to be judgmental or tell too many lies. Oye had never learned how to read or write, and before Elvis was old enough, Beatrice read the letters to Oye, taking her dictated replies down in a beautiful copperplate.
Elvis enjoyed Oye’s trust. It was one of the few times when he felt needed. That sense of importance was nearly threatened when he began to come across the letters written in foreign languages. The most regular came from someone called Gretel and seemed to be in a language that could be German. When he explained the situation to Oye, she laughed heartily at his discomfort and took the letter from him.
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” she said, holding the letter between her palms.
“What are you doing?”
“Reading it.”
“How?”
“Ach, laddie, with magic of course,” she said impatiently. “When I hold it like this, I can make out what it’s about.”
“Then why don’t you read all the others like that?” he asked.
“Tha thing with magic, lad, is tha’ it always has consequences.”
She settled back into her wicker chair, Elvis seated at her feet. She sighed and took the letters from him. With practiced casualness, she flicked through them, choosing one. She ripped the envelope and shook out the letter, which she passed to Elvis.
“Read, laddie,” she said slowly.
He took the letter, smiling at the elaborate ritual she had evolved. He wondered what she did on school days; he imagined she prowled the house restlessly until he got back. Clearing his throat, he began.
“Dear Oye …”
Mr. Aggrey took the entire kids’ dance class to the cinema to watch Fred Astaire.
“See how he floats,” he explained. “If you want to be good at dis, watch as many of dese kinds of films as possible.”