Graceland (16 page)

“I’m sorry.”

Sunday grunted. Comfort had ignored the exchange, choosing to spend her time trying to recruit one of the unemployed men in the building to carry the box for a small fee.

Elvis entered his room, remerged shortly after with a towel and headed for the backyard. He washed, changed into his new clothes and shoes and headed over to the nightclub on Victoria Island. Perhaps Rohini would be there again tonight, he thought. He hoped so.

Redemption was waiting for him at the door of the club. He touched Elvis’s clothes. “Nice threads.”

“Thanks, man,” Elvis replied, pulling out some money to pay the cover charge.

Redemption stopped him.

“You work here now, so you no longer pay de cover. But you should buy de gate man some beer now and den,” he said.

Elvis nodded and followed Redemption into the bar. The same band was set up and playing a cover of Nigeria’s most popular song, “Sweet Mother,” by Prince Nico Mbaga. Released in the seventies, it was still on the charts. Elvis glanced at his watch. They were on early. They usually didn’t come on for another hour. As he pushed across the crowded floor to the bar, he realized why. There were several highranking army officers, in full uniform, sitting in the corner, drinking and talking. The band was probably playing for them. Beer in hand, Elvis made his way to the back of the room where the foreign patrons sat. He did not see Rohini, but within minutes Redemption approached him and led him to where an overweight Lebanese woman sat, cooling herself with a hand-held electric fan. She regarded Elvis with hungry eyes, then waved Redemption away.

“Sit,” she said in voice that could crack gravel.

Wiping the sweat from his palms, Elvis sat.

Dancing with his Lebanese client was a little difficult for Elvis, as she seemed to completely enfold him. His face was pressed so close to her sweaty cheek he could smell the funk from her unwashed hair. Her hands were kneading his buttocks with all the expertise of a master baker, her groin rubbing against his hungrily.

“Are you okay, lover?” she breathed at him.

The smell of alcohol was nearly overwhelming, and her bear grip around his ribs made breathing awkward. From a distance, it looked like she was a huge ape devouring him.

“I’m fine,” he managed with difficulty.

The band was playing Jimmy Cliff’s “Many Rivers to Cross,” and he focused on the words, singing under his breath, trying to take himself away, at least in his head.

“‘I’ve got many rivers to cross, but I still cannot find my way over …,’” he crooned almost inaudibly. Thinking he was singing for her, his client kneaded his back and buttocks even harder and swung him around. Just then, one of the heavily medaled soldiers danced their way, and Elvis bumped into him.

“I’m sorry,” Elvis mumbled as his client swung him around in the opposite direction.

The soldier stopped dancing and grabbed Elvis, pulling him out of his client’s arms.

“What are you doing, my friend? Assaulting a soldier?” the soldier demanded.

Pulled up by the lapels, Elvis wondered why he was being manhandled so much—first by his client and now by this soldier.

“No, sir. I said sorry, sir,” Elvis said.

“Sorry? What am I to do with sorry?”

Elvis didn’t answer immediately, distracted by the many medals the soldier had. He couldn’t determine the man’s rank, but he couldn’t help wondering how he had earned so many medals, considering the military saw so little action.

“Oh, you are playing tough, eh? Assault an army officer and play tough, is dat your game?”

“No, sir.”

The music had stopped, and the band was watching apprehensively. The dance floor had cleared, as people tried to put distance between themselves and the situation. The Lebanese woman, drunk, grabbed at the soldier’s arms, trying to dislodge his grip on Elvis. All the while she slurred: “Release my lover.”

“Is dis woman your lover?” the officer asked Elvis scornfully.

Elvis was unsure how to answer in order not to exacerbate the situation and at the same time to appease the woman, as she had not paid him for his two hours of, in this case, hard labor. He chose the diplomatic approach.

“We were dancing together,” Elvis replied.

“Dancing, or collaborating to assault an army officer? Do you know dat I am a full colonel?”

“It was an accident, sir.”

“So you admit that you assaulted me intentionally?”

Before he could answer, the front door of the club slammed open and six soldiers, who had obviously come with the officers and had been waiting outside, came in at a fast trot. The other officers had gone back to their chairs and were busy drinking and laughing with their dates. The girls were doing their best to pretend they were not terrified. The six soldiers seemed controlled by a collective mind and stopped in front of the Colonel, saluting.

“Shall we take care of dis dog, sir!?” the leader, a sergeant, barked, eyes ahead.

By now, people were beginning to sneak out of the club, and the band members were packing up their instruments. Elvis’s terror grew. He had heard about encounters with the military before, but he had been able to steer clear of any until now. The shock of the moment had worn off, and the severity of his position began to dawn on him.

“I don’t know, sergeant,” the Colonel said. Turning back to Elvis, he asked: “Do you think I should let my men handle you, dog?”

All the while he was shaking Elvis, who was getting dizzy as his head bounced around. Pictures of the scar running down the King of the Beggars’ face flashed before him. What if this colonel decided to open him up like a choice cut of beef? Shit, he thought. Double filcking shit.

“Good evening, Colonel, sir,” Redemption said, walking slowly over to the Colonel.

“Redemption, what is it?” the Colonel said.

“I know dis man, sir. He just came to Lagos; he is suffering from bush mentality, sir. He does not know any better, sir. Please forgive him.”

“You know dis man?” the Colonel asked.

“Yes, sir. He is confuse, sir. Forgive, sir, I beg.”

“Maybe I should get my boys to beat de confusion out of him,” the Colonel said, laughing.

Redemption laughed along politely.

“He is not worth de trouble of a big man like yourself, sir. Don’t waste your time on his type,” Redemption said.

The Colonel laughed and let go of Elvis, who collapsed at his feet.

“Only because you know him.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You,” he said, turning to his men. “Go and find dat band and bring dem back. I feel like dancing.”

Snapping to attention as one, the group ran out to get the band. The Colonel turned to Redemption.

“Get him out of here. Him and dat woman.”

“Yes, sir,” Redemption replied, already helping Elvis to his feet.

As they made their way to the exit, the Lebanese woman kept pulling at Elvis.

“Where are you going, lover?” she kept asking.

“Leave us!” Redemption said tersely.

“She still owes me for at least two hours,” Elvis said.

“Forget it, man. We have to get out of here before dese army guys kill you.”

“What did I do wrong, anyway?” Elvis asked.

“Shut up and don’t even look at dem. Don’t even think it. Let’s just go,” Redemption said.

The back door banged shut behind them as the band was being forced at gunpoint back onto the stage to set up their instruments.

“Dat was close,” Redemption said, leaning against the alley wall.

They were in the narrow dirty alley at the back of the club. Elvis looked around. Like tendrils of a spider’s web, other alleys ran off the one they were in, connecting each other in a network that probably traversed the entire city. Whatever reply he was about to give died in his throat when he saw three of the soldiers from inside walk down the alley.

“Redemption!” the sergeant called.

“Ah, Jimoh, dat was close O!” Redemption replied, laughing.

The soldiers joined them.

“You get ciga?” Jimoh asked.

Redemption tossed a packet of cigarettes to him. Jimoh passed it around to the other two soldiers. They each took three cigarettes, tucking one behind each ear and lighting the third. Jimoh tossed the packet back to Redemption, who lit two and passed one to Elvis.

“Dis your friend is a lucky man. The Colonel has killed people for dis kind of disrespect,” Jimoh said.

“But I did nothing,” Elvis protested.

Redemption and the soldiers laughed.

“Dis your friend is a hothead. He did not learn his lesson, I see,” Jimoh said.

“What lesson?” Elvis asked.

“Dat dere is no right or wrong with soldier. Just what we want,” Jimoh replied.

“Who is the Colonel, anyway? Do you really think he would have shot me in a crowded nightclub?”

“Where did you find dis man?” the soldiers asked, laughing. “You better get him out of here.”

Redemption nodded and pulled Elvis along. “Come,” he said.

Elvis followed silently as they kept to the side streets and alleys.

“It is better we are not stopped by army patrol, eh? One problem with army people is enough for one night,” Redemption explained.

Their route showed the city to be as untidy as the remnants on a half-eaten plate of food. Elvis mused at how personal it seemed, specifically adapting itself to meet each circumstance. On his way to the club, the streets he had traveled singed straight and proud, like a rope burn or a cane’s welt. Now every alley with its crumbling walls, wrought-iron gates, puddles of putrefying water and piss and garlands of dead rats was just as unique. Yet, though each square inch was distinctive, the city remained as general as an insult shouted on a crowded street.

Finally they arrived at Redemption’s place.

“I think you should spend de night here.”

“Sure,” Elvis said.

He lay on Redemption’s couch smoking until late, the thick smoke from his cheap cigarettes mixing with the fog from the mosquito repellent burning in the corner. Nothing about his evening made any sense. And though he had felt the sharp edge of danger, the full enormity of how close he had come to being shot eluded him. It seemed too surreal. The only thing he could hold on to was the fact that Redemption had risked a lot to save him. Why? He couldn’t figure it out. Absently he wondered how Redemption knew the Colonel, but was afraid to ask in case he found out. Since the night they wrapped the cocaine, Elvis had come face-to-face with just how dangerous Redemption might be. For the second time that night, he thought of the King of the Beggars and his warning.

“Elvis.”

“Yes.”

“Sleep—your ciga is keeping me awake.”

“Sorry.”

“Sure.”

“Redemption?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“Sleep.”

FROM
MABEL THE SWEET HONEY THAT POURED AWAY

My Sweet Honey,

No tongue can speak what I have suffered this afternoon. Despite the fact that we were disturbed, the way you delayed and teased me, while I suffered and burned like a flame inside me, it was so painful Oh! I don’t think I can forgive you.

Look I promise you everyting you can choose to ask of me. Even I will give you my life willingly, provided you first let me before I die. What are you afraid of? I have sworn that you won’t have any trouble.

Please my honey, I am coming down there by seven this evening and as your mother is away we can go out and see a picture or to another hotel or even walk about and back.

Please reply this letter through the bearer.

I am longing terribly for you.

Gilbert

My Sugar,

You think you are suffering more than I do. But you are wrong. The thing is this: my heart is strong for you, but my body is weak.

I love you three times more than you love me. But there is one thing wrong. I do not know how we shall do that thing. You know it will be my first time and that is why I don’t know how to start.

That afternoon I wanted it more than you but I was very much afraid. Don’t blame me for what you say you suffered for I was not free from agony.

I wait for you.

Your Sweet Honey,
Mabel

TWELVE

These people are true Kings and Queens: makers, breakers, saviors, devils.

Sorcerers, dibias, are born with dreadlocks, or dada. Several rites have evolved to allow parents to shave off the natty locks and hide the truth of their child from itself and the world. The power they hold is feared, as it is believed they can unmake the universe and remold it to their own designs.

Afikpo, 1979

He fetched water from the tap in the yard for his evening bath, whistling the theme song from
Casablanca.
Aunt Felicia cleared her throat loudly and, when he didn’t stop whistling, spoke.

“Elvis, stop dat! You know it is taboo to whistle at night. You will attract a spirit.”

“Sorry,” he said.

Afraid that the gathering shadows were now full of spirits and ghosts, he washed hurriedly, out in the yard, as close as possible to where she polished storm lanterns, soaking the air with the scent of kerosene.

“Wash behind your ears and scrub dose muddy feet,” she called out without looking up from her work.

“I have,” he replied.

But a stern look from her soon had him doing as he was told. Drying quickly, he scampered toward the house.

“Bucket!”

How did she always know? And without even looking, he mumbled to himself. Retracing his steps, he noticed a movement in the bush and his breath caught in his throat. There it was again, a ghostly movement from behind the outhouse, where the generator was kept. He willed the scream to erupt, but just before it did, the generator thumped crankily into life. The shadow waved. It was Macaulay, the electrician.

Back inside, Elvis began to shiver in the slight chill of Harmattan. Aunt Felicia, not knocking, marched in on his nakedness, and he hastily stuffed a towel in front of him.