Graceland (31 page)

“So tell me.”

Redemption took a deep breath and looked at Elvis.

“Keep your eyes on the road!”

“You sure say you want to know?”

“Just tell me.”

“American hospitals do plenty organ transplant. But dey are not always finding de parts on time to save people life. So certain people in Saudi Arabia and such a place used to buy organ parts and sell to rich white people so dey can save their children or wife or demselves.”

“They can’t do that!”

“Dis world operate different way for different people. Anyway, de rich whites buy de spare parts from de Arabs who buy from wherever dey can. Before dey used to buy only from Sudan and such a place, but de war and tings is make it hard, so dey expand de operation. People like de Colonel use their position to get human parts as you see and den freeze it. If we had cross de border yesterday, airplane for carry dose parts to Saudi hospital so dat dey can be sold.”

Elvis was silent. He stared out of the window, but kept seeing the heads in the iced cooler. He felt strange, like there were two parts of him, each watching the other, each unsure. He watched from another place as his hands trembled and his left eye twitched uncontrollably. He did not want to talk about this anymore, but somewhere he had crossed the line on that possibility.

“How much?”

“It depend on de part. Human head fetch ten thousand dollars.”

“But there is no head transplant surgery.”

Redemption laughed. “Elvis, eh! Dey can use de eyes and also something dey call stem cell. Anyway, heart is also ten thousand. De oders, like kidney, are like three to ten thousand dollars. It is big money for de Colonel.”

“So if we sell them to the Saudis at ten thousand, how much do they sell at?”

“Dat depend. If your only son dey die, how much you go pay for spare part for him?”

“Anything, I guess.”

“Dat’s right.”

They sat in silence, broken only by their breathing and Leo Sayer on the car radio, reassuring them, “You make me feel like dancing.”

Finally, Redemption said it. “You no go ask about de children we carry?”

“I was afraid to.”

“Well, as I hear, dere is too much damage to de organ as de Colonel de harvest dem. Also, not all survive de journey. So many of de parts are thrown away.”

“Oh my God!”

“Yes, dose children will arrive in Saudi alive, den, depend on de demand, dey will harvest de parts from dem. Fresh, no damage, more money for all of dem.”

“And none of the Americans ask questions about where the organs come from?”

“Like I said, if your only child dey die, you go ask question?”

“How could you get us involved, knowing all this? We are as bad as the Colonel and the Saudis.”

“No forget de whites who create de demand.”

“Them too. But how could you do this to me and claim to be my friend?”

“Firstly, I no know dat’s what dis job was. Secondly, dere are plenty people like Kansas who are also looking for money, but I choose you because you be my friend. You can be ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful! I—”

“If you want to preach, hold it. I tire,” Redemption interrupted.

“Fine.”

“Good.”

The motion of the car lulled Elvis to sleep. Beside him, Redemption chain-smoked to stay awake, the spiral of smoke blurring his vision. After several hours they came up to a small town, where Redemption slowed and pulled off by an isolated buka. Elvis woke up and looked around. They were in an industrial area, surrounded on every side by warehouses.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?” Elvis asked, stating the obvious. They had been driving all night and most of the morning, yet Lagos still seemed so far away.

“Make I ask dem inside. You want anything?”

“Anything cold, and some food,” Elvis replied.

He got out of the car and stretched. Ahead, the road unwound in a dusty ribbon. A crow called from its perch on a leafless branch, and a snake, probably a viper, basked in the noon heat on the road’s edge. He had no idea where they were. He watched a slim woman sail past balancing a load on her head that defied the frailty of her neck. Two small children followed closely, munching on sugarcane stems, while another was tied to her back by a lappa. It slept, lulled by the sway of her hips and the shade from the load.

Redemption came sauntering back to the car. He held two cold bottles of Coke and a fistful of bread. He broke off some bread and handed it to Elvis with one of the Cokes.

“Any idea where we are?”

“Near Shagamu. If we just continue straight we go meet freeway. Turn left and we go dey for Lagos in two hours.”

Elvis nodded and bit into the bread. It was hard and crumbly, but to him it tasted great. Eating quickly, he washed it down with the Coke. He tossed the bottle to the dusty ground and lit up a cigarette.

“Return de bottles,” Redemption said, snatching the cigarette from Elvis’s mouth. Empty bottles were valuable because the local Coca-Cola factory washed and reused them. To ensure they got their bottles back, the factory charged local retailers a deposit on the bottles, which could only be redeemed when the bottles were turned in. The retailers in turn passed the cost of the deposit on to consumers if they intended to leave the immediate vicinity of their shops with the drinks. The amount varied from retailer to retailer but was usually no less than the price of the drink.

With a grunt Elvis got out of the car, bent down and picked up the empty Coke bottles and walked back to the buka with them. The owner returned the deposit and he pocketed it. By the time he got back to the car, Redemption already had the engine running. Elvis slid into the passenger seat, slammed the door and, as they drove off in a cloud of dust, lit another cigarette.

They traveled in silence for a mile or so until they came across a line of pedestrians dressed in bright red and yellow clothes Elvis had only seen in Indian movies. Unlike the Hare Krishnas who were now a common sight in Lagos, or the Hindus and Sikhs who owned businesses in Nigeria, these Indian-influenced Nigerians wore outfits that mixed ideas right out of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves and costumes from a Bollywood production, complete with turbans. They had a regal look that was marred only by the sweat staining their outfits darkly, falling in streams down their faces.

“What is this? The invasion of the Raj?” Elvis asked, laughing.

“No, dese are de followers of dat new prophet, Guru Maharaji.”

“Guru who?”

“Maharaji. He is a local boy O! I hear say he used to be petty assassin. Den one day he escape on ship from de people whose child he kill and den return six years later saying he is de next prophet after Mohammed and Bahai. Say de Indian people dey crown him savior but dat he wanted to come back here just to help us. Bloody tief, I bet you he only reach Ivory Coast.”

Elvis laughed again. “These prophets, eh? How do they get people to follow them?”

“Who else dem go follow? Only prophets fit help us now, we be like de Israelites in de desert. No hope, no chance, no Moses. Who else we go follow?”

“Shit. A nation of prophets and devotees is a damned place.”

“Or a blessed one.”

Elvis snorted. Just then, one of the women caught his eye. It wasn’t just the way her bodice cupped her bosom tightly, or the way the rest of her outfit fell freely around her, swelling with each movement of her hips; not even the lone dreadlock that broke free of her turban and snaked down the side of her face. It was something else.

“Stop—stop!” he yelled at Redemption.

“I no fit, Elvis. We must reach Lagos and make plan before de Colonel find us.”

“Shit,” Elvis muttered as the line of devotees faded in the dust of their backwash. He felt sure that it was she—Efua. It made perfect sense. She was, after all, the one among them who most needed to believe; plus Aunt Felicia and even Sunday had said that they heard she was in or around Lagos. What good would stopping do? If she had wanted his help, she would have come to him. He was sure that his address was no secret back in Afikpo. Maybe he should just let her be. On the other hand, maybe it wasn’t her. After all, he hadn’t gotten a very good view. Still …

“I think we just passed my cousin Efua.”

“Here?”

“She was with the Maharaji people.”

“Aah. Maybe is for de best.”

“What?’

“Well, as you tell me, she done suffer. So maybe is for de best.”

“All her life she has been surrounded by fakes and charlatans who have not helped her. If that was her, I should go back and save her. But it’s probably not her.”

“Dis Elvis, you dey very selfish.”

“What do you mean?”

“Since I know you, you only care about yourself.”

“How can you say that, Redemption?”

“Because it is true!”

“But I want to help my cousin, do the right thing—how can that be selfish?”

“Until you see somebody dat you think is her, you never even talk of finding her. You never even think it. Now you say you want to help. Na lie. You dey want be hero, de savior of your cousin. Oh yes, I know your type. I
am
your type. If you can’t save yourself, den save others, abi? Dat way you can pretend to be good person.”

“I’m not following.”

“Why? It’s simple.”

Elvis was silent.

“Let’s take me. Since you have know me, what do you know about me? Nothing!” Redemption continued.

“That is not true.”

“Really? Okay, where dem born me, what be my papa name?”

“You’ve never told me.”

“I never tell you, or you never ask?”

“That doesn’t make me selfish.”

“Close your mouth before fly enter. Everything is about Elvis. I sure say you no even know your papa papa name.”

“That’s not true.”

“When it concerns you, nothing is true. Dere is a saying dat if everybody say you are smelling, better take shower before arguing. Even when you dey vex for your papa, you done ask yourself why tings be as dey are for him? You done try to understand him? Instead, you carry yourself as if nobody can understand you. Please, my friend, you are not so difficult to read.”

Elvis had no comeback, no quick retort. Redemption had never spoken to him this way, and it hurt. He kept quiet, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands. As he sucked in the smoke, he couldn’t hold back the tears that ran soundlessly down his face.

“Ah, Elvis, no ciga for me?” Redemption asked. “Just because I tell you de really truth?”

He turned to Elvis when he got no reply. Seeing the tears run down his face, he coughed and reached for the packet lying on the seat between them. He put one in his mouth and depressed the lighter on the dashboard. As he lit his cigarette from its glowing tip, he wondered if he had gone too far. Ah, what the hell, he thought, it was too late now.

In a few minutes they hit the tarred smoothness of the highway and were headed for Lagos. With any luck, Redemption thought, they would get there by lunchtime.

Sunday Oke folded the newspaper and laughed.

“What is it?” Comfort asked.

“Dis crazy government. Dey want to bulldoze dis place.”

“Which place?”

“Maroko.”

“Bulldoze?”

“Maroko.”

“Why?”

“Well, according to de paper, dey say we are a pus-ridden eyesore on de face of de nation’s capital.”

“Maroko?”

“Not only Maroko, but all de ghettos in Lagos. A simultaneous attack on de centers of poverty and crime, dat’s what dey are calling it. Dey even have a military sounding name for it—Operation Clean de Nation.”

“Maroko?”

“Stop repeating dat word like a crazy person! I say not only Maroko, but Ajegunle, Idi Oro and all de smaller ghettos under de flyovers. But phase one is Maroko.”

“When?”

“Well, according by de paper, it can happen anytime.”

“Anytime? How we go do?”

“Me? Nothing. I am not leaving dis place. We just managed to buy dese few rooms we own, and now dey want to come and destroy it. Why? So dat dey can turn dis place to beachside millionaire’s paradise? No! And den we will all move to another location and set up another ghetto. Instead of dem to address de unemployment and real cause of poverty and crime, dey want to cover it all under one pile of rubbish.”

“What of compensation? Did de paper talk of dat?”

“Yes, dey say dey will pay compensation, but dat is a pipe dream.”

“Why?”

“Dey haven’t paid de promised compensation to dose dat lost things during de war. You know how many years dat is? When do you think dey will pay us? In de meantime will we live on fresh air? I am not going anywhere.”

“But we can at least try, eh? Maybe dem go pay before de bulldoze.”

“Pay first? Dat’s like asking prostitute to pay you before sex.”

Comfort shot him a very disapproving look. “I no know about dat. But anything is possible.”

“Pipe dreams. I know I am not moving,” Sunday said. He turned to look at Comfort. She was staring off into the distance, her face furrowed in worry. Her hair was plaited, she wore no makeup and her dark skin seemed to glow. She was beautiful in spite of the toll that three children, a divorce, living with an alcoholic, running a small business, age and living in Lagos had taken. For a moment he thought he might be in love with her.

“I am not moving,” he repeated.

“Where Elvis?” Comfort asked, turning to him.

Caught off guard, he looked away shyly, before she could see what was moving in his eyes.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. I don’t know about Elvis. Dat boy has used up all my patience.”

She laughed, and the sound, sudden and uninhibited, surprised him.

“Like father, like son,” she said.

“What is dat supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. I just dey wonder. Over two days now, him never reach house.”

“He will come back soon. Anyway, why are you not in the market? It is just eleven in de morning.”

“I decide to close my shop today.”

“Why?”

“Why yourself? I no fit rest or am I spoiling something for you?”

“I only asked a simple question.”

“I dey go big market today for Shagamu with Gladys dem to buy new material for sale.”