Graceland (34 page)
“Ignome gatturbe oringbe javanah!” they screamed defiantly.
His python, aroused by Jagua Rigogo’s screaming, unwound itself from his neck, raising itself into a three-foot rod of curiosity. Head cocked at the police, hovering over Jagua, it stared around. The police and fire brigade retreated from this apparition. The crowd pressed forward, all of them singing along to the Bob Marley song coming out of the sound system with the large speakers that they had borrowed from the record store down the road.
“Get up, stand up, stand up for your rights. Don’t give up de fight!”
More reinforcements arrived; and a bigger fire engine, with a bigger hose, aimed its nozzle and shot a jet of water over the barrier, right between the druids, catching Jagua square in the chest, breaking three ribs and throwing him fifteen feet back. In seconds the second wall of flame was a hissing wet mass. The police advanced, but so did all the children on the street. They draped themselves over and inside the barrier. Each child carried a candle and sang the hymn “Jesus Loves Me.” The fire engine backed off, as did the baton-wielding police. Two hours had passed and an impasse had been reached.
“Listen, you cannot stop us from doing what we have to do,” the inspector in charge of the operation called across. “You will only delay de inevitable. You are also senselessly placing yourselves at risk, not to mention dese children. Move back to your homes and I promise no one will be hurt. We will do what we have to and go.”
Nobody responded. Angry, he shouted orders at his men, and a couple disappeared to return a few minutes later with the bulldozer rumbling behind them. Sergeant Okoro, keeping well out of sight, whispered a few words to Freedom, who ran over to Sunday and whispered something to him.
Nodding, Sunday got up and raised his voice. “Hello!” he called.
The bulldozer stood idling and its engine drowned Sunday out.
“Hello!” he called again.
The police inspector signaled for the bulldozer driver to turn off its engine. “Yes?” he replied.
“Can you let us evacuate de wounded wizard?” Sunday called.
“Two men should carry him over to us. We’ll see he gets to de hospital. Is dat clear?” the inspector called back.
“Yes, sir.”
Walking back, Sunday nominated the two other wizards to carry Jagua Rigogo. As they lifted him, Sunday whispered to him and Jagua nodded painfully. As they neared the barrier, Sunday signaled Freedom. As Jagua was handed over to the police, he began waving his arms painfully about and screaming at the top of his voice.
“Dey are killing me O! Dey are killing me O! Dey are killing me O!”
While everyone’s attention was diverted to the screaming Jagua and the two other mad druids, still casting spells, Freedom vaulted over the barrier effortlessly. He crept round to the bulldozer. The driver had jumped down and joined the police and firemen surrounding Jagua. Freedom quickly cut through the rubber pipes that worked the hydraulic system of the bulldozer’s blade. By the time Jagua had been calmed down and put in the Land Rover on his way to the hospital, Freedom had finished and stood with the others, watching.
“Hey, you!” the police inspector called to Sunday.
“Yes.”
“Ask dese people to move or I will send de bulldozer in and crush your children!”
Sunday turned to Freedom, who smiled at him. Sunday then called to the children, who removed themselves from the barrier and gathered behind the now solid wall of adults.
“Move dis rubbish out of de way,” the inspector barked at the bulldozer driver.
No one moved as the huge metal dragon roared into life and rumbled slowly forward. More like a squat rhinoceros than a dragon, it hugged the ground reassuringly, although its movements were more sluggish than before. The driver’s face furrowed into a frown as he ground the gears angrily. From behind the third barrier, now burning too, the wall of men looked on. Two feet back from them stood a second wall, made up of women, humming gently, the sound swelling the men’s courage. Behind them, the children huddled, candles burning, their faces ghoulish in the fire- and candlelight.
The policemen watched them, faces hard. A fireman sauntered to the far side of the burning barrier and lit a cigarette. He exhaled softly and scratched his crotch distractedly. Yawning, he stretched, wishing he could go back home. He did not see the point of this. It would be easier to come back another day when they were not expected. That would be his plan. Besides, even if the crowd dispersed, how could they demolish the place with the people still in their homes? He glanced hopefully at the police inspector’s face, his spirits sinking at the determined look.
The bulldozer lumbered closer to the barrier. Even though it was beginning to skew slightly, some of the men looked worriedly at Sunday. But swallowing their bristly fear, they stood their ground. Sunday tried to smile reassuringly at them, but the sweat on his forehead belied it. He noted the bulldozer’s approach warily and glanced at Freedom from the corner of his eye. Freedom stood there without fear, a curious smile playing at the edge of his lips. He was either very confident or mad. Catching Sunday’s eye, Freedom flashed him a brilliant smile. Sunday decided to trust him.
Jagua Rigogo’s two druidic companions stood with dreadlocks billowing out behind them, beards working with the rigor of the spells they cast, hurling them at the bulldozer as though they were stones, or cannonballs shot from a castle wall. But the roaring metal beast would not stop, so they ran after it, beating it angrily with their wooden staves. The beast rumbled on, skewing even more. Ten minutes after it had come to life, the bulldozer stood two feet from the flaming barrier. It had only crossed twenty feet.
“Destroy dat barrier!” the police inspector shouted at the driver.
Nodding, the driver tried to engage the blade of the bulldozer. The levers groaned under his hands, but the blade only lifted half an inch before crashing down noisily. The next minute, rubber hosing under the metal behemoth ripped apart, blowing steam, hissing and twisting like angry vipers. The driver shouted at the machine and angrily began to yank all the levers in front of him. The bulldozer reacted by spinning round in widening arcs, its blade cutting swathes in the ground, ripping up the end of the barrier, scattering flames and embers everywhere. The policemen screamed and jumped back, as did a couple of men at the far side of the barrier.
With a screech, the bulldozer plowed forward, tearing a hole in the fire engine and coming to a stop amid tortured metal. Druids, driver, police and firemen lay in scattered heaps on either side, where they had dived for cover. The startled crowd had stopped singing and was staring open-mouthed at the spectacle.
“Arrest dose bastards!” the inspector yelled, coming to life and pointing at the two druids.
The policemen pounced on the two druids. Grunting from the exertion of beating them, the policemen shackled and hauled them off to the now returned Land Rover. The inspector approached the barrier and stood glowering over it at the line of men. He was stumped. Twenty years in the police force and he couldn’t dispel a simple street protest. The truth was that he had never had the heart for this part of police work, the bullish, brutish enforcing of orders from above. He sighed. His men stood behind him, waiting for orders, waiting for him to redeem this farce. He looked back at them and then turned to the barrier. Taking a big handkerchief out of his pocket, he wiped his face.
“Why are you people so stubborn?!” he called out.
Nobody replied.
“Dis is pointless. In de end, we will break through dis barrier.”
Still no one replied.
The inspector was getting really exasperated now. “Someone will get hurt! I don’t want dat to happen.”
Nobody said anything.
“Dere are children here.”
One of the men behind the barrier started giggling. One of the policemen picked it up, and soon the street was ringing with the sounds of laughter. Everyone was laughing except the inspector. Sunday was the first to notice the change in him, the tentative twitch of fingers reaching for his holstered pistol. Then it was out and pointing.
The shot silenced everyone and brought one of the laughing men down. Screams replaced the laughter and people began to panic. Confused, other policemen opened fire. People dropped to the ground, and it was unclear whether they were ducking or had been hit. Sunday stood still as people fell beside him, like rapids shooting a rock. Scanning the prone figures, he realized that only one person had been hit, but the firing hadn’t stopped. He screamed, high-pitched and unnatural. The firing stopped abruptly and everyone froze as Sunday approached the pistol-waving, wild-eyed inspector.
“Can we talk?” he asked, his voice soothing.
“Go on,” the inspector said, still looking at him warily.
“If you and your men stay here any longer, things are going to get a lot worse.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“What if I gave you my word dat we will pull out and let you in later?”
“When?”
“In a few days.”
The inspector began to calm down a little, the pistol steadier in his hand.
“But what guarantee do I have dat you will keep your word?”
“You’ve shot one man. One is in hospital and you have arrested two more. I don’t think we want to risk anyone else getting hurt.”
“But you don’t understand. Dere has been an incident here. Somebody will have to answer for it. Somebody has to be charged with dis. Somebody …” the inspector finished lamely.
“I understand. But you have two men under arrest, right?”
“Yes.”
“So charge dem.”
“But dey are your people. I thought sewer rats stuck together?”
Disbelief, dangerous at this stage, was beginning to creep back into the inspector’s voice.
“We will come and bail dem.”
“I don’t know.”
“Dere are children here. Why don’t you accept a tactical withdrawal? A dead child is difficult to explain.”
The inspector considered it for a while.
“But what can we charge dem with?” he asked.
“I don’t know. How about violent disorder and criminal damage?”
“To what?” the inspector argued.
“Say dat dey got in de way of de bulldozer, causing de accident.”
“But that will not hold up in court.”
“Probably not. But it won’t be your problem anymore. Dis will, though, if it gets any worse.”
The inspector deliberated silently, holstering his pistol. With a definitive tone he called his men off. Sunday looked at the bulldozer and the destroyed fire engine. Turning, he took in the burning barricade. Behind it, littering the ground sadly, were the banners and candle stubs. A bloodstained piece of crumpled tissue, broken and small, lay like a dead bird in the corner. At the other end of the street, some men and women were helping the shot man into a taxi. His left kneecap was hanging off, but at least he had not been killed. Freedom stood on a veranda, looking bewildered. Confidence sat on a stoop, head cradled between his hands, his wife making concerned passes over his head. Had it been worth it? Was any of this worth any principle? Sunday was not so sure anymore. Sighing, he walked past Freedom and Confidence into the tenement. Behind him, children were playing a new dare game: who could jump over the still-burning barricade.
ANTIDESMA MEMBRANACEUM MUELL. ARG.
(Euphorbiaceae) (Yoruba: Aroro)
This small tree is found mostly in the savannah. Its bark is pale grey and fissured and its twigs and young leaves are covered with a lot of hair. As with most herbs, the flowers are yellowish green. Small and black, the fruits occur along the base of the stalk.
A decoction of the leaves is used as a bath to prevent abortion. Mixed into stream water or seawater, milk and some Jordanian hyssop, it becomes a mystic bath to protect against witchcraft.
Mistakes are expected until the boy becomes a man, but still no ground is given.
An example is the town of Isu-Ama, comprised of the following clans set up by the brothers they were named after, in order of age, with Isu being the father. The clans are Isu— father; Anyim—first son; Utum—second son; and Igwe—third son.
The van bearing the legend JOKING JAGUARS stood shedding dust, body vibrating from the grumpy throb of its engine. Dust-encrusted musicians stood sweating in its reluctant shade, sipping on warm Cokes. A small crowd of curious children had gathered, speaking in hushed tones and pointing at the shapes lashed to the roof rack under tired green tarp.
Elvis mopped his brow with a dirty handkerchief and stared around the small town. It boasted one church, one shop with a decrepit petrol pump out front and a junior school. He didn’t know what it was called. Hell, maybe. Wherever they were, he did not speak the language. That was the problem with a country that was an amalgamation of over two hundred and fifty ethnic groups, he thought—too many bloody languages.
He walked over to a hawker and with sign language bought a bunch of ripe bananas and a measure of peanuts. Munching on a mouthful of banana and peanuts, he wondered how they found these towns. There were no road maps or signs. He looked at the musicians and tried to imagine what had kept them going all these years as they played small towns where nobody really appreciated the skill required to take years of abuse and turn it into amazingly beautiful melodies; the drain of searching yourself constantly, plumbing depths of nakedness to play that bad-ass solo that was lost on the loud-talking, drinking audience.
The King, the troupe leader, had gone off to see the local chief to get his permission to perform that evening. He also needed the local Catholic priest’s permission. Both would cost him money. With luck the gate takings would be good.
“Elvis!” one of the musicians called.
“Yes, George.”