Graceland (35 page)

“Is dat how your mother raise you? Not to offer your friends food?”

“My mother died when I was a child. What do you expect?” Elvis called back.

George roared with laughter. He wiped a tear and got up from the tree stump he was sitting on and strolled over to Elvis. Yanking a banana free, George peeled it halfway. He took a bite, then threw a handful of peanuts in after it.

“Why do you do it, George? Why are you a musician?” Elvis asked.

George glanced at him sideways. He wondered if Elvis was beginning to unravel at the edges. That is what the road did—ate away at the edges of your resolve until you were nothing but frayed soul fabric. From then on, there was only the music—and the sacrifices it demanded of you. At sixteen, George thought, Elvis was too young for the road. The King felt his youth would protect him. But the road always got you. Of course, he knew nothing about the fact that Elvis had the added pressure of being a fugitive from the Colonel. They had been gone for two weeks already, and George had not expected Elvis to survive the first week. Maybe he was made of sterner stuff. He liked him and secretly hoped the boy was not cursed by the muse. He was a nice kid with good moves and great potential as a dancer, though he had yet to be original. He was too young for that. George hoped this was just a phase for Elvis, that maybe he would have the chance at a normal life.

“I don’t have a choice, Elvis. When de muse calls, you obey.”

Elvis laughed. Hollow.

“I mean, we have been doing concerts for seven years now as Joking Jaguars. Almost every night we perform in a different town, under a different sky. I have not been at home for more dan six months at a stretch in all dat time. I have twelve children and a wife tired of waiting. And every night I get into costume and get up onstage and I die. I die.” George swallowed hard.

Elvis looked away, uncomfortable with this sudden intense display of emotion.

“You see, Elvis, in dis time and place, being a musician is not blessing. It is curse. Listen to my advice. Listen carefully. Do not live dis life unless it is de only thing you can be. Go out and get a nice job. Dere is a nice office job for you somewhere. Find a good wife. Look for a girl with a compassionate smile and fire in her eyes. But not de manic rage of a forest fire—look instead for de gentle glow of a hearth, a girl whose laughter makes de drudgery of life bearable. And when you bury your nose in her hair and draw a deep breath, if you are lucky, de spice of her love will infuse you with de husky scent of wood smoke, de throat tickle of curry leaves, de breathlessness of peppers and de milk burp of still-unborn babies. Draw all of dese deeply into you, until every part of you is infected by her. And if you are lucky, she will purge you of de insanity of de muse, de knife-edge beauty of seeing yourself as you are. As you really are.”

Elvis looked away into the distance, eyes following the dancing heat devils.

“The heat is too intense,” he said.

“Yes,” George replied, stepping back from the lip of the chasm. “You’d think it would burn everything bad to a crisp.”

Elvis nodded. This was all too much for him. Seeing a child hawker with a keg of cold water, he called him over. For a penny, he and George slaked their thirst. The sun had moved, and like an old woman tugging at her skirts, it dropped shadows over them. George sighed with relief. He couldn’t really stand the heat. His beard and rather corpulent disposition did not help much either.

In the shade of the rickety old van sat Ezekiel “Spectacles” Onyia. Ezekiel’s nickname did not come from wearing spectacles, but from the streak of vitiligo that ran across his eyes in a perfect spectacle shape. He was the lead guitarist and a committed musician. Zekeyspecs, as he was also known, was humming a gentle blues, plucking scales from his tired Spanish acoustic guitar. The instrument was so old and battered, it never ceased to amaze everyone how he produced such delightful music on it.

The Joking Jaguars were twenty men strong. Women were not allowed on the road trips because they obviously could not handle the strain. Or so the King said. Elvis suspected it had more to do with the fact that the King was afraid women would prove a distraction and cause rifts between the musicians.

There were several young boys, however, who sang soprano parts. They also played the female roles in the play that was always part of the performance. There were five of them, aged between nine and fifteen, and they were all nondescript, bar one. Esau, the oldest, had a certain air to him that marked him apart. He was stunningly handsome. But what really set him apart was the grace with which he carried himself. When he was dressed in full drag, he made more than a few heads turn longingly, including some of the musicians who knew he was a man. Elvis was fascinated by the conviction Esau brought to his roles. The other boys and men played women badly. There was caricature about it: a certain derision in their acting, an exaggerated femininity that was no more than a reassurance of their masculinity. Esau, on the other hand, brought a simple understanding, something of a shared commonality; nothing more.

Scanning the rest of the group, Elvis was disturbed that he could not remember most of their names. Yet they shared living, eating, cooking, sleeping, performing and even dreaming space together, daily.

There were a tuba player; George on saxophone and clarinet; the King on guitar and vocals; Zekeyspecs on lead guitar; Benson on rhythm guitar; Esau, the four other boys and Elvis on background vocals and dancing; a tall, thin guy on double bass whose nickname was Langalanga; and the others on a variety of percussion instruments from maracas and clap drums through to congas.

One of the drummers played a subtle rhythm behind Zekeyspecs. Another one tapped sharp time on an empty bottle with a rusty nail. George got up and walked over to them and began to sing in a deep, rich baritone. The four boys supplied the harmony. Elvis’s foot tapped to the music. There was a transcendence to the moment.

When they performed for an audience, the musicians played to please it. They searched in themselves for something, no matter how personal, that the audience could latch on to. But now, they sang and played what they wanted, each musician leading, then following, then leading again, until everyone had sung his piece. This was for them. No audience. Nobody. Not even for each other.

Elvis was just about to begin dancing when Esau marched into the middle of the seated musicians. Elvis sat back and watched. Esau stood stock-still for one long moment, then began to dance, his body so fluid it teased a tear from Elvis. The song came to an end abruptly, catching Esau in midstep. They broke up laughing.

Just then, the King came up. He was smiling. Elvis understood him well enough to know that they had got the permission they needed to perform that night.

Some of the musicians drove around the area campaigning, making announcements and playing music through a battery-powered amplifier. Wooden posters advertising their show in lurid colors hanging from the side of the van heightened the effect. Other musicians walked around town, stopping at bars to drink and eat, all the while displaying their instruments and talking loudly among themselves about that night’s concert. Elvis walked up to the King to ask what play they were performing that night.

“If You Bamboozle Somebody, He Will Bamboozle You,” the King replied.

Elvis nodded; he knew the play well. There were three main characters and some minor ones. The play was short, lasting only two hours, which meant that night’s audience would be small. The play’s characters were the good-time girl Owumara, played by Esau; the joker, or bob, Johnson the taxi driver, played by Elvis; and the old lady, played by the King. Different people played the other minor characters. The play itself had a simple plot with a didactic thread.

The evening’s show always started with a dance during which the band played all the popular tunes of the day. The play followed, and then there was another dance afterwards. For a big audience in a big town, the total number of songs played in one night came to about forty, not counting those played as part of the play. Most evenings began at nine p.m. and finished at four in the morning. Tonight would be different. The town and the audience were small, and Elvis figured they could get away with twenty songs, give or take.

The play itself consisted of an opening and then a scene or play proper. The opening varied between twenty minutes and an hour and consisted of a chorus, an in and a duet. The opening chorus was usually a fox-trot or a quickstep sung and danced by the main characters. Esau excelled at this. The in and the duet were both comedy sketches. The in was performed by a solo stand-up comedian, while the duet was played by two actors. It was within the opening that all of the vaudeville influences were kept. As with all traditional performances, audience participation was encouraged. This varied from applause, weeping and jeering to throwing food and money onstage. A few members of the audience usually joined the actors onstage, improvising with them.

The evening passed uneventfully, and they got away with a fivehour performance, including the dances. Tired but richer, the musicians headed for the van and the local police station. Where they could, they tried to sleep in or near one; it was the safest place for them. While the musicians bedded down on raffia mats in the station’s courtyard, the King counted up the evening’s takings, which he locked in a small metal safe.

A few of the other musicians, George included, were huddled under a neem tree, smoking beside a fire. The neem wood burned lazily, releasing a cooling eucalyptus scent. Elvis, unable to sleep, joined them. They made room for him. Langalanga, the bass player, sat with a metal saw trapped between his knees. With one hand he bent and massaged the blade. With the other he drew his bass bow across the blunt edge, causing the saw to sing: a deep belly growling hunger that rose to the shrill call of morning angels.

George passed him a cigarette and Elvis dragged deeply, blowing smoke rings before passing it back. Thinking about Redemption, the Colonel, his father and the effort to protect Maroko from destruction, he felt a sudden pang of sadness.

George noticed the expression on Elvis’s face and asked, “What is it?”

“I just realized something,” Elvis replied.

“What? Are you in love?”

“No. I just realized that it is only a small group of people who are spoiling our country. Most people just want to work hard, earn a living and find some entertainment. Yet it seems that no matter how they try, they remain poor.”

“What are you talking about?” George asked, confused. “Where did dat come from?”

“Leave him, he is making sense,” the King said, coming over to join them. He laughed deeply and slapped Elvis on the back. “De boy is becoming a man,” he said.

Elvis swallowed.

“Dat is exactly what I have been trying to tell you since I met you. De majority of our people are honest, hardworking people. But dey are at de mercy of dese army bastards and dose tiefs in the IMF, de World Bank and de U.S.,” the King said.

“But how is the World Bank responsible if we mismanage the funds they give us?”

“Funds? What funds? Let me tell you, dere are no bigger tiefs dan dose World Bank people. Let me tell you how de World Bank helps us. Say dey offer us a ten-million-dollar loan for creating potable and clean water supply to rural areas. If we accept, dis is how dey do us. First dey tell us dat we have to use de expertise of their consultants, so dey remove two million for salaries and expenses. Den dey tell us dat de consultants need equipment to work, like computer, jeeps or bulldozers, and for hotel and so on, so dey take another two million. Den dey say we cannot build new boreholes but must service existing one, so dey take another two million to buy parts. All dis money, six million of it, never leave de U.S. Den dey use two million for de project, but is not enough, so dey abandon it, and den army bosses take de remaining two million. Now we, you and I and all dese poor people, owe de World Bank ten million dollars for nothing. Dey are all tiefs and I despise dem—our people and de World Bank people!” the King ranted.

Elvis didn’t know what to say. He looked up at the sky. It was beautiful. Stars. Like so much sand.

“But why don’t we revolt and overthrow this government?” he asked finally, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“Who want to die?” George said.

“We should retire for de night,” the King said, squinting at his pocket watch in the half-light. “We leave early for Lagos. We go perform for Freedom Square tomorrow. I hear say de Colonel’s boys go dey dere. Time to send a powerful message, eh?”

Nearly everyone laughed heartily. But the King noticed Elvis’s terrified look and took him aside.

“Don’t worry, Elvis. Your matter go done clear by now.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t, but I just feel it.”

“I’m afraid. The Colonel is trying to kill me.”

“Yes, but by now him go done tire for dat.”

“You don’t know. I’m not convinced.”

“I am sorry, but we must return tomorrow. You can stay.”

“Where? Here? I don’t know anybody here. I don’t even know the language. How can I stay here?”

“Den you must return with us. No worry, I go protect you.”

Elvis spent a restless night, dreaming that the Colonel was chasing him with a large machete, slashing at him madly and only just missing.

Dawn left streaky marks across night’s face, and the men stood by the idling van, sipping gingerly on hot tea flavored with eucalyptus leaves and munching on hard cassava bread. Farmers on their way to the fields called out greetings to the men. Some congratulated them on a good performance the night before. Elvis, mind numbed from too little sleep, yawned back at them.

George stood beside him. “Tired?” he asked.

“Very.”

“Ah,” George said. “It is so, coming and going. Never staying. You realize dis is de way your life will be from now on if you continue with us.”

“Yes, very exciting.”

“Wait a few years. Den tell me if it is still exciting.”