Dangerous Love

by Ben Okri

  He lit two more candles, because he had become a little afraid of the darkness and of what he was painting. He gave the work a title: ‘The Beautiful Ones’ … He was about to complete the sentence but changed his mind. He wanted to use his own words. After a few seconds he wrote, ‘Related Losses’.

  But seven years later, after he had completed his seven Ifeyiwa paintings, when he had seen more, suffered more, learnt more, and thought he knew more, he made certain changes to ‘Related Losses’, vainly trying to complete what he knew was beyond completion, trying to realise a fuller painting on a foundation whose frame was set forever. Succumbing to the dangerous process of looking back, making himself suffer a long penance for a past artistic shame at a work unrealised by youthful craft, and under the pretext of wanting to re-educate himself in the form, he quite radically altered the painting. He got rid of the ships, the invaders, the turbulent Atlantic. He erased the predatory birds in the sky. He blotted out the unnecessary symbols that were not part of the original experience. He made the trees denser, and allowed the girl’s body more dominance. He made a phantom figure brood above her, the figure of an ancestor or of the unborn. Then he painted for the girl a bright yellow dress. He made her mutilation obscenely beautiful, as if she were giving birth to a monstrous mythic force; a messy, almost messianic birth from a flowering wound. Then he made her feet bare, small. He gave her cuts, bruises, spikes. But her feet were bright, as if ochred, as if she might have walked on magical roads. Then, finally, he created for her a sweet pair of eyes, a beautiful little nose, the nose of a gifted princess, and thick proud lips, sensual, silent, beyond speech, self-communicative.

  But that night his hunger was virulent. His hunger ached like an acid in his stomach. He had no appetite. When he had finished, full of sorrow for the faceless girl, he sat down on a chair in utter exhaustion.

  Later he went to Keme’s place. Keme’s mother was not surprised to see him. She embraced him, took him in, made him bathe, coaxed him into eating, and laid him down on the best bed in their poor household.

  4

  Weeks passed before he could see his father. He was allowed only a short space of time. He was wearing Ifeyiwa’s ring. There had been rumours that his father had refused to speak, hadn’t spoken all the time he had been held in prison. It had caused problems. The police had become a little testy and had beaten him a few times to open his lips. The lawyer had found the whole business frustrating, to say the least. Omovo hadn’t come to get his father to talk. He had come to talk to his father. The short time they had was running out. Now and again, with no particular relationship to what was being said, his father nodded. He kept staring at the window behind Omovo. His eyes were deep and red-veined. His cheeks were mottled and he had a growth of beard which gave him a haunted expression. His fingers trembled.

  Omovo could not bear his father’s twitchiness and so he began to talk about whatever came into his head. He told his father about harmless, unrelated events in the compound and the ghetto. The assistant deputy bachelor had got married and had lost his fabulous name. A pregnant woman in the compound gave birth to triplets. A lorry, reversing in front of the house, had accidentally destroyed the water tank. The nightsoil men had been on strike for three days. Omovo told his father about the vanished signboards and the subsequent outrage of the shop-owners. They had set up vigilantes to catch the thieves. The story had been humorously reported by the newspapers. Omovo told about the barber’s apprentice who had shaved his head. Apparently he had gone and done the same thing to someone else, someone who turned out to be a widely feared thug. The thug had beaten the apprentice in full public view and then had proceeded to give him a taste of his bad craft by shaving his head with a blunt razor. Then his boss fired him. The poor apprentice now roamed about the streets, provoking laugher wherever he appeared.

  His father’s expression didn’t change. A policeman came in and went out. There was silence. Wanting to fill that silence, Omovo said Umeh had written him. A trapped look entered his father’s eyes. Omovo then told him Umeh had written to say he was being deported home. His father remained silent, a picture of solicitude.

  ‘Our time is up, Dad.’

  His father looked old. The police guard came in and hovered. Omovo leant across and kissed his father on the cheek. He felt the bristles and smelt his sweat.

  ‘I’ll come and see you often. Everything will be fine.’

  His father nodded. He went on staring at the window. Omovo turned and saw the window. It was cracked and stained, but behind it could be seen a dusty guava tree in bloom, and beyond that was a framed view of the turbulent city.

  ‘Dad...’ he began.

  But he could not find the words. So many things clamoured within him. He wanted to say, in the clearest possible words, how much he loved his father. But he shook his head. Then he felt the policeman’s hand on his shoulder and said:

  ‘It was my birthday yesterday.’

  He got up. Suddenly, his father caught his hand and held it between the tough hide of his palms. Omovo didn’t move, caught between the policeman and his father’s grip. He sat down again. His father squeezed something into his hand.

  ‘Your mother gave it to me. It’s supposed to bring good luck. I never wore it.’

  It was a chain with the bronzed representation of a heart. Within the heart was another one, upside down. Omovo stood up again, flooded with confusion. As Omovo left he thought he saw on his father’s face the faintest outline of a misted smile, momentarily freed. Nothing else mattered. He went out of the stuffy police station into the heat, the noises, and the smells of the city. The traffic jams sill clogged the roads and hawkers filled the air with their numerous voices.

  Keme, with his inseparable motorcycle, was waiting for him up the road. He was finishing off a bottle of Fanta. They walked for a long time in silence. They went to a bar and got drunk and were silent. As they made their way home, Keme pushing his bike, Omovo said:

  ‘It’s a hell of a life.’

  ‘How is he?’ Keme finally, and tentatively, asked.

  ‘It’s a hell of a life.’

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Painfully. He didn’t say a word. Till the end. He kept nodding. Then the policeman came. I wanted to say millions of things and I didn’t. But as I was leaving he looked at me and I understood something for the first time. But I’m not sure what. The lawyer says he stands a good chance. Crime passionel and all that. A useful lie.’

  Keme changed the subject. They talked instead of their friends. Keme told Omovo that Okoro was in hospital.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was standing by the roadside when a military vehicle trying to escape the traffic jam sped past and knocked him over. It didn’t even stop.’

  ‘Was he badly hurt?’

  ‘Yes. His leg. He’s in a bad way.’

  ‘Oh God!’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘We’ll have to go and see him.’

  ‘I have. The first thing he said was that his girlfriend had deserted him. Left him for some other guy. A guy with big teeth, a disc jockey. Poor Okoro had spent all his money on the wretched girl.’

  ‘I met her. I thought things were fine between them.’

  ‘So did I.’

  They were silent.

  ‘It’s odd,’ Keme then said, ‘but he just kept on talking. He went on about Dele having gone to the USA. He said Dele had let him down, that they had planned to leave together. Then he kept on talking about the war. He said he had fought for a year, hadn’t been wounded, and now when there was supposed to be peace a military lorry comes and knocks him over just like that. He said strange things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘He said all the doctors in the hospital were spies, ex-soldiers, dead soldiers. He said they were conspiring to cut off his leg.’

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘No. He’s in a plaster cast. He said he dreamt he was an old beggar, dragging himself along the crowded
streets, his only leg contorted round his neck. I’ve never seen him so frightened. He wouldn’t let me go when I was leaving. They had to sedate him. He kept jerking and twisting. I couldn’t bear it. I fled and wept and haven’t been back.’

  After a short, poisoned silence, Keme continued: ‘Dele sent Okoro a letter.’

  ‘A letter?’

  ‘A short one.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘Guess.’

  ‘That he’d robbed a bank?’

  ‘No. It said: “States is fun. Had my first white woman today.”’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Quite. And his father has disowned him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For disobeying him, I suppose.’ Another silence. ‘Do you still think of that dead girl we saw?’

  ‘Yes. I did a painting of her. My first real painting. Did anything develop?’

  ‘No. I couldn’t discover anything more. I wish things happen like they do in films. You know, where a journalist digs around, finds a clue, then is on to the killers, and then brings them to justice.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘But it’s old news now. My editor yawns whenever I bring up the story. Every day we have news about scandals of corruption in government circles, massive embezzlements, our docks crammed with tons of uncleared cement, government housing projects where the houses haven’t been built, a journalist murdered by the secret police, students rioting, union leaders gone missing and turning up dead, secret executions of coup-plotters and of innocent protesters. What can a man do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But I still dream of her. This country’s in a bad way. Something is hanging over us. We can’t have all this chaos without something terrible happening. It’s impossible to investigate anything. Things are getting worse at an incredible rate. The problems got bigger than all of us before we knew about them. No one listens. Our history is turning into our worst nightmare and we aren’t doing much about it. The whole thing drives me mad.’

  Short silence.

  ‘And then there was Ifeyiwa.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘Didn’t I ever tell you about her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I can’t go into it. It’s too terrible. Too close. Can’t.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘She suffered. Maybe I also loved her because she suffered. A dangerous reason to love.’

  ‘Does love need reasons?’

  ‘I don’t know. But maybe love is dangerous.’

  ‘I’m not sure. We carry too many fantasies inside us.’

  ‘And fantasies are a mirror.’

  ‘A shield.’

  ‘A blindfold.’

  ‘It’s hard to see people for what they are; and maybe to love them for what they are.’

  ‘I know. To love simply is a gift. Ifeyiwa had that gift, and is now dead.’

  ‘Tell me about her.’

  ‘I can’t, I can’t, it’s too painful.’

  ‘Did I tell you about the policeman who seized my motorcycle?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was on my way to work. He stopped me. I discovered I had left my licence and insurance at home. He asked for a fifty Naira bribe if I wanted back my bike.’

  ‘Did you give it to him?’

  ‘Of course not. After two hours arguing he left me have my machine. He said they pay them badly. He’s got five children and a wife to feed. He’s all right.’

  ‘Yes. It’s hard for people. That’s all.’

  This provoked Keme into an uncharacteristic outburst.

  ‘That’s true. You know, Omovo, we are a betrayed generation, a generation of burdens. We will be the inheritors of bad faith and the cost of all the waste and the corruption. We have to sort out the mess our parents made of the country, the opportunities we missed, the oil boom that they pocketed. The old guard have to go, they have to die, before we can be born. Their sins are too many and I’m not sure that we are ready for the task. But we have to correct their failures before we can move forward with confidence. We have to be ninjas to survive and then we have to make our contribution to fulfil the destiny of Africa. Do we stand a chance, eh?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Omovo said. ‘We keep running away from our problems. It’s hard.’

  ‘But do we have a choice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We have to do our best.’

  ‘Better than our best.’

  ‘Yes. We have to surprise the world.’

  ‘Surprise ourselves.’

  ‘Alter our destinies. Or we’re finished.’

  ‘We won’t get started.’

  ‘We’ll just be victims forever.’

  ‘And we have a lot.’

  ‘A lot to give.’

  ‘You’re a rebel,’ Keme said. ‘A silent revolutionary.’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’ve been thinking. Responsibility is active. Vigilant. Action becomes character and character becomes destiny. I did a lot of thinking when I went away. It seems that the moment you see something is wrong you have a responsibility.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Either you speak out or you keep quiet.’

  ‘True. I prefer to speak. But journalism doesn’t completely satisfy that. I’ve been thinking too. It’s occurred to me that we have to be wiser than our parents. We need time.’

  There was a pause. Omovo said: ‘When I was in B– I had this idea about the Moment. Every moment. A way of living. Of being. Then I wasted the opportunity by thinking about it. I thought the sublimity away. I was on the verge of a revelation that could change my life. But I lost it somehow.’

  ‘You haven’t. It’s there. Somewhere.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘It is. Where will it go?’

  ‘I have this dream.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I dream of becoming a life-artist.’

  ‘I’m going to become the Head of State.’

  Omovo stopped and looked at Keme intently. ‘You probably will. I’ll support you. If you don’t become a tyrant, that is. If you do, I will oppose you to the end.’

  Keme laughed. They went on.

  ‘What are you doing this evening?’ Omovo asked.

  ‘I’m going to a party for a change. A naming ceremony.’

  ‘I’m going to the park.’

  ‘That park?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not coming.’

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘Okay. But I’ll wait for you outside. I’ll watch the gate.’

  ‘Did I ever tell you about the poem Okur sent?’

  ‘No’

  ‘Do you want to hear it?’

  ‘Yes. Is it long?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then let’s hear it.’

  And as they went down the wild roads, with noises all about them, with fumes in the air, soldiers bustling everywhere, bright colours dimmed by the fall of evening, Omovo read out his brother’s poem:

  When I was a little boy

  Down the expansive beach I used to roam

  Searching for strange corals

  And bright pebbles

  But I found sketches on the sand

  While voices in the wind

  Chanted the code of secret ways

  Through the boundless seas.

  Keme said he liked it.

  I

  Then after a while, gazing wretchedly at the ring Ifeyiwa had given him, Omovo said:

  ‘Maybe she was the love of my life, maybe she was the girl I was born to be with. But our destinies got mixed up somehow and now I have lost her forever. I suppose I’m doomed now in some way because she’s not here.’

  ‘If she really loved you, wherever she is she will make sure you’re not doomed, but blessed,’ said Keme.

  5

  That night they went to the park. Keme waited behind. Omovo, with his mother’s good-luck chain round his neck, passed through the gate. The park was emptying. All those who wanted a bit
of fresh air, who wanted peace, who wanted some order in their country, were going home for the night. He passed lovers, families, worshippers at new-fangled churches in their white soutanes. The darkness was benign. The branches weaved overhead and the leaves rustled. The knotted tree trunks were like the faces of old men who have lived terrible lives. The surf, unseen, beat on the shore and made the land tremble. There was a large moon in the clear sky. He could hear the wind in the flowers.

  He crossed the wooden bridges, made his way past the trees, and wandered along the shoreline that glittered under the moon. He had brought the coral with him, the beautiful coral that was eaten away at the centre, like an imperfect heart. As he wandered along the shore, the wind blowing him on, he fancied that he heard the voices of the drowned, the voices of those who never made the crossing, the ghostly whisper of revenants from the forest and the Atlantic, all those who dwell in seasons of unreclaimed time.

  He sat on the shore and watched the tumbling white waves. He watched the waves surging forward, spreading white foam at his feet. The water drew the sand from underneath him. He stayed firm. He watched the waves beat back on the shore the sacrificial items that the hungry populace had thrown out into the Atlantic, the items meant to appease angry gods, the packets of candles, the soft drink cans, offered with prayers. The waves beat them back, along with debris and flotsam.