Nights of the Creaking Bed

by Toni Kan

  ‘You will give me sons,’ he said, dancing around me. ‘Look at your hips. These are son-bearing hips.’

  ‘Goddie, I said I haven’t seen my period. I didn’t say I was pregnant,’ I told him, but he laughed.

  ‘What do you know? Tomorrow, we shall go for a test, but I already know the result: positive. I can tell a pregnant woman from a mile away.’

  The test was positive. I was eight weeks pregnant and, to celebrate, Goddie took me to a Chinese restaurant on Victoria Island and then, for the first time, he spent the night in my house.

  ‘Now that I’m pregnant, you have to see my uncle,’ I told him. ‘Please,’ I said, nuzzling his neck.

  ‘Okay, okay. Just give me time. Let me talk to my people who will go with me. You have to choose the right time to break this kind of news.’

  I gave him time, reminding him once in a while and not really pressing it because I did not want him to get angry. Then, one Saturday in my fourth month, he came and said his people would come to see my uncle in two weeks’ time. ‘But we’ll go and see the doctor first,’ he said.

  The doctor was a tall, dark man who wore very thick spectacles. He told me to lie on a bed in his office and, while Goddie looked on, he examined me. Then he rubbed this gel on my stomach and placed something cold and plastic on my tummy.

  ‘Look at that screen. See, that’s your baby. That’s the heart. See how it’s beating. And it’s four months old,’ he said pointing to two dots on the screen.

  ‘Is it a boy or a girl?’ Goddie, who’d been looking on in silence, asked.

  ‘Hmmm…. You know, it’s never exactly accurate, but let’s see.’ He rolled the stuff over my stomach, then looked up and said: ‘I think it’s a girl.’

  ‘Wao!’ Goddie laughed. ‘Let me get my wallet from the car,’ he said as he rose from his seat.

  I lay on that table for close to ten minutes, my top bunched up beneath my breasts. But Goddie did not come back. The doctor asked me to get up.

  ‘You can wait outside. I have other patients waiting,’ he said.

  ‘But we haven’t paid,’ I said, setting my foot gently on the floor.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he told me and it was the pity in his eyes that set off alarm bells in my head.

  I picked up my handbag, slipped my fat feet into my slippers and turned the knob. Goddie wasn’t in the waiting room. Fighting to suppress the rising panic, I pushed the entrance door open and stumbled outside. Goddie’s car was not there. I sank to the ground in a dead faint.

  When I woke up, the doctor, the one who had done the scan, was standing above me, a worried frown wrinkling his brow.

  ‘Thank God,’ he said. ‘You gave us all a fright. Only God knows what would have happened if the mei gadi had not seen you fall.’

  ‘I want an abortion, doctor. Please. I need an abortion.’ I grabbed his arm, refusing to let go. ‘Please help me. I don’t want to have the child. Oh God!’ I was attracting curious stares from the nurses.

  ‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘Calm down. We need to stabilise you first before we can think of doing anything; moreover you are too far gone. You are already in your second trimester. And, like I told you guys, the scan is never 100 per cent sure. It could actually be a boy. We could do another scan just to make sure. Please don’t do anything rash, OK?’

  Two days later, the doctor said, ‘Children are blessings, you know.’ He had allowed me to stay on free of charge while he observed me. ‘I don’t recommend evacuation after three months so I won’t do it, but I also want you to know that you can’t tell what this child may be in the future. Women have ruled nations and will still rule nations. So, you don’t know what this girl will become.’

  He gave me N1000, told me to take care and bade me goodbye. It was on the bus ride home to Akoka that I realised how foolish and naïve I had been. I didn’t know Goddie’s home or office address. I didn’t know what company he worked for. All I knew was that he was an accountant and that he was married and had three daughters.

  I had never seen N1000 go so fast. Broke and pregnant, I called Goddie’s GSM number and was told that it had been switched off. I sold my CD player, the one he gave me for my birthday; then I invested the money in a pure water business. The business wasn’t bad, but the problem was that I was five months pregnant and it wasn’t easy standing in the sun and chasing after cars with a bag of water on my head.

  I quit the business after I fell and bruised my shin a second time. To stave off hunger, I began selling off my other stuff to survive. If I hadn’t been pregnant, I would have sold my body. There aren’t many men willing to sleep with a woman who is six months pregnant.

  My landlord didn’t mind, though.

  ‘Mr. Goddie brother say Mr. Goddie don travel abroad and say you go dey pay me from now,’ the man said, as he settled his bulk on my bed (since I had sold the chair).

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Please, do you have his brother’s address?’ ‘Address ke? I come for my money. Which one is address?’ he asked, his eyes lingering on my bare shoulders: fresh from the shower, I had been creaming my body when he announced himself.

  ‘The agent say you no get money, not so?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said, avoiding his eyes.

  ‘Well, you get something you can give me. Lock the door.’

  It went on for three months. He would come in sometimes in the morning, sometimes at night. He would tell me to lock the door. And sometimes, before he left, he would drop off a N100 note or a tin of Milo. He stopped coming after I had my son. And then, finally, the agent came and threw me out.

  They say we go to hell if we die without being saved, while those who die in a state of grace go to heaven. I remember how my parents used to make us pray and read the Holy Bible out loud. I remember all that now and laugh. My parents must be wondering now what it was all about because, believe me or not, heaven and hell are on this earth.

  You are in heaven if your joy outweighs your sorrow. Hell is here on earth and I have been living in it.

  When I had finished crying, the hunter set out a cheap breakfast of bread and sardines for me.

  ‘Chop,’ he said and I ate.

  He didn’t speak to me; he just smoked quietly, casting furtive glances at me as I ate like an escaped prisoner. After I had wiped the plate clean, I emptied the sachet of pure water he gave me, belched loudly and wiped my mouth with an ear of my wrapper.

  ‘You dey okay?’ he asked, and I nodded.

  We sat in silence for what seemed like eternity; then he rose, yawned loudly and said to me, ‘You want to go or you want to stay here?’

  I sat down there and said nothing. When I looked up at him, his face was set but his eyes were smiling.

  Ahmed

  For years, Ahmed had looked forward to it. Like a headstrong fantasy that takes your sleep hostage, it had appeared ceaselessly in his dreams.

  Every time the lorry trundled into the village, Ahmed would abandon his flock, his ears flaming with a ravenous hunger for stories, and race to the clearing before their house. Like the dry and thirsty earth, he would sit and lap up the stories that dripped off his older brother’s tongue.

  ‘The roads are big, so big you can shepherd a thousand cows and not have to walk in single file,’ Yinusa would say. ‘Ah, you should see the houses, kai. Big, tall houses with a hundred rooms and – wait!’

  Yinusa would hold up a finger before accepting the bowl of water his mother had brought him, and Ahmed would grit his teeth to keep himself from raising his stick and bringing it down on his brother’s head. The suspense was killing him.

  ‘You should see the houses at night. There are a thousand lamps on the walls and you don’t have to light them. Just touch something on the wall and the lamps will come on.’

  ‘Kai!’ someone cried. The effect was the same, no matter how many times they heard the story.

  Ahmed sat there, his mind already wandering the plains, skipping the hedges and contemplating the wide roads, the mag
ic lamps and charms of the city he couldn’t stop thinking about.

  ‘You have never lived until you have been to the city and kai, you should see the young women, wa yau…’

  ‘Kai, dan iska,’ his mother would say and shoo all the young men away.

  While Yinusa ate, Ahmed would admire the truck he drove, the magic wagon that took you to the city. There was always that strong smell of cow urine and dung no matter how many times you washed it. The truck was transport for cattle and groundnuts and whatever else the people of the city wanted.

  No one in the village drove a truck. Only two or three people owned bicycles and no more than that number had been to the city. But those had only been whistle-stops. Nobody had been to the big city, the one so far away it took days to get there and weeks to go there and return, the big city that was built on water where men who were not careful took mermaids for wives.

  But Yinusa had always been a restless soul. As their mother liked to say, the village was “too small for him.” Abandoning the flock in the fields one evening, Yinusa had hopped on a truck and headed for the city. No one saw him again for four long years, until the evening he trundled back into the village behind the wheels of a pickup van.

  By the next time he visited, the pickup had grown into a truck and, with the growth, came more stories.

  At night, before they retired into their hut, Ahmed would beg his brother to take him to the city.

  ‘Just one time, Yinusa. Let me see those wide roads. Let me see those walls glowing with magic lamps. Let me see the sea hugging the shores. Let me touch the long hair of a mermaid.’

  ‘You will. I will even let you suckle a mermaid’s nipples if you promise to keep your mouth shut,’ Yinusa would say and laugh. ‘But it’s not up to me. You must speak to Mother.’

  Their mother had always said he was too young to make the trip, but Ahmed knew age wasn’t the issue. Their mother was scared. Having lost their father and a dan iska son who appeared and disappeared like the wind, she was loath to let her other son follow the same trail that led to the city.

  ‘Uwana will let me go if you persuade her. Tell her you will make sure I come back.’

  Yinusa yawned and patted Ahmed on the head. ‘Okay, Ahmed. Sleep now, I will speak to Mother tomorrow.’

  Mother agreed this time.

  Ahmed was in a fever. Excitement churned his stomach, wrecked his appetite, and kept him awake all night. And early the next morning, when Yinusa held the door to the passenger’s side open for him, Ahmed shook his head and leapt into the back instead.

  He loved the lulling, swaying motion as the truck roared out of the village leaving a cloud of brown dust behind. He loved watching the sun come up through the branches of the trees. He loved the gentle touch of the wind on his face. And he loved, most of all, the shimmering macadam and the mirages that loomed ahead, disappearing like hapless lakes as they approached.

  He had heard the Imam speak of paradise. This must be it, Ahmed thought, inhaling the fresh air. All that was missing were the seventy-two virgins.

  But the town surprised him. It was noisy, dirty and there were many people. True, the roads were paved and wider than the footpaths in the village, but he could not imagine a thousand cows trudging side by side.

  ‘Is this all? Is this the city?’ Ahmed asked Yinusa as he jumped out of the truck and stretched.

  ‘Be quiet, Ahmed. This is just the town. Now, let’s find something to eat.’

  The girls who served them were all made up and scantily dressed. When one of the girls bent down to pick up the bowl of water from their table, Ahmed caught sight of her bare breasts and looked away, wondering whether she was a mermaid.

  They slept in a cramped, musty room that Yinusa said was his “place”. There were many shirts hanging on the wall. There were pairs of jeans and canvas shoes.

  ‘Are they all yours?’ Ahmed asked. ‘Yes,’ Yinusa answered, stifling a yawn. ‘Can I have some?’

  ‘Yes. But we have to sleep now, because after tonight we won’t get much sleep.’

  They went to the park the next day. It was noisy and dirty, too, but that was not what bothered Ahmed. What bothered him were the trucks, lots of them parked side-by-side, head to head, head to tail. Standing at the back of the truck and looking out, Ahmed felt like he had been dropped into a maze.

  People passed water under the trucks and everywhere hung the thick smell of putrefaction and human waste. Ahmed wanted to ask Yinusa again if that was how the city was, but checked himself.

  Everyone seemed to talk in loud voices and he had difficulty catching what was being said. He followed Yinusa, trailing far behind because he was careful to avoid stepping into the puddles of urine and stagnant water that stood all over the park.

  They went into an alley where there were people standing and smoking. The smell of ganja hung thick in the air. He hated the acrid smell. The first time he became aware of ganja was the last time he saw his brother for four years, four long years during which time his father had died and he had had to grow up fast, too fast, so as to be the man of the house.

  He remembered Yinusa dashing into their hut early that morning, their father hot on his heels.

  ‘Give it to me. Hand it over,’ demanded the older man.

  Yinusa was chewing furiously. Their father grabbed him by the neck until he choked and spat out a globule of chewed paper and leaves.

  ‘Keep smoking ganja and you will never amount to anything,’ their father said, boxing his ears. ‘The next time I catch you is the day you leave my house.’

  Yinusa did not wait to be caught a second time. That evening, when he saw a passing truck, he leapt on board.

  Apart from idle men smoking ganja, there were lots of women in various levels of undress, dashing in and out of doorways. Ahmed quickened his pace to catch up with his brother.

  The room they entered was cramped and had that musty smell Ahmed had come to associate with the town. Yinusa shook hands with the men gathered in the room and introduced Ahmed as his mate.

  ‘I hope he won’t give us trouble,’ one of the men said, speaking as if Ahmed was not even in the room.

  ‘No. He is a good one, are you not Ahmed?’ Yinusa asked but, from the look he gave him, Ahmed could tell he didn’t expect an answer.

  ‘You leave for the city tomorrow with beans and ground nuts. Isa will join you.’

  ‘Any special consignment?’ Yinusa asked with a smile.

  The man did not return the smile. He sighed and said, ‘You know I am still angry with you for getting us into that police wahala.’

  Yinusa laughed nervously and led the way out.

  The journey was long and tiring, but Isa was a jovial soul who kept Ahmed entertained. He told him the names of the towns they drove through and what to eat or drink.

  ‘If you need a girl, I can get you one. Just tell me. You like that one with the big behind?’ Isa asked, pointing, and Ahmed felt the hot flush rise to his face.

  ‘No,’ he stammered and Isa laughed.

  ‘We were all shy the first time, but you will get used to it.

  And when you are ready, I will be waiting.’

  They slept in Ibadan because Yinusa wanted them to get into Lagos first thing the next day. That way, they could unload early and have the rest of the day to see the sights.

  ‘You know what they say about the big city?’ Yinusa asked Ahmed, as they ate in Ibadan. ‘They say, “See Lagos and die.”’

  ‘Will I die?’ Ahmed asked, alarm furrowing his brows.

  ‘No. They say that because, after you’ve been to Lagos, there is nothing more to see,’ Isa explained.

  Ahmed sat up above the sacks of beans and ground nuts and stared when Isa told him they were entering Lagos.

  He showed him the sculpture of three men with arms raised in greeting. Then, as they rode into the heart of the city, Ahmed marvelled at the cars that filled wide roads, the blaring horns, the brightly-painted trucks that roared past. He stared a
t the tall buildings reaching almost to the skies and, over and over, Isa had to scream at him to duck to avoid ramming his head into the pedestrian bridges that stretched across the roads. He marvelled at the sight of people walking on the bridges to get across the wide roads.

  ‘Those are pedestrian bridges. If you don’t use them, the cars will knock you down,’ Isa explained.

  They rode deeper into the city and Ahmed could not stop staring. This was more than he had expected: the sheer number of people, the wide roads and vehicles of all shapes and sizes.

  ‘We are now in Iganmu. We will park and then go get something to eat,’ Isa explained.

  Yinusa was looking for a good spot to park and Ahmed watched as Isa picked up a piece of wood that had been lying atop the bags since the beginning of the trip and began to poke at iron cables that dangled low and close to the truck.

  ‘Sit down and be careful,’ Isa told him.

  As Yinusa manoeuvred the truck into place, Ahmed spotted one of the cables dangling close to the truck and, rising to his feet, reached out to push the cable away.

  There was a tingle on his fingertips. Then he felt as if someone had punched him in the small of the back. He heard Isa scream his name, but when he opened his mouth to scream back, smoke escaped instead and then he was jerking and flying through the air.

  By the time Yinusa and Isa got to him, Ahmed was dead and lying face down in the torpid water.

  Buzz

  It was a wet morning and Buzuzu was standing outside a blue, run-down building with a frown on his face. Those who knew him would not have thought anything amiss because Buzz, as friends preferred to call him, was forever frowning, as if he held a perpetual grudge against the world.

  He had on a black leather jacket. A black fedora hooded his eternally-bloodshot eyes while a well-pinched and half-smoked cigarette burned slowly between his fat, dark lips, the smoke curling up into his face. A policeman watching him from a distance wondered whether it was the smoke that made him squint.