New York, My Village

by Uwem Akpan

  Pulling him closer, I whispered that I had intimidated Brad and Jeff, so they were no longer a threat. He gave me a rigorous handshake with both hands. “Hey, you don’t need to tell your friend the landlord about our Sunday stairwell shit!” I said. “I’ve taught them a few lessons.” When he asked how I had accomplished that, I silently shook my head. He unleashed a huge laugh that echoed through the building. We did bro-fists and he quickly ducked into his place.

  I called up Caro. Because she showed no interest in my mmun-edia tales, I knew I was in trouble. After saying she dreamed that I was overwhelmed by New York, she told me she had found a church in the square for me, in place of the cathedral. The Google link to the Actors’ Chapel she sent showed diverse groups of worshippers, like in the cathedral, but in more informal gatherings. I was taken aback by the front, a nondescript thing you could not tell was a church from outside.

  * Orobator, S. E., “The Biafran Crisis and The Midwest,” African Affairs, 1987.

  CHAPTER 6

  Why really did the dogs die?

  ONE WARM SATURDAY AFTERNOON, TWO WEEKS AFTER my arrival in New York, my back began to itch in the Hibernia Bar on West Fiftieth Street, an Irish sports place, where I was watching a Liverpool vs. Hull soccer match. I was in my red bell-bottom long-sleeved Senegalese caftan, which came down to my ankles.

  The itch made me lose interest in my corned beef and cabbage sliders and Guinness Blonde. I had already been disappointed Molly could not show me around NYC two weekends in a row because, as publisher, she had to attend book events in Boston and Chicago. Usen was texting me nonstop to celebrate because Liverpool was leading by two goals. But I could not chat with him, as it became increasingly difficult to get to the little itch. I promised to call Usen later.

  Just then the itch suddenly grew screaming wild, and I hurriedly pushed back my chair and shot up, but failed to reach the itch with my right hand. It was below my shoulder blades, almost at the midpoint of my back, stuck like unreachable trash in the gutter. I resorted to my left hand but could only hit the margins, which just worsened the itch. For a moment I wanted to pull off my red Senegalese caftan. But when I remembered I had just tight boxers underneath, I dashed to the door, leaned heavily against the frame, and rubbed at the itch like a stubborn goat.

  The manager, a short man with sharp eyes, a stubble of a haircut, and an accent like the Irish priests of my childhood, looked at me in openmouthed shock. The other customers looked away. But before he could react, I was back at my table, ashamed. When he brought the bill, he was so tense his Irish accent almost mangled his words.

  I apologized.

  By the time I got home, all I could think of was the periodic fire near my backbone, not the match. When I called the Bronx, Usen and Ofonime eagerly put the phone on speaker and passed it to their daughter, like folks who were happy to get a break. She told me all about her school and church friends. She asked me about her parents’ siblings back home and her cousins and the river and forests and Our Lady of Guadalupe Church. And then, unexpectedly, she asked me how I flew out of the country with the Biafra War still raging.

  “Sweetheart, the war ended almost fifty years ago, after three years!” I said. “When Daddy and I were two.”

  “Then, Uncle, how come Daddy and Uncle Hughes talk about it nonstop like it’s still going on?”

  “Because people talk about wars forever.”

  “Mommy, though, never wants to hear about it. But these two are always drinking and saying dogs died in the war.”

  “Yes, many dogs.”

  “Did our relatives lose their dogs?”

  “Some.”

  “Why really did the dogs die?”

  “They made too much noise, I guess.”

  “How did they die?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who buried them?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Uncle Ekong, hey, they said children buried them! Children like me. I caught them saying it, so they couldn’t really change the story. Yep, my grandparents confirmed they were buried in our beautiful valley.”

  I told her we heard the same thing as kids and apologized for the mix-up. She wanted to know whether it was difficult to bury dogs. I responded I did not even want to bury lions. She said her parents said I was in NYC to edit war books and asked whether it was difficult. I said yes. In the background, her mother was laughing and saying Ujai finally had an uncle who would put up with her endless questioning, unlike Tuesday. The father was watching highlight clips of recent spectacular Liverpool performances and told me in English this was what he usually did whether we lost or won. And yet, in Annang, he warned me not to tell Ujai about other war atrocities, because she was prone to nightmares. When the daughter pressured me to interpret, I said something else in English. Then Ofonime said in Annang that Ujai hated being described as a minority in America.

  “So don’t tell her in Nigeria we’re not even just minorities but minority of minorities,” she said.

  “Mmekop, I understand,” I said.

  “By the way, Ekong, work abarie?” Usen said, as I heard him switching off the TV.

  “I love it,” I said. “Great, man, great experience!”

  “Many Black asses there?”

  “None.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “One. Me.”

  “Fuck, not in New York!”

  “But if I’d had a bad experience, I would’ve said it!”

  “So you don’t know yet that being the only one is a bad experience?” He sounded like I was stupid. I heard him clear his throat, before turning the TV back on.

  OFONIME SAID UJAI took great pride in the traditional saying about the Annangs being folks who hold eloquence and peace in one hand and machetes and stubbornness in the other. Usen had helped her find a parallel with the U.S. coat of arms’ eagle, which clutches an olive branch in one set of talons and arrows in the other. “So hearing that Biafra even took away our machetes in some parts of Annangland would kill our daughter!” she warned. “I don’t know how long we can protect her from these atrocities.”

  Usen said they would figure out a way in her teenage years to break Ujai into the conversation about being minorities in Nigeria. I returned to asking the impatient girl about her school and friends.

  THAT SATURDAY EVENING, knowing my manuscript reports were due the following Tuesday, I began to read the second novel, Sea Mistress. But I could not get into this beautifully written historical novel, no matter how much I tried. It was a short novel set in the Aegean Sea, sponsored by Molly. I had never seen a defter portrayal of the sea or of the rugged lives of pirates. I could feel the fears and frustrations of the pirates, especially when their ship, Sea Mistress, broke down in the middle of nowhere. With flashbacks, this close third person narrator did a great job of showing the powerful sex lives of these hardened men coupled with their longing for the beautiful Greek islands.

  But, as I have said, it was not my kind of book. I resisted sleep, made myself a cup of hot chocolate, and tied myself down to read. I googled some of the islands and marveled at how developed they had become over the centuries. Yet, beyond the obvious flaws in the book’s characterization and pacing, everything still felt too distant. Perhaps, after reading Trails of Tuskegee, everything else was bound to sound distant and pointless.

  I was halfway through when my back began to itch, and all sleep disappeared from my eyes. It was 9:23 p.m.

  I got up slowly and tried to use the inside doorknobs to scratch the itch, but all were too smooth to be of any good. When I peeped out into the dimly lit stairwell a crazy idea crossed my mind. I opened the door slowly and thought of sneaking out to squat and grate my back against the sharp vertical bars of the stairwell handrail, ready to flee if a door opened. However, even the itch went away, embarrassed by such plans. I mean, I did not want to give my neighbors a real chance to insult or hit back. As our people say, when the gods want to kill you, you do not climb the palm tree w
ith broken ropes. Or, you do not challenge a lion and then refuse to lock your doors. I believed these folks could make a viral video of me to shame Black immigrants forever. I felt stupid for even standing there.

  I locked the door.

  But the maddening itching returned and was so bad that, to remove every temptation, I used the two dead bolts. I convinced myself the whole thing was the change of weather and environment. I lay down and attempted to sleep, covering myself from the powerful air conditioner.

  Still, late that night, like a ghost who could walk through walls, I found myself tiptoeing around the stairwell. After ascertaining everything was calm, I squatted with my back to the rail and went to work. And, iya-mmi, were the feelings good!

  Though I knew I had bruised myself, the itch was implacable. The more I rubbed against the rails, the deeper its bite. Tears filled my eyes, and seeing that an entrenched warfare had been declared on my back, I pulled my pajamas, consisting of a long shirt, up to make a direct contact with the metal. Then I sat on the floor, my legs pushed out in a V to steady myself, my back flat against the rails. I tilted my head forward so a bar could totally align with the gutter of my back, a real whip against the itch. When the pain finally surpassed the itch, I smelled blood and rust.

  I stood up and went back inside and madly skimmed Sea Mistress to its boring end. I decided not to endorse this novel.

  THE ITCHING STOPPED ME from going to church that Sunday. And I wrote Emily and Jack to say I could no longer join them at the Brooklyn Book Festival, to which they had invited me.

  By now I had some spots on my ankle, left forearm, and thigh. And since I could see the affected areas, I studied them carefully. There was not much to them, except that they rose in three unhappy welts, perhaps from my scratching. But they did not itch. Maybe they had nothing to do with the back itch. Maybe the crazy thing had afflicted me so much in my sleep that I scratched everywhere, and hence these three marks. Maybe, I had been bitten by the mosquitoes Ujai had complained of. Meanwhile, my back itch gave me a little kick, like it was listening to me, and sent a spasm through my body. And all day, periodically, it sparked into life. Yet it could not really match last night’s unquenchable blaze.

  When I looked at the three marks again that night, though they had not emitted any itches, they were looking angrier. I ignored them and put my energy into scratching my back. Then I picked up an old newspaper and started fanning everywhere to get the mosquitoes out of hiding, from the bath to the toilet to the kitchen to the bedroom to the living room, till I reached the door. Nothing. On my return journey, in the kitchen, I saw four mosquitoes and smashed them.

  I was really relieved when the itching disappeared. In that bliss, I sat down and finished the edits for “Biafran Warship on the Hudson” and emailed them to the author.

  After laying out my clothes for work the following day, I called Caro. It was two a.m., eight a.m. in Nigeria. Yet, she could tell all was not well in Hell’s Kitchen, though I assured her I was okay.

  “Or would you rather tell Molly!” she taunted.

  “Caro, baby, I only dey meet am for office o.”

  “I know. I love all the sweet things you buy me from the square. Hey, I just dey jealous, okay? I miss you so much.”

  “I’m so sorry …”

  “Please, don’t tell me sorry. Tell me you miss me intensely!”

  “You didn’t allow me to finish. I miss you more.”

  “I’ve just been having bad dreams about you drinking with Molly Simmons. I can imagine you two talking Biafran War nonstop. You know how you get once you find someone who can listen to your war stories!”

  “I wish you were here.”

  “Please, don’t go drinking with her. Ekong Baby, you know, if you get drunk anything can happen?”

  “You know I no longer drink, darling.”

  “Nko asoho se go to Actors’ Chapel?”

  “Yes, mfon-mfon!”

  HOW I HATED AMERICAN MOSQUITOES when the itching continued Monday morning. I had never suffered like this from their malaria-bearing tropical relatives. I sent a text to Molly, Emily, and Jack saying I was staying home because of a stomach bug. The itching was not something I wanted to confide to anybody yet, until I knew better what was going on. They replied I should rest and take it easy though they would miss me.

  By ten a.m., I was already too tired. I ate fried yam, akamu mme Nido, and scrambled eggs for breakfast. Of course, I could not attempt to use the rails to scratch my back in the daytime. But I worried what the welt on my back must be like, since I could not see it with the bathroom mirror. Whenever my affliction subsided, I tried to sleep. When I could no longer sleep, I attempted to read the two remaining manuscripts in time for the editorial meeting the following day.

  I loved Children of Elijah Moses, another Black novel, because of its strong opening, memorable characters, and suburban setting. It was sponsored by Bob Hamm, a tall editor with frothy brown hair and large brown eyes. The race tensions among the Black and white and Asian and Latino workers in this huge bakery was palpable. The detailed descriptions of the smell of burnt cinnamon and of freshly baked giant chocolate chip cookies made me salivate. They were as evocative as the beauty of the sea captured in Sea Mistress. I liked the writer’s usage of nigger, chink, wetback, etc., in the dialogue. I enjoyed the suspense that came from the fact that someone was stealing big quantities of bread without detection. But I thought the narration was rushed in places, like the author was afraid to escalate the race tensions and mutual suspicions. Because it was acutely disappointing, my imagination birthed a thousand ways to fix this major flaw. I shall recommend this book! I told myself.

  Late that afternoon, as I was jotting down my thoughts, Jack and Emily sent me photos from the previous day’s festival events. “Listen, if you need anything, let us know,” Jack wrote.

  Then Emily texted that she was looking forward to my reaction to her manuscript, Trails of Tuskegee, that she and Molly really loved it. When I wrote it was my favorite, she responded as though I were in their camp. She confided her roots were from a little town fifty miles from Tuskegee and that someday she would share with me the impact of the experiment on her extended family to this day. “This was part of why I was so touched when you shared at the Japanese buffet how the Biafran War continues to affect your family,” she texted. I sat up, but before I could call to ask about the women and babies of Tuskegee, she fired another text, excusing herself. Her boyfriend needed her attention. I felt better when Molly checked in to suggest I get Imodium from the pharmacy, if I was still suffering.

  I promptly visited Rite Aid on Fiftieth and Eighth. A salesman helped me find a tube of Cortizone-10. When I saw The itch medicine doctors recommend and 1% Hydrocortezone Anti-Itch written on it, I nodded contentedly. He gave me another option, extra-strength first-aid anti-itch spray. I also bought two cans of insecticide and a little mirror.

  Back home, I applied the Cortizone ointment generously on my whole body, especially the welts. Then I sprayed the anti-itch on my whole back. When the artificial cold of the analgesic got into that first back welt, I felt a sharp sting. That was how I knew that the stairwell bar had cut a real gash. A study of my back with the new little mirror against the wall mirror confirmed this. I applied more anti-itch on my back. One moment, I was in panic, and in another I was elated, surprised the pain felt so good. It frightened me that I wished it could even hurt more, to counter the itch.

  I sprayed the apartment with the insecticide. I was surprised by the number of heavily-pregnant-with-my-blood mosquitoes peeling off from behind the pipes and colorful wires, flailing, bopping and tumbling in the fumes. I dutifully killed them, even pursuing one smart aleck till I had blasted it out of its frenzied flight. When its corpse hit the bed, it had long been dead. Still, I blasted it onto the floor so I could stomp it. But it disappeared into a crack. I returned to spraying, walking across the apartment twice—like the air hostesses who disinfected the flight cabin before
we took off from Nigeria—till both cans were finished. Now I felt truly euphoric that I had finally “taken care of business.” I resolved to kill all American mosquitoes, in life and dream, for these three days of menace had felt like three long years.

  As a giant sneeze built in my chest and my eyes became watery because of the fumes, I locked up and went to bury my homesickness and nausea in Starbucks. Even the itches respected my right to be happy there. I bought an almond croissant and Very Berry Hibiscus Lemonade to celebrate my victory over my first American crisis. When Starbucks closed for the night, I relocated to the square with a cup of black tea, to stroll around like a man inspecting his vast estate.

  When I got home, I read the fourth and last manuscript, The Thunderous Sundays of Washtenaw County. Like Trails of Tuskegee, it had a strong child narrator, but like “Biafran Warship on the Hudson,” the voice was damaged by too many historical and esoteric facts, which a child would never know. I did not like this book.

  For the first time since the Liverpool game, I slept deep and long. I knew because, as I came awake Tuesday morning, I was rattled hearing myself snore—something I had believed I never did.

  CHAPTER 7

  Trails of Tuskegee

  THE EDITORIAL MEETING BEGAN AT TEN A.M. WE WERE nine people around a brown table. I felt really special in my gray minimalist batik attire, top-and-bottom, as though I were representing the entire Black race. I sat next to Emily, who was in a red dress and a black beret that hid her colorful hair. Jack was directly opposite her in a blue-striped sweater. I stayed farthest from Molly because of my addiction to her perfume. She wore a cyan-colored pantsuit and white blouse, while Angela was to her right in a rose print dress and a black blazer. Bob Hamm sat next to her; he was in a brown turtleneck and brown jacket.

  Molly, the publisher/editor-in-chief, was moderating. She welcomed me again to Andrew & Thompson; I thanked them for their warm reception. When she introduced Sea Mistress, the pirate novel, everyone was up for it. They talked about how solid the plot and structure were, how it was a psychological thriller, how they enjoyed the brilliance of the character portrayals, the light touch on the themes. Then they spent quite a while juxtaposing Mistress’s tender description of the Aegean Sea with the brutal daily life of the pirates. They even read out some of the lines. They sounded so excited it seemed I had read a different thing entirely.