GraceLand

by Chris Abani

  “Do we have a kill?” they asked in Igbo, all speaking as one.

  “Yes, we have a kill,” Joseph replied.

  “Was it a good kill?” the old men asked.

  “Yes,” Sunday answered.

  “The father cannot speak,” the old men said.

  “Yes,” Joseph said.

  “Where is the kill?”

  Joseph pointed and Elvis stepped forward. The old men smiled and looked at one another.

  “In our day it was a real eagle.”

  “Let’s just get on with it,” Sunday said.

  The old men glowered at him. Then, one by one, they walked up to Elvis and blew chalk powder in his face. They anointed his head with oil and, taking the bow and arrow from him and passing it to Joseph, they spat in his palms and muttered a blessing for him. Then they walked out of the compound.

  Innocent, at fifteen, was Elvis’s eldest cousin. Elvis knew that Innocent had been a boy soldier in the civil war that ended two years before and that when Innocent slept over at Elvis’s house, he woke up in the middle of the night, screaming. Oye told him that Innocent screamed because the ghosts of those he had killed in the war were tormenting him, and if he, Elvis, didn’t behave, Innocent’s ghosts would torment him too. Other than the war story, Innocent and Godfrey, who was thirteen, were virtually strangers to Elvis. He admired them from a distance with their towering Afros and platform shoes, but as teenagers they didn’t have much to do with him.

  Innocent bent and lifted Elvis up onto his shoulders. He felt very grown-up sitting up there, seeing the world from that high. Uncle Joseph handed the bow back to Elvis and they followed the old men out of the compound, accompanied by the group of young men, who now joined the procession, singing.

  They followed the old men up the road, singing the praises of Elvis as a great warrior and hunter. The road headed away from the square, toward the farms and ritual spaces. It was unpaved and lined by trees Elvis knew simply as bush mango trees. They grew in straight lines. He once asked Oye how come wild trees could grow in such a straight line.

  “They don’t, laddie,” she said. “In tha olden days, criminals and murderers were buried alive, standing up. A flowering stake was driven through their heads and they became the trees. Tha’s why tha fruit is so sweet.”

  She cackled at his horrified expression. Beatrice had intervened.

  “Mama! He is only five.”

  “Children are never too young to hear tha truth. You know why tha criminals were killed tha’ way? Redemption. In death they were given a chance to be useful, to feed fruit-bearing trees. Do you understand?”

  Elvis shook his head.

  “Don’t worry, someday you will.”

  But Elvis couldn’t walk past the trees without feeling the ghosts of the criminals reaching out to him, and neither could he eat the tasty fruit. High up on Innocent’s shoulders, he felt the leaves brush his face like hungry fingers, and he was really glad when the old men turned off the road and into the bush. They soon came upon a huge iroko tree that served as the clan shrine. The old men stopped and, taking the bow and arrow from Elvis, approached the tree. They freed the chick, tying it upside down to a branch next to others that were in several stages of decay. They hung like grotesque ornaments on a Christmas tree. The old men plucked a tail feather from the bird and stuck it in Elvis’s hair. They cut the tree bark and, dipping their fingers in the sap, traced patterns on his face. And then it was over. Sunday picked Elvis up and held him close to the decaying birds. Elvis turned away from the smell.

  “Don’t turn away from death. We must face it. We are men,” Sunday said.

  Elvis turned to him, tears brimming.

  “But it stinks.”

  “So does life, boy. So does life,” Joseph said. “Come, Sunday, leave your son to join his mates. He is a man now. Come, we still have to finish dat whiskey.”

  Sunday nodded. He looked at Elvis for a long moment before putting him down.

  Turning to Innocent and Godfrey, he told them to watch over their cousin, and then he left with Joseph. The group of singing boys followed them, intent on joining in on any festivities. Innocent picked Elvis up and carried him on his shoulders as they walked back to the house. He stopped at a kiosk just outside the compound.

  “Why are we stopping?” Godfrey asked.

  “Ah Elvis done taste him first blood, so as a man, he must drink with men,” Innocent replied.

  Ordering beers for himself and Godfrey, he opened up a cold bottle of Fanta for Elvis.

  “How you dey?” Innocent asked him.

  “I was afraid,” Elvis replied.

  “Dat’s how dese things are. De trials of dis world things come as surprise, so you must have a warrior’s heart to withstand dem. Dat’s why your papa no tell you about today. You understand?” Innocent said.

  Elvis shook his head and took a sip from his soda.

  “Leave him. He is a child,” Godfrey said. “Dere is time for such talk later.”

  Innocent nodded and took a swig of beer. Sitting on the counter in his grass skirt, drinking his Fanta and watching Godfrey and Innocent tease the girl behind the counter, Elvis felt like a man.

  ASPILIA (AFRICANA) LATIFOLIA OLIV. ET HIERN

  (Igbo: Uranjila)

  This is a scrambling herb covered with bristles, commonly found in old farmlands and open places in the forest Its leaves are almost triangular in shape, and have broad, saw-edged margins. It produces star-shaped yellow flowers and its fruits are seedlike, tiny and hard and have a ring of short bristles.

  The leaves and flowers, when crushed, are applied to wounds to stop bleeding, healing them quicker. A little salt and lime juice added to the sap of the crushed leaves, and dropped into the eyes, remove corneal opacities and other foreign bodies, clearing up vision.

  THREE

  With your finger on the King’s head, trace the star. See? The lobes fall where its reach points. This is the first truth.

  The King’s head is the kola nut’s apex, or head. The star is the design of lines clearly imprinted on it that determine the number of lobes the kola nut will have. This number is the key to the Igbo mathematical system. This number holds the truth of the clan.

  Lagos, 1983

  A pale watery sun rose over the ghetto of Maroko. The place was already abuzz with life. People hurried out to the bus stops to get to work, and the ferry dock was packed tight, yet the two ferries that spanned the lagoon between Maroko and the marina of downtown Lagos were sitting about fifty feet out in the water, with no passengers on board.

  The plank walkways, which crisscrossed three-quarters of the slum, rang out like xylophones as a variety of shoes hurrying over them struck diverse notes. In the mud underneath this suspended city, dogs, pigs, goats and fowl rooted for food. Somewhere in the vicinity, the congregation of a Spiritual-Church belted out a heady, fecund music that was a rhythmic, percussive background to their religious ecstasy.

  Elvis had decided to find steady work, as he couldn’t depend on his dancing to bring in a regular income. It wasn’t that he was giving up on his dream to be a dancer, he rationalized; it was more like he was deferring it for a while. Maybe with the money he earned, he could save up to go to America. That was a place where they appreciated dancers. Besides, he thought, remembering his humiliation the day before, it wasn’t as if he was enjoying it anymore. Anyway, his father was out of work and drinking again, and Comfort wasn’t too happy supporting everyone.

  He walked over to Madam Caro’s Bar and Restaurant, a rather grandiloquent name for the shaky wood-and-zinc shack perched on the edge of a walkway, hanging over the swamp. Regulars often had to be fished out by the teenagers hanging around. Of course, there was an exorbitant charge, but when you were drowning it didn’t matter. It was even rumored that on slow nights, the youths pushed people in.

  Madam Caro, who lived across the street from Elvis and his family, was one of those women that traditional society couldn’t peg into a role.
Too big for that world, she seemed at home in the urban anonymity of Lagos. She was nearly six feet tall and had the girth of a baobab tree, or very nearly. Her skin was the black of onyx and her eyes, which missed nothing, were hard, although when she laughed they lit up.

  There was a good chance that his friends would be in the bar, Elvis thought. He was eager to run into Redemption. It sometimes seemed like Redemption knew everyone, heard everything and could procure anything, for a price. Elvis hoped that Redemption would help him for free, as he was broke. Besides, they were friends.

  He’d met Redemption at school when he first arrived, which in itself was a lucky break, because Redemption was hardly ever in school. He’d turned up maybe twice a month with gifts for the teachers and the headmaster, who always bumped him cheerfully to the next class. Redemption had been pulling a reluctant goat and balancing a bundle of yams precariously on his head when Elvis had torn past, nearly knocking him over, late as usual.

  “Hey, stop!” Redemption shouted in a tone that froze Elvis. “What is de hurry?”

  “Sorry. I’m late.”

  “Well, if you help me pull dis stubborn goat to de headmaster’s office, I will make things all right for you.”

  That was how their odd friendship began. Elvis adored Redemption, deferring to him as if he were the elder brother he’d never had. For Redemption this offered the possibility of something he desired most, acceptance. It was Redemption who hooked Elvis up with the spots at the beach and in Iddoh Park where he danced, and kept the hoods off him as he began what Redemption referred to as his “dancing career.” It was also Redemption who prompted Elvis to leave school and give his art his all. Elvis hung on his every word, listening as Redemption told him, at every opportunity, of his plans to leave for the United States.

  “States is de place where dreams come true, not like dis Lagos dat betray your dreams,” Redemption would say. “It is full of blacks like us, you know, American Negroes wearing big Afros, walking with style, talking anyhow to de police; real gangsters,” he continued.

  “Uhumm.”

  “Dat’s right. Dese gangsters drive 1965 Ford Mustangs, you see. Like cowboys.”

  “I thought cowboys rode horses?” Elvis would challenge, already knowing the answer.

  “De horse is dere, on de hood of de Mustang. Same thing.”

  As he walked in, Elvis cased the room. Even though it was early, the bar was nearly half full. Gloria Gaynor screamed “I Will Survive” from crackly loudspeakers. Elvis saw Sergeant Okoro, the policeman who lived in the same tenement as he did, talking to Madam Caro. She fished deep into her bra and took out a lot of banknotes. She peeled some off and handed them to him. He crumpled them without looking and stuffed them in his shirt pocket. Elvis thought Okoro appeared a little nervous.

  Redemption was not there, Elvis noted, but his father’s friend Benji was. Benji didn’t have a job and earned a living by hooking people up with others seeking a service or a favor or a thug. His connectedness came from being a permanent fixture, and he had once bragged to Elvis: “If you wait long enough, de world comes to you.” Elvis glanced at his watch. It was eight a.m.

  “Good morning, Uncle Benji,” Elvis said, sitting across from him and ordering a jug of palm wine.

  “Ah, Elvis! It is good to see you. How can I help?” Benji replied, filling his glass from the fresh jug of wine.

  “Uncle Benji, I need a job.”

  Benji took a deep drink, emptying his glass. He refilled it before he spoke.

  “I thought you are a dancer, no?”

  “Yes. But there is not enough money to survive. I am barely making enough to feed myself.”

  Benji drank deeply again and tried to fill his glass from the empty jug. Elvis took the hint and ordered another jug.

  “Well, dis is what your father was afraid of when he did not want you to dance. Do you remember? I mean, at your age, since you are not in school, you should be helping with de house.”

  “My father is an out-of-work drunk, so what does that make his advice?”

  Benji bristled.

  “Your father is a good man who has lost his way. Show respect, what is wrong with you?”

  Elvis bowed his head apologetically. Benji sighed.

  “But a son must not go hungry under a father’s roof, even if dis is Lagos. I will speak to your father,” he offered.

  Elvis put his hand on Benji’s wrist, stopping him from filling his glass from the new jug.

  “Don’t speak to him. I need a job.”

  Benji licked his lips and looked from Elvis to the jug and back.

  “All right,” he said. “Go and see Jimoh, he will give you a job.”

  He gave directions rapidly and ignored Elvis’s thank-you as he shakily poured more wine.

  The food seller who came round at lunch with a steaming cart was never late. There was a loose agreement between her and the workers with regard to credit: as long as she got paid when they did, it was fine. The workers on the construction site were a steady source of income for her.

  Lagos was littered with sites like this one, because new high-rise apartment complexes and office blocks were going up seemingly overnight. Elvis was glad for the job, which Benji had gotten for him despite the fact that he had no experience and was not trained in a particular trade. But he was strong and willing, so the foreman had put him to work as a general laborer. His duties included mixing concrete, molding cinder blocks and generally fetching and carrying for the masons and carpenters as needed.

  Lunch was Elvis’s favorite time, not because of the small respite from work, but because it was only at lunch that he really saw the people behind the bodies that slogged through the day’s work, tight-lipped and taciturn.

  They were a curious mix. Happy, buxom women who carried cinder blocks on their heads to the upper levels, their fat shaking as they exploded into laughter at some joke. There were also masons with cement-dusted bodies and carpenters strutting with leather tool belts and young girls who should have been spending their weekdays in school and their weekends at home, grooming and giggling as they gossiped their naive knowledge of men. Instead they had hands of used sandpaper, the backs wrinkled, the palms scoured and calloused. They sat or lay back in the shade of trees that survived the site clearing, or in the shade of the half-finished building. Invariably there was a radio playing and the station of choice was hotly debated. The younger workers wanted the stations that played Wham!, Sade, Duran Duran and Peter Tosh, and the older workers wanted more indigenous music. It was a careful game of give-and-take. What Elvis loved the most, though, was that there was always someone dancing. He would lie back and watch the dancers, a book open, his attention divided between the two activities. Even when he wasn’t concentrating, he loved the musty smell of old books.

  He had a crush on one the girls, Angela, who told him that when she took her pay home, her father seized it, blowing it on alcohol. Unsure why she told him, and feeling somewhat helpless, he had pressed a five-naira note into her palm. She looked down at it, surprised, then kissed him quickly, tucking the money into her bra.

  He watched her practiced ease as she fended off the groping demands of Okoro, the chief mason, who reached out and grabbed her breasts as she passed him. A smack across the face, received in good spirits, put him in place. But Elvis fumed silently. She came and sat down beside him.

  “Hey, Elvis,” she said.

  “Why do you let him touch you like that?” he said.

  “You dey jealous?” she asked.

  He ignored her.

  “Listen, if I fancy him, I go pretend say I no see him hand. Dat na extra money.”

  “Shut up,” Elvis said softly. “That is sleazy.”

  She was silent for a while, and he glanced at her, trying to read her face.

  “No, Elvis, not like dat. If I want I go let am touch me, no be sleazy thing, na practical thing—like feeding goat or tending chicken. Is only you men dat make it more dan dat,” she said f
inally. Then, getting up, she walked over to where the older women sat.

  Heading home from work, Elvis crossed the lagoon and went for a walk under the sweeping flyovers. A shantytown had grown underneath them peopled by petty traders, roadside mechanics, barbers, street urchins, madmen and other mendicants. He paused to watch, noting that despite the streetlights coming on around the National Stadium across the way, and the head- and taillights of the traffic that marked night’s approach, the energy of the bridge city was unflagging. He bought a bottle of Coca-Cola from a child hawker and sipped slowly, his eyes following the child’s fading figure as she called out: “Coca-Cola! Is a cold! Come buy!”

  He often wondered how he would frame moments like this if he were a director making a film. What shots would he line up? Which wouldn’t make the final edit, ending up on the cutting-room floor? It frustrated him to think this way. Before he read the book on film theory he had found in the secondhand store, movies were as much magic to him as the strange wizards who used to appear in the markets of his childhood. Now when he watched a movie, he made internal comparisons about what angle would have been better, and whether the watermelon shattering in the street of a small western town was a metaphor for death or a commentary about the lack of water.

  He took in the young girl leaning against a lamppost. Her lithe body in the pool of light appeared somehow inappropriate. And the tire vulcanizer who was sitting before his wavering flame, waiting for a customer and reading a book on quantum physics through cracked glasses with total concentration—probably a professor down on his luck, Elvis thought. He watched a thief stalking a potential victim with all the stealth of a tiger. The intended victim, a young woman with a backpack hanging from one shoulder, seemed unaware. When the thief pounced, however, she caught him with a stunning blow across the head, raising her voice to call, “Ole! Ole! Thief!” Everyone around her reacted immediately to the call by throwing any hard object they could. Some young boys chased after the fleeing man. They carried a tire they’d picked from the pile by the vulcanizer. In Lagos, vigilante justice was common, and the popular mode of execution was the necklace of fire—a tire around the neck doused with petrol and set on fire. Luckily, the thief escaped by jumping onto a passing bus, his jeers fading into the distance.