by Chris Abani
Elvis’s attention was captured by a bookseller in a stall to the left of the cart. The bookseller was a short man, with a bald patch and round stomach that made Elvis think of Friar Tuck from Robin Hood. He smiled. Bookseller Tuck, as Elvis mentally christened him, was calling out to passersby: “Come and buy de original Onitsha Market pamphlet! Leave all dat imported nonsense and buy de books written by our people for de people. We get plenty. Three for five naira!”
Elvis drew closer. A small crowd was gathering, and some were already buying the pamphlets. The bookseller’s assistant, a slight boy, looked harried as he tried to keep an eye on the inventory and operate the cash register. These pamphlets, written between 1910 and 1970, were produced on small presses in the eastern market town of Onitsha, hence their name. They were the Nigerian equivalent of dime drugstore pulp fiction crossed with pulp pop self-help books. They were morality tales with their subject matter and tone translated straight out of the oral culture. There were titles like Rosemary and the Taxi Driver; Money—Hard to Get but Easy to Spend; Drunkards Believe Bar As Heaven; Saturday Night Dissapointment; The Life Story and Death of John Kennedy and How to Write Famous Love Letters, Love Stories and Make Friend with Girls. The covers mirrored American pulp fiction with luscious, full-breasted Sophia Loren look-alike white women. Elvis had read a lot of them, though he wouldn’t admit it publicly. These books were considered to be low-class trash, but they sold in the thousands.
“For dose of you whom are romantic, dere is Mabel De Sweet Honey Dat Poured Away and How to Avoid Corner Corner Love and Win Good Love from Girls,” Bookseller Tuck called. Spotting Elvis holding the books he had bought from the secondhand vendor, Bookseller Tuck turned to him.
“You, sir, you look like educated man. Here, try dis one,” he said, passing Elvis a book.
Turning it over, Elvis looked at the title: Beware of Harlots and Many Friends. Smiling, Elvis flicked it open at random, stopping at “24 Charges Against Harlots.” He scanned them quickly, jumping numbers.
1. The harlots live dirty and dangerous lives.
2. They corrupt young men, make them live immoral lives and feed them chronic disease …
4. Almost all that had married left their husbands without sufficient reasons, and the unmarried ones have refused to marry in preference to harlotism …
11. No single harlot is healthy in this world, that is why they are smelling.
12. Harlots drink beer too much and smoke cigarettes in like manners, and no single harlot is beautiful, that is why they always paint themselves with beauty make up’s and yet you can easily know them. Wash a pig, comb a pig, dress a pig, it must be a pig.
Elvis shuddered and closed the book and handed it back, opting instead for Mabel the Sweet Honey That Poured Away. Paying for the book, he hid it between the Dostoyevsky and the Baldwin and headed deeper into the market.
He passed the smell of trapped antelopes, and of savannahs coming from the basket and rope weavers. The melee of buyers and sellers haggling loudly, trading insults and greetings and occasionally achieving a trade, was thick around him.
As he made a turn and entered the imported side, he could see behind the market, sprawling away into the swamp, a rubbish dump: a steaming compost of vegetables, broken furniture, jute sacking, discarded hemp ropes, glass bottles, plastic bags, tins; the usual. And perched on top, cawing awfully, hunched like balding old men, were vultures.
He stopped in different shops, feeling the fabric for something that was stylish yet promised to be cool, ignoring the rude calls of the traders.
“If you dey buy, buy—if not, move on!”
“Hey, dis man, why you are rubbing my cloth like dat? Dis is not towel, it is fine Italian silk. Move away!”
Haggling was not his strongest suit, but he did his best when he saw a nice black shirt-and-pants combo that would be perfect.
“How much?” he asked.
“For what?” the trader replied, uninterested.
“For this,” Elvis said, pointing.
“Is not for sale.”
“Then why is it hanging here?”
“Ah, see dis man O?! Is dis your shop?”
As Elvis made to move off, the trader stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Where you dey go?”
“You said the item is not for sale, so I am going.”
“You mean dis one? Haba, I thought you meant de oder. Come, come, I will give you special price.”
“No.”
“Are you not my customer? Okay, pay fifty naira.”
“Fifty? Is it made of gold? I can’t pay more than ten.”
“Ah! Is dis pricing or daylight robbery? Even de person who make it does not sell for ten. Den me I have overhead, eh. Okay, pay forty.”
“Twenty.”
“Thirty, last price.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Thirty.”
“Twenty-five.”
“No.”
“Okay,” Elvis said walking off.
Again the trader pulled him back. He was already wrapping the clothes, a smile on his face.
“You dis oga, you can haggle pass Egyptians O!” he said as he folded the twenty-five naira into his pocket and handed Elvis the wrapped clothes.
Moving on, Elvis soon spotted a nice pair of shoes to go with the clothes and bought those. He then made his way back to the open-air stalls and bought some groceries for the house. Satisfied, he headed off to the bus stop and caught the bus home, stopping at Madam Caro’s for a beer.
The King of the Beggars counted the money again. The amount had not changed from his last count: one hundred naira.
“Where from dis money, eh, Elvis? Where from?”
“Do you not want the money?” Elvis asked, and reached for the pile.
The King swatted his hand away.
“Easy. I just ask where it is from.”
“None of your business, but don’t worry. No one died for it.”
Elvis lit a cigarette, drawing the harsh, cheap tobacco deep before exhaling.
“Dat cigarette you are smoking like you are drinking water will kill you. You just quench one five minutes ago,” the King complained. He put the money away.
“Please don’t nag.”
“Respect my age, eh, Elvis? Respect my age,” the King said.
“I’m sorry,” Elvis muttered, stamping out the cigarette.
“So tell me where dis money from.”
“I told you, Redemption and I have a job.”
“Dat your friend Redemption, he appear dishonest to me,” the King warned.
“No more than you are.”
The comment, meant as a barb, only made Caesar throw his head back and laugh heartily. “Den you must be criminal mastermind if we are all your friend,” he said.
In spite of his growing irritation, Elvis laughed.
“How long have you been a beggar?”
“Long time.”
“And before?”
“I was … Look, my young friend, de past is in de past, tomorrow is all we can hope, eh? Leave all about dat. Give me one cigarette.”
“I thought you didn’t smoke.”
“Why? Because I say it is bad? I tink de money you give me is bad, but I take it. You see, Elvis, life is funny thing. Now give me de cigarette.”
Elvis passed the King a cigarette and held a light for him. The King sucked greedily at the other end, and the stick was soon burning. Lighting another one for himself, Elvis leaned back and watched life unraveling in the ghetto settlement under the bridge. He and the King were sitting on the pedestrian path of the freeway bridge, legs dangling over Bridge City below while, behind them, traffic roared past. It wasn’t the wisest place to be, but the King liked to sit there and gaze down at his subjects, his domain. Absently, Elvis tried to add up all the ghettos in the city. There were Maroko, where he lived; Aje, where Redemption lived; Mile Two; parts of Mushin and Idi Oro and several other unnamed settlements under other bridges like
this one scattered across Lagos. All in all, he thought, there were over ten. Throwing his still-smoking stub over the edge of the bridge, he checked his watch and swore softly.
“I have to go now.”
“To your job with your friend?”
“One of them, anyway.”
“Be careful. When a car hits a dog, its puppy is never far behind.”
Elvis laughed.
“Again with the stories,” he said, and headed for home.
“Elvis,” Comfort began as soon as he walked in. “Help me carry dis box of cloth to my shop.”
She had a shop somewhere across town. He had never been there and had no idea why she would suddenly ask him to do this. It wasn’t the chore itself; it was the fact that she had seemed determined to keep that part of her life totally separate from home.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m in a hurry.”
“Is dat Elvis?” Sunday called out. Without waiting for a reply, he came to the veranda, where Elvis stood talking to Comfort. “Where have you been, my friend? You treat dis house as a hotel, but let me tell you, it is not a hotel.”
Elvis stared at him, unsure where his father was going with this line of logic. Deciding the easiest way out would be to apologize, he did.
“I’m sorry.”
Sunday grunted. Comfort had ignored the exchange, choosing to spend her time trying to recruit one of the unemployed men in the building to carry the box for a small fee.
Elvis entered his room, remerged shortly after with a towel and headed for the backyard. He washed, changed into his new clothes and shoes and headed over to the nightclub on Victoria Island. Perhaps Rohini would be there again tonight, he thought. He hoped so.
Redemption was waiting for him at the door of the club. He touched Elvis’s clothes. “Nice threads.”
“Thanks, man,” Elvis replied, pulling out some money to pay the cover charge.
Redemption stopped him.
“You work here now, so you no longer pay de cover. But you should buy de gate man some beer now and den,” he said.
Elvis nodded and followed Redemption into the bar. The same band was set up and playing a cover of Nigeria’s most popular song, “Sweet Mother,” by Prince Nico Mbaga. Released in the seventies, it was still on the charts. Elvis glanced at his watch. They were on early. They usually didn’t come on for another hour. As he pushed across the crowded floor to the bar, he realized why. There were several highranking army officers, in full uniform, sitting in the corner, drinking and talking. The band was probably playing for them. Beer in hand, Elvis made his way to the back of the room where the foreign patrons sat. He did not see Rohini, but within minutes Redemption approached him and led him to where an overweight Lebanese woman sat, cooling herself with a hand-held electric fan. She regarded Elvis with hungry eyes, then waved Redemption away.
“Sit,” she said in voice that could crack gravel.
Wiping the sweat from his palms, Elvis sat.
Dancing with his Lebanese client was a little difficult for Elvis, as she seemed to completely enfold him. His face was pressed so close to her sweaty cheek he could smell the funk from her unwashed hair. Her hands were kneading his buttocks with all the expertise of a master baker, her groin rubbing against his hungrily.
“Are you okay, lover?” she breathed at him.
The smell of alcohol was nearly overwhelming, and her bear grip around his ribs made breathing awkward. From a distance, it looked like she was a huge ape devouring him.
“I’m fine,” he managed with difficulty.
The band was playing Jimmy Cliff’s “Many Rivers to Cross,” and he focused on the words, singing under his breath, trying to take himself away, at least in his head.
“‘I’ve got many rivers to cross, but I still cannot find my way over …,’” he crooned almost inaudibly. Thinking he was singing for her, his client kneaded his back and buttocks even harder and swung him around. Just then, one of the heavily medaled soldiers danced their way, and Elvis bumped into him.
“I’m sorry,” Elvis mumbled as his client swung him around in the opposite direction.
The soldier stopped dancing and grabbed Elvis, pulling him out of his client’s arms.
“What are you doing, my friend? Assaulting a soldier?” the soldier demanded.
Pulled up by the lapels, Elvis wondered why he was being manhandled so much—first by his client and now by this soldier.
“No, sir. I said sorry, sir,” Elvis said.
“Sorry? What am I to do with sorry?”
Elvis didn’t answer immediately, distracted by the many medals the soldier had. He couldn’t determine the man’s rank, but he couldn’t help wondering how he had earned so many medals, considering the military saw so little action.
“Oh, you are playing tough, eh? Assault an army officer and play tough, is dat your game?”
“No, sir.”
The music had stopped, and the band was watching apprehensively. The dance floor had cleared, as people tried to put distance between themselves and the situation. The Lebanese woman, drunk, grabbed at the soldier’s arms, trying to dislodge his grip on Elvis. All the while she slurred: “Release my lover.”
“Is dis woman your lover?” the officer asked Elvis scornfully.
Elvis was unsure how to answer in order not to exacerbate the situation and at the same time to appease the woman, as she had not paid him for his two hours of, in this case, hard labor. He chose the diplomatic approach.
“We were dancing together,” Elvis replied.
“Dancing, or collaborating to assault an army officer? Do you know dat I am a full colonel?”
“It was an accident, sir.”
“So you admit that you assaulted me intentionally?”
Before he could answer, the front door of the club slammed open and six soldiers, who had obviously come with the officers and had been waiting outside, came in at a fast trot. The other officers had gone back to their chairs and were busy drinking and laughing with their dates. The girls were doing their best to pretend they were not terrified. The six soldiers seemed controlled by a collective mind and stopped in front of the Colonel, saluting.
“Shall we take care of dis dog, sir!?” the leader, a sergeant, barked, eyes ahead.
By now, people were beginning to sneak out of the club, and the band members were packing up their instruments. Elvis’s terror grew. He had heard about encounters with the military before, but he had been able to steer clear of any until now. The shock of the moment had worn off, and the severity of his position began to dawn on him.
“I don’t know, sergeant,” the Colonel said. Turning back to Elvis, he asked: “Do you think I should let my men handle you, dog?”
All the while he was shaking Elvis, who was getting dizzy as his head bounced around. Pictures of the scar running down the King of the Beggars’ face flashed before him. What if this colonel decided to open him up like a choice cut of beef? Shit, he thought. Double filcking shit.
“Good evening, Colonel, sir,” Redemption said, walking slowly over to the Colonel.
“Redemption, what is it?” the Colonel said.
“I know dis man, sir. He just came to Lagos; he is suffering from bush mentality, sir. He does not know any better, sir. Please forgive him.”
“You know dis man?” the Colonel asked.
“Yes, sir. He is confuse, sir. Forgive, sir, I beg.”
“Maybe I should get my boys to beat de confusion out of him,” the Colonel said, laughing.
Redemption laughed along politely.
“He is not worth de trouble of a big man like yourself, sir. Don’t waste your time on his type,” Redemption said.
The Colonel laughed and let go of Elvis, who collapsed at his feet.
“Only because you know him.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You,” he said, turning to his men. “Go and find dat band and bring dem back. I feel like dancing.”
Snapping to atte
ntion as one, the group ran out to get the band. The Colonel turned to Redemption.
“Get him out of here. Him and dat woman.”
“Yes, sir,” Redemption replied, already helping Elvis to his feet.
As they made their way to the exit, the Lebanese woman kept pulling at Elvis.
“Where are you going, lover?” she kept asking.
“Leave us!” Redemption said tersely.
“She still owes me for at least two hours,” Elvis said.
“Forget it, man. We have to get out of here before dese army guys kill you.”
“What did I do wrong, anyway?” Elvis asked.
“Shut up and don’t even look at dem. Don’t even think it. Let’s just go,” Redemption said.
The back door banged shut behind them as the band was being forced at gunpoint back onto the stage to set up their instruments.
“Dat was close,” Redemption said, leaning against the alley wall.
They were in the narrow dirty alley at the back of the club. Elvis looked around. Like tendrils of a spider’s web, other alleys ran off the one they were in, connecting each other in a network that probably traversed the entire city. Whatever reply he was about to give died in his throat when he saw three of the soldiers from inside walk down the alley.
“Redemption!” the sergeant called.
“Ah, Jimoh, dat was close O!” Redemption replied, laughing.
The soldiers joined them.
“You get ciga?” Jimoh asked.
Redemption tossed a packet of cigarettes to him. Jimoh passed it around to the other two soldiers. They each took three cigarettes, tucking one behind each ear and lighting the third. Jimoh tossed the packet back to Redemption, who lit two and passed one to Elvis.
