GraceLand

by Chris Abani

  “Let me get this,” Elvis said, pulling out a handful of crisp notes.

  “No,” the King said, pushing Elvis’s money away firmly.

  “Listen, one of you pay me!” the ticket seller said.

  Elvis paid. As he handed the King his ticket, something in his eyes caused him to shrink back.

  “What?”

  “Why do you think we walk here?”

  “To save money?”

  “Because?”

  “You wanted to …”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The King nodded and stalked into the cinema. Elvis followed, but lost him in the sudden darkness. Minutes later, the King turned up and sat next to Elvis. Without saying a word, he handed him a cold Fanta and a bag of sweets. Elvis took them silently. He sighed when the film started. It looked like it was going to be long and boring, but since it was important to the King, Elvis decided to try and get into the mood.

  He wasn’t wrong: it was long. But he was utterly mesmerized, forgotten Fanta sweating in his palm, mouth slightly open, eyes glued to the screen.

  When they got out, the sun had dipped over the horizon and lamps chased the darkness in thin lines and pinpricks of light. Elvis stood outside the cinema blinking. He couldn’t seem to adjust to this world outside.

  “Did you enjoy dat?” the King asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Elvis said. “I loved it.”

  They walked in silence for a while. Then the King noticed a small bar tacked onto the corner of a building.

  “Drink?”

  “Sure,” Elvis replied, following the King inside.

  The bored barkeep looked up.

  “What you want?”

  “Two beers,” Elvis said.

  The barkeep walked over and dumped the two bottles down, opening them with such force the caps flew across the room.

  “Easy,” the King said.

  The barkeep just kissed his teeth and walked back to the corner, where he was watching a streaky black-and-white television with the attention of a lobotomy patient.

  “What are you watching?” Elvis asked.

  “De Price Is Right.”

  “What?” the King asked.

  Elvis shrugged and picked up his beer.

  “So tell me what you like most.”

  “About the film?”

  The King nodded and reached for his beer.

  “Well, it reminded me of my grandmother.”

  “How so?”

  “Just the way she would tell stories. In a way that let the characters enter your skin, you know?”

  The King laughed.

  “What?”

  “‘I only watch action films,’” the King mocked.

  Elvis laughed too.

  “What did you learn most from de film?”

  “There was the opening line. ‘People are important.’”

  “Good, good,” the King chortled happily, like a man who had just converted a jihad-bent Muslim to Christianity.

  “You know people are important. Dat is de message of my theater group.”

  “When am I going to see you perform?”

  “Soon come.”

  “So how will this be an alternative to Redemption’s world?”

  “Easy, Elvis. Rome was not built on all roads, okay? It takes time. Have patience.”

  They sat drinking in silence for a while. Outside, the foot traffic was thinning out. No one else had come into the bar, though opposite it, Elvis could see, several temporary snack stalls had opened and were doing a great trade in cigarettes sold by the stick, fried yams, roast corn and suya. By one of the fires, a group of children huddled around a slender girl playing a wooden flute. There was something disturbing in her melody that called to Elvis, like a buried memory that would not yield itself and yet wouldn’t stop nagging.

  “Anything else you like about dis film we just see?” the King asked.

  Elvis remembered the scene at the end where so many different people stood at a street kiosk in Budapest writing postcards. In that scene, he could see himself.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  “Well, hello, Pilgrim.”

  “Hey, Redemption,” Elvis replied, sitting down next to him.

  “Ciga?” Redemption asked, holding out the pack and a book of matches.

  “Sure.”

  Elvis lit up and inhaled deeply, letting the smoke out reluctantly in a thin blue stream. Silently he passed the pack back to Redemption. They sat on a bench behind Madam Caro’s buka, less than a foot from a sheer fifty-foot drop into the swamp below. To the left, a tired sun threw halfhearted reflections on the green water. Sunny Ade was belting out a song on the loudspeaker hanging precariously above their heads.

  “So have you heard?”

  “Heard what?” Elvis asked, reaching for Redemption’s glass and taking a swig of beer.

  “You know you should be careful drinking from oder people’s cup. You can be poison like dat. Even juju can be done to you.”

  “Heard what?” Elvis repeated.

  “Dat I have moved into Maroko.”

  “This Maroko?”

  “Dis Maroko.”

  “But why?”

  “My landlord raised de rent again. Anyway, I thought you would be happy, no? I mean, I have two-bedroom house over dere,” Redemption said, pointing vaguely behind them. “Nice, nice place, and I was going to ask you to live with me, but you have dirty attitude, so now you can forget it, man.”

  “Why should I be happy? Did I win a prize?”

  “Ahah, Elvis! Are we not friends? I want to help you leave dat your father.”

  Elvis smoked quietly. The King’s warnings about Redemption played through his head. While he was tempted to beg for a second chance, he didn’t want to live with Redemption’s criminal side. It was too dangerous. What was it Oye used to say? If one finger is smeared with palm oil, it soon stains the others. With surprise he realized that he had not thought of Oye, or his mother, for so long. Was he getting too sucked into life in Lagos? He wondered how Oye was. She had declined Sunday’s offer to come to Lagos with them. With a guilty pang, he reached into his backpack and touched his mother’s journal. He hadn’t read it in a while, hadn’t even shown it to Redemption. Why was that? he thought. Still, to be away from his father and stepmother would have been wonderful.

  With a sigh he got up and walked into the bar, returning to Redemption and the bench with two sweating bottles of beer.

  “Now you are talking!” Redemption said, reaching for the fresh bottle. “Is dis your way of begging for forgiveness?” he continued, emptying the contents of the bottle into his beer mug.

  “For what?” Elvis replied, lighting another cigarette.

  “‘For what?’” Redemption chuckled. Realizing Elvis was serious, a frown crossed his face.

  “What is wrong?” he demanded.

  “Nothing,” Elvis replied.

  “Sure?”

  “Sure.”

  They drank in silence, occasionally swatting at a mosquito or fly. Elvis reached into his backpack and took out his mother’s journal.

  “What’s dat?”

  “My mother’s journal,” Elvis replied.

  “You mean like a diary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you carrying it about?”

  “It reminds me of her.”

  Redemption nodded. “Let me see,” he said.

  Elvis passed the book and Redemption rifled through the pages.

  “She liked to cook,” he said, handing it back.

  Elvis took it and returned it to his backpack, thinking it was funny Redemption should have said that, because he couldn’t remember his mother ever having cooked. Showing the journal to Redemption made him feel like he had a secret worthy of sharing, like Redemption’s passport and visa. They lapsed into another silence, watching the sun sink beyond the horizon as night rolled across the water like black velvet. A few generators thudded a
round them, and Elvis absently wondered why anyone who could afford a generator would live in Maroko. To their left, through a skirt of trees, was the road, and across the lagoon from it, on the distant shore, were lights.

  “Is that Ikoyi?” Elvis asked.

  Redemption squinted.

  “Oh yes,” he replied. “Dis is why I like Lagos.”

  “Why?”

  “Because though dey hate us, de rich still have to look at us. Try as dey might, we don’t go away.”

  Elvis laughed, triggering Redemption, and soon they were gasping for breath.

  “Ah, Redemption, you are funny O!”

  “True talk, true talk.”

  They heard someone pull the needle off the record that was playing and an argument ensue. The record that had been playing, Sir Victor Uwaifo’s “Joromi,” was really popular. One of the patrons no doubt disagreed. Moments later the needle crackled hesitantly before the new song belted out. It was an old Bobby Benson classic called “Taxi Driver,” and Elvis and Redemption heard the patrons inside singing along, their initial resentment forgotten.

  “Dat na song O!” Redemption said.

  “Uhu,” Elvis answered, joining in with the singing. “‘If you marry taxi driver, I don’t care.’”

  “‘Marry market woman, I don’t care,’” Redemption sang. “Who play dat sound?” he asked as the tune came to a stop.

  “Bobby Benson, although I think Wole Soyinka wrote it for him in the fifties.”

  “Wole de man of letters?” Redemption asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Wonderful.”

  They lapsed into an easy silence, while the record player in the buka went back to playing “Joromi.”

  After a while, Redemption spoke. “So listen, Elvis, time for serious talk. De people who we wrap de cocaine for, well, dey have moved onto anoder business.”

  “Which kind?”

  “I don’t know de details too well. But dey want us to follow with some people and deliver something to Togo.”

  “Togo? That is two countries away! I don’t even have a passport.”

  “You no go need it. Trust me.”

  “So what will we be delivering? I am not swallowing any cocaine,” Elvis said.

  “I don’t know what it is, but is not cocaine. Dat dey send to States and oder places, and anyway dey have left de cocaine business.”

  “Is it that you don’t know, or that you don’t want to know?”

  “Dey are paying five thousand naira each for us to follow deliver something. I don’t need to know what it is, neider do you.”

  “I want to know what I am delivering,” Elvis said.

  “We are not delivering. Just following, like escort.”

  “Even escorts are liable if there is trouble.”

  “Which kin’ of trouble, eh? Dat is why we are dere. To stop de trouble.”

  “So in fact we will be bodyguards.”

  “Escort.”

  “As they say in States, ‘You say potato, I say putahtoh.’”

  “How do you know what dey say in States?”

  “I saw it in a movie. Relax. Just because I don’t want to follow you blindly does not mean you should bite my head off.”

  “Who is biting? Anyway, it is better we are all blind, because in de land of de blind, de one-eyed man is mad.”

  “Fine.”

  “Okay, your loss.”

  “Fine.”

  “Damn dis shit. Look O, Elvis, you have change towards me, why?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Every time you speak too much grammar, I know you dey lie. Why can’t you trust me?”

  “Why should I trust you when you want me to take a risk without telling me the whole story?” Elvis said.

  “Only a dead man tells everything, only a fool asks.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Elvis asked.

  “Use your teeth to count your tongue.”

  “The King was right about you!”

  Redemption paused, beer halfway to his open mouth. Putting it down slowly, he turned to Elvis.

  “Dat dirty beggar?” he asked. “What did he say about me?”

  “Promise me you won’t hurt him,” Elvis replied.

  “You should worry I don’t hurt you. What did you guys talk about me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Elvis.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t make me call your name again,” Redemption said softly.

  “He warned me about you and said you were leading me to a life in crime.”

  “Are you a child to be led? What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “If you told him about dat cocaine …”

  “I told him nothing. He said he knows you from around and he is trying to show me a different path.”

  “A different path? Dis is how you repay me for trying to help you? Betraying me to some crazy beggar? How does he know me, eh?”

  Elvis took a deep breath. “I know you are trying to help me, Redemption. But he is trying to save me.”

  “Really? He is trying to save you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what do you know about your savior? Who is he? Where does he come from? Why is he so willing to save you? Why can’t he save himself from de street? Answer me!”

  Elvis remained silent, wishing he hadn’t brought it up.

  “Dis man who is trying to save you does not tell you about himself? And yet you say I want you to follow me blindly? You are already blind.”

  “I know his name, and that he is part of a theater group. I know that he got cut along the face while doing an antigovernment play—”

  “Dat scar on his face has been dere since I was small boy,” Redemption interrupted.

  “What?”

  “Listen, Mr. Blind Man. I know dat beggar better dan you. He was my master one time.”

  “Your master? I don’t understand.”

  “You are a small blind boy. Dere are many things you do not understand.”

  “About what?”

  “Me. De King. Lagos. Life,” Redemption said, sounding tired.

  “Then tell me. Why is everybody keeping secrets from me?” Elvis asked.

  “Drink your beer.”

  “No, tell me!”

  “I told you before. Only dead people tell everything.”

  “At least tell how he was your master?”

  “Ask him yourself. If he is trying to save you, let him tell you. But dis I will tell you. De King is not your father, he cannot be, will not be. One day you will become a man and stop dis small-boy behavior.”

  Redemption stood up to leave.

  “Tell me what to believe,” Elvis said.

  “Tell yourself. If you want to get involve in de job I told you, find me before next week. If not, den it is fine. But you must choose.”

  “That is what the King told me,” Elvis said.

  “Den maybe he is trying to save you after all.”

  BLACK-EYED BEAN POTAGE

  (Igbo: Ji Na Agwa)

  INGREDIENTS

  Black-eyed beans

  Yam

  Salt

  Palm oil

  Crayfish

  Hot peppers

  Cooked beef or chicken and its broth

  Utazi

  Dried fish

  PREPARATION

  Wash the black-eyed beans and leave to soak overnight. This will lift the skins off Most people don’t know about the skins, but if left on, they turn the food black and can cause too much gas. Sift the skins off This should be easy, as they would have risen to the top of the water. Peel the yam and chop it into medium-sized chunks and wash the starch from it.

  Next, put the beans in a pot and leave on a medium heat for about half an hour, checking the water level to prevent burning. Also put the yam in a separate pot with enough water to cover it. Sprinkle in some salt and leave to cook until yam is soft, checking always for water level.

>   Take the pot of beans off the flame and pour the beans into a colander. Wash under a cold tap, then put them back in the pot and return it to the flame. Add a couple of dessert spoons of palm oil and add the crayfish, salt and the peppers. Also add the broth from the cooked meat with some water and the yam. Leave on a medium heat for about fifteen minutes before adding your spices, such as the utazi.

  Last, add the meat (which should have been precooked) and the dried fish. Leave to cook for another twenty minutes. Serve with spinach boiled with spices and onions. Gari (fried cassava powder) steeped in water, milk and sugar makes an excellent side dish.

  FOURTEEN

  This is how the kola nut must be presented.

  The actual ritual of the kola nut is as complex as the Japanese tea ritual Not that one needs to compare the two in order to validate the one, but there is something about old cultures and their similarities that bears mentioning.

  Afikpo, 1980

  Elvis never took his eyes off the glove. He was standing in the middle of his father’s bedroom. From the window, the stretch of broken asphalt yawned in the midday heat. Houses on either side crowded together as if to revive it. A soft breeze blew a plastic hairdresser’s glove, and it trailed its fingers along the hard surface as though in massage before dancing lightly through the grass at the edge of the road, styling it. The breeze picked it up and slammed it against a wire mesh fence bordering one of the houses. It hung there waving, empty, before slipping lifelessly down into a puddle, sinking from sight.

  He had only been inside his father’s bedroom a few times, and then only to clean, which was in itself an invariably bittersweet experience. Tins of smoked kippers, baked beans, corned beef and exotic fruits all sat stacked, unused, unopened. Some, contoured into tortured shapes, were well past their use-by dates. Bought for some special moment that never seemed to come, they were eventually thrown away. Shirts, still shrink-wrapped, mocked the holed one he wore. Vials of holy water, collected from every gifted Catholic bishop or priest between home and Timbuktu, stood in a shaky pyramid in the corner. A sip, taken with a couple of aspirin, worked miracles on headaches, his father swore. In the corners, ornamented tea services leaned against stacks of Reader’s Digests and newspapers.