GraceLand

by Chris Abani

  “Better me dan de Colonel.”

  They both laughed heartily at that.

  “So you agree with this?” Elvis demanded, rounding on Redemption.

  “See you, small club ban and you want to shit yourself. Relax. I don’t agree, but I warn you, you don’t know de Colonel.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “Come,” Redemption said, walking away from Alaye. “You don’t know who can be working for him.”

  As they walked, Redemption explained to Elvis that the Colonel ran the state security forces and that all other security agencies were under him, including the police. He was behind the disappearances of famous dissident writers, journalists, lawyers, musicians, teachers and thousands of nameless, faceless Nigerians.

  “Dey rumor dat he personally supervises de tortures, taking pictures throughout,” Redemption said.

  “Who are they?”

  “Dey have no name. You are like dose white people in ghost film. Instead of running, you are asking questions. De man is bad, dat’s all.”

  “You seem to know him quite well.”

  “Yes, I do. But don’t worry, not many people know about de Colonel, and even though dey don’t know, dey should thank God every night dat dey don’t.”

  “Why take pictures?”

  “Dey say it is because he is an artist, looking to find de beauty of death.”

  “The beauty of death?”

  “Yes. Like de spirit, you know. He takes de picture just as de person die too, maybe he want to get de ghost on film,” Redemption said, laughing uncomfortably. “But he is never satisfy, so he arrange de dead body many ways, sometime he cuts de leg or head off.”

  “That is sick.”

  “It is just now you know?”

  “So has he ever found it?”

  “Found what?”

  “The spirit—or is it the beauty of death?”

  “How can he, when he don’t know what to look for?” Redemption said, stopping. They had arrived at the bus stop. “Go home, Elvis. Go and see your auntie. I hear she come to see you today,” he said as a bus pulled up.

  “How did you find out?”

  “Maybe de Colonel told me,” Redemption said, walking back to the club, his mocking laugh following Elvis onto the bus.

  Elvis stood on the balcony looking out over the dark water of the sound. Behind him, to his left, Felicia sat at a round metal table.

  “Is that Maroko?” he asked, pointing out across the sound.

  “I’m not sure. I only arrived in Lagos last night.”

  “It is nice, the way the rich live,” he said, turning back to her, indicating the entire condo with a sweeping gesture. On the way there he had been stunned by the smooth tarred roads, well-laid-out grounds, huge villas and mansions in white, high metal fences patrolled on the inside by stone-faced guards armed with automatic rifles.

  “Come and sit down,” she said. “Are you full or should I fetch you more food?”

  He sat down opposite her and pushed away the still-half-full plate.

  “No thanks. I haven’t eaten so much in so long.”

  “Does she starve you?”

  Elvis looked away.

  “She does, dat bitch!”

  “Let’s talk of other things,” he said.

  “Fine. Your father says you dropped out of school.”

  “Can we drop that subject?”

  “De way you dropped out of school? I don’t think so.”

  “I wasn’t learning anything useful there.”

  “You know, education is de only chance here. If I dropped out I wouldn’t have studied nursing in de university and I would not be going to a good job in America.”

  “You are going to a husband in America.”

  “And a good job—don’t sass me, boy, before I …”

  “Before you do what? Can’t you see I am all grown now?”

  “Elvis, still so stubborn, still so proud,” she said, shaking her head.

  “So what is his name?”

  “My intended?”

  “He is your husband now.”

  “You’re right,” she giggled. “I still haven’t gotten used to it.”

  “These things take time. Are you looking forward to going?”

  “Not really. I am afraid. America is so violent and I won’t have my family.”

  He snorted. “Well you better make him your family. This one fell apart a long time ago. As for the violence, you will be fine as long as you don’t sleep with some white woman’s husband. That’s why people get shot there.”

  “Dere is no danger of dat,” she said with a laugh. “Anyway, Patrick, my husband, is a doctor in a hospital in Las Vegas.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “He wrote from America saying he wanted a wife from home, and mutual friends hooked us up and we began writing to each other. Den he came over for six months and we had a good time. When he went back, I was sure he would forget me, but he didn’t. He wrote regularly and came back within six months to marry me.”

  “Then he left again?”

  “Yes.”

  “So how much time have you spent with him, in total?”

  “A few months.”

  “And how much time have you been apart?”

  “Longer than we have been together.”

  “So why did you not just follow him back?”

  “Their immigration people make it really hard, Elvis. Dey are not convinced dat we are married. Dey even said dey wanted us to have a child first to prove it.”

  “They are mad,” Elvis said, getting up and walking over to lean on the metal rail. He shook out a cigarette and lit it.

  “May I have one?” she asked.

  “Trying to become an American lady?” he joked.

  “No,” she said, laughing. “I got into de habit working night shifts. It seemed like everybody died at night and I needed something to burn de smell from my nostrils.”

  They smoked in silence for a while.

  “Have you got a photograph of Patrick? I’d like to see what he looks like, if I may.”

  “I thought you’d never ask. I’ll be right back,” she replied, getting up and going indoors.

  She returned with a photograph album under one arm and a small paper bag in the other.

  “Pull up a chair,” she said, sitting down, moving plates to one side and laying the album open on the table. He sat next to her and she explained who was who, turning pages excitedly.

  “Dere,” she said, snapping it shut on the last page.

  “Nice.”

  “Here,” she said, reaching for the paper bag. “I have gifts for you.”

  With a flourish, she laid a Bible on the table in front of him.

  “A Bible? I don’t want to disappoint you, but I am not much of a Christian,” he said, not touching it.

  “It was your mother’s,” she said.

  He picked it up gingerly, as though it would bite. Touching it brought back memories of his mother: how she would say her rosary every night before a statue of the Virgin of Fatima and then read a passage of the Bible before bed. Or maybe she hadn’t. It was getting difficult to separate the imagined from his real memories. He wondered why Oye hadn’t given it to him when she gave him his mother’s journal. He opened the Bible; scrawled in his mother’s cramped, spidery handwriting were her name and a date. There was also a handwritten dedication: “Sweet Lord Jesus, all that I am, all that I have, is yours, Lord, now and at the hour of my death.” He flipped through it quickly, the pages fanning out in a ripple. The book seemed to stay open a little longer at a section that was heavily underlined.

  “Dat is an omen,” Felicia said. “Dat was her favorite psalm.”

  “It opened here because constant use has cracked the spine. It’s not an omen, just bad binding.”

  “You of little faith!”

  “The Lord is my shepherd …” he began, but stopped.

  “Go on,” she urged.

  “No,�
� he said, shutting the Bible and putting it back on the table. “What else have you got for me?”

  She reached into the bag and pulled out an envelope and handed it to him. He weighed it in his hand. It was thick.

  “What is this?”

  “Just a little money to help you, but don’t open it until you get home,” she replied.

  “Okay.”

  She reached into the bag again and pulled out a postcard. Elvis took it and stared at it for a long time. It had four panels on the front. In one, the word “Vegas” was spelled out in lights. The second panel framed a nighttime shot of the Strip, all lit up. The third panel featured an Elvis impersonator, while the fourth was a photo of the Graceland chapel. This is an omen, he thought. This is it. He turned it over and over. On the back Patrick had scrawled a note, and the date stamp showed it was nearly six months old.

  “Dis is where I am going,” Felicia said. “I wanted you to have it. My address is on de left-hand corner.”

  “Thank you.”

  “As soon as I am settled, I will send for you. It will probably take some time to get you a visa, so you must be patient. Okay?”

  He nodded and lit another cigarette.

  “Dat is, if you want to come,” she added.

  “Sure—who doesn’t want to come to States?” he said.

  “You smoke too much,” she said.

  “Oh, not you as well!”

  “I am worried about you, Elvis. What do you want to do with your life?”

  “You know.”

  “I don’t. Tell me, please.”

  “I want to be a famous dancer. Like Elvis.”

  “He was a singer too.”

  “I can sing.”

  She sighed. “Listen, Elvis, dis is a difficult world. You have to let go of childish dreams. You can’t get by dancing, at least not here.”

  “Thanks for believing in me.”

  “I want you to go back to school.”

  “School? At my age?”

  “And what age is dat? You are only sixteen. If you had stayed in school, you would be graduating dis year. If you work hard, it will only take you a year to catch up.”

  He turned back to the sound. Below in the garden, fireflies decorated the shrubs in lights. Cicadas called. Soft music came from an adjoining condo. On the street, an occasional car swished past silently, headlights picking out a buoy or an anchored boat.

  “Why does nobody listen to me? I am not going back to school. I want to be a dancer, period. I am really good at it, have worked hard at it.”

  “At least think about it.”

  “In America I can become very famous doing what I do.”

  She got up and began to clear the plates away. He watched silently, not offering to help.

  “You won’t help?” she asked.

  “No. You need to practice your wifely duties before you join your husband.”

  “You are a fool,” she said, stalking off with the plates.

  He laughed and followed her to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and helped himself to a beer while she soaked the dishes.

  “Take it easy on de beer,” she said.

  “They can afford it.”

  “Madam, let me,” the house girl said, relieving Felicia of the dishes she still held. Reluctantly she let them go. Elvis watched the exchange, and kissing his teeth disdainfully, he went back out on the balcony.

  “What is it?” Felicia asked, following him.

  “Why do your friends need a servant?”

  “Oh, get off your high horse. We had servants when you were younger. You are so angry all de time. What happened to your joy?” she said, taking the beer bottle from him and swigging.

  He wrestled it back from her. “I don’t remember us having servants.”

  “It seems dere is a lot you do not remember,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When are you going to ask me about Oye?”

  He said nothing, looking away.

  “Elvis. She was your grandmother. You two were inseparable when you were a boy.”

  “You said ‘was.’”

  “Yes. She died last year. Didn’t you know she was ill?”

  “I did, but my father wouldn’t let me come.”

  “Just like with my wedding.”

  “That is not fair.”

  “She kept asking for you. Asking if you still remembered her.”

  “Of course I remember her!”

  “Don’t snap at me. Anyway, she wanted me to tell you she forgave you for all the tricks you played on her as a boy.”

  “So she knew all along,” he said.

  “Of course she knew. She was a witch. She told me everything.”

  “If she knew, then why didn’t she say anything?”

  Felicia shrugged. “I never understood my mother. Maybe she liked what you made up, your stories. Perhaps she needed dem, who knows? De important thing is she forgave you.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Like your mother. Peacefully, in her sleep.”

  “That is good.”

  “Yes it is. Dere is something else. She believed Efua was here in Lagos. Dat she came looking for you. I think it would make Oye happy if you tried to find her.”

  “Lagos is big. She could be anywhere,” he said. “Was it her dying wish?”

  “Why?”

  “Because then I have to do it. You cannot refuse the dying their last wish,” he replied.

  “Where do you get dese things? You are just as bad as her, inventing de world,” she said, glancing at her watch.

  He caught the look. “It is getting late,” he said.

  Lifting his shirt, he opened the Fulani pouch hanging there and put the postcard and envelope into it next to Beatrice’s journal. The Bible was too big to fit.

  “What is dat?” she asked.

  “A Fulani pouch—the cowherds carry their valuables in them. My friend Redemption has one.”

  “And cowherds wear it with such a thick chain?”

  “This is Lagos,” he said with a shrug, picking up the Bible.

  She walked him to the door and hugged him for a long time.

  “I will miss you.”

  “Me too.”

  Letting go, she watched him walk out and down the stairs to the street door. He turned and waved one last time before opening the door and stepping into the darkness.

  PSALM 23

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

  He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

  Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

  SIXTEEN

  We have always done things this way.

  The kola-nut ceremony is part hospitality, part etiquette, part protocol and part history lesson. Unlike the Japanese tea ceremony, women take no part in the kola-nut ritual. In fact, female guests are never presented with kola nuts.

  Afikpo, 1980

  Rushing to get ready for school, Elvis sidestepped his aunt Felicia’s constant nagging.

  “I’ve told you before to stop staying out so late,” she railed. “One of dese days you will get caught.”

  “Especially if you keep announcing it so loudly,” Elvis replied.

  “Watch your mouth, boy, before I watch it for you,” she warned sternly.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, stepping into the starch-stiff, tarplike green shorts. Though he was thirteen and she only nineteen, she treated him like he was six. When he complained to Oye, she laughed and told him not to worry.

  “
She’s your mother sister. She’s trying to make you forget tha’ you lost your mother so young.”

  Oye always had an explanation for everything, but they were seldom satisfactory to Elvis.

  “Leave your shirt off until after breakfast so you don’t stain it,” Felicia cautioned as he slipped on an undershirt.

  “Okay,” he said sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her putting on her makeup, fascinated by the deep flake of her powderpatted cheeks, the cherry pout of her lips and the heavy blue eye shadow that made her look older. He was amazed not just at how much makeup made her aware of herself, but by how much he wanted to wear that mask. It would be the perfect remedy for his painful shyness. She smacked her lips together over a piece of tissue to blot the lipstick, making him squirm uncomfortably. It seemed to him like she smiled knowingly, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Her cheap perfume was acrid, and he sneezed as he watched her check her reflection one last time in the cracked mirror. He envied her this ability to prepare a face for the world. To change it any time she liked. Be different people just by a gentle hint of shadow here, a dash of color there. She could even change her hair to suit her mood: sometimes wearing huge Afro wigs that scoured the sky’s underbelly; other times, the elegant plaited stalks called mercy, as though they were stakes in a hunter’s trap, or the playful run of cornrows—his favorite.

  “Why are you sitting dere daydreaming instead of going to breakfast?” she demanded in a shrill tone, shocking Elvis from his reverie. She was already at the door on her way out. “Come on!”

  “I’m coming.”

  As she clacked out on six-inch platforms, riding on the echo of her teeth kissing, he reached into the wastebasket for the tissue that wore her lip shape in distinct red. He pressed the paper lips against his, eyes closed, inhaling all of her. Dropping the tissue back into the wastebasket, he fingered her wig on its wicker stand.

  “Elvis!”

  “Coming!” he replied, grabbing his schoolbag and shirt and heading for the dining room. His father sat at the table reading the paper. The headline caught Elvis’s attention: MILITARY TO STEP DOWN. That was strange; Elvis could not remember when the military had not run the country. His father spoke often and nostalgically about his days as a member of parliament in the first republic, but to Elvis it sounded suspiciously like all his father’s stories. Like the one about being made to walk forty miles each way to school every day as a child. Or the one about hunting a lion with his father, Elvis’s grandfather, armed with nothing but native broadswords. Of course his father did not know that in general science, Elvis had learned that lions had been extinct in this part of the country since the twenties. But he never challenged him. That attracted an angry telling off, at best; at worst, a slap. His father could slap well too. The initial impact stung, and for hours after, a strange heat persisted, reminding you of your transgression all day until it burned out as a lumpy bruise.