GraceLand

by Chris Abani

  “What is that?” Elvis asked.

  “Petrol,” Redemption replied.

  “Oh.”

  The crowd parted slightly to let the man with the jerry can through. He stood in front of the prone Jeremiah for a while, appearing unsure about what to do next.

  “Baptize him! Baptize him!” the crowd shouted.

  Moving quickly, the man unscrewed the can’s cap and doused the prone Jeremiah with the petrol. Jeremiah twitched as the petrol got into his open wounds and burned. A fat woman stepped back and Elvis caught his first good look of Jeremiah’s face. It was tired, features reflecting Jeremiah’s struggle against the inevitable resignation. The man threw the empty can to the ground and it resounded with a metallic echo. Nobody moved or spoke, not in the crowd, the buka or at the police checkpoint. Everybody was waiting for something to happen. Anything. Peter stepped forward and stood before Jeremiah, who, revived by the harsh smell of the petrol, was struggling to his knees.

  “I beg, Peter. You know I no be tief. I beg.”

  Peter calmly reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette lighter. He flicked it on and stepped back from Jeremiah, dropping the lighter on the tire necklace. Elvis followed the lighter’s fall. It could not have lasted more than two seconds, though it seemed to take forever. It was hard to tell which came first, the sheet of flame or the scream.

  “Aah,” Redemption said in a long, drawn-out breath. “Necklace of fire.”

  It sounded so sensual it made Elvis shudder.

  “Every day for de tief,” the man across from them breathed.

  “One day for the owner,” the buka owner completed.

  They watched as the screaming, burning Jeremiah struggled to his feet and tried to break through the circle, but men who had retrieved long wooden planks from the timber yard earlier, for this exact moment, pushed him back with the long wooden fingers. The only way out was in the direction of the timber yard, and Jeremiah headed for it. From where Elvis sat, it was impossible to see his limbs; he looked like a floating sheet of flame. The men by the timber yard gate, caught off guard, yelled in alarm and scattered in every direction as Jeremiah crashed through and into the yard. He was still screaming. Within minutes, the timber yard was ablaze and the workers formed a chain, throwing buckets of water and sand at the fire, but it was too big. The mob of lynchers had melted away, as had the police.

  “We should help,” Elvis said, not getting up.

  “What good is dat.”

  “The fire will spread.”

  “Not our problem. Anyway, our ride is here,” Redemption said, walking out to a black GMC truck that had just pulled up. Elvis hesitated for a second, then followed him. The last thing he saw was the buka owner grabbing all the money from the tin that served as her till. She stuffed bills and coins down her bra and ran out the back, leaving the food still burning.

  “Get in,” Redemption said, opening the back door for him.

  As he climbed into the truck, Elvis was shaking. This scene had affected him more than anything else he had seen, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the cumulative effect of all the horror he had witnessed; there was only so much a soul could take. As they drove off, Elvis watched the spreading fire through the tinted glass. It was horrifying, yet strangely beautiful.

  MORINGA OLEIFERA LAM.

  (Igbo: Okwe-beke)

  This small deciduous tree with a crooked stem, often forking near the base, has a dark grey and smooth bark. The twigs and young shoots are densely hairy, and the tree is often found in farmlands and around small-town homes. It has doubled, sometimes tripled, large leaves, and small white sweet-scented flowers and a podlike fruit.

  Its leaves and the young pods are used as vegetables for soup or salad, and the kernels yield clear, sweet oil. The root and bark are used as an antiscurvy treatment. The tree is planted on graves to keep away hyenas and its branches are used in a charm against witches.

  TWENTY-TWO

  He then passes it to the next in line by seniority.

  Yet there is a deeper philosophy to this, a connection to land and history that cannot be translated.

  Lagos, 1983

  They left the scene of the fire behind, merging onto a highway that cut into the edge of a cliff, the Atlantic falling off to the right, sheer rock rising to the left. Mountain goats ran across the road, timing the traffic with practiced ease. The sea was an angry crash on rocks, and the landscape seemed too barren even for birds.

  Then the road dipped, still hugging the coastline, until it was at sea level and waves swept over the rock battlements to flood the road. The cliff to their left relaxed in gentle gradients, into a rolling plain of windswept grass. They turned off and headed inland, the sea grass giving way to richer, denser rain forest. The road wound between trees that had probably been there a few hundred years, and the vegetation matting between them seemed as impenetrable as a sultan’s harem.

  “Where are we going?” Elvis asked.

  “To collect de merchandise,” the driver said.

  Elvis studied the two men up front. The driver was short, dark and thick, and he gripped the steering wheel with short, stubby fingers and small hands. He had introduced himself as Anthony, and he seemed garrulous and friendly.

  The other passenger was tall and skinny, like an upright mamba, and as dark, his skin shining with a purple hue. He wore a sour expression that seemed apt given that his name was Conrad. His face was patterned with deeply cut tribal marks that would have identified his exact clan a century ago, and might have also saved him from being sold into slavery, because the scarifications would have lessened his market value—unless he ran into slavers so desperate for a trade that they wouldn’t care. He was taciturn, barely responding to their greetings, and then gruffly. The only thing the two men had in common were glittering red eyes; probably the result of some drug, Elvis decided.

  “Are we going to meet the Colonel?” he asked.

  “You ask too many questions. Watch yourself,” Conrad warned.

  Elvis lapsed into silence, staring out the window at the increasingly rural landscape. Tall elephant grass that reminded him of his childhood and the rhino beetle hunts he went on, wading through the four-, sometimes five-foot-tall grass, peeling the reluctant armored black beetles from their perches on the tips of the grass. He and his friends would tie stiff black hair-plaiting thread, obtained from a female relative, to the beetles’ torsos, under their wings. Prodded with sticks by the boys, the beetles would take off, flying in circles controlled by the strings, whirring like small black helicopters.

  As they passed the occasional small town, he saw old men and women dozing outside their huts. Dogs slept in the middle of the road, where it was warm, reluctantly getting out of the way for their truck. But Anthony never slowed down or swerved to avoid any, and he left a trail of roadkill behind them.

  “Hey, Zorba!” Conrad said every time they hit one.

  Elvis conjectured that Zorba was Anthony’s nickname. It probably came from the movie Zorba the Greek, with Anthony Quinn. In some way, he guessed, it made sense.

  They had been driving for about four hours and dusk was settling, but just before it got really dark, they pulled up to a solitary hut. A single kerosene lantern burned from the top of a pole mounted outside. Though there was no sign of any electric lights, a generator thumped somewhere behind the hut. There was only the sound of the generator and the idle throb of their engine. Even cicadas did not sing. Anthony and Conrad got out.

  “Wait here!” Conrad called over his shoulder.

  Elvis and Redemption exchanged looks. Leaning forward, Redemption wound down his window and lit a cigarette, taking a deep, grateful drag.

  “Give me one, man,” Elvis said.

  “Dis is my last. I go fifty you,” Redemption replied.

  He took a few more drags that burned the cigarette half down. Reluctantly he passed it to Elvis, who sucked greedily until he burned through to the stub.

  “Dis
car big O!” Redemption said looking around the back of the truck. The GMC truck had two regular rows of seats, and two benches in the back that faced each other. “I fit take it make good taxi. Carry plenty passengers one time,” he continued.

  “I don’t trust those guys,” Elvis replied.

  If Redemption was surprised at the non sequitur, he did not show it. “Me too,” he agreed.

  Just then Anthony and Conrad came out of the hut carrying two giant plastic coolers. Grunting, they struggled to get them into the back of the truck. Turning in his seat, Elvis offered to help.

  “Clever man,” Anthony replied cheerfully. “You wait until we done, den you offer.”

  Elvis laughed uncomfortably. Conrad had already started walking back to the hut. He returned with six people. As they got close, Elvis saw that their hands were tied and that they were a mixed bunch of kids, boys and girls, ranging in age from about eight to sixteen. Conrad opened the back doors and they filed in silently, sitting facing each other, three to a side, on the benches, the coolers sitting on the floor between them.

  While Anthony rambled on about the weather and the trouble the repeated rains were causing his father’s farm and their crops, Conrad chained the feet of their new passengers together. He was about to slam the door shut when a hard-faced man came banging out of the hut, lugging a third giant cooler.

  “What’s dat?” Conrad asked. “Colonel said two cooler.”

  “Dis is food and drink. It is long trip.”

  “Okay. Help me load it,” Conrad said, lighting a cigarette.

  The man grunted from the effort of carrying the heavy cooler by himself, shooting baleful looks at Conrad, who just watched, smoking. There wasn’t enough space to get the third cooler in on the floor, so the man sat it on top of the other two coolers already there. With any luck it would upturn and spill the food and drink everywhere, the man thought. But thinking better of it, he lifted it back down and began to move the other coolers around to see if he could fit them all in on the floor. As he was doing that, Elvis turned away from Conrad and the man and focused on Anthony. He was talking rapidly, even more so than he had on the drive up, and he seemed agitated. Elvis could hear the generator thudding away in the background and wondered why it wasn’t connected to any lights—at least, none that he could see. Perhaps it powered some other device. He was curious, but knew better than to ask Anthony or Conrad.

  “Redemption, you hold your gun?” Anthony asked.

  “Sure.”

  “You get bullet?” Anthony pressed, loading a big revolver.

  Redemption took out his automatic, pulled out the magazine and checked it. Elvis looked from one gun to the other nervously. He didn’t like guns.

  “Bullet dey, thirteen rounds accounted for, sir,” Redemption said in mock military style. Both he and Anthony laughed.

  “Why you dey always laugh?” Conrad asked, getting in and slamming the door.

  “Easy, Connie, you too vex.”

  “Go, go,” Conrad said, slapping the door of the car.

  “Okay,” Anthony said, grinding gears and accelerating too fast. The truck skidded in the sand before finding a grip and heading off.

  Elvis turned to look at the six passengers. None of them were moving. They wore dazed expressions and seemed unaware of their restraints.

  “Who are they?” Elvis asked.

  “De people you are here to escort. Anthony is driver and I am relief driver. You are de escorts.”

  “Why are they chained?”

  “Dey are crazy runaways from Ghana. Their papa is a big man in Rawlings gofment, so we are returning dem to their parents. Simple,” Anthony replied.

  Elvis sat back. He didn’t believe a word of it, but he knew better than to ask more questions.

  He stared out of the windows at the thick soup of night. It was so dark he could barely make out the shapes of trees and huts lying low like sleeping animals. They stopped at several police checkpoints. Each time, Anthony handed some money and cigarettes to a lead officer.

  “Esprit de corps,” he called each time as they drove off.

  “Esprit,” the officers always responded.

  Elvis looked at Redemption the second time he heard the exchange.

  “Army talk,” Redemption said. In minutes, he was asleep. Elvis couldn’t sleep. He was too scared. Everything was wrong, and yet he couldn’t tell exactly what. He didn’t believe they were returning the kids to their parents, but couldn’t think of anything else they might be doing with them. He sighed and looked behind him. In the gloom, he could make out that one of the kids, a young girl, was staring straight at him, eyes awake, afraid. He wanted to say something to reassure her, make her shift her gaze, but he couldn’t think of anything.

  “Look, dere is a small town coming ahead. I go stop make we piss and stretch our leg,” Anthony said authoritatively.

  Within ten minutes they pulled into the dusty motor park of the town that abutted the market. A crooked sign said: WELCOME TO IBARE—THE STRUNGLE CONTINUES. Elvis could see lights staggering up a hill in the distance and assumed it marked the outskirts of the town. It didn’t look that small.

  “Wait here,” Anthony said to Elvis and Redemption. Turning to Conrad, he said: “Go use toilet, den when you come back Redemption dem fit go. Me, I need to call de Colonel.”

  “Elvis, you be liability,” Redemption said as soon as they were on their own.

  “Leave me,” Elvis said, getting out of the car.

  “Where you dey go?” Redemption called after him.

  “I want to buy cigarettes.”

  “What of de ciga you had before?”

  “I want to buy some more. Is it your money?”

  “No. Good, buy all de ciga you want. Dat’s more for me.”

  Elvis headed off, and Redemption became aware that the young girl in the back was sobbing.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Kemi,” the girl replied.

  “Are you hungry?”

  She shook her head, but he couldn’t tell if it was from sobbing or in response to his question.

  “Look, you better stop crying before dey come back,” he said.

  “Please don’t kill me, sir,” she sniffled.

  “Who go kill you? Nobody want to kill you.”

  “The other man said he is going to kill us,” she said.

  “Where you learn to blow grammar like dis?”

  “I am in secondary school.”

  “So what are you doing with dese people?”

  “They kidnapped me, sir.”

  Elvis wandered back to the car.

  “Sssh!” Redemption said to Kemi.

  Elvis unwrapped a packet of cigarettes, lit two and passed one to Redemption.

  “Whom were you talking to?”

  “Dis girl, Kemi.”

  “The one crying?”

  Redemption nodded.

  “So what is really going on?” Elvis asked.

  “With what?”

  “With these kids. Why are we transporting them tied up to another country?”

  Redemption took a deep breath. “As I know it, de Colonel dey supply dese children to white people who want to adopt dem.”

  “And why are they so silent? Are they drugged?”

  Silence.

  “Redemption?”

  “I no go lie. Me too done begin to suspect dat story. But as you know, dey have paid us five thousand naira each.”

  “When did they pay us?”

  “I have your share. Don’t worry.”

  “So what do you think the real deal is with these kids?”

  “Well, maybe slavery.”

  “Slavery? Who still buy slaves?”

  “Plenty people. Dese children can become prostitute in European country or even for Far East.”

  “Redemption, I don’t want anything to do with this. Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Because you for act like dis. Hold yourself, Elvis. Listen, I
dey thirsty. Go see inside dat cooler whether beer dey dere.”

  “Man, this is all shit. I don’t want any part of this.”

  “Elvis! Hold yourself. It is too late now. If de oders hear you, dey can kill you. Make we just deliver dese children wherever and den wash our hands for de future. Okay?”

  “No! How can it be okay?”

  “Elvis, listen carefully. We dey deep inside dis shit. De best thing is to keep low until we can leave safely. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Elvis grumbled.

  “Now, go check dat cooler for beer.”

  As Elvis opened the back door, Kemi tried to get up from her seat, but the chains held her fast. The other kids were still stoned, and Elvis wondered why she seemed unaffected by whatever drug had been given to the others.

  “Please, sir, help me!” she begged.

  “Shut up!” Redemption shouted at her from the far side of the truck, banging on the window. She flinched and watched Elvis with sad eyes. Avoiding her gaze, Elvis looked at the three coolers. Somehow the man who loaded them had gotten them to fit side by side, but Elvis couldn’t tell which one held the food. Even though the food had been loaded last, he had seen the man who put them in rearranging them to fit, so the cooler of food could be any of the three. It didn’t help that they were all the same color.

  “Redemption, there are three coolers here. Which one?”

  “How I go know? Check all three. Dere must be beer in one of dem,” Redemption replied.

  Elvis muttered obscenities under his breath and reached for one of the coolers. He popped the lid, but it was so dark, he could see nothing. The contents gave off a strange rusty smell and he decided against plunging his hands blindly into it.

  “You get light?” he shouted at Redemption.

  “Light?”

  “It is dark back here.”

  “Dis is government motor, so flashlight must dey glove box,” Redemption said, opening the passenger door. The overhead light came on as Redemption opened the door, and Elvis staggered back in disgust. He tried to shout, but nothing came. Kemi, however, let out a piercing scream that had Redemption scrambling to the back. He clocked her on the side of the head with the pistol butt and she fell silent.