And After Many Days

by Jowhor Ile

  For afters, there was a fruit cocktail: pineapple, paw-paw, and mango, sliced and swimming in the juice in a big bowl. The ripe, sweet smell of the mango filled the car, and two flies buzzed about. Paul held his palm up, aiming to hit as the flies came his way. They buzzed and zigzagged about the car, bumping into the windows as Marcus beat the air with a newspaper, and then they escaped.

  “I went to see Bibi last weekend,” Ma said. “She was selected to represent her school in an all-girls cantata.”

  “Really, where are they playing?” Paul asked.

  “Ilorin.”

  “Wow,” the children chorused.

  “Is she flying there or going by bus?” Paul asked.

  “They are flying,” Ma replied.

  “That’s all we will hear about when we go back home,” Ajie said. “Bibi will talk about it so much, like she is the first person in the whole world to have ever entered an airplane.”

  “Jealousy!” Paul laughed as if he weren’t also secretly coveting Bibi’s airplane adventure.

  “Is she still playing that instrument, what is it called?” Ajie asked to lower the tone.

  “Oboe, yes, she is playing two solos,” Ma replied.

  “Shitted!” He cupped his mouth with his left hand.

  “What type of language is that?” Ma threw him a disapproving glance and leaned forward to the glove compartment to get a toothpick.

  “Bibi shouldn’t be doing things like that,” Paul joined in.

  “What do you mean, Paul?” Ma challenged. “She plays the oboe well.”

  “Ma, just hear how it sounds: oboe,” Ajie said.

  “Like ‘oh no.’ ” Paul laughed. “Why can’t she just play the trumpet or drums?”

  “Trust Bibi to pick an odd instrument,” Ajie said.

  “Her music teacher is very proud of her, and so is her principal. You haven’t been chosen yet to represent your school in anything.”

  “Shitted. Ma, that’s harsh,” Ajie said, laughing. “Still, Bibi is running down our family name.”

  “Paul, what’s this ‘shitted’ your brother keeps saying?”

  “Don’t mind him, Ma. It’s just silly junior boys’ slang.”

  “What is wrong with it?” Ajie said.

  “Is that what we sent you here to learn?” Ma’s voice had risen to a scold. She turned to face Ajie properly. “Let this be the first and the last time I will hear it from your mouth, you hear?”

  Having sufficiently flattened the mood and looking for a way to revive it, she opened a bottle of Sprite and passed it to Paul. “Which one do you want?” she asked Ajie.

  “Fanta,” Ajie said.

  After they had eaten, they sat back, watching other families. Marcus put on the radio and turned the knob until it caught a station playing a reggae tune—Majek Fashek singing “Send Down the Rain,” which at that moment seemed fitting. Soon it was time for Ma and Marcus to drive back to Port Harcourt.

  Ajie rummaged through the bag of provisions Ma had just handed him. Paul was looking through his bag, too. Ma gave them their letters from Bendic and told them to send their replies once they could. “Do you still have stamps left? I should have gotten you some more, completely forgot.”

  “They sell stamps in school,” Ajie said, “but I still have about six left.”

  “You people shouldn’t forget my birthday-o,” Paul said. “You can send a money order. Just a suggestion. And yes, tell Bendic to expect my letter.”

  “I will tell him,” Ma said. Regarding Paul’s birthday, she said they could have a party, by the grace of God, when they returned for midterm break or long holiday. Ajie thought Ma was being rather agreeable, so he said he wouldn’t mind if they threw a party for him as well. Ma asked Paul how he was coping with being deputy head boy, and Paul said there was really nothing to it. Ma looked at Ajie to comment, and Ajie looked back at her and said nothing.

  “We’ve begun heats for the interhouse sports competition.” Ajie perked up. “I’m marching.”

  “That’s good,” Ma said, then turned the other way. “What about you, Paul?”

  “Paul is in the senior boys’ four-by-hundred relay. He’s throwing the javelin, too,” Ajie said.

  They drove to the entrance of the dormitory area and the boys got out of the car, stood together, and waved to their mother and Marcus, who honked twice as the car rolled off. They watched as the car went down the sloping road toward the classroom area, passing by the staff rooms, the teachers’ tearoom, the laboratories, the library, the fields, and the parking lot slowly emptying of cars. The blue Peugeot 504 paused by the gate for a security check, and then, with the orange light indicating left, disappeared into the evening mist.

  Ajie did not read his letter until after dinner. He put the envelope carefully in between his introductory technology textbook as the bell rang for night prep. The handwriting seemed particularly formal, but it was one he was used to.

  My dear Ajie,

  I’m sorry I couldn’t come with your mother for your visiting day as I promised. The doctor has advised me to take some rest so I’m staying back this time and will hear all about how you and your brother are doing when your mother and Marcus return.

  I hope you’ve adjusted well now to life in the dormitory. It can’t be easy, but I know you are tough enough to survive it. I hope your brother is showing you the ropes so you avoid getting into too much trouble.

  How is your math?

  Remember what we agreed you should do when someone tries to annoy you. The backward count always works. Take it slowly from 100, and before you know it, you will think of something better than to lash out. Don’t be afraid to report anyone who is bothering you. Did you write to your sister?

  I hope to be going to Abuja in a few weeks. I have been selected, among other people in the state, as part of a committee to discuss revenue allocation with the government. If you ask your brother, he might be able to explain to you.

  Write to us.

  Your affectionate father,

  P.S.: Mr. Onabanjo has said he doesn’t see you enough. He is your guardian—why are you avoiding him? He sends for you and you don’t go. Please, report to his office once every week, Fridays preferably. Let him know how you are doing. I will call him.

  —

  The newspaper selection at the school library did not run any story about Bendic’s trip to Abuja and what he said in those meetings. Neither Paul nor Ajie stumbled across their father’s name while flipping through the papers that were brought daily to the large reference table in the library, but what did it matter, anyway?

  The newspaper front pages in the months that followed carried stories about revenue allocation, think tanks set up for community development, and governors cutting ribbons for commission projects with much fanfare.

  In Ogibah, Nwokwe’s son began preparing to run for local government chairman. He had been a secretary in OYF, and many people suggested he run for a councillorship position in the local government first, but he refused. He had the backing of his father for the top job.

  Some people would later say the trouble all began when Nwokwe made his son run for office; they said after then that things were never the same in Ogibah. Some said it was all the fault of Company; that it began in those early years when they first arrived in their coveralls and jungle boots. Others said the trouble in Ogibah had nothing to do with any of those but started from when human beings decided to live together in a community, knowing all the while they were prone to savage betrayals, filled with the desire to conquer each other, yet making no sufficient safeguards against these. Application Master declared it was greed, Nwokwe’s and his son’s greed, and that was all.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Bibi loved opening letters. Like all girls, she loved secrets—having, hiding, and revealing them only in exchange for more dangerous ones. She grew tall in the year after she entered secondary school, and during that holiday she befriended, for a brief time, a round-faced girl who had turne
d up on their street. A girl from number 17. She was one of Chief Wokoma’s children but had lived since birth with her mother, who from the start refused to share a roof with Chief Wokoma and his other three wives.

  The girl sauntered through the gate one Friday afternoon, and it was Bendic she met first, sitting on the veranda and taking some fresh air while everyone else was in the parlor. Bibi had received a letter from her best friend that afternoon and, after reading it in the privacy of her room, colonized a big portion of the dining table, where she sat to compose her reply. Paul needed much space on the dining table, too, because his new Sony Walkman had dealt him some treachery, cutting a few of his favorite cassette tapes. Paul had been bent over all afternoon, undoing the tiny screws on the cassette, then unwinding the spool of glistering brown tape to locate the severed parts. He sweated in the warm air of the parlor and his frustration mounted. Bibi refused, even after Paul’s suggestions, to use the lower center table in the seating area to do her letter, so a silent war raged on the dining table as they bore down on their respective tasks with unflinching focus.

  Ajie sat on the sofa opposite Ma and hoped power would be restored. Even though the TV stations wouldn’t have come on yet, at least there would be that muted vibe, the hum of electricity waiting in sockets, making the fridge breathe, and at least the ceiling fan would be spinning and blowing air across the room. Ma was asleep, her head thrown back as she let out air softly through her parted lips.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” The girl’s voice came from outside. Bibi continued being busy with her letter writing; Paul was now using a Bic pen to roll in his metallic chrome cassette.

  “Oh, I see,” Bendic was saying to the girl. “You are Chief Wokoma’s daughter?”

  “Yes, sir.” She was now on the veranda with Bendic. “I’m his daughter. My brothers said there is someone in this house I can play with.”

  “Yes, yes, there are,” Bendic said. “My children are inside. Bibi,” he called out, “Paul, Ajie.”

  “What’s your name?” Bendic asked.

  “Wendy,” she replied.

  “Wendy.”

  “Nwenenda,” the girl said by way of explanation, “but everyone calls me Wendy.”

  Ajie stood by the window and watched the girl in her short dungarees and white T-shirt. And then she walked into the parlor. “Good afternoon, Ma,” she said loudly, startling Ma out of her afternoon dream.

  “Mm-hmm,” Ma mumbled, smacking her lips and swallowing. “Afternoon, my daughter, how are you?” She squinted and smiled as if she had any idea who the girl was.

  “I am fine, thank you, Ma,” Wendy said, and Ma turned back toward the dining table to see where Paul and Bibi were; in her groggy state, she was assuming the girl was one of Bibi’s friends whom she should know.

  “How are your parents?” Ma found herself asking. Bibi left the dining table and came over to Ma and Wendy. Paul had suspended his tape rolling and was watching.

  “What were you doing?” Wendy asked, smiling at Bibi as if to say, Let’s just accept that we are good friends already. Her eyes were scanning the framed photographs on the wall as she and Bibi walked back to the dining area. “My name is Wendy.”

  Ajie was watching Paul watch Bibi and Wendy. Apart from her sky-blue short dungarees, Wendy had everything else to match: white T-shirt, white sneakers, white socks, and white wristwatch strap.

  “Bibi,” Bibi replied. “My name is Bibi. I was just replying to a letter from my friend.” She pulled out one of the dining chairs for Wendy, but the two of them just stood behind the chairs for a moment, and right then Ajie would have loved to call Bibi by her full name; he would have loved to cough out, “Edobibi!” in his thickest Ogba accent, anything that might mar the sweet first impression Bibi seemed so bent on making. He would go on to explain to Wendy, who would be manifestly appalled by such an uncool name, “She was born in the year our house in the village was completed. Her name simply means a place to live,” and then it would be left to Ma to raise her voice and say, “No. Home. It means home.” But anyway, Bibi beat him to it. “My brother Paul”—she gestured toward Paul, and then turning the other way—“Ajie, my kid brother.”

  Kid stung him. The way Bibi delivered it, knowing exactly what she was doing and counting on him to endure the slight until at least the visitor was gone. Ajie snorted, hissed, and swayed in resentment, but no one noticed. Wendy nodded coolly at Ajie, and although Paul was right before her, she waved her fingers hi-yaa and immediately turned to Bibi as if there were something they had to discuss.

  “Bibi, won’t you offer your friend something?” Ma asked. “I think we have some soft drinks in the fridge.”

  Wendy shook her head at Bibi and winced in a big-girl sort of way, Don’t bother.

  “So you are always writing letters to your friends. Who is this one to?” Wendy asked.

  “Atinuke, my best friend. She lives in New Bussau,” Bibi said, shifting the writing pad away

  “Where is that?”

  “Niger State. It’s where you have the Kainji Dam. I think her father works in NEPA.”

  “Hmm, okay.”

  “I just received her letter today. I wanted to reply at once,” Bibi said. Everyone in the parlor was listening to the two of them, and their chat took on an air of play rehearsal.

  “You live at number seventeen, right?” Paul asked.

  “Oh, yes.” Wendy turned to face him, looking a little surprised that Paul was there at all.

  “We know your brother Wobo,” Paul said.

  “Oh, no, my brothers.” Wendy rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “They frustrate me. Why do you think I left to come here?”

  “What did they do?” Bibi asked.

  “I don’t know. They are all much older than me, and they are just mean and boring. Jesus.” She sighed and then looked at Paul. “What class are you in?”

  —

  Two weeks later, on a moderately warm Friday evening at about five-thirty, Wendy went berserk with rage and called Paul a “stupendous ignoramus” and Paul yelled, “You nematode!” in her face.

  “Take this fake rubbish away.” Bibi shoved the BMX bicycle back at Wendy.

  Wendy held on to her bike with one hand and stepped in front of Bibi, stared her down, moving her eyes up and down, up and down, and then hissed, “We shouldn’t even be breathing the same air. You scruffy thing.”

  “That’s enough, now. Take your bike and go.” Paul put himself between the two girls.

  “Ask your father to buy you your own bicycle,” Wendy shouted as she rolled off.

  “Ask your father to stop picking you things off the dump,” Bibi shot back. At which point Ajie thought she deserved a round of applause, but his knee was scraped and still hurting from the altercation that had preceded the ongoing fallout.

  An hour before, they were all laughter, shrieks, and shouts as Paul gave Wendy a crossbar down the street with Bibi and Ajie running behind them. Bibi then asked to have a go and pedaled up and down the street while Ajie, who couldn’t ride properly, was counting on Paul to give him a hand. When Bibi got off the bike, Ajie assumed it was his turn next and asked Wendy if he could ride, but she refused: “I can’t let you practice with my bike, you will spoil it and my father will be angry.” She pedaled off.

  Paul told Ajie to relax, he would ask her himself, but Ajie went and stood by the dogonyaro trees, watching them, keeping a decided distance so as to feel lonely enough, and imagining how one day the girl would be knocked down by a bigger, faster bicycle or an okada and how he would not care when she returned from hospital on crutches, in bandages and casts.

  “Don’t worry, Ajie, come.” Bibi beckoned to him in high spirits. “I’m sure she was just joking.”

  When Wendy cycled back to where they stood, Paul asked if she could let Ajie learn to ride, and Wendy pursed her lips and reluctantly stepped aside. Twilight had descended in an instant and clothed the trees in shadows. “Steady,” Paul said to Ajie as he got on the b
ike gingerly. Paul touched gently on the handlebars to keep them steady.

  “Don’t pedal too fast,” Bibi admonished, “just take it slow.” Then she turned to Wendy. “I think he’ll be fine, he won’t spoil your bike.” Bibi failed to notice the unyielding look on her friend’s face. She couldn’t see beyond her own excitement that her friend wasn’t with her, so she just rubbed sand off her face and kicked her bathroom slippers to the curb and walked behind the bike as Ajie stepped, ever so gently, on his first pedals, Paul’s hand still on the handlebar, Bibi following right behind. They were soon doing a quick walk, a jog, and then a sprint. Ajie was pedaling along all by himself. “Yeah!” Bibi threw her hands in the air. “We did it!” Ajie looked back and realized they weren’t holding on to the bike anymore; he kept his feet working on the pedals—if he stopped stepping, he would fall, so he looked ahead and kept his frame steady. When he saw the pothole, he swerved and tried to return his hands to a straight position, but everything became wobbly and crazy and he saw himself going down in slow motion. Kraap! The bike scraped the tarmac. He tumbled off and fell flat on the road. His knee burned with pain. In a second, Paul was there, pulling him off the ground. “Ajie, Ajie, are you okay?” Bibi was looking at Ajie’s bruised knee now, blowing air to soothe it, saying, “Sorry, it’s only a scratch,” and then looking at Ajie’s face to confirm if she was right: It’s only a scratch, isn’t it? Nothing is broken…That was when Wendy walked up to where they were huddled together on the ground. She picked up her bike from the ground and checked to see if anything was damaged.

  Paul was looking at her. “Sorry,” he said, then looking back at Ajie, “he has wounded himself.”

  That was when the roaring came out of her: “I don’t care! It’s all your fault! Stupendous ignoramus!” Paul leaped to his feet, quivering with rage, and for a whole second there was no sound from him, then he screamed, “You nematode! Horrible creature, and you can go to hell with your bike.”

  Ajie got up and tried his leg out in a few steps, as if checking for damage. The security lights of the nearby compounds began to come on as Wendy walked toward her gate.