by Andrew Brown
‘What soccer team do you support?’ he asked Richard, his lips making wet slurping noises as he spoke.
‘Well, I don’t really watch soccer much,’ Richard answered, taken aback. ‘But my friends support Liverpool. So I suppose, by default, I support Liverpool. My name is Richard.’ He tried to extend his hand in the cramped space.
‘A British club.’ The man glowered, ignoring the attempted introduction. ‘Have you ever been to Liverpool? Have you ever seen them play?’ He turned away from Richard without waiting for a reply. ‘Bah, the Super Eagles – African Champions in 1980 and’ 94 – and now they cannot even keep the little chicken out of their house.’ The group of men watching the television roared as the Cameroonian striker’s shot was palmed over the bar by the Nigerian goalkeeper.
‘I studied politics and history at the University of Ife,’ the man said, pausing while this information was considered by the table. Sunday sniggered behind his hand, turning away to hide his face. ‘Let me tell you, Nigeria is a metaphor for all of Africa. We are supposedly a single country, with a single political structure, a people who can feel national pride in working towards a shared goal. But we never wished to support a single government, a single country, a single soccer team.’ He gestured towards the television screen. ‘Africa must unite against those who would still see us as slaves. But we cannot accept the shackles that they have placed upon us, and that includes – most importantly of all – the shackles of fictional nationhood.’
The man extracted a packet of monkey nuts while he lectured, cracking the shells with thick fingers and plying the small red nuts into his mouth. A small piece of nut flew from his mouth and landed, obviously, on Richard’s resting hand. ‘National democracy just exacerbates ethnic strife,’ the man continued, undeterred.
Richard brushed the top of his hand clean with a few delicate wipes of a damp serviette. Perturbed by the man’s presence, he looked at Abayomi. She smiled back and nodded her head slightly, as if to say: indulge him.
But the man did not wait for Richard’s approval. ‘If I am the chief in my area,’ he went on, ‘and I control my small patch of land together with those who respect me and are loyal to me, then there is no problem. But now, powers greater than I give to my people, and all the other people, the power to choose someone to be in control of the whole, wide land. You are inviting me to take control of far more than I ever had before. You are asking me to compete. And ethnic competition may take many forms. Look at the violence that has ravaged my so-called country for decades. And why should I compete if I do not desire to win? And if I desire to win why should I only try to win by your foolish, limiting rules? National democracy in a region such as Nigeria is a recipe for disaster. Nationalism is an enigma. Loyalty to a government that isn’t representative of my ethnic group cannot be fostered. How could it be?’
‘But are you then suggesting totalitarian rule?’ Richard asked.
The man leant forward, encouragingly for the first time. ‘No, on the contrary, military rule has displayed no vision whatsoever. It is even more self-fulfilling and ruthless in its maintenance of power. Force does not make the nation coalesce. We want a federal state. But not a federal state of Nigeria – a federal state of Africa.’
While Igbo had been talking, to Richard’s surprise another man had placed a chair next to Abayomi, pushing in between her and Sunday. He had a hard face with yellow-white pustules blistered across the side of his veined neck. He did not say anything, but Richard could not help notice that both Abayomi and Sunday had tensed, pushing their bottles of beer towards the middle of the table.
‘Arrange yua sef,’ Richard heard Sunday mutter to himself.
Only Igbo seemed unaware of, or uninterested in, the new arrival, still taken up by his speech. ‘It is only Africa that can pursue our interests, the interests of all who inhabit it. Nation states are a colonial fiction and the sooner we get rid of them the happier all our peoples will be.’
‘The African Nation …’ Abayomi said lightly – slightly mock-ingly, Richard thought. There was a nervousness in her voice as she proceeded: ‘I am Mother Africa. I am what holds you foolish men together. See how you sit before me at this table.’ She took a long drink while Sunday giggled at her side.
The back of the new arrival’s hand connected with the side of Sunday’s mouth, following through in a sweep that sent him sprawling to the floor and his chair clattering upside down. Some of the other patrons glanced across at the scene, then looked away. Richard had instinctively risen, muscles taut for flight. But the new arrival was not interested in him at all, or in Sunday for that matter: he was staring at Abayomi, holding her in a long, cold gaze.
Igbo stopped talking and looked at Sunday’s attacker for a moment. ‘In Nigerian folk culture we tell the story of Moremi of Ile-Ife,’ he continued, speaking evenly as he addressed Richard, as if nothing had happened. ‘The story is that the beautiful Moremi would seduce those men who were threatening her people, using her irresistible womanly charms. In their beds she learnt their plans and secrets. She slipped from their sheets and disclosed their secrets to her people, allowing them to defeat their enemies. As you see, our different cultures inform the manner in which we do our business. Mandla here’ – he gestured towards the man across the table who was still hunched towards Abayomi – ‘comes from your own excuse for a nation. Mandla is tediously non-intellectual. I doubt he went to school at all. Hey, Mandla? But he’s effective in his way, as you see.’
Richard expected Mandla to retaliate physically, but his eyes did not move from Abayomi. Was this a jealous boyfriend, he wondered anxiously. God forbid, a client? The reality of Abayomi’s position started to dawn on him.
Abayomi stared back at Mandla for a short while, before relenting and looking down at the table. Richard could not think of anything to say to break the silence. Sunday clambered back up, kicking the upturned chair away from him. He did not turn back to the table but limped through the cheering crowd watching the soccer, holding his mouth. After a long while, Abayomi looked back up at Mandla’s darkened face. Her eyes were wide and Richard thought he saw a tear gathering.
‘I am sorry,’ she said to Mandla. ‘I am not Mother Africa. I am nothing but a slave. You must forgive my silly ways.’ She paused, before continuing, still looking at him. ‘I will come and see you tomorrow.’
‘Yes, I think so,’ Mandla replied, drawling his words as if drunk. ‘I’ll be waiting for you. Be there at eleven.’ He took Sunday’s beer and tipped the bottle upside down into his opened mouth. The liquid spilt across his cheeks and ran down his neck, wetting the lapels of his shirt.
‘Your new toy does not please me,’ he said, eyes flicking towards Richard like the tongue of a snake.
THIRTEEN
ABAYOMI KNELT DOWN on the wooden floor, close to the wall in the corner of the living room. Her knees hurt as she worked, pushing the edge of the knife into the join between the two strips of skirting board. The wood was soft and rotten. With a twist of the blade, the skirting board loosened, prying away. She turned the knife further and the board dropped onto the floor in front of her. She could see where the rough masonry and plaster ended, leaving a strip of blackness between the floor and the wall. Outside, the early-morning traffic hooted its way along Sea Point Main Road. She pushed her fingers into the crevice, gritting her teeth as a cockroach scampered past her hand. She felt for the bank envelope and pulled out a rolled wad of notes, wrapped in plastic and held in place with a dirty rubber band. Sunday moved from one leg to the other behind her, making the floorboards rise and fall. She carefully repositioned the skirting board, knocking it back into place with firm taps from the back of the knife. Satisfied, she stood up, her knees stiff.
‘Come, let’s go. It is time,’ she said to Sunday. He nodded enthusiastically as she stuffed the envelope into her pocket.
They caught a taxi from Sea Point to the central rank above the station. From there they walked, pushing against the strong southe
aster that rolled down the mountain slopes towards them. Sunday kept close to her, like an overprotective bodyguard.
The welcome at court was not a friendly one. Seconds after Abayomi stepped into the courtroom, the prosecutor exploded into shrill protestations. ‘No, no, lady, you can’t come in here!’
The court orderly looked up in alarm. He had been sifting through his plastic lunch box and closed the lid with a tight snap before getting to his feet.
The prosecutor’s voice kept climbing in pitch. ‘No, lady, the magistrate told you: you can’t come back in here. Not after the way you behaved last time! Didn’t you hear him?’ she screeched uncontrollably, as the orderly made his way around the table towards Abayomi.
He confronted her in the aisle between the benches, squaring his shoulders. ‘You must wait outside,’ he said gruffly. Sunday tugged at her dress. She stood firm for a moment, her chest heaving. Then, saying nothing, she turned and stepped out of the room.
She and Sunday sat outside on the bench, watching the procession of dejected-looking women enter and exit the adjacent family court. Abayomi rubbed her fingers over her temples. After a while, the orderly appeared and started barking out names from a list. Abayomi did not know whether to expect her name to be called or not. The names slurred on the man’s lips and she could not make out whether her name had been included in the list. When he had finished he stuck the sheet of paper on the small board outside the door. Abayomi scanned the list: Ifasen’s name was there, but hers was not.
Once the court proceedings had started, she dispatched Sunday every few minutes to find out what was happening inside. Each time he returned with a shake of his head.
Just before ten, he slunk into the courtroom again. He was gone for only a minute before the bench creaked beside her. ‘The screamy lady be saying he will only be called later,’ Sunday said. ‘Maybe at twelve or after.’
‘Oh no, Sunday. Why so late?’ she pleaded. ‘Oh, why so late? I can’t stay, Sunday. I can’t be here.’
‘But she says the bail will be given,’ Sunday added to reassure her. ‘She thinks so, she says. But she be really scaring me so I didn’t ask no more.’ Sunday looked grim.
Abayomi gripped the tops of her knees and rocked backwards and forwards. She stamped her heels on the ground like a child. ‘Go again. Tell them … oh, just go again.’ Now her tears started to well up.
Sunday left her again, this time for over ten minutes. When he returned, he shook his head, prompting a free flow of tears.
‘I will stay,’ Sunday said. ‘I will stay here and I will be here. Give me the money.’
Abayomi looked around the corridor in desperation, but there was nothing to help her. She stood up and walked to the courtroom doors, as if considering entering. Instead she said: ‘I have to go. Oh, my Ifasen, I have to leave you.’ She put her hand out and placed her flat palm against the wood of the door.
‘Don’t you be worrying no more, ma cheri. Your man Sunday is here. It will be all right. Give me the money.’
Abayomi turned to Sunday, nodding in resignation. ‘Be careful with it,’ she said as she pulled the envelope out of her pocket and thrust it into his hands, placing her palm on top of his fist. She looked at him solemnly. ‘I am trusting you, Sunday. Tell Ifasen … tell Ifasen that I am sorry. Tell him I was here, that I waited, but they would not let me in. Tell him I was here but I had to go. I have to see Mandla …’ She kept talking, willing Sunday to listen and understand, as if he were a conduit to Ifasen himself. ‘Tell him I will see him tonight.’
‘The leech that does not let go even when it is filled dies on the dry land,’ Sunday said in Igbo. Abayomi glared at him until he giggled. ‘Okay, okay, don’t worry. Sunday has it under control, mai sista. Sunday’s your man. No worries. No worries. Sunday and the money will be here.’
But when Ifasen was called up from the court cells below, just after lunch, the courtroom was almost empty. Two anxious-looking mothers were clasped together, waiting for their pickpocketing sons to emerge. Only one other man was in court, seemingly asleep beneath his skew cap. The trip in the truck had left Ifasen feeling sick and he swayed on the top of the steps before the court orderly shoved him into the accused box. When the man recognised Ifasen from the scuffle the week before, he decided to stand watch nearby. Ifasen looked over his shoulder, scouring the courtroom for Abayomi. Somebody must call her from outside, he thought anxiously. He tried to attract the attention of one of the mothers, but they were too preoccupied.
‘Mr Obeyi!’ A voice boomed and Ifasen spun around. Magistrate Julies sat behind a looming façade, flicking his pen between his fingers. ‘Court proceedings happen in my court in front of you, sir, not behind you. There is nothing for you there. So please face the front.’
Ifasen nodded apologetically, still feeling his head being pulled inexorably to look towards the back. It was inconceivable that he had been abandoned.
‘Right, charges please.’
The prosecutor pushed her glasses up her nose before shuffling around her desk to hand up the charge sheet to the magistrate. He read through them slowly, grunting to himself from time to time. Ifasen heard a noise as someone entered the courtroom and strained his eyes sideways, trying to catch a glimpse of the door. An elderly woman rustled her shopping bag as she settled onto the hard bench. The flabby orderly picked dandruff from his hair. After a period of silence, the magistrate put down the documents and nodded to the diminutive prosecutor.
‘Your Honour, the accused is charged with attempting to deal in narcotics, resisting arrest and failing to obey the lawful command of a member of the South African Police Service.’ Ifasen thought he detected an emphasis on ‘South African’ but the woman’s face remained impassive. He half-expected the magistrate to laugh at her screechy statement, but he, too, was unmoved, turning his attention to the accused.
‘So, Mr Obeyi. Not so obedient, are we then?’
The shrill prosecutor smiled to herself, but Ifasen frowned, unsure of the meaning of the magistrate’s comment.
‘Now, you do not have a lawyer, do you, Mr Obeyi?’ the magistrate continued.
Ifasen looked around at the back of the courtroom again, but the small audience had not changed.
‘Front, please, Mr Obeyi!’ Again the voice roared and Ifasen almost lost his balance as he turned back to the bench.
‘No, sir, it seems that I have no lawyer today.’ Ifasen put his hands behind his back to lend further seriousness to his answer, standing at attention like a soldier.
‘Yes, well, that comes as no surprise to this bench.’ The magistrate scribbled something on the papers in front of him. ‘All right, Mr Obeyi. You are charged with serious offences, offences that come before this court all the time. However, you’ll not have to plead today; you’ll be given an opportunity to employ a lawyer to represent you. Now I assume you want bail?’
Ifasen nodded.
‘Well then,’ the magistrate continued without breaking, ‘where do you live?’
Before Ifasen could respond, the prosecutor’s voice grated in his ears: ‘Address given, Your Worship, is Flat 605, Marconi Flats, Main Road, Sea Point. No fixed place of employment.’
Ifasen looked at her and then back at the magistrate. ‘Well?’ The magistrate tapped his pen on the desk.
‘Yes.’ Ifasen was not sure what else he should say. He opened his mouth to say something more, to explain who he was, how he came to be a refugee in a foreign country, that he had a son, that he was married and how he loved his wife. But the sterile confines of the courtroom seemed no place for such admissions. It seemed that just uttering such disclosures might somehow destroy them. He closed his mouth and shifted from foot to foot.
‘Well, what do you earn?’
Ifasen frowned again at the question.
‘What money do you make?’ the magistrate repeated, slowly formulating each word.
‘I am a schoolteacher. I was born and educated in Kano. Then I taught at a school in Lago
s and then in Ab—’
‘Mr Obeyi, I am not the slightest bit interested in what you did before you graced the shores of this fine country of ours. I don’t care if you were the King of England before you got here.’
Again the prosecutor smiled to herself, staring down into her lap. Ifasen felt he should mention her disrespect to the magistrate. But the man seemed weary and uninterested.
‘What I want to know is what you earn in this country and how you earn it – in this country – other than apparently selling drugs.’
‘I sell toys and things on the road,’ Ifasen answered. ‘And I don’t sell drugs,’ he added bravely.
He knew that he needed to explain to this man that his wife earned ten times more than he did, that her income was stable and significant. But how could he even begin to explain to them what she did for a living – the unspoken manipulation and abuse that brought in their weekly earnings, that bought their food, paid for the child’s nappies? How could he describe his pride in his wife and his simultaneous daily humiliation, holding her tightly at night and trying not to imagine how her day had played itself across her body?
Ifasen looked up at the magistrate, feeling hot tears welling up from under his eyelids.
‘Well,’ the magistrate responded coldly, ‘that’s all not very impressive now, is it? You sell trinkets on the side of the road. You don’t have a fixed place of employment. Your address is some arbitrary flat in a run-down Sea Point drug den. Tell me, do you have any money here today to offer as bail, money that you can actually pay today?’
Ifasen turned to the gallery. This time the magistrate did not chastise him, giving him a moment to sweep the empty benches imploringly.
After a while the magistrate said, ‘Mr Obeyi, I will take that as a no. In the absence of any proof of earnings and given the inability to pay any given amount of bail, I have no choice but to refuse bail at this stage. Date for trial hearing?’
