by Gavin Chait
‘Most likely those were purchased a long time ago. That’s not new technology, but it isn’t in the sphere. Probably Chinese army surplus shipped here before the war. I imagine when they stop running no one will be able to get them going again.’
They come to another traffic circle, this one with two improbably large six-fingered hands clasped as if in prayer, the thumbs unnaturally far from the fingers.
There are houses here now. One is painted with a fading hand-lettered notice all across the outside of its walls, ‘Beware 419’.
A group of barefoot nuns cross the street, their white habits blinding in the searing sunshine.
They avoid the rusting hulk of a grader left where it broke down in the middle of the road a century ago. Other skeletal vehicle remains follow. Relics of the peculiar contradiction of a community no longer physically connected to the world, with continuing access to its ideas, but living in a city where their aspirations are subject to the conflict of its warlords.
They turn on to Ikom Highway and head out of Calabar.
‘Where do you think he is taking us?’ asks Sarah.
‘Probably to that Tinapa place,’ says Abishai.
‘As long as we stay on this side of the river, we’re out of the connect and I’ll be happy,’ says Samara.
They pass a series of giant concrete squares. They must once have been intended for a sewerage pipeline. They have been covered in tarpaulins and converted into single-room houses. Children play in the spaces between them. Washing lines are strung from one to another. There are occasional brave little boxes of flowering plants.
A group of people are dancing together, beating cellulosic ekwe, playing bamboo flutes and goje made out of old oil cans. The singer dances alone in the centre, his eyes closed, his face is rapture.
A river crosses a dip on the highway. Other vehicles are lined up there, along the side of the road, their owners industriously washing them with buckets drawn from the water. A man lies asleep on the roof of one, a blanket over his chest.
Their vehicle gingerly crosses the river and rises again up the other side. They are the only ones travelling further than the river, and the road is almost smooth, unlike the pitted, rutted mess they have been travelling on.
‘We’re almost there,’ shouts Thomas. Smoke is starting to emerge from the bonnet again.
On the other side of the hill is a parking lot. Through the trees is a vast set of buildings. An ape rests sadly with its head buried under a tree, one concrete arm broken off, its feet still bonded to a giant once-ball-like object.
Thomas leads them through the trees along pathways and staircases of what appears to have been a shopping centre. Glass is still in some of the windows, exposed concrete and hanging roots inside each of the old shops.
Sarah stares mystified at a faded plastic sign propped on the inside of one window. ‘Bastardo. Taste the grape with love from Odessa to Tinapa,’ she reads, the words making even less sense when spoken.
‘I’ve been to Odessa,’ says Samara, beside her. ‘I don’t know if they ever made wine but, if they did, I wouldn’t drink it.’
There is nothing else inside the shop. They move on.
Paths through the leaf litter and matted vegetation indicate that Tinapa is regularly visited. They walk, speaking in hushed voices as if at the site of a great tragedy. Something about the place speaks of lost empire.
Daniel whispers to Thomas, ‘When was this place last used?’
‘Oh,’ says Thomas, ‘it was never, never used. None of the shops or offices ever had businesses in them.’ He leads them down a ramp between the trees.
‘That gully used to have a lake in it. The river is just over there,’ he points ahead of where they are walking, ‘but the big man who built this place owned this land and wanted a river view, so they dug out the lake.’
‘I do not understand,’ says Abishai. ‘Why show us this place?’
Thomas grins, ‘It is from the time of the big men, when oil was valuable and they spent our people’s money as they wished. They could build such places without a care. There was a place – there where the monkey was – where they could make old Nollywood movies, but none were ever made.
‘It reminds us of how small are our warlords now. All they have is brutality, but they are little men, with little –’ he holds his forefinger and thumb up to his face, peering through the tiny space between them.
‘Come, I’ll show you the hotel. No one ever stayed there.’
On the way back, Jason once more in the front and the others locked knee-to-knee on the sofas, they say little.
Are the warlords as hollow as the imperialists in the Balladeer’s story, wonders Joshua.
Smoke is trailing round the jeep as they zigzag down the hill towards the river. ‘We come to the marina. You have lunch here,’ shouts Thomas. The vehicle makes an odd cough, then continues.
‘Perhaps now?’ says Samara. Flames burst out of the bonnet and the jeep slows, coasting down the remains of the hill and into the narrow parking lot alongside the river. ‘Now,’ merely as observation.
‘Don’t worry, don’t worry. This happens,’ shouts Thomas. He sounds worried.
They leave him, shouting and frantically trying to douse the flames, and head towards the long row of restaurants along the water.
Children and their parents are queuing outside a dome-like structure. ‘Spacetime for Azonto’ hovers over a serious-looking man with an immaculately tailored beard ducking and diving within the confines of his poster. Explosions reflect in the excited children’s faces looking for a little Saturday-afternoon entertainment. Their parents bear the bright-eyed stoicism of childminders everywhere.
Azonto, Samara discovers, is one man who will single-handedly save the planet from imminent disaster as aliens plot to destroy humanity. Nigeria’s low-budget entertainment industry still thrives.
Hundreds of people are ambling by the stalls, enjoying the afternoon sunshine and nibbling on various foods on sticks.
The group settles around tables over the water and beneath a shady tree. ‘It is a pick and kill,’ says David. ‘Someone will have to go choose for us.’
‘I will go,’ says Abishai. ‘Come, Samara, I will show you,’ leading him through the other tables and towards a large concrete tank. Inside, water half-filling it, catfish of various sizes lurk along the bottom.
‘We pick, and they kill,’ indicating the cooks. One of them comes over, grumbling impatiently as he waits for them to get on with it.
Abishai studies the fish carefully. She indicates two large ones and points out their table. The cook nods. He swiftly grabs the two fish in his hands, hoiks them out and strides into his kitchen.
A young boy brings bowls of water for them to wash their hands. Minutes later, both fish – now roasted – are placed on platters on the table along with a tureen of rice and bowls for each of them.
As he is eating, Samara feels something shift in his pocket. He pulls out a small stone and looks at it curiously. Turning it over, he notes the symbol scratched into the rock.
Daniel notices. ‘That looks like nsibidi. Where did you find it?’
‘I didn’t. Perhaps Symon did?’ he says.
‘Joshua,’ says Daniel, ‘you know nsibidi. What does this one say?’
Samara passes the stone to Joshua, who stares at the symbol. He rolls it left and right before deciding on the orientation of the arcs. Tracing his finger along the first arc, he says, ‘This first symbol means a man. The second symbol is strange: a broken man, perhaps? And the piece in the middle – that could be the piece of the broken man. So, a man has broken another man.’
He looks troubled and his face tightens. ‘Many superstitions are returning,’ he says, softly. ‘People believe again in evil spirits in pools and trees. They mix potions and say spells. I remember a tale, long ago, about a terrible ndem who tortured his victims by fastening them to a tree. He would tear off their faces and leave them there to die slowly. Thi
s was his sign.’
The clouds seem to have become darker; the sun seems to have vanished.
‘I hope we do not run into whoever scratched this mark,’ says Joshua.
‘We should head back to the hotel,’ says Jason. They take their leave, Daniel paying the restaurant, and walk back to Thomas.
He is standing, bereft, by the jeep. The bonnet is leaning against the low concrete wall at the side of the walkway. The fire is out, but the battery is half-melted, the inside of the compartment blackened, and the bottles of acid have pooled along the bottom.
‘I will fix this. I have a cousin—’ he begins as he sees them.
‘That will be well, my friend,’ says Joshua. ‘We thank you for your guidance, but we will walk back from here.’
Thomas sweats and wipes his forehead with an old handkerchief against the closeness of the day. He nods and motions to them, ‘Go back up the hill and that way, through Big Qua Town. It will be fastest.’
All of them, save for Samara, are sweating as they reach the top of the hill. They wait as Jason buys bottles of water for each of them before heading on.
Big Qua Town is the oldest part of the city. Wooden houses lean one on another. Half-built bigger houses rise broken out of the clutter of corrugated cellulosic roofs thickly painted in solar resin: relics of the days of the big men. All along every street are shops – endless rows selling identical products. Crowds of people, shouting, negotiating and pushing carts loaded with goods. Assorted groups are gathered around consoles listening to music, watching football or playing games.
Life is being lived raucously and in the open.
‘Are you armed?’ whispers Samara to Daniel and Joshua.
‘I have my pistol,’ says Daniel, Joshua nodding.
‘We are being followed,’ says Samara. Neither of the men look round. They naturally, conversationally, inform the others. All are alert, now. They do not hurry, but they do not linger.
Accidentally, they turn into a quiet courtyard.
Men suddenly appear, blocking the distant exits. As they turn, others emerge. All wear military fatigues and carry a variety of printed AK-47s. They are already pointed directly at the group.
Seven militia; seven from Ewuru. A fair fight.
‘Behind me,’ whispers Samara as he orientates the group so that they have their backs to a solid bricked wall.
One of the militia swaggers forward. A scar cuts across the top of his head and ends behind his left ear.
‘You owe our Awbong comey,’ he says, the threat unsaid, the malice in their posture and raised weapons sufficient.
‘Why do we owe comey?’ asks Joshua, his voice clear, no more than curious.
The scarred man chuckles, angling his chin at his men. They laugh too. ‘Awbong Uberti demands it. He is the boss of Henshaw Town. He does not need a reason.’
He flicks something towards Samara, who catches it. It is a pebble. He rolls it between his fingers. Carved on to the one side is a symbol: two parallel arcs, one broken off-centre, and a dot between them.
Samara nods. ‘We understand. I will give you comey.’
He walks towards the scarred man. Samara’s back is very straight, his steps measured. Joshua can see the tension, like a wound spring. The others stand, hands open, facing forward, hanging loose. Their hearts are pounding.
Samara stops before him, his hand raised, open and slightly outstretched at his waist.
‘Well?’ says the scarred man.
Samara’s fist is a blur rising up from his waist. He punches through the scarred man’s throat.
Behind him, Joshua and the others cannot see what Samara has done. They can only see he has struck. As one, they drop to one knee, snatching their pistols from under their shirts. Their shots are almost a single hard retort. The shocked militia barely have time to notice what is happening before they have fallen, dead, to the ground.
There is a moment to stare horrified as Samara pushes the scarred man off his arm and on to the ground.
A shout goes up and Samara leads them, running, pushing through people, doubling back, twisting through the maze of streets. Then they slow. Walk.
Even so, news has reached Henshaw Market before them.
Behzad is waiting outside a narrow alleyway near his hotel.
‘Come,’ he says. ‘You cannot stay in the hotel. Uberti will find you. We will hide you.’
Without a word, they follow him into the darkness beyond.
31
Ghanim is sitting in his office in the market, a shot glass of coffee on his desk. His console is in his lap, and he is scowling at his calculations. Thick fingers pushing and pulling at rows of numbers.
Faysal knocks on the door and sits on the chair on the other side of the stained desk.
‘The militia are nervous,’ he says, grinning.
‘Good,’ says Ghanim. ‘Always better when they are bothering about something other than us.’
‘I’m not sure, then, how hiding the Ewuru in our compound will keep us uninvolved?’ asks the younger man.
Ghanim flings the console at his brother. ‘Look at that.’
A guard comes in, Ishaq or Nuri, thinks Faysal. Even he struggles to tell them apart. The guard places a shot glass of coffee on the table and leaves quietly. Outside, the printer hums softly, layer upon layer, building a generator. Thin pipes leading into the printer jiggle as different materials are drawn down.
It is cool in the office, peaceful.
Faysal sips while studying the console. He drags a few rows of data across, creating a line chart. Whistles softly through his teeth.
‘Do you see?’ asks Ghanim.
Faysal is nodding. ‘Where did you get this?’ Blockchain transactions are normally encrypted, and it should be impossible to link these back to Ewuru.
‘I went to a few of the other printers around the markets, asking them for trading figures for Ewuru’s account. Mumtaz has records going back almost eighty years.’
‘How complete do you think this is?’ asks Faysal.
‘It is possible I missed some transactions, but you can see how it goes. Every few decades, they have purchased another printer. Then, instead of selling more produce, they sell less. Their trade is worth almost nothing. Only a few metal items and controllers for poor-quality grain. Either those machines are broken and they’re getting poorer—’
‘Or they no longer need our services,’ finishes Faysal.
‘And here they are, buying a battery which must cost most of their savings. Did you not wonder what they may wish to do with such a thing?’ asks Ghanim.
‘I have no idea. I assume a store for surplus power?’ says Faysal, guessing wildly.
‘I have no idea either,’ says Ghanim, ‘but I don’t believe they need it. If they were saving for anything it would be to buy our machine. They appear to have everything else.’
‘Did our uba sell them their DNA printer?’ asks Faysal. ‘I seem to remember a man who looked similar to that Joshua, when we were children.’
Ghanim stands and flicks through the console, ‘There, forty years ago. Samuel Ossai, Ewuru.’
‘They are building a new city?’
‘Perhaps,’ says Ghanim.
‘What is it to us?’ asks Faysal.
Ghanim looks out of his office and into the market. A youth, his rifle over his shoulder, is sorting through a rack of cheaply printed sunglasses on a stand. As he picks up one, he discards another on to the ground. The young woman at the stall is sullen and stares at the table, avoiding him. He strolls around to her side, crunching fallen sunglasses underfoot, placing his final choice on to his face. He laughs, grabs her by the neck and licks her ear. Then he turns and swaggers off.
‘Do you remember what it used to be like here? Not so long ago and every spring they would murder some poor girl in the market. Their power grows weaker, year by year.’
Faysal is watching in silence. They used to have a sister.
‘It would be good i
f they were no longer here. Maybe the people of Ewuru already know what that is like?’ says Faysal.
‘Do you remember the story the Marabout told us, fifteen years ago, after our sister –’ Ghanim trails off.
‘Pinch Point?’
‘Yes, perhaps the Griot is telling stories in Ewuru as well? I believe we should go and greet our guests.’
32
Uberti’s guests emerge with the sunset.
They arrive on foot, by tricycle taxi and by motorbike. The other warlords, self-proclaimed kings of their sections of Calabar, in dusty-rumpled-barely-there electric jeeps held together at the sufferance of the printers.
Uberti is not there to greet them. He is shovelling food into his face while watching the Akan men and their puppets. He laughs loudly, flinging handfuls of food at the players after every song in his excitement. No one drops a puppet.
There are drummers and dancers, Images – men wearing masks and elaborate woven robes – burning incense, and the smell of spices and palm oil cooking.
There are chairs and tables scattered across the lawn at the back of the house. Men crowd at the clump of open barrels of palm wine refilling their horns and shouting greetings.
Slaves, their skin puckered and burnt, run to serve, or struggle under the weight of palm wine barrels and trays of food.
Canvas has been nailed to the trees along the edge of the lumpy and steeply sloping lawn marking the edge of the party. The path down to the sacred grove is closed off, and men with guns hide in the woods beyond to ensure that no one goes where they should not.
The guests instead stand along the low wall looking out at the lights of Beach Town and Henshaw Town below.
Once, great ships would have visited this harbour. Now rusting iron carcasses rest in the water and along the Beach Town shore. It has been more than two hundred years since their like has been seen.
Filippo Argenti climbs out of his jeep. He is short, whip-lean and wears dark glasses and a white suit. His guards tower over him as he saunters towards the bar near the entrance to the back garden. He runs his fingers over the countertop, inspects them, rubs them together and flicks them at the ground. He will not lean his elbows here.
