The Famished Road

by Ben Okri

  ‘It doesn’t work when the opponent is wearing white,’ he said.

  ‘Get away from here!’ I screamed at him, and went back in.

  Dad was absorbing monstrous punishment. The blind old man kept chuckling. Whenever Dad mounted another futile attack the blind old man would make a curious sound, a dissonant croak, distracting and discouraging Dad. He did this many times. Soon the celebrants took up the dissonant croak as a sort of dampening anthem. I decided to get rid of the old man. I went out and begged Ade to come and help me. We stole back in and, very gently, wheeled the old man’s chair out of the tent. In the intense excitement and concentration, no one noticed us. When we got out we wheeled him fast, shouting for people to let us through, saying that the old man was ill. He kept screaming and threatening us with curses. His frenzy only seemed to convince people that they should get out of the way.

  ‘A wizard is carrying me off!’ he hollered.

  No one believed him. We wheeled him up the road, along paths, deep into the forest, and when we stopped his glasses fell from his face.

  ‘What has happened?’ he shouted.

  His blind eyes were ugly in the dark. They had a curious light in them.

  ‘I can’t see!’ he cried, making our flesh crawl.

  As we were about to leave he caught Ade’s hand and wouldn’t let go. I banged him on the head with a stick and he relaxed his grip and protected his head and uttered low cries. Me and Ade fled from him, with the noise of his wail amplified by the forest.

  When we got back to the tent the fight was turning. Dad had crossed the desert of his exhaustion, had found new springs and oases of energies. He was covered in sweat and bruises. His head was firmly tucked behind his fists and his shoulders hunched. He had become more rock-like, like one who was thoroughly resigned to taking punishment as a condition of survival. There was something strange about the way he accepted his beating. He didn’t seem so afraid of every bone-grinding punch the man threw at him. Dad kept staggering, wobbling, under the man’s methodical, scientific combinations. It was astonishing to see that the man still hadn’t worked up a sweat. Dad went on wobbling, his legs watery, and I was sure he was pretending. I shouted:

  ‘Black Tyger, dirty his suit!’

  All heads turned towards me. The man in white looked in my direction. In the brief moment of his distraction, Dad worked swiftly. He caught the man’s collar and with an insane howl ripped the coat. The man tried to protect the suit, but Dad abandoned all known rules of fighting and concentrated on extending the rippage. He grabbed the torn bits of the coat, he spun the man round, and with the help of a foot to the small of the back, tore the coat off the man. Then Dad pursued him and completed the rippage, snatching off bits of white cloth clinging to his arms. Beneath the coat, there was a shirt, and Dad, with terrible persistence, tore off the shirt and tie as well. Beneath the shirt and coat the man was bare-chested and hairy. He had curious tattoos on his stomach and amulets round his neck. He had a hollow chest and a deep hole of a navel. He was so hairy, and his hair was so much like that of a bush animal that the spectators gave a shocked cry when they saw how inhuman he looked. The man began to cower. Dad feinted a punch to his head, the man blocked his face with both hands, and Dad grabbed his trousers, tripped him, and tore the trousers off him. He had long thin legs, the legs of a spiderous animal. His eyes filled with fear and shame at being unmasked. People backed away, gasping in horror. Sami, the betting-shop man, sent the buckets of money home with some of his protectors. The beggar girl began to cheer. The women’s mouths hung open.

  The man got up, enraged. He had on the weirdest underpants. He rushed Dad and couldn’t find him. He rushed again and stunned him with a flurry of solid punches. They slogged it out for ten minutes. Dad kept hitting him, but he wouldn’t fall. The man caught Dad with an upper cut and rocked his head.

  ‘Punch his chest, Black Tyger!’ Ade screamed.

  Dad paid no attention. His exhaustion had returned. He puffed, he weaved, his punches had no power. The man began the long arc of a fearful swinging punch when the wind blew, shaking the tent, and the lights suddenly went out. They came back on again and the man stood disorientated, hand in the air. Dad, calling on his own name, charging his own spirit, released one of the most destructive punches I’ve ever seen and sent the man flying right through the tent. Tables, plates, and fried meat, crashed around him. Dad stood, weaving, bobbing, waiting. We all waited for the man to get up. He didn’t. The prostitutes tried to resuscitate him, but he couldn’t move. They couldn’t carry him either. We heard them saying something about him being too heavy. His inert form remained outside the tent, in an outer darkness. We never saw him again.

  Sami rushed into the middle of the arena and declared Dad the winner of the contest. The inhabitants of the area, who had been outside looking in, surrounded Dad. The beggar girl, me, and Ade kept touching him, wiping the great flow of sweat from his body. Overcome with the horror of his victory, and with fatigue, Dad sank to the ground. We tried to revive him, but we couldn’t. No one else came to help us.

  While all this was happening the blind old man had found his way from the forest and back into the tent. He was raving about wizards and bony demon children. He ran one way, then another. His helpers tried to restrain him but he threw them off. His rage was frightful.

  We tried to get Dad to stand up. He was out cold. The beggar girl got the other beggars to come and help. While we were trying to revive Dad the blind old man kept pursuing me round the tent. No one could control him. I ran under the tables. I threw things at him, but he pressed on, he followed me with nightmarish persistence. I ran back to Dad, tried to wake him, but the old man came at me like a demonic sleepwalker, his hands stretched out in front of him. Then suddenly he turned away from me and with the quick movement of a snake striking an unsuspecting prey, he grabbed hold of Ade and wouldn’t let go.

  ‘Ah ha, so it’s you, the flying wizard!’ he shouted triumphantly.

  Ade screamed. I clubbed the old man. His helpers rained knocks on me. I threw bones and sticks at them. Then the old man, tightening his grip on Ade’s arm said, in a screeching ugly voice:

  ‘Let me see with your eyes!’

  The strangest thing happened. Ade began to twist, to jerk, contorting in spasms. His eyes swam around their sockets till only the whites were visible. He opened his mouth, his tongue hung out, and he gasped, and made choking noises. People tried to free Ade from the old man’s grip. I jumped on his back and he shouted.

  ‘Get off my back!’

  ‘Leave my friend alone,’ I said.

  ‘You’re too heavy, you spirit-child!’ he cried.

  I bounced on his back, his bones digging into me. I hooked my arms round his neck and tried to strangle him, but he kept tossing. I attempted to scratch his eyes, but he bit me and threw me off with the strength of five men and I heard his neck creak and was sent flying and when I landed amongst broken tables and the mess of fruits and bean-cakes, everything had cleared. The old man stood, swaying. Ade jerked in a weird epileptic fit. The crowd had mostly gone. Madame Koto was nowhere around. The loud-speakers had been packed away. The prostitutes sat on folding chairs, glaring at us. The old man picked up his yellow glasses and played on his harmonica. His helpers led him away. I got up. The beggars, Sami and his protectors, people from the area, and Helen lifted Dad up on their shoulders as if he were a king fallen in battle and carried him out into the night. I helped Ade up. He stood, twitching, his mouth feverish. His fit had receded and he walked as if his legs were made of rubber. As we left the devastated tent the prostitutes abused us. I heard the blind old man’s dissonant harmonica in front of us in the dark. We were at the rear of the procession that bore Dad on their shoulders. He faced the stars. And, as we went the sound of the flapping tent made me look back.

  The wind had risen. I realised that the party had blocked the road. The cars were leaving. The trees creaked their limbs. The anti-music of the harmonica faded in
to the wind, blowing eerie harmonies over the bushes. The wind’s counterpoints whistled along the electric cables. The bright yellow and blue bulbs kept going on and off. Then they stayed on. Ade said, in the voice of a cat:

  ‘Something is happening.’

  The wind stopped. It swelled again. Then I saw the tent tilt sideways, and lift up in the air. It rose, it turned on its side, and the wind hurled it over the houses, its voluminous cloth flapping, its form billowing, and it blew over, turning on rooftops, and the sky cracked, two lights flashed, and rain swept down. The rain poured down, the earth swam in mud, dogs barked, the smell of burning rubber filled the air, and we heard a brief rending cry from Madame Koto’s place. Then all the lights went out.

  9

  THE DARKNESS WAS full of voices. The beggars and Sami carried Dad to the house. When we got to our room Mum was in a frenzy. They laid Dad out on the bed and covered him with a white cloth. The people were gone, but I could hear them singing low heroic melodies down the street. Dad’s mouth was twisted. There was a white scar down the side of his face. His eyes had disappeared beneath his bruises. His lips were like swollen flowers. He was in a far worse condition than in all of his fights put together. He didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to breathe. Mum kept wailing. The beggar girl lit three more candles. Sami sat on Dad’s chair. The beggars sat on the floor. I made Ade lie down on my mat. Apart from Mum, everyone was silent.

  Mum rushed out, boiled water, came back, and applied warm compresses to Dad’s face. It never occurred to her that his bruises needed something cold. The beggar girl stroked his feet. No one else moved. After a while Mum rested. She looked round at all of us.

  ‘Get up from my husband’s chair!’ she shouted at Sami.

  He jumped up as if a snake had bitten him. He stood near the window. Then he came to me and whispered:

  ‘When he has recovered, call me. I have all the money. I will get him the best herbalist.’

  Then, as if he had been caught stealing, he crept out of the room.

  ‘And all of you, go!’ Mum screamed, at everyone else.

  The beggars shuffled. The beggar girl got up, touched me on the head, making my flesh bristle, and led the others out of the room. They left silently. Ade lay down on the mat, his eyes swimming. Occasionally he twitched. He had a wan smile on his lips. I leant over him.

  ‘I am going to die soon,’ he said.

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘My time has come. My friends are calling me.’

  ‘What friends?’

  ‘In the other world,’ he said.

  We were silent.

  ‘And what are you two whispering about, eh?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He’s not well.’

  ‘What about his father?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘God save me,’ Mum cried.

  The candles went out. Mum shut the door and searched for the matches.

  ‘This life! No rest. None. A woman suffers, a woman sweats, with no rest, no happiness. My husband, in three fights. God knows what all this is doing to his brain. This life is too much for me. I am going to hang myself one of these days,’ Mum said.

  ‘Don’t do that, Mum,’ I said.

  ‘Shut up,’ she said.

  I was silent. Deep in me old songs began to stir. Old voices from the world of spirits. Songs of seductive purity, with music perfect like light and diamonds. Ade twitched. The floor began to shake. I could hear his bones rattling. Mum lit a candle. She sat on Dad’s chair, rocking back and forth, her eyes fixed, her face unforgiving. I felt sad. Ade smiled strangely again, sinking deeper into his weird epileptic ecstasy. I leant over him.

  ‘Trouble is always coming. Maybe it’s just as well,’ he said. ‘Your story has just begun. Mine is ending. I want to go to my other home. Your mother is right; there is too much unnecessary suffering on this earth.’

  His voice had taken on the timbre of an old man. Soon I recognised it. A snake went up my spine and I couldn’t stop shivering. He went on, speaking in the cracked sepulchral voice of the blind old man.

  ‘My time is coming. I have worn out my mother’s womb and now she can’t have any more children. Coming and going, I have seen the world, I have seen the future. The Koran says nothing is ever finished.’

  ‘What will happen?’ I asked him.

  Quivering, biting his lips till he drew blood, he said:

  ‘There will be the rebirth of a father. A man with seven heads will take you away. You will come back. You will stay. Before that the spirits and our ancestors will hold a great meeting to discuss the future of the world. It will be one of the most important meetings ever held. Suffering is coming. There will be wars and famine. Terrible things will happen. New diseases, hunger, the rich eating up the earth, people poisoning the sky and the waters, people going mad in the name of history, the clouds will breathe fire, the spirit of things will dry up, laughter will become strange.’

  He stopped. There was a long pause. Then he continued, frightening me.

  ‘There will be changes. Coups. Soldiers everywhere. Ugliness. Blindness. And then when people least expect it a great transformation is going to take place in the world. Suffering people will know justice and beauty. A wonderful change is coming from far away and people will realise the great meaning of struggle and hope. There will be peace. Then people will forget. Then it will all start again, getting worse, getting better. Don’t fear. You will always have something to struggle for, even if it is beauty or joy.’

  He stopped again. And then his fever changed gear, his voice quivered, his eyes were calm.

  ‘Our country is an abiku country. Like the spirit-child, it keeps coming and going. One day it will decide to remain. It will become strong. I won’t see it.’

  His voice changed, became more natural, almost gentle.

  ‘I see the image of two thousand years. I drank in its words. It took many centuries to grow in me. I see a great musician in a land across the seas. Nine hundred years ago. The musician was me. I see a priest, I see a ruler of gentle people. The priest was me, the ruler was me. I see a wicked warrior who killed many innocent people and who delighted in bloodshed. I was him. There was once a soldier stoned to death and fed to the crocodiles in Egypt. I was that soldier.’

  ‘You’re talking nonsense,’ I said.

  He laughed, coughed, and went on talking. His voice got lower and lower. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear him any more. His limbs went into spasms. I smelt burning wood. Smoke gathered round his hair. For a moment I thought his fit was burning him up. I touched him. His forehead was cold. His eyes were open, but he didn’t see me. I looked up and saw that Mum had fallen asleep on Dad’s chair. I lay down, shut my eyes, and sleep came to me in the form of green moths. I followed them into Mum’s dreams. It came as a shock to me to find myself in her dreams. She was a young woman, fresh and beautiful, with a white bird on her shoulder. She had antimony on her face, magic charms round her neck, and a pearl on a string round her left ankle. She was wandering through a sepia-tinted village, looking for Dad. She saw him up a tree. She climbed the tree, but Dad jumped down and ran to the river. Mum came down from the tree and sang a song from her childhood, serenading Dad’s spirit. She sang to Dad, asking him not to go away, begging him to return, in the name of love. The river turned a brilliant green colour and the maiden of the water, green, with sad eyes and lovely breasts, with the face of Helen the beggar girl, embraced Dad and took him down to the bottom of the river where there was an emerald palace. Eagles drank wine from silver goblets. Swans told stories beneath the great silk cotton tree. A black tiger with a prince’s crown and the eyes of my grandfather roamed the city precincts, reciting verses from ancient epics, sacred texts that could alter the nature of things. The maiden took Dad to her palace and washed his feet. In the great hall the frozen figures of warriors followed Dad with their fearless eyes. Antelopes with fl
owers round their necks came and sat at Dad’s feet. The maiden changed Dad’s clothes and dressed him in rich aquamarine robes. Then a mighty lion roared from the secret chambers. All the statues in the hall began to move. The warriors woke from their enchantment and marched into the secret chambers. The statues were beautiful. Their masks were beautiful. The statues had strange human faces, some had large pricks, some had wonderfully rounded breasts with proud nipples, and many of them had the paws of the Sphinx. Masquerades danced into the hall and presented Dad with gifts. Then Dad was led outside where a car was waiting for him. Dad got into the car. Mum stood at the river-bank, preparing to jump in when I touched her. She was angry and said:

  ‘Get out of my dream. I’m trying to draw back your father’s spirit.’

  I didn’t know how to leave. The sun burned down on us and the white bird on Mum’s shoulder flew into the water and Mum disappeared and it grew so hot that my hair became singed, the trees burst into flame, giving off a bright yellow smoke. Butterflies multiplied everywhere, they came from the sun, and they flew round my face, filling me with vertigo and as I coughed they flew into my mouth and I sat up and saw that our room was filled with smoke and when I shouted and choked Ade smiled oddly in his jerking sleep and Mum jumped up and said:

  ‘Azaro, get up! The candle is burning our table!’

  I recovered quickly and fetched water from our bucket and poured it on the table. Ade sat up and smiled at me.

  ‘I’m well now,’ he said.